It is never talked about and never acknowledged. Not many people have ever heard it but the ones that have never breathe a word about it to anyone. Not out a sense of loyalty or chivalry. They're just scared of what she'll do to them if she finds out.

It's always uncomfortable to hear but no one had ever been brave enough to find out what causes it. No one approaches her. No one talks to her. No one even goes near her. But the fact remains that on nights where the stars are clear and the halls are empty the guards can hear crying from the storm cage.

Professor River Song is a legend within the ranks of those who guard her. Every new recruit is told of her tricks and lies. How she can break of the cage at will, but equally how she always breaks back in. Stories of hallucinogenic lipstick and blue police phone boxes are told as precautionary tales to all those who come into contact with her, but there's almost a begrudging respect for the infamous escapades that betrays them in their voices. Any a time a guard walks past her cell to deliver food or simpy goes to talk to her (even though it's strictly against protocol few can help themselves, natural charm and fantastical stories are just some if the things to be gained by her company) she always appears in control. Face expertly made up, a well practiced sway to her hips and a delightfully sinful comment on her lips, she keeps them on their toes.

Of course, that's all in the day. At night the timbre changes. There is a lone window in her cell. It shows nothing but the sky and is so small it might as well not be there. And yet without fail they all see sit on the cold concrete floor of her cell and stare wistfully at the heavens. Like she's seen it once before and has been left with a craving. Like an addict waiting for their next hit. That's generally the time they start to retreat in fear of what's to come.

Yet, their duty requires they stay. They walk around the corner hoping that the sound will not carry. It always does. It's not every night but often enough to worry that it could be any night. No one ever wants to be on those shifts. Of course, they've all heard prisoners crying before. There's been wailing and screaming and cursing and hollering. Eventually they all quieten down. All except one.

On the nights where the stars are particularly bright and indifferent the broken sobs of a broken woman can be heard. It makes them uneasy. She is a prisoner and therefore should not be comforted and yet all of them have to resist the urge to do so. No person could ever make that sound unless the pain they felt was so intense that it had to be let go of somehow. It's the sound of a woman in mourning, for what they have no idea. No one ever asks yet somehow they know that every time she escapes she becomes a little more horrifying thing is she seems to relish it. She breaks out willingly in a cycle so destructive that it baffles them. They don't know what she does or who she does it with but it is known that they are destroying her. Maybe they don't even know they're doing it. They are. Piece by piece.

By morning it is all but forgotten, most of all by Professor River Song herself. Her smile is always carefully fixed and her eyes closed. They know she doesn't want them to acknowledge it, and though she is a prisoner it is one of her few wishes that they respect. The day goes on as normal but as the light fades so does her façade. None if them do anything about it yet when the stars are particularly cold and far away they all keep their distance.

They do it as a kindness.