Bill rushes out the door first – no control, that girl. Twelve follows her at a more sedate pace, lines of text communicated directly into his head from his sonic sunglasses telling them when and where they are, what their surroundings are like, what's the weather, temperature and wind-speed and, oddly enough, the high amount of time radiation, as it were – well, he'd call it time radiation if he had to explain it to Bill.

A nexus of paradoxes and fixed points, he shivers as it all brushes over him. The only examples he can think of as adequate parallels are the times when he's met his past self, but never this strong. There's something fishy going on here…

"Bill," Twelve starts, "don't go far. There's something not right."

Bill is twirling in place slowly, "Doctor, there are aliens…everywhere."

"Don't be rude," he chides, "you're the alien here."

"Really?"

"Really, really," Twelve repeats himself, just to make himself clear. "Really, really. This is the planet of Ase Len'sim. It has a population of two billion and a half, tourists and traders not withstanding, with only a ten percent human majority."

"And they're like, future humans? Not humans like me?" Bill questions.

"Yes, well, some of them have picked up some…decidedly non-human genes by now, yes." Twelve tries to shrug off the subject, changing the subject, "But disregarding that, we've been invited to a party."

"Ooh! Yes!" Bill claps, jumping on the spot, "Space party! How do I look?"

"Great," Twelve says, forcing himself not to wince – he has to keep up the charade that everything is fine, that he has his sight back. Bill would be disappointed in him for not being honest with her if she found out, but he has a duty of care, one he won't relent in. Not again, not after whoever his Impossible Girl is… "You did something with your hair."

"Thanks for noticing," Bill replies chipperly, coming close and digging her arm through his. "So – where to?"

"This way," he leads her through the crowd, relying on his sunglasses to give him approximations of where everyone is. To be fair, it works pretty well and he only bumps into people when they're being deliberately obtuse over personal space.

Leaving the TARDIS sitting in two hover-cycle parking spots, Twelve listens to Bill's ooh's and ahh's, pushing them forwards through the city, feeling all the while like he's about to be hit by lightning. They traverse the multi-layered alien city, taking a hover-plate two levels higher, Bill clutching him tight as they zoom upwards. Twelve hardly cares, too distracted by the pressing feeling of not right.

"Who invited you to a party, then?" questions his young human. "I didn't think you had friends who'd invite you to- I mean, I didn't- I thought…"

"Do go on," Twelve pushes amusedly for a moment, distracted from the feeling by her stuttering. Bill rolls her eyes.

"I just mean," she starts impatiently, "I didn't realise you got out enough to get invited to parties in fancy alien cities that look like something out of a Final Fantasy game-"

"We're both invited," Twelve interrupts, spare hand digging into his pocket, flipping his psychic paper out for her to see, briefly taking the moment to thank his TARDIS for linking his sunglasses and the handy wallet previously, before he became blind. "See."

Bill takes the device from him, peering at it. "'The twelfth Doctor of St. Luke's University and Miss Bill Carrie Potts are cordially invited to the following space-time coordinates. RSVPs are not necessary. Love, Lady J. Larn.' Huh, full names – what does it mean by 'twelfth'?"

"I'm the twelfth, technically fourteenth incarnation of myself," Twelve explains, sunglasses telling him to take a left and walk twenty-two paces forwards.

"But what does that mean? Do you have an alien trick or is 'the Doctor' something that's passed down?"

"An alien trick," Twelve says, pulling Bill forwards faster until they reach their destination, stopping abruptly. "We're here."

"…here isn't very party-ish," Bill says, before Twelve hears a familiar voice far-off in the crowd, one he immediately tunes into as his confusion spikes.

"-supposed to just show up? Like I believe that," the person scoffs, "As if the Doctor is going to be right where we've been told to go."

Twelve twists, glasses cataloguing the crowd – varden, hath, trio of Slitheen, waste refuse – before two humans pop up on his radar. His sunglasses catalogue the speaker first, before labelling them known and giving his name, followed by his friends.

Mickey Smith

Martha Jones

Martha sighs, the sound registering in his brain immediately as her frustrated sigh. "It's not like we've got much choice. We're stranded here and if Jack is right-"

"Jack got whammied at a bar in the future and got his vortex manipulator taken off him, how does he know that we're in the sixty-third century?"

"Doctor?" Bill questions, snapping him out of his reverie. "What's up?"

"Old friends," Twelve says, surprise audible, before he calls out, "Martha Jones and the tin dog! What in the hells are you doing on Ase Len'sim?"

They look over at him sharply, making their way over.

"Excuse me, do you know us?" Martha questions. "Why did you call my husband a tin dog?"

"Because he's the tin dog," Twelve says, puffing up, "The K9 to my old face and Rose Tyler. It's me." There's a moment of silence. "…the Doctor."

"…holy shit, you got old, man!" Mickey exclaims, "Jack wasn't kidding on about you changing faces every couple of centuries!"

Twelve frowns deeply, "I don't look that old."

"Yeah, you really do," Mickey sniggers, before shaking his head, not hesitating before stepping over to embrace him. Twelve stands there awkwardly as Mickey pats his back. "Good to see you, Doc."

"Let go of me," Twelve orders, before Martha addresses Bill.

"Hi, I'm Martha – Dr Martha Jones. This is my husband, Mickey. We used to travel with the Doctor, when he had a different face."

"Bill," Bill greets, the two shaking hands. "The whole 'different face' is new to me. Really new. Like…ten seconds ago, new."

"Don't worry, he never even told me," Martha says jokingly, before Mickey drawls.

"Yeah and he showed up with a completely new body and the after-affects of it at my old estate completely out of the blue. Got to tell you, didn't believe it for a while."

"Yes, you saw two faces, didn't you?" Twelve interjects, recalling that Mickey had, of course, seen both 'nine' and 'ten'.

"It was insane," Mickey nods to himself.

"Are you here for the party, too?" Bill questions.

"We were abducted, actually," Martha explains. "So was Jack – Captain Jack Harkness, he's a friend of ours. He travelled with the Doctor too, actually. Jack was at an alien bar when he got snatched up."

"I heard you earlier – no vortex manipulator for him," Twelve's brows furrow together. "Whoever brought you three here obviously did it for a reason."

"But why kidnap them and just invite us?" Bill asks.

"It's exceedingly difficult to kidnap me," Twelve replies lowly. "They're intelligent. The problem here now is…what have they brought us together for?"

"If you were trying to make us hope, you failed," Mickey mutters.

"Now why would I ever do that?"

Whvorp-whvorp, whvorp-whvorp…

The TARDIS lands with its usual noises and as Nine steps out the doors, he takes a moment to glance at the psychic paper.

Dear Doctor, you are cordially invited to the following space-time coordinates for a medium-to-medium large gathering with friends and family. RSVPs are far from necessary, so don't send one and yes, this is directed at the 9th Doctor. Love, J. Larn (I'd come pick you up, but I'm aware you're not a fan of vortex manipulators, so do come via your TARDIS)

"Friends and family," Nine tucks the psychic paper back into his jacket, trying to ignore the bubble of pain in his chest, "how presumptuous to think I have one."

Quite honestly, the only reason Nine is here is because of the vortex manipulator threat – he has no designs on allowing himself to travel via one of those shoddy pieces of time tech, if he can help it. Not to mention, Larn. Nine has heard that name before, but he can't remember where. It's at the tip of his tongue, alongside a taste of foreboding.

Taking out his sonic screwdriver, Nine flips it in hand before tucking it back into his pocket.

"Let's be fashionably late," he says to it before walking jauntily into the crowd, letting himself get lost in it as memories of the Time War start to take over his noggin. At some point, he finds himself in a rooftop park. He doesn't know how he got there or where his feet have really taken him, but he knows that past the scent of grass, he can smell a paradox approaching.

There's something wrong with this city, he thinks, looking out on the bustling metropolis, feeling the spread of complex time across it, all the way to the limits. He opens himself up to it more and more, the energies causing him to near-shudder – but he keeps it inside, forcing his reaction away without even thinking about it. His own actions make him feel disgusted with himself, remembering how his eighth body made himself learn it over and over again when he forgot, until he couldn't take it anymore. Eight wasn't built for war, Nine broods.

Someone comes to stand beside him, sipping champagne.

"Pretty, isn't it?" she says and Nine looks at the city properly, tilting his head side to side, watching trade shuttles shoot up off into the atmosphere.

"Maybe. In a couple of centuries, you might be looking at some heavy climate change though – planets with heavy foot-traffic like this get awfully polluted."

The woman chuckles. "Well, aren't you a cynic. Though, the locals terraformed this planet quite recently, relatively – it should be still fluctuating somewhat, enough to adjust."

"Relatively," Nine repeats, wondering at her phrasing, whether she means in the last century or the last thousand years – he thinks it's closer to the former, however, judging by the architexture. He chances a glance at her, eyeing the riot of golden curls that spill over her shoulders and then catching sight of the vortex manipulator on the wrist of the hand holding her champagne. "Oh, it's you."

"Me?" the woman looks his way, eyebrow raised. "I didn't think you remembered. Lipstick must have been past it's use-by date."

"That makes no sense," Nine says, giving a faux grin. "Now be a nice girl and tell me why I'm here."

"I think you have the wrong girl," the woman says, holding out her spare hand. "Professor River Song. Doctor."

Nine shakes her hand, grin fading as he gets a sense of something Big surrounding her, time wrapped around her almost under her skin – so strange and terrifying, a familiar sensation that Nine had just about made himself forget, only to be reminded now again by this woman, no-

"You're a Time Lady," he says, horrified, before he pulls his senses in, locking them all up tight. "How did you escape the lock?"

River Song looks at him in amused bafflement, so calm in the face of his fright. "Oh, you are so very young, Doctor." Using their gripped hands, she pulls him forwards, closer – close enough, for Nine. He pulls back swiftly, their hands disengaging, only…

He pats his pocket upon seeing the psychic paper in her hand, eyes already scanning the invitation.

"I see. No, I'm not quite the time traveller you're looking for, I'm afraid," River holds it out to him and Nine snatches it back, eyeing her with suspicion. "Also unlike you, I came here quite unwillingly. The last thing I remember before appearing here in this garden was-"

She stops unexpectedly, snapping her mouth closed. Immediately, Nine's interest is piqued. He looks her up and down, not getting distracted this time. River is dressed fully in red, dark velvet tunic reaching down to her ankles, long sleeves buttoned at the ends. A chain attached to a pair of broaches with the seal of Rassilon emblazoned on them holds an as-equally red cloak around her shoulders.

"You were on Gallifrey," Nine says.

"No," River replies, frowning, "I…I was dying. I was about to die, rather. It was all rather dramatic and horrible, but it was that or erase myself from history by allowing the only reason I exist to die IN my place."

Nine looks at her sceptically, "How did that happen?"

"Spoilers," she says, before placing her champagne on a nearby floating server tray, checking her vortex manipulator. Nine watches her fiddle with it, but the machine doesn't even turn on, let alone transport her away. She sighs. "Right. Well, I need a ride. Mind if we pop in your TARDIS for a turn or two, sweetie?"

"I'm not your sweetie and no, we won't be doing that," Nine says. "Who are you really?"

She smiles at him, eyes tired but sparkling, "Oh, darling, you're going to have to ask me that many, many more times before I answer that. Trust me: I remember."

"Wait, wait, wait-" Nine starts, only just catching up on everything she's been implying, "You know me. You knew who I was the moment we started talking."

"A little before that, actually," River corrects, "Your brooding face is exceptionally recognisable."

"I wasn't making a face."

"Yes, you were."

Nine huffs, "No, I was not. Now, tell me the truth: if you didn't invite me here, who did?"

"I'd assume, 'J. Larn'," River replies cheekily. Nine glares. "Sweetie, now don't go making that face at me – I genuinely have no idea who this person is. Though, I will assume they care about you quite a bit."

Nine loses his glare, frowning, "How do you reckon that?"

River leans forwards, tapping his psychic paper. "Who else but those who love you would dare say it to you on an invitation?"

May 8th, Year 6283 of the New Byzantine Calendar, Ase Len'sim – One Year Prior to the Party

"-and here's your room."

Donna opens the door, tilting her head inside. The room is normal, everything you'd expect from a guest room – double bed, side-tables, spare vanity with a hair-dryer – and Donna can even ignore how the bedside alarm-clock is a hologram, with a flickering sun above it mimicking the one outside.

Jennifer pauses, "Donna. I know this has been hard for you, but I really think you could be comfortable here with me."

"I was kidnapped by a time traveller," Donna huffs, pushing away her migraine as she enters her new room, pulling along her suitcase behind her. "Until I get home to my family, I'm never going to be comfortable – but thanks, anyway. You've been good to me."

Twisting, Donna looks back at her friend from the future, gaze drifting past her copper hair and rosy skin to her shirt, pausing as she recognises the flowery fabric.

"Is that my shirt?"

Jennifer straightens abruptly, covering her torso briefly. "No!" Donna gives Jennifer a look, knowing she's lying. Jennifer keeps an innocent face, however, crossing her arms. "It's not your shirt."

"Yeah, right," Donna smiles, shaking her head, "Try again, sweetheart. It's fine – it was a bit too small for me anyway."

"Was that a comment on your weight? Because you're perfectly within range," Jennifer replies cheerily, causing Donna to snort.

"I keep telling you – humans in the past are different, we're not like the fancy ones you get nowadays, you silly alien."

"I'm not silly," Jennifer pouts, drifting forwards to hug Donna tightly, something she does often and that Donna just lets happen now – it's not as if she's got anyone else giving her hugs. After all, Jennifer is the only one who can understand a flipping word that comes out her mouth and vice versa because of her alienness, not that she looks like more than the average human. "Donna?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"I know you want to go home, but I like having you here," Jennifer murmurs, words barely audible. "I like having my friend."

"Thanks," Donna squeezes her lightly. "Now, let's get me unpacked."

May 8th, Year 6284 of the New Byzantine Calendar, Ase Len'sim – the Present

He stares for a few frozen seconds, hearts beating a samba in his chest. Then, he stalks forwards, approaching and then ducking behind a rack of vintage jumpsuits as she looks his way, walking in pursuit of the hat-stall on the other side of the aisle, chattering away to her friend.

"-and then the police just brought me home. Oh, my mum was fuming but my granddad, well, he laughed his head off, didn't he?" Donna laughs, her as-equally ginger friend sniggering. Eleven stares at them both, noting how Donna wears the local style of dress – Ase Len'sim's approximation of a tunic with a belt, set of leggings and boots. Likewise, her friend is in the same, except her tunic doesn't have arms and there's a certain bump to her belly.

"I wish I knew my grandparents," the friend says genuinely, "but your granddad sounds great."

"He is," Donna replies fondly and awfully wistfully, picking up a hat and trying it on, looking at herself in a mirror and accidentally meeting eyes with Eleven. He panics as she twists to face him. "Oi, what you staring at, weirdo?"

"I-I- just, I just…" Eleven starts, not expecting for all the blood to rush out of Donna's face.

"You can understand me?"

Eleven's brows knit together, "Yes?"

"Who are you?" the friend questions, staring at him. "No-one else in the galaxy speaks Donna's English."

I'm not speaking English, Eleven thinks, realising that the TARDIS translation circuits aren't working in his favour right now – not if Donna is used to hearing gobbledegook.

"Who are you?" he turns her question on herself, pulling his shoulders up so he isn't just crouching by a rack of jumpsuits. "Which is a far better question."

"We asked you first, beanpole," Donna states, drawing herself up like Eleven had. Frankly, as Eleven shrinks again, intimidated, he should be used to ginger females telling him what to do. "You tell us who you are first."

"John," he says quickly, half under his breath, "John Smith."

Donna rolls her eyes, "Like we believe that." She hollers for a shop worker, passing them her shopping basket, her friend speaking to them quickly, asking them to charge and send the items to an address high in the city – on the top level, if Eleven isn't mistaken. He tries to slip away, but a hand grabs his elbow, holding him in place. He looks back, meeting Donna Noble's fiery gaze.

"And where do you think you're going? You're coming with us, sunshine."