The chair Clara sat in swiveled slightly as someone bumped her from behind, to get around to the other side of the chaos. That's what the room felt like to her – chaos. Twelve angry men, she managed to smirk, all at a loss for what to do and refusing to offer the two options Clara thought were obvious. Firstly, if the Doctor was going to choose to somehow telepathically link himself to her to share the pain of his torture, then let him. She could be sedated. Second, she could go in and talk to him again.

"Captain Palmer," the General's voice grumbled, "I know what's going through that thick head of yours and it's absolutely out of the question."

She raised her eyes slowly to the room. To the silence working its way around the table as the focus turned to her, swiveling just enough in the chair to give two small squeaks. "I don't see why we should leave anything off the table – seems like the Doctor is a great enemy, we should be willing to suffer consequences for answers."

"I don't see why we don't just off him now," another General grumbled.

Clara turned sharply to him, "Because we don't know if he's the Doctor."

With a laugh, Wallace pointed out, "Looked like he'd gotten into your head – something we know the Doctor is quite capable of doing."

"It's a Gallifreyan thing," Clara muttered, "Or a Time Lord thing."

"Are you suggesting there are more survivors of Gallifrey in the universe?" Wallace asked.

On a quick nod, Clara answered, "The man I scanned a few months back? The man I killed? He was Gallifreyan and he claimed to be the Doctor as well." She shrugged, "This could be the same man, new face – or this could be someone trying to deceive us."

"Why deceive us?" someone on her right asked.

"To be an arse," Clara spat, "Who knows what his motivations are, or even who he is?" She continued, "But are we just going to let him sit in that room and hope he tells us?" Then she sighed, "You know he's just going to ask to speak to me again, don't you?"

"We'll tell him he can't; not after that stunt he pulled," Wallace grunted.

Clara shook her head, "I think I should."

"No offense, Captain, but we can't have you compromised like that again."

"What?" Clara shot, "Angry? Enraged, even? Or was it the tears." She exhaled a long breath and when she spoke again, it was with disdain, "A man loses his temper during an interrogation," she looked to one particular on her left, "He punches a hole in a wall and we cover it up and we have a laugh at his strength later, but a woman losing her temper during an interrogation is cause for concern? Is grounds for her removal?"

Raising a hand, Wallace called, "We're not removing you."

"You might as well," she said on a frustrated laugh.

"Are you asking to be removed?" He asked bluntly.

Clara leaned forward, "I'm asking to be read in."

"You know you don't have clearance."

She turned away with a quick inhale, and then nodded, turning back and standing, pressing her knuckles into the table in front of her, looking around the room as she chewed the inside of her lip. "I don't have clearance," she breathed in disbelief. "I just had an alien invade my bloody head and you won't give me access to him because I don't have the clearance?" She laughed. "Has it ever occurred to you that if he can transfer his pain, he can transfer his thoughts?"

"It has occurred to us," Wallace admitted, "It's also occurred to us that he could, if he wanted to, take over your body entirely and use you to attack us – it's occurred to us that it's not really you talking to us and demanding information."

She nodded and fell back into the chair in defeat, because she knew he was absolutely right. Then she managed to respond, "I take it then that I'm a prisoner now, just as much as he is."

"You're not a prisoner," he explained and she imagined he sounded more frustrated than relieved and she suddenly felt small in that room – like a child at the grown-up's table being told to wait for dessert.

Clara nodded, "I should talk to him again."

"I think it's best if you went home," Wallace allowed. "Rest for the night, you've had one hell of a day."

"Talk to him tomorrow, then?" She chanced.

He clenched his jaw and released a long breath before calling, "You're dismissed, Captain Palmer."

Clara watched him for just a moment before she pushed up and turned, walking out of the room, remembering when she was a few steps into the hall that she probably should have saluted. She imagined she'd be forgiven, since she'd only been an hour out of a coma. Making her way back to the medical unit to get the belongings she'd been admitted with, she wondered how much she could get away with, using the excuse of her medical status.

"Mind just wasn't in the right place is all," she imagined telling Wallace with a grin. She signed for her clothes – changing into the uniform almost immediately to feel less like an escaped mental patient – and her access card and as she moved towards her office, she slapped the item against her palm several times before looking down at it and getting an idea.

Clara moved into her office and locked the door behind her, going to her desk and calling, "Computer on," listening to it confirm that it recognized her before she ordered, "Manual entry," and a keyboard appeared on the flat space in front of her.

It'd been a long time since she'd tried her hand at hacking anything, but she pulled up a prompt, ignoring a warning, and held her breath as she began to type. A fury of keystrokes later, she was looking at the Doctor's full file. A file that held photos and names and dates and information she'd never been told. UNIT had held a favorable relationship with him until the start of the war. He hadn't started it. He'd simply been blamed for missing an appointment.

A single moment in time.

She swiped the information aside and typed quickly, staring at the name that sat in glowing white letters on the space in front of her, feeling a jolt of sadness because it had been quite some time since she'd seen it written it out in full. Not since she'd had to look at a tombstone in a graveyard.

CHARLES OSWIN PALMER.

She hesitated, finger over the button that would bring up a full report of her son's death. It would bring up his autopsy report and it would bring up his photos. One taken just weeks before his death at school and one taken just hours after. It would bring up the newspaper clippings that showed their last photo together, a photo she never wanted to see again. Of her holding tight to his lifeless body. But she had to know if the Doctor was right.

Had she been lied to.

Had the report she'd been fed – that the Doctor had been the one to detonate bombs at ten schools around London – been a lie all of this time to fuel her hatred. To motivate her to sign on to a special forces team designed to take out the Doctor. One she'd declined to join before. Clara's finger tapped the button and she braced herself for the worst, but she was met with simple words. Pages of internal memos and charts. She frowned, reading along, and then she threw up, retching up what little her stomach held onto the carpet beside her because she'd been lied to – the Doctor was right – but she hadn't expected…

The monitor went red, flashing a warning, and she struggled to regain her composure, to exit out of the programs and stumble away from her desk in a haze of confusion. Clara pulled her backpack over her shoulders and she grabbed at her keys, quickly opening the window to her office and plucking the gun from her side holster to shoot out a camera.

She moved down along a storm drain and broke a window in an office underneath her, shifting inside and rushing through the door and into the hallway. As she ran towards the room where she knew the Doctor was being held, she fought off the burn of tears and the rancid taste of bile creeping up her throat again. Pushing through a set of double doors, she shouted at the guard on duty, "Open the doors, the prisoner needs to be checked on."

The man's head gave a subtle shake, but he looked her over and she realized – he'd been one of the guards who had escorted her out. He finally swallowed and explained, "Captain, I'm under strict orders not to open this door."

"He's in my head," she whispered, inching forward, "And he's trying to escape."

She could only hope they didn't sound an external alarm.

The guard looked nervous as he told her sadly, "I'm really sorry, Captain Palmer, I can't open this door."

Nodding slowly, Clara exhaled and replied, "I'm sorry, you won't have to."

His brow knotted in confusion and in that moment, she swung her palm up into his throat and then kneed him in the groin, bending quickly to strip him of his rifle and slam it down on his head. Closing her eyes and taking a breath, she muttered another apology and took his card, swiping the door and just as she locked eyes with the man lying on the bed, the alarm began to blare. Clara rushed across the room and quickly undid his restraints, ignoring the look of confusion he was giving her and when he stood, she moved towards the door, peering out cautiously before waving him forward.

"I don't understand," the Doctor managed to state.

Clara turned swiftly and spat, "You were right, they lied to me." Then she told him lowly, "UNIT killed my son."