And apparently, his darkest and deepest fears also included perfectly lovely young women who enjoy chicken as a meal (or for other purposes, he's not there to judge). He snaps the sonic screwdriver shut with aplomb, excited to have a new audience to ask questions of and to generally prod and poke. "Organically fed, apparently," he says, tilting his head to the side as he drags his finger over his tongue and sticks it in the air, measuring the temperature of the room. "And likely to burn soon if they're not...oh, yes, of course," he says, when a kitchen worker appears and shuffles the Doctor out of the way without a 'by your leave'.

He turns to the young woman curiously, taking several long strides until he's looming in her personal space. "You don't sound as though you're fearing for your life," he says, studying the pupils and the stance and again, measuring how much she appreciates the smell of a chicken. "How long have you been here?" he asks, ducking down to her height and then easing his way back up, eyes on her the whole time.