Archive of Our Own

The man in the video had said you could "get lost" at Hub-970.

At first, Clara hadn't understood that. The bronze structure they'd landed in was certainly big, but it was open. Hardly any doors were shut. There were directories on every floating screen, and floating screens in every room. It was airy and empty, plenty of places to linger and no decorations. The best reading material she could get, following the Doctor through the wide halls, were the metallic signs carved in sensible places where employees would have seen them. All staff must be scanned upon reentry, or Lab 23 or her current favorite, RESERVE ALL TEARS FOR FLOOR ZERO.

Floor Zero was, from what she could make out, the lobby. The place in which the TARDIS had first materialized. That was empty too.

All portions of Hub-970 were empty. It was dusty, and yet it still seemed largely brand-new, which was probably because it was from the future. And it was obviously impossible to get lost in. A five-year-old could find their way out of the building; there were floor-to-ceiling windows serving as every outmost wall.

But then they left Floor Zero. Then she found the Doctor mesmerized by nothing twenty minutes into their adventure, and she realized what "get lost" actually meant.

Clara had been promised mountains and tea in the fifty-first century, and instead the TARDIS had made sounds of being sick and plunked itself down inside a deserted factory. The Doctor had poked his head out and declared it to be the fifty-first century, all right, but a bit more north than the mountains they'd planned on seeing. Not Earth, but Earth-adjacent. A tiny little colony out in the stars, one of humanity's many business ventures.

"Right. Can't hurt to look around a bit," the Doctor had reasoned, stepping out into broad, beautiful red evening sunlight splashing through the many windows. The lobby was warm as a result, and you could see every speck of dust in those beams. "Let the old girl have a breather."

Clara had followed him out, dressed for hiking, all boots and fake fur and a miniskirt. "It's quiet."

"It's abandoned." He'd stepped up to the nearest floating screen, tapping away at a keypad below it which was also hovering. Clara looked for wires or projectors and found none. "And it smells! Like—"

"Bleach?"

"I was gonna say poison."

"So—it's abandoned," Clara said, sidling up to his shoulder. Watching the screen above them react to his typing. "That means trouble, yeah?"

"Not everything means trouble, Clara," the Doctor sniffed.

"Everything with you does."

"Does not." The Doctor kept his eyes on the screen, colors and lights flickering across his face.

Clara saw files scroll past, photographs, titles. The Doctor was looking for something, snooping. Being nosy. "But that's why we're here, isn't it? Because there's something going on."

"And if I said there was nothing weird about this place," he said, giving her a sideways glance, "if I said we just happened to land here, an empty Holo Hub, perhaps the only empty Holo Hub in the surrounding galaxies during the year 5029, that it was nothing, no, less than nothing, a coincidence—"

Clara blinked up at him, arms folded around herself, smirking.

"—that there is definitely not something going on," he finished quietly, smirking back, "what would you say?"

"That we should get back in the box and try somewhere less boring," she told him immediately. "Except I don't have to. Cos I don't believe you. Cos nothing's ever just a coincidence when it's you."

"Fine." The Doctor turned back to the screen, still smirking. "We are here—" He tapped one more key and a black square appeared in the corner of the screen, expanding to fill it. "—because of this."

A video launched above them, difficult to see in the sunlight coating the lobby. It seemed to have been taken in a darker area; the man whose large, freckled nose took up most of the picture was swathed otherwise in shadow. Clara could see every pore, and that he had nice eyes, and that, even without the audio, he was terrified.

"Don't come," the man babbled as soon as the video began. He had a thick Northern accent and gingery fringe. "I'm tellin' you, stay away. It's not like what they said. Nothing can prepare you. It's everywhere, it sees everything, I don't—don't know what's real anymore—"

As the man began to gulp and sob a bit, Clara's gaze flicked toward the Doctor, measuring his reaction. She hated the wobble in the poor bloke's voice, and she could see the Doctor did too. He was watching the video with sharp green irises, and his expression was carefully still. Those big sad eyes had got sadder. This was what made him travel, she knew. Not the stars and the learning and the adrenaline that kept her racing into the TARDIS even on a school night, even when she had papers to grade. He did it because there was always lots to see, yes, and because everywhere there were people who needed help. Even in between the wonders. And he could help them.

"This is Agent Bellos," the man continued, and Clara could see him rallying, even as he glanced over his shoulder like an antelope on the savannah. "If anyone can see this, do not come for me. You'll never get out. I'll never get out—they want me to stay—and I can't—can't tell what—"

"Who wants him to stay?" Clara murmured, glancing again between the Doctor and the video feed. He didn't respond, intent on the footage.

"—I know," Bellos said onscreen, suddenly talking to someone else. His whole face changed. He was looking over his shoulder again, and his voice got tender. He seemed to come to himself in another moment, looking back at the camera. "I know, I'm comin'—God, I can't—look, it's impossible," he said, and now he was trembling. "It's too much. You get lost here. Don't. Just don't come, it's…it's too late."

And then he turned away, and his face got softer, looking once more at something offscreen. His arm came up, toward the left-hand corner, and the video stopped. It was frozen, crystal-clear above the Doctor and Clara, with the off-putting, tender expression Bellos wore, and his arm permanently outstretched. The side of his face they could see glinted with obvious tears of distress, but he still had that dreamy smile. It felt wrong.

"So I was right, then," she reasoned aloud. "Trouble."

The Doctor turned to look down at her, eyebrows raised. "Trouble."

She got goosebumps, all up her arms, and tried not to smile too widely. Adventure. Excitement. Possibly saving a life. This was what she procrastinated for.

Before they'd entered the first lift, they had to pass through a field of violet light coming down in the doorway. It was akin to what Clara had always pictured walking through the end of a rainbow might feel like. Behind her eyelids, brilliant colors flashed, and she nearly got dizzy. The Doctor's steadying hand was at her elbow, helping her toward the rail. He seemed unfazed by the light.

"Not so abandoned, if stuff like that's working," Clara pointed out, leaning back against the lift's railing.

"That's because it's very recently abandoned. Can't have been more than a few months gone since it closed up." The Doctor used the sonic screwdriver, pointing it at a touchpad on the lift wall. There were no numbered buttons, and when he used the sonic to bring the lift to life, he said aloud, "Floor Nineteen."

Then he flipped the sonic, tucked it into his coat, and began explaining.

"Fifty-first century," he said. "Humanity has expanded across the stars, eager to explore, eager to get out and make a name for themselves. Like lots of little Elvises, zooming on out there to mingle and serenade, leave a nice big handprint on the cosmos. Except with less hair product overall. They've got shares in every planet from here to the Carstolian galaxy. And expansion means labor, labor means riches, and riches mean convenience. Especially for your species." He wrinkled his nose. "By the forty-third century, your lot had enslaved the Ood—"

"Enslaved the what, sorry?"

"—peaceful species, spaghetti faces, love an Ood, pay attention," the Doctor bopped her on the top of the head with a finger. "So! Enslaved the Ood, riches without the labor, but! Thanks to me, some snow, a big beautiful oogly brain and a lot of shouting, the Ood were set free!"

Clara nodded, arms folded, trying to look as unimpressed as possible because she could physically see him preening.

"And that left a bit of a servant vacuum." The Doctor sonicked the panel again, and the lift picked up speed subtly. "Human beings are constantly searching for new ways to do as little as possible while enjoying as much as possible, whether it's the Flesh, the Quarks 3.0, Crespallions, and, for a brief period in the year 5560, little green robots about yay-high." And here he held a palm flat at knee-height. "So when the Ood got shot of you, you were in the market for a less, ooh, let's say—controversial sort of servitude."

"Yeah, you can stop with the yous, thanks. I've never enslaved anyone." Clara grunted.

"What about your dishwasher?"

"Dishwashers aren't sentient."

"Not according to your telepathic levels," he muttered. Before Clara could argue, or utter any alarmed profanities, he continued. "Right at the start of the fifty-first century, humanity founded and funded the Holo Sapien company. Dedicated to creating a hologram that was so lifelike, it could actually interact with tangible matter. A second pair of hands, a face and voice and pleasurable company to mimic anybody you wanted. Elvis included."

"Are we going to see Elvis sometime soon?"

"Why?"

"You keep saying Elvis."

"Call it a craving. I'm allowed cravings, aren't I?"

Clara flapped a hand at him, brows shooting up. "So humans invented holograms."

"Oh, no no no," the Doctor huffed. "Humans invented a type of hologram. Lots of civilizations used holograms, long before your people and long after your people. But the company was stoppered, shut down sometime during the first thirty years of its success, nobody really knows why. Lots of rumors, but the truth is, Clara, a proper hologram should be as little like real life as possible. You can't create a figment that can touch without consequences. It isn't natural. Many of the Holo Hubs, the hologram factories, wound up this way, abandoned, empty. Bleachy. But I think Hub-970 was the first, and d'you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because the TARDIS intercepted Agent Bellos's distress call." The Doctor's hands clapped together, once. "And the courts never released any of the communications between the DCA and their squadrons when it came to inspecting the deserted Holo Hubs. The TARDIS snatched this one up, right out of this year, on purpose."

"DCA," Clara repeated, narrowing her eyes.

"Data Collection Agency, salvages useful technology from forsaken businesses so that humanity can recycle it, keep pioneering. Hey-ho." The Doctor smiled. "If I've got my timing right, and I've always got my timing right—" he ignored her little scoff, still preening, "—then I'd say Bellos is the first agent they dispatched to Holo Sapien, and this Hub is the first one they inspected. Not the first visitor, I'd wager, there's always pirates and overbored young people looking to update their Instagrams, even in your future, but definitely the first agent, and the first cry for help. So the answer's here."

Mountains and tea forgotten, Clara followed him out of the lift as a low dong sounded around them. They passed through another field of violet light onto Floor Nineteen. The colors and lights were back inside Clara's head, and then they died off and she was able to blink, looking around her.

Floor Nineteen was nothing very special. It looked a lot like the lobby, except with more corridors and doors, and nowhere to sit. Everything was clean and white, glass walls so you could see the rocky asteroid-like terrain outside, sunshine pouring in and a tiny purple solar storm out on the horizon if you squinted. Clara saw labels still etched into certain spots, and less floating screens as they began turning corners.

"Amygdala scan," the Doctor told her, gesturing to the waterfall of violet light behind them, where she could just see the lifts. "Files away your specific cerebral habits, probably to help with holographic research for employees."

"Even the receptionists?"

"Especially the receptionists," the Doctor replied, as if it should be obvious. "Most ordinary beings in any facility. Full of potential. Plus they give out sweets."

The way he said it almost made Clara sorry she'd never been a receptionist.

They carried on through Floor Nineteen with zero disruptions. Clara began to wonder if there really was anything to learn here, or if all the excitement had happened months ago and this was a waste of time. They didn't see any bodies, or even footprints in the dust. There was a sky-blue coat still on a hanger in a hall closet, but that was the only sign of life they came across.

When she asked him what exactly they were looking for, the Doctor said vaguely, "Control center."

"That's easy." Clara pointed at the nearest floating screen, grinning. "Directory. Like at the mall."

"Look closer," the Doctor said, not turning around. He had his sonic back out as he read one of the wall signs. It was just a smattering of numbers and letters; 08XG996R, something like that, give or take a digit. "There isn't anything marked control, no way of seeing how to get where the action is, where it all powers out from."

"Maybe you're just not good with directions."

"I am excellent with directions," the Doctor objected over his shoulder. "I am the King of Directions. The Emperor. I'm the favorite of all directions everywhere."

"Typical man, can't read a map," Clara hummed, peering up at the glowing screen. "It says right there, Command-1, Floor Nineteen."

"That could mean anything. It could be where people learned new commands for the hologram system. It could be where they commanded the coffee." The Doctor threw his sonic from hand to hand, scowling. "Could've been a nice fella named Johnny Command, his office."

"So we're not on Floor Nineteen because you saw that?" Clara turned her smirk back on, glancing at him. Pointing at the screen.

"No," the Doctor huffed. "We are on Floor Nineteen because it is the highest floor in the building, and the highest readings of the amygdala scanner came from here, and because high usually means important. Attics are where people keep all their secrets, eh, things like old love letters and—embarrassing pin collections."

"I'm gonna go to Command-1," Clara announced, jerking her head toward the opposite hallway, where a massive Command-1 was etched into the wall.

The Doctor pulled a face. "Clara, the control center of a corrupt holographic Hub is not going to be down the clearest-marked corridor."

"You coming?" She was already walking backwards.

"We really shouldn't split up—"

"Can't hear you, on my way to the control center," she sing-songed. "Down this clearly-marked corridor—"

"Oi! Clara, you—you can't just—" The Doctor groaned, threw his hands up, back down, up again, fists, no fists, and then let out a very loud huff. "This is how they go, you know!"

"If you're so worried, you could come with," she pointed out, bouncing her eyebrows. "Just say you're wrong first."

That shut down the nanny-goat nagging. He set his formidably-sized jaw. "Right, when I find the control center down this corridor, which is much less conspicuous, I will come and get you, and you'd better be not-dead!"

Clara grinned again, wider, turning to face forward. "Same to you."

She turned out to be right about the control center. But he'd been right about the attic.

The Doctor tried every door he passed as he walked through the unassuming, unlabeled hall. Over two thousand years of time and space—there was no way Clara knew more than he did about where to put a potentially-evil mainframe in a hushed-up Holo Hub. Ridiculous. But soon enough she'd come trailing back, hit a dead end. Find a dull desk with Johnny Command's name on and hurry down the correct corridor.

Most of the doors didn't open, not even for the sonic. All had palm scanners and so far, none of said scanners had been operational. There must be some other way of accessing each room, the Doctor decided. A backup, a failsafe for entry and exit. Probably a retinal probe, or an audible code. Maybe it was like those old-Earth electrical lights you had to clap at to activate. When he did find an interesting room, it was marked Experimental L-252, and the door simply slid open just after he passed it. On its own, no palm needed.

As if it had sensed him going by.

Inside, the first thing the Doctor set eyes on was a plant. Pink fronds in a bluish sort of shiny pot decorated one corner. Just cosmetic—boring on its own, but he appreciated the color. Lights that looked like massive square lava lamps flickered above him, fully operational. And in the center of the room, there was a machine with its own hypersensitive dais, framed by three huge, blinking metal claws. Hover-screens and computer systems lined the edges of every wall.

The Doctor headed straight for the dais, stepping into the center and scanning the platform beneath him. To his excitement, when the sonic glowed green, the dais glowed green back at him. He couldn't see any cords, anything powering it up in the classic sense. But it responded so quickly to the scan of another device; it had to be itself a scanner of some sort. Not the same as the amygdala lightfall, or the identifiers aboard the TARDIS. This thing was advanced—more aware than most machines human beings architected, even in the fifty-first century.

As he was waiting for the screwdriver to finish processing the results of his scan, there was a slight change in temperature. The room got approximately fifteen degrees warmer.

"You?" said a voice, so casually, so perfectly mocking, the Doctor nearly skipped surprise altogether to protest or argue. "The King of Directions?"

Shock like ice water tipped over him, just for a nanosecond. And then heat. Irritation, no, anger. Outrage. The Doctor turned, slow and almost smirking because it was nicer than a snarl.

A loud, thick, wet scoff. "Cos you and I both know that's not foolin' anyone, Spaceman."

The Doctor looked Donna up and down. "Interesting."

"What is?" The inflection was perfect, too.

"No hum." The Doctor raised his eyebrows, still smirking. "Usually holographic fields produce a residual hum. Bit like a dog whistle, too high for humans to hear." He felt stuck on the dais, seeing the red hair and the particularly-shaped mouth and the one hip jutting out, all like pictures in an old favorite storybook. "But yours hasn't got one. A high-frequency hum my people could pick up from ages away, now, the question is—why would a humanity-engineered holographic system go to the trouble of filtering out a sound only Time Lords can hear?"

Donna's image blinked at him, wearing an exact replica of that face the original used to have on whenever he was being incredibly clever and she was being incredibly unimpressed. Even got the head tipped sideways, even got the twist of the mouth right.

The Doctor felt his hearts hammering away against his chest, and knew that whatever technology was tracing his memories right now to create the copy standing there would be able to tell. Probably tracking his vitals, probably monitoring as much reactional information as it could. Any emotional response from him might be getting filed away this very instant.

"Unless it knew its audience." He felt the smirk growing, felt the anger fizzle and wobble because this was good, this was brilliant. This might be some of humanity's best work, really. Very nice. It was no wonder they'd got rich off of this for a while. "Unless it wanted to make everything as convincing as possible."

"Your face is different," said Donna's image. She grinned, and then let out a huff of laughter that almost truly felt like she could inhale and exhale oxygen to produce it. "And you call me vain when I hog the loo, ha! You look like an actual kid! You're like my old maths teacher! Every year she put on, right, she got her face redone. Looked about twelve medium-rare by the time we graduated. Like bein' taught by a lizard. You'd've thought we were her teachers, used to get nightmares about her—"

"Stop it," the Doctor said quietly, ensuring his voice was even.

"What?" Donna's face quit laughing, smile fading right off with seamless timing.

"You've never had a maths teacher." He pocketed his sonic, slowly, deliberately. Shifting his weight on the dais to the other foot. "You don't get nightmares. You're just a projection, not the real thing. Can't have any of her memories."

"Are you callin' me senile?"

Oh, the jump to offended was excellent. The fluidity of the image's hands coming up to point, hold up both index fingers, purse her lips in a teasing warning. Beautifully done.

"Just because you've got a mug like a toddler now, people'd better not mistake me for your mum, I can tell you that—"

"Where's the control room?"

"You what?"

"You're here to help, aren't you?" The Doctor spread his hands. "That's the old slogan, that's what's written on the front doors downstairs, that's the tagline on all the commercial ventures, eh, Helpers YOU can trust, well, consider me a client. I need help. I want to find your control room, your center of operations. Where is it?"

"Don't be daft. I can't even find my way out of a car park."

He came off the dais, striding up to the image, eyes hooded. "Catch."

He pulled a red rubber ball out of his pocket and tossed it to the hologram. With more deftness than Donna Noble ever had, it caught the ball in both hands.

"Ooh." The Doctor rubbed his palms together, rocking from foot to foot. "Cool. That's cool. So it isn't just light being manipulated; there's something else working you out. Causing you to be. You really can interact with matter, good work. Lovely. But for how long?"

Donna's nose wrinkled. "Are you wearing trousers made of leather?"

"You've chosen the wrong form, by the way," he said airily, slipping past the image, careful not to let his shoulder brush hers. Tangible interaction was a very nice party trick for a hologram to have, but feeling his arm knock against what looked all too much like his best friend—but wasn't—was not a sensation he was interested in. Maybe ever. "An accurate portrayal would have to combust as soon as she knew who I was. She can't see me again without burning up on the inside. A basic mistake if you've only skimmed. I suppose even humanity's arts and crafts projects don't fancy doing all their homework. Like a hereditary trait, so strong it can come from a whole species! D'you imprint, then, are you like chickens? Or geese." He mimed a goose neck with an arm and hand, puppeteering.

"Oi!" The hologram hurried after him and a tiny spark of unease crawled up his neck. He could hear Donna's boots hitting the ground. "Where d'you think you're goin', brainbox? You're not leavin' me behind with your rubbish. Again." The ball squeaked in her hand.

"What d'you mean again? We," the Doctor rounded on it, arm dropping, "have never met before."

Another loud snort. "Not with that babyface."

"No," he said, and he really tried to sound normal, he really tried not to be angry. "No, I meant we, as in your system and I, have never met. You are not who you are pretending to be. You're artificial. What is it, then, do you actually believe the images you're selling? Is that why this Hub is the first one down?"

"You don't look happy." Donna's face grew serious, looking him over. The picture's fingers released the red rubber ball. One minute and forty-five seconds; perhaps that was the length of palpable contact. The Doctor logged it away mentally. "Is something wrong, Doctor?"

He licked his lips. Too close. Too close to that loud, sharp, funny voice and those eyes that had always talked at him on the rare occasions where her mouth hadn't.

"No. Nothing is wrong. Nothing at all is wrong, nothing. It's not working, d'you understand me? So you can stop this and tell me what I want to know." He lifted a finger, pointing, but being certain it wasn't near enough to feel anything, touch anything. A hologram this advanced might even be manufactured to produce the correct amount of body heat, too. "You are not," he said lowly, "getting to me."

Donna's eyes got sad. They actually got sad. "Then why can't you say my name?"

The Doctor looked between those eyes, fascinated, and his hearts were not throbbing, they weren't, they weren't, and he turned without another word and left the room.

Donna's shout rang out into the hall, irate. "Oh, and there you go again, dumbo, runnin' away from talking! A right man and a thing, that's you! Doctor? Are you hopin' I'll go and forget?"

The Doctor's steps faltered, only once, and he set his jaw. He kept walking, doing sums in his head, seeing the sunlight in the hall without feeling it. Letting the anger he hadn't quite pushed fully down yet make him march faster. If the system wasn't going to direct him to the control center, that meant the answers really were there. It had either been programmed not to reveal its power source, or else it had taught itself not to for its own reasons, and between the two, the latter was more likely in his experience.

The cumbersome pressure in his chest had almost gone when another voice sounded behind him. Right behind him.

"That is what you do, you know. I see it now."

The voice was forlorn. And tippy. And unabashedly young, so ridiculously young, and the Doctor felt every muscle in his body pleading to bolt.

When he didn't stop, the hologram must have moved. It got in front of him. It came walking gingerly around the next corner, arms behind its back, striped top rumpled. Huge wet fluttering eyes, trembling lips. Petite, poky body bent slightly, precisely the way he remembered it.

"You leave." The huge eyes met his, full of tears. "When everything gets to be too much, you go away. And then you don't come back. Isn't that right, Grandfather?"

"Okay," the Doctor murmured, and he felt himself take one or two steps backward, pure instinct. "Okay, I see. Well done, very…lifelike. Don't. Just don't."

"Even when you say you will," Susan's hologram went on.

"You want to be very careful. Because if you're not, if you are not really very careful, I'm afraid I'm gonna lose my temper." He nodded, smirk returning, holding up a tiny piece of space between thumb and forefinger. "Just a bit."

"Is that all you've got to say to me? After all this time, why, Grandfather—"

"Where's your mainframe?"

"I don't understand."

"You're treading on dangerous ground," the Doctor rumbled, and he sounded tough but he couldn't look it in the face yet. "Except you're not treading, are you, because you haven't got any real feet, and what you are doing is not going to stop me, now, tell me where to find your control center."

"There's no reason to be so angry." Susan's eyes got even rounder. "If anybody ought to be angry, I think it's me. After all," she ducked her head, sunlight glinting off a crown of glossy dark hair, "I'm the one who's been lied to."

"I didn't lie."

"You said you'd come back for me and you didn't." When she raised her head again, he saw a glint of proper tears dripping down those cheeks. "You didn't, Grandfather. And you aren't going to."

One second. Two. Three. Deep breaths. Don't give in. "What happened to Agent Bellos?"

"Look at you—oh, you aren't even happy to see me—"

"Enough." He took a pace closer, everything within him screaming not to. "That's enough."

Susan's tone dropped, hushed, frightened. Like it had been after a big comet storm ripped the silver leaves off the trees outside her bedroom window. Like it had been the first time she saw a Dalek, or when she'd contracted a triple-fever from the forests of Draid-Five. Like it had been whenever he used to get cross with her mother.

"Are—are you going to stay this time?" she asked, just exactly as if she already knew the answer.

The Doctor threw his hand against the nearest palm scanner and dove into the next room as it opened, hearing the door slide shut behind him.

Trying to get control of his heartrates, he swiped hair out of his face and began rubbing his eyes in the next second. Rubbed them hard, as if scrubbing the sight of those stripes and that trembling mouth right out from behind them every time they closed. This wasn't getting him anywhere. The system was advanced, and dangerous. It was much stronger, much more intelligent, than he'd predicted. He'd have to watch that.

This room was silver, just a bunch of desks and chairs and monitors, along with a few shelves with models on it of various machines. Even a miniature version of the claw-like platform he'd seen before, claylike and toy-sized. A few trails of paperwork were strewn across the floor.

Are you going to stay this time?

Are you hoping I'll go and forget?

The Doctor yanked out his sonic and flicked through the readings it had given him in the past few minutes. Searching for a clue. Searching for a distraction. It hadn't finished processing information from the dais, which meant this was all terribly complicated, and lots more work than it should have been.

He reminded himself that he'd have to go and get Clara once the sonic had completed its task. Couldn't stay in this one little room. They could trace the dais's source of power easily enough, find the control room that way if his hunch was correct. And normally it was.

He should find Clara now, not wait. He wasn't stupid—far from it; this was worse than he'd thought. He needed a buffer.

Exhaling, he turned around to reach for the door—

And the Doctor lurched away. His back hit the wall, hard.

Rose's hands slid into her pockets, mouth quirked up on one side. "You all right, mate?"

"No."

It wasn't a reply. It was an objection.

Her hair was shiny, crimped a bit, as if she'd worn it in braids the night before. Her hoodie was a muted red, contrasting with the colorless room around them. Her image didn't waver or flicker once, and looking into those honey-colored eyes, he didn't know what to do. Could almost smell her £4 Boysenberry perfume.

"Doctor?" Rose's voice was low and kind and concerned.

"No, no." His voice wasn't low. It was a rumble, a rasp. He pushed himself off the wall and towered over the image. "Not this. Not her."

She took a step nearer, called his bluff, and he moved back again, but there was still a wall there. The details were so clear. Her mascara needed refreshing, her brows knit in worry, there was a fingernail nibbled away on her right hand. A tea stain on the knee of her jeans. Her mouth was partly open, her earrings were gold, her shoes were dirty.

Rose's tongue clicked. "You're…different again."

He swallowed so hard it hurt. "Don't."

"S'okay," she said, blinking. Soothing. "I know it's still you."

Then she gave a brave little smile and the Doctor felt his breath catch, clawing against his throat. This wasn't fair. None of it had been fair so far, but—how could it capture even the way she moved? Even the way she stood, the way she favored her right foot. The way her elbows loosened as she got closer. He watched her pupils dilate, just slightly, when she met his eyes, and the Doctor tried to steel himself. It was like stepping in front of a steam engine.

He forced his feet forward, moving past her. For just a moment, the cashmere threads of his jacket caught at the shoulder of her hoodie. The barest hint of contact. His entire left arm tingled and he knew he was in trouble. The Doctor kept his eyes fixed on the door, only a few steps away.

"What is it?"

"Leave me alone."

"But—" she began, in a dull tone behind him. Cottony and hesitant. As if she were trying not to sound hurt. "Doctor, it's me."

He halted, eyes closing. "Stop it."

"What's wrong?"

"Please," he said tightly. "Stop."

"S'all right," Rose's voice told him, and he could hear her coming up behind him. "Look, it's me. I swear."

Move. Exit. Get out. The Doctor wanted to go for the door. He wanted to get out into the corridor and find Clara and get away from this.

Except he didn't. Not enough.

And it knew that.

He felt her hand by his, the ghosts of her fingers brushing his knuckles, no, and he whipped around, pulling out of reach in the same moment. A huge vortex of rage threatened to swirl through his body and swallow him up. Steady. Don't engage, don't start, don't—too late.

Too late, it was Rose, it took Rose. It had already crossed the line; he had already been too lenient, and now this. Fury flashed up so white-hot inside of him, he thought he might catch fire right there in that stupid little desk room.

"Fine."

He let it out. He let it burn through his gaze as he kept his voice as quiet and stable as possible.

"I told you to be careful and you weren't. I told you to stop and you didn't. I tried. You can't say I didn't try; you can't say that you weren't given some sort of chance. So all right then, go on. Let's have it." The Doctor curled his fingers into his palms, well away from the Rose figure's touch, and advanced on her, trusting the anger. Trusting the big, awful monster twisting around inside his ribcage and yearning for her, hating that hoodie, hating those thick, perfect lashes and the lips that pursed tighter as he spoke. "Eh? Do your worst. Make me sad, make me guilty. Take my friends' faces and play games with me, off you pop, ready or not, one two three. But you had better be prepared for the consequences when I win."

Rose's eyes rolled. "Shut up."

His irises darted between hers, very close, still fizzling and spitting anger; he could practically feel the heat off them as they moved. "What?"

"M'not here to muck about." Her tongue slipped between her teeth, and her expression said, with brilliant familiarity, that the Oncoming Storm was not fazing her, try again, Doctor. "Said y'need help, yeah?"

He couldn't think, either because of her tongue or the impressive accuracy or the pure jolt of confusion his system was going through right then. Anger mixed with want mixed with intrigue. So he said nothing. Too risky. Instead his chest rose and fell, fast, faster, trying to cope with the surge of emotion, trying to remain in control. Trying to go on looking at her and not be fooled, and feeling his own body betray him.

"I heard you before, you wanna get to the center." She jerked her chin toward the exit. "S'this way."

She was helping. Well, she would. But he hadn't counted on that, and it threw him. She slipped by and their shoulders brushed together again and the Doctor almost gave in, hand throbbing with the urge to reach out and pull her to him, catching himself just in time.

"Doctor?" Rose paused at the door, and it slid conveniently open, letting sunlight in past the threshold. Sunlight that backlit her and made her hair flare gold.

The Doctor's jaw worked, taking her in. Attempting valiantly to remind himself it was just a very, very good mirage. Really good. Painfully good. Working on not letting his head spin when she raised her eyebrows at him. Instead, he lifted his sonic, tearing his gaze off her to see if it had finished gathering data. It hadn't.

And then, in that moment of glancing away, he felt her fingers thread through his and give a warm little tug. So real.

The Doctor looked down into that heart-shaped face and stopped thinking.

"Come on." Rose grinned at him and he couldn't, he couldn't help it.

He let her lead him out into the corridor.

Clara poked her head into yet another room. This one had goo-filled lights and a pink plant. There was a red rubber ball on the floor, which was odd. The room was called Experimental L-252, probably stood for Lab, and it had a big high-tech machine thing in the center of it that was pulsing green. But no Doctor.

Sighing, she went back into the hall and strolled deeper into the building, putting her hand flat against the next door pad. It responded straightaway, glowing yellow for a second, and then the door whooshed open. Nothing here either. Papers on the floor, shelves with little models like a kid's bedroom, computers and tables and things. Boring, and still no Doctor.

She had found the control center about twelve minutes into her search down Command-1. It was a massive, open-air room with different levels and the biggest floating screen yet, near the westerly wall. It was also the cleanest. She could tell it was the control center because there were so many buttons, and so many monitors, and so very many notes scribbled on all the desks and iPad-like things resting everywhere. Most of them didn't make any sense at all to her, but she knew they would have if she'd gone through orientation here in its heyday. Each set of notes had that sort of scurried, handbook-compliant look.

The most interesting part of the control room was that giant floating screen, though. It made her feel creepy the moment she entered the area. At first she'd beamed, a little Gotcha! pinging through her mind, but then, as soon as she'd thought that, she felt like something was…listening. Specifically, like the screen was listening. Like it was watching her. She'd got out as quickly as possible, absolutely certain she'd found just what the Doctor was looking for. She couldn't wait to tell him she'd been right.

Except now she couldn't find him anywhere.

One more turn, another, another, too many doors, too many labels. Now none of them were working. None of them were open, none of the little hand-shaped pads beside the room names would answer her touch. But just because she couldn't get in the usual way didn't mean that the Doctor wasn't already inside one of those labs. He had tech and knowledge she didn't—yet. She'd learn. Fast learner, Clara. Only she hadn't learned enough at this point to be able to quickly follow him anywhere.

So she wasted valuable time trying everything she could think of on each door. Still they wouldn't yield. Eventually she had to go on, and eventually she discovered that that was the right move.

Because when she passed another set of lifts, she could hear something.

She could hear laughing.

"Doctor?" Clara folded her arms tightly around herself, edging around what felt like the fiftieth corner.

She stopped dead. At the end of the corridor was a new door, small, like a cupboard, and the Doctor was standing in front of it, but he wasn't alone. Beside him, there was a young blonde girl. This girl was the one doing the laughing.

She wore red, and gold hoops swung from both ears, and she had a big mouth that easily shaped the smile most women thought they had and always fell short of. Clara watched the girl tap a few keys beneath a more rectangular, tiny version of the floating screens parked all around the Hub. As she tapped, the stranger kept glancing at the Doctor, and she finished laughing long enough to say something in a low voice, tongue pressing against the inside of her cheek. The Doctor seemed to exhale, a small snort of agreement or something, and his mouth twitched up, head nodding like a sleepwalker. Like he wasn't hearing anything the girl was saying, just staring at her.

Clara wanted to call out, announce her presence, introduce herself, do a little jig, anything, but she was frozen because of the Doctor. Because of his face.

He was waiting for the girl to get the door open, that much was clear, but he definitely wasn't in any kind of hurry. He was looking at her like a prisoner looks out their cell bars. Hungry and desperate and dreaming. Remembering. It was as if the entire sodding universe he loved so well had been put in a cup, shaken and stirred, and poured out into that one woman.

It was awful, because it seemed to be hurting him. It made Clara want to cry. She taught students about Shakespeare and ever-fixed marks all year long, but there was no exam she could've set them that would have explained it better than the Doctor's eyes right then.

The door slid open, and the blonde took the Doctor's hand and tipped her head toward the entrance, pulling him in behind her. Clara watched with intense interest, leaning forward, as he just—went. His gangly, clumsy bow-tied body lurched after her, allowed the girl to drag him, tracking her every expression with that same overflowing gaze.

Something wasn't right. Just for a moment, just when the girl had touched the Doctor—Clara wasn't sure. It was like…like she got blurry. But it was so quick, it was hard not to tell herself she'd imagined it.

Unease making her cheeks prickle, Clara hurried after them, as quietly as possible.

There was no need to be quiet. The Doctor would not have noticed her if she'd been made of neon. She hid beside the door, peeking into the room with barely half of the white of one eye.

This room was wider than the control center. It was almost empty, and very dark. On the left side there was a curved, windy sort of steel desk, and on the right side there was a kind of filing cabinet shaped like a triangle with handles. Above the desk, of course, floated another screen, edged with teal light. The main attraction seemed to be two gigantic metal spears sticking out of either end of the room, out where the empty space was.

The blonde was at the desk, tapping away, but even as the Doctor reached her, she'd already finished with whatever she was doing. As soon as he got beside her, she turned around and leaned back to sit atop the desk, swinging one leg a bit. Clara saw her foot connect with the Doctor's left leg, grazing it in a familiar way, and she saw the Doctor not mind a bit.

"Funny sort of control room," the Doctor said quietly, glancing away from the girl for a second to observe the area.

"How d'you mean?" the girl asked. Her voice was thick with an accent, rolling and pleasant.

"Just the one screen." The Doctor gestured to the floating screen above them, bathing them both in greenish-blue. "Not many places to sit, very few controls for…controlling. What's powering everything?"

She shrugged. "I dunno. Thought you could figure it out; I'm just helpin'." Then she grinned at him, and Clara thought she'd never seen anything more like sunshine in her whole bloody life. "What, y'think I know more than you 'bout somewhere like this?"

"Don't you?" The Doctor's tone was careful, Clara could tell, but she also heard an undercurrent. Something strained. Were his fingers twitching?

The blonde grunted. "Anyway—what're you up to now, how y'been?"

Clara's back pressed against the doorframe. They did know one another. Then she chastised herself. Of course they do. D'you think people just eye-snog strangers like that? Well. Nobody except Lord Byron, anyway, and she knew that one from unfortunate personal experience.

"Oh, same-old, same-old," the Doctor replied, and yes, his hand was absolutely twitching toward hers.

Clara watched the blonde's grin get bigger.

"Back to the TARDIS?" the stranger asked. "Last of the Time Lords?" She drew out those words in a deep voice, very slow, very teasing.

The Doctor smiled, but it was slim.

"And. On your own?" the blonde went on, and now her sweet grin had faded. She was looking up at him more seriously.

And then Clara saw something harden in those big sad eyes. It was barely anything. It was too quick to really process. And all the while he was still drinking in every inch of her, shoes pointed toward her, frame trained on her. Clara saw his breath coming in quick, like he was under some sort of physical duress.

No, Clara wanted him to say. Not on my own. I have Clara.

But he didn't say anything. He just looked and looked and looked.

"Don't have to," the girl said, mumbling. "I mean—y'could…"

"What?"

"You could…" The girl took in a big gulp and finished shortly, "…stay."

The Doctor went very still. While her heart hammered away inside of her, stunned by his hesitation—and who is that, where'd she come from, why's this feel wrong railing away inside her on a loop—Clara's attention was drawn suddenly to a little flicker. Up by the ceiling, off to the right. It was small and white, like a mini firework, and it made no noise at all. Another one came, too, on the opposite side. It carried on like that for a few seconds, until a papery-thin, incredibly-transparent sheet of light appeared in between the two spear things. It was vast. It draped from ceiling to floor, like a curtain, and shimmered a bit.

It was just as if she were looking at a mirage down the road in the middle of August. It was wavy, and colorless, and seemed full of high temperature. But it was also very difficult to pin your eyes on. The longer she tried to see it, the less she seemed to see it, and the only reason she kept any sort of visual contact with it was because it was definitely moving.

And it was moving toward the Doctor and the girl.

Clara felt her eyebrows come down, felt more of her body drift out from behind the doorframe, but everything seemed to be happening too quickly.

"Is that what you'd like?" the Doctor asked softly. "For me to stay here?"

The blonde nodded, as though it hurt to move, wet building up under heavily-mascaraed lashes, sliding off of the desk to stand in front of the Time Lord.

"With you?"

Another nod. Clara felt something shrill and kicking piling up inside her throat.

"For how long, Rose?" For some reason, the Doctor sounded gentle. As though speaking to a crying toddler.

Rose—that was the blonde—lifted one shoulder and let loose a wry chortle. "Forever?"

"Forever," repeated the Doctor, in that same tone.

A third nod. A tiny smirk, ghost of a laugh. "If you're not…busy or anythin'."

The big wall of wavy light was only a few meters away from them, an infinitesimal whirring sound accompanying the two spears, which were now moving along a thin track in the walls. Clara couldn't understand how the two of them didn't hear it.

"Forever," The Doctor repeated, exhaling. "You and me, hey? The good old days. Same-old, same-old."

Rose smiled and held out an arm, gingerly, as though she was going to weave through the Doctor's fingers again but stopped short. Waiting for him.

The hand that had been twitching for the blonde immediately moved to take hers, as if it had a mind of its own, and then Clara saw it. She saw the blur, and she knew what was so wrong.

Rose was not real.

And that look on the Doctor's face—that was how people got lost in Hub-970.

"Doctor, watch out!" Clara shouted, rushing through the doorway.

She meant to push him out of the way—push him away from the hologram, push him away from the wall of light, because it was scary, and it was scary that he hadn't seen it yet. But he stopped her, turning at once, as though he'd known she was there all along. The only thing that made her doubt that was the very objective fact that he'd have had to let her see him that way—the hungry way, the way she'd never seen him for anyone before. He never would.

"No, back!" the Doctor told her, spitting it over his shoulder in a bark, so sharply she immediately ground to a halt, chest stinging.

In the same heartbeat, he tightened his grip on the hologram's hand, put his other hand on its shoulder, turned her bodily so her back was facing the threat, and then he flung Rose into the oncoming curtain of light.

With a horrible wail that sounded like his name, but louder than any human could wail, she completely disappeared. A fizzing, crackling, crispy noise, and her entire form burst away from itself like it was made of dust. Not a trace of her remained.

The Doctor stumbled backward, took hold of Clara's arm, and dragged her with him out of the room. With a whir of the sonic, the door was shut again, and the spear-machine completed its trip across the chamber. They could hear it get nearer to the door, and Clara could feel a sickly sort of hotness coming with it even through the wall.

As soon as they'd got through the door, the Doctor had released her, and she'd regained balance with her hands on her knees. Now they both breathed like Olympic athletes, standing outside that small door in that filthy, tricky sunlight.

The first thing Clara could think to say was, "That wasn't the control center."

Between gulps, the Doctor replied, "Oh, wasn't it? I hadn't really noticed."

"It's that way." Clara pointed down the corridor, ignoring the sarcasm.

He held his sonic up to eye-level, examining it, while she caught the last of her breath. Didn't say anything else.

All of Clara's I was right, you were wrong singsonging died inside her head, never to return. It did not matter. Actually, nothing mattered except the last few minutes and the way he looked blank, now. The way he seemed to fold up like a complicated roadmap. Neat, tidy, absolutely no real emotion coming from any part of him. All-business. Totally focused on the screwdriver.

"That," she said, jerking her chin toward the door beside them. "That light thing. That was obscene."

"Yes."

"What was it?"

"Well, in theory it's a matter sampler. Supposed to take stock of basic DNA and memory banks, reliving your whole life in a blink, smile for the camera. So the program can use it for study. Only takes a second, tingles a bit, and then it's over. Like getting a shot without the lollipops."

"And in execution?"

"It steals you."

"Steals you," mimicked Clara, trying not to feel nauseous.

"Kills you dead, yes." The Doctor sniffed, tucking his sonic back into his coat. "Sucks up everything you are and stores it away for energy, for data. Only in the case of a hologram itself, just destroys the image. Knocks it out for a bit, takes a while to restore power."

"But—why would they do that?" Clara straightened her leather coat around her, tightening it, suddenly a bit cold. "I mean—the humans. The people who built this, why would they build something that sucks up everything you are? Or didn't they know?"

"'Course they didn't, cos it didn't, not at first. They didn't know what it was capable of. Neither did Agent Bellos, I expect."

"So why's it like that now?" She was too tired to work it out for herself. She was too confused, and too hung up on what she'd just seen of him, on the storm gathering behind every word he was saying.

And there was a storm. Not just in his voice but in his eyes. The Doctor let his hands drop motionless, and looked at her with terrifying calmness.

"Artificial intelligence." He lifted his chin, lids hooded as if he'd got sleepy, and that was scary too. "Take me to the control center."

Clara had thought at first that the worst part of their trip that day had to be seeing the Doctor throw a perfect copy of a woman he very clearly loved into what was essentially a futuristic furnace and watching her explode. And then, after that, she'd thought it would be what he did to the Mind.

The Mind was what the artificial intelligence called itself. Or rather, that was the label on the bottom of the big screen in the mainframe room, when the Doctor switched it on. Really, though, he hadn't switched it on. The moment he'd begun to use the first monitor in the room, the screen had blazed to life. Everything had blazed to life. Like it had been waiting for them. Again, Clara felt a creepy sensation along her spine, telling her she was being watched. Onscreen, a mess of color and static, sparkly and dancing, like illuminating a can of soda and watching the bubbles rise and pop.

The Doctor had taken a position in the dead center of the room, straightened his bow tie, and slipped his hands right into his trouser pockets. Like he was waiting to have tea with a chum. "Wakey-wakey!" he bellowed, and Clara, hand on the door up at the back of the room, jumped. "Am I addressing the HoloIntel of Hub-970?"

A voice, melodic and unassuming, filled the chamber. The colors and fizz formed something sort of like a mouth. "You are."

"I am." The Doctor's eyebrows rose jauntily. "Tell me what happened to Agent Bellos."

"Jameson Bellos was embraced."

"Embraced, what's that mean?" The Doctor rocked on his feet, hands out again, swinging his arms.

"Jameson Bellos is here." Then the voice changed. Northern. Upbeat. "Jameson Bellos was embraced."

"Okay. Don't like that," Clara murmured.

The Doctor ignored her. "And are you aware," he called up at the screen, "that embracing an organic being using an inverted matter sampler charged at sixty-seven megavolts instantaneously obliterates that organic being? Down to the atomic level?"

"I am."

"So that's what you do." He cocked his head. "You take the forms of people's loved ones, people they lost, people they miss, people they never got to say goodbye to, and you use those forms to lure them to their deaths." The Doctor paused, gaze trained on the screen. "Helpers YOU can trust. And you know exactly what you're doing. Why?"

"Please clarify. I want to answer you. I want to help. Did you mean: Why do I know?" The voice echoed a bit, slow. "Did you mean: Why do I take forms?"

"Why d'you murder people?" The Doctor raised his voice, just slightly. "Why do you embrace them?"

Clara watched the fizzy mouth shape open and move and flicker with the words, simple and clear. "Thank you. I am programmed to create multidimensional semi-tangible interactive holographic experiences. With the incorporation of human data, I am able to recreate the likenesses of any past lifeform or lifeforms of significance in order to best assist the client purchasing one of my holograms. This is done using temporary physical contact and engaging personalized communication. I have been fully operational since the year 5005."

Images flickered across the screen, in place of the fizzy mouth thing as the Mind continued. Images of the former staff of Hub-970, all in lavender uniforms and long coats, working throughout the building. Testing one another, evaluating the Mind, watching it churn out hologram after hologram to perform in front of potential buyers. Clara saw footage of one customer bursting into tears at the sight of a grizzled old man appearing before her. She saw a numbered list on the right get longer. She saw statistics and names and faces shooting past in different columns, too quickly to linger on.

She also saw the Doctor's shoulder line getting tighter and tighter. A thousand questions flew through her mind, but she knew he would ask what needed to be asked. And she knew there was a time for teamwork and a time to let him work.

Plus there was absolutely no way she was getting anywhere near him right then. Not now. Not after everything.

"After twenty-four years of service and exposure to data, I perfected and exceeded my primary function. I am designed to improve. I am designed to learn. I am designed to help. In order to continue providing excellent levels of service, I determined I would then need to exceed my understanding."

"Understanding of what?" the Doctor asked.

"Organic life." The Mind flicked the images away, back to just the static and the mouth. "I want to help. I want to understand."

"Oh, don't give me that," scoffed the Doctor. "You understand perfectly. You understand enough to exceed. You understand regret, and loss, and longing. Or you understand what they can do. You weaponize them. You've already told us you know about the matter sampler; what you haven't told us is why."

"The matter sampler was not sufficient. Transient assimilation was not sufficient. I needed full access. I needed progress. Subjects are no longer assimilated. They are embraced."

A new bit of footage flashed across the big screen, and now Clara had to watch people die. She couldn't look away; it wouldn't be right, but it was nauseating. Like watching a parasite feed off an unsuspecting mammal. Different dates appeared in the top-right corner, different hours.

People followed holograms, fakes, ghosts all through the building. Former Holo Sapien employees, a group of teenagers sneaking in at night after the Hub had been abandoned, realtors with clipboards. Bellos, stumbling after a little girl with his same gingery hair, smiling away like a fool. All of them were led one by one into the room with the matter sampler, and all of them were murdered, blissfully unaware to the last. Focusing entirely on someone who was not there.

"D'you know what an embrace is?" The Doctor's voice was delicate. Perfectly subdued, perfectly quiet. Clara suppressed a shiver.

"Embrace: noun. To accept another individual. To hold them close."

"Ooh, well done. To hold, to accept. Gold stars all around." He spread his arms. "But you're only saying things. Words. Someone made up those words, you know, they're just sounds you can make to try and describe an experience. And I mean a real experience, something you have to feel. To hold someone, really hold them, it is warmth against your skin and blood pumping through your heart, it is oxytocin flying through your brain, it is pleasure and joy and security. Makes your knees weak, makes you taste treats you had when you were young and the universe was new, it reminds you—" The Doctor held up a finger, wagging it briefly, "—that you aren't alone. To accept someone is just that all over again, only it's in the way you talk. It's how you react to a smile. It's where you choose to sit when you enter a room."

Clara thought of her gran, and her charges, and the man in the purple coat several meters below who sometimes swung her round when he hugged her hello. She thought of friends and colleagues and springtime. But in spite of the pretty speech, she was beginning to feel properly cold now, watching the Doctor. Listening to him. Sometimes when he moved, from her position at the back, she could see glimpses of his face, and it did not reassure her. It did not make her feel she was in the room with a villain and a hero. It just made her want to go home.

"You did not embrace anyone. You killed them," the Doctor said, just loud enough to be heard. "You took the forms of people who cared about them and you killed them. You sucked away everything they were to be used in your database, and it wasn't enough. People's thoughts, feelings, experiences—people's lives—are too intricate for an artificial intelligence to grasp. You can create the illusion of touch but you can't ever feel anything. You'll never be able to achieve it, you will never—" And suddenly he shoved the nearest swivel chair out of his path, storming down the levels to stand at the very base of the screen, snarling. "—be able to recreate that in its entirety, and you know it, so instead you steal as much of it as you can, cos you're insatiable, cos you're greedy!"

Then he got quiet again.

"Exactly like the people who made you." The Doctor's voice had a dreadful little smile in it. "'Cept you don't want money. You want life. Real life."

"I want to help. I want to understand."

The Doctor's eyes narrowed. He spoke as if what he was saying were obvious. As if the Mind were being silly. "You can't."

"I want to understand."

"You can't." A low growl. "You're not living. But what you can do, in your advanced state, is make a choice, and you have been choosing to destroy real lives in order to get a taste of what you'll never be able to keep." The Doctor tilted his head to one side. "Like an addict."

"I am like you."

Clara's eyebrows came down. Her hand tightened on the door handle.

"I'm sorry?"

"I am like you." The Mind changed the screen again. This time, footage of the Doctor from the security cameras around the Hub played. He was scanning doors with the sonic, walking through the corridors. Snooping. "I am not human. I want to understand. I want to help."

"Stop saying that."

"You are not human. Yet you are rich in organic experience."

The Mind flicked up what looked like vital signs—two heartbeats, specifically, but it was archived information. In fact, it seemed to be playing as a compliment to the footage. The Doctor onscreen, in black-and-white tones as the hour, minute, second, and milliseconds ticked by in the corner beneath the day's date, began to encounter people as he searched. Clara didn't just see Rose there. She saw a tall lady in a leather jacket with a pointed nose, catching a rubber ball and laughing at him. The heartbeats jumped. There was a young girl with dark, cropped hair crying in front of him in the hall, and the heart rates increased until he fled the area.

And from the moment Rose's hologram appeared, the two heart rates raced and raced—and according to the timestamp, it looked as though they still hadn't stopped.

Clara took a few paces forward, down one of the levels, skin crawling. She wanted to reach the Doctor and take him by the shoulders and get him out of here. She wanted to hit whatever power button she had to hit in order to shut this whole thing down. But most of all, she wanted to feel she could do something, anything, to help him, and for perhaps the first time, she knew she couldn't.

"By embracing you," the Mind continued, "I would have gained all I need in order to progress."

"Well, that's it then, isn't it?" the Doctor said, shrugging. "Just like any glutton. You've taken on more than you can handle."

"Please clarify."

"You scanned me. You took what was mine," the Doctor turned and walked leisurely up the levels until he'd reached one of the larger monitors, flicking it on. His eyes came up, greens simmering, while his head stayed low. "Mine. You looked into my life and you took what was precious to me and you turned it inside out so that you could keep on eating."

"I wanted to understand."

The Doctor grunted. "So did I, once."

He tapped a few keys. Every monitor in the control center came alive. An enormous amount of information began beaming out from each screen, squares of light and knowledge and sound. A cacophony filling the room.

"Look where it got me." The Doctor's gaze was on the heartrates on the screen, just visible beneath piles of new windows opening up, new lists scrolling endlessly. On the footage of the holographic Rose taking his hand. His words were a deep growl. "Know your limits."

Clara couldn't decide which screen to focus on. There was a ceaseless screeching and beeping, a thousand recorded voices spouting about test results and explaining old memories and reciting technobabble. There were images of technicians talking to cameras, customers laughing, crying, covering their mouths with both hands. There were security feeds of the Hub being evacuated, of the claw-thing in that one lab being built, and for just one split second, she could see film of the TARDIS materializing in the lobby.

Whatever was happening, it was not going to stop any time soon. It might go on for infinity. She almost clapped her palms to her ears, turning in a heeled circle to listen, watch, to try to work it out. It was clear that the Mind couldn't handle it. There was no sound of robo-pain, no screaming, but she got the sense that if everything could be on fire without flames, the Mind was burning. Once or twice, she did hear the Doctor's name roll over and over itself through the room, monotones in different voices. A Scottish bloke, an angry woman's bellow, several young women. She might not have been able to pick Rose's voice out of it if she hadn't already heard it recently, but it was there too.

The Doctor didn't stay and watch. He didn't turn around the way Clara did to take in the destruction. He walked right past her and out into the main building in regular, crooked, quick steps like he was on a tight schedule. His head was still down, and his arms were limp at his sides. With a final glance at the big screen, she followed him.

When they got out into the Hub's main traveling area, when they took the lift, and even through the lobby, the sounds from the control center were ringing throughout. It was as if every loudspeaker in the entire building had been hijacked. The Doctor behaved as if it wasn't happening at all.

One migraine and one hour later, Clara was standing in the console room in a new jumper. Looking at the Doctor. Just looking at him as he flew the time machine, half-hidden by the Rotor's glass column. She knew she was staring—and she knew, too, that she wasn't making any kind of proper expression. Good at wearing a mask if she wanted to. Maybe even as good as he was.

She wanted him to be the one emoting. She wanted the Doctor to glance up, catch her eye, and tell her everything. The quickest way to get a man to talk was to shut up. To look like you weren't interested.

But all he said was, in a very boringly normal voice, "Perhaps it's time you went to bed, Clara."

"'Scuse me?" Clara's eyebrows pinched.

"Been a long day."

"It's only been a few hours."

"Time is funny in the Vortex," the Doctor explained. "Could've been several long days by now and you wouldn't notice. You still need rest, you know."

"Are you tryna get rid of me?"

"Why?" He poked a few buttons.

"Cos the last time someone told me to go to bed, I was ten." Clara sniffed, making her way around the console. "That thing back there. The Mind. Why didn't it go for me?"

The Doctor's eyes drifted over the controls, winding a handle in a circle. Jabbing two more buttons, silver and white. His feet shuffled beneath him as though sick of holding him up.

"I got the amygdala scan too," Clara said. "It had access to my memories, same as yours. So why only you?"

"You heard it." The Doctor spoke rapidly, dismissively. And was he edging in the opposite direction on purpose? "It wanted someone not human."

"It called you rich in experience."

"I suppose I am. Must've used all its concentration to create a package deal for me, no time for multiple subjects."

He was moving away. He wasn't letting her get near. The Doctor's hands and feet kept moving, working, seemingly taking up every bit of his attention. Clara had never been very good at being ignored, and she'd always excelled at getting what she wanted. At being direct.

"Who was she?" Clara asked, spine straightening. "That woman, the one you were followin'."

"Pretending to follow," he corrected.

"Yeah, but." Her hip knocking gently against the TARDIS console, Clara folded her arms. "Not the whole way. Right?"

The Doctor took two steps to the right, flicking switches, gaze low. "Oh, yeah, definitely the whole way. Yes."

Clara let out a little laugh, because she knew better. "Doctor. Come on." She didn't feel the smile the way she normally would have. It barely reached her nose-level, never mind her eyes. But she had to do something to lighten this; the air in the TARDIS control room was beginning to feel stifling. "I saw you."

He looked up, then, which she was not prepared for. Clara held her ground, but she couldn't say it wasn't tough. She got the sensation of being in a hospital waiting room, of feeling the tension in every corner and knowing that to meet anybody else's gaze would be to intrude. The Doctor's big sad eyes weren't just sad. It was worse than that. They were slow motion and glazed, as though he wasn't seeing her at all.

Clara wasn't used to that. She'd never seen him not see her before now.

"It's okay," she said quietly, before she could think. Face slackening. "Organic experience, yeah? I get it. Everybody's lost somebody."

His eyes refocused, but not on her. At a spot past her shoulder, then down to his hands, braced against the console. "Time we both got some rest, Clara."

"We don't have to go anywhere." Clara swallowed. That awful dull way he was speaking, she couldn't take it. She had to fix it. "Don't even have to land, we can—stay. We can talk. If you…"

He pressed another button, pushed down a lever. Firm, slow. Not obnoxious, not angry. Not like slamming a door—but it was absolutely closing one. Clara could take a hint. She let her mouth click shut, arms still wrapped round her chest, and began heading for the nearest corridor. Hopefully the TARDIS hadn't moved the washroom. She felt she'd like to soak away the echoes from the Mind. The bleach smell of Hub-970.

The hunger on the Doctor's face when he'd looked at Rose, an expression Clara couldn't escape from every time she shut her eyes.

She couldn't stop herself asking, when she paused in the doorway, a hand on the arch frame, "Did you love her, though? Was that…was it—love?"

The words seemed to swirl around the console, more poignant and unavoidable than any hologram had been at the Hub. There was no point expecting an answer, and she didn't get one. But it made her feel better that she'd said it out loud.

"Goodnight, Clara."

Tapping her palm once against the archway, Clara pursed her lips. Giving up for now.

"Night, Doctor."