Disclaimer: Anything I own is covered in goop and feathers. Hopefully, this is not. Spock, tell 'em I don't own it.

Yes! The Bloopersverse is not dead! The Bloopersverse is alive, and rocking the dance floor! *ahem* Right. Tagged to chapter 25 of "Falling Out Of The World". Oh, and no, Brownbug did not spell "chandelier" wrong - I did. Several times. And then realized, and turned it into a Bloopers episode - and subsequently spent the next two pages arguing with MS Word autocorrect over it. So don't let's be scrutinizing the spelling in the original fic, eh?


Somewhere, a line had been crossed.

Somewhere…the Director was coming to the horrifying realization that somewhere, he had moved from coordinating the preparation, establishment, arrangement and filming of a central scene in a fanfiction…to throwing a party. And to add injury to insult, it wasn't even what he might, in his wilder university days, have called a party. This…was an Event.

He hadn't seen the manuscript all morning; in fact, he had all but forgotten about it. Scurrying back and forth across the magnificent Ballroom, a perigosto stick under each arm, bellowing out orders left, right and centre, he was all too aware of the disapproving eyes of the senior Time Lords on him. It was always the same, filming with Time Lords. Oh, they left the running of their Citadel, and the organizing of their events, to the oppressed servant underclass, certainly – but a whole chapter of a fanfiction centred on their society and rigid customs? Well…when it was their posterity at stake, that was apparently enough to have them personally oversee everything. It didn't help matters that some of the younger Time Lords had showed up, apparently just to witness the spectacle.

"Is he a human?" A haughty voice rang out over the hubbub, and out of the corner of his eye, the harried Director caught a glimpse of Ushas, still in her Academy tunic, standing at the bottom of the staircase. "How can a human possibly organize the Otherstide Ball?"

"He's not organizing the Ball – he's organizing the chapter about it," Drax attempted to placate her.

"Well, he's not doing a very good job," Ushas sniffed.

Already at the end of his tether, the Director might have been forgiven for throwing down the perigosto sticks then and there and threatening to have the Author write the Time Lady out of the script. At that moment, though, his eyes landed on something at the far end of the ballroom, in the middle of the onyx dance floor – something which, to his experienced eye, stood out like a sore thumb. Throwing a half-hearted, exasperated glare at Ushas, he whirled around and scurried back the way he had come.

The elaborate silver and crystal chandelier had been meticulously polished several chapters ago by the cast – but of course, that wasn't enough for the exacting standards of the Time Lords, and there was now a small group of props technicians clustered around it, cloths in hands. Unlike the Shobogan characters, the fanfiction crew had no qualms about loudly voicing their discontentment and opinions of the Time Lords – but his perpetual internal debate about whether to order them to be quiet was the last thing on the Director's mind.

"Stop, stop!" Brandishing the perigosto sticks like signal flags, he advanced on them. "What do you call that?"

"It's…the chandelier, Director," a set supervisor answered hesitantly, clearly reading the Director's mood like an open manuscript.

"No it's not!" the Director shot back irritably, glaring at the offensive object and setting down the perigosto sticks. "You've spelled it wrong! It's chandalier." The set supervisor frowned and turned back to the chandelier.

"No we haven't – look. Chandelier. That's how it's spelled."

"No, it's not!" the Director insisted. "Chandalier. People are going to be reading this – do you want these blatant spelling mistakes all the way through it?"

"I'm…I'm sure it's right…" Biting her lip nervously, the set supervisor motioned to the props technicians to get back to their polishing; none paid the slightest attention.

"Listen here-" the Director began furiously – before he was cut short by a stern cough at his shoulder.

"Chandelier," a curt voice rapped. "C-H-A-N-D-E-L-I-E-R. And if you hadn't left this down in the kitchens after breakfast, Director, you might have been able to check your spelling before throwing accusations at your staff." Somewhat taken aback, the Director turned, and the fanfiction manuscript was placed firmly into his hands by the Head Housemaid, Fionnula.

"Aren't you supposed to be-"

"That will do," Fionnula continued briskly to the props technicians, who hastily resumed their polishing of the chandelier. "Director, take those perigosto sticks down to the orchestra pit – they've been looking for them for nearly an hour now – and check that they've liaised with the sound engineers. When you're finished down there, you'd better have a word with Lord Koschei – he seems to think his dressing-room is haunted or some such nonsense. Then you can check the flower arrangements and…"

Before he knew it, the Director found himself slumped in the chair at the right hand of the Lord President's own chair, mopping his brow in a manner that would have made Chancellor Umbast proud. Having dismissed the overseeing Time Lords, Fionnula was perched in the Lord President's mighty throne, clipboard in hand, delivering orders to crew and characters alike who stepped up onto the dais before her. The Time Lords and Ladies attending the Ball were filing in now, sweeping across the spotless floor in their heavy robes and high collars, and the Shobogan servants were already starting to move among them, ready for the chapter to begin.

The exhausted Director could barely muster the energy to ask as Fionnula dispatched a pair of uniformed guards from FanFiction Security with a wave of her hand. They moved silently around the edge of the dance floor to discreetly escort out a Time Lady who was most certainly not on the guest list; hair dyed in irregular streaks of Prydonian scarlet and orange, a glass of champagne in her hand, she appeared to be attempting to coerce Vansell out onto the dance floor, towering in stiletto heels over the scrawny little Time Lord.

Watching in weary disbelief, the Director couldn't help but wonder if it would be purely selfish on his part to beg the Author to include Fionnula in every chapter.