Well, that was quick.
His mouth tastes unpleasantly of fish-fingers and custard and he seems to have an appendix now. That can’t be right. How unfashionable.
There’s a brunette girl staring at him with eyes as wide as saucers (tea saucers? Dalek saucers? What are saucers, anyway?). He thinks he knows her. He’s pretty sure he likes her. He hopes so, since regenerating with one of his enemies in the TARDIS would be a little inconvenient. He intends to ask her if she’s mind awfully rescheduling their confrontation until his head’s cleared a bit. Instead, he stares at her for what he thinks might be rather a long time.
An uncomfortably long time, even.
She stares back. She’s very good at making eye contact, he’ll give her that. Very useful in a friend. Less useful in an enemy, it has to be said, but can’t be helped. Also, there might be a little bit of deer in her family history, since she still looks like a car’s bearing right down on her. Utterly terrified. He doesn’t know why, since she’s not the one who’s completely rearranged every molecule in her body for the first time, but oh well.
No. Not the first time. The thirteenth time. Which is a bit impossible. And also throws his counting completely out of whack, which is a little bit irritating since he’d just about got it straight. Is he the Twelfth Doctor now? The Fourteenth? The Second-First Doctor? He’s pretty sure it’s less than fifty.
But never mind that now. Something far more important comes to mind. Something life-changingly important. He’s just realised that his kidney’s changed. Which is just... unfair, really. He’d liked that last kidney. Why would you change a perfectly good kidney? And it doesn’t match with anything else any more.
When he mentions it, the brunette girl doesn’t seem to understand how important it is. Humans really have no sense of interior decorating. Her nose kind of reminds him of a deer as well, come to think of it.
Before he can explain it -- or even bring up the appendix, since really, why change a perfectly good kidney just to give him an appendix that he doesn't even need and which just clashes with everything? -- the TARDIS starts crashing. Typical. The old girl never had any sense of priorities.
As the TARDIS lurches around him he immediately kicks into action, flicking switches and buttons, and he’s already pulled a very important-looking lever when he realises that he doesn’t actually know what it does.
Or, indeed, what any of these buttons do.
Probably shouldn’t have done any of that, really. It doesn’t even seem to have helped all that much.
Oh well. Live and learn.
He avoids thinking of a rather rude word -- he’ll have none of that sort of language in his TARDIS non-verbal or otherwise, thank you very much -- and turns to his brunette possible-friend-possible-enemy.
“Just one question,” he asks hopefully. “Do you happen to know how to fly this thing?”
Her response is not encouraging.