clashildr one shots

Culture Shocks

     Many things passed by the windows of the diner as she sat parked in space. Stars and planets - the big things - as well as the occasional asteroid and other space junk; it was rare but not unheard of to even run into other ships, which Ashildr was never happy about.   
     "Come to the far end space to get away from everyone and all you get is people trying to get away from you," she'd mutter. "Typical."
     One morning, as Clara stood by the windows, watching time pass her by as she ate her cereal, bowl in one hand, spoon in the other, a funky lil' bit of space junk filted past her. At first, it was unidentifiable, simply a mess of black against the softer dark blue; with no real shape, it was impossible to tie the silhouette to anything solid. Until it started to unravel. Arms, a body, and pearly white eyes staring blindly right at her.
     It was a corpse.
     She promptly choked on her Cheerios.
     Suspended in nothingness and staring dead ahead with all the spite of the underworld. Laying in the vacuum of space. Spending your afterlife putting space-time travellers off their breakfasts. What a way to go.
      This poor sod had to have come from somewhere. There was a ship in distress somewhere, there had to be. Maybe they needed help-
      Clara felt arms around her waist and jumped up half a foot. Behind her, Ashildr laughed. "Sorry. You got out of bed before I could say 'good morning' properly," she murmured, planting a kiss on Clara's neck.
      Unable to respond, Clara simply held eye contact with the stiff. This was horrifying. And maybe just a tiny bit exiting.
     "Ah." Ashildr took her head out from Clara's neck. "We're in that part of space. Sorry, dear, I think I left the handbrake off and we've drifted."
    "That's a human body out there," Clara whispered, voice hoarse.
    "Humanoid. Unfortunately normal for this part of the universe. Sorry you had to see this, my love. Explosive decompression doesn't leave pretty bodies."
    "What?"
    "This entire galactic quadrant. Technology of Earth's 33rd century but attitudes of its 17th; they launch their dead into space in special corpse canons as a form of burial. Travellers don't usually come here. North Korea of the galaxy, this bit. Try to ignore it."
    The unfocused eyes of the dead man no longer held Clara's - his drift, entirely without course as it was, had taken him right past the window and out of view, but out of sight does not mean out of mind.
     In her sleepless nights, Clara would stare out at nothing and feel the nothing stare right back with the eyes of that damned corpse - the worst part was the unshakeable feeling that she should do something.