A/N: This is technically chapter 1, and the last one was the preface. Buckle up for a wild adventure, folks! And poor Ten…D':

Oswin

The Doctor was sort-of-flying the ship, but he was much busier trying to breathe.

It seemed like he couldn't get enough air. He'd forgotten what had happened; how he'd regenerated, how he'd ended up flying at torrential speeds through Earth's orbit in a somewhat uncivilized time zone. He had a vague recollection of the pink-and-yellow girl he'd just dropped back at her home, and if asked he might've been able to identify himself as 'the Doctor', but the pain was so blinding he really couldn't think about anything else.

The Tardis hit a 'bump!' and he fell to his knees, still panting and gasping for the breath that didn't fill his lungs like it should've. Grasping the console, he hauled himself back up to his feet, really not caring about his condition but rather his present thirst for speed.

"Get on with it," he rasped at the Tardis, not even remembering who she really was. "Speed it up. That's a girl. Come on, rip a hole in the space-time continuum! That's the way to do it! Faster! Faster!"

And she did go faster, her warning sirens blaring from all corners of the ship, but she was rocketing around Earth, orbiting once every three seconds.

"I wasn't meant to go in circles," the Tardis groaned to herself, nevertheless obeying the Doctor's command. He was hitting random buttons now, desperate to speed her up.

Still gasping. He saw black spots, with no idea why. Strange, the black spots. He'd have to look into—

"Speed UP!"

"Okay, okay, okay…"

One orbit every second. Every half second. Every quarter second…

The Doctor slammed his fist on the console.

"Okay, that does it." the Tardis hmph!-ed.

The engines choked and they hurtled through the air, the Tardis still steering them around the Earth so they wouldn't crash into the moon or anything, but she was only able to pull them up a few hundred thousand feet before they began to plummet. They hadn't quite escaped the Earth's gravity.

The Doctor bent over and grabbed his knees, hyperventilating by this point, but his face deadly pale nonetheless. Another waft of energy fell from his mouth and he wavered unsteadily, then got jerked abruptly off his feet as the Tardis began to initiate a crash landing sequence on her own.

They bumped about several times, the Doctor being literally thrown from one side of the console room to the other, and finally began their rapid descent toward Earth with the Doctor unconscious behind the jumpseat, limbs sprawled in every direction.

The Tardis screamed now that she was totally without a pilot, and they crashed with an enormous "BOOM!".

…

"I love my job," Clara Oswin rehearsed to herself as she walked up the street to the preschool where she worked. "I love my job—it's—it's lovely—to teach spoiled rotten preschoolers about shapes, and colors, and numbers—and how to share their toys," she winced as she thought about the incident yesterday.

Pierce, one of the bigger four-year-olds in her care (and insanely cute, at that), had started stockpiling blocks, trucks, and anything else he saw that he wanted, and started screaming and hitting the other kids when they tried to take them back. She'd tried putting him in a time-out, which didn't work, mainly because he didn't want to be in one and kept running off. Clara had been all set to give him a good, solid smack on the behind—when his parents showed up.

Needless to say, her supervisor had NOT been pleased with the report the parents gave him.

Clara dreaded facing the parents again today; if they hadn't switched Pierce to another preschool. "I can't do this anymore!" she ranted, gesturing wildly to the frigid air around her. Several passersby gave her strange looks, and she felt her cheeks flush in embarrassment when she realized she'd spoken aloud.

But when they were gone, she still mumbled under her breath. "I can't control the kids if they're the ones in charge." It wasn't the way she'd been raised.

Some Christmas Eve, going to a work party. Er, work-ing a party at work, more like. Who wanted to sit at work and play with kids whose parents had gone shopping on Christmas Eve?

She hadn't come to America for this, but she'd run out of money for the university she'd attended for two semesters. There had been some scholarship confusion, and now she was stuck here, wondering if she should go back to London or stretch out for the long haul.

In her musing, she hadn't heard the clanking noise in the air behind her, growing louder each second.

Suddenly, people around her started screaming and random chunks of wood and metal parts started 'ping!'-ing on the concrete, like steampunk rain, all around her.

She whirled around in shock, to see that a blue wooden crate-thing was hurtling through the air over her head, whistling through the air. She watched it, gasping as it flipped and spun and dipped lower, nicking the pavement several hundred meters ahead of her and finally rolling over and over on its side past automobiles and lampposts until, with a sickening 'crunch!' it came to a stop over the destroyed pavement.

People all around started running and screaming and calling 911. Amazed and insatiably curious, Clara looped the strap of her book bag over her shoulder and started pelting toward it before police or anyone would come along to stop her. Cars and trucks had skidded to a stop and both drivers and pedestrians like her were clambering toward the crate, eager to see what it was.

Miraculously, it had actually landed right-side-up—or what looked like right-side-up; there were letters at the top that spelled out "POLICE TELEPHONE BOX". It looked like something out of a museum. She ran faster, reaching the door before anyone else could.

Smoke was leaking through and also pouring off the sides, as if it was some sort of crashed vehicle, but Clara knew that wasn't possible. Anyone inside could never have survived that crash, either; but she just had to see.

Slowly, she pulled on the door handle, but it didn't budge. She glared at it for a second, before realizing it must open the other way, and gently pushed. A tiny crack was visible, and she could faintly make out a light, but she had to give it a good shove before the damaged wood finally opened wide with a groan.

Stepping aside as a cloud of smoke came billowing through the doorway, she coughed and waved it aside as several other curious bystanders surrounded the box. "Wait, Miss, I'll go in first," a man's voice came from behind her. Narrowing her eyes, she could just make out some shadows and a yellow light, and was that—a human hand poking out from behind the debris!

Shocked that a person had actually been inside, she ignored the man's offer and ran inside, clearing away several strangely-shaped smaller boxes and tossing them on the floor, which was made of an odd grating. Hardly pausing to notice what a strange-looking place it was, she knelt down and grabbed the hand, attempting to feel the pulse like she'd learned in CPR class before going to work at the preschool.

She gazed down to see that it belonged to a tall, skinny, brown-haired man, dressed in a too-big leather jacket and black jeans, covered in dirt, and who had a jagged cut down the side of his forehead but was bleeding rather slowly for the size of the wound.

BANG!

The sound came from behind her, and she spun around to look. The door had slammed shut, seemingly on its own! Clara gasped, stood up from where the man still lay unconscious (or dead) on the floor, and ran over to it, pulling on the inside handle with all her might.

People outside were shouting things like, "It's locked her in!" "Call the police!" "It's those dratted aliens again, I'm telling you!" They were pounding on the door, but even with their combined effort, the wood was suddenly much more solid than it had seemed.

"Help! Help, me get out!" Clara screamed, starting to panic. She took a deep, frightened breath. She was stuck.

Breathing hard, she whirled back around to face the interior of the box—and felt her mouth fall open in shock. "No, way," she breathed, taking in the massiveness of the room. There was no possible explanation for this—a box that was bigger on the inside than on the outside? It was so huge and—

"I'd love to own one of these," she half-whispered to herself, thinking of how amazing it would be. It couldn't actually be real—no, not really. But—

Suddenly feeling giddy, she jumped up and ran her hands along the edges of the walls, over the door (which still wouldn't open), over the big, roundy thing in the middle of the room, along the curved pillars, on the muddy floors. It was just too amazing to be true!

With a wide smile of astonishment, she spun around in circles, looking it all over. It was—it couldn't be, but it was—it was real!

Suddenly she heard a groan, and gasped when she remembered the poor man she'd accidentally left, without even knowing if he was alive or not. She ran back to the boxes and crawled over them a second time, glad it was a work day and she'd worn trousers. The skinny man groaned in his sleep, his head moving slightly to one side.

Clara breathed a sigh of relief. So he was alive!

"Although," she addressed him, hands on her hips even though she knew he couldn't hear her, "you're just as unreal as this crazy box you got stuck in, if you're alive after a crash like that one."

A smile played on her lips. In a moment, the police would arrive, break open the door, and they could get him to a hospital. Maybe, after he was recovered, he could tell her about this box and how it did such impossible things as being bigger on the inside. "But for now," she said aloud again, "I suppose I'll just try and keep you company, seein' as we're both stuck in here."

She pulled up one of the boxes and sat down beside him, watching his face with interest. It was fairly dark in the room. The light changed from yellow to bright greens and blues as it emanated from the round thing in the center, which was behind them, and she could just make out the sharp features that jutted out from his pale skin.

He had long sideburns, and dark, longish hair that stuck up from all directions even though he was lying on the ground. As she watched, the cut on his forehead bled more and more slowly, until she wondered if it would be best to just clean it up now. The shouting outside had died down, and the only noise was a steady hum coming from the center thing.

A long moment passed, and she took out a few tissues from her bag, reaching out to wipe the blood from his head. Strangely, it seemed light-colored for normal blood, almost orange. She wondered if that indicated some kind of condition, maybe explaining why he bled so little.

Carefully, so as not to hurt him, she dabbed at the area around the cut, but for some reason she couldn't figure out where exactly the wound was. Knotting up her forehead, she pressed a little harder, and finally cleaned up the last of it, leaving nothing behind but smooth, undamaged skin.

"Oi, mate," she mumbled in confusion, "You've gotta be injured somewhere, if you aren't hurt there! Nobody heals that fast," she added under her breath.

Shrugging off the feeling of awkwardness that came with poking around on a strange person, she started to examine his face and neck more closely, even feeling the back of his head for injuries, but strangely, she found none.

Suddenly, a piercing, wailing siren filled her ears and she stood up in surprise, seeing that the big, green pipe jutting up from the center piece of the box was moving up and down, almost as if it were pumping something. Up, and down, up, and back down again. "Wha—" she started.

The ground underneath her feet jerked violently, throwing her to the grating. "Ow!" she cried, rubbing her aching hip where it had broken her fall. "What's it doing? Oh, come on!" she called to the man beside her, "Wake up and tell me what it's doing! I'm trapped in here and I don't want to be carried off and crash again who-knows-where!"

The ground continued to shake, as in an earthquake simulator, and now worried that they would be flying through the air and crashing again, this time causing her demise, Clara shot back up to her feet and ran for the door, pulling on the door handle and shouting for someone outside. "Let me out!" she screeched, "This thing is mad! It's a vehicle, yes, and it's totally mad! I'm not even supposed to be here—I'm from London! Get me out, anybody?"

There was silence from the outside.

"Anybody still out there?!" she panicked.

Without warning, the noise stopped, and as she yanked on the handle one last time, it flew open and she found herself nearly thrown out of the door into a black, starry pit of nothing. She gasped and barely managed to keep herself from falling by a one-handed grip on the doorframe. Breathing hard, she pulled herself back in and clutched the frame in two hands, trying to still her rapidly-beating heart and take in the sight before her.

It was—well in one word, it was beautiful.

Outer space.

She was in space.

The view from a space shuttle—one she'd never dreamed she'd get to see. And as the box slowly rotated—unbelievably, it really was still just a small blue box, as she could see the outside now when she craned her neck— the planet Earth came into view, little by little.

The sight just took her breath away.

She could see America, and the little green patch where Missouri lay in its mass. She could see home, too—across the Atlantic, jutting out proudly where it always had. The only time Clara had ever seen the two countries, side by side, was on a map. Now they were in front of her, both of them, at the same time and she could see the clouds and mountains and valleys that covered them.

Earth itself all glowed with reflected sunlight, and the clouds were wispy bits of white down below her, continents and oceans she'd only seen from maps were spread out before her, like she was the Queen of it all. "Oh, this can't be real!" she exclaimed fervently, with unsuppressed longing in her voice. "It would be so amazin' if it was, though!"

"Would it, now?" a voice said beside her.

She jumped nearly three feet in fright and put a hand on her chest as she saw that the man had come awake, gotten up, and was now standing right beside her. "Oh," she smiled nervously, "Uhm, hi. I'm Clara. I found you in here when you—um—crashed in the street." She was gradually aware that he was extremely good-looking, aside from the extreme paleness of his skin and those hideous clothes. She smiled in spite of herself. They actually made him look like a little kid, dressed up in his dad's suit, but she kept that thought in her own head without saying it.

"I'm the Doctor; well, I think I am," he replied, gazing out at the celestial view with her, rather than meeting her inquisitive face directly. "I'm not really quite sure how all that happened. I think I must've gotten lost in the Time Vortex, which is funny 'cause I never get lost, and I think I lost someone…" he paused in his short ramble, knitting his brows in concentration as he continued to stare down at the Earth.

"Well," Clara bit her lip, feeling a bit awkward, "I'm sure that's all normal, you know—getting hit on the head like you were when this thing crashed."

He wrinkled his pointed nose. "I dunno. No, I don't think this is normal. This isn't normal at all," he kept on, the look of concern on his face growing, and Clara started wondering if he was completely sane. "This is unusual—in fact, this is very, very bad, Clara—this is—this is—argh!" he slapped his forehead. "And I can't even remember what this is!" He was facing her now, trying to explain something.

Feeling compassion for him, she tentatively reached out and took his shoulders in her hands. "Hey, it's all right," she soothed. "Why don't we sit down right here, and you can get your bearings again, eh?"

He nodded and complied, and she sat down next to them, both dangling their legs out of the doorway into space. "That was one heck of a nasty landing you had back there," she prodded gently. "Does this thing always fly, do you know?"

He seemed to be staring off at nothing for a second, then abruptly snapped back into hearing what she was saying. "Oh, it flies all the time. Never stops. Do you like her?" he asked, with a grin as if he was showing it off.

"What, the box?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes, the box!" he replied, sounding hurt. "She's beautiful my box—er, ship. My lovely ship—and she's all mine, d'ya know that?" he grinned again, getting up and running over to the center-thingy. He ran his hands gently over the buttons and levers, brushing off dust and pulling debris off of some of the stranger-looking knobs.

Clara got up, too, but not to admire the ship. She suddenly had a very frightening feeling. "Wait," she exclaimed, turning pale, "you mean—that's really space out there?"

"Well, what other kind of space is there?" he snorted, still busy.

"We're thousands of miles above the Earth and this is a box that's actually a spaceship?!" she practically shrieked.

The man poked his head out from behind the center column, giving her a strange look. "Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked abruptly.

"Are. We. In. Space?" she demanded again, wanting a real answer.

"Yes of course, but I know you from somewhere!" he shouted excitedly, stepping back from the center and pointing at her happily.

"Oh, now, I know you really are mental," she sing-songed to herself, suddenly very uncomfortable.

"I know—you! Clara! Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara, Clara," he continued to ramble, "I know you from—oh yes! I know! I met you a long time ago, on Gallifrey! Or at least, I think it was Gallifrey," he muttered to himself, before grinning again. "But you were there! You were the one who told me to take this one as my Tardis! You were right there! Ha-ha!" he clapped delightedly, as she edged closer to the door, keenly aware of the ten-thousand-mile drop that awaited her outside.

Then he stopped, thinking hard. "Or was that Rose? That—that might've been Rose. Yes, that most definitely was this girl called Rose. You see, she was with me, and—Ohhhh!"

He acted as if he'd just hit a lightbulb, and Clara cocked her head to the side in an inquisitive manner.

"You're Rose!"

Her jaw dropped.

"Oh, Yes! That is brilliant! Fan—fan—f-fff—oh, that word doesn't work anymore, wrong teeth; never mind. Wonderful! You're Rose!" he started laughing as if he'd stumbled upon some hilarious discovery. "You are Rose, and she—she is Clara! Ha!"

Clara was quite at a loss of what to say. "How do you deal with a person who's mental? Or rather, how do you keep them under control?!"

"Or—you regenerated! Did Rose regenerate? Is she you now? I think she got killed by the Daleks, poor Rose. Poor old Rose. I'm in love with her, you know," he smiled a bit dreamily. "And now, you're her!" he started toward her and Clara instinctively started walking backward very quickly.

"Uh-oh." she thought. "Oh, mmm. Nu-uh. No, no, no, no, no, I'm not her, um, whoever-you-are. The Doctor, right? Well, I'm starting to think very strongly that you might actually need a doctor yourself— this person, you're talking about her, and she's not me."

"She's not?" he stopped two feet from her, still smiling widely.

"No," Clara felt her voice squeak just a tiny bit. "No, she's—she's a long way from here—" inadvertently she glanced down at the shining form of the Earth, far below. "She's not—no. I'm a different, sort of stay-away-from-me sort of person. As in, back off. Shoo." She waved her hands at him nervously and was relieved when he started walking backwards, away from her, still grinning with his tongue poking between his teeth and shaking his head, his arms folded over the too-big leather jacket.

He stopped for a moment, standing by the console. Clara tensed, waiting for him to do something. "I think you're Rose," he said suddenly, making up his mind.

"Eee!" Clara squealed as he headed toward her again. "Honestly, I'm not! I'm telling you, I'm not! I didn't ask for this. I didn't walk in here to end up in a flying box in outer space and get molested by a creeper in a box—I really didn't— stay away from me, please!"

He took one step too close, and before she even knew what she was doing, she had swung a fist toward his well-defined, narrow jaw and he collapsed to the floor.

Clara froze, looking down at the once-again unconscious man in front of her.

"Well," she nervously remarked, "I didn't know I was that good!"

She looked back up at the round control panel in the center of the room.

"Crap," she suddenly realized, "I just knocked out my pilot!"