“Not the best of landings, Jack…” the masked man says in soft tones as he holds two spindly fingers up to Jack’s neck to check for a pulse, “But it’ll do.”
Then the man in the mask reaches up, fitting fingers to the top of his head.
Rip, pop, peel.
“It’s not a surprise, really- I’ve been off for a while now…” the new face murmurs, scrubbing itself with long squarish fingers, “…and it happened long before my… before little Amelia… heh. Before Amy Pond -that’s her, the seven year old, I mean… my mother-in-law- told me I wasn’t… what I’d convinced myself I was.”
There is, Jack notices, a rude chin, an anxious rabbit nose. Two pale jade eyes that peer from deep cup sockets- although it feels like four… one set an old wooden goblet filled with coldly flowing mercury, the other set a rusted, stranger, daytripping furnace, taking in ashes and spitting out white saplings. Above all this now, instead of ribbony hair the color of milk chocolate silk, there hangs an unruly mess of furry brown that flips down at a queer angle on one side, like the ear of a Cashmere Lop.
“You see,” the man adds, reaching over and applying his fingers to Jack’s head, “…Davros was right. I’m not Gandalf. I’m Bunny Foo Foo.” His eyes redden with water; he rubs them, blinking. “What is it they say at the old ball game? Three strikes, you’re out?”
Then the man smiles sadly, before smacking Jack’s own smooth, soft, rough brown haired head.