A/N: What a horrendous state of affairs one finds oneself in when one takes exams. Well, I can only apologise, and hope that this extra-long chapter makes up for it. Hope it was worth the wait!

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Brigadier explained the situation to them on the way down the stairs.

"We think that the Daleks originated from a rift generated in the main BBC building," he said.

"Been there, done that, about to close it," said Amy. "What else do you know?"

Ferguson looked flustered. "Um…well, nothing else, actually. We were hoping you could fill us in."

"So far, we've come across four different species," said River, "Daleks, Weeping Angels, Sontarans and fangirls."

The Brigadier nodded for a moment before he realised the last word. "Fangirls?" he asked. "What are they?"

"They're quite simply the most hideous creatures who ever walked the planet," said Alex, playing along. "Completely rabid, they have basic homing instincts on time travellers and people who look like time travellers."

Ferguson seemed completely taken in. "We don't have any files on them! What do they look like?"

"Humanoid," said the Doctor, having been filled in by the rest of the actors. "They look completely human until they get close, when they devour you where you stand."

The Brigadier swallowed. "Sounds terrible! What do they usually do?"

"Oh, they ask for autographs and photos and suchlike," said Karen.

This really confused Ferguson. "What?" he said.

Everybody burst out laughing. "We were pulling your leg, Brigadier!" said Stephen, the only one even remotely capable of stringing two words together to form a coherent sentence.

Ferguson looked at the ceiling and sighed. "Yes, yes, very funny," he said. "Now you will pay."

"Huh?" said Amy.

Ferguson swung up a slightly oversized blaster pistol and fired it down the corridor. A thin blue wall swept down the corridor, making each person it touched convulse, then collapse.

All except one.

"Very nicely done, Master," said the Doctor. "I was wondering when you'd take your chance."

"I thought there was something fitting about that timing," said the Brigadier before pressing one of the buttons on his cuff. His whole body flickered, then disappeared, revealing his true form. A man with blonde hair and a slightly unshaven look.

"Ah, that's bet…hold on a second…" He peeled a small piece of plastic from his Adam's apple and winced. "That's better," he said in a much more recognisable voice.

"So, what do we do with all of them?" asked the Doctor.

"Well, Doctor," said the Master. Then he paused. "No, no, of course, I should really call you by your real name, now. Well, Thomas, we throw them in a holding cell for the moment and continue as planned."

"But won't they revolt and try to break out?" asked Thomas.

"That's a good point, Thomas. We should perhaps put them in the holocell. Yes, do that, and divert fifty percent of the ship's power to it. We need to create twelve separate worlds."

In the cell, a miracle of modern technology happened.

Twelve separate worlds were beamed into twelve separate minds simultaneously, instantly grafting themselves into the very neurons of their brains. They had a complex job, though – they also had to modify memory to convince the recipient that this was the real world they were receiving and that it always had been.

Once that was done, they could wake up their subconsciouses, whilst leaving their bodies and conscious minds slumped on the floor.

And so their dreams began.

Matt woke up on the floor of his flat, an empty beer bottle in his hand. He groaned and sat up groggily, propping himself up against the sofa. What a night! Drinking heavily wasn't something he usually did, but Steve's stag do last night was something else.

After another groan, Matt hauled himself to his feet and forced himself to the kitchen, where he splashed freezing cold water onto his face, when he happened to look at his watch.

"Crap!" he yelled. "I'm late for work!"

He sprinted for his bedroom and pulled his football kit out of his wardrobe. The manager at the club liked his players to be warmed up by nine o'clock, and it was now twenty to nine.

Hopefully he wouldn't get another rollicking.

Karen's eyes opened blearily, and she blinked a couple of times. She smiled as she saw Patrick straddling her torso, his face six inches from hers.

"Good morning, Mister Green," she said.

"Good morning, Mrs Green," he said. "Did you sleep well?"

"I was exhausted!" she said.

"Excellent!" he said, bending down to kiss her. "Not a bad wedding night performance, then?"

"I wouldn't be able to judge, Patrick. I've only experienced one."

"And did it live up to your expectations?" he asked.

"Oh yes!" she said, before grasping his T-shirt and pulling him back on top of her hungrily.

Amy's eyes opened blearily, and she rolled over in the bed. At the same time, the man on the other side rolled over and smiled at her.

"Another satisfied customer?" she asked. The man nodded.

"Another satisfied customer," he confirmed, and kissed her gently.

She rolled out of the bed and began gathering up the nurse's outfit strewn all around the place. "I should really be getting on."

"Oh, don't go!" said the man, leaping out of the bed. "At least stay and have breakfast."

Amy hesitated. "Oh, all right, then. How long?"

The man's eyes flicked up and down her body. "That entirely depends on you."

Arthur yawned and decided it was probably high time to go to bed. He glanced at the computer clock, and was slightly shocked to discover it was morning. He'd been gaming all night.

He grimaced, reached for the caffeine tablets and downed two with a gulp of Coke. Work beckoned.

After giving himself a rub over in the shower, he donned his jeans and a pullover, slipped his Organmaster shoes into a bag, and lifted the keys to the organ. He had to have Widor's Toccata back up to scratch for Wednesday, and it was Monday today.

Mind you, that was the most stress you got as an organist.

Rory woke with a start. The bus conductor was tapping him on the shoulder.

"Here, Rory, you dropped off again!" he said. "This is the hospital! Get a move on!"

"Sorry, sorry," he said, and leapt from his seat. "Thanks."

As he got off, he noticed Amy Pond walking down the street, and he nearly said hello. But he caught himself just before he made a fool of himself.

"Out of my league," he said. "Totally out of my league."

"And cut! That's a wrap!" called the director.

Alex grinned and put the defibrillator pads back in their holders. "That was all right that time, then, was it?" she asked.

"Sublime acting as always, Doctor Corday," he said. "Now, hurry and get changed, will you? They're expecting you on stage six in ten minutes."

She grinned and jogged for the costume department. It was great fun working on ER.

"Perfect!" said the technician. "Let's send that one down to the mastering department."

Billie smiled and slipped her earphones off. "Hopefully I didn't give the autotuner too much work to do?"

"Nope, that was just divine," the technician said. "Let's take bridge B from the top, can we? Music!"

Rose's alarm clock buzzed into life, and she rolled out of bed almost instantaneously. She hadn't really been sleeping for the past ten minutes, anyway.

After a shower, she pulled on some casual clothes and went downstairs. Jackie was already up, making the breakfast.

"Morning, love!" said Jackie, giving Rose a kiss. "At least you probably won't be late to work this time."

"Look, Mum, Henrik's was very understanding about it, especially when the bus was off," Rose said seriously, lifting a piece of toast from the other side of her mother and shoving it into her mouth.

"Oi!" laughed Jackie, "Anyone would think I'd raised an animal, what with your table manners!"

"Get like those you live with, don't you?" said Rose, laughing equally. "Bye, love you!"

Steven woke with a start. He'd fallen asleep on top of one of his scripts again. He groaned and glanced at the title page. COUPLING, SERIES 7. It was singularly amazing how the show was still going strong after seven series, and with the same writer, too! But, he supposed, when you've got a writer like me…

He sighed and decided it mightn't be a bad idea to get showered and changed before the readthrough.

You know what actors are like.

The author woke up on the sofa with his cat fast asleep on top of him. He rolled over without thinking about it, and the cat leapt to his feet with a yelp.

"Oh, sorry, Shadow!" said the author, and got up. School beckoned.

"Livvy? Liiiii-vvvy?" called one of Olivia's friends sitting opposite to her. The friend waved her hand in front of Olivia's face.

She sat up with a start. "Huh? What?"

Her friend laughed. "You were out for the count, Livvy! What were you thinking about?"

Olivia tried to think. She really did. But she couldn't come up with a topic of thought.

"Nothing," she said, and downed the rest of her soft drink. "Come along, there's no point in sitting here."

River woke up in her cell in Stormcage. The rain was pounding down outside as usual, and one of the guards she recognised was on corridor duty. She pretended she hadn't woken up.

"What shall I do this time?" she wondered. But then a thought hit her. "How did I get here?" she thought. "What did I do last night?" She couldn't remember. If that didn't ring alarm bells, nothing would.

She rolled out of the bed and thought harder. She definitely couldn't remember the events preceding the present. Which could only mean one thing…

"Cross it, cross it!" yelled Matt as he sprinted up left field. The ball carrier glanced across, then executed a perfect cross that sent the ball arcing over the heads of the rest of the players and straight onto Matt's chest. He exhaled loudly and tapped it slightly ahead of him, dodging around a defender in the process. Just him and the goalie now.

A great sense of calm came over him. All he could hear was his own heartbeat. He faked once to the left, then kicked as hard as he could, just letting his foot glance off the right hand side of the ball. It lifted gently into the air, curving around the goalie's outstretched glove and sizzled into the net.

The crowd went absolutely bananas. The most monumental cheer erupted from the stands. Matt was soon engulfed in a full team pile-on. Thanks to him, they'd won the league.

Not a bad day's work.

A gigantic pile of sausage, bacon, egg and other assorted fried goods was set far more gently on the table than seemed appropriate for food like that (at least in Karen's eyes), and the white-gloved waiter didn't help matters either.

"What earthly point is there to serving a full fried breakfast with white gloves?" Karen asked Patrick after the waiter left. "I mean, it's like…it's like…"

"It's like putting you in a stylish wedding dress?" offered Patrick, tongue in cheek.

"Oi, shut up!" said Karen, slapping him relatively hard on the arm. "You've to at least let the honeymoon end before you start insulting me." Then she thought for a moment. "Or you in a tuxedo…"

Amy staggered in her door, weak at the knees. That latest client certainly got his money's worth, that was for certain. She was so tired that she simply removed her outer garments and flopped onto her bed in her underwear, falling asleep a split second after she hit the pillow. Ten seconds later, though, the doorbell rang, making Amy groan and sit up. She completely forgot about dressing, and went to the door anyway. Upon opening it, the milkman's eyes nearly popped out of his head. He gave a sort of googly-eyed grin, and said "You could have just asked, love." He walked inside.

"I don't think so," said Amy firmly, and shoved the man back over the threshold by the front of his shirt. She plucked the milk bottles from the rack and slammed the door.

"Pervert," she muttered as she dumped the bottles in the fridge and returned to her resting place.

"GAH!" yelled Arthur, and shoved a coupler stop in a little too hard. "I'm never going to get that bit!"

His page turn grinned. "Yeah you will, Arthur," he said. "You've just got to practise it more!"

"I've been practising for the past hour, and I still haven't got it!" moaned Arthur, taking a swig of his water and rubbing his aching thighs. "It's trying to catch the toe piston in that one-beat rest and not hitting any others."

The page turn patted his leg and said, in a deliberately patronising manner, "There there, Arthur pet. I'm sure you'll get it soon."

He then had to duck as Arthur lazily swung the bottle of water at his head, laughing. "I'll tell them you'll play it for them in a minute!"

"Come on!" yelled Rory. "We're losing him!"

He glanced concernedly at the ECG screen, and his own heart gave a lurch as he recognised the wave pattern. "He's going into V-Tach!" he shouted. The junior doctor looked mildly shell-shocked. "Come on, do something, Thompson!" he yelled again.

Still no reaction. Rory sighed and decided to take charge himself. "Someone bring a crash cart round, quickly!"

Sure enough, one arrived, and Rory eased the defibrillator paddles out of their holders. "Three hundred and fifty joules! Charging…" He rubbed the paddles together. "Lines and oxygen away! Clear!"

He pressed the paddles onto the patient's chest and clicked the buttons. The defibrillator beeped, and three hundred and fifty joules precisely of electrical energy were discharged into the patient's thoracic cavity. Some muscles spasmed, causing the patient to writhe on the table.

"No response," said Rory, watching the junior doctor pumping away at chest compressions. "Three-eighty. Charging…clear!"

Another shock, and this time the ECG readouts normalised. The patient's pulse resumed a steady rate.

Rory released the breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. "We did it," he said with a sigh, replacing the defibrillator paddles. The junior doctor looked uncomfortable. "I didn't exactly do a lot," he said awkwardly.

With a grin and a pat on the back, Rory reassured him. "Hey, we were all there once," he said. "Besides, yes you did. You did CPR. That keeps the patient alive long enough for the defib to do its work. Your job was just as valuable as mine."

Alex struggled into her own clothes after a long day's filming. There came a knock at the door, and with a few shirt buttons still undone, she went to answer it. It was Florian.

"What are you doing here?" she said tersely. "We're meant to be separated."

"I know," said Florian, his German accent ringing out in stark relief against Alex's London accent, "but I can't bear to be without you. Why can't we make this work?"

"Maybe you should ask yourself that," said Alex. "Now, if you'd excuse me, I've got to get dressed to get home."

Florian put his foot in the door when Alex tried to close it. "No!" he said a little too loudly. "I mean, no," he corrected, "please. Can't we just talk?"

Alex sighed, then opened the door wordlessly. Florian gratefully stepped inside.

"What do you want, Florian?" repeated Alex.

"You," said Florian, and slid his hand between her back and the shirt.

Laurence looked up from the newspaper as Billie came through the door. "Evening!" he said cheerily. "Enjoyed your day of sex with other men?"

"You know it's not like that!" giggled Billie, dumping her bag on the kitchen countertop and giving Laurence a peck. "Besides, we're neither of us even naked. We've patches and stuff."

"You're not completely patched, though," Laurence said. "I have watched the show, you know."

Billie laughed again. "Well, according to the researchers, the majority of the eighteen-to-thirty segment like seeing my, and I quote, voluptuous mounds."

"Right, change of subject, perhaps," said Laurence, pretending to cough into his newspaper. "I, myself, had a great day's filming, although we've a night shoot tomorrow night."

"Aw, worst luck," said Billie, herself slightly relieved to have ceased talking about her body parts. "What time's that at?"

"Leaving here at nine, and probably not back until the early hours, I'm afraid."

Billie smirked, and approached Laurence slowly. "Then we'll have to make tonight count."

Rose carried in two mugs of tea and a plate of biscuits and plonked them on the table next to Mickey. She handed him the cups, snuggled in, and accepted her tea gratefully.

"This is how it should be, right?" said Mickey. "Me, tea, and the best-looking girl on the estate, all on the same sofa."

"Mmm," said Rose, "how it should be."

They were content to just sit and gaze out the window at the London skyline, sipping tea. Mickey cleared his throat. "So, how's Henrik's treating you?"

"Like crap," Rose muttered darkly into her tea. "I just wish they actually valued their employees, y'know?"

"Then why don't you get a better job?" exclaimed Mickey, setting his tea down to gesticulate. "I mean, look at you. You're intelligent, you did well at school…"

"Come on, Mickey, I got one A, two Bs, four Cs and a D," Rose argued. "It's hardly outstanding."

"But you could've done A-levels if it hadn't been for that Jimmy Stone," Mickey pointed out. Rose grimaced.

"Oh, don't remind me," she said, her lip curling slightly. "I ruined my life because of him."

"You should go to night school or something," continued Mickey, wetting his throat with tea. "Get some more qualifications, get a better job."

Rose sighed. "I can't really be bothered," she said. "Story of my life, really."

Mickey pulled her close, and they sat in silence.

Steven looked up from his script a moment to take in the sight around him. Around sixty-odd people sat around the table, all reading from scripts bound by the three regulation brass fasteners that everybody demanded you use. Jack Davenport whispered something into the ear of Sarah Alexander that caused her to snort with laughter, meaning proceedings ground to a halt.

Martin Dennis, the director, looked over his glasses. "You have something you'd like to share with the class, there, Jack?"

Davenport cleared his throat awkwardly. "Uh…no, no I don't."

Clearly having rehearsed this many times, Dennis continued. "Cuz from where I'm sitting, Sarah clearly thought it was hilarious, so I thought we might also experience it."

Steven was trying and failing to keep a straight face. As the screenwriter, he needed to look as if this was a major infraction. "If not, you're just disrupting everything, y'know?"

Davenport looked down sheepishly. "Sorry," he murmured.

"That's a little better," said Dennis, redirecting his gaze back to the script. "Shall we continue?"

The author reckoned that he had done enough in the story, so he decided to return to his keyboard and thus save himself writing time, much to the annoyance of the Master.

Olivia lay back in her chair, her head resting against the back wall of the classroom. Although usually thoroughly interested by Latin, something was bugging her, and she couldn't figure out what. It played on the back of her mind like one of those CDs to help you learn grammar, over and over again, repeating and repeating until it drove her insane.

A lull in the constant drone made her sit up with a start. The teacher was holding back a grin.

"Back with us are you, Livvy?" he said. "I'm sorry if conjugations don't hold the same attraction today as previously."

The rest of the class was trying not to snigger at Olivia's obvious embarrassment. "I, uh…I mean…" she tried to stammer.

"Look, just try and concentrate, will you?" said the teacher. "The last thing either of us want is a poor result in your test on Friday."

River rattled away at a keyboard attached to a mainframe computer, then double-checked some wiring. It all looked set.

She slipped a padded cuff attached to a thick coaxial cable over her arm and pressed a button. She winced as eight needles jammed into her flesh, securing the cuff onto her arm. But that meant it was mechanically working.

"Right, here goes," she said. "Geronimo!"

She hit 'Enter' on the keyboard, and felt energy surge into the cuff. As she looked around her, everything darkened, and then went to black. A thousand light bulbs went off behind her eyelids, and then she completely lost consciousness.

Now in spite of the long time it took to arrive, please review! Thanks!