They haven't changed much between her time and whatever time this was: smiling faces of people who've gone lost and a few bits of information about them. Some have reward amounts, others just the pleas of loved ones. Frowning, she tries to read the names, wants to turn and ask the Doctor if it should be relevant – there are so many, but when they stop, she simply smiles as the robot raises an arm onto the platform.
"You will find the museum on the list of destinations aboard. Have a wonderful day."
"Thank you, robot with no name," the Doctor tells it, giving its right shoulder a hollow sounding set of pats.
He hops onto the platform and displays his psychic paper as their pass and they are lead onto a sleek looking train, towards the front and offered what Clara assumes to be the choicest seats aboard. She waits until the quicker, more agile robot that had escorted them makes his way back to another compartment to lean forward, gaining the Doctor's attention.
"What's going on here?" She asks him in a firm, but quiet voice, turning her head slightly and giving him a smile.
He leans in and mimics her expression, "Synthetic, life forms."
"Well yes, they're robots," comes her immediate response.
"No, I mean, they're synthetic, but they're also life forms. The implications of organic souls trapped within the metal confines of the robotic body."
Clara watches him deftly, and then asks quickly, "I'm not sure if you're trying to affirm that what you told me earlier about machines and souls on the Tardis is correct, or if you're trying to imply that something is wrong with what you told me earlier on the Tardis. Expand upon your explanation, please."
He seems amused and impressed, and gives a shake of his head, leaning back in the chair and glancing out through the window as the train begins to move swiftly and smoothly over the track towards what looks like a larger, cleaner, city in the distance. "Anything created to think for itself has, in essence, been created with a soul – but there's a disconnect here, the soul trapped within the metal can is… to put it simply… not original parts."
"Can they transplant souls?" Clara asks, leaning back and facing towards the window, but watching him out of the corner of her eye. And a thought occurs. "Can a human soul be put into a robot's body?"
The question strikes something because he flinches and glances her way, smiling to cover it, but she's caught it and she's curious. It's always as if she's reminding him of something else and the frustration of not knowing is reaching the point where it's about to surpass the respect in not asking.
She repeats the question pointedly, and slowly – ever so slowly – he nods. "That's not necessarily what's happened on this planet. I told you before, a robot dies, sometimes what makes it tick doesn't go down without a fight. It searches out some new home, some new robot. That could be the disconnect – an unfortunate soul displeased with its new home, but stuck with the understanding that…"
"No," Clara says abruptly. "No, you're concerned because there are happy people and sad robots."
"Yes."
"Happy people…"
It's quick, the thought turning in her mind, but he's quicker, raising a finger as a robot comes to offer them drinks and they politely decline.
Clara takes her cue from the Doctor and continues looking out the window for the duration of their short trip, waiting until they've stopped at the entrance to the city, where the walls have gone from the swirls of muddy brown and oddly warped fuchsia's and blue's, to glistening silver and white that perfectly reflect the world around them. She spots traces of gold on building corners and other embellishments and is lost in thought about them as they exit, failing to follow the Doctor as he makes his way out into the city.
Don't wander off.
His voice is clear in her head and she feels her cheeks go pink even in his absence. "Doctor?" Clara cries, trying to disguise the panic in her voice as others look in her direction. Obviously it's a quiet place. A place of order. She's pushed along, seeing the flop of hair as his head turns, noticing he's lost his companion, and she calls out again.
"Shouldn't make noise," a robot buzzes at her from her feet.
"I need to get back to my friend, he's gone out the exit over there and I've missed it," she points back, but can no longer see the doors.
"Follow along," it tells her. "Follow along to the next exit. You will find them outside."
She smiles down at the red and black bot that wheels smoothly beside her with purpose. It seems happy enough, she thinks to herself as she calms. It is that simple: go out the next exit, meet the Doctor outside, and they can head to the museum and finish their little investigation.
There's the question of what they're investigating, and why they're investigating it, but there hasn't been an adventure yet that ends in a stalemate and Clara finds comfort in that, though she's not sure if she should.
It's been a dangerous journey and she finds herself questioning the decision she made to board the big blue box with the charming man and his ridiculous Cheshire grin. It's not the first time she's conflicted about her time with the Doctor – she does it in every moment she's allowed to stop and consider her situation. She's in a city made of metal, inhabited by odd robots and odder people, and she's lost. Clara feels the small bot at her side pushing into her, pressing her towards the wall at her right, and when she glances down at it, it's nodding knowingly at her, as much as it's odd domed head can nod. She decides to trust it and moves deftly between tin exteriors and giddy chatter of getting off-world.
And soon she's through a set of double doors that invite a slightly less putrid smell into her lungs. The change in atmosphere is surprising, though she suspects she shouldn't have been surprised – whatever processors are churning the air, making it livable for non-animatronic beings, would be working overtime in the biggest tourism center.
The museum stands above all of the other buildings and she finds herself gaping up at it in awe. The twirling spire that twists its way into the grey sky sparkles in the light from the distant star that warms her skin.
"Your friend will be at the museum," the bot tells her.
Clara laughs, "He wouldn't just abandon me here to fend for myself." But in the back of her mind, she knows it's absolutely possible.
The bot stops next to her as she looks over the dwindling crowds outside of the station. Clara can't see the floppy mop of brown hair, or the exasperated look his face would hold, or the green glow of his Sonic. She imagines by now he should have climbed atop something, should be shouting her name, but there's silence and no sign of the Doctor.
"Your friend will be at the museum," the bot repeats. "I can be of assistance?"
Turning to look down at the red can, Clara presses her fists into her sides and nods. "Take me to the museum, please."
It hums pleasantly and its eye stalks turn a brilliant blue as it begins to move forward along the street and Clara follows. She practically skips, because despite the strangeness of the place, and the obvious impending doom they'll inevitably face, she's on the moon of a planet that's in a distant future, and populated with robots, and that's cool.
His voice is in her mind again, as is his foolish grin. She imagines he'd pat one on the head and declare, "Robots are cool."
Even though some of them try to kill you, like Daleks; some try to upgrade you, like Cybermen; and some try to suck your brain into their world wide web, like the Great Intelligence.
Clara turns a corner behind the bot and then another and she loses sight of the museum's glow through the darkening walls of the narrowing alleyways. "You lost?" She questions.
"Negative," the robot responds quickly, leading her around another turn.
Managing a giggle, she teases, "You are lost, I know it."
"Negative," the robot repeats, turning its head to look up at her as it comes to a stop. "I am exactly where I need to be."
Glancing around, Clara shrugs, arms coming up and then flapping back down against her hips. "We're not at the museum."
"We are exactly where I need to be."
It's the moment where she knows she should run. Everything inside of her is screaming it, but it's also the moment where she knows it's just a moment too late. Antennae zip out from the top of the bot's round head and there's a blinding flash and a sizzle of warm pain inside of her chest that radiates outward. She starts to scream, but the sound is muted and her eyes close against the sensation.
And then there's silence.
Clara keeps her eyes shut tightly, registering her surroundings through her other senses. There's a gently howl of wind through the buildings. The air is no longer putrid; the air is no longer anything recognizable. Her skin is solid. Her skin is solid. Eyes flashing open, she wheels back, slamming into a wall with a clank and she does it again, waiting for the pain of it – the feel of it – but that doesn't come.
Oh this is strange.
Clara can't speak. She makes a sound like a growl. Mechanical. And then she's moving again, forward, towards the metal of the building across the small alleyway and she hits it, her chest banging into it with another hollow crash. Her vision is wrong, blue and cluttered, and she tries to shake her head, feeling the weight of it as it twists on its base with a soft squeak in each direction.
No, no, no, no, no.
She can't form words, so she just inches forward again, slower, and looks at the reflection in the metal there, seeing herself. Impossible. Clara stares into the brightening eye stalks of the robot she'd been following. She's inside of a robot. She can't be inside of a robot. Where was she? Turning, wheels grinding against the wall as she moves too close, and she speeds along the asphalt, listening to the sound it makes as she goes, slowing to avoid tipping. What would happen to a tipped robot?
"Doc…"
Her voice isn't her voice, and the letters and numbers carving their way up her line of sight speed up.
"Doc…"
It takes effort, but somehow she understands she's processing information, rewriting her own code.
"Doc. Tor."
The voice lightens, but is no less robotic.
"Doc. Tor!"
The vibrations have lessened and she recognizes her own voice. Clara moves out onto the main street, looking at the people and robots passing her.
"Doctor!"
Her head rolls from side to side.
"DOCTOR!"