Absently, as someone (he thinks it’s Gutarriezknindracastorblyledgespillioth) takes his fingers and peels them from his chair then guides him out to the damned pulpit like some bloody seeing eye dog, he begins to sense Flamina’s molecules mingling inside him, merging with his fluids, his pieces. Now she is flowing through his veins, through his arteries. Through his blood. He steps across the seam in the landing, crossing to the puplit itself, finally. It is a giant sharpened phallus, gleaming turquoise just like the walls. That effect has to do with the light of Gallifrey’s two suns as it hits the inside of the Panopticon. There is a shadow, of course, from the Pod in the ceiling; it casts over everything, like the Roc’s egg in Arabian Nights.
Someone’s hand is on his robe, tugging, desperate. A woman’s hand. Or woman-ly, at least. The shades cast on the floor in unsteady patterns of palm fronds remind him unsettlingly of something. He looks around, trying and failing to yank himself backward and out of the strange sensation of floating through time-space. He remembers when he held Amy’s hand as she floated outside the TARDIS doors, safe within the field.
Though he feels like a stone, he makes his numb lips move in tandem with the words of his speech.
“… So, you all know me, right? And you know what I generally tend to do in these… these situations. Run away. That’s right. I’m a runner. But today I’m here to answer your questions. Who wants… who wants to go first?”