The dusty, chalky smell of old plaster plays with the Doctor’s nose hairs, waking him.
His back is flat on the ground; there is white light everywhere, flimsy and sharp, flowing in curtains.
The dust is heavy in his hair; he can see it hanging like ripe grapes over his face, ready to drop and give him a coughing fit.
His hearts quicken in his chest, two uneven drums.
Trumpeting that old quick time down through his bones, deep into the dirt beneath his spine.
His fingers feel... filled, full with needles, as if someone’s dropped them in a vat of liquid nitrogen.
“Thank god I’m not a human then- if I had been... somebody would have died today.” he manages, curling his hand into a fist and working the nerves with a burst of will, murmuring a friendly curse to the aether. “... And lost some fingers, besides! I’ll probably have trouble with this hand for a while... I want to thank the audience, my mother and clowns.”
But his laughter dries in his throat, come out a hacking cackle instead, rumbling from the deeps of his gut- a mere albeit abiding desire for water, perhaps?
Too much dust in the lungs. He’s going to cough anyway, he realises bluntly, as his clenching fist rhythmically pulverizes the lone occupant of his palm, a bit of crunchy rock... probably once a part of the collapsed ceiling overhead. The remains of a polarizing neural confiner, basically an aluminum helmet attached to some electrode runners, a metal party straw and some kind of containment device, stick like rushed spider’s legs from underneath a couple overturnd troughs.