Forty-odd years ago…

Claire Oswald rubbed her eyes. She'd been staring at computer codes for hours, and the zeroes and ones were starting to look decidedly blurry. She considered taking a coffee break to clear her head. Maybe she might find something to nibble on as well in U.N.I.T.'s mess hall. It was worth a try.

Entering the hall, she spotted her friend Trixie sitting at one of the tables, chatting with one of the fellows from the medical department. By the time Claire had her cup of tea and a donut, the medical man had left Trixie's table. She sat down next to Trixie and greeted her friend with a curious question. "Who's the bloke?"

Trixie grinned. "New fella. He's an intern, works with Surgeon Lieutenant Sullivan. Isn't he dreamy? Got the cutest eyes."

Claire took a sip of her tea, smiling over the rim at Trixie's gushing admiration of her latest crush. "He's not too bad," she remarked, watching as the intern walked out of the mess hall to the corridor beyond.

Wrinkling her nose, Trixie snorted. "You're too picky, that's what you are. You watch it. If you don't find a fella soon, you'll wind up with someone like the freak they've got sequestered in the surgery."

"With who-?" Claire almost spat her tea out with her reply. "What have they got sequestered where?"

"You haven't heard?" her friend queried, amazed at Claire's lack of awareness of the latest gossip at U.N.I.T.'s base. "Word is, he's even puzzled the Doctor."

Claire nearly choked on her tea this time. "That would take some doing." The image of the intimidating alien known only as the Doctor, who worked as a science advisor to U.N.I.T., flashed in her mind. Tall, broad shouldered, with fluffy pale blonde hair, the man, although handsome in a patrician way, was rather imposing, in his velvet smoking jackets and frilly shirts. He definitely had a presence whenever he was in the room—commanding all the attention and all the obedience. And this was without even saying anything. Claire was a little intimidated by him. She'd encountered him twice, both times when he was seeking information from the computers she worked with. He'd been very dismissive of what he called their "primitive" setup. To Claire it was all state of the art—in fact, U.N.I.T. even had some systems that were top secret from the general public. She'd managed to get him what he needed, but he'd chafed at how long it took to get it. Not at her, mind. He'd been a gentleman towards her. He just thought U.N.I.T.'s computers were from the stone age.

If the Doctor didn't know what to make of the strange man in surgery, Claire wanted a look at the bloke. It would be worthwhile to know what could stump someone as knowledgeable and advanced as the Doctor.

As soon as she finished her donut and tea, Claire excused herself from Trixie and headed for the surgery. She neglected to tell her friend where she was going, in case Trixie took it upon herself to tease her about seeing whether the odd person in surgery was worth asking out on a date.

Slipping into the surgery, she hoped to avoid detection before anyone could stop her. Fortunately, almost everyone seemed to be missing—perhaps on their tea break. However, Surgeon Lieutenant Sullivan surprised her by coming out of a room to her left. She ducked behind a partition to avoid being seen. He was busy checking a chart, and didn't notice her. He headed for his office, went inside and shut the door.

Claire popped out from behind the partition, and went right for the door Surgeon Sullivan had come from. She had a hunch that this was where they were keeping U.N.I.T.'s latest guest. As soon as she stepped inside the room, she found she was correct.

On a hospital bed in the middle of the small room, a figure lay, draped with a sheet. Even across the room, from her position by the door, she could see that the man lying there was almost as white as the sheet. As she stepped closer, she noticed his eyes were closed, as if he was asleep. His bare chest rose and fell slowly with deep breaths.

Standing beside the bed, Claire could see why Trixie described this man as a freak. Not only was his skin deathly white, there was an odd unfinished look to his features, as if he was wearing a moldable wax mask. His closed eyes were deep set, and he had a prominent brow, as well as a very well-defined chin. There were thin red lines around his eyes and mouth, like fine veins, as well as some on his brow, near his hairline. His hair was dark brown, and fell in a quiff over his right eye. Claire found herself wondering what it would feel like to stroke that thick thatch of hair. The rest of him may have been alarming to look at, but that hair had definite "touch me" qualities.

At that moment, the man's eyes snapped open.

Claire jumped backwards, startled. It was rather alarming, as his irises were white, like an albino's. She was just about to back out of the room when the arm closest to her moved incredibly fast, and she found her wrist imprisoned in the grasp of his pale, white hand.

But the look on his face was not meant to frighten her—instead it looked as if he himself was frightened. "Where am I?" he whispered.

"You…you…U.N.I.T. HQ," she stammered, pulling a little away from him in case he decided not to be friendly. "Who are you?"

He looked as though the question staggered him. Claire could see he was struggling with an answer. "I…," he hesitated, "I honestly don't know."

His next question really puzzled her. "What year is this?"

"1972," Claire answered. "It's the ninth of October. Kind of warm out for fall."

The man's face fell, and he closed his eyes in a look of frustration. He let go of Claire's wrist, and pushed both hands up into his hairline, covering his face with his palms. "One hundred twenty-eight years into the past," he sighed. After a moment he sat up on his elbows, and turned his head to face Claire. "Who are you?" he asked.

For some reason unknown to her, Claire, after initially feeling a bit of revulsion at his features, found herself instead oddly pitying the man. He seemed confused at the world around him, and didn't appear threatening or dangerous at all. When he'd grabbed her wrist, he hadn't held it in a tight grip—only with enough pressure to detain her. In point of fact she was starting to feel more intrigued by him, instead of repulsed. "My name's Claire—Claire Oswald. I work here at U.N.I.T.—in the computer department."

"Computers?" he puzzled. "So why are you in here, in a medical room?"