The Doctor recoiled, he wished he could say, "Turn down the lights. Everyone be silent." then he looked again. No veterinarian would be asked to perform such a parturition. No Priest could stand by and not pray for Divine explanation. Were it to him, what his mentors would do, he'd snap its neck, pinch its nose, wrap it, and send it off with the nurse. These were the last moments before the days that would follow. This would be the last time all would be as it was. It was as though he could see all things, then see them crumble, see time ravage cultures, structures, houses of cards. The unfortunate air beside the baby was drawn in, the light poured onto its face. His hands felt weak. He proceded to free it, this whelp, this error. He would need a smoke, a drink, time off.  Just then, around the world, it began to happen. All was its fault. Wailing, misery, a trumpet pealed, and was then crushed by its player. The woman looked to him, "Mrs. Wait," he said, "you have a healthy, insane child."