Clara wondered, idly, if she'd ever been so lost in all her life. That Bank Holiday when she was six paled in comparison, especially because she knew that here on an alien planet of the future -with the only person she knew far, far away and possibly still in police custody- the hope of someone finding her was particularly slim.
Still, appearances are everything. She lifted her head, tucked her hair behind her ears as she took deep breath after deep breath, trying to seem in control. Walked purposefully down one street, turned to the left to walk up another that twisted and turned until she ended up back in the town square. The street lamp still burned, defying spray from the local fire fighter's truck; and the people left behind were calmer, more of the state of mind to wonder what could have happened, rather than terrified.
But the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. Clara spun in a circle, eyes darting right and left as she looked for a gangly figure in a purple coat, a shock of dark hair and cheerful grin.
He wasn't there. Her calm fractured and she began to run, skirting around the milling people. She couldn't even trust her voice to call out for him; in fact the only sounds she was capable of making were tiny grunting wheezes, which escalated alarmingly into dry sobs and were well on their way to becoming a full-blown panic attack when she ran into someone. Literally ran into them; her head butting against their shoulder, her hands scrabbling for purchase against the fabric of their coat.
"Watch out, why don't you?"
"Sorry!" Clara apologised, skipping backwards. "I didn't mean to – wait, it's you!"
It was the boy, the one she'd seen moments before tied up and walking to apparent doom. Close up, she realised, he was older than she'd thought. Probably early twenties, certainly much closer to her age than to childhood. He backed away from her, his face worried.
"No, wait!" Clara said. "I'm not dangerous. I won't call for the police, or anything. I'm a friend of the person who helped you."
He scowled. "I don't know what you mean. No one helped me."
"No," she corrected. "Someone did. My friend untied your rope and set off the streetlamps to create a diversion. Scout's honour," she said, eyes widening at his suspicious look. "If you still have the Scouts here, I mean."
"We don't."
"Sorry; I'm not local."
"Clearly." He stared at her; and Clara raised her chin in a show of defiance.
"I still promise, I won't tell anyone that I've seen you. I'm looking for my friend, and then," she shivered, "I think I'm ready to go home."
He was watching her, his eyes slightly less suspicious. "Where is home for you, then?"
"Far away?"
"Are you telling me, or asking?"
"Both?"
He shook his head, managing a slight smile. "You sound confused."
"Maybe just a bit overwhelmed."
He shrugged. "Happens to everyone. Part of life; real life, anyway. I'm Matthieu."
"Clara."
"Good luck finding your way home," Matthieu said. "And thank your friend for me, if he really did help me escape. I'm grateful."
"I'll tell him," Clara promised. "When I find him. If I find him. I have to find him." The last was said with a hint of desperation.
Matthieu's face was full of pity, and he put his hand tentatively on her arm. "I'm sure you will…just retrace your steps. Where was the last place you saw him?"
"Here. The police took him, I don't know where, I don't even know why; no, that's not true. Vandalism of the streetlamps, I'm sure."
"The police." Matthieu sighed, rubbing his hand over his eyes. "You're sure it was the police."
"I might not be from around here, but I think I know police when I see them."
He gave a dry little chuckle. "Has anyone ever told you that you're cute when you're tetchy?"
"Has anyone ever told you that there is a time to flirt with strangers, but it's not when they're alone and maybe a little lost and definitely getting upset?"
Matthieu laughed outright at that. "No," he said, a grin on his face, "can't say as anyone has before. Alright, maybe I can help you. Seems that if your friend got me free, then I owe him –and by extension, you- a favour. I know someone in the police that I can ask what happened.
"But," he added, seeing her face light up, "we'll have to go somewhere else before I can get a message to him; can't stay here and risk anyone seeing me."
Clara hesitated. "I've just met you, and you're asking me to run off to some private location so you can do me a favour?"
He grimaced. "Sounds a bit dodgy, when you use those words. Didn't mean it like that."
"Apparently no one does," she murmured. "Suppose at least you don't travel with your own snog box."
He was staring at her like she'd lost the plot somewhere. "Snog box?"
"My friend, he's got this… oh," Clara sighed. "Never mind. Too hard to explain. I don't even know your last name, though. Matthieu… what?"
"Knowing my last name would make you trust me?
She hesitated, again. It wouldn't. The thing was, she really didn't trust people. Not like that, not without knowing anything about them, possible reasons why they might help her.
Don't talk to strangers. Is there any child, growing up anywhere in any time who has been told differently? Yes; trust strangers, tell them your life story, take their candy and follow them when they say they know a safe place to hide.
She didn't think so. Not even in a future human colony.
Still, there was something in Matthieu's face. More accurately, his eyes. Sadness and loss and fear and strength and humour. It reminded her of the Doctor; and it was what she thought she could read in his eyes that made her trust him.
"Riedl." His voice was quiet, almost expectant. As though he thought she should have anticipated it. "Matthieu Riedl." He held out his hand to her, and she slowly stretched her own forward so she could slide her fingers into his.
"Alright," she said. "Matthieu Riedl. Lead on."
There were a lot of side streets in Neu Wien, and Clara reckoned she saw each and every one as she trailed behind Matthieu; zigzagging through Districts one and two, walking a broad circle to bring them around District six, then slanting right until they stopped outside a bustling café on the outskirts of District eight. She squinted at sign: a golden wolf with sad, human-looking dark eyes.
"Is these where we're going?" she asked curiously. "Boese wolf?"
"Vulf," Matthieu corrected. "If you don't mind me saying, sometimes you speak in a very funny accent. Anyway," his face was tense, "that's us, our headquarters. I hope they won't mind that I've brought company."
It was warm inside the café with a homey, friendly bustle to the staff and clientele; and Clara sniffed the air appreciatively, taking in the smells of chocolate and coffee and cinnamon and pastry along with snatches of conversation from the tables they passed.
"I tell you," she heard one woman say, "I wasn't surprised that Isabel Appraised as a veterinarian."
"Of course not," her companion answered. "Not with how she always felt about animals! You can always tell, even before the Verstand, about your own children. I knew Jesse would be an plumber the first time he stuck his head in the-"
It was a pity that Matthieu picked just that moment to tug Clara's hand, pulling her towards a small table hidden in the back of the cafe, and she missed the last words of that conversation. (Then again, she reflected, maybe some things transcended time and she really didn't need confirmation as to where Jesse had gotten stuck.)
In comparison to the rest of the chatty, friendly cafe, the table she was standing in front of was tense and silent. Half a dozen people somberly ignoring each other; until one looked up to catch sight of them. A woman in her thirties with a thin worried face and short brown hair threw herself out of her seat, hugging Matthieu tight.
"We thought we'd lost you." She pulled back, scrutinizing his face. "Don't you know? The rule is: don't get caught."
"Don't fuss." Matthieu rolled his eyes, the fond smile on his lips belying his words. "I'm fine, Maisie. I got lucky. A friend helped me out."
"A friend? Oh, I see." The woman glanced over at Clara, raising her eyebrows with a faintly disapproving air. Matthieu sighed.
"Mais, this is Clara. Her friend created a diversion so I could escape; but was arrested. I said I'd help her find him. Clara, this is my sister. Maisie."
Even without his explaining the familial relationship, she could have guessed. There was a decided resemblance, Clara thought. The same brown hair, high cheekbones and finely shaped lips. Even the same long-lashed eyes. The difference was that Matthieu's were a shade of fine crystalline blue seemed to sparkle with a hint of humour; and Maisie's were green, alight with distrust and suspicion.
"Nice to meet you," Clara said, politely holding out her hand. Maisie ignored it.
"You brought some stranger here? How do you know she's not working for…them?"
He shrugged. "She's not. I trust her."
"Where is your head, little brother? Pretty girls can be spies too, you know."
"And sometimes," Clara snapped, "they can be exactly who they say they are. Look; I didn't ask for him to bring me here. I didn't ask to come to your world altogether; but the Doctor brought me, and then tried to help Matthieu, and now I'm stranded…"
Her voice faded at the dismayed glances and silence from the table members; and even from Matthieu himself.
"You never said," he muttered, "that your friend was a doctor."
"Not a doctor," she corrected. "The Doctor."
"Does the article matters that much?" Maisie spit out. "He's still a doctor." There was a certain amount of venom injected into the title, and Clara flinched.
"Let me guess," another man said, seemingly as annoyed as all the rest. "He always says he's here to help."
"He… no. He doesn't say that. I mean," Clara amended, "he does help. He's actually rather clever, no matter how he looks. But he doesn't really say that he'll do it. He just does."
"I bet," one of the women sighed, "that he's one of those do-gooders who really just relies on shock treatments for the mild cases, but doesn't disdain the Scrap Heap."
Clara was getting angry. "He's not like that. The Doctor is…" she paused, searching for the right word.
"Weird." Definitely not the correct one to have used; now instead of distrust, they were all regarding her with confusion.'
"He's sort of strangely enthusiastic. Thinks he's cooler than he is and dresses like he's from another world; but at the same time he's… interesting. And he cares. He doesn't walk away if people need help."
Maisie pursed her lips, opening her mouth to say something that Clara could just tell was going to be rude or scathing; but Matthieu beat her to it.
"How's about," he asked mildly, "we believe that Clara is who she says she is, and her friend is harmless? He still helped me; and fair is fair. If he was arrested because of me, we should help get him out."
There was a faint grumbling around the table, but everyone nodded.
"I'll put in a call to Langbein," Maisie said, pulling out what looked like a large, clunky version of a mobile phone. "Ask him to check the cells."