Intruder. The thought flashes through her pain, a new harrowing alarm briefly eclipsing all the others. Her attention is divided among her panic, her numerous failing systems and the need to keep the Doctor as safe as she can, to keep even that girl safe for his sake. Nonetheless, she spares enough to assess this new danger.

It's a boy, staring at the Architectural Reconfiguration System. She can't tell how he got inside, nor does she know him, doesn't even feel like she should. And she doesn't care, because he's disturbing one of the most vital rooms she has, one of a precious few untouched by the destruction, and she wants him out. The tree shivers angrily, a metal rustling high in the ceiling, the lights of the reconfiguration circuits swaying almost imperceptibly. They are the seeds with which she creates reality and they will be protected.

The door shifts to his back and opens, and then one of the awful creatures takes care of the rest. This one is tall, burnt to a crisp like the others, but with one hand painfully fused to its face and the only sentient thought left in its irradiated brain that of defending the ship. It pulls the boy out of the room and hurls him against the wall of a dimly lit corridor, stopping to growl at him as it prepares to lunge for his throat.