'And the sign said "The words of the Prophets
Are written on subway walls,
And tenement halls
And whispered in the sounds of silence."'
'The Sound of Silence' - Simon & Garfunkel
Suddenly the world was sideways. No, not sideways: he was on the floor. The Cloister bell pealed urgently as the lights in the roundels popped and sparked. Anahson and Ashildr crashed down too, sliding towards him as everything tilted.
That shouldn't have been possible, not with the inertial dampers. But never mind that right now because it clearly was, otherwise it wouldn't be happening. Lots of things weren't possible until they were, like Clara Oswald, wherever the hell she was now - not by his side, that was for certain - and her inbuilt affinity for saving him, over and over. She'd done it again and hadn't even had the decency to teleport back home so he could thank her, or shout at her for being so stupid. Either or. He'd settle for either or right now. Instead, all he could do was pull her, her, teleporter from where it was still hanging uselessly out of his sleeve and fling it to the floor.
Shaking his head to clear the ringing, the Doctor pulled himself to his feet, struggling against the thrashing TARDIS. He could sense she was spinning out of control, being pulled towards something. The rift, it must be the rift. He swore in Gallifreyan under his breath as he took hold of the wheel and lever that would give him navigational access. He spun the wheel around, glanced over his shoulder to where Anahson was pulling herself up against the railing.
"Both of you," he ordered, "help." He left the wheel, pulled down the lever and tied it off with rope. Ashildr pulled herself along the console and activated the temporal stabiliser - of course she knew what to do, she'd been piloting her own with Clara for goodness knows how long - he bodily moved Anahson, holding her up as he pointed at the equaliser. "Push that up when I tell you, try to stay on your feet."
The stabiliser took the edge off the reeling and swaying but he still had to stand with his feet braced widely as he fought against the forces threatening to tear his old ship apart. She groaned, always the drama queen, as he tried to steer them away from the rift. Something primal and terrified attempted to force its way out of his throat but he clenched his jaw and kept it in. It was no good, this wasn't going to work. He swung the nearest monitor round to him. The screen flashed at least ten different warnings, all with increasingly dire punctuation. If he wanted them and the TARDIS to survive, there was only one option for it: they were going in. "Hold on," he warned the others, "reverse the commands, now!"
"Doctor, we can't!" Of course it was Ashildr, her eyes wide.
"We don't have a choice," he shouted, tone thunderous, "it's into the rift or we get torn apart. Now do as I say!" His eyebrows furrowed as he focused intently on the feel of the TARDIS, almost electric across his skin now as she panicked and resisted his commands. Ashildr hesitantly reversed the transdimensional axis as Anahson clung to the equaliser, swinging it around until it faced in the opposite direction. He could sense it. Gold and shimmering and dreadful, embracing them as something rattled against the doors of the phone box. "Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, "I know you're scared, I am too. But we'll sort it out, we always do…"
With a final sigh and a rolling lurch that unsettled a pipe and shot steam across the opposite side of the console room, he felt something give and, all at once, everything calmed. They had passed through. The time rotors ground to a halt. They had landed.
But where?
With a final few tweaks and twists to her controls, the Doctor lay his palm flat on the console and rubbed gently. The old girl was exhausted. He sighed.
"Doctor, what the hell was that?" Ashildr demanded. "And where on earth is Clara?"
"Not on Earth, obviously," he spat, "she used her teleporter to save me. The Reaper was going to -" he trailed off as he realised belatedly that the chances now were that he and Clara Oswald had never been further apart. He strode across to the doors. "Stay here, out of sight," he growled, as he steeled himself to face whatever lay outside.
"We went through the rift?" Anahson was recovering herself slowly, pulling the thick space gloves off and tossing them onto the flight seat, still feeling claustrophobic in the suit that had almost become her coffin. "But what about Clara? What does that mean?" She looked over to Ashildr who shook her head minutely. Now wasn't the time to be asking the Doctor those questions. Anahson was shocked to see tears streaking down the immortal woman's face. Her mouth dropped open, horrified. "She's gone?"
The Doctor drove their conversation into the background as he inched the door open, although Anahson's question echoed around his brain. She's gone. Apart from she couldn't be gone. If Clara had been removed from time, if the Reaper had got her, he would absolutely know it. He wouldn't be able to remember her. Her wide eyes filled with fear, the swift movement of her arm as she struck him before the Reaper could, the sting of the hypodermic needle intended to whisk her to safety being used instead on him, watching her expression as he teleported away... He stepped out onto cobblestone. So, they weren't in The Void. Or circling a black hole. Something to be thankful for. He gently and silently closed the door behind him as the image of a solitary figure in an anachronistic orange spacesuit laid on the Last Planet, scared and trembling, filled his every synapse. He blinked furiously. Focus. It was night-time wherever they had landed, no sign of the rift overhead as he took in their surroundings.
Of course. Of course this is where they would have ended up. His instructions to the TARDIS had been followed to the letter. His emergency protocol had prioritised getting Anahson home, or to at least an approximation of it. He, Clara and Ashildr could have figured something out between them but he'd wanted to make sure his Janus companion would have been somewhere safe to rebuild her young life if the worst had - predictably, come to think of it now - come to the worst.
Trap Street.
He shuddered, overcome with memories which until recently had been so resolutely blocked he had once ended up back here out of sheer frustration, never realising the significance this place had. He walked forward a couple of steps, looking all around him as the features of the narrow street made themselves known in the darkness. The only question now was, considering they had been flung through a rift in time and space, which version of Trap Street was this?
An answer immediately presented itself as something moved behind him. The Doctor span on his heel, only to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun: three armed men emerged from behind the nearest building, torches trained on him and illuminating the TARDIS beyond. Warily, he waggled his fingers at them as though waving but his jaw set like steel and his voice lowered an octave as he spoke. "I'm the Doctor. Probably worth mentioning that I'm not having a particularly good day. Fair warning. Also, I'm a little bit lost and need to get back to where I was quite urgently. Would you happen to know which particular universe this is?"
Three clicks sounded as the weapons were cocked with unwavering aim.
The Doctor sighed heavily. "I'll take that as a 'no', then."
The flash of red took him away, his illuminated face inside his helmet barely having time to register surprise. With any luck, he would realise that there was nothing he could have done to stop her and eventually forgive himself... Who was she kidding? Still, he was safe and that was what mattered. Next up, trying to not be erased from history and destroying the universe as a result, thank you very much indeed.
The Reaper's teeth clashed painfully at the space the Doctor had just departed, gnashing at thin air, close enough that she could smell the stench of its breath. The wind whistled through its wings as it reared up and Clara flung an arm out to protect her head as she rolled frantically out of the way of the razor-sharp talons that reached for her, just barely catching on her suit and ripping through the seal. Air rushed in as the ground seemed to fall away from under her, a crack zig-zagging through the rock as a massive seismic shock tore through the Last Planet.
Clara found herself skidding downwards, scrabbling and grasping for anything she could as all sense of what was up and what was any other direction abandoned her. Loose rocks and boulders overtook her as she managed to find her feet, running without seeing, stumbling, crawling, whatever it took to keep moving. She knew if she looked around to see where the Reaper was, it would all be over. A spur of rock sloped upwards in front of her and she sprinted as fast as her legs would carry her until she reached the highest point and flung herself forwards, using all the momentum she could muster. Suspended in the air for the briefest of seconds, she felt as though she had defied gravity itself, or - a horrible thought - had been plucked from the ground by the Reaper as an owl would gather up a mouse on a hunt.
Then she plummeted. The yawning chasm beneath her was dark and bottomless, rapidly swallowing her whole. Feeling a sudden, calming sense of inevitability, Clara closed her eyes and waited for death. Again. Either from above or from below, there wasn't much she could do about it now. She thought of her class at Coal Hill, of her father and Gran and even Linda. Would she even be able to die when she got to the bottom? Or just lie there broken? She thought of Danny Pink, Ashildr, Anahson. Of all she'd achieved and the lives she'd saved. What if the Reaper found her first? Was that it roaring after her or was it the howling wind? Clara thought of the one life she'd saved countless times and felt a warm rush of contentment. Not bad for an English teacher from Blackpool. She scrunched her eyes shut tighter and thought as hard and as powerfully as she could, hoping that one day, somehow, he might hear her across time and space and find some peace. Thank you. A tear made its way out from behind her clenched eyelids, quickly whipped away in the maelstrom.
Her knees smacked hard into the tiles on the floor. Her fingers splayed as she let out a startled yell and braced herself too late for the unexpected impact. The force of it rattled through her knees and spine. Black and white, checkerboard, cool to the touch yet pulsing with life. Clara's breath came in rough pants, a seasoned response she quickly got under control as she lifted her head, staring up at the mural of Elvis on the door in front of her. What? Shakily, she pushed herself to her feet in a move so uncoordinated, her old yoga instructor would have given up there and then. She looked down at her spacesuit, feeling its bulky weight all at once, fingering the jagged tear from her close call. Clara brushed her hair out of her eyes and righted herself before pushing through into the console room.
The Valeyard was stood manning the controls to her ship and the sight repulsed her. He barely glanced up from his work as she stood there, staring. An alarm sounded across the room, the Cloister Bell echoing discordantly alongside it. Clara instinctively went onto high alert.
"What do you think you're doing?"
The Valeyard flickered his eyes towards her and reversed the lever in front of him, wrenching it upwards. "You're welcome," he growled, turning to struggle with the wheel. Clara frowned and walked carefully towards him, trying to work out what was happening, why she was still here.
"She's fighting you, she doesn't want to go where you're telling her to go," she realised, "is that why you saved me? To bend her to your will? Because I've got news for you, she does what she wants."
"If that would make you feel more comfortable about being in my debt, by all means," the Valeyard bit out, a vein throbbing in his head as he strained against the controls.
"It's the rift -" the console room trembled and Clara teetered a bit against the movement. She took an unsteady step forward, reaching for the stabiliser without even realising it. "She's being pulled into the rift, isn't she?"
"It's not a rift, it's a tear."
"Now's hardly the time for semantics," she snapped. Unconsciously, Clara had already activated the stabiliser, was pulling the monitor around to read its output. She could only translate a fraction of the data it revealed, but there was one thing that stood out: "You're flying towards it..." She released her grip on the stabiliser as though it had burned her hand and stared at the man opposite her, a special kind of fury building up from within. "Why are you doing this? What are you even trying to achieve?"
"That, my dear, is for me to know and you to find out," the Valeyard smirked, flipping a final lever with a flourish so that the time rotors began to churn above them. As he looked up at them with smug satisfaction, Clara took the chance to observe him, trying to see any part of the Doctor glimmering through this markedly different exterior. She just couldn't see it. The Doctor wasn't perfect, by any means, but even on his darkest days - and she'd been around for quite a few of them - she couldn't picture him ever being as cold, unfeeling and unfamiliar as the creature standing in front of her now. Until she saw any evidence to the contrary, she would insist this was a different man entirely.
There was a moment of silence after the engines whined to a halt. Evidently, they had landed. The Valeyard turned to face her and Clara felt the distinct need to put the console between them, cautiously side-stepping away from him.
"Where are we?" she asked, hoping her voice came out sounding plucky rather than terrified.
"Home," he replied, dark eyes shining. With a click of his long fingers, the doors opened. Clara felt a lurch of irrational betrayal that her ship would do that for him when she'd barely convinced the TARDIS to do it for her; the machine still stubbornly refused to respond to Ashildr unless the trick was farcically mis-timed, the doors opening just before or hours after the initial attempt. They used to laugh about it. The Valeyard folded his arms across his chest and angled his chin at her. "Out," he ordered, in a tone that brooked no arguments, "and keep your hands where I can see them." Reluctantly, Clara walked towards the doors, her eyes narrowing as she passed him. She just needed to bide her time, that was all. Sooner or later, the Valeyard would look away or slip up, and she would take her chance. She just had be patient, and stay alive - or as close to it as she could get - until her opportunity came.
The transport ship settled in a swirl of dust and sand, its cloaking device shimmering off as the need for subterfuge subsided. Its landing gear creaked and groaned as the metal contracted quickly in the planet's heavy atmosphere. The thick mist which ebbed around the vessel was disrupted as the disembarkation ramp slowly lowered, allowing High Councillor Lonkath, of the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of, well, formerly in the constellation of Kasterborous - it was hopefully a temporary relocation - to sweep majestically down and onto the planet's rugged surface, his cloak and robes fanning out in the stiff breeze that cut through the towering rock formations to the south. Behind him, his most trusted guard followed. Maytal, swarthy and well-built, cut a more impressive figure than his master but he was willing only to follow orders, having no appetite himself for the trappings of power. With a curt nod, Lonkath indicated Maytal keep watch over the ship and set off alone, tracking his progress towards the designated coordinates on a simple electronic device that blipped and flashed on his wrist.
He found himself in a sparse clearing, flat and featureless. The brown sky almost melded with the dirt underfoot, making it difficult to tell where one ended and the other began. Double checking his NavCom, Lonkath raised his eyebrows and waited. Non-corporeal quantum beings didn't necessarily have the best appreciation of punctuality and this meeting would be worth exercising some patience. Lonkath shook off the feeling that he was being watched. Their departure from Gallifrey had been intricately planned, removed from all records before it had even happened. No one could possibly have followed them and, if the General and her ilk did find out about this little excursion, it would be far too late for them to do anything about it.
There was a shift in the air around him, a warmth that grew and gathered. The mist hovering close to the ground seemed to congregate momentarily, and then disperse. He looked around, turning slightly as he frowned. No, it wasn't his imagination, the mist was darkening. It undulated around him, hissing sibilantly as it rose into a roughly humanoid form, a diplomatic gesture if ever he'd seen one. The smokey column shimmered as though waiting and Lonkath inclined his head downwards deferentially.
"Greetings be upon you, Legion of the Quantum Shade. I come in the spirit of peace." The cloud wavered as though blown by an unseen breeze.
"Greetings be upon you, High Councillor Lonkath, Castellan of the Time Lords of Gallifrey. We welcome you in the spirit of peace." Formalities out the way, Lonkath waited as the Shade rippled, as though consulting internally. "What do the Time Lords need of us?" the Shade eventually blew. "Our business was concluded."
"As you may recall, you entered into a contract with Lord President Rassilon," Lonkath began.
"That contract was satisfactorily fulfilled," the Shade hissed, the consonants echoing and elongating into an almost physical sensation across the Time Lord's skin, "a soul was offered to us. We accepted the exchange." Lonkath stared into the cloud. If anything, he would say the quantum essence in front of him was being defensive. Why was it that whenever the human Clara Oswald was involved, higher species seemed to forget themselves?
"I am afraid to say," Lonkath adopted a tone as contrite and concerned as possible, "that this may not be true. You have been deceived. We were all deceived."
"Impossible," the column of black smoke thickened, rose up and towered over him, "a soul was harvested. The ledger will reflect -"
"Check the ledger," Lonkath urged, "and tell me what you find." There was a rumbling of discontent as the mass churned inwards, patches of light showing through, sections of transparency appearing and disappearing.
"There is an anomaly," came the reluctant response. "Explain."
"The soul was extracted from time, the moment before you harvested it. Search your senses, and you will feel the impossibility. Both alive and dead, both harvested and not. And, I am sorry to say, it is not likely the soul will be fully returned to you. The terms of your contract have been breached."
"Yet also met," Lonkath could almost hear the Quantum Shade thinking. "You have come to us to offer a new soul? It would need to be of equal value -" a momentary pause as a hurried whispering came from within, "...but that is not possible. It is the same soul we desire."
Lonkath did his best not to smile as his plan played out exactly as he had imagined. One did not simply order a Quantum Shade to do your bidding, they were ruthless negotiators. But now he knew he held the upper hand: call it supply and demand. "I am sorry," he said, "I was only asked to deliver the news, to offer our sincere apologies and ensure you appreciate this is not President Rassilon's doing. I must leave. I cannot risk being discovered, so few know of Gallifrey's return." He held his hands out and turned as though to leave, affecting an air of genuine regret. He had barely taken one step when the cloud blossomed around him, reconstituting in his path.
"You would do well to remember, Time Lord, that we are legion. We are timeless. We are not easily led." Oh, the Shade was angry now, all cumulonimbus. Lonkath paused. Counted the seconds as they passed.
"There may be an option," he offered, reaching into his robes to bring out a flat, translucent stone. "The soul you were promised, it is unfortunately tied to that of a Time Lord, even in its current state. I know, highly irregular. Barely a Time Lord, to be clear. A rebel, a criminal, not deserving of the title. If you needed to harvest them both to secure the one you seek, no one would mourn the loss." Lonkath focused on the stone, releasing a small allowance of regeneration energy to sweeten the deal. It glowed gold and began to evaporate into a thin trickle of light rising up towards the Shade. "You will not be able to trace the soul you seek, not while it is time looped, but this -" he waved his hand and pushed the golden wisp towards the cloud, "this is how we Time Lords can trace the one who calls himself 'the Doctor'. Find him, and you will find your errant soul." The Shade reached out a tendril of black smoke and touched it to the golden light, absorbing it instantly. A portion of the dark cloud broke away from the rest, thickening into a recognisable shape; curved beak, broad wings that flapped experimentally, lifting spindly legs and pointed talons high into the air above them. In a hazy flash, it let out an almighty screech, much louder than its size would allow, and disappeared.
"It is done," hissed the remaining Shade, as it sank back down into the mist that rested in a heavy layer around Councillor Lonkath's feet. Their negotiation, it seemed, was complete.
Ashildr took a deep breath as she stepped out of the TARDIS and onto the cobbles of the narrow street she had once called home. Behind her, Anahson did the same. Whilst her own dim memories assailed her, Ashildr realised that this moment must be even more surreal for the young Janus, whose whole childhood was tied into the teetering old beamed shops and dwellings surrounding them. She gave her a smile that tried to be reassuring as a sliver of guilt rippled down her spine. She painfully recalled the bargains she had made to keep the street safe, the damage she had done and the lives she had allowed the Shade to take in the name of the greater good. She wiped the traces of tears from her face and pulled her expression into an unfeeling masque.
One of the masked soldiers indicated they walk over to where the Doctor was stood, allowing a moment for Anahson to gently close the TARDIS door and lock it with her key. They had been surprised when the knock had come, only to find an armed man beckoning them outside. Still, it made sense, she supposed: there was no point in them getting separated in a strange universe. Although she and Anahson may have been safe in the TARDIS, the Doctor had known as well as she that the chances of them staying put and just allowing him to be taken were slim to none. They would have had to set out and rescue him but wouldn't have known the slightest thing about the world they were blundering into.
She looked up at the Time Lord in question, grateful he'd bargained for them to have five minutes to change out of their bulky spacesuits. He had carefully shucked out of his, it lay crumpled on the ground next him, a vivid orange reminder of the fact their group had already been torn apart. Ashildr ground her teeth, an old habit she thought she had abandoned long ago.
She had failed Clara. She had let her friend down.
Instead of being practical and useful, instead of being the voice of reason, all she had managed to do was deliver dire warnings without substance. As soon as Clara and the Doctor had been reunited, she should have done something. For all her suspicions a catastrophe would happen, she had not acted, had instead allowed the adventure to rumble on unchecked, picking up momentum. If she was honest, she had been caught up in the all-consuming drama of it all - so much for millennia of experience - it was still so difficult not to be sucked along with them in their vortex of dependency. From the Shadow Proclamation to Skaro, from Haida to Gallifrey to the Last Planet. Mistake after mistake, warning sign after warning sign unheeded; the Doctor regaining his memory, Clara's insistence on helping him before returning to Trap Street, defying the Time Lords, sparking political upheaval and, for the love of God, deciding to create a bloody paradox in order to try to force the Valeyard's hand. How could she have been so stupid? And now look at them. Rifts, Reapers and a universe on the brink. Hopefully, she wasn't too late. Hopefully, there was still time to put this right.
The Doctor clapped his hands suddenly, as though he was keen to be off. The noise echoed across the nearby brick wall and Ashildr prepared a frown but relaxed as she realised he had successfully attracted the attention of the weapons away from herself and Anahson. Good, he was thinking clearly, she had been worried he was going to lose the plot. Still, perhaps that was to come later, who knew what was bubbling under the surface: his shoulders and the line of his jaw were unspeakably tense, like he was holding his rage at bay. She would have to be prepared, just in case. The Doctor glanced quickly down at her, a twitch of muscle under his eye seeming to ask if she was ready. Ashildr arched an eyebrow and gave a minute nod in response.
"Right then!" the Doctor straightened his back, raising to his full height as he ran his hands down the sleeves of his velvet jacket, for some reason slipping one under his cuff and tracing the skin on his wrist, as though he was remembering something. She idly wondered whether the soldiers had noticed that their prisoner was now the one giving the orders. The Doctor leaned down towards Anahson and stage-whispered to her out of the side of his mouth, "I've always wanted to say this…" Ashildr groaned inwardly. She knew exactly what he was going to say and there was no way to stop him. The Doctor cleared his throat and gestured grandly...
"Take me to your leader!"
They watched as the transport lifted hesitantly from the planet's surface, sending the mist that hovered close to the ground into a swirling frenzy. Silently, even though their shielding had kept them hidden for the duration of Lonkath's meeting with the Shade and their communications array was offline, the General reached over and adjusted a dial on the main display of their Bow Ship. Gastron, folded uncomfortably into the co-pilot's seat, glanced over at her.
"He hasn't set a course back to Gallifrey," he murmured. The General sighed and leaned back in her seat.
"Get a trace running," she ordered, "because there's only one other place I can imagine he's going to go." Gastron nodded and pressed a number of buttons on the console, tying in their navigation system with the tracker their embedded Captain had stealthily placed upon Councillor Lonkath's vessel. The ship in question had cleared the cover of the cloud and was ascending to the stars but, before they could pursue, they had one more bit of business to complete.
As if on cue, a small haze of black cloud gathered in the centre of the cockpit and both soldiers turned towards it. Their timely arrival on the planet where Lonkath had arranged to meet the Quantum Shade had presented them with the opportunity to put forward their own case about what the Shade should do regarding the Clara Oswald situation before the Councillor had landed. Now all they had to do was await the Shade's response. The General stood up and bowed to the haze as it wisped and undulated in the air between them, shapeless.
"Thank you for returning," she said, "and for maintaining secrecy regarding our presence." Gastron pushed himself to his feet as well, trying to avoid banging his head on the low ceiling of the vessel. It wasn't really a ship built for formalities. He winced as his knee banged into something sharp.
"The internal machinations of the Time Lords are of no concern to us," hissed the Shade, "but we are disheartened that Councillor Lonkath has not represented the same facts that you and your subordinate travelled here to share. He withheld key information."
"Indeed," agreed the General, "there is little point in you returning Clara Oswald to the Extraction Chamber if her untimely removal from events could lead to the Doctor's failure to apprehend the Valeyard. If the fabric of time is destroyed as a result, you will harvest no souls whatsoever. Clara Oswald, the Shade, Gallifrey, the universe, all of it will cease to exist. Will never have existed."
"We are aware." The Shade hovered for a moment and the General risked a glance at Gastron. He nodded to her, hopeful. "Our emissary has departed using the energy signature the other Time Lord provided," the Shade eventually continued, "we will judge from what we find how best to respond to your proposition." The General inclined her head as she considered this answer; the Shade was shrewd when it came to contracts, this was probably the closest to their request for a delay to the harvest they were going to get.
"I appreciate it," she said, shaking off the thought that war was at least simpler than diplomacy; the uncertainty of conversation still unnerved her, "Gallifrey thanks you for your assistance." The Shade gave one last ripple and dispersed, thinning out until nothing remained. Gastron gratefully sank back down into his seat.
"That's it?" he asked, flinging a belated, "Ma'am," on the end of his question at her sharp look. The General took her own seat, brought up the navigational charts on the screen projected across their opaqued windshield. The small dot that represented Lonkath's vessel blipped in the centre of the image, making its way to a cluster of asteroids not too far away.
"Our work is far from done," she intoned, "we might have to wait to learn the fate of the Doctor and Miss Oswald but we've at least given them a chance. Now, we have to assume that Lonkath has no idea we're on his trail. I suspect his arrogance will be his own undoing," Gastron fired up the engines and confirmed the course the General had just finished plotting. The General stared at the chart for a beat. "Lonkath is going to lead us straight to Rassilon," she said, grimly. "His plans will not be as easy to undermine." Gastron grunted his agreement and pressed down on the thrusters. With a burst of shimmering heat, the Bow Ship took to the air. Before long, they had left the mist shrouded planet behind.
Clara Oswald gazed up at the impressive gas giant painted across the sky. Even at this distance, she could make out the storms that thundered and curled across its molten surface, kaleidoscopic. On Jupiter, from Earth, they had been called 'spots' and, at this precise moment, she couldn't think of a less accurate description if she tried. These things were sheer power, mesmerising. She stumbled on a tuft of grass, or whatever the plants were that pushed through the boggy ground, and forced herself to look back down to her feet, following the path the Valeyard was trudging as he unerringly led them on a meandering route that seemed to intentionally avoid the worst of the mud. He knew this place, that much was clear. Not that there was that much to know, from the look of it. The horizon stretched out with barely a deviation. The moon was unremarkable. Her eyes skipped over the land that rolled out in front of them as though they had decided of their own accord there was nothing worth focusing on. Clara frowned, slowing to a halt. She had felt that sensation before.
The Valeyard was marching ahead and she had to trot to catch up to him but, in the back of her mind, Clara began to count.
One, two, three…
She wondered what his plan was for her. Clearly, there was one otherwise he wouldn't have rescued her, wouldn't be tolerating her presence now. She got the distinct impression she wasn't going to like it when it was revealed.
Four, five, six…
The Valeyard came to a stop, flung a quick glance over his shoulder to make sure she was close by and hadn't done a runner. She waved a dismissive hand in his direction. Still wearing her spacesuit, she felt bulky and out of place. If he didn't want to allow her the time to change out of it then, frankly, he could wait.
Seven, eight.
Oh.
And there it was, the misdirection circuit. Trying to hide a smile and feeling more than a little clever, Clara squinted beyond were the Valeyard was stood, his foot tapping impatiently in the dirt. As she focused, she suddenly realised that he was in front of a door. Just a door, stood there in the middle of nowhere, nothing else supporting it. A wooden door, painted green and apropos of nothing. The Valeyard noticed the direction of her stare and actually looked surprised, she was pleased to note. She reached his side and passed him, her curiosity getting the better of her. Carefully, the mud sucking at her spaceboots, she walked around the door and inspected it from all sides.
"What is this place?" she asked, deciding that obvious questions about completely ridiculous doors probably needed a bit of a build up.
"Eta Rho," the Valeyard replied, watching her closely.
"Eta what?"
"The gas giant is Eta Rho," he repeated, as if he was speaking to a particularly dense toddler. Maybe there were some things he and the Doctor had in common, Clara conceded. "This is its moon, the secret shame of the Time Lords."
"Why? Door fetishes taboo on Gallifrey, are they?" She asked, looking beyond the green door to where six other equally inexplicable doors stood. For some reason, a black door to the far left caught her eye. It seemed different from the others, more inviting somehow, and it certainly wasn't because it reminded her of 10 Downing Street.
Unsurprisingly, the Valeyard ignored her question. "This is where I was found and raised. Until the people here discovered I was a Time Lord and sent me back to Gallifrey."
"So when you say this is 'home', you mean it," Clara said, slowly. Was the big, bad Valeyard opening up to her? Why?
"More of a home than Gallifrey, where I was outcast, sent to live in the Shadow House and denied my right to regenerations," the Valeyard looked away and Clara tried to dampen the rush of compassion she felt for him, she'd seen enough of Gallifrey to know growing up there was not easy. Heck, look at the Doctor's troubled relationship with his own people; wiping them out of existence and punishing himself resolutely for doing so, his unbridled joy at being able to save them yet still having the foresight to refuse to allow them to return on Trenzalore, despite everything it cost him. The thought of the Doctor cleared her suddenly cloudy thoughts and she stepped away from the man in black.
"So you don't like the Time Lords, get in line," she said, folding her arms across her chest. "We know you're up to something more than just taking yourself on a trip down memory lane, you might as well tell me," she gestured to the horizon, "there's no one else here."
"Not anymore," the Valeyard said, darkly.
"...What happened to them, the people who lived here?" Clara tilted her head and tried to read his expression. The coldness she saw there filled her with dread. "You killed them."
"I prefer the term 'edited'. No murder, just a judicious rewriting of history."
Clara took another step away from him feeling the green door against her back and she cringed. Talk about managing to back yourself into a corner when there weren't any actual corners around. "Why? Why would you do that? They helped you." The Valeyard watched her through narrowed eyes.
"Which door?" He asked, suddenly.
"What?"
"One of these doors is calling to you. Which one?"
"Why?"
"So the link is there," he snarled, and Clara got the distinct impression she'd just slipped up and given him information he didn't have before. Again, she felt that clouding of her thoughts and she raised a hand to her temple as though to brush it away. Hang on. Her eyes widened.
"That's you," she accused, "you're trying to read my mind. Stop it." There it was again, a pushing, an unwelcome pressure creeping behind her eyes. This is why he'd shared some of his past with her, she realised; he had been trying to establish a connection. "No, I won't let you," she made as though to run but in an instant, the Valeyard was in front of her, blocking her way, a vice-like grip on her shoulder as he pushed her back sharply into the door. She struggled, but it was no good. His other hand reached up to her temple, two fingers pressing against her skin roughly. Clara did her best to throw up a mental block, like the Doctor had once tried to show her when they had been sat in the library together one quiet evening between adventures. She cast her mind back, tried to focus on that memory, put up as much interference as possible.
"Focus on one thing," the Doctor had told her, his voice low, face soft in the comforting, diffuse light of the fire as their books lay abandoned on the floor beside them. She remembered the feel of his fingers threading gently through hers where they rested in her lap. "Focus on the memory of something real so intently, so vividly, that all of your mental energy is being used to recreate it in your mind." He shuffled closer towards her, grunting a little as he crossed his legs underneath him. Their knees brushed as she closed her eyes and let out a long breath. She remembered her pulse picking up, her mouth drying to the point she had to lick her lips. "Of course," came the Doctor's voice, a little cracked and nervous because he had noticed what his proximity was doing to her, he always noticed, "I'm a bit rubbish at this, so I could accidentally be hypnotising you instead. Luckily, I speak chicken so I think we'll be okay if you start clucking."
She chuckled fondly. "Shut the cluck up, idiot," she heard herself say, "and teach me."
His own laugh was cut off abruptly as the pain in her temple increased and she gasped, her eyes snapping open in her memory. The Doctor was still sat opposite her, his own eyes wide in surprise.
"Clara? What's -"
The Valeyard appeared at the other side of the room, inserting himself forcefully into her thoughts, and Clara struggled to her feet, rushing to put herself between him and her recollection of the Doctor, who had jumped to stand glowering behind her. She could feel his hand curling around her elbow, trying to hold her back.
"Get the hell out of my head," she ordered fiercely as her eyes flashed at the intrusion. She pushed back against the pain and gritted her teeth as a dozen unfamiliar images raced through her mind, searing hot. The Valeyard's thoughts: this was a two way street. "You want me to lead you to him," she bit out, straining, "he flew through the rift too and you don't know where he is." Blindly, she reached behind her and grasped the Doctor's waiting hand. He may have just been a psychic construct, but he was exactly what she needed. "Well, tough," she spat as she gathered up her strength, "never going to happen."
She found herself remembering her tae kwon do training, from when she used to take her Year Sevens to the sports centre: use the momentum of your enemy's attack against them. She focused intently on the images the Valeyard couldn't help but share, allowing them to overwhelm her. She felt him stumble as she eased down her barrier, welcomed each vision more quickly than he was willing to release them until she was taking without permission and he was the one desperately trying to block her.
In a blink, she was once more on the moon, back against the door, her hand circled tightly around the Valeyard's wrist as she wrenched his fingers from her temple. His breath came shallowly in bursts of exertion as those dark, haunted eyes shone with alarm. He crumpled to the ground, letting out a strangled cry before he seemingly passed out. Clara's mouth hung open as she prodded at her temple with her own fingers, checking for damage. She'd done it. Had she done it? What had she done, exactly? No time for questions. She pushed herself away from the door, still bewildered as she took in the prone Time Lord lying in the mud. Thinking quickly, scanning the horizon, she tried to formulate a plan.
The TARDIS was parked a significant distance away; it had taken them a while to walk to this exact spot. Clara made a face - this wasn't ideal. But, in the absence of a better option, she needed to get off this rock, find the others and try to find a way to share with them what she'd just seen in the Valeyard's mind. Those disparate images might just hold the key to stopping him, if only she could hold onto them for long enough. Speaking of keys… She kneeled down next to the unconscious Time Lord and patted down the smooth lining of his jacket and trousers; seven doors would probably need unlocking with something.
Ah ha!
Her fingers closed around something metallic and she eased it out of his trouser pocket, holding it up to the light. It didn't really resemble a key per se, looking as it did more like a Gallifreyan pendant of some kind, silver, engraved with the tell-tale circular script of the Time Lords. She tightened her fist around it and, with her other hand frisked the lining of his coat. She could see a small box hidden away in there but whenever she reached for it, it was though her hand had forgotten how to function and refused to take it. Damn it. She didn't want to risk delaying any further and so pushed herself back up to her feet, shifting them where they had sunk into the mud.
The mud.
Her footprints would be a dead giveaway as to which door she'd gone through and she needed to reduce the Valeyard's chances of choosing the right one first time. Stopping him before he found the Doctor again, whatever he needed him for, sounded like a good option. Giving herself a decent head start sounded like an even better one. Methodically, she ran up to each door, one eye on the Valeyard as she worked as quickly as she dared. As soon as she'd reached each one, she walked carefully backwards within her own footprints, trying to not disrupt the patterns in the sodden ground.
With a tilt of her head, she admired her handy work before finally, deliberately, approaching the black door that had caught her eye earlier. How could she even be sure this was the right one? She raised her hand to it and rested it on the wood. It felt warm to her touch, the same way her old bedroom door had when she'd tracked the unconscious Doctor down on the TARDIS all that time ago on Haida. She knew. This was the door that would take her back to him. There was no keyhole, rather a symbol in circular Gallifreyan etched into the wood. Clara held the key over the etching and tried to get the patterns to match up.
With an anti-climactic click, the door cracked open. A swirling light, a whole spectrum of colours that made her wince with how vivid and hyperreal they seemed, shone from beyond. Okay, here goes nothing, she thought to herself as, with a final furtive glance to where the Valeyard lay - still unmoving - she pushed against the wood and stepped over the threshold. In an instant, every cell of her body, every atom, disintegrated and Clara Oswald was gone. The black door silently closed behind her.
Something was wrong with London. That was the first thing Anahson noticed as they were led through the deserted streets. She'd spent nearly ten years living in the city and, while Trap Street had been understandably different from its host - not least in terms of affordable rent - she still considered herself a Londoner as well as a Janus. It was more than just the refuge she and her mother had sought, it was the first real home she had known. And now she could feel that something was missing. As they trudged along the pavement a fine rain beat down upon them giving the streets an ethereal sheen and misting in the air around them. It was cold and the usual neon throb of the city was absent. Above them, a large bird flapped its wings and settled on a flickering streetlamp. Few buildings had lights on, most of the shops and ground level houses were boarded up. A few streets away a plume of thick black smoke spewed from a church and she thought she could spot what looked like bombed out buildings further up the road. She pulled her hood more firmly over her head and suppressed a shudder. It was the people, she realised. London was its people; a hardy bunch of defiant, diverse, opinionated loudmouths, for the most part. Millions of them. And they didn't back down, they never backed down. Anything could, and had, been flung at the city and it had barely stopped them in their tracks, so where were they now? What had happened on this version of Earth that was so horrible even the Londoners stayed home?
They had reached a flight of stairs and the soldiers indicated they should head down. A graffiti-laden Transport for London sign declared that this was Bethnal Green tube station. The Doctor led the way in front of her, striding down the steps behind two of the soldiers as Ashildr and the third masked soldier brought up the rear. Unseen, the bird that had followed them from Trap Street made as if to roost atop a broken sign of an abandoned corner shop that proudly declared it sold 'cigs, booze and things'. They made their way down the staircase and Anahson realised that there was a light coming from the tunnel itself beyond the powered down turnstiles and an accompanying warmth that could only come from the presence of people. They passed through the foyer and its out of order Oyster Card machines, copies of the Evening Standard strewn on the floor and trampled, bearing footmarks and tears. Anahson paused just before they entered the Eastbound tunnel, almost causing Ashildr to run into the back of her.
"What is it?" Ashildr asked. Anahson pointed at the off-white tiled wall, illuminated momentarily by a flickering light that seemed to be caused by a fire burning somewhere in the tunnel beyond. Ashildr looked at the writing Anahson had noticed and gave a sharp intake of stale air.
"Doctor -"
"Keep moving," the rear soldier muttered, pushing her in the back. The Doctor turned around, still half walking. He raised his eyebrows at Anahson and she pointed at the graffiti sprawled messily on the wall:
The Hybrid is coming.
The Doctor stopped in his tracks then went as if to approach the wall but was blocked by his guard.
"What does it mean, Doctor?" Anahson asked as they were nudged onwards. But the Doctor did not answer, his face cast into a thoughtful scowl, shoulders hunched as though he had the weight of at least one world bearing down on them. They entered the Eastbound tunnel and Anahson couldn't help but stare in wonder at the scene unfolding in front of her. Along the platform and across the powered down tracks were scores and scores of people. Mattresses and sheets were piled on the ground, with yet more sheets and blankets strung across the width of the tunnel on lengths of rope, hastily erected attempts at segregation and privacy. Periodically, there were torches affixed to the walls, both electric and naked flame, providing an almost homely glow. Their slow walk along the narrow pathway that had been left on the platform attracted a lot of turned heads, muted whispers. Someone, somewhere, was quietly strumming a guitar.
"It reminds me of the Blitz," Ashildr said, quietly.
"But what are they hiding from?" Anahson whispered back.
The Doctor finally spoke: "We're not the only ones who have come through that rift," he said, darkly, "if there's a weakness in the fabric of time...Well, you name it. The past, the future. Who's to say what's slipping through?" His guilt was palpable.
They had reached a small door that was guarded by two more soldiers, stood on high alert. The leading soldier whispered into one of their ears - a password of some kind - and they parted to allow access to the office beyond. He rapped sharply on the door and, without awaiting a response, pushed the Doctor, Anahson and Ashildr inside.
The small office had been reappropriated as a command centre of sorts. Maps and papers lined every available surface, scribbled notes annotating the streets of London. Diagrams of strange alien lifeforms were pinned to overflowing notice boards, giving the impression of quite the military campaign if it weren't for the obvious lack of budget. At the far end of the room, a completely out of place inspirational poster of a kitten - the caption of which advised the viewer to 'hang in there, baby!' - took pride of place above a cluttered desk. On the one available section of the desk not covered with trinkets and disassembled alien technology, atop a precarious pile of books rested a pair of delicately heeled boots. Anahson could only imagine the expressions on the three of their faces as they tracked upwards from the boots to a plush, Victorian purple jacket and accompanying ornate brooch until they reached the smirking face of the Mistress.
"Well," Missy drawled, her eyes glittering madly, "you took your bloody time, didn't you?"
The Doctor stared at Missy, his hands shaking as he tried to control his anger. He ignored the part of himself that was glad the Valeyard hadn't killed her and focused instead on the bit that was apoplectic she had probably been helping him concoct this mad plan in the first place.
"Missy," he growled, a desperate tightness entering his voice without his permission, "fancy seeing you here."
"Now before you get all uppity, I'd like to point out that I'm as much a victim here as anyone else," Missy slid her feet off the desk and stood up, stretching like a cat.
"Is that so?"
"There I was, minding my own business in my rightfully commandeered TARDIS," she shot a look at Ashildr, "when what should happen but - 'blip!' - torn asunder by the Valeyard's little box of tricks, found myself in a very interesting neighbourhood indeed. But never mind that right now," she had walked towards the Doctor and placed her hands on his shoulders firmly. "I am so proud of you," she stood up on her tiptoes and pressed two quick kisses to his cheeks, one after the other.
"Don't test me Missy, not today," the Doctor flinched at her closeness but refused to give her the satisfaction of moving away.
"But look at you!" Missy crowed, "All angry and flustered, the Valeyard back, universes - plural! - being ripped to pieces. Clara Oswald has really done a number on you, hasn't she? You two kids have done better than I could have hoped. Where is she? Surely you've not misplaced her again? And after all that work I did to keep you together, too! If she's not being killed by Tweety-Pie or forgotten completely, she's… what was it this time?" The Doctor swallowed, his face darkening exponentially. Ashildr stepped forward, her hand on his arm.
"Leave it Missy," she warned, "and stop trying to distract us. We need answers; you've got as much at risk here as we have."
"You weren't always this boring," whined Missy, and the Doctor narrowed his eyes suspiciously at Ashildr. "Oh, come off it, you really think you were the only Time Lord she asked to travel with?" Missy released his shoulders, "I was more receptive. We had a blast, didn't we sweetheart? Well, until she got tired of me testing the limits of that Mire chip inside her head."
Anahson looked at Ashildr, confused. "She kept trying to kill me," Ashildr muttered as the Doctor stepped away from Missy and started to peruse the information tacked onto the walls, running a hand through his hair, "it really wasn't a healthy arrangement."
"Missy," the Doctor suddenly asked, "how long have you been here? Are you -" he paused before shaking his head a little as though to clear a ridiculous thought, "are you protecting these people?"
"How dare you?" Missy's hand went to her throat as though mortally offended but the Doctor saw a flash of something at once familiar yet also foreign in her eyes. She was tired, he realised. And maybe, terrifyingly, just a little bit scared. He pursed his lips and looked at her more closely before turning back to face the wall.
"Those people outside," he mused, "they're seeking sanctuary here. They feel safe, near you." Ashildr let out an unladylike snort and the Doctor almost smiled, "I would hardly believe it myself but then I've never underestimated your abilities when it comes to self-preservation, Missy. They might not know they're being your human shields but they feel safer regardless because you've been fighting off whatever comes through in order to stay alive. And you've been winning." He took a pin out of the wall from in between a newspaper article about the sudden appearance of a Roman Emperor in a suburb of York and a detailed sketch of a Mondasion Cyberman, and held a card up towards Missy, his eyebrows climbing his forehead rapidly. "A woolly mammoth on Tottenham Court Road?" he asked incredulous and, although he wouldn't admit it out loud, a tiny bit jealous.
"We called him Bruno, I wish we could have kept him," she blustered before her expression turned serious, "but it's getting worse. As fun as it's been killing off all and sundry, using up UNIT as cannon fodder," she waved her hand to dismiss his frown, "the fabric of time is weakening. Every time something new comes through the rift, there are more leaks. As much as I despise everyone and everything in every single universe, I'd much prefer there to be at least one left for me to terrorise."
"I don't understand," Anahson said, coming very close to raising her hand. "What does a rift do? Where are they coming from?"
"We're now in an alternative universe," the Doctor grimaced, "the rifts open up a bridge between realities. Time, space, parallel worlds - you name it - they're all interlinked but those connections are normally closed off to us. Should be closed off. And any time a rift is accidentally formed, it should collapse completely like the one we travelled through did, like the one on the Last Planet would have once we had left, once the threat of the paradox has passed." The Doctor walked behind Missy now, building up his theory. It was as though no one else was in the room, didn't matter if they were. He was thinking out loud now, building his hypothesis. "But if they are opening up any old where, it means anything can fall through, end up in a different universe or at a different time like poor old Bruno," he glanced down at the polaroid of the bewildered mammoth. "This has to be the Valeyard's doing. He's creating the rifts somehow, he must be using a massive energy source to link the universes. But even his rifts aren't stable, it's a power no one can control. And they'll be feeding into each other, they're drawing energy from whatever passes through. They're liable to either fall apart or monumentally expand, taking whatever they're connected to with them."
"Meaning this world," Ashildr said, the gravity of what they were facing sinking in, "and our own, the universe we came from. And god knows how many more."
The Doctor turned to Missy suddenly, his hand rubbing over his mouth and chin in frustration, "Missy, you said you came here via his box of tricks. I saw that box. I felt what it was. You need, just this once, to tell me the truth," he took a deep breath. "What's powering it?"
Missy fluttered her eyelashes at him coquettishly and the Doctor felt his hearts sink. He had suspected the answer back on the Last Planet when the Valeyard and failed to attack him with the light that had poured from within the small metal container. It had just refracted away from him, planted he seed of his worst fear. The immaculate Time Lady sidled up to him and pressed her hand against his cheek. This time, he did flinch. That gesture didn't belong to her. As he pulled away, Missy's eyes twinkled. "Doctor, Doctor, Doctor," she sighed, enjoying dragging this out, "don't pretend you don't already know. What could be a more powerful energy source than the fabled Hybrid? Moments of beautiful destruction wreaked by you and the missus, taken out of time and locked away for safe-keeping?"
Whatever the Doctor was about to say was lost as Anahson suddenly let out a cry of alarm and crumpled to the floor in a heap, her hands clutching her head tightly. Missy looked down at her in disgust as Ashildr dropped to her knees to try and help. "Well," Missy snarked, pulling a face, "that's just rude. I was just building up to the big finale."
The Doctor joined Ashildr on the floor, helping her to support his young companion as she struggled against Ashildr's grasp. He noticed her inhibitor seemed to glow in the harsh fluorescent light of Missy's office. It hadn't done that before and suddenly he was kicking himself for not getting the horrible device removed as soon as he'd seen it on Haida, if only he'd been thinking clearly. While it might not have worked as intended on the Slaver planet, who knew what damage its electronic tendrils had been doing to her brain in the meantime.
"I'm okay," Anahson said, through teeth gritted in pain. "Something has come through. Nearby."
"Of course," the Doctor groaned as he soothed his hand over Anahson's hair sadly for a moment. She was only twenty years old and this was all his fault, the rift must be playing havoc with her senses. From his position on the floor, he looked up at Missy.
"Rift warning system, that could be useful," she mused.
"They've all been coming through on Trap Street?" He rose to his feet, not liking one bit the way Missy was watching Anahson, as if she had suddenly realised her value.
"This one's all yours," she smiled, "I've done my fair share of fighting. Fingers crossed for something juicy for you. A Zygon, perhaps. Feel free to take some of my army with you if you like. They're useless but usually get in the way off most blasters happily enough."
"I don't need an army," he spat before turning to where Ashildr was comforting Anahson. "Keep her comfortable," he said, getting to his feet and pulling his sonic screwdriver out of his pocket, "I'll be right back." He paused with his hand on the door and looked over his shoulder to where Missy stood, an exaggeratedly innocent expression on her face. "Missy, if anything happens to either of them while I'm gone, the rift will be the least of your worries."
Clara stepped out of the light and onto the hauntingly familiar street. The TARDIS was stood alone, deserted and locked in the shadows. She couldn't help but feel relieved even as a thread of worry ate at her. It didn't bode well that the old time machine had been abandoned. She patted the ship's side caught her eye on the cobblestones a few feet away and she bent into a crouch to gather up the orange spacesuit strewn damply in a puddle. Judging from the size, it was the Doctor's. She swallowed thickly. She'd chosen the right door. Raising her head, she looked around her carefully, blinking the fine rain off her eyelashes. Now, where were they all?
As she rose to her feet, she tried to remember the way out of Trap Street and into London proper, steadfastly refusing to look further down the street to where, at some point, at some time, her body would fall and never get up. Picking up speed, she rounded a corner and mentally high-fived herself as she recognised the narrow alley that led towards the city. The road was void of any traffic, any signs of life. Clara felt uneasy but tried to push the sensation to the back of her mind. Find the others, figure this out. She repeated the thought like a mantra.
She closed her eyes briefly. If the Valeyard thought that she and the Doctor had some sort of link, she was going to try and test the theory. Of course, she had no idea what she was doing and probably, just probably, being stood in the middle of the road in a London that clearly wasn't her London might not be the most tactically sound decision. She snapped her eyes open and took in her surroundings again. She'd turned to face East without thinking about it, which seemed as good an idea as any. She gave a shrug, her spacesuit still heavy on her shoulders and began to walk.
It wasn't long before she stopped.
Someone was emerging from Bethnal Green tube station. A silhouette framed by a flickering streetlamp and the fine rain that hung suspended in the air; a silhouette she was never likely to forget. He was fiddling with his sonic screwdriver, head down and furious, marching at a brisk pace as though the very future of the world depended on it. Knowing him, it probably did. Clara considered playing it cool, waiting for him to notice her and leaning against a lamppost or something invitingly as he approached. Yeah, I don't think so.
"Doctor!" She shouted, as she broke into a run. He couldn't have been more than five hundred metres away. She grinned the moment he looked up and saw her, shock radiating from his lanky frame.
"Clara!" They couldn't have been separated for too long, really, but she thought something inside her was going to burst. "Clara! Clara!" He ran towards her, all angles and limbs, the light from his sonic screwdriver bobbing all over the place. The distance between them seemed to take longer to narrow than it conceivably should have. And then he skidded to a stop just paces away from her. She opened her arms and rushed forward for a hug but he held up a finger in warning, halting her movement.
"Ah! No," he blurted, holding up his sonic vertically between them as it whirred and flashed. Clara frowned. The Doctor was intent on whatever readings the device was giving him.
"You've got to be kidding me," she said, flapping her arms down to her side. He looked back up at her, eyes wide and eyebrows aloft.
"This is an alternative universe. You might be a Zygon. Or your own evil twin."
"But I'm not though."
"That's exactly the kind of thing a Zygon would say."
"The sonic can't tell Zygon from Human and you're an idiot."
"Missy's here, camped out underground. Saviour of half of London, it would appear." He was twinkling at her now, maybe even took a step closer to her although she was enjoying this dance of theirs too much to close the gap. He powered off the sonic and shoved it carelessly in his jacket pocket.
"That's...disturbing."
"And the fabric of time is falling apart, like the prophecy said."
"Yeah, the Valeyard has a moon full of doors to different universes out there," she flung a thumb over her shoulder indicating what she assumed was the general direction of Eta Rho. She smiled up at him, "I might have stolen the key." The Doctor finally smiled at her, a proud quirk of his lips. He glanced away from her and upwards, a small frown flickering across his brow as a shadow moved and settled on a nearby building. Looking back towards her, he took another step forwards so their feet were sharing the same paving slab. Reaching out a long finger, he probed the jagged tear in her spacesuit from where the Reaper had almost got her.
"I'm very angry at you," he said. She tilted her head at him, her neck straining at their height difference. Her smile softened.
"No, you're not."
With an outrush of breath, he crushed her to him as her arms wound around his neck and his face buried itself in her shoulder. They clung together for dear life. The Doctor turned his head slightly and took the opportunity to whisper in her ear.
"There's a Raven watching us from across the street."
He soothed his hands down her back as he felt her tense. Briefly, he held her more tightly to him before leaning back to look her in the eye. He cupped his hand to her cheek and she leaned into his touch. Her expression shot him a question: what do we do now?
Both of them jumped as a rumbling sounded from underground, an unexpected noise in the otherwise silent street. They stared at each other as it stopped, only for the air to suddenly be filled with muted cries and screams that could only have one source: the survivors down in the Tube Station. They didn't move but their gazes locked, a new determination setting in.
"This is it, isn't it?" Clara asked, although it wasn't really a question. "The prophecy, the beginning of the end." Unable to speak, the Doctor just nodded. He grabbed her hand and held it so tightly it hurt. Clara licked her lips, her gaze darting to where she could feel the Raven waiting. She nodded back at him, acknowledging his unspoken signal.
"Okay, then," she muttered before flashing him a grin that made his stomach flip over, even after all this time. "Let's see what we're made of, you and I."
He flexed his fingers against hers and felt her apply the same pressure back before he moved to stand by her side, facing towards the sounds of fear and panic as they floated up from beneath the ground. He looked down at Clara and gave her a tight smile as all of their muscles twitched in preparation for what was to come.
As they burst forward, hands locked together, one or both of them shouted a single word, and it rang out like a battle cry.
"Run!"