"Oh this is intolerable!" snapped the Doctor. He reached out to press the button for what seemed the hundredth time...

...but froze, arm outstretched. The whole world seemed to fill with dazzling, dusty light as the roof far above was pulled back. A giant hand reached down to grab the Doctor! He found himself pulled up, up, up. Out...

(The Story So Far: In the glittering, futuristic world of the BBC, a fictional character called the Doctor has somehow come into existence within the virtual confines of a Message Board devoted solely to his adventures. How this has happened remains as yet unexplained but in an uunGhostlightesque moment, it will be. Soon. Ish...

Meanwhile, the BBCi team, cluttered around their electronic zoo of Board Posters, are facing the moustache-twirling villainy of the BBC DG. He considers the Board an extravagant luxury, and not really the BBC's 'bag'. And he wants it switched off. Now.

Which is pretty much where we came in-

-or rather, where the Doctor came out.)

...Out. With an almost laughable haste, Glasses placed the tiny doll-like Doctor on the floor beside the machine. Not a moment too soon - freed from the indescribable and imaginary constraints of the pseudo-environment within the boards, the Doctor found himself growing, returning to normal size. The whole room seemed to freeze as all eyes switched from the confrontation between the DG and the BBCi leader, to the impossible site of an imaginary figure taking on normal human proportions. There was a hush of expectancy as the Doctor pulled himself to his feet. He looked about, both bewildered and delighted to find himself the centre of attention.

He straightened himself up, hefting miles of scarf back over his shoulder in what he always considered a tidy fashion. He held up a hand, smiled affably. "Hello. I'm the Doctor."

The lady in charge of the Boards somehow managed to be the first to regain her voice. "You're... the Doctor," she breathed.

"Er, well, yes, I did rather say that. Look, could someb--"

Composed, and surprised at the fact more and more with each second, the lady crossed to him, her hand outstretched. It was partly a gesture of greeting, but to be honest it was mainly her reaching out to touch the unbelievable. The Doctor took her hand, she felt his grip - real, definite, terribly firm - and they shook hands. She smiled, and was rewarded with a beam that warmed the heart.

"I'm Emily," said Emily.

"Pleased to meet you."

Emily blinked, smiled to herself. "You're--"

"Yes, yes, I'm the Doctor, I think we've done that bit."

"No, no," she grinned, "You're all teeth and curls."

The Doctor, for once, was speechless.

Then the moment passed. With the same fury as a sudden tornado, the DG swept through the entourage of fawning non-entities, to confront the intruder. "Who on Earth is this?" he demanded.

The Doctor held out his hand. "Well, I'm the Doctor--"

But quite clearly the DG wasn't asking him. He was glaring at Emily for an explanation - and she found herself without one. Well, a rational one anyway.

"Well, he is the Doctor, sir," she began, "And before you say it I am well aware that he is only a fictional character. However, in defence of the fact that he is here, just feel. Go on." Emily grabbed the end of the Doctor's scarf, holding it out for the DG to touch. He wasn't having any of it, and brushed it aside. Glasses, Beardy and the Rashman, on the other hand, were clearly dying to touch it - like the Biblical character touching the robe, they wanted some of the miraculous to rub off on them. The Doctor graciously held it out for them. "Feel free, gentlemen, feel free."

The trio needed no further encouragement, and touched the scarf, pulling, tugging, testing the stitches, the softness, the whole essential scarfiness of it.

"Impressive, isn't it," expounded the imaginary Timelord. "It was knitted for me by--"

But the Cult Boys were ahead of him.

"Madame Nostradamus," they chorused, adding, as one, "A witty little knitter."

The DG snorted unpleasantly, cutting through the wave of mid-70s nostalgia that was starting to infect the room. If there was one place where sentiment, enthusiasm, and fun were inappropriate it was within his BBC. The sooner he sorted this out the sooner he could get back to the executive washroom and give his hands a thorough scrubbing. "He" (he jabbed an accusatory finger at the poor Doctor) "is not a real person."

"Ah..." said the Doctor, trying to get in on the conversation.

"You" snapped the DG stabbing at Emily "had better start explaining."

"Well," she began hesitantly, and quite sure that even she couldn't blag her way through this one, "It's really a technical matter, er, sir, and, um, so, I really, erm, should pass it over to my resident expert."

"Alright then."

"Right," began the Doctor, "Thank you, Emily. Now, the way I see it..."

But the DG again ignored him. "Do you have any resident experts that are real people?" he inquired scathingly.

Poor Glasses suddenly knew his time had come, as he was marked out as the technical one. It's at times like these, he thought to himself, that I wish I'd stuck with the contact lenses instead of nerdspec's. But it was too late now... The DG glared straight at him, which obviously helped Glasses' already nervous nerves enormously.

"I - ahem - I think that - ah - well, you see, it... If..."

The DG leant down so that he could virtually spit right in Glasses' face. "Please tell me without hesitation, repetition, or deviation," he whispered threateningly. "AND DO IT NOW!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Glasses literally jumped in alarm. But to give the DG his due, it did get the desired response, in a quick-fire delivery from Glasses before he ran out of air. "I think that the combined mental concentration on a single entity, albeit a fictional and/or imaginary one, has somehow produced as a composite of the amassed mental force an actual corporeal realisation of a hitherto purely abstract person. Sir."

There was a long silence while everybody considered this, splitting it down into words they could understand, and all the other ones, which they couldn't. Thankfully the Doctor was there to clarify matters...

"Got it!" He slapped a hand to his forehead, and promptly winced at the impact. "What you're saying is that all these Message Board Users have effectively wished me into existence."

"Er... yes," agreed Glasses. "A somewhat crude précis of my explanation, but, er... yes. Essentially."

"Oh well, I concede my explanation was a little simplistic, my dear sir," agreed the Doctor modestly, "I don't claim to be a genius in this field."

It was of course around here that the DG slapped Rashface across the face, making his cheek even redder. And from that time on, Rashface was always much more careful about doing his ,"Geniusssssss" impression of a digitally-restorec, vidFIRED Ice Warrior.

"Any more glib, stupid, or audible, comments from you lot and I'll do more than slap you," threatened the DG. He was clearly starting to lose his composure, and he knew it. It was time to sort this out, once and for all, he decided.

"So, this thing is a kind of mass gestalt brain," mused the Doctor, examining the Message Board device. "We have something very similar at home on Gallifrey you know, the Matrix. It's a collection of many separate intelligences, merged together."

"This is much the same," agreed Emily. "But probably with less intelligence..."

"Enough of this prattle," spat the DG, grabbing the Doctor and dragging him aside. "This ends - now."

"But I've only just got here," protested the Doctor. "Aren't you even going to offer me a cup of tea?"

The DG snapped his fingers, and the doors at the far end of the chamber opened. Two black-suited guards marched in, crossing goose-step fashion to the Doctor. In a swift, precise action they each grabbed an arm, twisting it behind his back, and forcing him down to his knees.

"I must protest!" protested Emily.

"Me too!" echoed the Doctor.

The DG just smirked, as another figure entered the chamber. Large, swarthy, clad in black (well, it never goes out of fashion, does it) and with his head covered by a half-mask hood, through which two cruel eyes leered, he carried a long axe over his shoulder. He crossed, raising it above the Doctor's head. He looked to the DG for confirmation.

"What are you doing?" demanded the Cult Team.

"As the official representative and supreme high-ruler of the BBC, I am treating the Doctor precisely in accordance with BBC instructions pertaining to him."

"You mean--" gasped Emily.

"Yes," sneered the DG, nodding to the executioner. "He's going to be axed!"