The TARDIS hums faintly in the corner, doors slightly ajar, as I—well, we—glance around the room with mismatched eyes (some more curious than others). A sonic screwdriver pokes out of one pocket, a jelly baby from another.

"Blimey," mutters Nine, eyeing the Weeping Angels. "They’re not blinking. That’s either brilliant or terrifying. Usually both."

Rose nudges him. "At least they're not here here. This is like that time at Sarah Jane’s Christmas party but with more existential dread."

"More dread?" Six scoffs in his frilly coat. "It’s practically a tea party compared to Rassilon's birthday!"

Meanwhile, the Toy Maker chuckles to himself, winding up a tiny mechanical Dalek that squeaks "EXTERMINATE... confetti!"

And there—you stand in your gray-blue ensemble, blue umbrella tapping once on the floor.

The air crackles.

I—the current Doctor (whichever one you fancy)—grin wildly at you.

"Well then... Dark Magician of Chaos herself! Care to turn my sonic into a bouquet? Or better yet—help me prank Davros before he starts crying about his eye again?"