“Angel, Angel! Thy Byron has returned! I do hope you’re agreeable because we’ve to put the kettle on! I pray it’s a D-cup problem… would that I should fear it, but to be perfectly demure, I find the bouncing rather quaint!” the Eighth Doctor Flesh murmurs as he examines his blushing blue bride, addressing himself to the fluid copper walls and the glass and the columns and the see-through. And the steampunk lines.
A rumble from the deep. He’s come to notice those, recently. Better for the health and pocket!
“What? Whatever is the matter?” he mumbles, as though always under his breath, pursing his sharpening lips as he flourishes his hands and whirls about the console, being the dervish he is, “…River’s always telling me to notice her more. And you, my dear- always you.”
“TARDIS voice interface!” he sings out, like a dreamy cloud of good wishes.
…and a no.
A sputter happens, slicing through something in the air.
But stillness, and a clang of ‘no’ pervade.
“Ah, my hopes are scuttled, dashed, gashed upon the rocks of my despair! But look this!” he breathes, circling round the console once and twice and three times, spinning about again, “…I’ve the finest anime hammer space ever in my pockets; so verily, thusly, and what have I brought us?” He turns once more, stuffs his long slender hand into his trousers pocket and comes out with…
A large, slim silver hammer with a mahogany haft.
“Why, ladies and gentlefolk, it’s a hitty thing!” he squeals brightly, animated now as, in flying green velvet of coat and tails, he willingly applies the conch.
Or rather the conk.