"Why should we trust you?" Idris demanded.
Catalina sighed. How many times had she heard that question? A hundred? A million?
She turned away and waddled over to the chair. It took a long time. Her shuffling footsteps echoed around the cavern. She could feel Idris staring at her. Alicia, too. Ben. All of them.
When she was almost there, she dropped her walking stick. It clattered on the floor next to her withered leg. She did this mainly to see who would pick it up.
No-one did. None of these people were on her side. Not yet.
She collapsed into the chair - a replica of Davros' throne from Doctor Who. She had rescued it from the furnace, pre-segregation, and kept it down here for the last decade. It wasn't comfortable, physically. But psychologically, yes.
She cleared her throat.
"Don't trust me," she rasped. The scar tissue inside her throat itched with every word. "Trust yourselves."
Idris opened his mouth to say something. Catalina cut him off.
"You know this is wrong. You feel it, like I do. And you know that this is our last chance to fight it. Because soon there will be a new generation of kids who have known only this. They won't feel it. They won't fight it. So it's us, or nobody." She fixed them all with a glare from her one remaining eye. "Can you live with that?"