no. none of these characters are mine. and i has no idea what in the name of lizardkind am i doing. suggestion will be welcome.
Never before had the word explosion been an apter word to compare the violence that erupted in a poor, nearly insignificant street on that far side of london, that before could the word explosion be more apt a comparison to the intensity of the fight that went on that one gloomy day in Victorian London.
More often than not, the word explosion could be used to describe light, loud, spontaneous noise. In the case of this short scuffle, the movement itself was explosive, and the air itself was already quite nearly seething with angry, heated energy even before strax drew his blaster.
But what came before was just as—if not more important as the fight and its consequence. If far less interesting in the sonatarans mind.
The graceful home of the married gay human-lizard couple and their cloned, alien, pyromanic servant-nurse stood as proudly as ever that day, radiant in comparison its lesser, darker neighbors. All occupied by presumably normal enough—broadly speaking—human beings.
The man hurried along the cobbled paths that led to the house with haste impressive for a man of his attire. The tight suit that bound his body quite nearly creaked with every step as he tried his best to not trip over larger, more apparent cobblestones while running—or rather stumbling—straight legged down the rain beaten paths lit, that day, by uncharacteristically bright sunlight, earning more than one odd glance for passing citizens dismayed at such a vibrant display of graceless impatience.
But soon enough he reached the sweeping Victorian porch, and the horse and stagecoach standing before it. Two grubbily dressed manservants caring for the horse cried out in alarm as the frightened animal bucked and snorted at the scent of the untidy stranger. Its hooves lashed the air and it pranced backwards, eyes rolling wildly, the stagecoach rattling behind it at an angle as it turned to the side.
The man swooped forward nonetheless, nearly falling to sprawl across the steps as he attempted to execute a wild sort of pirouette and leap up the porch. He barely caught himself upon the railings as his left leg shifted unnaturally at the knee from the strain. A loud, frightening crack echoed across the street and the man cried out and then hissed, panting slightly. Something thick bulged at the fabric of his pant leg. The servants were still far too busy trying to pacify the frantic equine-that had run itself into a corner and somehow managed to tangle its reins in a mess of suspended oil lamps-to notice.
The word good. Ran through the mans' mind as he quickly shifted position to a sideways one, and proceeded to pull himself up the steps with one leg dragging limply behind. An observant enough witness might've noted the strange lack of expression other than a sudden increasing paleness in the man's face as he threw his mangled body across the porch, and reached up, standing upon one knee to reach the ornate knocker.
But even before his fingers touched the gilded metal, there was a sharp patter of footsteps and a hasty click as the door was opened from the inside. Unable to keep his balance, the man—like his human counterpart in that past, rain-filled alley—couldn't stop himself from falling forward, one hand just managing to stop the ground from breaking his nose.
But then his head connected painfully to the metal of the porch, glancing off his temple, and he crumpled. Frantic mind screaming to a stop even as everything—the light, the distant, frantic, cries of the frightened horse, the swearing of the men, even the warmth of sunlight, and the sight of that pair of Sonotaran feet in their well-polished, black shoes—faded into darkness. The last thing heard was some jumbled phrase uttered by the Sonotaran.
"Call… Vastra," he tried to gasp, opening his eyes blearily to glare up at the potatolike head. "Tell…"
