Moving Forward 4/20
Title: Moving Forward (4/20)
Author: checksandplaid
Pairing: Gwen/Jack, Gwen/Martha friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4185
Warnings: Spoilers through Children of Earth,
Notes:Cross posted to jack_and_gwen and progwenallies. Comments and criticism welcome.
Summary: When you have nothing left, how do you live? Where do you go? What do you do? An alternate turn of events to 'Miracle Day'
Chapter 1:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/984.html#cutid1
Chapter 2:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1119.html#cutid1
Chapter 3:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1318.html#cutid1
The sun is rising over the sea as Martha enters the warehouse and a scream breaks the silence. Drawing her pistol, she finds this appropriate in a twisted sort of way. It wouldn’t be a proper first day unless it began with an emergency. She hesitates momentarily before the closed office door, confirming the location of the disruption, before kicking the door in. The screaming continues, but rather than being in any obvious danger, Gwen is tangled in a sleeping bag, thrashing and screaming, and dead asleep. Martha sighs with relief, returning her gun to its holster. Tentatively she gives Gwen’s shoulder a shake, dodging a flailing elbow. The only effect this seems to have is increasing the volume of Gwen’s wailing. Resisting the urge to cover her ears and retreat, Martha shakes Gwen vigorously, trying to out-shout her. “Gwen? Gwen! GWEN!” The screaming stops abruptly and Gwen goes rigid, tears leaking freely from her wide-open eyes.
Gwen lies motionless and silent for a long time before she feels for Martha’s hand, and grasps her fingers tightly. “Martha?”
“I’m here Gwen.” On impulse she strokes a few strands of sweat soaked hair out of her boss’ face.
Gwen struggles out of the restraining sleeping bag and wraps her arms around her knees. Just a dream.
“You want to talk about it?” Martha offers, unsurprised when Gwen shakes her head no.
The horror recedes slowly as Gwen’s awareness returns to her. She doesn’t have the words to accurately convey the terror and misery she had lived while asleep. Even in her head the terror of being eaten alive by her zombie husband while Jack looked on, reciting Emily Dickenson, is simply absurd. “Just… give me a minute.” She stumbles to the bathroom, wrenching the shower dial to hot, and collapses under the icy torrent, sobbing uncontrollably as the water gradually warms to a comfortable temperature. When she has cried herself dry, she feels a little stronger, less fragile. Ready to begin her morning routine, she cleans herself, dries off, dresses, and makes coffee.
Martha is perched on the cot when Gwen exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, flipping through a stack of papers. “What’s on today’s agenda?”
Gwen sits in her chair, sipping too-hot coffee and pondering the question. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday. The two of us aren’t really enough to complete the objectives of this organization, even if we do regularly liaison with the police and UNIT, and I would like us to be able to operate independently in times of need. I need someone who can manage the technological side of things, in particular.” She flaps her hand at the computer, “I barely understand how to keep our security systems current; any real upgrading is beyond me.”
Martha nods. “I think I know just the person for that; one of the contractors I worked with in UNIT has been looking for a new assignment. What else do you want for your ideal team?”
“I really don’t know how Jack did any of this. As far as I know, he never set out deliberately to assign or fill particular roles. He just kind of stumbled into people when he needed them.”
Martha dismisses the mention of Jack Harkness with a casual flick of her hand. “Forget Jack. Don’t think about how he did it. This is your team now. What do you want us to have?”
Gwen considers the question, trying to imagine her ideal team for Torchwood. A memory of her old team immediately springs to mind: complimentary personalities and skillsets working in synchronization capable of stopping any disaster. This isn’t helping. Try harder. She scolds herself, trying to approach the question from a different angle. “We need more field agents; the two of us aren’t nearly enough. Even collaborating with other groups, we need to be able to handle a small crisis independently. I think four active in the field is good, five or six would be better. I suppose between the two of us we could train anyone for the task, but I’d be more comfortable with a third agent who came to us at least partially trained.” She takes a moment to organize her thoughts before continuing again, “We’ll need someone capable of providing remote back up, too. I’d like to have that role filled by someone other than a field agent, maybe an administrator of some kind. I can get my own coffee, but it would be good to have someone who can keep track of the documentation and recording side of things. If they can handle coordinating with the other organizations that would be just about perfect.” And if they can provide emotional balance and dry wit in times of crisis so much the better. She rubs her forehead, feeling a headache forth-coming. “I might know someone who can be trained for that position.” Lois Habiba had done admin work for the bloody Prime Minister and more than demonstrated her cleverness and courage during the 456 crisis. It’s the best idea she has right now, if Lois has found something better, Gwen will think of something else. Maybe there’s a board for secret government organization postings for vacancy “See when your contractor is willing to come in for an interview. There’s a workstation set up in the other room for you.” She waves Martha away and begins searching for Lois in the database of civilian populations. It’s the work of a moment to pull up Lois Habiba’s records and find her phone number. “Hello, Lois? This is Gwen Cooper from Torchwood. Do you have a moment?”
There’s a pause and muffled sounds of shouting before Lois responds, sounding frazzled. “Hello, Gwen. What can I do for you?”
That sounds like a promising start to Gwen, if Lois is didn’t want anything to do with Torchwood she wouldn’t immediately offer her assistance. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get back to you. Would you like that job I offered you, back at the diner?”
There’s a sigh at the end of the line and then a muffled, “Just a minute, I said! I’m on the phone!” Lois hesitates before responding. “Look, Ms. Cooper. I’m honored by this offer and that you remembered me. But I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for. Whatever I did last year, I’m not like that, not really. You probably want someone else for your Torchwood. Someone heroic, like you.”
Gwen presses on, deciding to save the discussion about the meaning and merits of bravery for a different time. “I’m looking for an administrative assistant, actually: answering phones, ordering supplies, archives management.”
“Oh.” There’s hope in Lois’s voice now. “Yes, I mean, I’d like to learn more about the opportunity.”
“I know it’s a bit out of the way for you, but I’d like you to come down and see the premises, meet the team before saying yes or no.” She pauses as there’s a grating sound and more muffled shouting. “We’re just west of the Plass on the A4232. Warehouse 837. When it’s convenient for you to come by, give me a call and we’ll set something up.”
More muffled arguing on the other end of the line. “Would you have time this evening to see me?”
“I’ll be here, pending any imminent disasters. Give me a call when you’re an hour away; I’ll let you know where I am, if not here. See you in a bit.” Call ended, Gwen stretches and gets up; that had gone better than she had expected. Her case had probably been generously aided by someone on the other end; generally people content with their situations didn’t just decide on a whim to take the three hour trip from London to Cardiff merely to investigate a potential job offer. She walks into the conference room and finds Martha staring grumpily at her computer, drumming her fingers on the keyboard, unable to bypass the login screen without a preset password. “It’s JonesM10141986, capital ‘J’ and ‘M’.” She leans against an overflowing filing cabinet, watching as Martha enters the password, and pokes around her new Torchwood account. “I have someone coming to interview for the admin posting. Have you heard anything from your contractor?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty excited. Said he’d come by this afternoon for an interview, if that’s convenient. I figured it would be alright with you. The sooner we fill the roster a little, the faster we can work through everything else.” Martha pushes herself away from the table to face Gwen. “I did a little looking around last night before I left. I don’t see the point to dedicating a lot of resources to make a full scale medical bay and laboratory here. I should be able to get by with a good first aid kit for most medical emergencies. I drew up a more complete list of stuff that would be good to have for a more permanent location.” She passes a manila folder to Gwen. “Lab analysis will be a bit harder, but rather than try to implement any half measures, I think it would be best to use outside facilities and outside talent, at least until the permanent location is open. I’m a medic, not a micro-biologist and certainly not a chemist or a physicist.” She shrugs off the discomfort of admitting her shortcomings aloud. “I should be able to figure out what something’s composed of, isolate any alien compounds of molecules and compare them to your existing database; but if there are no preexisting matches I’ll need some help. Maybe someone at the university would be interested in working with us.”
Gwen shakes her head. “We should cross that bridge when we come to it. I don’t like the idea of exposing civilians to unknown dangers. What if it’s toxic? Or radioactive?”
Martha gives her an amused look. “You can probably find some bright up and coming grad student who’d set himself on fire to be the one who identifies a brand new alien element, even if it is dangerous. And if we get to that point, we’ll devise appropriate safety measures before any other action is taken.”
“That reminds me of something I was thinking about after you left last night. We’ve got a whole bunch of procedures for dealing with known alien races. I’m not sure how to handle new ones, or even write new instructions.”
“How did you come up with the existing procedures?”
Gwen bangs her fist on the cabinet with annoyance. “I have no idea! Jack always knew exactly how to take one alive, and how to keep it contained so it could be studied and a procedure would be issued based on the dangers it posed and the weaknesses Owen or Jack discovered.” Frustration feels good. It’s a nice, safe, emotion, better than sadness or emptiness. Damn Jack Harkness for not enabling her to run this any better. Why did he have to be so secretive about basic company policy? Stupid.
Martha shrugs, “We can do something like that if we need to. We can’t expect any first attempts to succeed, but we don’t have any facilities we can dedicate to containment right now so we can focus on neutralization. And you never know; maybe we’ll get lucky and there won’t be any nasty surprises until after our new facilities are available.” She rolls her eyes at the amount of blind faith they’re putting into the rift to not dump something horribly unmanageable on them. It’s tempting certain fate.
Gwen nods, her thoughts running in a similarly helpless vein. It’s probably the best they can do for now. When something new and horrible falls in her lap, they’ll figure out a clever solution out of sheer necessity. “Go take a break, and bring me back some coffee.” Martha promises and departs, and Gwen places an order for two more computers, three desks and chairs. The conference room seems like it would be too cramped for three people to use as an office, maybe there’s a section of the larger storage space she can convert to a temporary office for the incoming staff. Then Martha could convert the conference room into her med-lab. New floor-plan satisfactorily mapped out, she resumes shifting garbage out of the main floor into the dumpster. She’s unloading her second trip when a large truck backs up to the entrance of the warehouse, men in the UNIT coveralls hanging off the sides.
“Afternoon, Ms. Cooper.” A giant blond Viking of a man vaults out of the driver’s seat and makes a quick gesture to the men, who begin unpacking the contents of the truck and carrying it inside. “We figured you’d be just about settled in here, so we brought you a nice house warming present: six tons of prime junk.” He grins down at Gwen. “You’ll be happy to know that most of the construction material is here already. The boss asks that in the next week or so you come by and let us grunts know how to best move your files and boxes. The lower levels where you kept all that shit’s a bit dusty, but not too badly messed up.” He gives the dumpster a perfunctory glance, and grins at Gwen. “And I’ll see about someone coming to empty this out for you. The higher ups were sure it would take you longer to fill her up.”
Gwen nods, “I’ll come by when I can.” If I can work up the nerve to set foot in there again. “Thank you, erm...”
He pauses, and then smiles. “Samson, Ms. Cooper. Larry Samson. And it’s my pleasure.”
Gwen stays out of the way until the drop off is completed, pleased by the smooth efficacy the laborers display while moving six tons of material. Alone again, she surveys the delivery. A great many artefact vaults, some locked and intact, others forced into odd shapes, locking mechanism broken or missing. A lot more concrete, but kept separate along with several large panes worth of broken glass. The fourth wall of Jack’s office, shattered by the explosion. It makes his abandonment a little more real somehow. He’s gone and someday she’ll get used to the idea. But it’s not fair. He should be here to comfort her, rebuild with her. Working together they could have made Torchwood truly great. Instead he left, abandoned her in her moment of greatest need out of cowardice. She presses cold fingertips against her burning eyelids. Be strong, Gwen. You have to be strong. Wash your face, drink some coffee, and find people to help you rebuild. You can do this. You have to do this. She’s not going to fall apart. Everything will be fine. Seizing control of her pieces, Gwen goes out to retrieve her barrow and resumes throwing garbage out. She’s disposing of more concrete when she hears Martha enter.
“Gwen? He’s here.”
Gwen removes her protective gloves and tucks them into her back pocket, coming in to see the contractor. She moves in to shake his hand. “Hello..?”
“Gwen, this is Mickey Smith, UNIT contractor, software designer, professional alien hunter, and my husband.”
Gwen freezes at the last one. Breathe. Other people get married. Just breathe. Focus. “You didn’t say he was your husband.”
Martha stands her ground. “Is it relevant?” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Oh, here’s your coffee.” She passes the warm paper cup over. After a slightly awkward pause she announces, “I’m gonna leave you two to the interview. I’ll be throwing out concrete if you need me for anything.”
They watch her go, and then Mickey smiles at Gwen warmly and shakes her hand. “It’s great to finally meet you in person, Director Cooper.”
Gwen stares up at him, trying to place his face. He does seem vaguely familiar. “Gwen, please. I’m sorry. You look very familiar. I just can’t remember where we’ve met.”
The younger man gives her a sympathetic smile. “Your team worked with us when the Earth was relocated to the Medusa Cascade, a few years ago. You guys were a great help.”
Gwen remembers the event vaguely, working desperately with Ianto, stuck inside the Hub, facing their certain death to help the far away crew. “You save the world often?”
“No more than I can help.” He smirks. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, you know?”
“All too well, I’m afraid.” She’s warming to this man despite her reservations about having a husband-wife pairing as a part of her team. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your expertise?”
“I spent three years as an independent operative fighting the Cybermen. I was an infiltrator at Torchwood London when the Battle for Canary Wharf started. You know about the next bit with the Medusa Cascade and the Daleks. I also ran the site ‘Defending the Earth’; I thought it was important to keep a public record of everything that’s happened, so that no one can ever forget. That kind of fell by the wayside when I decided to go freelance alien hunting. I’ve been doing that the last few years, mostly in South America and Africa.”
“Why did you decide to go freelance?” It’s the first time Gwen’s heard of a successful freelance hunter. Torchwood ran into them occasionally, many were frauds but all of them were unprepared.
Mickey shrugs, “Organizations are great if you have the infrastructure to support them, but not all places are so fortunate. I found that freelance work is a bit more flexible in where it can go and what it can do.”
He sounds too good to be true. “What made you decide to stop, then?”
Mickey stares off into space for a moment, considering his answer. “I want to be with my wife. And she wants to be here. I kept traveling for a little while after she came here to manage the fallout over the 456 Crisis. I hated being separated from her. And freelancing doesn’t utilize my full skillset. I’m a trained software engineer, I wrote the program and designed the hardware that Martha’s tracker uses. It can pick up and follow the radiation trail that aliens coming through the rift leave. During my tenure at Torchwood London I learned a bit about identifying and weaponizing rift debris.”
That’s better than too good to be true. “Let me tell you a bit about what I’m looking for.” Gwen ticks the points off on her fingers. “We desperately need someone to keep our connections to the CCTV networks and satellites open, and make sure our existing software and scans are updated as we learn more about aliens. We also need someone who can design and run the experimental artefact identification tests. I could also use your ability in the field, once we have an alternative for remote backup.”
He nods decisively. “I’ll do it.”
“Great. Can you start tomorrow?” She’d have to be mad to not hire him on the spot. Gwen knows she could search the world over and not find someone as perfectly qualified as Mickey Smith. Her telephone vibrates, and a text message from Lois appears: ‘Be there soon.’
Gwen’s waiting outside when Lois pulls up, lounging on the bench outside her door in the last rays of the setting sun. She stands and walks forward to greet the younger woman. “It’s been a while, Lois. How’ve you been?”
“It’s been a long six months.” Lois shrugs slightly, exchanging a brief one armed hug with Gwen and looks around. “Where is everyone else?”
“I’m making a new team, now. I’d be honored if you joined it.”
“Why did you think of me?” Lois is flattered, and a little shocked that after six months of silence the offer of work had turned out to be honest.
“Why don’t you come inside and I’ll explain.” Gwen leads her into the warehouse. “This place needs an administrator. And I don’t mean someone I don’t know to get me coffee and do the faxing and greet visitors. You’ll be handling all our phone traffic, particularly coordinating with other organizations to ensure proper cooperation and distribution of labor. You’ll also handle the brunt of the paperwork: compiling reports of our field activity, ordering supplies, and serve as our archivist.” At the younger girl’s look of disbelief, she forestalls any comments with a gesture and continues: “It sounds like a lot of fancy stuff, but it’s all stuff that you’re more than capable of. Most of the coordination will be relaying my orders to them, and keeping us updated in the field. If you like, once you’re comfortable with your primary roles, we can cross train you to fill other assitant roles, depending on your interest and time constraints.” She gives Lois her brightest smile. “How does it sound?”
Lois takes a long moment to process that speech. “You think I can do all that?”
“I’m certain of it. You’re clever, brave, and work under pressure admirably. Don’t give me an answer right now, here’s Martha Jones and Mickey Smith. He’s just as new as you are.”
The older man doesn’t look much like new, but Lois returns their greeting politely.
Martha picks up on her London accent immediately. “Do you need a place to stay until you get on your feet here?”
Lois hasn’t said yes yet, but she knows she’ll regret it if she doesn’t at least try. It must be better than sitting around her mother’s house, unemployed. She shrugs, feigning lack of concern. “I was going to stay in a motel until I had some time to look around.”
Martha rolls her eyes at that. “Don’t be silly. Mickey and I have a guest room. The motels here are absolutely rubbish. I don’t know how the rats bring themselves to live there.” She glares at Mickey as he snickers at her tirade. “What? Even rats have standards, you know.”
Lois accepts, and Gwen smiles with thinly veiled satisfaction. “Why don’t you three go home and get her settled? I’ll see you in the morning.” She waves them off, gently refusing their invitations to join them; busying herself with collecting the conveniently timed delivery of computers and office equipment she had ordered last night.
Gwen finds a proper sized stretch of wall near one of the doors with only a few crates in the way. Once she clears the necessary space, she drags the packaged desks out, and assembles them quickly. She brings the shipment of computers over, and assembles one on each desk. After toying with the idea of leaving them for someone else to plug in tomorrow morning, she sets them up, and attaches each to the network. Three office chairs complete the picture, and she sighs. It’s probably a good thing to fill so many positions so quickly. Now that they’re here, maybe Torchwood can begin progressing.
But it’s a struggle to not compare them to their predecessors. She can’t help but feel like she’s trying to artificially replace her lost friends with the new medic, hacker, and administrator. She’s being unfair to her old team: Ianto, Own, and Tosh were never merely the roles they filled. Her relationships with them had been built over time; solidified by desperation, terror, need, and caring. It’s stupid to think that their memories will feel betrayal because she had to hire new workers. Deep down she also knows that Mickey, Martha, and Lois all carry the same potential to become dearly important to her. But is that something she should allow? Whatever skills and experiences they have, she has to be the one leading them. Could she order them on missions they might not come back from if she loves them, knows that they have families waiting for their return? She isn’t sure she could, even if they were anonymous soldiers or coppers. She’s no more capable of sending strangers to their death than her friends. Not without taking the lion’s share of the risk herself. At least there she can try to emulate Jack’s methods. She can always be the first in and the last out; she will never leave one of her people left behind. It’s the least she can do for people who may have to put their lives on the line to follow her orders.
The air in the warehouse is too still; Gwen locks the door behind her and strolls toward the docks. Is this what Jack had envisioned her rebuilding Torchwood as? Cardiff’s first line of defense against alien invasion and attack. True, he had built something very different, but in the end their goals converge. This is when everything happens, and Torchwood needs to be ready. A terrible sense of urgency weighs on her mind as she paces along the waterway, sea breezes cooling her flushed skin, drying tears before they fall. She has no guidance, no one to turn to who can steer her down the right path. But she will be ready. Whatever the cost, her small piece of Earth will be protected.
Author: checksandplaid
Pairing: Gwen/Jack, Gwen/Martha friendship
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4185
Warnings: Spoilers through Children of Earth,
Notes:Cross posted to jack_and_gwen and progwenallies. Comments and criticism welcome.
Summary: When you have nothing left, how do you live? Where do you go? What do you do? An alternate turn of events to 'Miracle Day'
Chapter 1:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/984.html#cutid1
Chapter 2:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1119.html#cutid1
Chapter 3:http://checksandplaid.livejournal.com/1318.html#cutid1
The sun is rising over the sea as Martha enters the warehouse and a scream breaks the silence. Drawing her pistol, she finds this appropriate in a twisted sort of way. It wouldn’t be a proper first day unless it began with an emergency. She hesitates momentarily before the closed office door, confirming the location of the disruption, before kicking the door in. The screaming continues, but rather than being in any obvious danger, Gwen is tangled in a sleeping bag, thrashing and screaming, and dead asleep. Martha sighs with relief, returning her gun to its holster. Tentatively she gives Gwen’s shoulder a shake, dodging a flailing elbow. The only effect this seems to have is increasing the volume of Gwen’s wailing. Resisting the urge to cover her ears and retreat, Martha shakes Gwen vigorously, trying to out-shout her. “Gwen? Gwen! GWEN!” The screaming stops abruptly and Gwen goes rigid, tears leaking freely from her wide-open eyes.
Gwen lies motionless and silent for a long time before she feels for Martha’s hand, and grasps her fingers tightly. “Martha?”
“I’m here Gwen.” On impulse she strokes a few strands of sweat soaked hair out of her boss’ face.
Gwen struggles out of the restraining sleeping bag and wraps her arms around her knees. Just a dream.
“You want to talk about it?” Martha offers, unsurprised when Gwen shakes her head no.
The horror recedes slowly as Gwen’s awareness returns to her. She doesn’t have the words to accurately convey the terror and misery she had lived while asleep. Even in her head the terror of being eaten alive by her zombie husband while Jack looked on, reciting Emily Dickenson, is simply absurd. “Just… give me a minute.” She stumbles to the bathroom, wrenching the shower dial to hot, and collapses under the icy torrent, sobbing uncontrollably as the water gradually warms to a comfortable temperature. When she has cried herself dry, she feels a little stronger, less fragile. Ready to begin her morning routine, she cleans herself, dries off, dresses, and makes coffee.
Martha is perched on the cot when Gwen exits the bathroom in a cloud of steam, flipping through a stack of papers. “What’s on today’s agenda?”
Gwen sits in her chair, sipping too-hot coffee and pondering the question. “I was thinking about what you said yesterday. The two of us aren’t really enough to complete the objectives of this organization, even if we do regularly liaison with the police and UNIT, and I would like us to be able to operate independently in times of need. I need someone who can manage the technological side of things, in particular.” She flaps her hand at the computer, “I barely understand how to keep our security systems current; any real upgrading is beyond me.”
Martha nods. “I think I know just the person for that; one of the contractors I worked with in UNIT has been looking for a new assignment. What else do you want for your ideal team?”
“I really don’t know how Jack did any of this. As far as I know, he never set out deliberately to assign or fill particular roles. He just kind of stumbled into people when he needed them.”
Martha dismisses the mention of Jack Harkness with a casual flick of her hand. “Forget Jack. Don’t think about how he did it. This is your team now. What do you want us to have?”
Gwen considers the question, trying to imagine her ideal team for Torchwood. A memory of her old team immediately springs to mind: complimentary personalities and skillsets working in synchronization capable of stopping any disaster. This isn’t helping. Try harder. She scolds herself, trying to approach the question from a different angle. “We need more field agents; the two of us aren’t nearly enough. Even collaborating with other groups, we need to be able to handle a small crisis independently. I think four active in the field is good, five or six would be better. I suppose between the two of us we could train anyone for the task, but I’d be more comfortable with a third agent who came to us at least partially trained.” She takes a moment to organize her thoughts before continuing again, “We’ll need someone capable of providing remote back up, too. I’d like to have that role filled by someone other than a field agent, maybe an administrator of some kind. I can get my own coffee, but it would be good to have someone who can keep track of the documentation and recording side of things. If they can handle coordinating with the other organizations that would be just about perfect.” And if they can provide emotional balance and dry wit in times of crisis so much the better. She rubs her forehead, feeling a headache forth-coming. “I might know someone who can be trained for that position.” Lois Habiba had done admin work for the bloody Prime Minister and more than demonstrated her cleverness and courage during the 456 crisis. It’s the best idea she has right now, if Lois has found something better, Gwen will think of something else. Maybe there’s a board for secret government organization postings for vacancy “See when your contractor is willing to come in for an interview. There’s a workstation set up in the other room for you.” She waves Martha away and begins searching for Lois in the database of civilian populations. It’s the work of a moment to pull up Lois Habiba’s records and find her phone number. “Hello, Lois? This is Gwen Cooper from Torchwood. Do you have a moment?”
There’s a pause and muffled sounds of shouting before Lois responds, sounding frazzled. “Hello, Gwen. What can I do for you?”
That sounds like a promising start to Gwen, if Lois is didn’t want anything to do with Torchwood she wouldn’t immediately offer her assistance. “I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get back to you. Would you like that job I offered you, back at the diner?”
There’s a sigh at the end of the line and then a muffled, “Just a minute, I said! I’m on the phone!” Lois hesitates before responding. “Look, Ms. Cooper. I’m honored by this offer and that you remembered me. But I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for. Whatever I did last year, I’m not like that, not really. You probably want someone else for your Torchwood. Someone heroic, like you.”
Gwen presses on, deciding to save the discussion about the meaning and merits of bravery for a different time. “I’m looking for an administrative assistant, actually: answering phones, ordering supplies, archives management.”
“Oh.” There’s hope in Lois’s voice now. “Yes, I mean, I’d like to learn more about the opportunity.”
“I know it’s a bit out of the way for you, but I’d like you to come down and see the premises, meet the team before saying yes or no.” She pauses as there’s a grating sound and more muffled shouting. “We’re just west of the Plass on the A4232. Warehouse 837. When it’s convenient for you to come by, give me a call and we’ll set something up.”
More muffled arguing on the other end of the line. “Would you have time this evening to see me?”
“I’ll be here, pending any imminent disasters. Give me a call when you’re an hour away; I’ll let you know where I am, if not here. See you in a bit.” Call ended, Gwen stretches and gets up; that had gone better than she had expected. Her case had probably been generously aided by someone on the other end; generally people content with their situations didn’t just decide on a whim to take the three hour trip from London to Cardiff merely to investigate a potential job offer. She walks into the conference room and finds Martha staring grumpily at her computer, drumming her fingers on the keyboard, unable to bypass the login screen without a preset password. “It’s JonesM10141986, capital ‘J’ and ‘M’.” She leans against an overflowing filing cabinet, watching as Martha enters the password, and pokes around her new Torchwood account. “I have someone coming to interview for the admin posting. Have you heard anything from your contractor?”
“Yeah, he’s pretty excited. Said he’d come by this afternoon for an interview, if that’s convenient. I figured it would be alright with you. The sooner we fill the roster a little, the faster we can work through everything else.” Martha pushes herself away from the table to face Gwen. “I did a little looking around last night before I left. I don’t see the point to dedicating a lot of resources to make a full scale medical bay and laboratory here. I should be able to get by with a good first aid kit for most medical emergencies. I drew up a more complete list of stuff that would be good to have for a more permanent location.” She passes a manila folder to Gwen. “Lab analysis will be a bit harder, but rather than try to implement any half measures, I think it would be best to use outside facilities and outside talent, at least until the permanent location is open. I’m a medic, not a micro-biologist and certainly not a chemist or a physicist.” She shrugs off the discomfort of admitting her shortcomings aloud. “I should be able to figure out what something’s composed of, isolate any alien compounds of molecules and compare them to your existing database; but if there are no preexisting matches I’ll need some help. Maybe someone at the university would be interested in working with us.”
Gwen shakes her head. “We should cross that bridge when we come to it. I don’t like the idea of exposing civilians to unknown dangers. What if it’s toxic? Or radioactive?”
Martha gives her an amused look. “You can probably find some bright up and coming grad student who’d set himself on fire to be the one who identifies a brand new alien element, even if it is dangerous. And if we get to that point, we’ll devise appropriate safety measures before any other action is taken.”
“That reminds me of something I was thinking about after you left last night. We’ve got a whole bunch of procedures for dealing with known alien races. I’m not sure how to handle new ones, or even write new instructions.”
“How did you come up with the existing procedures?”
Gwen bangs her fist on the cabinet with annoyance. “I have no idea! Jack always knew exactly how to take one alive, and how to keep it contained so it could be studied and a procedure would be issued based on the dangers it posed and the weaknesses Owen or Jack discovered.” Frustration feels good. It’s a nice, safe, emotion, better than sadness or emptiness. Damn Jack Harkness for not enabling her to run this any better. Why did he have to be so secretive about basic company policy? Stupid.
Martha shrugs, “We can do something like that if we need to. We can’t expect any first attempts to succeed, but we don’t have any facilities we can dedicate to containment right now so we can focus on neutralization. And you never know; maybe we’ll get lucky and there won’t be any nasty surprises until after our new facilities are available.” She rolls her eyes at the amount of blind faith they’re putting into the rift to not dump something horribly unmanageable on them. It’s tempting certain fate.
Gwen nods, her thoughts running in a similarly helpless vein. It’s probably the best they can do for now. When something new and horrible falls in her lap, they’ll figure out a clever solution out of sheer necessity. “Go take a break, and bring me back some coffee.” Martha promises and departs, and Gwen places an order for two more computers, three desks and chairs. The conference room seems like it would be too cramped for three people to use as an office, maybe there’s a section of the larger storage space she can convert to a temporary office for the incoming staff. Then Martha could convert the conference room into her med-lab. New floor-plan satisfactorily mapped out, she resumes shifting garbage out of the main floor into the dumpster. She’s unloading her second trip when a large truck backs up to the entrance of the warehouse, men in the UNIT coveralls hanging off the sides.
“Afternoon, Ms. Cooper.” A giant blond Viking of a man vaults out of the driver’s seat and makes a quick gesture to the men, who begin unpacking the contents of the truck and carrying it inside. “We figured you’d be just about settled in here, so we brought you a nice house warming present: six tons of prime junk.” He grins down at Gwen. “You’ll be happy to know that most of the construction material is here already. The boss asks that in the next week or so you come by and let us grunts know how to best move your files and boxes. The lower levels where you kept all that shit’s a bit dusty, but not too badly messed up.” He gives the dumpster a perfunctory glance, and grins at Gwen. “And I’ll see about someone coming to empty this out for you. The higher ups were sure it would take you longer to fill her up.”
Gwen nods, “I’ll come by when I can.” If I can work up the nerve to set foot in there again. “Thank you, erm...”
He pauses, and then smiles. “Samson, Ms. Cooper. Larry Samson. And it’s my pleasure.”
Gwen stays out of the way until the drop off is completed, pleased by the smooth efficacy the laborers display while moving six tons of material. Alone again, she surveys the delivery. A great many artefact vaults, some locked and intact, others forced into odd shapes, locking mechanism broken or missing. A lot more concrete, but kept separate along with several large panes worth of broken glass. The fourth wall of Jack’s office, shattered by the explosion. It makes his abandonment a little more real somehow. He’s gone and someday she’ll get used to the idea. But it’s not fair. He should be here to comfort her, rebuild with her. Working together they could have made Torchwood truly great. Instead he left, abandoned her in her moment of greatest need out of cowardice. She presses cold fingertips against her burning eyelids. Be strong, Gwen. You have to be strong. Wash your face, drink some coffee, and find people to help you rebuild. You can do this. You have to do this. She’s not going to fall apart. Everything will be fine. Seizing control of her pieces, Gwen goes out to retrieve her barrow and resumes throwing garbage out. She’s disposing of more concrete when she hears Martha enter.
“Gwen? He’s here.”
Gwen removes her protective gloves and tucks them into her back pocket, coming in to see the contractor. She moves in to shake his hand. “Hello..?”
“Gwen, this is Mickey Smith, UNIT contractor, software designer, professional alien hunter, and my husband.”
Gwen freezes at the last one. Breathe. Other people get married. Just breathe. Focus. “You didn’t say he was your husband.”
Martha stands her ground. “Is it relevant?” She shifts her weight from foot to foot. “Oh, here’s your coffee.” She passes the warm paper cup over. After a slightly awkward pause she announces, “I’m gonna leave you two to the interview. I’ll be throwing out concrete if you need me for anything.”
They watch her go, and then Mickey smiles at Gwen warmly and shakes her hand. “It’s great to finally meet you in person, Director Cooper.”
Gwen stares up at him, trying to place his face. He does seem vaguely familiar. “Gwen, please. I’m sorry. You look very familiar. I just can’t remember where we’ve met.”
The younger man gives her a sympathetic smile. “Your team worked with us when the Earth was relocated to the Medusa Cascade, a few years ago. You guys were a great help.”
Gwen remembers the event vaguely, working desperately with Ianto, stuck inside the Hub, facing their certain death to help the far away crew. “You save the world often?”
“No more than I can help.” He smirks. “I just happened to be in the right place at the right time, you know?”
“All too well, I’m afraid.” She’s warming to this man despite her reservations about having a husband-wife pairing as a part of her team. “Why don’t you tell me a bit about your expertise?”
“I spent three years as an independent operative fighting the Cybermen. I was an infiltrator at Torchwood London when the Battle for Canary Wharf started. You know about the next bit with the Medusa Cascade and the Daleks. I also ran the site ‘Defending the Earth’; I thought it was important to keep a public record of everything that’s happened, so that no one can ever forget. That kind of fell by the wayside when I decided to go freelance alien hunting. I’ve been doing that the last few years, mostly in South America and Africa.”
“Why did you decide to go freelance?” It’s the first time Gwen’s heard of a successful freelance hunter. Torchwood ran into them occasionally, many were frauds but all of them were unprepared.
Mickey shrugs, “Organizations are great if you have the infrastructure to support them, but not all places are so fortunate. I found that freelance work is a bit more flexible in where it can go and what it can do.”
He sounds too good to be true. “What made you decide to stop, then?”
Mickey stares off into space for a moment, considering his answer. “I want to be with my wife. And she wants to be here. I kept traveling for a little while after she came here to manage the fallout over the 456 Crisis. I hated being separated from her. And freelancing doesn’t utilize my full skillset. I’m a trained software engineer, I wrote the program and designed the hardware that Martha’s tracker uses. It can pick up and follow the radiation trail that aliens coming through the rift leave. During my tenure at Torchwood London I learned a bit about identifying and weaponizing rift debris.”
That’s better than too good to be true. “Let me tell you a bit about what I’m looking for.” Gwen ticks the points off on her fingers. “We desperately need someone to keep our connections to the CCTV networks and satellites open, and make sure our existing software and scans are updated as we learn more about aliens. We also need someone who can design and run the experimental artefact identification tests. I could also use your ability in the field, once we have an alternative for remote backup.”
He nods decisively. “I’ll do it.”
“Great. Can you start tomorrow?” She’d have to be mad to not hire him on the spot. Gwen knows she could search the world over and not find someone as perfectly qualified as Mickey Smith. Her telephone vibrates, and a text message from Lois appears: ‘Be there soon.’
Gwen’s waiting outside when Lois pulls up, lounging on the bench outside her door in the last rays of the setting sun. She stands and walks forward to greet the younger woman. “It’s been a while, Lois. How’ve you been?”
“It’s been a long six months.” Lois shrugs slightly, exchanging a brief one armed hug with Gwen and looks around. “Where is everyone else?”
“I’m making a new team, now. I’d be honored if you joined it.”
“Why did you think of me?” Lois is flattered, and a little shocked that after six months of silence the offer of work had turned out to be honest.
“Why don’t you come inside and I’ll explain.” Gwen leads her into the warehouse. “This place needs an administrator. And I don’t mean someone I don’t know to get me coffee and do the faxing and greet visitors. You’ll be handling all our phone traffic, particularly coordinating with other organizations to ensure proper cooperation and distribution of labor. You’ll also handle the brunt of the paperwork: compiling reports of our field activity, ordering supplies, and serve as our archivist.” At the younger girl’s look of disbelief, she forestalls any comments with a gesture and continues: “It sounds like a lot of fancy stuff, but it’s all stuff that you’re more than capable of. Most of the coordination will be relaying my orders to them, and keeping us updated in the field. If you like, once you’re comfortable with your primary roles, we can cross train you to fill other assitant roles, depending on your interest and time constraints.” She gives Lois her brightest smile. “How does it sound?”
Lois takes a long moment to process that speech. “You think I can do all that?”
“I’m certain of it. You’re clever, brave, and work under pressure admirably. Don’t give me an answer right now, here’s Martha Jones and Mickey Smith. He’s just as new as you are.”
The older man doesn’t look much like new, but Lois returns their greeting politely.
Martha picks up on her London accent immediately. “Do you need a place to stay until you get on your feet here?”
Lois hasn’t said yes yet, but she knows she’ll regret it if she doesn’t at least try. It must be better than sitting around her mother’s house, unemployed. She shrugs, feigning lack of concern. “I was going to stay in a motel until I had some time to look around.”
Martha rolls her eyes at that. “Don’t be silly. Mickey and I have a guest room. The motels here are absolutely rubbish. I don’t know how the rats bring themselves to live there.” She glares at Mickey as he snickers at her tirade. “What? Even rats have standards, you know.”
Lois accepts, and Gwen smiles with thinly veiled satisfaction. “Why don’t you three go home and get her settled? I’ll see you in the morning.” She waves them off, gently refusing their invitations to join them; busying herself with collecting the conveniently timed delivery of computers and office equipment she had ordered last night.
Gwen finds a proper sized stretch of wall near one of the doors with only a few crates in the way. Once she clears the necessary space, she drags the packaged desks out, and assembles them quickly. She brings the shipment of computers over, and assembles one on each desk. After toying with the idea of leaving them for someone else to plug in tomorrow morning, she sets them up, and attaches each to the network. Three office chairs complete the picture, and she sighs. It’s probably a good thing to fill so many positions so quickly. Now that they’re here, maybe Torchwood can begin progressing.
But it’s a struggle to not compare them to their predecessors. She can’t help but feel like she’s trying to artificially replace her lost friends with the new medic, hacker, and administrator. She’s being unfair to her old team: Ianto, Own, and Tosh were never merely the roles they filled. Her relationships with them had been built over time; solidified by desperation, terror, need, and caring. It’s stupid to think that their memories will feel betrayal because she had to hire new workers. Deep down she also knows that Mickey, Martha, and Lois all carry the same potential to become dearly important to her. But is that something she should allow? Whatever skills and experiences they have, she has to be the one leading them. Could she order them on missions they might not come back from if she loves them, knows that they have families waiting for their return? She isn’t sure she could, even if they were anonymous soldiers or coppers. She’s no more capable of sending strangers to their death than her friends. Not without taking the lion’s share of the risk herself. At least there she can try to emulate Jack’s methods. She can always be the first in and the last out; she will never leave one of her people left behind. It’s the least she can do for people who may have to put their lives on the line to follow her orders.
The air in the warehouse is too still; Gwen locks the door behind her and strolls toward the docks. Is this what Jack had envisioned her rebuilding Torchwood as? Cardiff’s first line of defense against alien invasion and attack. True, he had built something very different, but in the end their goals converge. This is when everything happens, and Torchwood needs to be ready. A terrible sense of urgency weighs on her mind as she paces along the waterway, sea breezes cooling her flushed skin, drying tears before they fall. She has no guidance, no one to turn to who can steer her down the right path. But she will be ready. Whatever the cost, her small piece of Earth will be protected.