Spare Parts and Familiar Faces (1/2)
Rating: T
Features: 10, Rose Tyler, H.G. Wells, Arthur Neilson, Pete Lattimer, Myka Bering, Claudia Donovan, Leena, Mrs. Frederic
A/N: As usual, nothing you recognize belongs to me. Doctor Who and Warehouse 13 belong to their respective creators. This story was written on commission for Jaxin88. If you would like to commission a story you can find information here. Also it's split into two because apparently it's too large for livejournal.
It was seven am on a Saturday in the small, sleepy town of Univille, South Dakota, a town which was unremarkable in many ways: it had one gas station, one Bed and Breakfast (Leena's), a hardware store, a barbershop, an ice-cream parlor, a veterinary hospital, a coffeehouse, a sushi restaurant, and until recently a post office. It was, however, possibly the most remarkable town in all of South Dakota-possibly in all of the United States of America, because seven miles from Univille was one of the most dangerous and secretive places in the entire country: the Warehouse. Dr. Arthur Neilson, known as 'Artie' by those under his command, often referred to the Warehouse as 'America's Attic.'
This was an apt analogy, except that this 'attic' had more security than Fort Knox and the White house combined and it was also filled with things that could blow up the world, drive a person mad, or potentially kill many, many people-sometimes all at once, which was why it was staffed with a team of agents whose job it was to keep the world in one peice and the artifacts out of the hands of those who would use them. The Warehouse itself was a huge steel building at the end of a dirt road in the precise center of nowhere, surrounded by mountains and waist high, perpetually half-dead grass-at least on the outside. Inside it was vast; the fifteen-foot high shelves extended for what seemed like miles underground; overlooking the storage space was a group of offices that Artie called 'the command center.' Most of the work was done there, but occasionally it was necessary to venture into the stacks. The Dark Vault, located in the center of the Warehouse, was home to the most dangerous of artifacts, and tucked away on the edge was the Bronze Sector. It was filled with people who had been deemed extraordinarily dangerous by the Warehouse, so dangerous, in fact, that they were removed from society-permanently.
On this particular Saturday at this particular time, Peter Latimer, formerly of the US Secret Service and now detailed to the Warehouse, was sound asleep. It was Saturday, after all, and even God took a day off-or at least that was the excuse he used when Claudia tried to get him to help her with inventory. Through a series of unfortunate events she'd managed to nearly blow up the Warehouse, and had gotten put on inventory duty for every foreseeable weekend. Pete liked Claudia; she was smart and spunky and funny, and her tech skills had saved their asses more than once, but he didn't like her enough to spend hours cataloguing artifacts by hand.
He woke slowly to the sound of someone tap-dancing on his skull. After a few moments he realized that the sound was coming from outside his head and was actually someone knocking on his door. Pete rolled over. If he ignored whoever it was (Myka, probably-she was a disgustingly chipper morning person) they would go away, right? That's how these things worked.
The person on the other side of his door was surprisingly tenacious. "Pete?" a muffled voice called. It sounded like Leena. He pulled the pillow on top of his head. "Pete?" the call came again. He continued to ignore it.
The knocking stopped, but it was replaced by the soft scrape of metal-on-metal and a sharp 'click' as a key turned in the lock. The door opened and a young black woman stepped inside. She surveyed the room-cluttered, except for the area around the fifty-two inch television, which was immaculate-with a critical eye and delicately picked her way through the piles of clothes. She was of medium height, with a cloud of dark corkscrew-curls and kind brown eyes. A large pendant (some kind of dark stone) hung from a cord around her neck, and she wore a gauzy blue overshirt that added to her air of ethereal beauty. Leena crossed her arms over her chest when she reached the bed, and sighed. "Come on, Pete."
He mumbled something incoherent.
She rolled her eyes. "I know you're awake. Artie wants everyone down at the Warehouse, asap."
"It's Saturday!" he protested.
"Artifacts wait for no one," Leena called back over her shoulder as she made her way to the door.
"Never should have taken this job," Pete muttered as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. He ran one hand through his short, dark hair and groaned.
Leena poked her head back in the door. "You don't mean that."
He sighed. "I don't." And that was the truth. He loved working at the Warehouse: it was wonder and danger and excitement all rolled into one.
Myka, as per usual, was annoyingly cheerful. Besides being logical and extremely focused and a veritable fountain of strange information she was a die-hard morning person. There was nothing good about being woken at an ungodly hour by Artie and summoned to the Warehouse, nothing at all, but she was practically humming as Pete turned the SUV onto the dusty dirt road that led to their destination. Her phone beeped, and she pulled it out and pushed a lock of curly brown hair back behind her ear.
"You do realize that the world is probably exploding, right?" Pete asked. A muffled grunt came from the back seat. Claudia was definitely not a morning person.
"If the two of you didn't stay up all night watching that reruns of 'The Real Housewives of New Jersey' and skyping Todd you wouldn't be in such a bad mood," Myka replied, eyes still on her phone.
"I don't watch that stupid show!'" Pete objected.
"Really." Myka raised an eyebrow and looked him up and down.
He caved. He always caved. "All right, maybe one episode."
She let him have his lie, and the smug smile on her face told him that she knew it was a lie.
"And for the record," Claudia interjected, "Todd and I broke up, because he's in the Witness Protection Program and he had to relocate. So I wasn't skyping him, because that could break his cover and potentially get him killed."
Pete checked the clock. "Wow, Claudia, I'm impressed-a full sentence before noon?"
She stuck her tongue out at him.
He responded in kind.
Myka rolled her eyes. "So you weren't trying to track him down again?"
"No!" she shot back. "Maybe-yes." She groaned and thumped her head against the seat. "Why are all the good ones old enough to be my grandfather, in the witness protection program, or working on some top-secret government mission?"
"Hey!" Pete huffed. "Not that I'm interested, but I'm totally not old enough to be your grandfather."
Claudia patted him on the shoulder. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, gramps."
"I'm not!" he protested. "Tell her I'm not, Myka."
"Definitely not," Myka agreed. "You're only old enough to be her father."
"Thank you," he said, and then paused. "Wait-" Myka and Claudia burst out laughing. "So now you laugh," he muttered. "Won't laugh at any of my jokes, but hey, Pete's old and that's funny."
Artie was waiting for them in the command center; well, he called it the command center. It was a collection of offices and an extensive library on the most eclectic group of subjects that Myka had ever seen-and her father owned a bookshop, so that was saying something. The biggest desk was Artie's of course, and it was also the most cluttered, even more-so than normal. Papers were stacked haphazardly up to six inches high and three books were scattered between them. A huge sheet of paper covered everything, big enough that it draped over the piles and spilled onto the floor on both sides of the desk. Behind the chaos his computer monitor (one of the Warehouse's original computers) was flashing through the SIS-an automatic, computerized inventory system that was designed to catalogue every artifact in the Warehouse continually. Artie stood in front of his desk, and every time the SIS flashed he put a dot on the paper.
"Oooh," Pete exclaimed. "Cookies!" He grabbed two and popped one in his mouth. He held the cookie out to Myka, but she shook her head. Claudia snatched it from him and wandered over to Artie.
"What's up, Boss?" she asked and peered over his shoulder.
"Oh good," Artie replied dryly as he turned around and adjusted his glasses. "You're finally here. Did you stop for breakfast somewhere? Because if that's your response time when I tell you to get to the Warehouse because it's urgent I'm surprised the world hasn't exploded yet!"
Claudia took a step back. "Whoa, what's your problem, Artie?"
"My problem is that none of you seem to take this seriously!" he shot back.
"Well maybe we would if you told us what's going on," Pete suggested.
Myka put a hand on Artie's arm. "Calm down, and start from the beginning."
Artie glared at her, but complied. "Artifacts are missing from the Warehouse."
Pete stopped mid-chew. "What?"
"When?" Myka demanded. "And how?"
Artie gestured to the computer screen. "Early this morning, and I'm not sure. Security reports no abnormalities; besides what was taken there's nothing out of place, not one thing. There are no signs of a break in-physical or virtual. Everything is running perfectly."
Claudia blinked. "Except that potentially deadly artifacts are missing and we have no idea how or why."
Artie threw his hands up. "Yes!"
"What do we know?" For all of his goofy jokes, Pete Lattimer was perfectly capable of staying on task.
"It's happened three times since I came to the Warehouse." Artie reached beneath his desk and pulled out a slim silver briefcase. "Artifacts have disappeared without rhyme or reason. In all other instances we were able to track the person responsible-usually a former Warehouse agent turned rogue, once a master thief-but in these instances there was nothing, literally nothing." He set the briefcase down on his office chair, unlocked it with one of his myriad keys, and flipped open the lid. What looked like a short, squat gun sat inside, cushioned by black foam.
"Artie, what is this?" Myka asked.
He pulled the instrument out and messed with the dial on the back. A thin black screen unfolded and the barrel of the thing shone red. "It's a radiation detector. I put in a request after the last incident and someone in Eureka managed to put one together." He sniffed. "Thankfully not everyone at Global Dynamics is as incompetent as Fargo."
"Hey," Claudia objected, "Doug fixed us up good. That new system is a zillion times faster than the old one; it would have taken you days to realize that things had gone missing without his help."
"He tripped a failsafe system that nearly killed us!" Artie pointed out.
Claudia rolled her eyes. "Yeah, thanks to your friend Hugo."
Pete raised his hand. "So what does this doohickey do, exactly?"
"It detects and catalogs radiation." Artie fiddled with the knob and a graph slowly came into focus on the screen. "We're all exposed to very low levels daily; basically everything is slightly irradiated, but there's a different sort where every item that has gone missing was located, and at seemingly random points within the Warehouse itself."
Myka nodded. "You think there's a pattern."
"It's the best lead we have," Artie agreed. "Well-it's the only lead. Ninety minutes ago there was a spike, but there's been nothing since, so whatever or whoever took the artifacts might still be here."
"Have you talked to Helena?" Myka asked. "Maybe something similar happened when she worked at Warehouse 12? You two could compare notes, get a better sense of what we're up against."
"For all we know she's in cohoots with whoever is taking the Artifacts," Artie retorted. "So no, I haven't consulted her. Mrs. Frederic and the Regents said I have to give her a job, they never said I have to trust her." Myka opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. "And that's final. H.G. Wells is picking Leena up from the B Leena might be able to tell us about the people who took the artifacts once we catch them."
"I still think that splitting up was a bad idea," Pete said as he and Myka walked down the first of the Edison aisles. Every section was named after a famous person, usually an inventor. The sections housed their namesake's artifacts along with whatever items Leena placed there. She had a unique ability to sense energies, which was important: too much conflict between artifacts would result in massive bursts of static electricity with the potential to level the building. "Everything's in place over here," Pete confirmed.
"Why?" she asked as she scanned the other side of the aisle. "We can cover more ground this way, and besides, you've got the Tesla."
"The last time artifacts went missing and Artie was on his own MacPherson nearly killed him," Pete pointed out.
"MacPherson's dead." Myka stopped. "Are you getting a vibe? About MacPherson? We saw him die, Pete."
He shook his head. "No, I know, it's not about that."
She crossed her arms over her chest. "What is it about, then-H.G.?" He didn't reply, didn't even look at her. "Mrs. Frederic and Adwin Kosan seemed pretty certain they could trust her."
"Yeah, but-she was bronzed, Myka," he replied.
"Because she asked to be bronzed!" Myka snapped. "She's done nothing but try to prove herself; she even saved Artie's life! Without her we never would have found him. MacPherson might have released her, but he never controlled her."
Pete held up his hands in surrender. "Whoa, Myka, easy. I'm just saying-MacPherson was Artie's best friend, his partner, and the guy went rogue. It's gotta be hard to trust people after that."
She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly. "Sure, Pete, I just hate how angry he gets. Everyone deserves a second chance; he should know. And how awful would it be, to work in a place like this, a place that's full of impossible, and not being able to change anything? How many artifacts have we taken from people who are desperate, not for power or money, but to fix something?" Myka glanced away. "If I had known about this place after Sam died-I don't know. I might have done exactly what she did. I might have tried to use an artifact to bring him back."
"Yeah, but she killed someone." He took a step closer. "I don't think you would have let it go that far. Not everyone who's the victim of a tragedy turns into a killer."
"You don't know that." Myka turned back to her portion of the inventory list. "But thanks."
"Any time." He glanced down at the sheet in his hand, and then back at the end of the aisle. "Say, Myka-when did we add a blue 'police public call box' to the list for this aisle?"
"We didn't," she called over her shoulder.
Pete stared. "Are you sure?"
"Positive. Why?"
He pulled the Tesla from his pocket and clicked the safety off. "Because I'm looking at it."
She whirled around, and sure enough, a large blue box was sitting at the end of the aisle, tucked unobtrusively into a corner. If Pete hadn't mentioned it she would have walked right by. It was maybe seven feet tall, and made of wooden panels that were painted a dark blue. There were chips off the corners, and scratches on the sides. The top row of panels had been replaced by frosted glass window which glowed softly, like someone had left the light on inside. 'Police Public Call Box' a strip of lettering just under the roof read, and there was a sign opposite the door handle that assured the reader that officers and cars were waiting to respond to all calls. A lightbulb sat on top of the roof, protected by a metal casing. It looked old-very old, and it blended in with the other strange objects incredibly well but Myka knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that it was not supposed to be in the Warehouse.
She pulled a thin metal box out of her pocket and flipped it open. Artie' face appeared in grayscale on the small screen inside. "Yes?" he asked briskly.
"Artie," Myka began, her eyes still fixed on the box. "Why is there a 'Police Public Call Box' in the Edison section?"
He frowned. "There's not. There's nothing like that in the Warehouse."
"So glad to hear that," Pete replied. "Since we're staring at it."
"That could be it!" Artie exclaimed. "Is it doing anything?"
"No." Myka edged closer. "It's just sitting here."
"Hold tight, we'll be there in a second." The device squawked, signaling the end of the conversation, and Myka slid it back in her pocket. She approached the box cautiously, but nothing happened. It remained still and silent, but there was a strange air about it, a sense of anticipation, almost.
"Should we be walking right up to the mysterious box that somehow found its way into the biggest collection of dangerous, mysterious items ever?" Pete asked the air.
Myka stretched out her hand and laid it on the box. It was wood-it felt like wood, anyway, but there was a sort of hum beneath her palm, a soundless vibration that made the hair on her arm stand straight up.
"Oh!" a voice echoed from behind them. "Hello." It was male, and youngish, with a bit of a London lilt. Myka and Pete whirled around and found two people standing behind them. The first was a man, early to mid thirties, with brown eyes and expertly styled brown hair. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his faun colored trench coat which he wore over a blue and brown pinstriped suit, but he raised them, palms out, when he caught sight of the Tesla. The girl was younger, mid-twenties at the latest. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail away from her face, and her brown eyes were outlined with thick mascara and eyeliner. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and carried a red leather jacket over her arm. "I'm the Doctor," the man continued, "and this is Rose and that," he nodded at the box, "is mine."
Ninety-seven minutes earlier a wind from nowhere rattled the shelves of the Edison section and a creaking groan echoed off the cement floor and the high, steel ceiling. When the dust settled the TARDIS was parked in an unobtrusive corner where two aisles met. The door swung open, and the Doctor stepped out. His hair was in its traditional style (carelessly cool, and it took him hours to get it just right-he was a bit vain, this time around) and he wore his trenchcoat and suit jacket, despite the heat. One long-fingered hand went into his jacket pocket and he pulled out his 'brainy specs.' He didn't actually need them to see, but he thought they made him look clever and sometimes the image was more important than the reality. Besides-Rose liked the glasses.
The companion in question was hot on his heels and he had to remind his eyes that they belonged on her face and not where they were more inclined to wander. She was wearing his favorite jeans-a dark blue pair that looked like they'd been painted on. They rode low on her hips, and sometimes if he was lucky he caught a glimpse of the taught skin of her stomach or the smooth curve of her rear. Not that he would admit to looking; looking was something that humans did. Time Lords were above all that 'mating' nonsense, he reminded his eyes as they followed the curve of her hips up to the edges of her red leather jacket and paused at the lacy neckline of her tank top. She glanced around at the bare cement floor and the tall, scuffed shelves and the overall derelict feel of the place, and cocked an eyebrow at him.
"You sure about your driving then, Doctor?" she asked.
"Rose Tyler!" he exclaimed as he spun around. "Are you insinuating that there's something wrong with how I pilot the TARDIS?"
She held out her hand and started counting on her fingers. "Well, there was twelve months instead of twelve hours, an' Cardiff instead of Naples, an' then you landed us in 1869 instead of 1969, an' then there was London and the Queen's coronation instead of New York and Elvis Presley."
"We-ell." He scratched the back of his neck. "Okay, I get a bit off sometimes, but you've seen the console. It's supposed to have a crew of six, and there's just me and you. Bound to get a bit dodgy occasionally. Still, I'm sure this time: Earth, South Dakota, 2010. We're exactly where we want to be."
"Looks like a cupboard," she said with a smile, but her teeth worried her bottom lip. "Only the last time we landed in a cupboard didn't go so well."
He ran his hands up the arms of her jacket until they settled on her shoulders and gave her a quiet smile. It was different from his normal, manic grin, and sometimes she fancied it was just for her, that this was one bit of him the rest of the universe never knew. There was so much of him, she'd learned that the hard way, but she liked to imagine that maybe, just maybe there were bits of himself that he handed her that had never been touched before. "No black holes anywhere near us, I promise."
For a moment she thought that he might kiss her; his eyes skated down her face and her lips opened a fraction, but he released her and whirled away to examine their surroundings.
Of course not. Rose pushed her disappointment down and turned her attention to the matter at hand. "Where are we?" she asked.
"We," the Doctor replied with a delighted grin, "are smack-dab in the middle of the greatest collection of mislabeled technology in the history of the human race." He flung out his arms to encompass their surroundings. "Rose Tyler, welcome to the Warehouse."
Rose was less than impressed, but she played along. He was gorgeous like this: glasses askew, hair wild, eyes dancing win an excitement she couldn't help but reciprocate. "What's that when it's at home?"
He wiggled his fingers and she took his hand, bumping his shoulder playfully with her own as he pulled her along. "There has been a Warehouse in existence almost since humanity discovered fire," he told her. The glasses and the suit gave him the air of a rather scatterbrained professor and the tone he used (Rose labeled it, privately of course, his lecture voice) did nothing to detract from the image. "Certain clever people recognized that bits of technology, they call them 'artifacts,' are too dangerous to remain in circulation; so they box them up and store them here."
Rose nodded. "Like the end of Indiana Jones-the first one, not the one with Sean Connery or the one with the aliens."
He gave her a fond, proud look that warmed her down to the tips of her toes. "Exactly, except the Warehouse isn't run by the government."
She blinked. "Really?"
"Yep." He popped the 'p.' "Really."
"Who keeps the lights on, then?"
"The Warehouse is more than just a building," the Doctor explained. "It's an organization, a group of people devoted to the idea that everything comes with a price-especially miracles. Even though the Americans host the Warehouse, technically it doesn't 'belong' to any country." The smile dropped from his face, and an edge crept into his voice. "There are things that could destroy the world here, things that warp reality and kill, if given half a chance. What person could resist the allure of that kind of power?" He pointed to a dusty megaphone on a shelf just above Rose's head. "That belonged to Adolf Hitler, a man who had enough charisma to persuade an entire country to murder a group of its own citizens in the hopes that they would once again be great. It lends whoever uses it that same charisma-but it also magnifies their cruelty and feeds their ambitions until they're willing to do absolutely anything to remain in power. The Warehouse is neutral; the only laws it has are its own, which makes it dangerous, but the purpose is essentially good. There have been Warehouses in more than a dozen countries-Egypt, for example, and England."
She squeezed his hand. "So it's what-magic, that makes these things work?"
He scoffed. "No such thing as magic, Rose. It's science, just a different sort than you're used to." The Doctor frowned thoughtfully and swung their joined hands between them. "Remember what I said about parallel universes?"
"That there's a nearly infinite number an' they all split off after something went differently than it did in the original universe?" she asked.
"Exactly. Way back at the very beginning of the universe there were beings who could harness and channel psychic energy-what you lot call 'magic.' My people thought it was the first split between worlds, when this universe selected for a science based on numbers. Psychic energy relies on words and feelings," he continued. "But the universe never forgets. The potential is still there, you see, and there are still people who can access psychic energy, but it's a throwback, like human scientists think the appendix is. Sometimes when humans are under a great deal of stress they tap into that energy and create an artifact. Quite a few start out good, helpful even, but just like your appendix can get infected and eventually kill you, artifacts have a habit of turning on whoever is using them."
"Great," Rose retorted sarcastically, and the smile on her face was less than pleased. "I'm standing in the universe's appendix."
"If you'd like to think of it like that." As quickly as it had come, the darkness was gone, and he was back to his usual chipper self. "I prefer to think of it as 'Antiques Roadshow' with a bit more oomph, but to each his own, I suppose."
They walked in silence for a bit. The Doctor seemed to know exactly where to go, but Rose was lost five minutes in. The shelves all looked the same, except for what they held, and seemed to stretch on forever. "All of these artifacts use psychic energy, then?"
"Hmm? Oh, no. Most of them are, but a few are alien or future tech. Some are the result of humans trying to adapt alien technology, and vice versa." He paused in an intersection and examined the three aisles in front of them studiously.
"S that why we're here?"
The Doctor cocked an eyebrow at her. "Do I need a reason to take you somewhere brilliant?"
"Specifically?" she asked and bumped his shoulder again. She couldn't stop the smile that spread across her face when he bumped back. "Yes. You most certainly do."
His answering smile was just a tad sheepish, and he tugged at his ear. Rose resolved for the thousandth time never to let him play poker-he was terrible at bluffing. "I have been known to find certain items for the TARDIS in the various incarnations of the Warehouse. She's telepathic, and she can channel psychic energy. There's something here that will help with the translation circuit, and I want her in peak condition. Falling into the center of a moderately large asteroid isn't good for her, you know."
"Wasn't good for you either, but you still went," she noted.
"And if I hadn't we never would have made it off that asteroid in one piece, not without bringing something terrible back with us," he reminded her.
Rose said nothing. He could explain until he was blue in the face; it didn't change the despair she'd felt when Ida had told her that he had fallen. She examined the items on the shelf nearest to her. There was one that caught her eye, a battered brass kettle. It was so ordinary, how could it possibly be dangerous enough to warrant storage in a place that held items powerful enough to destroy the world? Touching it was a reflex, and she didn't even notice that her hand was moving toward the kettle until the Doctor wrapped his fingers around her wrist and pulled her away.
"Don't touch anything," he ordered. "Was I not clear? These things are dangerous, Rose. Appearances can be deceiving."
"Sorry." They had little regard for personal space, but her whole body was aware of how close he was. He could feel it too, she knew he could from the way his eyes flicked down to her lips and the way his grip on her wrist shifted, became almost a caress.
"Right!" He broke the moment, as he always did, and the emotional whiplash left her grasping for equilibrium. "Are you okay?"
"Fine," she assured him and squeezed his hand. "Further up and further in, yeah?"
He squeezed back. "Yeah."
"There's really no need for weapons," the Doctor protested as Pete kept the Tesla fixed on them. He edged to the side, subtly trying to shield Rose but Pete shifted his aim.
"Nice try," the agent said. "But we're not stupid. Stay put and keep your hands where we can see them. Myks?"
"Artie wants them upstairs," the replied.
"This is all a misunderstanding," the Doctor tried to explain. "I've got identification in my jacket pocket-if I may?"
"Slowly," Pete instructed.
The Doctor reached into the breast pocket of his jacket, pulled out the psychic paper, and flipped it open so that Pete and Myka could see it. They studied the paper intently. "See?" he asked. "I'm Dr. James McCrimmon, here to inspect your neutralizing agent, and this is my assistant, Rose Tyler."
"I'd wave," the companion in question remarked dryly, "but I'd rather not get shot."
Pete let the tip of the Tesla dip toward the floor.
"What the hell are you doing?" Myka demanded.
"He's got ID," Pete replied, clearly confused.
Myka grabbed the Tesla and swung it back into place-aimed at the Doctor. "I don't know what you're trying to pull, buddy, but that paper's blank."
Pete blinked. "No it isn't. It says right there." He pointed. "Dr. James McCrimmon, Building and Maintenance."
"It's a fake, Pete." She glanced over. "I think it's time for the handcuffs."
"That's fantastic," Rose bit out as Pete pulled her arms behind her back and fastened the cuffs securely around her wrists. "Handcuffs. Again. You take me to all the best places, Doctor."
"I'll take that." Myka pocketed his psychic paper as she cuffed him. "I'm sure Artie will want to examine it."
"Oi!" he protested but Myka ignored him. "That's mine! It's rude to confiscate it like that, seeing as we were minding our own business." He threw a pleading look in Rose's direction but she was having none of it. She turned her head and marched primly in front of Pete.
Artie and Claudia met them at the elevator just outside the command center. Pete gestured at the two chairs which sat in the middle of the room, and Rose and the Doctor sat. The handcuffs made it awkward, but they managed.
"So," Artie began as he glared at them. "These are our thieves?"
Claudia waved the radiation detector over them and it let out a series of high-pitched beeps. "Whoa. Do you guys glow in the dark? Because the levels this baby's picking up are astronomical."
"Doctor?" Rose's eyes were wide and frightened.
"That doohickey there must register Artron," he explained. "It's a sort-of background radiation, comes from travel through the Vortex. It's very traceable, but harmless. Good for you, actually, beefs up the human immune system. Ever wondered why you didn't need shots, going to all those different times and places? Diseases evolve too, you know, but Artron energy lets your immune system compensate. Handy, that."
"So everywhere we go we leave some of that-Artron-behind?" she asked.
"Yep." He popped the 'p,' but his eyes were hard as he regarded Myka and the others. "Very clever, tracking it. Sometimes I underestimate humans."
Artie stood in front of them and crossed his arms. "Who do you work for? What organization do you represent? Where are the artifacts you've taken?"
The Doctor snorted. "Me? Work? I don't work for anyone, not anymore. UNIT once, and the Council occasionally, but that was ages ago. Lifetimes-literally."
"Where have you hidden the artifacts you stole?" he continued.
"Stole!" the Doctor exclaimed. "I didn't steal anything. I borrowed one or two," Rose shot him a look, "or maybe a few dozen," he amended, "items, but it's all perfectly legitimate. I have permission to be here and everything, just ask Mrs. Frederic."
Artie opened his mouth to reply and the Warehouse door swung open. A tall woman in a leather jacket and blue blouse stepped inside. She had fair skin and black hair, and high, prominent cheekbones. She was beautiful in an elegant sort of way that was distinctly at odds from her practical clothing.
"Leena's just behind me," she told Pete, Myka, Artie, and Claudia. "Have we apprehended the criminals yet? They must be master thieves to…" Her eyes flickered to the side, where Rose and the Doctor were sitting, and whatever she was going to say died in her throat. She stared at the two of them for a moment, and then she took a hesitant step forward. "Doctor?" she asked.
The indignation at his capture and subsequent interrogation smoothed from his face and was replaced by genuine pleasure. "Hello, Helena," he replied. "It's been a while."
"It certainly has." Humor crept back into her voice as she noticed the handcuffs. "What have you done this time?"
"Oi!" he protested. "I haven't done anything! Why does everyone always assume I've done something?"
Rose snorted. "Yeah, pull the other one-s' got bells on it, Doctor."
"Cheeky," he admonished, but his smile took the bite out of his words. "Rose Tyler, let me introduce Helena Georgina Wells-inventor and Warehouse agent, or H.G. Wells, as she's better known."
"Hello," Rose said. "He's told me loads about you. Did you really base The Time Machine off of his stories?"
Artie bristled. "You know this man?" he demanded.
Helena nodded. "The Doctor is a friend of the Warehouse. He had the run of Warehouse twelve." She didn't reply to Rose at all; in fact, she seemed to avoid looking at the young woman-and there was something like guilt in the set of her shoulders and the way her hands toyed with the hem of her jacket.
"So, H.G. says he's okay," Pete pointed out. "And they haven't tried to hurt us at all. They haven't even tried to run. Maybe we should just call Mrs. Frederic…"
"And how do I know you're not in it together?" Artie shot back. "The Regents said I have to tolerate you, they never said I have to trust you."
"Artie?" Leena walked into the room. "H.G. said you needed me?"
Part Two