Chapter Text

PROLOGUE

A man was trudging through a forest of deep green trees, pushing through the foliage, stumbling occasionally on tree roots. He felt duck-footed, misstepping in every direction, as he pushed the branches aside. 

He had been hiking as part of a camping expedition and had gotten lost from his troupe. He had no way of finding them, no means of communication, and he was miles from the next checkpoint. Given that it was a survivors-type mission, he was supposed to find his way back on his own and there wouldn’t be search teams out looking for him. The words of the camp counsellor — Roberta — drummed in his head, ‘Move it! This is not for the faint of heart. You get lost, you find your way back! No room or time for losers or cowards!’ 

Well, the man, dressed only in a beige camper outfit, scratched and bleeding from running into branches, stumbling aimlessly through the woods, and with no more water to drink certainly felt like both a loser and a coward. It didn’t help that he was caked in sweat, dirt, and grime, which had come from tripping over a particularly snaggly root, twisting his ankle in some wrong way, and falling face first into the muddy pile. 

Dehydration and exhaustion were pummelling at him. His chest felt like it was being crushed by powerful tree roots, and his ankle kept sending sharp shooting stabs of pain up the back of his leg. He gritted his teeth. He needed somewhere to rest and get refreshments — fast. 

The man half-limped, half-stumbled forwards, convincing himself that the next checkpoint would come sooner if he continued than if he sat and moped about his situation. And then, miraculously, he heard a voice echo through the trees ahead of him. 

‘I thought you said you could fly this thing,’ a sharp and direct voice reached his ears. It was a woman’s voice, he guessed. He couldn’t be sure. Maybe the forest was playing tricks on him. After all — flying? Why would anyone fly or land in the woods? Perhaps they had a landing platform for aeroplanes but even if they did, it would have been many more miles out even past the next checkpoint. And the woman certainly didn’t sound as exhausted as he was — and she ought to have been if she’d walked for more miles than he. 

‘I can. I wanted to come to the woods,’ another woman spoke, her voice clear and confident filled with the edge of adrenaline and challenge.  

The man blinked, leaning on a nearby tree, straining to hear and inching forwards so as not to draw attention to himself, still unsure if he was hallucinating the voices. 

‘Was this a test? Or some joke from Roberta?’

'Why? There’s nothing special about these woods.'  

'I’ve been here before. And don’t worry —' the other woman must have provided a nonverbal cue to warrant an explanation — 'It’s just a necessary pit stop,' the second woman sounded firm.  

'Necessary?' the woman who’d accused the other of improper ‘flying’ pressed on. 'How many are you planning to stop at? When are we going to Gallifrey?' the other woman spoke, and the man was positively certain he was going mad.  

‘Gallifrey? Did she mean Galway?’

'Don’t worry me. This is our first stop. You don’t need a countdown. And these stops? Oh, ab-so-lute-ly they’re necessary,' the other woman enunciated. 'We need to stretch our legs from time-to-time. Explore and learn, maybe help out, gain some things in return. And then we will.' 

Gain some things in return? Like trading? The man pondered, continuing to stumble forwards with more attention to his gait and volume so as not to disturb the flora around him as much. 

'And what exactly do we need from a forest in twenty-first century England?'

The man hesitated as he neared the voices. These women sounded like foreigners who clearly were lost, or mad — or both. He wasn’t sure if they were entirely credible if they had to mention the century and country they were in. But still, he desperately needed somewhere to rest his leg and freshen up, and these ladies seemed in good health even if they were a bit mental. 

It didn’t take long for him to decide. He needed hydration and rest, and even if there were some confused women, he didn’t see the harm. And if the camp scouts asked, he’d say he found his way just fine on his own, thank you very much. 

The man pushed through the thick brush of woods, closer to where he’d heard the women speaking and came across a gallow, wiping sweat off his brow. When his vision focused on the sight in front of him, his jaw dropped in disbelief. 

Residing in the middle of a glade that was unmarked on any map with no trace of forestry destruction stood a grey-walled shack that looked as though it had been dropped out of time from the fifties. Making sure to stay to the periphery, he edged closer and he spotted two women near the entrance doors. 

He was surprised at the sight of their clothing. The closer one wore what looked like a blue server outfit, and the other wore a black leather jacket and black trousers. 

'‘Scuse me,' he croaked, approaching them with as much dignity as he could muster. 

Both turned sharply, and he was struck at how round the closer woman’s face was and the intensity in the second woman’s eyes. 

'How did you find us?' The woman in all black stepped forwards with a surprisingly commanding, but cool and strict, presence. The man was strongly reminded of Roberta. 

'I — er —' he spluttered, his throat tightening at the sudden attention and use of his vocal cords. 

'Cup of tea?' The round-faced woman asked in a much gentler tone. 

'Are you certain?' The second woman’s eyes narrowed, not taking her eyes off of him. He got the impression she was sizing him up, and he wasn’t meeting whatever standards she had. Typical. 

'Come on then,' the round-faced woman jerked her head towards the diner in what he assumed was an offer to help him. 

He hesitated for a moment under the gaze of the steely gaze of the other woman, but this was honestly more than he could have hoped for. 

Eager to take this chance and before they could change their minds, he half-limped closer to them so he was standing directly in line with the entrance of the diner. 

It definitely looked like it came from the fifties. It was basically a grey shack with a beige sign reading 'SNACKS AND GAS.' That made no sense to him given there was no petrol, but he didn’t need any at the moment so he dismissed it and made a beeline for the doors. 

He entered and collapsed on a swinging barstool with a red leather seat at the counter. With considerably less weight on his leg, he was free to look around as he heard the door open and close behind him. His eyebrows furrowed in silent questions as he took in the completely deserted diner. And not just no customers, mine, but no other servers. It seemed that the woman outside was the only server. 

That’s odd, he thought. 

The round-faced server made him a cup of tea and settled the cup and saucer before him. He was relieved that she didn’t make small talk but he could tell she wanted to by the way she bit her lip as her dark brown eyes flickered upwards from her notepad occasionally. 

He gulped down the hot liquid and felt his face flare with heat. Perhaps tea wasn’t a good idea when he was sweating like mad, but as he opened his mouth to request an iced coffee, one was pushed in front of him. 

'Oh, blimey. Bloody good service,' he remarked. 

After he drank, his vision and impatience cleared allowing him to look around casually once more at the diner. In front of him, there was a grill for burgers and shake makers with red-leathered and black-rail spinning barstools lining the counter. Looking round, the other end of the diner was crowded in red-leathered booths. The ground was designed with black-and-white checkerboards and to his right was a door. 

He was suddenly aware of how he had trodden mud over the previously pristine and unblemished floor. That was odd, too, even for a diner in the middle of nowhere… It would be the most popular diner especially for their monthly hiking trips.

'Have you seen Susie or Carol?' He asked, thinking of some of his fellow hikers on the trip. Those ladies had definitely been ahead of him and would have made quicker work with directions and food than he. They’d have certainly run into these ladies, probably stopped for a cuppa, burgers, and chips. 

'Sorry, who?' The server looked up from her notepad wearing a puzzled expression. 

'Er, never mind,' he backtracked, quickly, and remembered his state of being covered in dirt, grime, and mud, among other things. He could have sworn he had a few leaves in his hair. 

'Blimey, I’m makin’ a mess. Let me get freshened up,' he made towards the door at the end of the diner. 

'I can’t let you do that.' 

The man blinked, and found his path blocked by the more antagonistic woman. Getting a better look, swivelling his head between them, he saw that the woman reminding him of Roberta was indeed wearing a black leather jacket and black trousers and nice black shoes. Behind him, the other was wearing a blue short-sleeved button-up shirt and matching skirt, both with white hems. A white hanky hung from the hem of her skirt and she wore white converse. 

'‘Scuse me. I just wanna wash up-' 

'We can’t let you do that. You’ve outstayed your welcome,' the woman in black stared stonily at him. 

'Let’s try this again,' the waitress spoke, and he looked back at the counter. He was surprised to see her smiling at him, given her partner’s less-than-hospitable attitude. He found that he was entranced by her round brown eyes and kindness, and they convinced him enough not to run out of this unsettling diner. 'My name’s Clara, this is — never mind—' she indicated her partner, and he looked around to see that she had disappeared to God knows where, ' — well, this is our diner. Unfortunately, our rooms are under renovation and are unavailable to the public.' 

'Should’ve put a bloody sign on the door,' the man grumbled, nodding at the out-of-order door and limping back to the stool. He looked around curiously. 'Weird, though. You two in a fifties diner in the middle o’ nowhere and not marked on any maps. Could’ve sworn you just appeared out of nowhere.'

'You think?' Clara asked, her eyebrows lifting in amusement. 

'Well, that would be absolutely mad, wouldn’t it?' He realised with a jolt how deranged he must look. 

'Maybe, but who said madness was a bad thing? A little bit of imagination never killed anybody. Well, except the King of Would Be men, I suppose,' the woman tilted her head to the side, nodding in some sort of admission to herself. 

'Eh?' The man queried. 

'Oh, don’t worry about it. So, tell me. What’s your name? What brings you out this far? Are you lost?' Clara asked, refilling his coffee. 

Unfortunately, he didn’t have money, but what these ladies didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them. He just needed some rest and nourishment and he’d be off. 

'What’s it to you?' The man grunted, feeling suspicious of her inquisitiveness. 

He felt very private, feeling he was in a sacred, out of time area. This wasn’t any regular diner, and although he was grateful, he wasn’t particularly loquacious. They could be spies after all… 

'Just curious. We don’t see many people here. You mentioned a  Susie and Carol?' Clara leaned both arms on the counter, eyeing him as curiously as he did her. 

'Well, that can’t be. They would have passed by here about an hour ago,' the man replied fiercely. 

'You’re sure? You look like you’re hiking. But isn’t this area unsanctioned… No trails? How could you know they came here?' 

The man let out an impatient snort and said, 'Those ladies can smell food miles away. They would have found this diner, but it’s clean as a whistle,' he eyed her suspiciously. 'Are you cleared by the government to be here?' 

'Of course,' Clara smiled. 

'So, are you goin’ to tell me why you’re not on any map, then?' The man demanded, a fire edging up within him, determined to win. 

'We’re newly established,' Clara explained. 

The man shook his head, 'We have scouts every month who map out the areas for hikers like me. They cover every square inch of these woods. No diner was spotted last month, and there’s been no reports about construction.' 

'Well, maybe you’re onto something about us appearing out of nowhere,' Clara shrugged her shoulders, a smile growing on her face. 

The man felt a rush of heat swell into his face that had nothing to do with the tea he’d drunk. His hand curled into a fist. She was mocking him! So much for good manners… 

'Now, listen here,' he growled. 'I just came for some refreshments and a rest. I’m not here to have a chinwag.' 

'No? Looks like you could do with one. How long have you been wandering the wilderness?' Clara continued. 

The man snapped. He slammed his fist on the table counter and was shocked to see that the woman didn’t move an inch and merely wiped down his cup of tea and set it aside with a guarded expression. 

'I’m out of here,' he growled. 

He turned and yelped as he felt a sharp jab of pain, worse than ever shooting up his shin. 

'You need to rest. I can tend to your leg,' Clara pointed at the injured appendage. 

'Don’t be ridiculous. The whole point of this exercise is endurance,' the man snorted in derision, gritting his teeth. He was feeling like he made a big mistake coming here. 

'You don’t be ridiculous,' Clara admonished him. 'You’re not in any condition to travel. Besides, you’re part of the August scouting team. If you, say, stopped at a diner for a bit of a refreshment and then carried on and made it to settlement first, then there’s no one to tell on you. No one would ever know,' she smirked mischievously at him. 'Not bad. Now, come on. Sit, eat, drink, rest. What’s your name? Tell me what happened.' 

The man stared at her, bewildered. He could have sworn these women had been talking about flying and a Gallifrey and had, in fact, blended the fifties and twenty-first century. How on earth did they know all of this? 

'I don’t have to answer the likes of you,' he growled. 

'Sure,' Clara raised an eyebrow, unperturbed. 'Thought it was customary to introduce ourselves here on Earth, but maybe you’re not from this planet at all.' 

The man frowned. Was he being accused of being an alien? 

'Are you mocking me?' He snapped, taking a long draught of iced coffee, feeling the caffeine spark nerves and giving him energy like electricity flowing through him. 

'No.' 

He gave her an exasperated look. She clearly was, and was now lying to him. But she smiled at him, neutral and completely nonplussed with no sign that she was going to give up on her lie. And it was frustrating him immensely. What gave her the right to probe into his life? How had she known him being part of the August scouting team? Was she a spy? Was he about to get his license taken from him? Or was it just a lucky guess? 

'You all right?' 

Something about her kindness made him snap. 

'Why the hell should I trust you?' The man demanded. 

'Well, that’s a very good question, but I have a better one for you,' Clara smiled, leaning her elbows on the counter. 

'Which is?' He snapped, growing frustrated at her lack of cooperation or providing him any meaningful information without making him look like a total and complete dunce. 

'What were you running from?' Clara asked. 

The man gaped at her in astonishment. He’d thought she was going to ask about the woods, ask him to turn over a mobile that he didn’t have to call the camp headquarters, ask his name again — anything other than that. 

'The wilderness,' he replied blankly. 'That’s the whole point of the challenge, innit, which you would know if you were such an expert?' He glared at her.  

'Well, yes,' Clara nodded thoughtfully, completely unaffected by his hostility, which only annoyed him more. 'Except…'

'Except what?' The man demanded, too curious for his own good. 

'Well, you know the terms and conditions of your hiking expedition. And I know the customs of these events. And I know you’re off-track, out-of-bounds, which means you’re running from something,' she nodded confidently. 

The man chuckled loudly, sounding hoarse but there was a certain kind of strength to the sound as well. He felt an excitement rise up within him. Finally, he could beat this woman at her own game — arrogance, 'No, that’s not how that works. Camping for all monthly teams, including the August scouting team, has always been without boundaries. Only one checkpoint and that’s the end. No security, no protection, no tracking, no supplies. Everything’s free game.' 

Clara let out a laugh, and suddenly he felt a sharp jab of pain in his leg. He looked round and saw that she was using a cloth to wipe the grime and sweat off his leg and was tending it with a bandage. He’d been so focused on trying to not feel useless he hadn’t even noticed he’d laid out his leg and she was tending to it. 

'What are you? — Some kind of doctor?' He grumbled, unwilling to hide the fact that he was secretly pleased with the stubborn woman. 

'Don’t say that,' the other woman’s voice came from his right. She had returned. 

The man, despite his annoyances and many confusions about the duo, gulped. There was something about the way the other woman was looking at him that made him feel as though he were being X-rayed with precision. His joke felt attacked, laid bare and ripped into with derision, and he felt very unwelcome. 

The man had a sudden wary feeling that he shouldn’t turn his back on her, but it was far too late for that anyway and he kept his eyes glued on Clara. 

'Of a sort,' Clara smiled warmly at him in reply, and released the cloth, letting him wrap the bandage around his own leg. 

'Thanks,' he tested his leg on the ground and was relieved that the pain was lessened now. 'What did you do to it?' 

'Oh, you know, the old ‘turn it off, turn it on’ again,' Clara grinned at him. 

He frowned at her, puzzled. 

'I cleaned it out and added a bandage. Don’t put too much pressure on it. Definitely don’t run,’ she answered seriously, though she was still smiling for some reason. ‘What happened for you to be covered in all this dirt and grime? You’re completely drenched. Did you swim in mud?' She asked, jokingly. 

'Fell down a ravine,' he grunted. 

'There aren’t any ravines in this part of England,' Clara cut in immediately, as though she were a teacher lecturing him in class. It made him feel stupid, just as Roberta always had a way of making him feel. 'It’s just dense forest. So, what really happened?' 

The man looked up, bewildered. 'I fell down a ravine,' he repeated. 

'No, you didn’t. There’s no ravine. I’ve been here before, camping and hiking — obviously not in heels or converse — and I’ve also got maps of the terrain. It’s all trees and roots. Nothing to make you be covered in grime like that,' Clara replied sharply. 

'I’m not lying,' the man grit his teeth, feeling his temper rising again. 'I fell down a ravine! I remember it! I was walking, stepped in a bear trap, and —' 

'Bear trap?' Clara interrupted. 'For what? Trapping bears?' 

'Obviously,' the man sneered, unable to hold back his derision. 'Anyway, I stepped on it, and fell face-first into mud, which I can’t even clean because you haven’t got a bloody loo working' — though he accepted the towel from Clara and wiped himself off as cleanly as he could.  

'And you haven’t come across any streams or any water?' Clara asked. 

The man rolled his eyes. 

'I’m a trained hiker and scout. I think I know how to track down water. And don’t you dare tell me anything I said was off,' he added sharply as the waitresses’ mouth jaw twitched in anticipation of speaking. 'Look. I appreciate the drinks and the bandaging but I really should be off.' 

'But aren’t you the least bit curious why you don’t even remember falsely falling into a ravine?' Clara asked, straightening up. 

'No, he’s not,' the other woman cut in sharply, making the man jump. He’d forgotten she was there. 

'Yeah, what she said,' he tossed them both a disgusted look. 

Damn menaces, he thought. Trappin’ and trickin’ hikers and trying to play tricks on ‘em. A call to the Forestry Commission would set ‘em straight. 

And then he was off, limping away, muttering under his breath. 

'Clara!' The woman — Me — turned to her. 'What was that about?' 

Clara was only half-listening, her gaze on the back of the stranger. He seemed to really believe what he was saying even if all of the evidence pointed against his claims. Then again, he’d figured out that a fifties American diner couldn’t logically be in the middle of England without being on any maps, even surmising they’d appeared out of nowhere. He was clearly in denial… or false memories were in play was her guess. 

Clara hadn’t known about the changes to the hiking expeditions. No limits? No checkpoints? Just the start and end for a whole month? That wasn't hiking. That was impractical, reckless, and unwise. It sounded like a way for a lot of hiking accidents to happen and if they signed a contract with no limits and fatalities occurred, no one would be blamed or investigated. Something reeked of trouble and mystery here. 

Still, despite his occasional insight, he was still remarkably in denial. And from her experience, people in denial were holding secrets and secrets led to trouble and trouble meant adventure. 

'No,' Me spoke coldly. 

'No, what?' Clara looked over at her, innocently, eyes widening. 

'I’m not the Doctor. That won’t work on me,' Me sniffed half-derisively, half-sympathetically. 'I know you intend to help that man, or figure out what mystery is abroad.' 

Clara grinned, 'So you admit there’s a mystery.' 

Me sighed, 'What did you pick up on exactly?' 

'That man’s lying. He’s got to be,' Clara said at once, her brain firing into teacher analysis mode. 

'Yes, I noticed that too. What did I miss that makes you so intrigued about this?' Me asked. 

Clara smirked, and sat Me down at a nearby red booth, laying her palms against the table excitedly, 'Okay, many things. First, why have the policies changed? Normally there’s tons of checkpoints, maps given, compasses, water, food. Loads of provisional stuff to get them through and make sure they survive. He said there’s only the next checkpoint, which I think is the end. He’s got no supplies, and no idea where to go.' 

'Well, it is an expedition trip, is it not?' Me asked logically. 

'Yes,' Clara pointed at her excitedly. 'Exactly my point. Things have changed. He’s trained to find water, but he can’t. So…' She beamed at Me, thrilled at the mystery brewing before them. 

'So, what?' Me queried. 

'So, why’s he covered in mud? What is mud if not wet dirt?' Clara grinned. 'If there’s not water anywhere, no traces of it, essentially a drought, then how did he fall into mud? Why’s he covered in it? And you scanned the terrain, didn’t you?' She jerked her head back towards the TARDIS console. 

Me nodded, reluctantly, 'There are no ravines, no checkpoints for miles. I’m not even sure there is a checkpoint, only the start location.' 

Those words chilled Clara to the bone. 

'Someone or something’s hunting them,' she said. 

Me looked warily at her. 

'Hunting humans is barbaric and is not something to be joked about in a vain effort for adventure and distraction from returning to — ' 

'Oh, but hasn’t it?' Clara felt sparks rise up within her gut in excitement, adrenaline pumping through her veins. 'We had gladiators —' 

'Terrible dinner guests.' 

'— witch trials -'

'One of my least favourite time periods,' Me sniffed. 

'- police,' Clara finished, not minding the interruptions. 

'But not like this. Not in the wild,' Me finished, eyeing Clara as though trying to read her mind. 

'Trafficking,' Clara looked at Me seriously. 'Taking humans, displacing them to a place where they can’t speak the language, and then extorted for life. Don’t you tell me that humans aren’t capable of being barbaric.’

Something in Me’s eyes flashed, which Clara had learned to be recognition. Given that Me had finite memory, she didn’t remember all time periods equally, but she had done her best studying some Earth history since their trip from the end of the universe. Clara truly didn’t know why she’d chosen twenty-first century England but something about it felt right… or wrong… depending on your point of view. 

'And where has The Doctor been for that?' Me asked sharply. 

Clara stifled a small sad smile and replied, 'He helps where and when he can. He breathes our air, calls our planet home, but he can’t be everywhere, every time, all at once. Besides, you don’t really think if we stopped doing it once, we’d stop forever, do you?' She asked, thinking of a million tragedies that humans repeated. 

Me didn’t answer. Clara suspected Me had witnessed it firsthand and her body somehow remembered even if she hadn’t refreshed her diary entries. And the truth of the matter was that The Doctor had protected Earth several times, saved them from aliens and themselves. And it was complicated. It had made all the difference in the world to some, and to others, they hadn’t even known it had happened. 

And Clara was certain that if the world knew everything the Doctor had done for them that it would open its heart full of love, see the nature of embracing diversity rather than shunning it, and ridiculing and outlawing cruel and corrupt forms of government. That all of humanity could stand together against a greater evil: fear. They needed The Doctor to teach them to be brave, a new way of living, just like Clara aspired to do right here in this TARDIS. Her journey wasn’t over yet… That leaf still hadn’t touched the ground… Not yet. 

'What are you thinking?' Me asked, and Clara knew she was referring to the new events on Earth they’d stumbled onto. 

'I think he did fall into a ravine,' Clara replied thoughtfully. 

'But there’s no —' 

'Ravine, I know,' Clara finished knowledgably. 'But what if he did? Somehow. What if he fell into a ravine and there was mud and then he was returned with his memories gone or altered or something?' 

Me studied Clara with a mix of intrigue and apprehension. 

'Is this what travelling with the Doctor is like?' Me asked. 

A sharp pang of longing weighed on Clara’s heart — still stone cold and silent — no heartbeat, but if she had one, then it would beat for the Doctor, always. 

'Yes.' 

Her voice sounded so unfamiliar, like it wasn’t her own. 

'You miss it. You miss him.' 

It wasn’t a question. 

Clara bit her lip, and distracted herself by getting up and examining the dirt trekked on the floor and the mud on the towel she’d given him, hiding her face crumpling in despair — 'There’s one thing I know about her. Just one thing. If I met her again, I would absolutely know' — her eyes welling with tears, only to be blinked away like a windshield wiper swiping snowflakes or rain or memories. 

'Do you want me to clean it?' 

Clara blinked and looked up to see Me grabbing a mop and making way to get rid of the trekked muddy footsteps that the man left behind. 

'Wait,' Clara held up a hand to stop her. 'If something’s wrong in time, we should do something about it.' 

'Should we?' Me asked stubbornly. 'You haven’t forgotten what happened last time someone tried to change something they believed was wrong?' 

Clara half-smiled in exasperation, 'Yes, Me. I remember about two minutes ago when The Doctor nearly destroyed all of Time and Space because he missed me. This isn’t that. Time is done with its temper tantrum, The Doctor’s forgotten my face, and now we’re here. This is our fresh start, Me. We can still help. More than one Doctor in the universe.' 

'That’s not ideal,' Me replied. 

Clara smiled. She admired Me’s bluntness. It was her usual directness and logic that greatly helped and that Clara valued as a companion. 

'No, it isn’t,' Clara agreed. 'But that’s why I have you, right? You’ll keep me in check,' she grinned mischievously at Me. 

'You are not easy to reason with,' Me voiced warily. 

'No, I’m not,' Clara crossed her arms with a sly smile. 'That won’t be a problem, will it?' 

'No,' Me answered. 'But I will act as your companion as someone who cares for you, and does not want to see you shatter your own timeline.' 

'Already done that once, and I survived,' Clara remarked. 

'That was chance. You may not be so lucky next time,' Me warned. 

'Yeah, that’s my point. I survived by chance. I was impossible. So now, I better use that chance for something good, right? Something meaningful, because I’m not going to waste it, not when we have a TARDIS and the universe cries out for help. Look where we landed. This is no coincidence,' Clara declared. 

She could see the doubt mingled with strong amounts of curiosity in Me’s face. 

'I can’t just stand by and do nothing,' Clara insisted, feeling determination well up within her. 

'If you die —' Me started in that familiar cautionary nagging tone. 

'I won’t. I know where I end up,' Clara replied. 

Clara looked sharply at Me, making sure to keep her gaze level and certain. She knew that she wasn’t afraid. But she could do so much more — and she wasn’t going to let death stop her. 

She had stepped forwards and said, 'Let me be brave' - the fact that it had been less than a day was mind boggling to her — but now that she had all of time and space at her fingertips… Tomorrow wasn’t always promised, and she knew that for sure as she knew she was standing in her TARDIS. And tomorrow was ages from now, because as The Doctor had said the day that they had gone to Skaro, she may die tomorrow but it was still today. Today wasn’t owed to her either and certainly not with a Chronolock on the back of her neck. But with a TARDIS, she was still the impossible girl, not born to save the doctor, but born to die to save Time and the universe… to save the Doctor from himself… to remind him to be The Doctor… 

And her eyes welled at the thought of him once more — 'There’s one thing I know about her. Just one thing. If I met her again, I would absolutely know.' 

'Run, you clever boy, and remember me.' 

'Remember yourself,' she whispered, inaudible. 

Doctor, oh, Doctor. I hope you are well and being kind and not being a warrior. I hope you’ve found someone who has helped you and reminded you to heal yourself and be a Doctor. 

But she stared as resolutely as possible into the eyes of her doubtful companion. 

'Fine,' Me nodded stiffly, setting aside the mop against the counter. 'But we will discuss this later.' 

Clara did not pursue the matter and knelt to the diner floor, examining the dirt and mud. Her and Me gathered samples and brought them to the TARDIS main control room with its white sloping hexagonal control console. They inserted the samples, initialising analysis tests based on everything Clara had learned from the Doctor as well as Me reading and double-checking the control panel and twiddling switches and buttons. While Me grabbed a few historically relevant journals, Clara took a lap around the middle console and engine, eyeing the vertical-lined strips of light and the white round things — apparently called roundels that led access to wiring circuitry or storage units, according to Me and her handbook — unable to believe it. 

She had died just moments ago. It seemed an eternity that she was watching the raven dive at her, the Doctor reaching his hand out to save her, and his eyes… God, his eyes… He was so lost, so hurt, so relieved and scared to see her at the same time. He’d told her all about the Hybrid, the confession dial, the torture, the madness, the loneliness… The wrath of the Time Lords. The anger and hatred she’d felt boiling through her, threatening to topple her when she confronted them in the Cloisters. The fear and defiance at having her memory wiped against her will… 

She would have accepted it, if the device had chosen her, erased her memory of the Doctor, as long as they did it together. They had both gone too far, violating each other’s words, their trust — and they had fallen together too. But seeing the Doctor collapsing, fighting consciousness and memory because she had been so reckless and defiant…

Her guilt had thundered in the sound of the Doctor playing Clara and the engines of the TARDIS from the end of universe. She knew what it was: It was a warning. A reminder that her death was fixed. A constant reminder why the two of them couldn’t be together: for her to die, and for him to forget. Because selfishness was never kind, Clara knew. Not when anger and fear or even other emotions were behind it… Because selfishness meant the Doctor had become the Hybrid — and Clara Oswald made him so very selfish. 

Clara led the way out of the diner, looking for the man. He had been gravely injured and hadn’t bothered to mention his name, so unfortunately, she didn’t have a name to call out to. He couldn’t have gone far… His leg was still strained, and she’d only helped by cleaning the wound. He had miles to go. He had to be around here somewhere. 

Once Me walked out the diner, Clara flipped the sign to read  ‘CLOSED’ on the window front. 

'Not sure if that’s necessary,' Clara remarked, more to herself than anyone. 'People don’t really like fifties American diners, do they?' 

'I never underestimate the human need for food that decreases their arterial width,' Me replied matter-of-factly. 'And they are quite nostalgic of what they believe are the old times.' 

'Best keep the sign up,' Clara decided. 

'I still think it’s an inconvenient design,' Me remarked conversationally. 

'What would you prefer? Sixties blue police box?' Clara grinned, pocketing the key. 

'At least there’s the perception filter,' Me sighed. 

'Speaking of which, if there was a perception filter and even if the sign did say closed before, then how did that man see the diner for what it really was? Shouldn’t it be as inconspicuous as possible?' Clara asked, raising a finger to her chin, and scanning the trees for any sign of motion. 

'If you wanted the TARDIS to take the form of a tree, you’d have to repair the chameleon circuit,' Me responded logically. 

'No fun,' Clara grinned, her eyes landing on some pushed aside foliage — exactly the type a stumbling man with leg pain might leave behind. 'There.' 

Clara and Me made their way through the thicket of branches and bushes, pushing them aside. Clara stepped over roots and ducked under leaves making sure to keep her eyes forward, studying their path forwards and the disturbed forestry. As they kept walking, a terrible stench filled the air. Her nose wrinkled, but she pushed on forwards. He had to be somewhere close. 

'Clara,' Me spoke, and she felt a tug on her arm. 

Clara turned and her eyes widened. To their right was an entirely devastated ecosystem. A small area of forest was drained of colour and vibrancy, looking grey and dull like concrete against the rest of the luscious green trees. Dead rabbits lay at the base of a few stumps, their eyes wide and horrified and mouths gaping at the sight of whatever had killed them. 

Clara swallowed in horror, looking around wildly for any sign of danger. 

'Are there any historical records of this? Do you have any memories of this?' Clara asked Me, her eyes scanning their surroundings. 

She knew the man was out there somewhere and that these animals were dead, but they also needed information. 

Me took out her journal, scanning to the twenty-first century. As she read, her brows furrowed, twitched, and lifted as though watching a stop-motion film through time. 

'No,' was the reply, confirming Clara’s suspicion, and that only made her more worried. 

'Me, if something’s wrong, then we have to help,' Clara insisted, though her heart was soft and beating with anger as she stared at the animals. They had clearly suffered. 

Who would do such a thing? She thought, angrily. 

'I don’t understand,' Me looked around at the scene. 'There’s nothing important here —' 

'All life is important,' Clara cut in. 'It’s important because they were killed.' 

'Clara — '

'And don’t you dare tell me otherwise,' she continued, getting a bit heated at Me’s argumentative practicality. 'Just because they’re not human doesn’t mean their lives aren’t worth something.' 

'You don’t need to tell me that,' Me cut in sharply. 'Now, if you’re done, I have something to tell you.' 

Clara turned her full attention to the woman, 'What is it?' She asked, pushing aside some branches as Me gestured her a bit closer to the rotting smell. 'They’re not zombies, are they?' She joked. 

'I will never understand human propensity for the concept of the undead,' Me replied in her vaguely irritated tone. 

Clara guessed for an immortal human-Mire hybrid, Me didn’t exactly care for jokes involving humans living beyond their normal age. 

Understandable, she thought. 

'Okay, so what is it then?' She asked seriously. 

'It is funny that you mention zombies though. I’d almost think they were, but…' 

'But?' Clara echoed. 

'For zombies they’d have to be dead,' Me replied. 

Cogs turned in Clara’s brain, slowly comprehending and she turned her head towards Me, 'Wait, you’re saying…' 

'They’re still alive,' Me whispered. 

Both women stared in the eyes of the horrified animals, mouths wide open agape as though screaming in pain. Knowing they were alive made it worse — they probably were screaming in pain, frozen, suffering, and unable to do anything about it. Clara’s face crumpled, a mix of empathy and sickness swirling in her gut. 

'Who could do such a thing?' Clara whispered. 

But instead of Me, an answer came from feeling the unmistakable round cold metal of a gun being pushed against the back of her head and a cold voice, saying —  

'Funny, I was just about to ask you two the same thing.'

Chapter Text

ONE

CLARA OSWALD 

Clara Oswald woke up in sky-blue jammies decorated with white clouds and a brilliant smile that spread across her face as light and easy as a soufflé rising in the oven. 

She yawned, pushing her covers back, and hopping into the shower, soon rushing out, brushing her hair. Taking a look in the mirror, she saw a petite woman with what most would call an unusually round face, dark brown eyes, and wavy brown hair parted to the right travelling just past her shoulders. Today, she’d decided to wear a white blouse complemented by black blazer, trousers, and six-inch heels. Clara made sure to dress nice and put on her best attire given she looked good and she wanted others to know it too. 

Others would say she had a mediocre job as an astrophysicist, and, well, who cares what other people think?, she would retort back with a derisive snort. She was Clara Oswald, one of a kind, and not just anybody could be an astrophysicist. 

Besides, Clara had always dreamed of the celestial bodies up and beyond them, thinking of the world beyond Earth. She had always seen the stars and dreamed of travelling amongst them faster than the speed of light. So, really, what did the opinions of a few downers matter in the infinite expanse of space and time? 

Clara’s lips curled upwards with a mischievous, uplifting, and untempered spirit. One way — guaranteed — to make her excited for her job was daydreaming productively while also ensuring that she knew everything that was going on, which would allow her to predict and react accordingly. 

Nothing ever happened without Clara Oswald hearing about it, and that was just the way she liked it. 

In a way, as an astrophysicist and monitoring top secret satellite projects, she was in command of the entirety of humanity’s perception of the universe and it was maddening. Thinking of the impossibilities of the universe and how she, among every event of space and time, was here today… It was a privilege, and she wanted nothing more than to delve into every impossibility and embrace them. 

She raced downstairs and grabbed some breakfast and stuffing a bagel in her mouth as her phone rang. She removed the bagel in order to answer, 'Clara.' 

'Ms Oswald, your limo awaits.' 

'Right, thank you, Steven.' 

Clara locked the door behind her and finished her bagel as she took the lift down. She pushed open the double doors of the building, pulling on a long shawl around her shoulders and a pair of black shades over her eyes, shielding them from the creeping rising sun. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap. 

Clara looked around. A frequent bus occupant, a college professor from Mexico wearing a red backpack, tapped his foot while listening to an iPod at a bus stop. She waved at him and he smiled in return. About the same time she’d started her work, she’d seen him also always out by 0735 as they both waited for their rides. He was part of her routine, but they’d never had a chance to talk given they were both in a rush and didn’t want to be late. 

Buses blurred by in a flash of red in front of her — VOTE.

'No, Leo, I can’t come right now. Call Martha. I have that pre-interview with Lazarus Laboratories. I gotta go. No, Leo!' a Black woman in all black was saying, her demeanor cross before hanging up. 

Siblings, Clara thought. 

'Good luck,' Clara remarked vaguely after her, earning a partially confused but grateful smile from the woman before she scurried off in a rush. 

Feeling spontaneous, Clara waved across the street at the bus stop bloke, ‘Hey, bus boy! My name’s Clara!’ 

His mouth fell open, stunned, clearly not expecting that, but didn’t have time to warrant a response when his bus pulled up and he was forced to board. 

Grinning, happy to cause miniscule amounts of confusion and chaos in people’s daily lives — but nothing remarkably inconvenient — Clara enjoyed it because they were proof of her existence. Her touching the web of space and time, plucking at the web, vibrations cascading down, affecting the future. Even now Clara as she walked across the road, with all the black cabs, the red buses, and the red telephone boxes, she could be changing the future. It was so small and little compared to space, which was so vast, but why should that mean that Earth or Clara or humanity were lesser or not important?  

It was all so very exciting and maddening and thrilling. After all, no one really cared about every little moment. And yet — every little moment led to right here right now. None of it was little, if you really thought about it. 

Honk, honk! 

Turning, Clara spotted the limousine waiting for her, and entered, smiling to herself. It never got old. 

'Hello, Marvin,' Clara called as she settled onto the black leather seats. 

'Ms Owald,' the unseen driver replied from behind the screen divider. 

'It’s Clara. Seriously, how many times do I have to tell you?' Clara rolled her eyes exasperatedly behind her shades. 

'As you wish, Ms Clara.' 

Clara let out a cheeky huff, lying down on the elongated seats leaving her sunglasses on. She stared up at the roof of the vehicle through the tinted lens, imagining this was what space felt like. And, for good measure, she crossed her legs, finding her usual comfortable position for travel. 

In case it wasn’t clear, Clara Oswald was an enigma of importance in modern day London. Though no one would ever know it with her 'menial' job, she hadn’t missed the pointing and gasps of the onlookers at the sight of the limo and its mysterious occupant whom no one seemed to know anything about — The Mystery Girl, they’d come to call her. 

'What do you think of that then?' Admiral Bernard Wright had asked when he’d read about it in the paper. He was a geriatric and had been none the wiser to the online blogs about her until it had come up in the paper beneath the ridiculous election. 

'Bit lame, unoriginal,' Clara had shrugged, blunt as always. 

Bernard Wright was an elderly former soldier who had fought in both World War I and II, who stubbornly clung to tradition and would not follow the propaganda of change. It had been by chance that they’d met. Wright had been speaking at an event at the British National Museum and had required CPR, while Clara was a teacher at Gayhurst Primary School supervising the students for a field trip. Clara had jumped into action, calming down and calling upon her students to assist her while she administered chest compressions and saved his life. And, furthermore, while he recovered on the sidelines, she continued his presentation to the concerned audience without a beat, earning thundering applause from her class and the crowd. 

Astrophysicist major, history minor… It paid off, just as she knew it would. They were, of course, her two favourite subjects. Space: the biggest and most expansive area of research, and history: events of the past selectively recorded which meant that anything could have happened given humans’ inherent tendency for bias and justification when recounting their actions on record. Infinite space and time. What a dream. What an impossible dream … fitting then, for an impossible girl. 

Wright’s political views were fairly Tory-leaning but he still showed remarkable scepticism of all parties and critiquing them appropriately. But the thing that stood out most to Clara about him was his stance against the one that all parties had turned to like some ominous prophet — 

Harold Saxon. 

Clara didn’t know why, but she didn’t trust him. She just didn’t. She saw the crowds corralling and calling, 'Vote for Saxon.' She heard the sound in the way people walked, their fingers tapping, the cadence of their voices — tap, tap, tap, tap. 

And it drove her mad, like a fly that she couldn’t swat, buzzing incessantly without a moment’s peace. But there was something hypnotic about it even, like a fly on a painting — incessant madness but unable to swat it for fear of damaging the peeling oil painting of… Well, Clara didn’t know. Something awesome though, for sure. 

And maybe all this made her sound even more barmy, but she could have sworn that they sounded like drums, beating a rhythm into London, unshakable like an ear worm or a really good song that you couldn’t get out of your head. But truth be told, she didn’t care what people thought about her. 

And the sound did not affect Clara Oswald. She heard it, sure, but she didn’t listen to it. And she wasn’t sure if she was imagining it, but it almost sounded like a heartbeat, like something she learned in some biology lessons… She knew fish had two-chambered hearts and that octopi — no, not octopuses — had three hearts, but it was almost combining those concepts… The sound of two hearts beating… Nothing in nature but not impossible. 

Either way, she found the sound incredibly annoying and pulled on ear plugs. She heard it from devices, every telly she’d come across, phones, the people… It was maddening and deafening, only growing louder. She’d learned to tune it out, but sometimes it was overwhelming. 

She’d asked some people like Sharon — Wright’s schoolmarm stubborn argumentative Tory assistant who’d stayed loyally with him when everyone else had left for Saxon — but the woman had just insisted that Clara was barking mad and needed to have children with a nice young man. Clara had responded in kind by saying that Sharon needed to read more and get off her bloody phone and realize that women could make their own choices independent of men. Clara may have also shared that she had a girlfriend and that Sharon should stop being so small-minded and conservative and that identities beyond heterosexuality were not only possible but spectacularly alive and thriving. Clara had then promptly ducked at the coffee mug chucked at her from across the room. That woman had arms and a temper if nothing else. 

Back in the limousine, Clara smirked as she remembered that Sharon had gotten suspended, who whined and begged with Wright, but Clara was his favourite so he had suspended her. Today, Sharon was permitted to return to work, but knowing her, she’d be stuffing her grey-haired head into her pillow and covers, moping, and not showing her face. Sharon hated Clara a bit too much to be paid. Not to mention, Sharon was a complete arse to Clara’s friends and girlfriend, so really… No complaints from Clara Oswald. 

'You should let her go,' Clara had told him for the hundredth time. 

'And tell me why I shouldn’t do that with you?' Wright asked, disgruntled and peeved. 

Clara replied loftily, 'Because I’m irreplaceable.' 

'That so?' Wright pulled out a pipe from his tweed suit out of habit. 

Clara was quick as lightning and stole it between his fingers, tossing it into the rubbish bin, and replied without missing a beat, 'Damn right.' 

In short, Clara had no idea why Wright kept her around given she was exceptionally annoying to him. A complete drag, criticizing him constantly, and never letting him have an inch: Clara Oswald always had to win. She didn’t even like him that much, but something allowed her to tolerate him… and likely, his military access to London’s greatest observatory, telescopes, and meteorological facilities probably had a little something to do with that. 

Clara sat up, hearing the gate outside the car swing open, and saw the car pull up to the dullest grey building you could imagine. 

The first time they’d come across it, Clara had questioned it — 'Seriously? A grey box?' 

'Secrets underground, miss,' Steven had told her. 

'Ah,' Clara smiled, catching on. 'Secret space bunker. But how do the telescopes work, then? Aren’t those better pointing towards the sky?' 

'You’re mouthy,' the driver had noted dryly. 

'Inquisitive,' Clara corrected him. 

'You won’t last a month…' 

Well, three months later, Clara was deeply entwined with the program and was dating one of her coworkers which somehow hadn’t gotten her sacked — not that Clara was complaining. Being at such a high-ranking isolated position, she heard about all adjustments made, the coordinates telescopes were pointed to, all the air traffic, space programs, everything. And all she had to do was sign a piece of paper saying she wouldn’t tell a soul? No problem. 

But The Mystery Girl blogger had her ways. 

'Did you see this? She’s posted again, saying aliens exist and nonsense,' Steven exclaimed now. 

'Who could that be, then?' Clara asked, departing from the limo and leaning down into the passenger seat to speak directly to him. 

Steven was an Irish middle-aged man with cropped ginger hair, freckles, and a round doughy face. He always wore distinguished navy suits with frog cufflinks. 

She’d questioned the frogs with raised eyebrows, not judging, just curious, and he’d told her a story about how he and his brothers had caught frogs in the lake, trying to see who could catch the most. She hadn’t quite known how to respond to that, and merely nodded with a puzzled frown. 

'You’re one of the only women on staff,' Steven repeated his usual sentiment. ‘You could be the Mystery Girl blogger.’

'Me?' Clara laughed like she always did when he brought it up. 'I’m working here full-time. I don’t have time to manage a blog. Who knows? Maybe it’s Sharon.' 

'Sharon Hart couldn’t work a computer if she had step-by-step instructions next to her,' Steven snorted derisively. 

'Hey,' Clara arched an eyebrow at him with a warning look, tilting her head. 'I made her that step-by-step manual and trust me, she doesn’t even know how to turn the bloody thing on. I think she only stays for Qananii’s coffee. That, or she fancies Andrew. With her technological skillset' — or lack thereof — 'it’s a good thing Wright’s so old-fashioned. For her, I mean.' 

'Admiral Wright,' Steven corrected automatically. 

Clara shrugged. 

'So you think Sharon’s writing it down on paper and what? Getting someone else to type it out on a blog?' Steven asked keenly. 

'What a conspiracy theorist, you are, Steven. Who would have known?' Clara leaned out of the limo with a sly smile and made for the building. 

She pulled out her key card, swiping it, a light going green green, and completing her eye scan. 

Clara entered and took several complicated twists and turns and headed to the front desk. Easy place to get lost, designed like that to prevent infiltration. 

'Morning, Andrew,' she called to the front desk worker. 

'Morning, Clara. Still think people voting for Saxon are mad, do you?' 

'Always,' she smiled wryly at him. 

Andrew was an Asian-British bloke with Thai roots, in his thirties was providing for his family. He had a springy figure to him and an energy that Clara found endearing. His hair was short and parted unevenly to the left and he wore a black suit for work. Even though his and Wright’s political ideals differed, him being more LibDem, he enjoyed the modest well-paid work. Clara and Andrew got along fairly well, especially with his capacity for imagination, and they regularly ate lunch together along with Qunanii. 

Clara waved farewell at him and proceeded into a subsequent lift, providing her card swipe, finger scan, and eye scan this time. She went downwards to the café — 'Morning, Qananii!' She greeted the woman at the counter. 

Qananii was a lesbian Oromo woman from Ethiopia with high cheekbones. Her hair was styled in long raven twists that travelled below her waist, and she was wearing a long red dress rippling down to the floor and tall black boots that went up to her calves. Clara positively adored her, having  dated her for two months, and stood on her tip toes to hug her. 

They had met when Clara had joined the program and bonded over their love of coffee, space, and sharing their hobbies. Qananii had an incredible knowledge of history and biochemistry, while Clara taught English. Not to mention, Qananii was the only person who knew that Clara also worked another job teaching kids. And most importantly, she, like Clara, had an extreme love for adventure and risk-taking, and they were both control freaks. 

'Morning, Clara!' Qananii beamed at her, untangling herself from her short girlfriend and gesturing towards the coffee maker behind her. 'Usual?'

'You know me,' Clara grinned, handing her a five pound note. 

'Did you hear that Professor Lazarus is coming in a few days?' Qananii asked as she prepared Clara’s cappuccino. 

'Yeah, on the streets,' Clara nodded, leaning against the counter, looking around at the small cafe and the assorted baked goods on the racks in front of her, taking in the smells. 

'Oh, look at you. Is noble Clara Oswald able to walk the streets of humanity now?' Qananii grinned, turning around and handing her the black round mug. 

'Yeah, I suppose I can afford it,’ Clara giggled offhandedly with a small chuckle. ‘Thank you!’ She added, taking the mug and cupping it between her hands to warm them up. 'What’s the deal with Lazarus, anyway? Based on the Bible?' 

'I don’t know. He’s invented something, I’ve heard. Something about reversing age,' Qananii explained. She eyed Clara’s hands. ‘Sweetheart, if you wanted to warm up your hands, I could hold them all day.’ 

‘Oh, I wish, but trust me. You don’t want to see Sharon… if she chances work today, you never know with her.’ 

They shared a grimace, despising Sharon’s attitude and general ineptitude as Clara took a sip of her coffee. She let out an affirming humming noise. 

'Good?' Qananii smirked, leaning on the table against her hands. 

'Brilliant,' Clara corrected. 'Right,' she grinned at her girlfriend, gave her a small smooch on the lips, and waved. 'I should be off.' 

'Give Sharon flack for me,' Qananii called after her. 

'If I see her, you got it,' Clara grinned as she twirled around and carried on through the labyrinthine passages down to air control. 

By the time Clara reached the room, she had finished her coffee, leaving the mug on the used dishes tray at 0800 — the same as every day she’d worked here. 

Clara headed into the room full of dark consoles and lights, and flight trajectories of all spacecraft, aircraft and recent starcharts. She sat in the big wheely leather chair and got to work, relieving Ian — a shy, awkward Welsh bloke — from duty, pressing buttons and dialing in, monitoring the skies. 

She’d learned that the bunker held high resolution telescopes, snapping shots of the skies at all times, hence the consistent need for monitoring. The bunker had telescopes a few miles from here taking clear 4K shots of the sky among the ones from space probes, like Voyager. 

Clara set off to work, checking the aeroplanes, ensuring they were on flight and not set to crash into one another. Next, she observed the space probe data — she knew it would take years and any data she was seeing now was from a while ago, but marvelled at the emptiness and the occasional streaks of brilliant colours. Third, she looked up star charts, working on mapping areas of the galaxy, wheeling around and gathering massive sheets of paper like wallpaper, rules, her favourite black fine-tip pen — the more precise the better — and her favourite protractor to measure angles and distances between stars. 

By 1100, she was kneeling on the ground, drawing celestial objects keeping all appropriate in relation to one another, and of course, they weren’t to scale. 

'Clara,' Andrew knocked on the door and she looked up, her long brown hair whipping upwards. 'Ready for lunch?' 

'It’s not 1205, give me a second,' Clara checked the clock on the wall, and went back to work, Andrew standing at the door. 

'You and Qananii are so alike,' Andrew shook his head in disbelief. 

'What can I say? We both love our jobs. And I love hers too. Qananii has an import license, so we get some of the best coffee in the world.' 

'You keep saying that, and I keep not getting it,' Andrew sounded in disbelief. 

'Dedication to cacao beans,' Clara answered easily. 

Her watch beeped, signalling it was 1205. 

'Okay, let’s —' 

But she was cut off by something she spotted on the screens. 

'What?' Andrew asked from behind, cluelessly. 

Clara side-stepped and pointed at the meteorological screens, showing orange and yellow swirling build-up readings. 

'What’s that mean?' Andrew asked, bewildered, stepping into the room. 

'Electrical storm,' Clara explained. 

'I thought today was sunny,' Andrew frowned. 

'It is. It’s still sunny, and the area’s gathering electric charge, but…' Clara frowned. 

'What? But — what?'

'That’s impossible…' Clara muttered under her breath. 

Clara ran a few diagnostic tests on cloud formation, precipitation, and electrical readings, her fingers flying across the buttons. She ran the results against past historical weather updates. 

'So… what does that mean?' Andrew queried into the silence and Clara’s racing mind. 

'Thunderstorms or electrical storms are based on electrons, negatively-charged particles, building up in clouds and then they create lightning within clouds and the ground because of the protons, positively-charged particles, there,' Clara informed him, her mind racing with the impossiblities. 

'Opposites attract and it creates lightning, then thunder, basically,' Andrew summarised. 

'Yeah, basically.' 

'Did that hurt to say?' 

'Little bit,' Clara’s mouth twitched in inauthentic irritation. 

'So, what’s the problem?' 

'Well, an electrical storm means it should be generating mini-thunderstorms or at least low pressure systems causing clouds and precipitation but it’s still sunny and there’s no changes in pressure…' 

'Then, how are we seeing it on the screens?' 

'Well, you know Wright —'

'Admiral Wright.' 

‘Yeah, that’s the one. He values his pre-technology times and traditional customs. Won’t stand for anything that involves digital code, within reason.' 

Some higher authority had permitted Wright military access to this site. It was for the most part abandoned due to his distaste of technology, but because he kept Clara around and she wanted access to this site, she came here as a hobby that she deemed 'full-time work.' Either way, they did need computers for analysis, no matter how much Wright shook his fist and complained, but it was all off-grid on a separate network. 

In short, Clara wanted a technological hub to monitor space activity, and for some reason, Wright allowed her to use it for some downtime. 

Clara continued, 'So, we use telescopes that take photos, old-fashioned. Weather companies use technologically-assisted telescopes with artificial magnification, programming, and summaries. Just a bunch of humans pressing buttons to run algorithms and predict weather and they put a pretty face on the news so humans feel more relevant.’  

'Cynical,' Andrew was frowning, she could sense it. 

She turned and saw that she was right, and shrugged, 'Realistic humour.' 

'Don’t you also press a bunch of buttons on a computer too?' 

'Well, yeah,' Clara laughed. 

'I don’t understand. If it can’t be picked up by satellites, then how are we picking it up?'

'That’s the mystery,' Clara grinned at him, swaying slightly on the spot. 

'What’s that?' Andrew pointed at something behind her. 

Clara turned and frowned. She rushed forwards, spotting a black object above, not immediately marked with a country’s flag designating human property. 

'Hmm,' she mused. 

'What is that?' Andrew repeated, voicing her thoughts. 

'I dunno. Give me a sec,' Clara tapped a complicated series of buttons in succession, turning a few dials, and enhancing the image on the screens. 

The shape was odd… rounded… almost like a ship. 

Clara ran it against international aircraft models. A few seconds of beeping later — 

ZERO MATCHES FOUND. 

'Clara?' He asked, for a big smile had spread across her face. 'What is it?' 

'Something awesome.' 

∘ — ∘⟡∘ — ∘

MARTHA JONES

Martha Jones leaned against the wall next to her brother’s flat, taking a few deep breaths. 

Don’t get her wrong, she loved Mum, Dad, Tish, and Leo, but they really got on her nerves sometimes. Always complaining to her, expecting her to solve their problems, listening to them ranting without a care about her. And she knew they loved her, but she felt so… well… invisible. Like she didn’t matter. But she knew that she did, in her heart. 

She spent a few more moments to herself before knocking on Leo’s flat. 

The door opened and her younger brother’s stressed face appeared, 'Martha, thank God!' 

'What’s wrong, Leo? Couldn’t you have called or something?' Martha asked begrudgingly, but she entered all the same. 

She waved loftily at Leo’s girlfriend and their six-month old baby on an armchair. Looking around, the flat was messy as always, as it often was with a baby present. Toys scattered, a crib, door to their bedroom, and the bathroom. Her reflection caught in the mirror, seeing a slightly-disguised bitter smile across her face and she found that she didn’t have the heart to change it. She also saw her favourite red leather jacket wrapped around her shoulders with glimpses of her burgundy blouse underneath, blue jeans, and black elevated boots. 

'No, I need your help,' Leo said quickly. 'And it’s not like you have anything else to do.' 

The words stung Martha as she recalled that Mr Stoker, the high and almighty Medical Training Lead at Royal Hope Hospital had sent a very scathing voicemail saying she was no longer qualified to study as a medical student. Martha had protested and fought back, calling to see if Julie Swales — her good mate — had been terminated, but there hadn’t been a response. Needless to say, her efforts had been like rain bouncing off an umbrella. 

A few moments later, when Leo had called, Martha hadn’t had any reason not to answer… She could work on applying to other hospitals, but she felt disheartened and readily answered her brothers’ summons, aimless and lost. He didn’t even know she’d had her position terminated… He was just assuming that she had nothing better to do than help him, and that stung a bit.  

Martha had always wanted to be a doctor, having seen people in pain, wanting to help people and make them better. It was her duty, and true, she was a medical student, so she wasn’t really a doctor yet… And yet, she couldn’t think of any other path. She reassured herself this was a temporary setback, but it didn’t stop her from feeling lost, stranded and floundering for shore. 

'So, what’s going on?' Martha asked, quickly changing the subject, stuffing her hands in her jacket. Normally, she’d be at Royal Hope Hospital right now in her white doctor’s coat, but not anymore… 

They were supposed to be a group of medical students that Mr Stoker would be personally teaching in a supply room for a few days, and then they’d move on to test their knowledge against real patients. Martha was hoping that she could get both in, if she could convince the right people. 

'Mum and Dad want to throw me a party in a few days for my birthday!' Leo exclaimed, throwing his arms up in sheer exasperation. He was wearing a loose red tee and blue jeans and a look of positive distress. 

'Well, yeah, it’s your birthday!' Martha frowned in confusion. Her family never remembered her birthday. She’d have loved for someone to care what day she was born… 

'But Dad’s bringing Annalise and he wants to pay for half of it!' Leo complained. 

A chord of dread struck through Martha. Mum and Dad had divorced, and Dad had gotten himself a younger 'prettier' girlfriend to make him feel like he was living. Either way, bringing Annalise would make Mum look bad, because everyone would be there, and they would look down on Mum for hosting the party. But Martha knew that Dad loved spoiling Annalise, giving her anything she ever wanted like some princess because it made him feel important. She wasn’t even sure if Annalise was all sparklers and fireworks, or if it was all an act to cosy up to Dad and his money. And Leo was turning twenty-two, just trying to work and provide for his girlfriend and baby. Plus, Mum was always wondering if Leo would marry her to which he would wave her off saying he would when he was ready. Mum also nagged Martha, but she generally let Martha do whatever she wanted and rather, in Martha’s opinion, had given up when Martha had shared her dreams of becoming a doctor. 

'Doctor Martha Jones?' Mum had asked, raising an eyebrow. 'And with your fancy degree, you’ll still come home to us, will you?' 

'What?' Martha had frowned. 'Yes, of course I will, Mum. Being a doctor doesn’t mean I’m better than anyone else. I just want to help people, people who need help.' 

And Tish was working on joining Lazarus Laboratories, which, in Martha’s opinion, her sister was not qualified for. Tish was constantly on the move, rushing, always late, never able to keep a steady job and not good at remembering dates, which made her a less than ideal assistant. But Martha would always be there for and support her sister. 

That reminded Martha, pulling open her phone and calling Tish — 

'Martha! I told you I have my interview in ten minutes!' 

'I know — Hang on, it’s ten. Didn’t your interview start at nine?' Martha asked worriedly. 

'Yeah, but they haven’t cancelled on me yet!' 

'Hey!' Martha exclaimed as Leo snatched her mobile. 

'Get off the phone, Tish. I’m talking to Martha,' Leo sniped. 

'Oh, that’s nice,' Tish shrieked and Martha heard cars honk in the background. 

'This is ridiculous,' Martha darted forwards, snatching the phone. 'Tish, I wanted to remind you that your electric bill is due tomorrow.' 

Tish cursed, 'Why didn’t you tell me earlier?' 

'It’s not my responsibility to remember all your deadlines! I’m only trying to help,' Martha argued. 

'Okay, now that you’ve helped her, help me now,' Leo argued. 

Tish called Leo something that Mum would have chastised her for. 

'Okay, byeeee. Good luck,' Martha called and hung up quickly in order to mitigate the conflict. 

'What did she say?' Leo demanded. 

'Never you mind,' Martha sighed, pocketing her cell. 'Tell me what’s going on. 

'Can you watch our baby?' Leo gestured at the six-month old. 

'What? Why?' Martha frowned. 

'We’re going out to celebrate my birthday,' Leo explained, gesturing to his girlfriend. 

'I thought you brought me here about Annalise!' Martha exclaimed, utterly bewildered. 

'Well, yeah. Multiple things. Tell Dad I don’t want Annalise there, tell Mum I don’t want anyone to fight, tell Tish she’s double whatever inappropriate name she just called me,' Leo nodded. 

Real mature, Martha thought exasperatedly. 

Martha sighed. Martha Jones, bossed around middle child, did not sound appealing as a title. She would much rather be Doctor Martha Jones. 

'Okay, fine,' she relented. 'But I’m going shopping.'

'Shopping. Why?' Leo stared at her bewildered as he grabbed his things and his girlfriend dumped the baby into Martha’s arms. 

Martha nearly squeaked as the bundle of blankets and baby was dropped into her arms, but she held her close instinctively. But as she looked up, she felt overwhelmingly unseen. 

The fact that her own brother couldn’t even fathom why she would go shopping since it didn’t pertain to his agenda… 

'Never mind,' they said simultaneously. 

'Okay, ring me if anything happens. Thanks so much, Martha! Keisha loves you!' He pointed at the baby. 

'Yeah, I know what her name is, thanks,' Martha called as the couple slammed the door and departed.

Martha looked down at the baby and smiled at the small round face snoozing with her puckered lips and soft breathing noises. 

She spent the rest of the morning cleaning some of Leo’s flat, and rocking baby Keisha in her crib. After she was able to see the floor again, Martha grabbed the baby harness and carefully put baby Keisha into it and headed out to shop. She was perusing down the aisle for dish soap when a voice called out to her. 

'Beautiful baby.' 

Martha looked up to see a young British woman with a blonde bob wearing a posh black suit — far too poised to be in an ordinary shop. 

'Thanks,' Martha smiled still, and looked back at the dish soap, thinking in anticipation for the party and knowing Mum or Dad wouldn’t have thought that far. But she still felt the woman’s presence and looked at her pointedly. 'Can I help you?' She asked. 

'Are you, by any chance, Martha Jones?' The woman asked. 

Martha looked up, taken aback. 

'That’s right. Sorry, who are you?' Martha asked. 

The woman seemed to take that as a ‘yes,’ smiling, turning swiftly and departing the aisle, heels clicking. Confusion and curiosity overtaking her, Martha followed stealthily through alleys and politely excusing herself as she rushed past other people. But when she reached the dairy aisle, she knew that she’d lost her. 

'Wah,' baby Keisha sounded. 

'Tell me about it,' Martha frowned. 'Who was that woman?' 

And at the teller, she saw a man in a posh black suit with very short dark brown hair — nearly black — parted unequally with most of his hair swept to the right. It stood out because his hair looked ridiculous, and he, too, wore a suit. He was watching her from another aisle. 

Martha kept her head down, shushing baby Keisha who was starting to fuss, probably overstimulated by all the light and noise. Martha bought her dish soap and a cassette tape she thought Leo would like, and headed back into the busy London streets. 

Martha felt her breath quicken, as she felt the presence of the lady and bloke following her at a distance. 

What’s going on? She wondered. 

She took an experimental turn right, intentionally off-route from her route back to Leo’s flat, and saw the woman follow. Then, she took another right, picking up a bus route schedule and talked to a man about theatre productions. Out of the corner of her eye while discussing current shows playing, she saw the bloke tailing her speaking to a nearby shopowner. At that, Martha thanked the theatre manager and she took another right and towards Covent Gardens and bought a pair of earrings for Mum — she could do with a gift especially if she had to deal with Dad and Annalise showing her up, even if it was mostly unintentional. And then Martha turned right one last time. 

Martha kept pace for a few seconds and then as she turned left she saw the woman dart around the corner, still following her. A few minutes later, the man strolled into the alley pretending to speak on his cell. 

Right, she thought to herself. Four right turns means you’re being followed. So what now? She went through several different options. What do those people on telly say? Hunted people go somewhere familiar? I don’t want to endanger Mum, Dad, Tish, or Leo. Or Annalise. But how can I get baby Keisha back to Leo without leaving him all alone? 

Martha kept walking without looking, only stopping for a quick sandwich and lemonade, and made her way to The Globe. She sat in the crowd with sleeping Keisha and watched Hamlet, applauding the masterful performance, and leaving. She looked around and was relieved to see that she wasn’t being followed. 

Martha took a very complicated zig-zagged route home and was relieved to see that no one seemed to be following her. And yet, those two hadn’t been a coincidence. Why had they spoken to her? 

Martha returned to Leo’s flat, still pondering and tucked baby Keisha in for her nap, and sat, reading some of Leo’s magazines. She missed being a medical student, but she couldn’t leave Keisha, not when Leo was depending on her. 

I wish someone would depend on me that much, she thought. 

But speak of the Devil as her cell rang —

'Martha!' Mum exclaimed. 

'Mum, what —?' Marth started with a frown, hurrying away from the baby so as to not wake her. 

'I want to bring Leo to a musical on his birthday and then have a party at the Metropolis Club,' Mum announced. 

'Yeah, his favourite musical is Les Miserables, and I heard that it was playing this week as I walked round. And I think Metropolis Club is closed on weekends —' 

Beep. 

'Hang on, that’s Dad — Hello?' 

'Martha! Tell Leo he can accept my donation of half his party. I think we can definitely afford it.' 

'But Dad, if you keep throwing your money around, you won’t have any at some point.' 

'Coming from Miss Doctor Martha Jones, is that?' Dad asked with a huff. 'You need to have more fun. Find someone you love and let them treasure you like my baby Annalise.' 

Martha’s nose wrinkled, 'I don’t want to be babied. I want to be an equal, a partner — or nothing at all.' 

'Oooeuuuhgh!' 

Martha held the cell away as she heard Annalise’s signature screech. 

'Martha? Is that Martha? Hiii Martha!' 

'Hiii Annalise,' Martha fake-smiled with an audible tone of false excitement. Luckily, Annalise didn’t catch on her true attitude. 

'You know your dad’s right, girl! You gotta go out and find life! Can’t expect it to come to you. You gotta stand up for yourself. Ooooh, baby, can you buy me that dress?' Annalise trilled. 'Stop the car!' 

'Wait, Dad! Are you driving and talking to me at the same time?' Martha hissed, urgency spiking within her. 

'Find yourself a nice man with a good job and let him treat you —' 

Or not, Martha thought. 

Beep. 

'Hang on, that’s Tish,' Martha informed them, very relieved to depart the conversation. 'And don’t drive and snog or anything! — Hello?' 

'Martha,' sobs came from the end of the line. 

'Tish, what’s wrong?' Martha’s heart sank at the sound of her distressed sister. 

'They — they wouldn’t hire me,' Tish sobbed. 'They said I — I was too late and disorganised…' 

Given your flat is worse than Leo’s I can see why, Martha thought stonily, though she didn’t mean any harm. She was just tired of never being first in anyone’s life or any universe. But she knew better than to snap at her family for her own problems of not being good enough… They wouldn’t even notice or simply dismiss it. She was the peacekeeper in the family, holding it together, invisible and fragile like a spider web

'Tish, I’m sorry,' Martha empathised with her, and she meant it. 'It’s their loss.' 

'My thoughts exactly,' a muffled but familiar voice came from the line. 

A thrill of shock ran down Martha’s spine. The woman! The British blonde bob woman who’d been following her! 

'Tish!' She cried, panic rising within her. 

'Wait, not now, Martha!' Tish hissed, and Martha prayed that she kept the line on so she could hear everything. 'You’ll — you’ll speak to Mr Lazarus for me?' 

'What?' Martha exclaimed. Tish had been rejected… There was no way that they could change a world-renowned professor’s mind. But she knew for certain, from the stalking, to now following Tish, that this was no coincidence. 'Tish, don’t listen to them!' She yelled with as much urgency as she could without waking up the baby. 

'Oh, don’t be silly, Martha,' Tish laughed, sounding genuinely delighted. 'You will? Oh, thank you! Thank you so much! Oh, Martha — they want to talk to you!' 

Martha waited and the moment she heard her sister’s breath away from the line, she stormed to the bathroom and hissed, 'Don’t you dare hurt my sister! Don’t you dare!' 

'Quiet. Don’t tell her anything,' the woman’s clipped tone echoed through the line, clearly speaking to Tish. 

'You must not know me if you think I won’t do everything to protect my family!' Martha bit out furiously, feeling anger and concern rising up within her. 

'Let’s meet face-to-face then,' the British woman’s voice sounded closer to the receiver — she had taken Tish’s mobile. 

'You leave my sister and my whole family alone!' Martha screeched. She was burning with concern and anger for her sister — she knew she was risking letting the stranger decide the place and time for the meeting, but her family was the most important thing to her. In the distance, she heard baby Keisha start to cry. 

'Your family will be unharmed,' the woman spoke, unruffled. 'Charing Cross, one hour' —

Martha glanced at her watch: 1205. 

'Further contact will not be made with you or your family members until your meeting. You have my word.'

Martha opened her mouth to argue and ensure her sister was safe, but she didn’t have much time with a wailing infant and the line went dead. 

Martha hung up, her breath faltering, and the lights above her flickered on and off ominously. 

'What the hell is going on?' She muttered, anxiety and questions swirling in a tumultuous storm within her as she went to go soothe baby Keisha. 

∘ — ∘⟡∘ — ∘

CLARA OSWALD

'I’m not following,' Andrew said. 

Clara and he were lying on the ground of Clara’s working station with pictures of colourful graphs, stars, and space vessels as she tried to explain what was happening. Their phones open on the ground informed them that today and the week ahead would be sunny with a five percent chance of rain. 

'Okay, so see this?' Clara pointed at the red, orange, and yellow waves of colour in concentric circles. 'These represent electrical storms where there’s thunderstorm activity. Then weather reporters tell us the percentage likelihood of a storm based on past weather patterns and location in the city. For example, a ten percent chance of rain means that ten percent of London’s area has a match with a past record.'

'Blimey, I thought that meant there was a ten percent chance anywhere you are,' Andrew scratched the side of his head. 

'Well, yes,' Clara nodded, ever the teacher. 'Depending on where you are, there is a ten percent chance. Okay, so what we’re seeing are electrical storm readings but no formation of clouds and rain.' 

Andrew looked profoundly bewildered. 

'Exactly,' Clara nodded, tilting her head with apparent satisfaction. 

'I didn’t say anything,' he frowned. 

'Exactly. Now, tell me, why do you think that could be?' Clara leaned forwards eagerly, leaning towards him. 

'Er.'

She watched Andrew’s eyes dart over the profile of the ship. 

'No…' he uttered.

'Yup,' Clara grinned. 'That’s what I think too. Aliens. Something’s affecting normal weather satellites. Either they’re picking up something wrong and there’s no storm or they’re being prevented from picking up on the real signs. My bet’s on the latter.' 

'Because otherwise there’d be a national investigation by now, and we wouldn’t have access because they’d want to have all the control,' Andrew voiced aloud. 

'My thoughts exactly,' Clara nodded. 'Either this mysterious sponsor has superior access and is overriding this technological glitch, or I really am just an exception to the entire world.' 

'But… what kind of aliens? Friendly aliens?' Andrew asked hopefully. 

'Are you recalling an army of Cybermen and Daleks invading our city a bit ago?' Clara asked with a light smile. 

'Okay, fair point,' he relented, grimacing. 'So, how could we identify that ship, then? Isn’t that something we should take to the government?' Andrew asked. 

Clara raised her eyebrows, 'Bring an alien conspiracy to the government running amok about how Harold Saxon is like the coming of Christ when we have no proof? Come on, Andrew, it’s like you don’t know me at all,' she paused, eyeing all her work on the ground. 'We should investigate. You, me, Qananii.' 

'What?' Andrew gaped at her. 'Are you mad? Use government and military secure resources to conduct our own search? Clara, that’s — that’s —' he spluttered. ' — illegal.' 

'Okay, but no one’s going to believe you, me and Qananii have access to some secret satellite that’s telling us there are electrical storms forming. But something is happening, and we may be the only ones who are aware and can do something about it. Come on. Old-fashioned legwork. Wright can’t say no to that,' Clara argued. 

Andrew hesitated, looking deeply remorseful. 

'I know you have a lot at stake. You, Marcia, and Eddie. But this is something. If something’s hacking our weather satellite reports — what next? The Internet? Nuclear missiles? We have to do something,' Clara insisted. 

'And you’re sure this won’t be some wild goose chase to chase your love of adventure?' Andrew asked, frowning still. 

'Well, no. But it is weird our phones aren’t picking up anything but our somewhat off-the-grid technology is. It’s definitely not location-based,' Clara pointed out, sensing victory as she watched Andrew slowly start to give in to her logic. 

'Okay, what do we do?' Andrew agreed rather regretfully. 

'Question one and two,' Clara stood up authoritatively and Andrew stood as well. He was taller than her, but they both knew who was in charge. 'Why this satellite? What's the difference between our technology and the ones used by weather reporting channels? Question three. What could be affecting everything besides our technology specifically? And another. What aliens are responsible for this? Is it the same as in that ship?' She pointed at the black ship orbiting distantly above Earth. 'What’s the intel on that ship? What kind of aliens are they? What are their intentions? What’s their target? And are they working with the aliens that are affecting our satellites or are they two separate events? If they are separate, what’s the thing connecting the two?' Clara was pacing back and forth in deep thought. 

'That’s a lot of questions,' Andrew sounded torn between excitement and being overwhelmed. 

'Care to add anything?' Clara spun around to face him. 

'It can’t be a coincidence,' Andrew voiced at once, reaffirming his ability for imagination. It was only his fear of authority that held him back. 'Whatever’s blocking our satellites must not want us to find and identify that alien ship. They must want something with Earth.' 

'Okay,' Clara nodded. 'You get Qananii and catch her up on your way back here.' 

'What are you going to do?' Andrew asked. 

Clara gave him a pointed look, and replied, 'I need to learn all I can about that place.' 

'How?' Andrew blinked, astonished. 

'I have my sources,' Clara smirked. 

'Is that… Is that wise?' Andrew asked hesitantly. 

'Listen. I have friends and contacts who are aware of alien threats,' Clara placed her hands on her hips authoritatively, taking charge. 'They’re the only ones that might be able to help us without arresting us.' 

'Or maybe they’ll arrest us too,' Andrew muttered mournfully. 

'Think on the bright side. This could be an alien plot to destroy the world, and we’re not sitting by and letting it happen,' Clara told him. 

Andrew sighed, 'If only The Doctor were here.' 

Something rang through all of time and space, like a chime that resonated with Clara. 

'The Doctor?' She asked, turning slowly, her large brown eyes widening. 

Andrew frowned, 'You know. The Doctor from the Battle of Canary Wharf. He defeated the Daleks and Cybermen.' 

Something chimed again but it echoed in a dissonant way like it was descending. 

'The Doctor,' she whispered, trying out the words. 

'Clara? You all right?' Andrew asked with a frown. 

Clara didn’t know. She felt something inside her — her heart, maybe — pulling her towards the name, as though she’d made some sort of promise. But she knew that it was important and she was not going to ignore it. 

'Yes,' she stared blankly at Andrew as though trying to see if his face would morph into something familiar like a bowl of batter falling into a soufflé mould. 

Clara stood rooted to the ground, her eyebrows furrowing as she tried to figure out what was happening, trying to wrap her head around it. Think, think, think, think. The Doctor… The Doctor… tap, tap, tap, tap… 

She didn’t know what it meant, but she knew — She knew what she had to do. 

'Andrew, get Qananii and keep this strictly between us three. I’m going to get us some help — trustworthy help,' she added at Andrew who balked at her words. She knew and appreciated how much he was risking to help her.  

Andrew obeyed, running out of the room, and Clara set off to work, no longer hiding her true knowledge. 

She moved aside her papers, and took a seat at the computer, ensuring she was using a high-profile security channel. She messaged three separate numbers:  

'I have a top priority case that I need top clearance access to your resources. Code word: Doctor.' 

Three beeps were returned: Case confirmed. 

∘ — ∘⟡∘ — ∘

MARTHA JONES

Martha sat at a local coffee shop at Charing Cross Road, keeping her head down but eyes alert to everything and everyone around her. She recognised ordinary people by the way they walked, clutching bags, on the phone, and calling cabs. She checked her watch and saw it was nearly 1305. Martha hugged herself around the middle. 

Martha had hurried to call a grumpy Leo to come home to his baby explaining she had an emergency. She couldn’t believe that Leo had actually acquiesced but maybe it had been something about her tone and the way she was yelling. Martha rarely yelled when it came to her family, except when it came to defending them. 

Either way, she couldn’t believe that she was here right now. The day had started with Mr Stoker informing her she couldn’t be a medical student followed by a bombardment of calls from her family, babysitting her niece, and now she was being followed. What on earth was happening? 

A few minutes passed, and then it was several. Martha checked her watch uneasily, and saw that it was now 1310 and they still hadn’t arrived. Martha started to grow nervous. What if they weren’t coming? Had they harmed Tish? But Martha was so worried that if she tried leaving that they’d be watching her and Tish could end up being hurt. 

Maybe answers would come as she saw a large black vehicle drive over. Fancy and posh — must be them, she reckoned. She tried not to look too worried or antsy at the sight of them and watched as two men strode towards her, one carrying a briefcase.

With a jolt, Martha realised it was the same bloke that had been following her earlier that day.  

Both sat across from Martha at the table, and she was not amiss some civilians standing nearby, watching. 

Spies, or agents, Martha guessed. 

'Doctor Martha Jones,' the man on the left spoke in a hefty British accent. He was elderly with white stretched skin and short grey hair that made his head look well-rounded, almost like a crown. 

'Who the hell are you? And what did you do to my sister?' Martha demanded, crossing her arms. She had been told to meet here and she wasn’t going to cooperate until she knew her sister was safe. 

The man studied her scrupulously and informed her, 'I have not made contact with your sister.' 

'But one of your agents told me to meet here at 1305!' Martha snapped, anger rising within her. 'Otherwise, you wouldn’t know where to find me.' 

'Ah, allow me to explain. My name is Grant Avery, Head of UNIT Central Control. We tracked your line and we’re here to protect you from whomever is helping your sister,' she explained easily. 

Unit? she thought. Some type of weight-lifting program for men? Tracking my line? Spying on me? What do they even care about my sister? What the hell is going on? Are they lying?

Martha looked between her and the man in disgust. Was this some kind of joke? 

'And who’s he?' She jerked her head towards the other man. 'Your personal trainer, then?' 

The second man looked furious and opened his mouth to speak, but Avery held up a hand to silence him and said, 'Doctor Jones —' 

'Martha,' she interrupted, stingily, very aware that she wasn’t a doctor — that, and she wanted to have some control in this situation. 

'Ms Jones, this is US Army Lieutenant General Sanchez, a high-ranking member of UNIT.' 

Martha eyed him suspiciously. He was definitely the same bloke who’d been watching her from another aisle in the shop. And he did look like he’d sound American. He had a round, red doughy face and a cut that looked as though he was a teenage lad. She didn’t know if she could tolerate any stupid Americans when her sister’s life was being threatened. 

She turned abruptly back to Avery, 'And where’s my sister, then? And what’s Unit?’ 

‘UNIT is the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce.’ 

Martha nearly scoffed at the name. Brits and Americans alike really knew how to make it all about themselves. 

'Ms. Jones, please try to calm down. Your sister is safe. We’re keeping surveillance on her,' Avery nodded sharply, and Sanchez — looking as though he’d swallowed expired milk — opened his briefcase and placed a file onto the table. 

Martha raised an eyebrow, doubtful of all the spies watching her. She was outnumbered and she didn’t have any options, but she sure as hell wasn’t going to leave without making sure she knew the truth and that her family was safe. 

'These are our surveillance images of her, and the people who have been tracking her,' Avery replied sharply, his tone full of urgency. 

Martha eyed Sanchez, feeling pieces in her mind fitting together the way she could read her siblings and Mum and Dad, that he and the other woman hadn’t actually been tracking her together per say… Rather they could have been playing a three-way game: a game to track down Martha Jones first… Perhaps, this Grant Avery was telling the truth… 

Thinking of her family, she leaned forwards, pulling the files towards her, and examining them. Pictures of Tish were there, in her messy flat, walking on the street on the phone, speaking with Professor Lazarus — an old bloke. Even at first glance, she could see that he had the arrogant privileged exterior of so many that she had to deal with on her career path. 

Well… former career path, she thought despondently.

Martha moved her hands over the images — 

Traditional paper emulsion layer. Definitely authentic, she concluded. Though she did shiver at the thought of such precise photographs of her sister without Tish or anyone knowing. She wondered how long this had been going on, and if UNIT was taking photos of her too. And — if this UNIT was her supposed ally, then what did the people who were messing with Tish have on her? Martha barely concealed a shudder of disgust. But she had to move on. 

Leaning closer, amidst the dates and exact times of photography, Martha quickly noted that the blonde woman or stony-looking agents had several photos with clear vantage points of Tish, such as across the street. Other photos showed these agents in the photo directly, two men sipping coffee two tables away, a man wearing a red backpack and listening to an iPod standing at a bus stop, or a car tailing from a distance. 

Martha’s hands clenched with worry, her stomach flipping with anxiety. 

'Who are they?' Martha demanded, looking upwards at the UNIT agents. 'Why didn’t they come to meet me at the time they suggested?' 

'We believe they had no intention to meet you. Their mission, we believe, was to recruit Letitia Jones to Professor Lazarus’s reanimation program,' Avery explained. 

'Why?' Martha demanded. 

'We’re not sure,' Avery’s eyebrow twitched — imperceptible to most, but Martha had learned to read every silent cue of her family members and she wasn’t fooled. 

Martha leaned back, anger surging through her, crossing her arms, 'You’re lying. You know why.' 

Avery and Sanchez glanced at one another warily, while Martha scowled at them, hunching in her chair. Another day of two higher-ranking men deciding her fate based on what was convenient for them… They reminded her strongly of Mr Stoker, who had dismissed her, despite her competence and skill as a medical student, on a whim… Bitter coils sprung from within her stomach. She would definitely give him a call and see why he had terminated her position suddenly. But what Avery had to say shocked her, disarming her of her bitter jealousy — 

'We believe it has to do with Harold Saxon,' Avery finally spoke. 

Martha scoffed, hugging her sides with her arms. A to-be Prime Minister wanted something to do with her? 

'Oh, come on,' Martha snorted. 'Seriously, that isn’t funny.' 

'Normally, we would not intercede, but it was brought to our intention that something is very wrong and the absence of … well, an old ally, is quite concerning. I cannot reach him and neither can any of our friends and networks.' 

'Maybe he’s sick. Taking a day off,' Martha snapped, stonily. Why not humour them? This was the cruelest joke she’d ever faced. She’d much rather just carry on trying to regain her medical degree. But she still stayed, because the fact these people had surveillance on her family concerned her. She decided sometime in the last few moments to play along and interrogate them in kind. 

'He doesn’t take days off,' Avery replied with such strong conviction that it made Martha’s stature falter. 

She’d never been more certain of anything in her life… except the fact that she wanted to be a doctor… to help people. Maybe this bloke felt the same way, and these UNIT blokes knew that too. 

'Okay,' Martha frowned, still not getting it. 'And why the hell would a Prime Minister care about my sister?' 

'Future Prime Minister,' Sanchez corrected. 

‘Blimey, he really sounds American.’ 

Martha rolled her eyes and said, 'I think when all three political parties abandon their own and unite under one man, then it’s pretty guaranteed Harold Saxon will win.' 

'Did you vote for him?' Avery asked. 

Tap, tap, tap, tap. Her fingers moved without thought. 

'Of course,' Martha frowned. 'Didn’t you?' 

'Of course. As has the entirety of England, including some parties of Scotland,' Avery smiled coldly. 'Other than a few dissonants.' 

'Like who?' Martha asked in disbelief. 

Avery smiled wryly, and Martha could tell that he was going to change the subject. 

'As you can see, your sister is being monitored by agents of Harold Saxon,' he nodded towards the files curtly. 

'But that makes no sense!' Martha exclaimed again. 'My sister, my family is not important. There’s no reason for a future Prime Minister to benefit my family! It won’t get him anywhere!' 

The words stung, but they were true, and she would rather be left out of it. She didn’t understand at all. Was this some sick twisted game at play? To offer her sister a good job only to snatch it away, just like Mr Stoker? 

'Yes, I quite agree,' Avery nodded, and Martha felt like a barb pierced and stung her insides at the admission. Just because it was true didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Avery continued, 'And based on their absence now, I do believe they never intended to come.' 

'But my sister —' Martha protested again. 

'Your sister is safe. She is currently doing a reinitialising celebration as the assistant Professor Lazarus,' Avery informed Martha, beckoning a hand at his side. 

Martha’s eyes darted to the agents at the perimeter, expecting guns being withdrawn, but instead Sanchez revealed an iPad playing moving images. Martha leaned forward and saw the live footage of her sister dining and chatting with a group of people, looking happier than ever. 

She felt relieved, but her instincts were telling her that something was off. Still, she wanted to know what UNIT had against her sister and why they were so interested Tish had missed many job opportunities. Why intervene now? 

'And why is it bad that my sister has a high-paying job? Is that such a bad thing?' Martha demanded. 

'No, but would you pick your sister as the assistant of a revolutionary scientist?' Avery asked. 

His words stung. 

'Yes, of course,' Martha lied. 

'I’m sure, but not out of qualifications,' Avery smiled, and Martha felt angry. She was being pitied — her and her family. 

'So what? You’re tracking me because you’re upset my sister got lucky?' Martha snapped, waspishly. 

'No, we’re tracking you because of some irregularities brought to our attention,' Avery explained, nodding at Sanchez. 

The American looked just as upset as Martha (though she firmly doubted that was possible) and he pulled out more files, laying them on the table. Martha almost laughed at the idea of agents giving her files of intelligence on her and her sister — her, Martha Jones, invisible and insignificant. 

'Look, if my sister is safe, I don’t have to listen to any of this. You’re just stalking us, and I’m politely asking you to leave us the hell alone!' Martha snapped, standing up, her arms crossing angrily. 

'Doctor Martha Jones. This is important, and I think you know that,' Avery gestured at the chair. 'Once we’ve shared what we know, you are welcome to do whatever you wish with this information.' 

Martha stood, fuming. Beneath her sceptical and angry exterior, Grant Avery’s words rang true with her. She’d known it wasn’t the same people who had been on the phone with Tish but she’d still lashed out, in fear of her sister’s safety. She knew it was weird, but nothing had ever been weird or slightly remarkable in her life. It didn’t make sense, but Martha didn’t know if it was comforting or terrifying that a United Nations organisation had tapped the line and was telling her that she was so unremarkable and remarkable at the same time. Then, she nodded and sat down, uncrossing her arms, willing to listen if nothing else. 

'Thank you,' Avery smiled and this time Martha could see he was being sincere. Sanchez, rather, looked as though he’d swallowed something bitter and was fighting not to spit it up. 

Martha nodded slightly, feeling a bit more warmer towards Avery. 

'Now, it’s come to our attention that Mr Stoker of Royal Hope Hospital terminated your position of interim medical student there,' Avery pointed out the files and Martha felt her heart drop into icy water. She had thought they were going to talk about Tish and Harold Saxon, not her recent unemployment. She felt her blood chill, travelling like petrol into an engine, from her heart up into her fingers — they were going numb — at the sight of his signature: ‘Dr Bryan Stoker’ on the dotted line.  

'That’s not —' she began, but Avery was already on top of it. 

He opened another file and it revealed a collection of previous Mr Stoker’s signatures: Mr Bryan Stoker on other documents: shopping deals, memberships, approvals and dismissals, and the like. 

'It was falsified?' Martha gasped, leaning forwards, hope darting forwards in her chest and mind. 

'We have no doubts that Mr Stoker signed it given his unique handwriting style, studied by our very own expert forensic handwriting analyst,' Avery explained. 

Martha slumped down in her chair. Well, there was nothing that could be done about that then. 

'But, based on the title discrepancies, he was clearly not in his right mind,' Avery continued. 

Martha didn’t feel much better, 'What? You mean he was pissed?' 

'No,’ Sanchez couldn’t help but sneer, and she shot him a look. ‘We mean that he was possessed.'  

Martha’s jaw dropped. 

No. That couldn’t be true… It just  couldn’t… 

Even with aliens having invaded Earth, like the Sycorax, Martha had trouble believing it. 

'What? No, no, no way…' Martha spluttered shakily. 

Beep. 

'Sir, call incoming,' Sanchez gestured at the iPad, clearly angling it away from Martha. 

She scoffed. She was used to being ignored. 

'Ah, excellent. Doctor Martha Jones, I’d like to meet the group of colleagues who you will be working with,' Avery took the device from Sanchez, showing it to Martha. Sanchez scowled. 

She saw four rectangular boxes, with a line splitting two screens at the top and two at the bottom, all equal sizes. At first she thought it would be camera footage of Mum, Dad, Leo, and herself. But as Avery pointed from above, Martha leaned forward and saw that fuzzy images like silhouettes or outlines were appearing, and he introduced them from left to right, top to bottom — 

‘Captain Jack Harkness of Torchwood, O from MI6, myself with the United Nations Intelligence Taskforce, and Clara Oswald with the Archangel Network Surveillance System.'

Chapter Text

TWO

TENTH DOCTOR

The Doctor had been travelling on his own for a while now. He was currently fidgeting with the TARDIS, twiddling knobs and staring blankly at the walls. Its concave shell with extending beigeish-golden arms and blue lights beneath the console let out reassuring beeps and tones. The TARDIS was truly the Doctor’s home, and a place he relied on for comfort and return to if danger ever befell him, which, let’s be honest, was quite a lot. But in the Doctor’s defence, he was quite remarkable and excellent at dealing with situations, quick and clever, to the marvel of so many others.  

His current form had come from his last thoughts of his last incarnation, his tenth regeneration… 

Rose…

What must she think of him? But what else could he have done? Let her die, let the TARDIS consume and eat her alive? She’d risked everything to save him, and it nearly cost her her life. She’d be dead if he hadn’t killed himself, taking the TARDIS into him. He’d felt the soul of the TARDIS burning every cell of his alive, each one filled with a light too bright for him, but worst of all, he’d felt every cell fighting to live. 

Life was a cunning enemy as the Fatality Index had said as he’d monitored some of their execution processes when it had started affecting off-world species. Rose would have asked what their names were, he thought. 

The Doctor had failed her in so many ways. He’d nearly let a Dalek kill her… more than once. He’d fallen in love with Madame De Pompadour right in front of her. He’d fought to send her away for the Battle of Canary Wharf, and she’d insisted to stay by him. And that was it… That had been the day that he died. 

He’d clung onto the idea that she’d be safe with her mother, father, and Mickey the Mick Mickster, even if it was an alternate universe. She had her family. But then he’d let himself dream and hope, and those were terrible things as a scaffold. He’d reached out to her telepathically, just calling her name, pleading. He didn’t believe in gods or demigods, but he believed in her — he knew she would hear him. 

He’d used the energy of a burning star to say goodbye, and he’d meant to say it. The words were at the tip of his tongue. There — like a sun, burning, ready to be spoken. And then, it had all disappeared. 

Except hope. 

Hope was cruel. Hope clung to him. He had seen her again. Rose Tyler. A beautiful, brave young woman who had saved him from himself. And she told him that she loved him. Him. The Doctor. The man who had failed to be the Doctor at the most pivotal moment in history. Anguish and despair crushed his lungs at the thought, even just standing in the TARDIS alone. 

Never be cruel, never be cowardly. 

And he’d failed on so many levels. And Rose Tyler had reminded him of it, indirectly, just existing, and that was beautiful. And then she was gone. 

And he told himself he might be okay. Because she was lost, and he could find people. But he knew he couldn’t go looking for her. He couldn’t travel to visit her, the same way he couldn’t save his people, and so his selflessness won. But did it really, when his selfishness was so strong? Why didn’t it feel like a win? He had saved the universe from an army of Daleks and Cybermen, after all! He’d won and survived against all odds and the Earth was still standing. 

But he always lost. 

And when he lost, he was always alone. 

Alone. And afraid. Always. 

The Doctor let out a shaky breath, running his hands through his hair. 

Enough thinking about Rose, he thought, his gaze landing on her blue-purple jacket and New Earth medical kit and moving to the console. 

He set course for anywhere, a random location, really. What did it matter? He was the Doctor. He ran away. He ran to help people. He listened to the psychic network of people’s cries across the universe and he went on his way. That was his duty, wasn’t it? His promise. 

And the universe never went silent. There was always someone who needed help. But over nine-hundred years of living, and it was a lot. Immortality wasn’t a gift as silly humans thought it was… It was a curse… A curse especially such a selfless predisposition as him to help the universe. He wished he could turn away from it sometimes, but he heard the children crying, and he felt empathy coursing through him. He couldn’t leave crying children behind. He couldn’t leave corrupt humans to die either. He was cursed to care, forced to live, begotten with the terrible price of watching everything wither and die around him. 

And Donna Noble had seen it. 

He’d lashed out at her, terrible and wrathful, furious at her interceding his mourning. She wasn’t special, she wasn’t important, not as important as him. He was the Doctor; she was a whiny and loud human who would be dead in maybe sixty years. He was the one who had to keep on going when it all died away. 

But something about her yelling reminded him vaguely of himself. His academy days, so determined to be heard, convinced that people didn’t believe he was clever. And he’d warmed up to her, defended her from the Racnoss Empress, and saved her and the Earth. 

And more so — she’d saved him. 

Unimportant, loud, opinionated Donna Noble, screeching and sobbing in a wedding dress, wanting to marry a man after barely knowing him, had saved the Doctor. 

Her life, one life, had changed perhaps the trajectory of the universe. 

She humbled him. Made him remember that just because humans and Earth were small meant that they weren’t lesser. Not that he thought they were. They were lesser in lifespan, but they weren’t unintelligent. The Doctor was clever; he knew a lot, had gained a lot of experience from his many lifetimes, and he could apply that knowledge in ways that many species marvelled out, including the Time Lords and the Daleks. And humans were brilliant in their own way. Their finite lifespans, their limited nature, made them unlimited, and they would always propel between exceptional and diabolical. But wasn’t that life? 

The Doctor smiled vaguely at the thought. Humans really were his favourite species. 

But he’d lost himself on Christmas Eve, drowning himself in the torrent of water, killing every Racnoss infant. 

Never be cruel, never be cowardly. 

No, that hadn’t been the Doctor. But the Doctor, now, could make amends. (He never could, but he would always try, because that was what it meant to be the Doctor. Keep going, because he had to.) 

The Doctor had been mindlessly travelling across time and space, often thinking of Rose and Donna, wondering where they were. He wasn’t offended that Donna had rejected him. She’d seen a side of him that he feared and hated above all… It reminded him of the time he’d failed to be the Doctor more than any other time. That is to say, he didn’t blame her in the slightest or push her. 

He’d wanted so badly for her to join him, because here alone, he relived every moment of his life and there were good times, but so many bad ones too. And the bad ones hollowed him out, made him feel older and worn out than ever. Was there no end to that darkness? 

And yet, the Doctor refused to give up. He loved to try. He loved to try to even that tally. Every mark was a counter to the death he’d caused, astronomical and littering his grave beyond belief like twinkling stars of blood and bone, but he could make up for it. He had to try because he could never give this up. He had never tried to give it up, really. 

The universe needed help. And he was the Doctor. He had a blue police box that read —

Police Telephone

Free for Use of Public

Advice and Assistance Obtainable Immediately

Officers and Cars Respond to Urgent Calls

Pull to Open 

He could fix the Chameleon Circuit and blend in better, but he was the last of the Time Lords, and … He shuddered. The wrath of the Time Lords, their cruelty, their cerebral arrogance in thinking they were better than everyone… The Great Time War… Oh, they’d ruined everything… They’d made everything worse… As much as the Doctor hated Davros and the Emperor of the Daleks and the Daleks, the Time Lords were a different kind of evil. 

This was not a war or even a single genocide. This was not one side attacking and the other defending. This was two great empires of terrible amounts of power over space-time, destroying everything. This was a universal genocide, while killing each other endlessly, forever and ever, to make sure either side of them were still standing throughout Time. 

Both sides were wrong. Both were so full of ruthlessness and hatred. Trillions of planets caught in the crossfire, technology that destroyed planets’ atmospheres, purging them of resources to assist Time Lord war means, and the Daleks’ incredible fiery hatred and xenophobia for anything that wasn’t Dalek… 

The Doctor’s eyes closed. Arcadia. He’d been there. He couldn’t believe he’d actually spoken its name aloud in front of Rose. He was so afraid of explaining what had happened, but it had helped, feigning confidence and superiority to Daleks. A kind of attitude that put people off from questioning him. It made him feel powerful and safe. And moreover, he regretted being at Arcadia deeply. 

He hated being the last of his kind, not because he’d ended the Great Time War. But because he was selfish, he was alone, and he’d killed 2.47 billion children. He’d killed his wife, his thirteen children, his best friend… 

The Doctor blinked. Salty tears ran down his lanky cheeks and he wiped them away irritably. 

Donna was right. He did need someone to stop him. With all his grief and rage, the power of a TARDIS, there was no one to stop him. But he wasn’t unwilling to listen. He’d listened to Donna — her voice shaky but strong, 'Doctor. You can stop now.' 

For a moment, it had been foggy, as he’d watched the Empress screeching for her children as he killed them all as though travelling through a hazy mist. And then it had reached him, and he jumped to it, getting himself and her safely out of there. 

He did need someone — though he’d rarely admit it. He liked to think he was very capable and clever on his own. After all, all companions did was bring him sorrow, but there was something so good about them that he couldn’t ignore. 

The Doctor smoothed out his blue suit, inhaling violently, hearing the beeps of the TARDIS again as they drifted through the Time Vortex aimlessly. He’d been in the middle of calibrating for distress calls when he’d gotten sidetracked by some average despairing thoughts. 

It was times like these that he really needed companions in his very own selfish way. He did truly enjoy travelling with others as well, showing them the universe and seeing their reactions. He’d loved travelling with Rose and he’d promised for it to last forever, just as he wanted everything to. But it never turned out that way. Because companions weren’t forever. He lost them. He always did. And he needed them. His desire wasn’t remotely selfless, not that he’d admit that to anyone. And he did like it most when they listened to him — which Rose and Donna both tended to not do — but they had both had other reasons that kept him tied to them. 

The Doctor shook his head free of thoughts and finished his complex set of calculations and console movements to search for distress signals. He ventured towards Earth, a bit hopeful and curious. After all, humans were his favourite species in the universe. They were exceptionally creative and brilliant, and he marvelled at how much they advanced. Sometimes it was too much, but there were always those that had critical minds or were open-minded — even better if they were both. And… 

Nothing. 

There was nothing. 

The Doctor’s brows furrowed. 

'That doesn’t make sense,' he muttered aloud. 'Humans always need help, crying out for warmth and food the moment they’re born. They always need help and I can always help.' 

He looked over the readings, disappointed. He really wanted to help Earth. It was his favourite planet, and yet, it was almost like they had grown past him and didn’t need his help. 

The Doctor felt a pang of loneliness and longing. And of course there was deep guilt. He felt bad for wanting Earth to be in danger, but he always felt an antsy need to be doing something at all times to be useful. Otherwise, what was the point of him? 

'Right!' He declared aloud to the empty TARDIS. 'Right, right, right, right, right. Moving onnnn! Always more places to go!' He yelled with bravado, his voice echoing loudly, slamming the handle on the console down. ‘I don’t need anyone!’ He added with a false smile that made his face hurt, but he ignored it. 

The Doctor left the brakes on, the TARDIS engines emitting their usual groaning sounds as he felt the ship land. The Doctor let a smile creep onto his face, probably looking like a disgruntled smirk like one might give while dealing with an unpleasant negotiator. The sound brought him so much comfort and he loved it deeply. The TARDIS was far more home than any other place. 

The Doctor landed on a planet called — 

'Freensl, water planet with purple skies,' he strolled out of the TARDIS. 

He stood on metal-ringed and yellow wood water rafts, looking back around at the massive sea expanse all around him and then back up at the violet purple skies above where he could spot the dust, rock, and ice rings surrounding the planet. 

'Welcome, welcome,' a cheery voice said to his left. 

The Doctor looked around to see a trio of blue aliens with three antennae and glowing orbs at the ends. The aliens themselves were about four feet in height, humanoid forms, and had six finger- and toe-like appendages. 

'Hallo,' the Doctor’s face split into a wide smile, strutting forwards and putting his hands in his pockets in greeting. 

'Welcome, welcome,' they cried in unison. 

'So lovely to meet you,' the Doctor bowed to each of them, clasping his hands together in a praying position, and the Doctor mimicked the gesture.  

'Who are you?' The little blue aliens squeaked. 

'I’m the Doctor,' he smiled, kindly. 'I am honoured to be here on Freensl. How can I help?' 

'We have a problem. Our water is being stolen,' one alien replied. 

'Show me,' the Doctor ordered. 

The aliens jumped up and down in an odd sort of sequence of jumps, the Doctor imitating the series of limb movements in a sort of ritualistic dance. 

At their command, the aliens dived into the water, and the Doctor followed suit, diving headfirst. 

As a Time Lord, he had extensive abilities to survive conditions beyond regular human capacity, and one of these was better adaptation to pressure changes and superior vision in darkness. 

The Doctor swam downwards, following their glowing yellow antennae, undulating his body like a worm to best follow the currents. Freensl was essentially an entirely underwater world only made of water, but there were oxygen-based shelters below for guests. 

The environment was beautiful. The Doctor’s brown eyes viewed the array of sea creatures, some with seven wings or three tails. Some looked like giant underwater brachiosaurs with extended fins that looked like frying pans. The water was very blue, entirely known to be completely nontoxic — 

Oh, the Doctor’s eyes bulged at the thought that he should have checked his pockets for anything toxic. The Freenslians had very compromised immune systems, especially since their source of breathing was, in fact, water. Just like fish and most underwater inhabitants, they were able to intake water and use that for life sustenance. Unlike fish, they didn’t need to extract oxygen from it, and they relied directly on water. The Doctor, on the other hand, required oxygen. 

Luckily, they were approaching the underwater shelters and he could see their bubbled forms underground, interconnected in a hive. Instantly, he could see a problem, golden lights flashing in communication — 

Contamination. 

Help. 

Problem. 

The Doctor swam faster, concerned. He landed in the middle of the air bubble and inhaled large gulps of air, and ran full throttle, only weighed down by the weight of his wet clothes. He reached the aliens and made similar greeting gestures. 

'Hello, I’m the Doctor. How can I help?' He asked urgently.

At once, several lights flashed in his direction. 

Death. 

The aliens took his hands and pulled him through the relay tracks, circular and made of metal and wood just like the platform above, and into a circular den. 

The Doctor’s mouth opened in surprise. There were ten aliens lying in front of him, their mouths open in shock as well, completely greyed, their antennae flicking feebly, frozen and in pain. 

He worked quickly, grabbing his sonic, holding it in his right hand, pressing the button, listening to the readings. He held it to his ear. 

'What is the problem, Doctor?' A Freenslian squeaked, sounding concerned. 

'Accelerated absorptive transportation,' the Doctor murmured. 

The crowd exchanged glances of worry, and the Doctor knelt to their height, and asked, gentle but urgent, 'What happened?' 

'We were hunting, as hibernation season is upon us. We cannot go too much above ground when trees are more abundant,' one squeaked. 'And then, the trees and our hunters were trapped in a beam of light. We managed to bring them here for better comfort, but they’re in pain, aren’t they?' 

The Doctor knew better than to ask what colour the light was; Freenslians were only attuned to the ultraviolet spectrum. The only reason they detected him was because of Time Lords’ inherent regeneration energy signature which ranged across the electromagnetic spectrum. 

'What are their names?' The Doctor asked quietly, sombre. A memory of Rose asking the Ood what their name was flashed to mind. 

'They are Freenslians,' they replied, clearly confused by the question. 

'Okay, never mind. I’ll call you Bob,' he gestured at the one who’d answered his question. 'Is that okay, Bob?' 

The Freenslian nodded enthusiastically. 

'Brilliant. Tell me, Bob. When did this happen?' The Doctor pulled out his glasses and circled the affected aliens. 

'It was last thorunt,' Bob explained nervously. 

'That long?' The Doctor lifted his glasses, astonished. A thorunt was equivalent to three Earth months. 'They’ve been in pain this long?' Empathy shot through him, and he closed his eyes, hearing their pleas —

No, please! 

So tired… 

Don’t take it all… 

The Doctor jerked his head backwards, standing and stumbling backwards in an incredibly fluid single motion nearly bumping into Bob. 

'Mx, are you alright?' Another alien squeaked. 

'I — I —' The Doctor inhaled. He felt their loneliness, their pain, their desire to give into the pain. 'Okay, accelerated absorptive transportation. It means every single cell of theirs is being absorbed and transported at the same time. Think of an electron. Negative charge. BUT — Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle: You can never know the location and its speed at the same time. That’s exactly what this is. It’s being absorbed in terms of energy, like a scan, but it’s also being transported. Accelerated because it’s entirely random — a random number of cells being absorbed or transported. But I can’t get a lock…' he growled, aiming the sonic in frustration, the Freenslians’ psychic pleading only getting louder. 'I don’t know where they’re being absorbed to.' 

The Doctor stood up, pacing around them in a circle, running  a hand through his hair, incredibly stressed, 'Okay, so. Freenslians. Deprived of water, start suffocating. Why’s that valuable? Why does that matter? Why would someone want that? What could they possibly gain?' He stopped abruptly, looking back at the nervous huddle of Freenslians. 'What did you say about trees?' 

'There were a lot of trees. The oxygen disrupts our ability to breathe, Doctor. The hunters go to cut the trees so we have less oxygen in the water, especially for hibernation.' 

'When does that start?' The Doctor asked. 

Bob looked nervous, 'In about a unx.' 

Unx — equivalent to one human hour.

'Why didn’t you call for help before?' The Doctor hissed, stress building up in him. 'Why? Why only now?' 

They looked at one another confused, 'We have hibernated since the last thorunt. This is the only time we have before our next.' 

'What?' The Doctor yelped, and they leapt back, afraid. 'No, no, no, no, no. That can’t be right. Are you sure?' 

The aliens nodded, looking thoroughly perplexed. 

'Well, you can’t be right about that. Who even keeps time, anyway? Time is subjective. You must have counted wrong,' the Doctor whirled around at the bodies. 

His ears drowned out the sounds of the aliens defending their precise time-keeping records. 

A thorunt… ninety-three days being absorbed and transported at the same time, existing in both places at the same time, gaining and losing energy every moment of their lives. Infinite energy, infinite hell. They’d suffered for ninety-three days without their own kind knowing the pain they were in. 

And the Doctor regretted very much saying that he knew exactly how that felt… except he would never find another of his own kind. 

A loud shake and rumble shook the ground and they all stumbled with the shaking circular den. 

'What was that?' The Doctor practically yelled, panic rising within him. 

'It is happening again,' Bob whimpered, covering his antennae with his hand-like appendages. 

'Where?' The Doctor demanded. 

And then he looked up, a long spotlight shifting between green, blue, gold, and red illuminated the very den they were in. The Doctor, feeling horror jumbling through him, ran outside and saw beams of light covering the other dens. 

'No…' he uttered. 

Not an entire civilisation. Not an entire species. Not an entire planet. Not on his watch. 

The Doctor looked upwards through the water and saw a pinprick of light up above. There — the source of all the beams of light to put the Freenslians through eternal hell. He kicked off the ground hard. 

'Doctor? What are you doing? Where are you going?' The natives called behind him. 

'I’m the Doctor. I’m going to save you. And I’m telling them Freensl is off limits,' he snapped, waving his arms and legs with a furious snap. 

His head broke surface and he bobbed in the water, completely drenched and soaking, yelling, 'Hey! Hey! None of this! You think because the Freensl are smaller than you — and they are quite short — that you can absorb their energy? No! I am the Doctor, and I say no! You cannot get away with bullying species that are lesser than you.' 

The beams of light froze, and a long red one fell on the Doctor. He didn’t feel it in his rage and protectiveness of this planet. They were just living their lives. They were innocent, just trying to survive their water world. It wasn’t fair, and the Doctor was going to save him. 

And then he felt himself being lifted out of the water as the beam pulled him upwards. As he got closer to the beam, it did something to his eyes, making them unfocused. He tried to keep his eyes open, but his eyelids drooped, unable to fight the notion of sleep, and the last thing he saw was the tunnel of never-ending red light encompassing him. 

∘ — ∘⟡∘ — ∘

CLARA OSWALD

'Where will you go?' Me asked. 

Her and Clara were standing around in the main console room of their TARDIS with all the roundels. The TARDIS was beeping faintly as they loitered in the vast expanse of space, as Clara was still trying to decide where she wanted to go. 

Clara had changed into a leather jacket with a cloak to put over her head in anticipation. She had a few places she wanted to travel in which she’d have to be inconspicuous. 

‘You’re certain you’re okay with it?’ Me asked. 

Clara stood at the console, a ghost of a smile flickering on her features like a candle. This had to have been about the tenth time Me had asked in some way or another whether she had accepted her fate, was okay with dying, where they were going to stop, when they would get to Gallifrey, and what Clara and her were going to do. 

She looked up at Me who was pressing a few controls with some trepidation, but still meeting Clara’s gaze. 

“Yes, the same as the last time you asked,” Clara replied. 

“Then, have you considered where we’re going?” Me asked once again. 

“Gallifrey, of course,” Clara repeated. 

She knew where she was going, and she knew she wanted to explore time and space with somewhat reckless abandon, but the missing heartbeat was so unnerving to her still. To know that she was between one beat and the last… It was thrilling almost, she was effectively immortal with her physical processes looped — she wouldn’t age, wouldn’t grow old, ill, any of that. She was Clara Oswald forever until she returned to Gallifrey. 

She was still dying on her own terms. 

She took a breath, and set the navigation to a familiar set of coordinates, slamming down the handle. The TARDIS hummed to life, engines whirring to life, rocking about and Clara and Me both held onto the consoles, grinning as they felt themselves flying. 

A few seconds later, the TARDIS settled, the engines emitting the familiar groaning sounds as they landed. 

‘You left the brakes on,’ Me commented, eyeing the TARDIS manual. 

‘I know,’ Clara grinned, making towards the exit. 

‘Are we going to make a habit of that?’ Me asked from behind, sounding sceptical. 

‘I like the sound,’ Clara turned her head over her right shoulder towards Me with a smile. 

‘It’s loud,’ Me commented offhandedly. 

‘Good,’ Clara corrected lightly. ‘The more people who hear it around the universe, the better.’ 

Me said nothing and they headed out the door, where Me gasped loudly at their location. 

They had arrived on the asteroid Tiaanamet, full of striped tents and shops everywhere, aliens that Clara could vaguely remember the Doctor naming, such as the Pan-Babylonians. They were humanoid creatures with large black, glittering bug-like eyes. They had some sort of skeletal projections up along their skull into forming ridges and tusks, and flattened mouths. 

Clara looked over to Me, who was wearing an expression of wonderment and near child-like awe on her face. She couldn’t help but smile at it. Despite Me’s insistent reminders on Clara returning home, she enjoyed adventures just as much as Clara did. 

Clara introduced Me to an Ultramanta, a metal humanoid with cords connecting from the grey visor and helm to a pack on his back. 

‘How do you know all this?’ Me whispered as they strode through the busy streets. 

‘Oh, you know, read up on alien planets,’ Clara grinned at Me, keeping her eyes glued on her surroundings. Sometimes it would really help to have some of Me’s journals to ensure that her memories were exact. Then again, Clara was a teacher. She knew how to deal with unexpected events and follow a schedule. She was great like that. 

‘Did you — did you travel to alien planets often, then?’ Me asked, her tone a bit subdued. 

‘You all right?’ Clara asked, frowning, keeping her head down, eyes darting around beneath her hood. 

‘Yes, of course,’ Me said, her eyes wide and casting around, absorbing it all in, taking notes in her journal. ‘So, did you?’ 

‘Oh, yeah. All the time. The Doctor and I, we —’ Clara stopped abruptly, her insides jolting. 

She felt a hand touch hers, and she looked up to see Me reaching out. 

‘I am sorry, Clara,’ she said gently. 

Clara’s eyes shone with joy and grief, ‘Don’t be. Really, stop it. No more apologies. None of this treading on eggshells around me. I’m fine, really. Besides…’ she forced herself to smile. 

‘Smile for me. Go on, Clara Oswald — give me that smile, one last time.’

‘If anything, I should thank you,’ Clara nodded, turning away and putting her hands on her hips striding around aimlessly. 

‘Thank me?’ Me joined her as they continued moving through the bustling alleys. 

‘Yeah, you helped me bring the Doctor back to Earth and procure his TARDIS,’ Clara gave her a side-glance and a genuine smile. 

‘I did what any friend would have,’ Me replied earnestly. 

‘’Course,’ Clara nodded. 

‘She’s my friend.’ 

‘Don’t take anything,’ she added as Me reached out for a glass-like container full of bubbling red liquid. 

‘I wasn’t going to buy it,’ Me frowned. 

‘It’s different here. You have to give an object — something — in return. It’s the Festival of Offerings,’ Clara explained. 

Me raised an eyebrow, ‘You must have studied a very detailed book to fly a TARDIS and to know the traditions of an alien planet you’ve never been to before.’ 

‘The best,’ Clara smiled, thinking of the Doctor. 

The windswept brown hair, hazel-green eyes, a long coat, and a bow-tie. 

‘Come on then,’ Clara grabbed Me’s hand and took her exploring, pointing out all the different tents and learning from the aliens. This was proper travelling with a TARDIS, a bite of time and space for eternity, and returning back home thirty seconds after she left. He’d gotten good at the piloting too. She’d doubted him a bit, this first time, this first trip. 

‘No. We don't walk away. But when we're holding on to something precious, we run. We run and run as fast as we can and we don't stop running until we're out from under the shadow.’ 

He tried his best. And he needed saving too. Just because he was the Doctor didn’t mean that he didn’t need saving. And in Clara Oswald’s expert opinion, she was very good at saving the Doctor. A little too good, in fact. The smile on her face dropped a bit. 

‘Come on,’ Clara jerked her head, taking Me’s hand and running towards the temple. 

‘What’s going on?’ Me asked, their feet hitting the ground lightly in their boots on the sandy ground into a large amphitheatre. 

Clara tugged Me’s hand onto a spot on the bleachers, near the top and as far from Akhaten as possible. 

‘Hello,’ she smiled, waving at the Pan-Babylonians who bowed their head in greeting. 

‘Hello,’ Me smiled as well, then turned to Clara who was making sure to especially hide her face. 

‘This is the Festival of Offerings,’ Clara whispered back. ‘The Queen of Years sings The Long Song to keep the god, Akhaten, asleep before being sacrificed.’ 

‘Ah, yes, sacrificing women for the “good of the people.” Where have I heard that before?’ Me remarked dryly. 

Clara turned towards her, hesitant. 

‘You think I don’t remember how humans look down upon other humans to make themselves feel adequate and, in their eyes, superior?’ Me raised an eyebrow. 

‘I don’t know what you remember at all times,’ Clara replied. 

‘It is a constant plight, Clara, being treated like a girl who knows nothing, and yet it isn’t even a lie,’ Me replied, her voice vibrating like glass — strong, but breakable. 

Clara frowned, trying to imagine what that would be like: to be treated as naive and innocent while knowing more than most, and yet, needing to record memories over the millenia just to remember. 

‘Run, you clever boy, and remember me.’ 

And, so he did. And he’d saved her, too. 

‘Don’t do that,’ Me’s voice cut through her mind. 

‘Sorry?’ Clara frowned, startled, looking up at her. 

‘Don’t pity me.’ 

‘I’m not,’ Clara replied, surprised at the suggestion. 

Me held her gaze with an accusatory laser precision, no doubt calculating her candor like a set of scales. Finally, she nodded and articulated, ‘I will not pity you, if only you extend the same courtesy towards me.’ 

‘Of course,’ Clara agreed at once. It had never occurred to her not to respect Me in any way. 

‘What were you saying?’ Me asked, and both women turned back before the open-faced amphitheater. 

Clara found it very odd, the fiery “god” destroyed and basically a temple of darkness now. It actually helped her that they could not see her face then. The lives of those on Tiaanamet and the seven systems had been indefinitely changed by the Doctor and Clara Oswald. 

‘The Queen of Years sings the Long Song in religious tradition to appease the god Akhaten,’ Clara explained and turned to Me. 

Me was gazing at her with careful scrutiny, ‘You speak as though this were past-tense.’ 

‘Well, you know, religious customs change over time,’ Clara replied offhandedly. ‘Look, there’s the Queen!’ She pointed eagerly at the small figure approaching the centre of the amphitheatre. 

They both turned to peer over the cheering and clapping crowd as the girl approached the platform with a bright smile in red regalia with long straight blonde hair. 

‘Hail Merry Gejelh, the Queen of Years,’ a voice announced. 

Clara and Me clapped loudly along with everyone else. 

‘She is quite young for a queen,’ Me whispered. 

‘Probably makes more competent decisions,’ Clara replied. 

‘Welcome, systems of Akhaten and thank you all for gathering here on Tiaanamet,’ Merry spoke loudly and confidently. ‘I understand our ceremonies have changed since the coming of the Doctor and his faithful kind companion —’ 

Here, Me shot Clara a suspicious look. 

‘ — but I ask us to celebrate in honour of them just one year later. I could not have asked for a kinder duo and who saved my life. I will never forget them,’ Merry declared. 

Clara smiled, making sure to keep her face hidden from her neighbours. It was so worth it, seeing Merry’s confidence and assured leadership. Clara hoped that her words had an impact, inspiring the young queen to never be afraid of being lost and that fear wasn’t a bad thing. From what she could see, one year later, Merry Gejelh was doing just fine. 

‘Did you perhaps read a book that I might find in the travelling history of a nineteen-sixties police box?’ Me whispered, predictably, in Clara’s ear. 

Clara was a bit confused at her specifying 1960s before she remembered that Me had lived through several “sixties” periods. 

‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ Clara looked around at her companion with a grin. ‘This is our first stop to Gallifrey. Our TARDIS won’t have any records of visits to Akhaten until now.’ 

She turned back towards Merry, feeling Me’s judgmental gaze from her right. 

‘And now, in honour of the Doctor and his faithful companion, we will sing The Long Song,’ Merry beamed, spreading her arms. 

‘A choir? Awesome,’ Clara remarked. 

‘As opposed to?’ Me asked. 

Clara’s mouth twitched upwards in amusement. As much as Me was used to living through time and didn’t approve of Clara wholeheartedly, she was still curious and open-minded. That was all Clara wanted in a companion, really. 

‘A solo,’ Clara turned to look at Me with earnest. ‘Everything’s better with someone else.’ 

Me’s face registered confusion and a flicker of something else, but Merry’s song had started so Clara turned back to the audience. 

Rest now, my warrior

Rest now, your hardship is oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-oh, oh-over

Way-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay, wake up, wake up

And let the cloak of life cling to your bones

‘I do not know the lyrics,’ Me said, worriedly. 

‘Don’t worry. It happens when you explore alien planets. You get used to it,’ Clara whispered back, before continuing. 

Cling to your bones

Wake up, wake up

Way-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay, wake up, wake up

Wake up, wake up

And let the cloak of life cling to your bones

Cling to your bones

Wake up, wake up

Way-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay-ay, wake up, wake up

Wake up, wake up

And let the cloak of life cling to your bones

Cling to your bones

Wake up, wake up

Wake up, wake up

Applause rent the air, Merry finishing her song and Clara joining the others in a standing ovation. 

‘I am forever grateful to the Doctor and his companion for saving us,’ Merry bowed her head and the audience did the same, Clara and Me joining in to avoid being conspicuous. ‘I wish I knew her name. She told me a story, a story of her mother, and how she would always find her and never be afraid of being lost again. And I promise to all of you to never be afraid of losing my beliefs to a liar, a false-proclaimed god who takes advantage of someone who knows no better. There is only one Merry Gejelh and there is only one of each of you. You are special, each and every one of you — all of us are impossible.’ 

Clara listened to Merry’s speech with rapt attention, unconsciously blocking out some of Me’s sidelong glances at certain details that were inferably Clara. It was odd. While she was incredibly proud of what she’d done, she was most proud of the seven systems for rebuilding and creating their own beliefs in the universe. Clara knew she was special, but not in a god-like way, not in a way that she genuinely thought she was superior. She knew her importance, uniqueness, and her worth, but she accepted her limits too. She unconsciously reached to hear the ringing emptiness within her chest. She knew. Some might call it arrogance, but Clara thought that to know yourself was the most terrifying and brave honest thing in the universe, something that few dared to discover and even fewer ever realised. 

‘Hail Queen Merry! Hail Queen Merry!’ The crowd roared in approval. 

‘And now, we feast!’ Queen Merry declared. 

‘I think that’s our cue to leave,’ Clara nudged Me. 

‘Really?’ Me asked. ‘Why? Are you scared of being remembered?’ 

‘It’s only been a year,’ Clara gave her a side-long glance. 

‘And they worship you like a god,’ Me noted. 

A twist of discomfort filled Clara’s insides, ‘No,’ she insisted firmly. ‘They remember me. That’s it.’ 

‘I don’t see the difference, the same way people worship the Doctor,’ Me replied as they embarked on their journey down the steps. 

‘They remember me through story and song,’ Clara replied. ‘Odd, isn’t it?’ 

‘Odd?’ Me echoed. 

‘Odd. I always hated history. Load of dates and events, always got them jumbled up. And look at me right in the thick of it,’ Clara shook her head in disbelief, covering her head with her hood. 

‘And you enjoy it?’ Me asked, a hint of jealousy in her voice. 

‘Hey,’ Clara pulled Me aside, behind an unused shop. ‘I enjoy travelling, exploring, learning about the universe because all of it matters. The entire universe. Caring for it because no one else will. It’s not about me. It’s never about me. It’s always about them. That’s the same as you and your Trap Street. And don’t pretend like we’re not the same. We both live across time and help others.’ 

‘The only difference is I don’t leave collateral damage,’ Me lifted her chin, stepping towards Clara, their faces inches apart. 

Clara tilted her head, inhaling a breath — she suddenly remembered that breathing was just habit — and responded with a modicum of irritation, ‘Okay, you can be upset at me for revisiting a place, even though I haven’t interfered with the timeline at all. You can tell me I’m going to die. But I will not have you act like you don’t cause any harm,’ Me opened her mouth but Clara didn’t afford her the chance. ‘Trap Street. You killed that man for stealing medicine for his wife because they couldn’t afford it. You didn’t have to — you said it yourself. Now, I get it. Time is a luxury and tomorrow isn’t promised. But don’t act like you don’t have any collateral. Don’t tell me that his wife didn’t grieve for him.’ 

Me said nothing, her eyes stonily meeting Clara’s defiance. 

‘You help people. So did the Doctor and I. We just had different rules. But people get hurt around people like us, and that’s why we help who we can. Got it?’ Clara clarified. 

Me looked up, eyes flashing with defiance and conceded, ‘Indeed, but I hope we can agree on another matter.’ 

‘Being?’ Clara raised her eyebrows. 

‘You are too much like the Doctor, perhaps for your own good,’ Me replied stubbornly. 

Clara shrugged. She wanted to be more like him, but she never lost track of herself on the way: confident, loving, caring, angry, defiant, adventurous, ambitious. In a universe where you could travel the universe in a blue box and then an American Diner and still pop home for tea, anything was possible. Even in the vast expanse of infinite space and time, Clara would not lose herself or the Doctor, especially when he lost himself. 

The two returned to the TARDIS in silence, both apparently deep in thought. 

‘I enjoyed that visit,’ Me spoke as they started twiddling the dials and buttons on the console. ‘Why did you choose it?’

‘I wanted to see something awesome,’ Clara smiled at her. 

Me looked at her. Clara knew “awesome” wasn’t really in the hybrid’s vocabulary, but the woman still nodded and conceded, ‘It was.’ 

There was a pause. 

‘But you have to be careful. You can’t mess with the timeline. Our very presence creates ripples, but we cannot stir waves. You do understand that, right?’ 

‘Alright,’ Clara nodded, removing her hood, tired of hiding her face. ‘Something old, how about something new now?’ She asked, slamming the handle down, laughing as the TARDIS whirred to life for a new journey in space and time.