It was morning in London's Russell Square, and a thin, grey-haired man was alternating between sitting on one of the myriad benches in the park and walking the entirety of the square. Physically, he didn't look out of place – clean black slacks, pressed white top, black jacket. He could be an office worker or perhaps a professor at the nearby university. However, if you watched him closely enough, you would notice that something seemed off about him.

Indeed, the man himself was confused about everything. He supposed that he must have been walking around the area before, but he wasn't really aware of anything before walking through the square the first (?) time. As he eased into his awareness in those first moments, he sat down on a bench and looked for clues in his pockets. In there, he found a single key, an old-fashioned pocket watch that didn't even work, a twenty pound note, and a British passport in the name of James McCrimmon. The items were unfamiliar – they felt like they were not his own. He sat racking his brain for answers, then became too full of nervous energy, so he returned his only belongings to his pockets and paced the square, thinking. How could everything just be gone? Was anyone looking for him? After a few minutes of walking around, a strong feeling forced him back to a bench. He didn't know how he knew, but somehow, he suddenly became aware that he was alone, scared, and no one was coming to help him. He scanned his seemingly empty mind for what to do next and decided that staying there was doing nothing for him, so he went to search the nearby streets for anything even vaguely familiar.

After walking for some time, the man's stomach started growling uncomfortably, so he stopped at Tesco to get something to eat. Eventually, after looking through every option like he'd never seen a triangle shaped sandwich before (which, he supposed, he hadn't), he picked up an All-Day Breakfast and paid for it with the twenty-pound note. The sandwich hit the spot and the shop visit piqued his interest, so after he finished the sandwich, he started to browse the random shops that he passed. He went around several shops until he found something that he instinctually knew that he needed: a blank notebook and a pack of pencils. Of course, now he just needed a new spot to sit, think, write, and draw whatever came to mind.

The first place the man stopped to draw was King's Cross station. He sat near the departure and arrival boards, not far from where groups of young tourists posed by Platform 9 ¾. He didn't really understand why there was a line of children with their parents taking pictures, but they seemed to enjoy themselves. While the man watched, he felt an urge to put the scene to paper, and made a rather realistic sketch of the happenings around him. He still didn't know what he did, but he could tell that he had a knack for drawing.

By the third sketch of the station, the people watching had lost its luster, so the man moved along and found a large library building. He found himself drawn inside, but as he entered, his head began to pound. He saw flashes of…. Astronauts? A woman with red hair? He sat down at the nearest table and began to draw the mental images before they floated away. His head continued to ache, but he kept drawing anyway. Once he finished, he decided to see if this library would bring any more substantial memories. He started with the reading rooms, not picking up books, but rather looking around to see if anyone or anywhere looked familiar. Nothing new came to him, and the headache persisted, so he didn't wish to stay much longer. He decided to make one last stop and visit the exhibition on the "Treasures of the British Library" before leaving. Maybe if the newer books didn't do anything for his memories, the older ones would.

Indeed, they did, but not exactly in the way intended. How was the man to know just how severely an exhibition of old books would affect him? As he glimpsed of a display with a work from Charles Dickens, the man's head felt as though it would burst with the mental images of animated corpses, blue vapor, a living Dickens, and an explosion. He stumbled away from the display, intending to leave immediately, but when he glimpsed a display of Shakespeare, more impossible images became too much for the man, and he collapsed.