The scream rips through the Valeyard for the last time as the two monks Roda has stationed on either side of his modest bed in the darkened old room come to scratch his shoulders in expert foreclaws of unrelieved grey.
They hold him down until he shuffles under the sheets, claws rounding his struggling muscles with red rings as consciousness finally settles on him, lining his face.
“What is this thing inside me? It isn’t the girl; that fool is still hiding her somewhere! SO WHAT IS IT?” he cries, squarish fingers digging and pushing and shoving and poking his flat stomach until little waves crescendo over the taut skin.
Two clawlike hands hold up a kind of x-ray-thingie showing a tiny fold of wriggling… bean-shaped…
“...this Flesh, it’s still pregnant? What? Wha-how? Why? I don’t have time for this! I’m the Valeyard, not a babysitter! You’ll cut it out, because I can’t manipulate this Flesh any longer; he’s locked it, the idiotic troll… I wonder if it will taste good in soup…”
He snarls his lip upward like a rabid dog at the thought of the Doctor’s little tricks, then stares straight ahead while the monks catch his neck with their claws; they’re taking his blood pressures.
“It isn’t like I don’t have things to do, you know! Hurry it up!” He yells, flipping a tray into the face of one monk with his hand. With the other hand, he massages his stomach again, testing his new nerves for any familiar signs of the exquisite physiological memory his real body had enjoyed through the artificial nuclei of the Rassilon Imprimatur.