This story was originally posted to the Erinsborough .com forum and later housed on Neighboursfans .com. It was probably my weirdest story in this fandom, dealing with divergent timelines and multiple versions of characters. Common themes in my stories, but certainly not in Neighbours. The concept is taken from the '90s sci-fi series, Sliders, and there's a mild crossover with that show in chapter 4, but not deep enough I feel for this story to be listed in the crossover section.

You can skip to chapter 4 if you want to get straight into the sci-fi plot, but the characters' interactions and personalities won't make a lot of sense if you do, as I did a fair amount of world-building in the first three chapters to show how their timeline of origin differs from the TV one. The setting is in October 2000.

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Part 1 (written 21st December 2002)

Eden Hills University, Lecture Hall.

As the lecture ends and students drift out, a couple of men dressed in smart business suits approach the speaker from the back of the hall. One of them - a young and rather earnest looking black man - holds out his hand. "That was quite a speech, Doctor Tyler."

Darcy collects his notes and stuffs them in a rather battered looking case before glancing up at him and taking the offered handshake. "Yes, well my mother always did tell me I had a flair for the dramatic." He smiles, but at the same time adopts a slightly puzzled expression. These are certainly not students. "Would you mind me asking who you are?"

"Not at all," the black man replies nonchalently. "My name is Laurence Johnson, I'm a representative for the Lambert Corporation."

Darcy's eyes widen. The Lamberts are one of the richest families in Victoria. They have their fingers in every money-making pie going, both commercial and industrial. What are they doing sending a rep to speak to him? He voices that thought. "What do the Lamberts want with me?"

"Mrs Lambert keenly encourages cutting edge research like yours, Doctor. She sent us down personally to talk with you about your theories regarding bridging interspatial dimensions."

The emphasis on those last three words make Darcy wary. "I'm sorry gentlemen, but my schedule is rather busy for the next few weeks. If you return after term ends though, I'm sure I could fit you in somewhere. Nice to meet you." But as he starts to walk away, the speaker's companion - an older man with broad shoulders and a jawline that looks like it was carved from granite - decides to chip in.

"Too busy for one million dollars, Doctor?" he asks in a humourous tone.

A startled Darcy stops dead in his tracks and slowly turns around. "What?" is all he can muster.

The black man shoots an irritated look at his companion, then steps forward. "We already know about your prototype, Doctor," he says, cutting to the chase. "Mrs Lambert is prepared to make you a substantial offer for both the device and your expertise. Could help repay those loans you've been taking out, and more besides."

Darcy pauses. He's never told anyone about his prototype for the simple reason that most of the scientific community would think him crazy. So how did Lambert find out? But does it matter? If they're taking him seriously enough to make this kind of offer...? Curiosity and the lure of his money troubles ending make his decision for him. "When would Mrs Lambert like to see me?"

The Erinsborough News Offices.

Editor Mike Healey steps out of his office and looks into the newsroom. An array of reporters are there finalising their articles for tomorrow morning's edition, but Mike isn't concerned about that at the moment. He's looking for one reporter is particular and finds him returning to his desk, studying a sheet of paper in his hands. "Robinson, can I see you in my office please?"

Scott glances over to Mike. "Sure, hold on." He folds the sheet he's holding and places it on his desk before walking over to the office. Mike shuts the door behind them. Uh-oh! He never shuts the door unless he's going to dish out an ear bashing.

"I just got a phonecall of complaint," Mike starts as he sits down, "from Chloe Lambert, head of the Lambert Corporation. I don't suppose you'd know anything about that, would you?"

Scott slowly shakes his head. "Couldn't tell you, Chief" he replies innocently. He hasn't done it, no-one's saw him do it, they can't prove anything.

"So you're telling me you know nothing about the harassment of Mrs Lambert this morning by a reporter who turned up at Lassiters Hotel?"

Okay, maybe he has done it. "That's terrible." From the dangerous look he's getting though, his tone is far from convincing.

"Cut the 'I'm so innocent' performance. I know you did it and I want you to stop. Got it?"

Scott suddenly becomes serious. "She's running scared, that's why she's applying the pressure. I'm getting close."

"Listen to yourself. You're a jobbing reporter working for a local newspaper, not John bleeding Pilger."

"So what?" Scott argues. "I'm a news reporter, this is a legitimate news story. Lambert is corrupt, I know she is."

"Got any proof?"

Scott wants to speak, but hesitates. What exactly has he got? "Nothing that would stand up in court" he admits. "But give me a another... week or so and you'll see I'm right. That internal memo shows someone's getting kickbacks. Hell there's no way she'd get a contract that lucrative otherwise."

"A photocopied memo, given to you by a source you won't even tell me the name of. Mrs Lambert's public profile is unimpeachable and if all you have is that memo, you have nothing. If she were in a mind to do it, Mrs Lambert couldl lay charges against both you and this paper, so I'm going to tell you one more time. Kill the story."

"Mike..."

"Do you want to be out of two jobs in less than a year?" the editor queries. "What do you think your wife would have to say about that?"

Scott looks defeated. He can't afford to lose this job, and after what happened in Brisbane he's perfectly aware that he's in the last chance saloon as far as his career goes.

"Now do I have your word that I'll hear no more about this? No phone calls, no letters, no call-outs to the police station?" Mike asks.

"Yes," Scott murmers, looking anywhere but at the editor.

"Excuse me?"

"YES!" Scott says more forcefully, facing him.

"Good! Now get back to the job you're supposed to be doing."

Scott shakes his head slightly and leaves the office. Church fetes and lost dogs, some job, he thinks sourly as he returns to his desk. He really needs to talk to his source again. Tapping the desk with his pen, he makes a decision and leaves the building.

Number 28, Ramsay Street.

It's getting dark as Karl walks in through the front door to be greeted by a strange smell. He sniffs curiously as he puts his case down and shuts the door. He's late, but then that's nothing new. Upon hearing the noise, his wife exits the bedroom, smiling patiently at him. Karl looks her up and down. She's dressed a little formally for just a usual evening in. "What's the occasion?" he asks, hoping to God he hasn't forgotten an important date.

"Nothing special," she tells him. "I just thought I'd make a bit of an effort tonight. I know how hard you've been working lately."

He smiles ruefully at her. "I'm sorry I've been away so much. But with Dr Chester leaving, it's been..."

She walks up to him and puts a finger on his lips. "I understand. Really." She takes the finger away and lightly kisses him. "Why don't we just forget about work tonight and enjoy ourselves." She smiles at his nod.

"I'd like that," Karl tells her. Then the smell hits him again. "Are you cooking something?"

She frowns, sniffs, then panic suddenly fills her expression. "Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!" she yells, rushing to the kitchen. She grabs an oven glove and pulls the oven door down. A sizzling sound is heard as clouds of smoke free themselves. She coughs for a moment, wafting the smoke away, then stares at the contents in disbelief.

Karl walks over and peers in himself. The black charred lump inside doesn't resemble anything he's ever seen in the freezer. "Whatever it was, I think it's dead!"

His wife lets her head hang down. "I'm sorry, Karl," she says, clearly upset. "I just wanted to make something special."

Karl pulls her up and into an embrace. "It's okay," he tells her. "I don't mind."

"I've ruined everything though," she says, looking up at him.

"No you haven't. Look, I'll go get changed and we'll go out for a meal instead. How does Lanzini's sound?"

"Are you sure?" she asks hesitantly.

"You went to all this trouble, it's the least I can do. I know we haven't done anything special for a while, maybe this will make up."

She embraces him after a few moments. "You're a sweet, sweet man, Karl Kennedy."

"And you're a wonderfully patient and understanding woman, Sarah" he says. "If not the best cook in the world."

Sarah giggles slightly. "Go get ready," she says, patting his arm. "I'll handle damage control here. If this reaches the smoke alarms while we're out, there'll be a lynch mob waiting for us by the time we get back."

Karl can well imagine it. Smiling, he leaves the kitchen and walks to the bedroom.

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Part 2 (written 26th December 2002)

Outside Number 32, Ramsay Street.

Libby strides up the pathway, a couple of video tapes in hand, when she hears a door close further up the street. Stopping and glancing up, she sees the 'happy couple' leaving what she used to call home, all dressed up to the nines. She told herself she wouldn't let this affect her anymore, but she still can't totally represss the feeling of disgust that rises within her at that moment. Turning away from the sight as they both get into Karl's car, she hurries on and enters number 32.

Her boyfriend turns and looks at her from the couch. "Just in time. I've got the popcorn and drinks, what movies did you get?"

Libby's attention takes a moment to focus back on their plans for tonight and she attempts a smile. "Um... Galaxy Quest, of course. And the clerk recommended Idle Hands, so I picked that up."

Lance looks at the synopsis on the back of the case. "Sounds familiar. I think it got some decent reviews from the genre press."

Libby steps over to the VCR. "Okay, which one first?"

"Always leave the best 'til last, eh?"

Libby simply nods, takes Idle Hands out of its rental slipcase and pushes it in. The fuzziness on the TV blinks off to be replaced by black. She sits down on the couch.

Her boyfriend looks at her carefully. She seems a little despondant. "Is everything alright?"

Libby looks at him and tries another smile. "I'm fine. I was just... thinking."

"Your dad again?" he asks, having seen this reaction from her before.

Libby is mildly annoyed at how she can be so transparent. She sighs. "I saw them going out when I came back. They were all dressed up fancy like, probably going to Lanzini's or somewhere equally as expensive." She shakes her head. "I don't know why this still bothers me. He can do what he likes with his life, I don't care... I shouldn't care."

He puts an arm around her. "He's your father, Lib. It's not so easy to just not care, no matter what they've done. Whatever happens though, I'm here for you."

She smiles genuinely this time. It's good to have someone who really does understand how she feels. Lance's rift with his own father is well documented. The only difference is that she no longer has family to fall back on anymore. Mal had got out shortly after it had happened. She still gets emails from him, but it isn't quite the same. Bill... no, she doesn't even want to think about that traitor.

Then again, things could have been worse. Ruth had been good enough to take her in, something she'll always be thankful for. There aren't many mothers that would allow their son's girlfriend to live with them. The Wilkinsons are her family now in all but name. And even that last aspect may change eventually, she allows herself to muse. Yes, things could have definitely been worse. Much worse.

"What are you thinking?" Lance asks her.

"Nothing," she answers enigmatically as the trailers start up. She sits close to him, his arm still around her as they watch the screen. She's determined to enjoy movie night without Karl spoiling it for her.

Number 26, Ramsay Street.

"Hannah!"

Silence.

"HANNAH!"

"She's not in," a voice carries from the living-room.

Phil leaves the pan he's stirring and walks into the living room where Michael is lounging around watching some cop show on TV. "Where is she then?"

"Cecile's I think," he replies without turning away from the show. "She said she'd be back later on tonight."

"It's almost 8 o' clock already, she should be home now."

Michael shrugs. "You know what she's like."

Phil rolls his eyes. "Just like her mother. Sometimes I wish I hadn't battled so hard for custody and just let Julie have her."

"You don't mean that," Michael tells him.

"Don't I?"

Michael idly glances at him.

Phil sighs. "I just wish she'd at least occasionally listen to me."

Michael grins. "If she did, then you'd really be worried."

Phil ruefully agrees. "Probably." He goes over to the phone up and dials a number. "Hello, it's Phil Martin" he says as the phone is picked up by Cecile's mother. "Is Hannah there, I'd like to speak to her?... She isn't?... They are?... I see, thanks for telling me."

Michael watches him put the receiver down, resigned to the prospect of having to get up from his comfortable position before the minute's out. "Let me guess, Hannah and Cecile went out ages ago, didn't say where and now I have to go look for them."

Phil pauses at Michael's glib but accurate appraisal of the situation. "It does seem like deja-vu doesn't it. Could you? Only I have to watch the kitchen."

It's Michael's turn to sigh as he lifts himself up and grabs his jacket. "Be back in thirty," he says as he puts the jacket on and heads out the door. If he knows Hannah, she'll be at Hemisfear, eyeing up the talent. Michael mentally shakes his head. If dad ever finds out how precocious his 'button' is, he'll have a fit.

Chez Chez.

Darcy walks in through the main doors, looking uncannily like the cat who got the cream. "Bottle of Dom Perignon please, bartender. Your finest vintage," he says as he reaches the bar.

The woman to his right, nursing a glass of cheap lager, slowly turns to face him. "Well, if it isn't Doc Dastardly," she sneers, using her favourite nickname for him. "Whose knickers are y' hopin' to buy y'self inter this time?"

Darcy turns to the voice, his smile fading slightly. She looks a mess and it's clear she's had a few too many. "I'm not going to let anyone spoil tonight for me, Dee. Not even a bitter and twisted drunk like you."

"Takes one t' know one, honey," she responds sarcastically.

Darcy merely shakes his head at her pointless sabre-rattling, declining to answer while he waits for his bottle. Rather than halting the conversation though, this merely irritates Dee.

"What? Think y' too good t' talk t' me, Mr Bigshot Uni Lecturer?"

Still no response.

She raises her voice and grabs his arm. "Hey, I'm talkin' t' y'."

Darcy easily shrugs her grip off. "Go and drink yourself into a stupor, Dee, just like you always do. Maybe someone will take pity on you and help you clean up your act, but I doubt it." He readies his notes as the barman returns with the bottle of wine he requested, and after paying him begins to leave.

Dee, who has been glaring at him since his last retort, follows him outside. "Where d' y' think y' goin'?"

"Home!" Darcy tells her, exasperated. "Unlike you I actually have one to go to. Now leave me alone."

"Bastard!" Without a second thought, Dee hurls her glass at him.

Not expecting it, Darcy is caught full on and stumbles to the floor. Reaching to the back of his head, he feels a wetness. But it's not just lager. As he takes his hand away and examines it, there's blood there. His expression becomes stricken and confused. They've been trading insults ever since they broke up, but Dee's never been violent like this.

The patrons sitting outside the pub either leave as quickly as possible or stand back watching the scene. Dee meanwhile walks up to him and picks up a shard of broken glass. "Don' ever walk out on me like that again," she yells down at him, "or I won' be held resspon... resp... y' know what I mean."

Darcy stares up at her. "I won't, I won't!" he babbles nervously, now very apprehensive. A sliver of blood trickles from Dee's hand as she wields the shard like a knife. "What do you want?"

Dee's eyes glaze over slightly as if she's not entirely sure, then she crouches down and adopts a serious but quizzical expression. "Are y'... are y' scared of me?" she asks in quiet disbelief.

Darcy's eyes can't help but flick back to the glass dagger. Dee also looks at it, as if for the first time, then promptly drops it. She gasps her breath and twists her face. "I'm sorry," she says in a small voice. She topples forward and grabs Darcy for support, then collapses against him, holding her arms around his body. "Don' leave me again. Please don' leave me," she cries over and over, her voice muffled against him.

A very stunned Darcy awkwardly places a hand on her shoulder and starts murmering. "It's okay, Dee. Everything's going to be... okay."