Years of maltreatment have chewed the screw heads on the generator casing to uselessness. She purses her lips, considering her next course of action. There's always the prototype, of course, but it is still somewhat experimental, and a malfunction right on top of the fuel cells would be… unfortunate. She is still considering the problem when she hears them; the sound of supressed giggles and mutual sushing approaching.

Intruders in the Repair Shop. Again.

She should probably sound the alarm. The problem with that, of course, is that technically she is herself an intruder; working after hours in the Citadel when she should have clocked out with the rest of the technicians hours ago. Better perhaps to hide, at least for the moment, until she has a better idea of what the world's least subtle burglars are planning.

Of course, they chose the unlocked door out of the massed ranks of possible targets. Cursing her stupidity for not sealing herself inside, she clambers further down the ladder under the console. She can see their feet through the grating. They number six, itself a clue that they intend to go for a joy ride. She bites her thumb. Perhaps this is just a silly bet, a childish dare, and they will soon return to their world and leave hers in peace.

"Go on then Gryf," says the owner of a pair of boots closest to the console, "You've got us this far."

A giggle. Then a gasp as a second pair of feet walk over to the rotor. "Gryf, you're not serious?"

"Course I'm serious." She assumes this third voice belongs to the eponymous Gryf; high and piping. "Come and take up your stations."

"If we get caught…" This from the pair of boots nearest the door; halting, sounding nervous.

Go on, she wills, Lose your nerve! She has better things to do today than find herself lost in space with a bunch of Academy brats.

"We won't get caught," assures Gryf, "And if we do, you can tell them I made you do it."

There is laughter from the group and this, and the nervous boots move to take up their place at the console with the others. Damn. Perhaps she'll get lucky; perhaps none of them have received the Imprimatur yet, and they will find themselves confined to scratching at the surface technology…

The rotor begins to move, with a familiar wheezing and groaning. She loves that sound, but for the first time her hearts sinks to hear it.

"Where are we going?"

"Mount Perdition, a century from now," asserts Gryf, confidently.

"Why Perdition?" asks the first speaker.

"I wanted something big for you to aim at, Evin."

"Hah, okay. Fair enough. Co-ordinates are locked in."

"Then let's go!"

The TARDIS lurches violently; repairs are nowhere near complete and they are flying without primary stabilisers.

"Rassilon's tits, you having a stroke or something?" snaps one of the thieves.

"It's not me," growls Evin, "There's something wrong with the stabiliser systems."

There is a shriek from one of the others. "The bloody rotor handle!"

"What about it?"

"It burned me, look."

That'll be the faulty heat shield, she thinks; item two hundred and seven on her ever growing repair list.

"Okay, okay, everyone just… calm down," says Gryf, though she sounds anything but. "Where do the sensors say we are?"

"I don't know," replies their hapless navigator, approaching hysteria, "The readout's got a crack in it, look."

The cloister bell begins to toll, causing an outbreak of minor profanity and one or two screams. And now I'm out of options.

"Everybody stop!"

They stare at her openly, grease splattered apparition from the bowels of the TARDIS.

"Who're you?" manages the shortest, hoarse with shock.

"That is really not what's important right now, Gryf," she says. The others share scandalised looks at her use of the young Lord's name, as if she is privy to arcane knowledge rather than a mere eavesdropper on their conversation. She strides over to the navigation screen, swinging the monitor towards her to see just how bad the situation is.

The cloister bell tolls again. Oh, it's bad, she thinks. They have lost their temporal anchor in the vortex, a critical error she's only read about, never seen. The TARDIS lurches violently again, sending all but her sprawling to the floor. She swears under her breath. Elderly safety systems have shielded them twice from materialising in the middle of a planet's core; now their power is drained.

"We need to dematerialise," she snaps, "Now!"

"The rotor handle though, it's too hot to touch!" The burnt one holds out his blistered palm as evidence.

"Idiots," she snarls, pulling off her quilted jacket and wrapping it around her hand. She pulls the glowing handle down. The wheezing groan of the TARDIS changes pitch, but they are still very much in flight.

"What does that mean?" asks Gryf.

That we are probably all about to die. "Everybody lie down and hold on!" She flings herself down the ladder, back into the guts of the TARDIS engine. A manual dematerialisation is their only hope. A theoretical possibility, the subject of academic debate in the technician's break room. I did always want to try one, she thinks ruefully.

Her fingers close around the prototype in her trouser pocket. She offers up a prayer to any deities that may happen to be listening, points her sonic screwdriver, and hopes.


"Okay," Clara says, running her fingers over the TARDIS console, "What have I forgotten?"

"Gyroscopic stabiliser on?"

"Yep."

"Chronometric altimeters?"

"Reading steady."

"Harmonic generator primed?"

"I've got my hand on it," she says, indicating the lever with a nod.

The Doctor grins from the other side of the rotor. "Then I'd say you're ready to go."

Here goes nothing, she thinks, and flips the generator switch. There is a moment of complete silence as they wait for the TARDIS to spin into dematerialisation.

"Aaah, come on," she says, as they remain stubbornly parked. "What did I do wrong?"

He frowns, studying the console display carefully. "One last crucial ingredient."

"What's that?"

He gives one of the side panels a solid thump, and the TARDIS groans into life.

Clara shakes her head. "See, from you that's mechanical repair. If I start hitting her she'll probably hold it against me."

"Oh, don't be so gloomy. She's moved on from teasing you now. She likes you. Most of the time."

"Hmm," she replies, "We'll see if I'm allowed to take a shower any time soon, that's all I'm saying."

The rotor stills. He holds out his hand, long fingers pointing to the doors. "You first, Miss Oswald. This is your trip, after all."

She cannot help but smile at those words, at the realisation that she has just moved them through time and space. Not bad for a lass from Blackpool, she thinks. She throws open the doors and steps out into brilliant sunlight.

"Oh," she says, bright mood evaporating as she blinks in the light. She was aiming for the Market Place of Gillespie. The space station overlooks a red-giant star; housing a lively mixture of pan-galactic traders, interstellar shoppers and other seekers of adventure. It has served as a point of departure for several of their previous escapades. Instead they seem to have landed in a desert.

"Well this is strange," he says, flicking the sonic screwdriver.

"Where are we?"

"No idea," he replies, "Not where you asked the TARDIS to go, that's for sure. She must have come across this place on route and decided to make a detour."

She sighs. "Figures. First time piloting by myself and she decides to take herself out for a spin."

"The TARDIS hardly ever does that, though," he says, shielding his eyes from the blazing sun to try and get a better sense of their position.

She pulls sunglasses out of her pocket. They are in the middle of a dune sea, orange sand stretching in every direction. Already sweating despite her summer dress, she ponders going back inside for sunscreen. "What're you talking about? Last week you were aiming for a weekend in nineteenth century France and we ended up making cave art with Neanderthals."

"Well, it was the same place, in fairness. Just a few years out."

"A few hundred thousand years," she corrects. "Are we staying? Because if we are, I need a hat."

He gives the sonic screwdriver another shake. "I'm not picking up any signs of life," he admits. "I'll do a scan-"

He is cut off by a rumbling noise; the sand shifting suddenly under her feet. She stumbles, flinching at the heat of the dune when she puts out a hand to catch herself. "Ouch! Doctor, what's happening?"

"No idea," he says cheerfully. The rumbling is growing louder, sand trickling away down the slope.

She manages to find her feet again; reluctant to sound the retreat but aware the wait for the Doctor to make a cautious and sensible decision is likely to be a long one. A curious gap is opening up beneath the TARDIS, as if she is suspended in the air while the sand around her drains away. The rumble is become a roar. "Should we…?"

"Yes," he agrees, eyes widening, "You might have a point." He steps towards his ship just as she starts to dematerialise.

"Doctor! No, don't let her-"

"It's not me!" he shouts, and her stomach lurches at the sudden fear in his voice. "No, no, no! Don't do that!" He tries to grab hold of the TARDIS door handles, but his hands pass straight through her fading outline. She is gone. They stare at one another for a moment, horror struck. Then the side of the dune shears away.

She rolls, over and over, carried on a tide of burning sand. There is no time to reach for him, no time to shout. Powder cascades over her, burying her. She tries to fight her way back to the surface, out of the suffocating heat. The world is growing dark, up and down confused in her tumble. She opens her mouth to scream, but there is grit in her mouth, in her nose, choking her; trying to fill her lungs. Light fires across her strobing vision; her thrashing becoming feeble despite her best efforts.

Not going to die here, she tells herself, and it seems the Universe is listening. She is suddenly falling again; seemingly thrown up into the air and now plummeting back to earth. She can breathe at least, spitting grit and screaming; until she slams into the ground and the world goes dark for a time.