The Big Applesauce

It's a mission, and accordingly, Charley is back in her utilitarian Viyran blacks; she's got her PT wristband set to what she really hopes are the right co-ordinates, and an ion bonder in one of the cargo pockets of her trousers. In part of her brain, she'd always thought of the ion bonder as the outer-space stun gun equivalent of the delicate derringers ladies kept in their clutches in American films; discreet, but very effective. She's hoping she won't have to use it, but better to be safe than sorry.

It was the Martian she'd met some days ago who'd managed to track the Doctor down for her. Tracking, apparently, is what he does. But not breaking and entering; he'd said something about his onus not extending to illegally forcing entry into highly secure facilities for human females to whom he was a stranger, and Charley hadn't been able to argue with that. So here she is, leaning against the wall in the shade of the tower across from ROMAC's headquarters. She's about to activate her teleport when it occurs to her that possibly she ought to tell someone where she's going, in case something goes wrong, and she digs out her phone and sends a quick message to Johnny. Always good to have a backup plan.

And then, with a quick glance to make sure that no-one can see her, she hits the button on her wristband, and vanishes. Being Viyran technology, it is remarkably efficient, and she reappears quite silently, without any disorientation, in a corridor. The walls and floor alike are concrete, the floor shiny, and the whole length of the place is lit with fluorescent lights that lend a slightly blue cast to everything. The air feels recycled, but there's a particular cool feel to it, dank on her skin, that makes her suspect she's exactly where she wanted to end up; the sub-basement level of the building. All along the corridor, until it turns a corner, there are doors recessed into the walls at uneven intervals.

All right, Charlotte, she thinks to herself, drawing a bracing breath, you just have to find the one the Doctor's behind. Simple.

Simple. She hopes.

Her boots are not made for sneaking; they're heavy black leather, with thick rubber soles, and Charley winces every time they squeak against the polished floor. Even her trousers, which are loose and easy to move in, make noise as she walks, and the zhoosh of fabric chafing against fabric seems unfairly loud. Concrete, she reflects, has unfortunately excellent acoustics.

And then a guard rounds the corner. He sees her immediately; there is scarce else in the corridor to look at. She curses. 'Bugger,' and then, 'Sorry!' as she pulls out her ion bonder and stuns him with a wave of green light before he's even halfway through his shout of Hey, you!

The guard crumples to the floor, and the shout resounds, half-finished, off the walls. Charley stands frozen in place for the space of a few pounding heartbeats, ion bonder still out and primed, but no-one else seems to have heard. All her breath rushes out of her at once, and she hurries to drag his unconscious body into one of the door alcoves before moving on. Some of the doors are just blank metal (some of those she dares attempt to open, giving an officious little nod should anyone be inside, and hoping hoping hoping they take her for a higher-up of some variety doing rounds), but some have little windows, slots with thick glass and delicate-looking chain link in the double-glazing that she peers through, searching for any sign of the Doctor, or indeed anything that looked like a holding cell.

The windows are just a little too high for her to look through comfortably; she has to crane her neck and push up on her toes. She's so distracted by the annoyance of the effort and her attempt to scour all the corners of the room through the tiny window that she doesn't hear the footsteps.

'Don't move,' says a voice, only a few feet away.

Charley freezes for a moment, skin going tight with the icy shock of discovery, and then she does move, swinging around to offer the guard the brightest, most innocent smile she can manage. It's a woman, taller than Charley but not that tall, a taser in her hands, and an expression that suggests she is not one to be fooled around. Blast, bugger, and blast.

'Um, hello,' Charley says, still smiling. 'I... realise that this must look rather suspicious, but I promise you it is... not what it seems. I am, ah, I'm inspecting things! Making sure your security is all top hole and all that. And so it is! Very impressive. All this... concrete.'

'Top hole, huh?' the woman repeats, and, keeping her taser trained on Charley, pulls something that looks to Charley like a cross between a two-way radio and one of those fancy smartphones from her belt, and hits a few buttons, lifting it to her mouth. 'I've got an intruder. Another one, yeah, I know. High-security area, near the cells; no idea how she got in. Should I--? Ok, ok, yeah, sure. Later, then.'

The phone-radio-thing returns to its holster, and the woman jerks the taser for Charley to follow her. Not seeing much option, Charley does as she's bidden.

Twenty minutes later, having endured a pat-down that's left her dignity in tatters, and relieved of teleport, ion bonder, and phone, Charley is transferred over to another guard, this one a burly man. No weapon, she can't fight him; no teleport, she can't get out. Hell.

'Look,' she tries to adopt a firm-but-reasonable tone, 'If only I could talk with someone instead of you just locking me up; it really isn't necessary.'

The guard, apparently, is immune to firm-but-reasonable tones, and minutes later, she's shoved unceremoniously into a cell, the same concrete as the rest of the complex, a little anteroom  and then the larger cell through a doorless doorway. As the guard locks the door, Charley abandons all attempts at reason and simply shouts, pressing herself up against it. 'Oi! Come on, this--'

But it's no good; she can't see the guard, but she can hear his retreating footsteps, and she falls back a little from the door, scowling at it. 'Damn.'