[ They've traveled again. If the movement of transiting on the edge of years had a sound at all, the Doctor feels sure that every step they tread now through beleaguered Yancai would sound like a portentous groaning and creaking, the ground on which they stand about to give way beneath their feet. Meddling with time by those both inexperienced and desperate is a bad combination and they can't go on like this, of course. They won't. Not if he has anything to say about it. And, of course, he does have quite a lot to say always.

He can fix this, though, they all can. It started here, they're close.

Distracted as he is, ruminating ten steps forward and not really even present, the Doctor's shoulder brushes against one of their own rather forcibly, enough that remaining upright might be uncertain for either of them, and so he quickly reaches out a hand to steady them. ]

Oh! It's you, wonderful you, good, excellent. Sorry, bit in my head — [ He gestures to the bustling market around them. ] Here we go again. Perfect pre-chorus if we were writing a song.

[ Everything's fine. ]