The first thing she heard was the music.

It was soft and gentle and she was sure she was in heaven. She hadn't even believed in heaven, yet here she was. It's dark though so dark. Surely heaven is light?

She wills herself back down into the underground she came from. She does not want to be in heaven, she does not deserve it. Yet the music is getting louder. Heaven is approaching her, drawing her in, screaming at her to be free and so she stops resisting.

Still the music gets louder and louder and louder. It's so loud she wants to cover her ears yet her hands are numb, her arms paralysed. The music courses through her head, screaming at her, punishing her and it dawns on her she cannot be in heaven, she must be in hell.

But there is a nagging suspicion, one she is trying to ignore. One which continues to resurface. Maybe she's not in heaven. Or hell for that matter. Maybe she never made it.

She only has to open her eyes. Once she has opened her eyes she will understand. Yet she is afraid, afraid of what she might see. Afraid of being alive.

Mustering all her courage, all her strength she fights against every natural instinct she ever possessed and rose from her sleep.

She opens her eyes.

She is in a bedroom, that is certain. And the bedroom is not hers, that was also certain. Not the room in which she spent her childhood days, dreaming of a future so far out of her reach it became a story to her. The walls are painted blue, such a deep thriving blue it shocks her into her senses. She has never seen a blue so deep before, never seen a colour so alive.

A sickening fear lurched in her stomach. All the Dalek walls were painted grey, without exception. Colour was seen as creativity and creativity was seen was emotion. Adrenaline and fear coursed in her veins. She was not in Skaro anymore.

The room was lightly furnished, an old spiralling desk sat in one corner and she marvelled at the etchings on it for she had never seen such a thing. The wardrobe door was hanging open and she craned her neck to look inside, ignoring the wave of pain that flushed through her, she had been taught to ignore pain. It was filled with the strangest items she had ever seen, a multitude of colour screamed at her and for a second she had to close her eyes again, her senses overwhelmed by the colour which blinded them. In Skaro everything was grey, from the houses, to the clothing, the food, and the people. Yet here in this room she had seen more life than in her whole 22 years living in Skaro. Of course she had been out of Skaro, seen the beauty of nature, lived in the woods during her four years in the army. Yet she had never seen colour so revelled in, so enjoyed. It stirred something strange inside of her.

The wardrobe reminded her of her clothing. Her uniform. She peered down at her body. She had died naked of course. She corrects her. Shaking her head slightly. She hadn't died. Now she was wearing what she could only assume were pyjamas. She was wearing a plaid shirt and matching bottoms and as she wriggled slightly she could feel they were warm and soft. They must be women's, she assumed. For she was only small, in fact she was tiny yet they were only slightly big on her. They could of course be a child's but something told her she was wearing a woman's clothes.

She slowly stretched her arms out behind and her mustering all of her strength sat up in the bed, groaning slightly. Beside her was a table and on it was a glass of water. She suddenly was aware of a fire like thirst in her throat and grabbed the glass, drinking hurriedly. It was only once she had drained the glass that she realised its danger, it could have been poison. Then again who would go to the trouble of saving her life and nursing her to then poison her?

It was then she noticed the food. So thirsty had she been before she had not noticed the plate of unusual biscuits laid next to the glass. Biscuits were a novelty in Skaro, she was given one normally each birthday. Recruits had to be in top shape and any fattening foods were strongly disapproved upon. These biscuits did look appealing though, they were small and round with little hearts of jam in the centres. She felt her mouth water.

Gingerly she picked up one biscuit, not failing to notice next to it another had a large bite taken of it. Brushing the thought aside she brought it to her lips, only now realising her intense hunger and without a second though ravished the biscuit, and then the next, and then next, until finally all that was left sat alone on the plate was the half-eaten one. Even in her hunger she could not bring herself to eat that one.

It was then she heard the footsteps. Someone was coming. Immediately she tensed. Her initial reaction had been to leap out of bed and take up defensive stance, like her training had taught her to. Yet she simply did not have the energy. She resolved to sit up properly, not slouching as before to be prepared for her attacker.

Then she waited as the door opened.

The man did not notice her as he entered the room, he was fiddling with a device in his hands and did not look up and see her consciousness. She was pleased, it gave her an advantage. He was young, barely older than her. He was dressed in the most ridiculous attire she had ever seen. He was wearing deep purple trousers and a matching purple tweed blazer, along with a pair of shining black shoes and braces. Yet around his neck was an item she had never seen before, only in pictures in culture class. She racked her brains for the word to describe the clothing item trying to regurgitate images from a class she had taken nearly 8 years ago, before her father had banned her from attending, telling her she did not need to learn about other cultures, for Dalek culture was the only one she would ever know.

Then the man looked up.

He gasped upon seeing her and froze for a second before rushing to her side.

"Hello!" He stuck his hand in front of her and for a second she could do nothing but stare until she realised he was expecting her to shake it. Warily she took his hand, trying profusely to ignore the warmth that flooded through her at his touch.

"Hello." He repeated, grinning abundantly.

"Hello." She mirrored. "How am I – Where am I?"

He looked momentarily confused before launching into a torrent of words

"Oh gosh, yes, of course. Well I found you in the river. You must have fallen in, or gone swimming. Terrible time for swimming – way too cold. Didn't your mother ever tell you that? I suppose not. Anyway I pulled you out, couldn't let you drown could I? Well I didn't know who you were, are, and where you lived so, well, I, erm, I brought you here." He fumbled with his hands, as if he didn't quite know what to do with them.

She stared, stunned into silence at the array of colour and passion and life that had flown from him. Never before had she ever spoken to someone who was not a Dalek, growing up in Skaro, the home of the great Daleks she had never met anyone different. She had heard the stories though, in primary school, before the conversions begun. She had heard stories of colour, of light and boldness and a different world. She had once told her mother, asked if there was a different world? Her mother had stopped in her tracks, a wash cloth frozen in her hand. She had sat her down at a table and whispered to her that out there somewhere there was a different world for everyone and that one day she'd find hers. An ache she had suppressed for years suddenly flamed in her chest as she remembered her mother and she had to force herself to look at the man once more to forget her. Forget the only reason she was not like her father, forget the woman who had whispered stories of a better place to her, told her tales of fantasy lands where everyone was happy and no-one died and all the people wore pink and yellow and blue. Showed her photographs of her grandma and granddad and promised one day she would take her away to meet them. But she never had. For her mother had died when she was 7. She was found, beaten senseless in an alleyway after a dispute of sorts and had died shortly after. She had never even managed to say goodbye.

She realised he was waiting for a response and coughed lightly, bringing up the only thing she could think of.

"What am I wearing?"

At this point the man froze and flushed, a deep crimson stain spreading to his cheeks.

"Well, when you were in the water, you were sort of well…–" He coughed, embarrassed and lowered his voice to a whisper "…Naked. So I put you in some pyjamas. I swear I didn't look, cross my heart, I promise." With this his raised a hand a dragged his finger over the left side of his chest in a criss-cross manner, before repeating the gesture with the right side of his chest, as if to suggest he had two hearts. She brushed off the odd gesture yet despite herself she found herself smiling at the fumbling man before her.

"Thankyou."

"No problem, all part of the service." He grinned wildly at her then seemed to register what he'd said and his smile dropped, his face becoming flustered once more. "No, sorry, didn't meant that, I – shall I get you something to eat?" He asked, blatantly ignoring the nearly empty plate of biscuits and despite herself she felt the corners of her mouth rise in a soft smile once more.

"Yes, thankyou."

He turned to leave but in the doorway stopped and swivelled and in that moment the item of clothing she could not place hit her. A bow-tie, he was wearing a bow-tie.

"One more thing. Names. We forgot to do them. Doctor. I'm the Doctor, and you are?"

She froze. Unsure of what to say. In Skaro names were not a big thing, as children they were addressed as groups and as she grew up she was addressed by the name of her father, their family name, Caan. Another memory sprung to mind, another memory of her mother. She must have only been around 4 or 5 and had been confused as to why at school they called her by her daddy's name, rather than the one her mother called her. Her mother had sat her down and told her something even today she could never forget, even after everything she'd been through. 'You my dear, are so much more than that name. You will grow my darling but you must answer to that name, it's the customs.' With that her mother had sighed as if finished but she had not been content, 'Why don't you call me Caan then mummy? If it's my real name?' She had pressed. And her mother had told her 'My darling before you were born I dreamt of my life, my children, and their names. Then the revolution begun and I had to change. But you, my beautiful baby you will grow and live to your real name, I know of it. I named you after my mother and your surname is my maiden name, before I became a Caan. One day you will understand dear why we must change, ignore our real names to take false ones but for now you must sit tight. One day my dear, one day you will live to own the name I chose for you.'

So she told him, the name that her mother had whispered to her as she fell asleep. The name she had not heard nor spoken since she was 7 years old.

"My name, my name is Clara Oswald."