What Does She Pick?

Reject The Premise

Clara shook her head.

"Nope," she said, giving the content of the wardrobe her best disdainful stare. "I'm not wearing any of that. Give me something else."

Silence in the wardrobe, except for the distant creak of machinery as the TARDIS huffed and puffed its way through time and space. Clara rolled her eyes. She shouldn't have to put up with this kind of thing.

"I'm serious. I want proper clothes. Do you really think I'm going to run around dressed like Donald Duck? Show me something real to wear or I'll... I'll tell the Doctor, is what I'll do."

She gave the TARDIS a full minute of silence, folding her arms, tapping her feet crossly and glaring at nothing in particular. The thing to do was never to back down. It worked on the kids in her class and it would work on extradimensional quasi-sentient alien time machines, probably.

Of course, in class she normally had her clothes on. It was a little harder to intimate people into submission when you were wearing nothing but your sexiest little red knickers. Still, Clara was willing to try. She cupped her hands across her breasts, feeling the softness of her nipples against her palms, and gave the walls her best scowl. It would be easier, too, if she could actually see the entity she was mad at.

She heard a groan and a puff of steam, and a door slowly creaked open in the far wall. Clara eyed it cautiously. What was through there? More clothes?