[ Clara lets herself lean against him, her head at rest; he may not know her the way he should, not yet, but he's still the same. The same feel, soothing voice, the perfect hug. The only thing different is the way he smells in Serthica — there's too much dirt, rust, and blood in the air. ]

There was a Dalek. [ Clara doesn't look up at him again, instead she presses herself closer, closing her eyes tightly. She can't tell him it was her, that she was in that Dalek, blaming him for not saving her. He doesn't understand her yet, her echoes, and she can't tell him, can't risk him stopping her in the future. There's no truth to what the room showed her anyway — she jumped into his time stream exactly for that reason. No part of her would ever blame him for her death, not if she did what she was meant to do. ]

I don't understand how things in my mind, how anyone's memories, can get taken this way and used against us. What was the point of making me watch a Dalek kill you all?