The Doctor opens his eyes on the ice cream stick foil. His fingers are white against the metal. Did he pass out like this? His other hand is flat below him. How many seconds has he… wait, what is that blur of blue hair and naked bum down there below him, rushing to the floor one hundred and three levels down?
Kenny! Oh god.
Without thinking he lets go of the foil and falls backward, crossing his arms over his chest as his feet rise to the top and his head rushes downward.
The Doctor can see Kenny down there, plummeting to a messy death on the shiny surface of the Great Seal.
Rassilon managed to get the aperture closed, thank god, he thinks as his body becomes a bullet.
With his arms outstretched, waiting to grab poor Kenny, he makes a solemn request to the Pythian child growing in his womb.
“Hullo, little pink thing! My little fire-breathing cherubim! Can you lend me your wings?”
Of course, the child doesn’t answer. She’s asleep.
His laughter echoes through the halls, and then he whispers, “Well, I’ll just use my own then.”
He forces knobs of muscle to crawl up from between his shoulderblades, weaving a set of bird’s wings with nerves for thread and bone for a needle.
He pumps blood into the new shapes, engorging them, folding them into his personal time and space until he is solid and diving, a seabird after fish.