The Doctor had negotiated a sentence for himself, convincing the Overseer that he, an able-bodied male with experience, could work off the bail of himself and his companion instead of rotting in jail and wasting his resources. The lord agreed, and sentence him to work off both bails…at half-credit. The Doctor, now stripped to his green printed t-shirt and plaid pants torn at the knees, hauled chains in the shipping canal Jean-Val-Jean style with countless other criminals and "criminals" alike. Great metal machines guided the ships to the rails via laser coordinates, yet none drew them forward.
The spray of the sea salted his hair and stung his various abrasions, his hands raw from the splintering rope gripped roughly in his hands. He hauled his length of rope in time with all the other tireless human males, enslaved, without hope…he hung his head in the tragedy of it all. These humans…capable of such achievements yet confined not only by their biological ephemerality but by each other as well. Soon, these people would realize their own undoing…pressured by wars and environmental disputes, there would be a compacted horror that would terrorize all heavily populated, modernized eras, and send every inch of their lives reeling in chaos and fear. The called it The Enlightenment of 2200. Once the atrocities of war and death were understood, the humans went mad with the fear of their own demise. They endured their lives in constant fear of the day they would die, having life-clocks (watches that counted down your death) strapped on from the second they entered the world. Fear and tragedy and-WHOOSH! An elephantine, chilled wave slammed into the Doctor's line head on, knocking the wind from him and soaking what was left of his person. He eyed the captivity cell, a white laser grid encasing the scene, willing it to flicker—to falter at any moment.
He needed to find Clara and escape as soon as possible, before the chaos ensued. At least his bargain got him out of that claustrophobic dungeon.