Clara had remained on tip-toe, the blood on her back and neck long since dried, the wounds still achy. At least she didn't feel the stiffness of her shoulders anymore. She'd managed to stay awake, alternating feet so as not to give herself another acid-shower. Her stomach rumbled again. She felt hollow. Just let the Doctor save me, so we can get out of here and continue like we always do. Please…
The cell door to her right creaked open, and one of the cyborg guards set a tray of food and water at her feet. Grinning through his inhumane, metallic features, he simply hobbled back to the door left. "Wait! How am I supposed to feed myself?" she called. Genuinely befuddled as to why they would even go through the trouble of preparing the meal, she reached out with her toe, intent on silencing her yowling stomach and her throbbing headache. She needed protein and sugar and carbs and liquid and…almost…nearly…there "Gotchya," she whispered, dragging the silver tray towards her with her, the cold rims beneath her red toes. Maybe she could throw the bread up…? Her mind whirred in thought, interrupted by her stomach and worsening headache. Seeing no alternative, she balanced the roll on top of her grimy foot, cradling it against her upturned toes…and alley-oop! She saw the bread rise, moving to pluck it out of the air with her teeth…when, of course, it fell short. In an impulsive move of despair, she went flat-foot to catch the bread on her thigh. Cccccccrreeeaakk…
Her face instantly lost all color, both feet straining to stand at their highest tip…she dared to look up. The acid orifice had closed, thankfully. She had moved quickly enough. Forgetting the bread, she emitted a sigh of relief. Eyeing the water at her feet, she tried not to focus on ridding her mouth of thick, sour saliva. Hurry up, Doctor, you great Scottish oaf.
He'd spent two days working in the shipyards before he was able to negotiate his way to a higher position, mainly by manipulation and his usual cleverness. Think otters.
Using the resources available, he'd managed to design and fashion an entirely new method of guiding in the ships that would reduce to the cost of the operations, increase the quantity of boats lead in, and lower the odds of damaging said ships in the transactions. He was given a raise…of a penny. His debt now remained at a daunting $1,999.75. Cleverly, he'd devised an escape plan during the construction of his work for himself and any other opportunistic slaves who had the brains to recognize freedom. Now, he just needed to get started.
He thought longingly of his Impossible Girl, already planning a make-up trip to a paradise planet in a spider nebula lightyears away….
He'd gone this trip without sleep, and was now regretting he hadn't squeezed in a quick nap before picking up Clara. He thought longingly of the cool, damp, stone floor of the cell Clara must be held in as he stepped out into yet another day of blistering heat.
She endured the familiar throb of a sleep-headache that seemed to have been palpitating against her skull for hours upon hours.
She endured the spasms of cramps that bolted up her calves like electric shocks.
She endured the emptiness devouring her insides, the dry coughs and the foul, thick saliva coating the inside of her mouth.
She endured the numbness of her shoulders and the permanent pins-and-needles sensation she felt in her hands and fingers every time she forced a deep breath or sighed.
She even endured the painful tenderness of her red feet beginning to blister.
What she could not endure, however, was going so long without sleep. So long…so exhausted…
Every time Clara felt tempted to let her head droop, her mind screamed at her to stand on tip-toe. Her neck and shoulders and back still ached from her recent shower, and the scabbing pulled at the healing skin with every breath. Her thoughts came slower now. Clara's usually wicked-quick metacognitive skills were barely sentient.
The only thing to keep her awake and alert and acid free, was a song. Singing, and trying to remember the lyrics in the right order. Any odd song her decaying mind could remember, she hummed or whistled, sung out or cried.
"So don't you dare look back, just keep your eyes on me, I said you're holdin back, she said shut up and dance with me…" echoed eerily in her personal torture chamber, the peppy-pop beat gradually slowing, quieting, and then repeating itself with a renewed fervor.