“Doctor this is very far from Wonderland!” Clara calls, as the fall steals her breath and the walls of the SHARDIS’s gullet make for interesting dinner theatre, surrounding her on all sides with paintings of a running woman in blue whose dark eyes seem to follow her descent in a spiral of nauseous unprivacy.
Her skin feels hot as she plummets; her hands grapple with the heat of being swallowed by a giant woman-shaped ship with abandonment issues and stalkerish tendencies.
She contemplates the bottom, imagining it to be a lively affair of grating and acid and crunching and placid deniability coated in white goo.
Gravity, however... well it has other ideas.
Clara’s bum strikes heavy on a pile of books, slightly singed and recently; she can tell from the smell of charcoal rising from them. Not to mention the sordid affair of their crispy black pages. The covers are blank, giving no more of their names when she picks them up then a pile of ashes would of its former shape. Her fingers rub her backend, patting away as she scrambles up and onto her stockinged feet again. Black stockings, red dress.
“At least it isn’t Trenzalore!”
A buzzing sound ingratiates itself, building and building until she can hear it in her ears instead of merely close by.
Her dark eyes flip back and forth, trailing imaginary shadows in the candlelight splaying on the walls like the consulting posters of some forgotten medical experiment.