Ronnie woke up to the clock radio blaring music. It was her least favorite song, but she always played her least favorite radio station so she would actually get up to turn it off. It was a common tactic of hers.

After crossing the small studio apartment to the clock radio to turn it off, Ronnie picked up her journal and began writing. Every morning, she would right down her dreams and nightmares, and every night she would write down the day's events. It was a routine, one she had been using ever since she could write.

Remembering her dream, she wrote down the few details she could remember. The only true one that stuck in her head was the big, blue box. It was the only part she remembered from last night's dream.

Closing the notebook, Ronnie fell face-first on her bed. Her studio apartment was the cheapest thing she could buy in New York City –a $2,000 month rent, only 300 square feet, barely a bathroom, and the exterior wall was pure windowpane. It left for little privacy when she had friends and family over, but her Murphy bed was useful for creating space.

The kitchen would be a fright for an avid cooker. There was 4 total square feet of counter space, no oven, a mini-fridge, a microwave, and a two-burner stovetop. She didn't even have a dining table; she just sat on her couch or her bed watching the television.

The only luxuries of her frightful studio apartment were the miraculous view of the New York City skyline, and the fireplace. It was ornate, large and beautiful. Ronnie stored all her most prized possessions on it: her high school and two college diplomas; family and friend photos; her grandfather's fob watch; an old camera from the 1970's she used avidly; and her most favorite books: Paper Towns, Divergent, The View from the Center of the Universe, How Did You Get This Number, and The Fault in Our Stars. Ronnie was an avid reader, but these were the books she read most often.

Ronnie's mobile buzzed, interrupting her little lie-down. Stiff from sleep, she shuffled over to the computer desk and snatched up the iPhone. There were four texts from her (seemingly deranged) co-worker, Marcus.

.

3:04 am

from: Marcus Paxif

Ronnie, I know you're still sleeping but I really hope you get this because I need you at the study now!

4:57 am

from: Marcus Paxif

Ronnie, I found something. Please respond.

4:59 am

from: Marcus Paxif

Ronnie, I really need you down here. Why doesn't your stupid assistant work start any earlier?

Ronnie read the text that just buzzed.

5:15 am

from: Marcus Paxif

Okay, um, I'm going to just come get you because obviously you aren't getting up.

.

"Fucking hell." Ronnie sighed. She set the phone down on the table and trudged over to the kitchen to make herself some coffee. Clothes were not a problem; she always picked out her outfit before going to sleep.

As the coffee maker started whirring, Ronnie picked up the clothes she left out the night before. It was a simple outfit; black skinny jeans, white hi-top converse, and a flowing grey sleeveless blouse that buttoned up to her neck. Never quite a conventional look, but Ronnie didn't care what she wore on her feet. They were always covered by plastic lab booties anyways.

Not bothering to brush it, Ronnie pinned back one side of her shoulder-length, brown, wavy hair. Marcus didn't care, he never took interest in Ronnie, and Ronnie could care less about if Marcus fancied her or not.

When the coffee stopped brewing, the buzzer on her door went off. Leaving the bathroom, Ronnie went up to the speaker by the door to buzz Marcus in.

Only a minute passed until Marcus softly knocked on her door, then knocked louder. When she answered it, she noticed that Marcus was absolutely disheveled looking. His Ryan-Gosling hair was sticking up in all directions, he clearly hadn't shaved this morning, he was wearing the same clothes as he was yesterday, and he carried a thick manila folder.

"What the hell, Marcus?" you groan, but he pushes past you and quickly shuts the door. He drops the manila folder on your unmade bed, and sighs as he plops down on it.

"I found something. And it might change everything we know about history." His tired eyes were wild with excitement.

"What is it?"

"I found secret files, made by UNIT, that directly correlate to history being made and remade by extraterrestrials."

"Are. You. Kidding. Me." You glare, "You dragged me out of my bed at five in the morning to tell me that aliens are behind history? Did you only come to me about this because I've been looking at the bones of a not-very-human human?"

"You are a true archeologist, Ronnie. You may be an assistant but you assist a total bone-head, no pun intended." He stands up, moving his hands up and down. He's always been eccentric, but never this mad.

"And what are in these files exactly?" Ronnie groans, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"They all link back to this one guy, and he's been helping UNIT since the 60's. I kinda stole their files, but only in research as to why there are two different copies of a hieroglyph in New Mexico, that both start out the same way but both end differently. But the weirdest part is today, we see one version, but a hundred years ago, somebody took this photograph," he takes an old photograph from about 1910, "and the hieroglyph is completely different."

"It could just be some idiot's idea of a joke. People find these hieroglyphs and change them to mess with archeologists like us."

"But look at the one you see today. The hieroglyph changed in 1922, and the new one had a carving of something really strange," he pulls out another old photograph, one that is up close on the glyph. It's a small carving, but it's recognizable. "A police call box. If you look at the color photo today, you can see that it's been pained blue. Police call boxes were introduced in the 50's, so it can't be a fake. I did some research on these blue police boxes, and I also added 'time,' and a link to some nutjob's blog came up. They mostly just rambled on and on about this time traveling alien and his police box, but they mentioned UNIT, and Torchwood, and some gut named Harold Saxon who was prime minister in England for like a day, and I thought of you, since you're British and all, and they said alien, and I keep telling you that those bones you've been studying for the past two weeks aren't early human at all, they're alien."

Ronnie gives Marcus a confused look. She dreamed of the blue police box, but never in it's entirety, or that the magic world that was inside was real.

"And you are completely sure that this isn't some fake scam that you've mistaken for the truth?" Ronnie crossed her arms in annoyance.

"I'm positive. I even stole Torchwood files that were contained by UNIT, and they talk about the blue police box and the man who travels inside it."

"Who's the man?"

"Nobody knows his name, he just calls himself by one name."

"What's that?"

"The Doctor."