The red converse catches her in the ribs.
Flaminarixodaparcaftion flies unhappily into a wall that should not have been where it was. She can feel six-sided holes in the substance of the barrier, and an orange-ish light gleams faintly. It confuses her.
The leg wearing the converse draws back, ready to strike again, cool and mechanical. And utterly aflame with rage.
She flinches, closes her eyes and waits. But instead of a blow, a wind rushes beside her, brushing her face. Because a voice cuts her attacker off.
The single spoken word is harsh, yet gentle, every syllable possessed of an untenable need to wrench things. This, this is the voice of the Doctor, if a bit trembled and rasped, no matter the body.
He gains strength as he straightens on the TARDIS grates, oh yes, this must be the TARDIS because the Eye above the exit isn’t on her anymore.
“Traitor!” she spits. But her body is sideways. The saliva just courses down her chin in a little clear trail of embarrassment. And plops down between the grate holes, frying in the underworks.