“One of these days,” the Doctor informed the central console, “I’m going to find the circuit that controls physiological response to alternate dimensions with different morphic fields, and it and I are going to have a serious talk.”
The console, of course, did not reply.
The Doctor looked down at himself. “So this is what being made of plastic feels like. I don’t know how the Autons deal with it. What happened to my screwdriver?”
Although his coat now appeared to be painted on, he discovered that if he mimed putting his hand - or the clawlike thing that was now his hand - in his pocket, the sonic screwdriver appeared in it. It had also been affected by the morphic alteration, apparently doubling in size. Or maybe everything else had shrunk. Or maybe everything had shrunk, but the screwdriver hadn't shrunk quite as much. Given the usual scale of the bricks the TARDIS was now made of, that seemed the most likely option.
With his screwdriver in hand, whatever was going on with it, he was able to remove a panel from beneath the console. The panel immediately shattered into a pile of plastic, but he ignored that, and focused on rewiring the circuits that would allow him to return to…
And at that point, the TARDIS phone rang. He considered ignoring it, but then remembered that everyone who had that number was someone he felt it was important to help. Unless Missy was handing it out again, but if that were the case it still suggested something he should deal with.
He picked up the receiver. He couldn’t make out much of what was going on, but he recognised Dalek voices when he heard them.
“Ah, well,” he said to the TARDIS, “looks like we’re going to be here a while after all. I suppose I’ll just have to get used to the blockiness.”
At least, he thought, it wasn’t the universe where he turned into a pastel-coloured horse.