I don't own anything that I don't own.
:3 Enjoy and remember to review!
~missoneandonly
Clara woke up to the bitter taste of ash in her mouth. Gagging, she spat onto the ground and sat up, blinking hazily. The last thing she remembered was screaming, and then an explosion. She guessed that was the Daleks' fault. It was always the Daleks' fault these days. The world was at war and somehow it was always their fault.
Once her vision cleared, she observed her surroundings. Before, she had been in her safe-house underground, with her boyfriend and parents. There had been an attack, she remembered. Now she was somewhere else, somewhere darker and colder. She shivered and drew her torn coat around her shoulders. She was sat in a pile of dirty blankets that were bundled up in a corner of the room. And the room was huge, almost like a warehouse. She could make out the silhouettes of hundreds of people on the opposite side, huddled together against the chill. Clara guessed that she was in one of the war safety camps, where survivors were brought after big attacks.
A sudden wave of grief washed over her. Survivor. She was alone. Her parents and boyfriend were dead; she knew it in her gut. But now was no time to break down. She had to find out where she was.
Using every ounce of strength not to cry, she pushed herself into a standing position and stumbled weakly towards the lighter part of the warehouse. The sound of chatter grew louder in her ears, and it was almost a comfort to hear other people. No one seemed to pay her much attention, until she felt a presence beside her.. He was about eight or nine, with a dirty mop of light blonde hair.
"Hello missus." The boy said, tugging on her skirt. "You're a new 'un, aren't ya?"
"Yes." Clara choked out, her throat closing up. The boy held out a grubby hand.
"Name's Tom. I'll take ya to the boss then, shall I?"
She managed to conjure up enough hand-eye coordination to shake Tom's hand, and then followed him to a door on the far side of the warehouse. He hummed cheerfully as they walked. Clara guessed he'd been brought up during the war, because he knew the passageway like the back of his hand.
"Where are we, exactly?" She asked as something sinister crawled over her foot.
"Under Rightford, miss." The boy replied with a nod of his head. "The camp's been set up since this bloody war began in the first place. I don't think I was even born then, miss. Such a long time ago..."
Rightford was where it all began, as Clara remembered. In the summer of 2001, the Daleks began slaughtering all in the city. There were next to no survivors. No one knew who the Daleks were, or where they came from.
It took another five years for them to move to other parts of the land, but from that point on the attacks had been nearly everywhere, and worsening. Clara was one of the lucky ones, she'd lived deep in the country, where the Daleks were last to hit. Her family had only been directly affected by the war from about a year ago, when the first of the bombs came down. They'd hidden in the bunker at that point, not daring to see what had become of their beautiful farmhouse. She could barely imagine what the last thirteen years had been like for the survivors of Rightford.
Her thoughts were interrupted by Tom giving her skirt a sharp tug. Blinking out of her reverie, she realised she was in a candle-lit room, where twenty-or-so boys, from the ages of five to eighteen, sat on beds, all lined up against the wall.
"Most gracious greetings from the lads from the Orphaned Boys' Lodge." Tom said proudly.
"Hi." Clara said shyly, slightly intimidated by the many pairs of eyes burning holes in her. Then they erupted into hushed yet excited chatter.
"She a newbie, then?"
"Yea, I haven't seen her here before."
"You think we can use her?"
"Maybe we should wait for the Doctor."
"Lads, we gotta wait for him, kay?"
Clara felt tears sting the back of her eyes. She was confused, in a strange place, surrounded by these strange boys. And who was the Doctor? And what was she to be used for? Tears threatened to spill over her cheeks, and when she was startled by a sudden clattering sound, they poured relentlessly down her face.
Twisting round, she saw that the boys behind her had all rushed to line up against the wall, excited expressions on their faces. Then there was the thump of pounding feet that came from outside the room, getting closer. And then the sound of multiple persons fighting for breath.
The door swung open and a man and two boys stepped in. He was in his mid-fifties, with a head of curly silver hair. His shining blue eyes stuck out against his pale skin, and he was dressed in a black shirt, trousers and big climbing boots. Strapped around his shoulder was a gun and there were two pistols in his belt. Clara hardly had time to take all of this in before he staggered over to one of the beds. It seemed he hadn't seen her yet.
"Sir!" the boys chorused, abandoning their positions to swarm over their leader. They pushed and shoved, all trying to get to the front and greet him. Clara saw the man give a tired chuckle before his expression turned to one of pain. The boys exchanged alarmed looks.
"Sir's been injured! Get a med! Now!"
She watched as two of the older boys, one ginger and one blonde, pushed to the front, and knelt on the bed next to the man. The blonde steadied him with a hand on his shoulder, while the other pulled up his black shirt to reveal a dark patch of blood.
"Ye've ripped yer bloody stitches." He growled at the older man, who just sighed impatiently and thrust a medical kit into the boy's hands. Clara was slightly squeamish, so she turned away for the next bit.
When she was sure the job was done and the crowd of boys dispersed, she heard Tom pipe up from beside her.
"Sir!" he called, pulling her along by the arm. "I found a new one."
The man blinked heavily and squinted at Clara. Then he smiled and struggled upright. Giving her a firm handshake, he spoke.
"You must be very scared. Don't worry, we're all friendly here." His accent was strongly Scottish, and he stared right into her eyes when he spoke. Clara nodded quickly, a trickle of tears running across the side of her face.
"Shush, it's okay now, we'll take good care of you." The man comforted, losing what little strength he had and collapsing back onto the bed.
"I'm sorry, I'm just a bit startled." Clara explained, wiping her cheeks hurriedly. "I-I'm Clara, and I don't want to be used for anything... I just want to stay here at the camp and-"
"Clara." Interrupted the man. "I'm the Doctor."
Tom nodded enthusiastically. "He's the Doctor."
"Well, Doctor, I'd like to leave now." She said sharply, her strength suddenly finding its way back.
"Sit down." The Doctor muttered. Placing a thin hand on the bed next to him. "Tom will tell you about us."
Hesitantly, and brimming with fear and anger, Clara sat down next to him, tilting her head to one side at Tom.
Tom grinned. "This is the Lodge. It's our job to feed everyone in the camp. Three of us go out every six hours, and we steal supplies from the Daleks."
Tom's smile disappeared, and he leaned close to whisper into Clara's ear.
"Y'ever seen a Dalek?"
Clara's breathing hitched, and she felt a bead of sweat form on her forehead. "No." She breathed.
"You're lucky." Tom pulled away, his young eyes sad with memory. He shook his head briskly and pointed to the Doctor's face. "He makes weapons for us. One day he'll make us something to win the war, miss, I'll tell ya that."
The Doctor gave a tiny smile and ruffled the young boy's hair. "You're the first newbie in weeks, Clara. We need a cook, you see."
Clara furrowed her brow and turned to look behind her. The other boys were methodically sorting brown packaged of rice and pasta out on the floor. How could she refuse to help these children? They risked their lives every day to get this food. As for the Doctor... he was an intriguing man. Why wasn't he with the other adults? Why was he the leader? She had so many questions buzzing around her head, but in the end one thing was clear.
"I'll do it." She said, loud and clear. "I'll help you."
She turned back around, a faint smile ready on her lips, but to her shock and dismay she found that the Doctor was lying unconscious.