The Doctor's eyebrows pushed upward, head canting to one side. "Pulled through time? What? All of them?"

It's almost as easy as that, too. He can pick them out. It's why the room felt wrong. Why nothing was matching correctly. It's not everyone in the room, but it's a large percentage of the room. Ripped from other times, and deposited in this Fixed Point. This still-standing ship. Displaced. Disjointed.