Everything was black. Her head pulsed with a dull, growing ache. Her stomach gurgled minutely. She heaved a sigh and felt her ribs shift uncomfortably, her shoulders rising and falling stiffly.
Clara Oswin Owald and the Doctor had gotten themselves into a jam, once again. Not like that's normal or anything she though sardonically. She stood on tiptoe with her arms stretched upward at 45 degree angles, her wrists cruelly manacled with silver, rough clamps bound by chains that disappeared up…up…up…there was a round, metal ceiling above, one that didn't match her cylindrical surroundings. Opening her eyes in an exhausted squint, she gazed at the damp stone bricks ahead. Eyeing a slow drip slide in the brick grooves, the darkness came for her again. She shut her eyes, replaying the day.
"Clara! Split!" he yelled, guiding her route down a slick alleyway while he himself dodged the divider and slipped beneath a cart, zipping uncoordinatedly through the populated marketplace. And they had split. First mistake.
She'd continued, hearing the clip-clop of her pursuers as the floor she pounded across became a downhill slope…she wouldn't be able to see very soon. Had he lead her to a dead end?
"You've nowhere to run dearie, best come with us!" grated her pursuer, a rugged, tech-clad man on horseback who probably hadn't had a bath in his life. His silver teeth and blue-lighted cyborg eye glinted in the flickering, simulated torchlight. "Do come dearie, we promise a good time!" hooted another, earning "oooo"s and whoops of agreement.
Not in a million years, she thinks, rolling her eyes as she escapes the torchlight.
As her sight completely dissipates in the blackness, a familiar hand grabs her wrist and pulls her aside. She breaks into a grin and runs with the Doctor, only to be stopped short by torchlight coming from the other side. "You didn't get rid of them?" she said incredulously. "Well, I thought I lost them…" shrugged the Doctor….after that they'd been lead to the Overseer, separated, and imprisoned in their own separate cells—the usual capture.
That'd been early this morning. She guess it'd have to be about 2:30 by now, because she was ravenously hungry. She could always eat a horse at 2:30, that heavenly minute the bell strikes, the students saunter and waddle and sprint away, the odd colleague stop for a chat…and then home to her flat. Home to a nice long soak and a coffee or a tea, maybe picking up some takeout on special days like Tuesdays and Fridays. Oh, how she longed to be home and warm and cozy…her head fell forward against her chest, her dry mouth watering at the prospect of anything food or snack, especially the remainder of that cinnamon-french-toast bagel left over from yesterday…
Her feet gave way and she hung limply, straining her arms uncomfortably. She watched her feet dangle, inches above the floor when she heard a creaaaaaak and saw a thin stream of foul-looking yellow liquid cascade towards her. Immediately standing on tiptoe so as to stop the flow, she hoped desperately that it wasn't urine.
She got her wish. "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!"
She screamed as a torrent of pain burned through her skin and melted the sinews of her neck, vowing to never ever ever go flat-foot again. Her sobs echoed through the chamber, the acrid smell of burning flesh intensified by the humidity of the dungeon. Once more, the darkness swallowed her, the borders of her vision degrading in smoldering rings of crimson.
