The Doctor wasn't too worried when Clara disappeared from view.
Alright, he was a little worried. But she was Clara Oswald! A girl he'd lost twice already, a girl he'd managed to find again in the 21st century of all places. He was sure he'd find her again now, even if a panicked crowd, a streetlamp on fire and a few police officers with very strong hands clasped around his forearms stood between them.
And in the meantime... Well. There was a tiny part of him that had expected the cells under the Hall of Justice. But no; he'd been taken instead to a large room, scrupulously clean and casually opulent. There was an enormous computer taking up one corner of the room, and he wandered over to it. Ran his hands over the keyboard experimentally, peered up at the screen.
There was a small cough, and he spun around. There was a figure standing before him, and his eyes rapidly took in the precise shading of the dark robe, the edgings of purple on hem and sleeves.
Not the Governor then; someone even better. Governor Emeritus. He grinned.
"Doctor." It was a dry little voice, hardly more than a whisper. "Interfering, again?"
"Not me," he said cheerfully. "Just looking around. Seeing how you've redecorated."
"And do you like it?"
He shrugged. "Not really, no. I'm not fond of your computer systems."
"Oh?" There were unspoken realms of meaning contained in that one word, and he nodded.
"Seems there are some corruptions since the last time I was here. Some lines of script that don't belong, sub-categories missing from the Verstand, crowds shouting for the blood of an innocent boy..."
"I'm sure it's the missing sub-categories that upset you the most."
He couldn't help himself; he giggled. The figure glided toward him, shrugging off the robes of state to reveal a woman: tiny, gnarled and ancient.
"You've aged," he said, raising an eyebrow.
"And you haven't. Same Doctor. Same bowtie, even. How long has it been for you since last you were here?"
"I'm not sure," he hedged, fiddling with his lapels. "Five years?"
"Fifty," the woman corrected flatly. "At least. I've seen my grandchildren and great-grandchildren born since then."
"Well, you know how it is." The Doctor attempted a smile. "Things to see, places to run-"
"People to forget?"
He gulped. He'd not remembered that about her. Her directness, her frank open stare; so much like the person who had named her.
"Never you, Cleo."
She sniffed. "Flatterer. Come," she gestured him toward the chairs set up by the computer. "Sit with me. Talk with an old woman, the very last one who can remember the old days.
"Because I need your help, Doctor. We all do here; and I think you are the only one who can do it."
There was always something very sad to the Doctor about seeing people he'd known once as young and vibrant become -in the blink of an eye and the whoosh of the TARDIS- aged and frail. And this woman… he'd known her all her life. Literally. He'd been there during the expedition when her mother went into premature labour, and the expedition leader rolled her eyes (Doctor, you can't deliver a baby with screwdriver!) and stepped in to deliver the baby herself. He'd seen her on Earth as an infant wriggling in the arms of her godmother. (No, Doctor, you do not speak Baby. There is no such thing; and besides, she does not think my hair looks funny.)
He remembered her as a chubby toddler wobbling around the grounds of the Luna University; a gangly teenager newly arrived on Shonslebn (back when it was still called by its lengthy, formal name), and a radiant woman with children of her own when she was named as Governor.
And it hurt, seeing her now. But it would hurt far more if he refused to listen to her.
In fact, he had a feeling that his –for lack of a better word– conscience would never stop yelling at him if he did.
Hot chocolate, Clara decided, was the cure for all ills. And especially Shonslebn 51st century hot chocolate. She took another sip, rolling it around on her tongue. It was thick -like drinking a pool of melted dark chocolate- and there was definitely cinnamon in there and a hint of vanilla, with something like chili providing a slight sear to the aftertaste.
Delicious, whatever it was. The Maitland kids would love it, and she made up her mind to ask the Doctor if he knew the recipe when she found him again.
She hadn't been listening while she sat at the table, nursing her drink. It had been a flurry of names and places that she hadn't known and subsequently tuned out; but suddenly, Clara picked up on the tension in everyone's voices.
"Well?" one of the men asked. "Did you manage it, Matthieu? The –" he cast a sidelong glance at Clara, "-mission?"
"Managed. And the –object–is safe."
"Who did you trust it to?"
"I'll tell you. Later. But trust me: it'll be there when we go back." He cast a sly conspiratorial wink around the table; and at the sight of that, Clara felt as though her heart dropped straight through to the bottom of her stomach.
"Are you all some sort of criminals?" she burst out suddenly. Every single person dropped their eyes, not meeting her panicked stare. "Talking about missions… something you've hidden. You're all thieves or something? Something… bad."
She was feeling, alarmingly, like an idiot for getting involved. For feeling sympathy for someone who looked helpless, for wanting the Doctor to help; perhaps even for getting into his ship…again.
Yes, she'd always wanted to travel; but there was nothing wrong with planes, Clara thought a little frantically. Good, solid 21st century planes. Or having a normal destination. She'd grown up reading about the Eiffel Tower, the Coliseum, the Empire State Building….
But no; she had to get into a wooden box with an alien to travel the Universe and get stranded in the future. With people who were possibly some sort of criminal aspect.
She must have been mad.
"Do you know who we are?" Maisie asked, giving her a suspicious look.
"She wouldn't, Mais." Matthieu templed his fingers under his chin, leaning back in his chair and watching Clara. "She said she's not local, and she didn't even flinch when she heard my name."
"It'll matter if she turns us in to the police!" she said hotly.
"She promised not to."
"Um," Clara interrupted sweetly. "She –the cat's mother, apparently- promised not to, when she thought you were just a nice guy who was in trouble. But if you're –whatever you are! - well, I don't make promises to bad guys."
"We," Matthieu said, letting the chair settle back upright with a little thump, "are not the bad guys. That would be the government. And even they're not bad, as such."
Maisie snorted in contempt, and he sighed. "They're not. They're misguided, like a lot of governments are. Mismanaged."
"And you're going to lead a revolution of change?" Clara asked incredulously. "The seven of you?"
"Someone has to." He leaned toward her, blue eyes staring fearlessly into hers. "We've all got our reasons. And me, most of all."
"Why you? What makes you so special?"
"Because I'm…" Matthieu gave a graceful shrug, his eyes skipping away from hers. "I'm…"
"Because he's Erste." Maisie's voice was flat and unapologetic, though soft enough that the other café patrons wouldn't hear. "The leader, actually."
"The Erste? Is that a gang?"
There was silence before everyone at the table burst into loud guffaws of laughter, and Clara looked around, slightly crestfallen.
"I'm not local, alright?" she muttered. "I don't know your customs, and I don't know what you people are talking about."
"Ah." Matthieu wiped tears of laughter from his eyes, reaching out to pat her hand. "There's that cute tetchiness again. Still the wrong time to flirt?"
"Definitely," Clara bit out from between clenched teeth. His smile faded.
"Well then. I suppose I should answer your questions. The Erste are…" he sighed, "let me tell you first what we are not. Everyone is born with abilities, Clara. Things that are programmed into their DNA, that they will show an aptitude for. And here on Shonslebn, when you are seven, you are taken to the Verstand to be Appraised before you begin at the Schule. They discover your weaknesses and your strengths; and then over the next ten years you are trained to make the most of your abilities. Your profession is chosen for you. Even a selection of possible mates is provided, when you leave.
"You have arranged marriages?" Clara asked. "In the 51st century? Isn't that a bit… antiquated?"
"Most people don't think so," Maisie put in dryly. "And it's not like you've no consideration. There still has to be some attraction, after all… but the government does provide you with a list of 25 possibilities filtered by age, profession and personality type, and you choose from there."
It was still a bit too much for Clara to wrap her head around. Having your life decided for you by the age of seven; your life-partner picked by the time you were seventeen.
"Brave new world," she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. Matthieu had evidently heard her, because he gave a wry smile.
"Indeed," he agreed. "So that explains what most people are like here. But Erste are different. We're… undefined. Sometimes the Verstand can't assess us at all, if we have such equal levels of aptitude in too many fields that it can't fit us into a single category."
"So," Clara said, her features twisting into a perplexed frown, "you're telling me that you're good at everything."
He laughed. "Something like that. But in some cases, the training is wrong: just because you're capable of doing something doesn't mean that it really suits who you are."
"And which one of those were you?"
His eyes twinkled. "The former, of course."
"Bigger than average ego, too."
"You wound me, Clara."
"Still not the right time," Maisie said primly, but giving Clara a playful wink; and Clara found herself smiling back, thinking that Maisie looked a lot better without that worried, anxious look on her face.
"Thank you. So that's what the Erste are… but what happens to them? Uh… you lot? When you're not Appraisal-material?"
The smile faded right off Matthieu's face. "Sometimes parents realise, and they hide their children away. But if you're older and the administrators find you… well, it depends. Sometimes they call in the doctors, who try a variety of things. Shock treatments, behavioural modification therapy. But there are a lot who think that nothing will work on the terminal cases. And then, the person is put on the Scrap Heap."
She attempted a laugh, but it came out far more like a choked gurgle. "That sounds like some sort of cartoon prison. But it's not, is it? You mean they kill them?" Clara looked around at everyone at the table, all of whom were watching her with sober expressions. "That is what you mean? If people don't fit in, then you kill them?"
"Sometimes," Matthieu said, watching her closely, "people escape. Or we stage rescue missions."
It was as though a light bulb appeared over her head. "Oh. I get it. Missions… like today?"