There was only one word that could be said to describe Ophelia's feelings about the situation she'd been landed in.
"Fuck."
All she had done was visit Amy. Lovely Amy, who had so quickly befriended her when she met her as a newbie on set, trying to gain experience. Angry Amy, who threatened to flay her last boyfriend if he did something Ophelia didn't like. Hurt Amy, who was in the midst of signing the documents that would officially seal the end of Amy and Rory's married life.
Ophelia didn't like how things had ended. The tension between the couple in the last few months carried so much weight it fossilised the plants in their garden. Their arguments poisoned the air with the venom injected into bitter words. But they had been so happy before. So in love… how had that spoiled so quickly?
With papers signed, Rory sped out of the room, trying to put distance between himself and his soon-to-be ex-wife. In his haste to escape her presence that was now enveloped in harsh lights and smoky makeup (not the soft, natural light that he fell in love with) he almost knocked over Ophelia. Throwing an apology over his shoulder, he never faltered in his march. Shaking her head sadly, Ophelia continued into Amy's dressing room.
"Amelia…" Ophelia started, exasperation etched onto her fragile features, the furrow of her dark brow the only wrinkle on her youthful face (she looked far younger than she actually was, a blessing and a curse). She stopped abruptly at the sight of Cassandra the makeup artist with a strange blue-lighted eyepiece extending out of the centre of her forehead. No Amy was in sight.
"Unexpected human presence. Scanning initiated. Identity; Desdemona Ophelia Oswald. Connections to Companions of the Predator. May be beneficial in achieving co-operation." The voice that came out was Cassandra's, but it was stilted and blocky, like each word was being forced out.
"What are you going on about? The Predator? Where's Amy?" Ophelia stumbled back, trying to create distance between her and the makeup artist who was definitely not herself.
Cassandra approached, and Ophelia was greeted by a blinding white light.
Ophelia studied the bright white circular room she found herself in, noting a standing figure and one sprawled on the ground. Her sight was blurry as she adjusted, but Ophelia could never miss the colour of the standing figure's hair. A ginger brighter than sunflowers. It could only be Amelia Pond. As she focused on the familiar colour, her eyesight snapped into focus. Ophelia rubbed her eyes, trying to quell the sensitivity that caused her to flinch from the light.
"Where are we?" Rory questioned, rising from his position on the floor. He moved quickly to the small window, peering out when Amy didn't answer. Outside was a fleet of very stereotypical circular saucers. Ophelia was still rubbing her eyes, so Amy stalked forward and grabbed her wrist.
"Stop," She ordered. "It won't help you, nutjob."
"So how much trouble are we in?" Rory questioned.
As if his words were some kind of pre-planned queue, the door to their prison rose, and a strange bronze pepper pot slid in, two 'arms' pointed forward like weapons (which they very much may be for all Ophelia knew) and a sort of eyestalk… very much like the one that had sprouted from Cassandra's forehead.
"How much trouble, Mr Pond?" A male voice drawled from behind the Dalek.
A man walked slowly towards them, under escort of the metal pepper pots. He was easily recognisable, a face that for some reason you couldn't ignore in a crowd. His hair flopped over to the left, the abundance of the brown strands making up for the notable lack of brows ("Delicate! They're delicate!" he'd argued to Ophelia). His brows were furrowed over furious green eyes, their very colour flooded with a spark of superior intelligence. High cheekbones, pale skin and a chin that almost put dear Rory's nose to shame. He was clothed in a familiar tweed jacket, a blue striped shirt and navy bow tie. When he turned, a flash of red braces could be seen under the jacket. Straight black trousers clad thin, bowed legs and battered black boots were laced onto spread feet. It had been commented before the condition of his lower half made him appear born to ride horses.
"Out of ten?" The male known as the Doctor asked rhetorically. "Eleven."
The look on his face was grave and fuming. If Ophelia hadn't known this wasn't good before, then she certainly did now.
The ceiling opens and the floor of their holding room rises.
Ophelia had never seen anything like it. The room was, again, spherical, but on a much, much larger scale. The floor tiered on either side up to a monumental height, every space conceivable filled with more of the copper pepper pots. All eyes were instantly drawn to the massive panels of white light, a ramp leading to a white version of the pepper pot, some kind of podium/control panel and some sort of brown, wrinkly squid creature with a single eye held in a glass chamber. To the right of the party of humanoids stood a blue 1950's Police Box, standing out like a sore thumb amongst the metallic sea.
Ophelia inched closer to Rory as one of the pepper pots smoothly moved past her, not wanting to get too close to something that may look laughable, but holds an air of malevolence.
"Where are we?" Amy asked the Doctor. "A spaceship, right?"
"Not just any spaceship." The Doctor replied. "The Parliament of the Daleks. Be brave."
"Is that what these things are? Daleks?" Ophelia inquired meekly. She remembered when they flocked the skies and threatened her species, those years ago. She was worried; she'd never been outnumbered as much as this before, and had never experienced anything like this. She was a novice whilst her friends were professionals.
"Yes… I'd say I'll fill you in later but as the Daleks and I have never gotten along… there may not be a later." The Doctor was turning slowly, ancient eyes scanning over every nook of the chamber.
"What do we do?" Amy asked,
"Make them remember you." His answer wasn't much, and it didn't settle any nerves. "Well, come on then. You've got me. What are you waiting for?" The Doctor spread his arms, his chest ready to take a fatal blow. "At long last, it's Christmas! Here I am." The Doctor baited his enemies, closing his eyes. His head bowed slightly, preparing to die. After moments too long, the Doctor opens one eye.
"You will save the Daleks." The fleshy tentacle creature orders. The Doctor opens his eyes, turns on the spot to face the creature and drops his arms in disbelief.
"I'll what?"
"You will save the Daleks." It repeats. If this is the Parliament, then that thing must be Prime Minister, as its words start a chant in the room, millions of stilted, tinny voices calling "Save the Daleks! Save the Daleks! Save the Daleks!"
The Doctor is still frozen in disbelief.
"Well, this is new."
In a hidden room, a young woman, remarkably sharing numerous features with Ophelia such as the shape of her nose and natural hair colour, turns up the Troubadour Song from Carmen as robotic voices outside scream "ENTER" as they try to break in. She curls into her hammock, hands over her ears. A child's attempt to wish the nightmares away.
In the Parliament, the Doctor is pacing as his previous companions (plus Ophelia) watch. Dalek eyestalks swivel match his pace, keeping an eye on their enemy. Ophelia and Rory watch with brows furrowed, unsure as to the purpose of the Doctor's pacing.
"What's he doing?" Rory asks.
"He's choosing the most defendable area in the room, counted all the Daleks, counted all the exits and now he's calculating the exact distance we're standing apart and starting to worry," Amy explains in one breath, her commentating reminding Ophelia of the commentary of football matches she zoned out of when she was with her last boyfriend. "Oh, and look at him frowning now. Something's wrong with Amy and Rory, and who's going to fix it?" The Doctor's hands move to the bow tie around his neck, steadying him in his thoughts. "And he straightens his bow tie!"
"We have arrived." Announced the white Dalek (Dalek Supreme Ophelia heard the Doctor muttering as he paced particularly close to where she stood, arms folded and hip cocked to one side).
"Arrived where?" Ophelia asked, looking to the faces of her friends to see if they are as confused as her. And despite their experience, they were.
"Yeah, what she said." The Doctor chimed in when it appeared that Dalek Supreme wasn't going to answer the questionings of a petty human.
"Doctor…" The Dalek Prime Minister spoke up. A humanoid female stood forward, drawing attention to herself. Ophelia was surprised she hadn't noticed her before, but then again the sight of the auditorium in which they were stood was so overwhelming that a quiet being shrouded in black can be easily overlooked. The blue light peeking from under her long fringe showed that she was another of the Dalek converts.
"The Prime Minister will speak with you now." She told the Doctor, her voice a blank monotone. The Doctor moved towards the Prime Minister up the ramp, but hesitated when he drew level with the woman.
"Do you remember who you were, before they emptied you out and turned you into their puppet?" He whispered to her.
"My memories are only re-activated if they are required to facilitate deep cover or disguise." She replied in the same tone as before.
"You had a daughter." He told her, a broken, confused look crossing empathetic features.
"I know. I've read my file." With that, it was evident how lost to the Daleks this woman was. She was but a shell. She gestured with her hand for him to continue, which he does after a slight hesitation. He draws cautiously up to the tank of the Prime Minister.
"Well?"
"What do you know of the Dalek Asylum?" The Prime Minister inquires.
"According to legend, you have a dumping ground. A planet where you lock up all the Daleks that go wrong. The battle-scarred, the insane. The ones even you can't control. Which never made any sense to me..." The Doctor informs, turning away.
"Why not?" The Prime Minister implores.
"Because you'd just kill them."
"It is offensive to us to extinguish such divine hatred." The Prime Minister offers as an explanation. The Doctor turns back in disbelief.
"Offensive?" He splutters.
"Does it surprise you to know the Daleks have a concept of beauty?" If he had an eyebrow, it would be raised in challenge. The Doctor seems to understand the challenger without it, as he bends over so they're face-to-face.
"I thought you'd run out of ways to make me sick, but hello again." The Doctor spits in disgust. "You think hatred is beautiful?" He turns, and begins to return to wear his friends wait.
"Perhaps that is why we have never been able to kill you." The Prime Minister calls, the Doctor stopping in his tracks. The words cut too close for comfort.
Luckily, the silence that took over the auditorium is disturbed by the floor underneath where the human stand opening to show a view of their destination – a vast, grey wasteland of a planet, a honeycombed force field encompassing the outside like a protective layer of ozone. Ophelia, Amy and Rory stand around the new window, peering down at the planet of ice and rock as the Doctor joins them, taking Ophelia's right. The woman follows.
"The Asylum." The woman begins. "It occupies the entire planet. Right to the core."
"How many Daleks are in there?" The Doctor asks, slightly uncomfortable with the thought of so many of the insane metal cans in one place.
"A count has not been made. Millions, certainly." The woman dismisses. So much for the beauty of their hatred.
"All still alive?" The Doctor presses.
"It has to be assumed. The Asylum is fully automated - supervision is not required." The woman seemed sure of the infallibility of the prison they'd created.
"Armed?" Amy inquires, raising a perfectly plucked brow in question.
"The Daleks are always armed." The woman informs, the matter-of-fact statement not easing any minds.
"What colour?" Rory asks dumbly, grimacing when all four of his humanoid peers turn to him with blank looks. Ophelia managed to make hers almost as expressionless as the Dalek-woman. "Sorry. There weren't any good questions left."
"This signal is being received from the very heart of the Asylum." The woman changes topic swiftly, bringing up a concern – if Daleks could be concerned. The Habanera from Carmen fills the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing in the empty space above. Ophelia notices the Doctor swaying slightly, moving his hands up as if playing a triangle. She chuckles, the Doctor certainly is eccentric.
"What is that noise? Explain! Explain!" Dalek Supreme demands, unused to hearing the complicated cohesion of instruments.
"It's me." The Doctor states, the start of a goofy little smile setting into his face.
"Sorry what?!" Rory exclaims, not understanding how the whole musical piece could be the Doctor.
"It's me. Playing the triangle." The Doctor simply states. "Okay. I got buried in the mix!" He admits. "Carmen! Lovely show!"
"My sister's favourite opera." Ophelia mentions offhandedly. "She especially loves The Habanera. She's a hopeless romantic."
"Aren't we all, Ophelia?" The Doctor asks, looking straight into her eyes before turning back to topic. "Someone's transmitting this." The Doctor whips out his sonic screwdriver, scanning the transmitter in a practiced flick of his wrist. He turned to the Daleks. "Have you considered tracking back the signal and talking to them?"
"Hello? Hello, Carmen? Hello?" The male voice coming over the transmitter startles the young woman, devoid of intelligent interaction for 363 days.
"Hello?" She replies, hoping she isn't just imagining the occurrence. Wouldn't be the first time. Sometimes she swears she can hear voices calling out, but then they start stumbling over the word eggs and it's over…
"Come in, come in, come in Carmen," The voice insists. Realising this is real; the young woman practically flies into her seat, grabbing her keyboard.
"Hello, yes, yes, sorry, do you read me?" She replies again, barely containing her excitement. Maybe she's finally get out of here!
"Yes, reading you loud and clear. Identify yourself and report your status."
"Hello! Are you real? Are you actually, properly real?" The woman questions, still believing she must be dreaming.
"Yep, confirmed, actually properly real." The voice banters back.
"Oswin Oswald, Junior Entertainment Manager, Starship Alaska. Current status - crashed and shipwrecked somewhere... not nice." Oswin tilts her head slightly to the side. "Been here a year, rest of the crew missing. Provision's good, but keen to move on."
"Oswald? Maybe a relation of yours, Ophelia?" The voice asks someone on their side, slightly distracted by the coincidence judging by the brief silence. "Anyway, a year? Are you okay? Are you… under attack?" The voice is becoming worried, judging by the rapid fire questions.
"Some local life forms, I've been keeping them out." Oswin assures making it seem a lot better than it was. She didn't want to think back on the first few nights where she was terrified of even the breeze…
"Do you know what those life forms are?"
"I know a Dalek when I hear one, yeah."
"What have been doing, on your own, against the Daleks for a year?!" The voice was a curious one, wasn't he?
"Making soufflés." Oswin tells the voice. Well, she says making… she sent an indiscernible side glance at one of her 'creations'.
"Soufflés?! Against the Daleks? Where do you get the milk?" The voice asks, focusing on something that seems irrelevant to the rest of the room.
"This conversation is irrelevant." Dalek Supreme interrupts, shutting down communications.
"No it isn't!" The Doctor argues, concerned about the lonely woman trapped on the planet.
"No, hello… hello!" Oswin panics, trying to get the signal back by fiddling with the keyboard.
She felt her stomach dropping. She'd just lost the first contact in a year, and perhaps her chance of getting out. Thinking back on the conversation, the name Ophelia seemed familiar. But she had been getting awfully forgetful lately. Just last week she forgot about the eg-eg-eg-eggs...