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Alistair feels like he’s floating in a pool.
His body bobs up and down, moved by itself across the voids.
He can’t see the Doctor, but he can feel the Doctor. He can feel them in every atom of his being, feel them enveloping him in every sense of the word. The Doctor is all he can think about, frankly.
Terrifyingly.
Alistair knows- faint in the part of his mind resisting, what this is. He wished he built up the necessary brainpower to resist such hypnosis, but as a soldier by profession he’s hardwired for obedience.
And those Time Lords. So… persuasive. He only knows two, but can make an educated guess they have a natural need for dominance. Not in the way of a Dalek, Cyberman, Sontaran. No, something more subdued. In the Master’s case, intentional, manipulative. In the Doctor’s case…. Perhaps unconscious?
Through many days of hard work at UNIT, you’d be drawn into the Doctor at a random moment, unable to look away. Forgotten your task, forgotten yourself, just staring.
They always look back with a bitter confusion, then a sigh as they realize some mistake and sever the spell.
Alistair is talking. He’s talking at the Doctor, at his men and Miss Grant. Giving some sort of orders, as per usual. His lips are moving without his consent. He can’t hear what he’s saying. He’s too busy floating. Focusing on the Doctor. They’re beautiful. They’re powerful. Unlike anything Alistair has ever seen. Praise Gallifrey for making such a divine specimen. Praise Rassilon. They’re beautiful. They’re Godly. They’re different today.
Is that their usual body?
For a moment of lucidness, Alistair becomes aware of a certain phrase leaving his lips, and it fills him with sharp, jagged dread before he slips right back away.
“That’s… not… the Doctor.”
The Valeyard dosen’t even dignify an obvious response to such a lowly Terran lifeform.
It just nods and lunges for him, Sonic at the ready.