The Eighth Doctor Flesh cranes his neck, arching his ear to the shuffling muffle of sound.
“… all blonde girls named Rose… this annoying... back when he was… annoyed me too… want to strangle…”
“…Oh, garrotes are so last week. How about a nice pickled onion instead?”
“You -are- a pickled onion, oh ye worm of man’s imagining. WE HAVE FIFTEEN SECONDS BEFORE THIS PARTICULAR WINDOW IS CLOSED! But oh jellies what’s the use. You give me hives, you wonderful dolt. See you in an hour or so, when the next shift in the field rolls along!”
The Eighth Doctor twirls around merrily, the lid of the antique radio balancing in the light fingers of one hand as though it’s a tray of hors d’ oeuvres.
“I suppose I should drop it now, hrm?” he asks the TARDIS, his red velvet shoulders drooping a little along with the rest of the waistcoat.
The vitrola Amberola’s heavy lid falls squarely on his foot, but at least he’s found what he’s been looking for.
His death note, written on a blue post-it and stuck on the inside of the vitrola.
He doesn’t blink.