The Assassin punches a fist through the grey wall near the left side of the bed, then yanks at some silver, blue and red wires, tearing them from their moorings. The monitoring console attached to the Doctor’s pregnant body, giving him nutrient fluids and bloods through a series of translucent, fleshy tube-like connectors fitted up through the bed’s back, goes blank; first, one last blink, and then a crawling blue line worms its way across the darkening glass, running.
“Well there’ll be no more…” he pauses to grab more wires, “… of that!” and yanks the last lines free from the right side panel, this time.
The man on the bed shivers and turns pale as the sustaining organic cannula eject and smack the floor, flopping around beneath the bed like headless little silver snakes and smearing blood everywhere. So the wound had been deep then. Good for Kenny. The clingy git finally got something right.
“Get up, fool.” he murmurs, crushing the Doctor’s arm as he slowly curls one finger then two, then three and the rest around the man’s tricep.
Pale-faced and grey around the mouth like an old woman, the Doctor screams, his jaws crunching up and apart in a rictus. The wild and rolling green grapes of his irises turn to melons as he and his quavering limbs are dragged down the hallway to the Panopticon.
Turns and corners all begin to look alike, a grey line here, a green chair here. A yellow chair there, a grey line here. Orange chairs in rows like candy sticks.
The familiar, boring walls of the Citadel are rushing by.