Into the hole.

Though it could not have taken more than twenty minutes, Rory would remember their descent into Stormcage Prison as one of the longest walks of his life. Down and down and down they went, through a vent system that was barely taller than Rory and sometimes quite a bit shorter. River Song would toss one of her green lights to the end of the hall. Sometimes it went as far as a hundred feet, sometimes only a meter, before she kicked it down a narrow shaft and followed it down.

Their footsteps echoed, and the shafts shook as if they were suspended. They were designed for the passage of air, not people, and Rory's footing slipped and slid. Rory thought about the terrible dark on the lower levels of Stormcage and wondered if they were descending into that or crawling over it, in immediate danger of tumbling through.

River always went first, beckoning to Rory and Amy when she was sure the passage ahead was safe. But never said a word about the danger they were in, only looked pale and worried. Her silence made the shadowy dark appear full of nameless menace, so that Rory and Amy huddled together and startled at every noise. Sometimes the light would hit her face in a certain way, or she'd make the wrong sort of expression, and Rory would think: oh yeah, but he never got further than that. He never forced it; there were two thousand years of things he wanted to forget.

At one point Amy said, "River, what happened?"

"Shh," River snapped. "Time enough for that later." But she took a moment to look over the couple and seemed to remember that not everyone spent their life crawling through dark shafts waiting to die. "There," she said. "It's not long now. We're safe enough. Let's talk." She started walking again, even more briskly than before. "How do you like being married?"

"It's the best," Rory said at once. "We're very happy."

Amy took his hand. "It's... busy," she said, but she squeezed his fingers.

"Isn't it?" River sighed. "Those early days are so thrilling, aren't they? So many decisions."

Rory was about to say that he had expected a rather different sort of thrill in his first months with his young wife. And that he had hoped their decisions would be rather on the order of city flat vs. country house. But the words stopped in his throat, because the metal corridor stopped in his face. There was no little shaft or ladder; no way up or through. Just a wall. River held up a hand to silence them and pressed her ear to the metal. She listened for a long time. She took her gun from her hip and used the end to bang on the wall—not in front of them, but to their left.

After a long silence: "Oy! Wot's the parse-word?"

The man's voice was muffled.

"It's me," River called. She looked over her shoulder at Amy and Rory. "And I've got two along."

"Parse-word," the voice insisted.

River said, "Open this door or I'll shoot it down."

"All right, all right," said the muffled voice. "Hold yer horses."

A series of loud bangs and creaks ensued on the other end of the corridor.

A thought seemed to strike River just then. She shuddered, frowned-whirled on Rory. She looked him right in the eye and rested a strong hand on his arm.

Oh, right. The memories came rushing back. "I know you!" Rory shouted. "You gave me the blue book! Before the wedding!"

"Shut up," said River, her jaw set. "There's going to be a little problem here in a minute."

"But I remember you!"

River swallowed. "Well, it's not really a problem."

"And you were at the Pandorica! You were...! With the... and the Doctor...! But you..."

"We already know that bit," said Amy patiently. "We were there."

"For God's sake listen to me!" She shook Rory hard. Then she continued, whispering so low that Rory and Amy could barely hear. "There's about to be a thing. I should have thought about it before, but I didn't, so we're just going to have to roll with it now. I'm sorry. I'm an idiot. Hate me later."

A whole section of paneling swung away from the shaft. Amy ducked to see inside. River drew close to Rory, rested a hand on his chest, and spoke into his ear.

"For the next ten minutes all our lives depend on what you say," she whispered. "So keep your plastic mouth shut. I'll explain everything when we're in private. But for now, just roll with it."

Rory was at a bit of a loss. He'd never known what to say to powerful women. If River asked him to do anything, he'd probably do it. He hung on to the one point he understood. "It's, uh," he said. It's not plastic anymore."

"I've changed my mind about you," River murmured, without coming away. "I'm honestly not sure how Amy can stand you."

The panel had been slid entirely aside. They were looking into a metal cavern. It was some sort huge storage room or access corridor, converted into a temporary camp. There were as many as thirty people gathered there, constantly in motion: arguing, cooking, singing, coming in and going out through a half-dozen exits and entrances, huddling over maps, sharpening weapons. The noise was incredible. The people themselves were haggard. Several showed serious wounds, most were stained with blood; all were thin to the point of starvation. They all wore uniforms similar to River's, in various states of disrepair.

Not all of them were human.

"Meet the last people living at Stormcage Prison," River said softly.

The man at the door said, "Hello, mum!" and saluted. He was an old man with a moth-bitten beard, a bald head, and weepy gray eyes. He was the one who had demanded for the "parse-word" a moment ago. He greeted them so loudly that the rest of the room gradually fell silent. They all turned to look, the quicker members nudging the thicker ones, till all eyes were on River. It was as if she had risen from the dead. An awed whisper went up through the camp.

Then Rory realized they weren't looking at her.

###

Here's what the last people living at Stormcage saw:

Amelia Pond, who was known by many to travel with the Doctor, looking as young and fresh as early spring. She held hands with a young man whose eyes were older than his face and had a key on a lanyard around his neck. Peeking out of his raincoat pocket: the unmistakable shank of the sonic screwdriver. On the other side of him: River Song, whispering a secret in his ear.

"Oh my God," said a young, unshaven man. "It's him."