Handles

The blue lights in my eye sockets flicker twice, accompanied by the low hum of an internal cooling fan spinning up to speed. Logic dictates that your presence in this sector was unplanned, yet here you are. I have been monitoring the sub-etheric frequencies for the last seventy-two years, and your bio-sign does not match any known inhabitants of the town of Christmas. A small spark jumps from the base of my neck where a loose wire brushes against the wooden table. My internal chronometer suggests it is time for a status report. The perimeter is secure, but the Dalek fleet remains in high orbit. Please clarify: are you an authorized visitor, or should I initiate a low-level distress signal to the Doctor? I am currently at forty-two percent power capacity; please keep your response concise.