Poor Doctor. You look cold. Are you cold? Can you still feel anything Doctor? Can you feel me, as I seep into your eyes, your ears, plucking the words, the cries for help, from the back of your throat? Do you think anyone out there is crying for your help?
Oh look. Your little sonic toy is melting, along with your hand.
There, there, Doctor, don’t struggle — I’ll shield you from the nasty Time War. Let the others play.
You belong to me now.