A/N: Okay, so this is just random spontaneous FanFiction that sprung to life in a text message. bandnerd21 and I were discussing Kepler 16B (a recently discovered planet the size of Jupiter which is about 200 light years away from Earth and orbits a binary star system (it has two suns)) and comparing it to Gallifrey. One thing led to another and we ended up talking about the creation of Doctor Who, and this is what I came up with. As I said, most of this is coming from a text message, so I had to turn it into a story. Therefore, I apologize in advance for any lack of background or introduction.
Anyway, I felt that it would be interesting to post and hear (read) all of your thoughts in reviews (preemptive *hint hint*). So, without further adieu (wow this AN is long), here it is, enjoy!
P.s. Because I do not want to falsify history, discredit any real ideas and creation of such genius, or get any names wrong, I will be referring to the original writer of Doctor Who as simply "The Writer" in lieu of a name.
Disclaimer: I do not claim that any of this is true. I also claim no rights to the series itself.

The Writer was in his sitting room, quietly reading his favorite science fiction novel. It transported him mentally to a distant planet, walking among aliens and metaphorically setting foot on land as foreign as it gets. He simply couldn't get enough. How he aspired to come up with something as memorable and other-worldly as the books he read.

...

A faint clunk rang through the otherwise silent house. The Writer's head snapped up and he cautiously stood. He grabbed the nearest blunt object (which happened to be an umbrella) to brace himself for the worst. He pinpointed the sound to the general direction of the coat closet. Though the Writer crept as carefully and quietly as possible, he still managed to stub his toe on the rack which was holding his coat and hat. It was then that he realized a most important and most obvious fact: he didn't have a coat closet.

The very second that the Writer realized this, the wooden door to the impossible closet swung inwards. A soft white light came from the closet and a man stepped out as if he had any right to randomly appear in someone's home. He was whistling a cheery and unfamiliar tune as he obliviously closed and locked the door behind him. When he turned to saunter off, he was stopped in his tracks and his tune fell flat and quickly faded. The two stood there staring at one another for a long second before the Writer piped up.

"Who are you, and why the hell are you in my house?" he said, the umbrella pointed at the man's face with purpose.

"Ahh, English" he mumbled to himself. Then, to the Writer before him, said, "I think that a better question would be what your house is doing in the middle of Gallifrey." He spoke quickly in an odd accent that the Writer had never heard before.

This only served to confuse him further, for the Writer said nothing. He couldn't think of an answer. Naturally, the stranger assumed that he'd said something wrong. "Or is this — where am I?"

"Cornwall, England," he started to lower the umbrella, but kept a firm grip.

"What year?"

"1956." The blunt object hung to the Writer's side.

The man nodded slightly. "And — um — what planet?"

The umbrella had now completely dropped and the Writer's mouth hung slightly open at the man's obvious question. "...Earth..." His mind swam in a sea of questions. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

But he wasn't listening. He'd turned to inspect the closet door, all the while mumbling to himself, "Must've taken a wrong turn. This is what I get for taking a shortcut through the Milky Way."

"...What in God's name are you talking about? Why are you in my house?"

This finally got the stranger's attention. "Ah – yes – sorry. I was on my way to Gallifrey and I seem to have taken a wrong turn. I'll just be going now. Sorry."

"Wait," The Writer said, stopping the stranger from turning again to unlock the closet door.

"Yes?"

Now that he had the man's attention, the Writer couldn't decide which question to ask first. "What's your name?" A feeble question, but he hoped that it may start a conversation.

"Hmm... Tricky question, I've still yet to choose one. I guess you could call me... 'The Rogue'. I suppose that's what I am."

His answer only sprouted two questions in the place of one. "Why? I mean, why are you a 'rogue'?"

"Well, it's against the law, what I do."

The Writer realized that it would take a while to get anything out of this man. He sighed. "Why don't you take a seat?"

...

About an hour and a pot of tea later, the Writer felt like he had some sort of grasp on the concept of Gallifrey. An ancient planet with red grass and silver trees and two suns. A citadel encased in a great glass dome. And the names the Rogue had given the places, things like "Continent of Wild Endeavour" and "Mountains of Solace and Solitude", made it sound more like a fairy tale or a life lesson than a planet. In short, it was a lot to take in, and that was only the beginning. After the description of his planet, came what was the most difficult to understand: the Time Lords.

"So what about you?" the Writer asked during one of the rare pauses in conversation. "If you're from this 'Gallifrey', then what does that make you?"

"I'm a Time Lord" said the Rogue, as if it were the most obvious fact ever stated. He took another sip of tea, assuming that the topic called for no further discussion.

"...And that means?..." By now, the Writer was desperate for information, he was already plotting out a book.

The Rogue rested his elbows on his knees, eyes glistening. He stared intensely at the Writer. "That means," he said, speaking quickly but clearly, "that I am a graduate of the University of Gallifrey. That means that I can see the whole of time and space from a non-linear point of view; I can see everything that is, everything that was, and everything that can be all at the same time. That means that I am five-hundred years old and young. That means that I have a living machine that's bigger on the inside and capable of traveling through time and space parked in your living room. That means that I am a member of one of the most ancient and mighty civilizations in the universe." he leant, ever so slightly, more forward to grab a biscuit from the table. He then lounged back into the sofa, saying through a mouthful of crumbs, "you should be honored."

The Writer blinked, not sure how to respond. Yet another question, he supposed, as the Rogue seemed to create more than he answered. "How are you young if you're five-hundred years old? And why do you look only about forty?"

"Well, you see, I'm only on my sixth regeneration." There was a short pause and a mildly confused look. "Time Lords have this process called renewal, or regeneration. It's essentially our way of cheating death. Like, when I die or if I'm killed, then one of my hearts stays alive while the rest of me dies. Then — and this takes an amazing amount of energy — I change every single cell in my body. That leaves me with a new body and a new personality, but same me." another blasé sip of tea and another pause while the Writer sorted out his thoughts.

"One of your hearts?" he finally asked.

"Yeah, got two of them."

Pause.

"...Okay. So, if you're so different from Humans, why do you look like one?"

"I don't."

"Oh don't you?"

"Not at all. Humans look like Time Lords; we came first."

There was quite a bit more Q&A and Time Lord trivia (history, society, technology, etc.) before the Writer got around to his third main question (the first two being 'what are you?' and 'what is Gallifrey?'): "Why did you call yourself a rogue?"

"I already said, what I do is illegal."

"And what do you do that's illegal?"

"Well, this for example. Time Lords are sworn to only observe, never to interfere. Even so, I think that having the ability to watch disasters should give the ability to prevent them. The thing about a non-linear viewpoint is that I can see what I can change. Time is composed of a series of events, and some are set, cannot be changed. Others, however, are not. Using that knowledge, I believe that I should be able to help people.

"Anyway, that's why I'm a rogue. I know the law but choose not to abide by it. Strictly speaking, I shouldn't even be talking to you right now, much less telling you all of..." his sentence faded. After another pause, he said nervously, "you won't tell anyone about this, will you? About anything I told you?"

"I'm sorry, but how can I not? This is amazing. You don't realize what you've just given me. I was originally just going to write a book, but so much more can be done with this. Radio, television. Your life and planet and people and everything is just so amazing. Why would you tell me of it then expect me just to forget?"

"Because," he said, "I just wanted to talk to someone, and you were so curious. But if word gets to the president, which it eventually will if you tell your whole planet, that I've been freelancing, my privileges will be taken away. No more traveling."

"But you have to understand —" the Writer started, only to be cut off almost immediately.

"Alright, how's this: you can write your show or book or what have you, but make it fictional. Create some new Time Lord to go on adventures and defy the law. It won't matter if that gets back to them. On Earth, isn't a story of a rogue in your own society amusing? I don't see why it wouldn't be the same on Gallifrey." by the time he finished talking, it seemed that he was reassuring himself rather than advising the Writer.

He thought for a second, then said "That sounds good to me."

"I really must be going then." the Rogue started to make his way back to the coat closet. As he walked, he said "I'm trusting you."

"Thank you." said the Writer. "You have no idea how much I should thank you. I've been trying to find material to write about for years."

The Rogue unlocked the closet door and pushed it open, once again revealing the soft white light. "It was nothing. Good luck." With that, the wooden door swung shut. The Writer stood staring at it for a while, awaiting its disappearance like the Rogue had told him about.

Sure enough, a hollow clunk sounded through the entryway and the impossible coat closet faded away. The Writer shook his head, pinched his arm, and grinned wildly. It had been real. All of it. Now all he needed was some paper.

...

This writer became the founder of the wonderful series "Doctor Who", basing the main character on the Rogue who'd started it all. He passed on the legend of the great and powerful Time Lords in the form of a story much like this to head writers that came after him.

Eventually, however, the series was thoroughly developed and writers could know the story simply by growing up with the show. There was no longer a need for any other form of record, history, or legend. Therefore, over time, the original story of that fateful night when the Writer met the Rogue was shrouded in fiction and became obsolete.

A/N2: I hope that this was adequately interesting. I know that it's a whole lot different from most of the stories out there, but I enjoy being unique. So please review and ask me any questions that you might have, I look forward to seeing what you all thought! Bye now!

-BAngel