“Mamlaurea?” he chokes, gasping for breath and groping his chest with a flattened palm as he staggers backward toward River. But he doesn’t make it. All the strength flows out of his legs and he folds like heavy cream toward the Pod.
But the old woman grabs his palm and opens a mouth full of half as many teeth. She cries, as she reaches for him, clutching his fingers to her wrinkled brown face, “Oh my master! Lord Other, you came! As you promised! There is no time; we must go now.”
As he wanes away, still staring at her, his face turns a hue that can only resemble several types of pale flour, but she catches him, holding him close to her yellow-wrapped bosom. She pulls.
Rassilon takes a step toward her, holding his hands out palm up, shaking them wildly, his azure gaze a warm and pleading ocean sparkling a no that might once have been heard for years in any direction.
The old woman wails, clutching the Doctor’s face to her dry old chest, her thin, branchy arms wrapped around him protectively. With a gnarled hand, she reaches into the Pod and presses a button.
As the Doctor’s green eyes close on River’s face, the world screams away, leaving the dazed Panopticon less two or so warm bodies, and fewer questions.