One little bit survived. A tiny nugget of Nestene Consciousness lived on.

It had escaped the Doctor’s antiplastic by hurrying into the substrata and hiding inside the nearest available shape: the body of a clown.

Days before, the Nestene had posted sentries along the embankment in the form of living statues: those strange humans, who decide to earn a living by dressing up as clowns, robots, or statues, and then standing perfectly still, waiting for people to throw money at them. What an odd, odd species.

But now the plastic guards had dissolved, except for one. A white-faced Pierrot, well, half a face - half a head, its right half. A crescent of head perched atop a rough neck and glittering silver bodysuit with one eye, bright as insanity, and a bisected leering grin.

The half-head Pierrot hauled itself up onto the opposite bank of the river, and looked back at the grave of the Consciousness. The secret underground layer had collapsed, causing the whole of the London Eye to tilt forward and collapse into the Thames.

Pods have broken free, bobbing on the surface, little people inside, banging on the glass and screaming for help. The half-head half-smiled as the pods were caught in the suction, as water poured down into the vast underground chasm. A whirlpool, swallowing the pods and people, and screams - down, down, down. Gone.

“Good” said the Pierrot, or tried to say, but this only resulted in a gout of dirty water jetting out of its open plastic throat.

It turned around to look at the remnants of London. In every direction fires burned, and bodies lay in the streets. Victims of the glorious invasion. The immediate area remained flooded, overwhelmed by the tsunami resulting from the Eye’s collapse. The streets of Westminster had become a stinking swamp. The clown stood tall upon the rubble, overlooking floating cars and fallen buses and weeping survivors, as it formulated a plan.

It had to survive - to survive and conquer this world. And more than that, to survive, and conquer, and then destroy the Doctor. Oh but to defeat a Time Lord would need extra strength and greater cunning. Perhaps, thought the consciousness, an alliance? A combination of the Doctor’s greatest enemies. Perhaps even the mighty empires of Daleks and Cybermen combined, to rid the universe of this pestilence, an excellent plan.

But then, a spasm of pain stabbing its plastic guts. The Nestene was dying. Its single cell could not sustain for much longer. But it knew it contained the energy for one last reconfiguration. If it burnt up its clown molecules in a final polystorm, it could plasticise itself into a new, albeit hollow, shape. But what?

Ahead there lay a palace, the ruins of this little country’s government, river water still pouring out of its shattered windows. Inside, amongst the nation's crowns and sceptres, the Nestene might find something it could use.

The silver clown lurched to the opposite side of the bridge. A woman looked at its half-head and screamed. The clown pushed her over the balustrade, and she fell with a wail. It staggered on, its single eye staring, furious, fixed on the clocktower.

The palace seem to be calling to the Nestene, summoning it to the halls of power. Here, the creature would find its own kind, surely.

It clambered over fallen masonry, waded through stinking pools, swatted aside screaming humans, fuelled onwards by memories.

Remembering the day Nestinia fell.

Not so long ago, the 17 planets of the Plastic Conjunction have been at peace. After eons of war, the Nestene Consciousness had abandoned the old ways, and entered into rapport with The Embodiment of Gris. Joy and harmony prevailed. The food planets churned out ample supplies of smoke and oil, the Crown Consciousness basked in happiness, its ever-changing shape writhing in a pit of plastic gold. The Embodiment showered it with favours. Some said the Nestene had found love at last. And then the skies opened.. onto hell.

It was, the legend said afterwards, the edge of a Time War. A battleground beyond comprehension. A tumble of planets fell out of a rip in space, like stray bullets from some epic offstage gunfight. Copies of planets stolen from different seconds of their existence. 100 orange worlds known as Gallifrey, 1000 black cinders once called Skaro, a dozen small blue and green planets, which the Nestene recognised from an old campaign, Earth.

A rolling tumbling, spinning, bouncing cosmic destruction unfurled, the food planets smashed by many Skaros, the Crownworld pulverised by various Gallifreys, the maternity reefs crushed by 57 Earths. And then, beyond physical destruction, time itself advanced as a weapon.

A wave of ‘early’ washed over the Consciousness, reducing it to helpless baby tendrils, a cloud of ‘late’ reduced the food stocks to dust. A blizzard of ‘tick-tocks’ sent the embodiment insane. All in one second, and then it was gone.

The war was sucked back into its breach, beyond the normal universe, leaving only silence. The ruins of Nestenia and its Empire lay glinting in the light of a cold and dying sun.

“No more”, thought the staggering Pierrot, as it entered the ruins of the palace. “No More!”

The Nestene had sworn revenge after the Time War, deliberately targeting this ridiculous Earth, but now to be defeated again by a Time Lord and a human together! This time, its revenge would be brilliant, and ruthless, and subtler than anyone could guess, even if it took 15 years or more.

It had reached the interior corridors. A wet, green carpet under foot. The building had been rotting long before today's disaster and sections of both roof and floor had now caved in. The Thames mingled with the stink of open sewers. It seemed appropriate somehow.

But again, that stab of pain, the cell of consciousness dying. Time was running out, as the clown shambled onwards, and then - a body on the floor, crushed by a concrete beam. And yet, the clown felt something in the substrata, a scent, a shiver, a lingering promise from the human’s form. Reeking of things which the nesting recognised: ambition, lust, greed, joy, power.

The clown grinned, a grin so wide its half mouth split apart and the top of its head fell off, but the now eyeless quarter-headed Pierrot was unstoppable. Giggling from its throat tube, as it crouched down, it held the hand of the body and began the final process - transformation.

The clown began to glow, its atoms becoming furnaces and the human glowed, its cells separating to feed the ferocious polystorm. In the swirl of bright particles, the Pierrot ceased to be, and the human scattered away into nothingness, and something new took shape.

It stood proud, alone in a dark, wet, wrecked corridor.

A new, true Auton, cradling, the last of the Nestene Consciousness within.

A perfect plastic copy of the human male. It turned to consider its reflection in the broken glass of an interior door. Its substrata probing the remains of the mammal’s memory. He had power, this man. He had authority. He had the potential to go so much further.

The Auton smiled at himself, loving this new self - the suit, the body, the face, the blonde hair. Oooh, This was going to be fun

Transcript by Shauny. The transcripts are for educational and entertainment purposes only. All other copyrights property of their respective holders.