Not With a Bang (1/10)
Quick (yeah, right) intro: So, I haven’t written fanfic in a good six years or so, and the last ones were silly Harry Potter one-shots. I specialize in short character-driven fiction for my normal work. So I’m as surprised as you are to find that I’m plunging in with a largely plot-driven, novel-length fic in not one, but two fandoms I’ve never written.
It’s a light, frothy cappuccino of a fanfic, with no angst, no shipping, and possibly no skill, but I hope you enjoy it. I certainly am. I mean, when I’m not exclaiming, “Oh, God, what the hell am I doing?”
Continuity notes:
Re: the Doctor. I am taking only the TV movie into account for Eight's continuity, not the spin-off novels or the audios; there are some references to the new series, but nothing spoilery. Also, I know he’s not the most popular, but I don’t think you have to be too familiar with Eight to enjoy the fic. That said, thecosmichobo on YouTube has a fantastic plot-free remix of the television movie if you’d like to familiarize yourself with this lovely man; just skip through and watch the Doctor being awesome. Ignore the rest of it. That's what the rest of us do.
Warehouse 13-wise, it’s definitely post-“Elements” and possibly post-“Burnout.” Tuesday, of course, an episode will turn up to completely Joss every single element of this fanfic, at which point this will be strictly AU. Of course, it contains some elements of a crack theory I had from like the second episode, so it’s probably skirting AU territory anyway.
Finally: 1. This isn't beta'd because it's silly, but I definitely welcome critique and suchlike. 2. Bonus game: See if you can guess or Google the name of the real small town where Chapter 1 is set. kafuness and diet_rae have an unfair advantage over everyone else, though. And no, I don't live there.
God, I hate long author’s notes. Onwards!
Title: Not With a Bang
Author: flamingo_bandit
Fandom: Warehouse 13/Doctor Who crossover
Genre: General, humor
Spoilers: 1x07 “Burnout” to be on the safe side; the 1996 Doctor Who TV movie, if that counts as a spoiler
Rating: PG so far
Warnings: Language, implied gore, obvious lack of beta.
Summary: This time, Pete and Myka aren’t the only ones hunting down an artifact. Part 1 of 10.
Chapter One
Outside, sunlight blazed golden-white, smelling of the nearby lake and approaching autumn. Inside, the same sunlight fell, thick with dust, only in one thin shaft through a broken pane set high in the wall. The basement of the squat Lutheran church smelled faintly of Swedish meatballs and mold, and not at all of blood. Lingering splatters on the matted carpet might have been anything, to someone who didn’t know.
Myka squinted over the crime scene, trying to will a clue, a suggestion, something to reveal itself, but instead she sneezed.
“Bless you,” said the pastor, a bony man with thin white hair and barely visible eyebrows. Myka was impressed-the man had managed to go a whole thirty seconds without saying anything, which she suspected was some sort of record.
“Thanks,” she said distractedly, glancing up at her partner.
Pete also surveyed the site, arms folded. “So you were acquainted with the, uh, the victim?” he asked.
“Oh, very much so,” he replied instantly. “His mother’s played the organ for us every Sunday for thirty-one years. Sam was virtually raised in this basement.”
Yeah, and then he died here, Myka thought, uncharacteristically morbid.
“It’s a shame about Daniel,” he continued. He was, they had discovered already, the sort of man who treated any conversation as an opportunity for a monologue. “He was a good boy. Helped out around the building, participated in the Heritage Days parade every year. Never did get along with Sam, but-not to speak ill of the dead-not many people did. It’s hard to believe he’s capable of murder, though, especially not something like that.”
“Ah,” Myka said, because the pastor had paused for dramatic effect. “We’re still trying to determine if he is, in fact, capable of murder, Pastor Johnson.”
“Did you want to look in the closets?” he offered then. “The last investigator did.”
“Maybe.”
“Sure,” Pete said over her.
“Strange fella, the last guy,” the pastor continued, jingling keys in his pocket as he led them down the hall. “Never did find out exactly where he was from. He’s not with you, is he? English, wore a funny coat?”
“I don’t think so,” Pete said, glancing at Myka with an arched eyebrow.
“Yeah, I guess not. Sounded like he might have been from the Morris campus, told me to call him-you know, I can’t say I remember his name. Strange guy.” Johnson shook his head. “Oh, well, takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, well,” Myka interrupted. “If we could, Pastor, we’d like to take a look around, but we can’t really talk openly about the case if you don’t have clearance. You don’t mind, do you?” Behind the other man, Pete suppressed a smirk, and she sent him a sharp look.
“Oh. Well. I suppose not.” Johnson squared his shoulders, radiating hurt pride, and disappeared up the stairs.
“Very subtle,” Pete said with a grin, and she rolled her eyes. “Your people skills are commendable, anyone ever tell you that? Listen, I still wanted to talk to Daniel’s family.”
Ignoring him, she pushed past his shoulder to the supply closet. “Go ahead. Are you going to look into this mysterious English guy poking around? He’s probably just a . . . a rubbernecker, but . . .” She pulled on the light cord, the bare bulb flickering on with a faint buzz.
Pete snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “Can’t blame him too much. Probably the first excitement since the founding of Podunkia, Minnesota.”
Myka closed her eyes for a moment. “Please do not let anyone hear you call it that,” she said.
“Unless you count being the ‘Home of the World’s Largest Lefse,’” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “What is lefse, anyway?”
“It’s a bread. Swedish or Norwegian or something. I don’t know. Are you going or what?”
“Yeah, yeah. Call me if-”
“I’ll call you if I find something,” she finished. “Which I doubt,” she added under her breath, but he was gone.
+
“So much for wholesome Small Town, USA,” Claudia remarked, picking up a volume from Artie’s stack of books. “Human Sacrifice Rituals. Sounds like a fun read.”
He plucked it back from her hands. “If I have learned nothing else, it’s that small towns are not wholesome, artifacts or not. With them, well.” Artie twirled in his chair, opening to his bookmark. “That’s a whole other ball of wax. In one case, literally.”
“And you’re sure it’s artifacty because . . . ?” She nudged the computer mouse, wanting something to do; she was terrible at the research side of things, but she suspected he’d suck her into it anyway.
“Because what started as a bar fight between two otherwise sane people apparently ended with a guy’s throat getting ripped out,” he answered dryly. “It’s either an artifact or vampires, and I don’t believe in vampires.”
The display froze in front of her. “Your computer’s acting up again.” She flicked her short hair out of her eyes, preparing to start in on the computer.
Without looking up from his book, Artie stretched out a plump hand and smacked the monitor lightly.
“What are you, Fonzie?” But with a fizzling static sound, it unfroze. “Okay, then. It’s not permanent, though. You ever think about maybe getting one that’s not from the Victorian era?”
“Yeah, well,” he said, flipping a page. “It was working fine until someone hacked into it.”
Claudia rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You’re just never letting that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he said, and picked up another book. “Here. Do something useful.”
With a resigned sigh, she took it from him. A Brief History of Lycanthropy. Flipping to the index, she discovered that there was no index, just 1000 pages straight through. “Brief,” she said out loud. “Groovy.” Balancing it on her knees, she let it fall open in the middle, started to read, and studiously ignored Artie’s smug silence.
+
Johnson was no help in finding the English guy, repeating only that he was probably from the university, and Pete let it drop for the moment. Daniel Ericson’s mother owned one of the many antique stores in town, although he discovered as soon as he entered that it tripled as a gift shop and bakery. “Score,” he said out loud, looking around. No one stood at the counter, though he could hear someone shuffling in the back room.
The furniture crowding around him could have been described as antique, but most was merely old and outdated, a graveyard of garish colors and paisley. Nothing struck Pete as a potential artifact, though he took a mental note to come back and dig around. A display of Viking weaponry clustered atop a writing desk beside a huge electric fan, roaring back and forth. A massive angel statue stared down at him from a high shelf to his left, and beside it a one-eyed tabby cat fixed Pete with a lingering glare. He drummed his fingers on the glass desktop, standing on his toes to try to look into the room behind it.
An auburn head poked out of the doorway. “Oh, excuse me,” it said in clipped tones, and the hairs on the back of Pete’s neck prickled. He dropped his hands to his belt, then realized Myka had the Tesla. “Mrs. Ericson, I’m afraid I’m holding you up,” the stranger said to someone in the room. “Forgive me. I’ll return later.” He stepped out of the room, followed by a short, plump woman with silver hair.
“It’s really not a problem,” she was telling the stranger, who shook his head, smiling briefly at Pete as he came around the desk.
“Sir,” Pete said. But the cat took that moment to leap onto his shoulder; releasing a startled yelped, he jumped back into a massive oak cabinet, banging his shoulder hard.
Mrs. Ericson rushed to him, trying to grab either the cat or Pete; he extricated himself from sharp claws and brittle fingers to fling himself out the door after the stranger.
The road was empty.
Pete flipped open his phone, stepping back into the shop. “Myka,” he said as soon as she answered. “The English guy. We need to find him.” He adjusted his coat, discovering several jagged tears along the lapel.
“What?” Her voice was thin through weak reception. “Did you find him?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, shifting position, trying to improve the signal. “I lost him right away, but yeah. I found him.”
“And you got a vibe or what?”
“My Spidey-sense is tingling,” he confirmed, rubbing his bruised shoulder. “Look, I don’t think he’s a suspect, not that kind of vibe, but-anyway, listen, he’s easy to spot. Frock coat, kind of girly hair, one of those old-fashioned ties like he walked out of a Jane Austen movie.”
“A cravat?” she offered.
“Sure. I-Mrs. Ericson, did that man give you a name?”
The old woman shook her head. “He just told me to call him the Doctor.”
“The Doctor,” repeated Pete into the phone. “You got that?”
“Sure. Sure thing, Pete. Listen, I’m almost done here. I’m going to have Artie follow up on what we have so far.”
The cat on the counter was watching him, and Pete held its gaze, refusing to give it the upper hand again. “Yeah, okay. Meet me here when you’re done.” He flipped the phone shut, then turned back to the shop’s owner. “Mrs. Ericson,” he said, approaching. “I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you about your son. And,” he added as an afterthought, “I’d like to hear about this Doctor.”
+
“Damn,” Artie muttered, fingers flickering over the keyboard.
“You know, Macs are expensive, but you get your money’s worth,” Claudia remarked from across the room. Still flipping idly through the book, she slumped in an armchair, ragged gray hoodie pulled up over her ears. The sweatshirt had been Joshua’s once, and its frayed sleeves fell past her fingertips. “Join the twenty-first century, Artie. You know you want to.”
He glanced up briefly, the computer screen reflected blue in his small round glasses, then shook his head. “Not the computer. This Doctor person Myka mentioned.” He opened another tab. “You look in the right places, he’s everywhere. UNIT files, Area 51 files, something called Torchwood in Wales that I can’t get into, even conspiracy forums.” A few more keystrokes, and he leaned forward, squinting. “A lot of contradiction, though. There might be a few people called the Doctor. Or . . .” He trailed off. “Or something else.”
“What? What?” She stood, laying the book precariously on the chair’s arm, the hood falling to her shoulders. “Don’t be suspense guy, what?”
“Hang on,” he said, picking up the Farnsworth.
+
Mrs. Ericson had suggested a few more leads; the only thing she seemed sure about, though, was her son’s innocence. They thought to return to the police station and left the shop, with little information and a consolatory box of cookies. The sun still shone, but dark clouds loomed to the north, and branches overhead rattled in the growing wind.
Myka stopped midstride along the sidewalk, grabbing Pete’s arm. “It’s Artie,” she said, drawing out the Farnsworth.
“You figure?” he answered, but she snapped it open, ignoring him.
“I looked up this Doctor.” Artie looked serious, dark eyebrows drawn together. “I didn’t think I’d find him, but-look, you guys watch out.”
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?” Myka asked, tucking a curl behind her ear, shouting over the sudden wind. “Artie, Pete said-”
“I’m not saying he’s dangerous, exactly.” Artie set the Farnsworth on his desk. The view shook for a second, tilting to the office ceiling and a brief glimpse of Claudia looking over his shoulder, then settled again. “But I am saying he tends to turn up in dangerous situations.”
“Okay,” Pete said from over Myka’s shoulder, “but who is he?”
He coughed into his fist. “I’m, uh, I’m not a hundred percent sure,” he admitted, and there was a clattering sound of his typing. “UNIT had another nameless Doctor on staff a few decades ago, though, and there have been sightings of similar people for-well, for centuries. The UNIT crew called him a science expert. But there are reports . . .” He hesitated, looking skeptical. “Well, they suggested he may have been an alien.”
Myka looked to Pete, whose eyes were very wide. A single bird called in the distance, then stilled. For a moment, there was silence.
“What, seriously?” Claudia’s voice broke through the background, and she snorted audibly.
“Yeah, that,” Myka agreed.
“I’m just telling you what it says, but that’s not the point. Here’s the point,” Artie said, and then suddenly his face loomed huge and severe in the sepia screen. “Watch your backs. The Doctor probably means well. But you know what they say about good intentions.”
He broke the connection.
Myka stared at the screen for a moment, then looked up at Pete. “Well,” she said, pocketing the Farnsworth. Then she shook her head. “He’s not our problem.”
“No, he’s not,” Pete agreed, straightening his back. “Do you want to-”
It must have been a sound that made both look up then, though neither could have stated what.
He wasn’t tall, standing there before them-shorter than Pete, certainly--but he stood straight with a calm, gentle confidence. His golden-dark hair fell in soft curls around his face, and he wore his cravat and gray waistcoat with no apparent self-consciousness. He met their gaze and smiled, a boy’s smile on a grown man’s face.
“Hello,” he said, voice warm and soft as velvet. His eyes were very bright. “I hear you’ve been asking about me.”
It’s a light, frothy cappuccino of a fanfic, with no angst, no shipping, and possibly no skill, but I hope you enjoy it. I certainly am. I mean, when I’m not exclaiming, “Oh, God, what the hell am I doing?”
Continuity notes:
Re: the Doctor. I am taking only the TV movie into account for Eight's continuity, not the spin-off novels or the audios; there are some references to the new series, but nothing spoilery. Also, I know he’s not the most popular, but I don’t think you have to be too familiar with Eight to enjoy the fic. That said, thecosmichobo on YouTube has a fantastic plot-free remix of the television movie if you’d like to familiarize yourself with this lovely man; just skip through and watch the Doctor being awesome. Ignore the rest of it. That's what the rest of us do.
Warehouse 13-wise, it’s definitely post-“Elements” and possibly post-“Burnout.” Tuesday, of course, an episode will turn up to completely Joss every single element of this fanfic, at which point this will be strictly AU. Of course, it contains some elements of a crack theory I had from like the second episode, so it’s probably skirting AU territory anyway.
Finally: 1. This isn't beta'd because it's silly, but I definitely welcome critique and suchlike. 2. Bonus game: See if you can guess or Google the name of the real small town where Chapter 1 is set. kafuness and diet_rae have an unfair advantage over everyone else, though. And no, I don't live there.
God, I hate long author’s notes. Onwards!
Title: Not With a Bang
Author: flamingo_bandit
Fandom: Warehouse 13/Doctor Who crossover
Genre: General, humor
Spoilers: 1x07 “Burnout” to be on the safe side; the 1996 Doctor Who TV movie, if that counts as a spoiler
Rating: PG so far
Warnings: Language, implied gore, obvious lack of beta.
Summary: This time, Pete and Myka aren’t the only ones hunting down an artifact. Part 1 of 10.
Chapter One
Outside, sunlight blazed golden-white, smelling of the nearby lake and approaching autumn. Inside, the same sunlight fell, thick with dust, only in one thin shaft through a broken pane set high in the wall. The basement of the squat Lutheran church smelled faintly of Swedish meatballs and mold, and not at all of blood. Lingering splatters on the matted carpet might have been anything, to someone who didn’t know.
Myka squinted over the crime scene, trying to will a clue, a suggestion, something to reveal itself, but instead she sneezed.
“Bless you,” said the pastor, a bony man with thin white hair and barely visible eyebrows. Myka was impressed-the man had managed to go a whole thirty seconds without saying anything, which she suspected was some sort of record.
“Thanks,” she said distractedly, glancing up at her partner.
Pete also surveyed the site, arms folded. “So you were acquainted with the, uh, the victim?” he asked.
“Oh, very much so,” he replied instantly. “His mother’s played the organ for us every Sunday for thirty-one years. Sam was virtually raised in this basement.”
Yeah, and then he died here, Myka thought, uncharacteristically morbid.
“It’s a shame about Daniel,” he continued. He was, they had discovered already, the sort of man who treated any conversation as an opportunity for a monologue. “He was a good boy. Helped out around the building, participated in the Heritage Days parade every year. Never did get along with Sam, but-not to speak ill of the dead-not many people did. It’s hard to believe he’s capable of murder, though, especially not something like that.”
“Ah,” Myka said, because the pastor had paused for dramatic effect. “We’re still trying to determine if he is, in fact, capable of murder, Pastor Johnson.”
“Did you want to look in the closets?” he offered then. “The last investigator did.”
“Maybe.”
“Sure,” Pete said over her.
“Strange fella, the last guy,” the pastor continued, jingling keys in his pocket as he led them down the hall. “Never did find out exactly where he was from. He’s not with you, is he? English, wore a funny coat?”
“I don’t think so,” Pete said, glancing at Myka with an arched eyebrow.
“Yeah, I guess not. Sounded like he might have been from the Morris campus, told me to call him-you know, I can’t say I remember his name. Strange guy.” Johnson shook his head. “Oh, well, takes all kinds, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, well,” Myka interrupted. “If we could, Pastor, we’d like to take a look around, but we can’t really talk openly about the case if you don’t have clearance. You don’t mind, do you?” Behind the other man, Pete suppressed a smirk, and she sent him a sharp look.
“Oh. Well. I suppose not.” Johnson squared his shoulders, radiating hurt pride, and disappeared up the stairs.
“Very subtle,” Pete said with a grin, and she rolled her eyes. “Your people skills are commendable, anyone ever tell you that? Listen, I still wanted to talk to Daniel’s family.”
Ignoring him, she pushed past his shoulder to the supply closet. “Go ahead. Are you going to look into this mysterious English guy poking around? He’s probably just a . . . a rubbernecker, but . . .” She pulled on the light cord, the bare bulb flickering on with a faint buzz.
Pete snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “Can’t blame him too much. Probably the first excitement since the founding of Podunkia, Minnesota.”
Myka closed her eyes for a moment. “Please do not let anyone hear you call it that,” she said.
“Unless you count being the ‘Home of the World’s Largest Lefse,’” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken. “What is lefse, anyway?”
“It’s a bread. Swedish or Norwegian or something. I don’t know. Are you going or what?”
“Yeah, yeah. Call me if-”
“I’ll call you if I find something,” she finished. “Which I doubt,” she added under her breath, but he was gone.
+
“So much for wholesome Small Town, USA,” Claudia remarked, picking up a volume from Artie’s stack of books. “Human Sacrifice Rituals. Sounds like a fun read.”
He plucked it back from her hands. “If I have learned nothing else, it’s that small towns are not wholesome, artifacts or not. With them, well.” Artie twirled in his chair, opening to his bookmark. “That’s a whole other ball of wax. In one case, literally.”
“And you’re sure it’s artifacty because . . . ?” She nudged the computer mouse, wanting something to do; she was terrible at the research side of things, but she suspected he’d suck her into it anyway.
“Because what started as a bar fight between two otherwise sane people apparently ended with a guy’s throat getting ripped out,” he answered dryly. “It’s either an artifact or vampires, and I don’t believe in vampires.”
The display froze in front of her. “Your computer’s acting up again.” She flicked her short hair out of her eyes, preparing to start in on the computer.
Without looking up from his book, Artie stretched out a plump hand and smacked the monitor lightly.
“What are you, Fonzie?” But with a fizzling static sound, it unfroze. “Okay, then. It’s not permanent, though. You ever think about maybe getting one that’s not from the Victorian era?”
“Yeah, well,” he said, flipping a page. “It was working fine until someone hacked into it.”
Claudia rolled her eyes towards the ceiling. “You’re just never letting that go, are you?”
“Nope,” he said, and picked up another book. “Here. Do something useful.”
With a resigned sigh, she took it from him. A Brief History of Lycanthropy. Flipping to the index, she discovered that there was no index, just 1000 pages straight through. “Brief,” she said out loud. “Groovy.” Balancing it on her knees, she let it fall open in the middle, started to read, and studiously ignored Artie’s smug silence.
+
Johnson was no help in finding the English guy, repeating only that he was probably from the university, and Pete let it drop for the moment. Daniel Ericson’s mother owned one of the many antique stores in town, although he discovered as soon as he entered that it tripled as a gift shop and bakery. “Score,” he said out loud, looking around. No one stood at the counter, though he could hear someone shuffling in the back room.
The furniture crowding around him could have been described as antique, but most was merely old and outdated, a graveyard of garish colors and paisley. Nothing struck Pete as a potential artifact, though he took a mental note to come back and dig around. A display of Viking weaponry clustered atop a writing desk beside a huge electric fan, roaring back and forth. A massive angel statue stared down at him from a high shelf to his left, and beside it a one-eyed tabby cat fixed Pete with a lingering glare. He drummed his fingers on the glass desktop, standing on his toes to try to look into the room behind it.
An auburn head poked out of the doorway. “Oh, excuse me,” it said in clipped tones, and the hairs on the back of Pete’s neck prickled. He dropped his hands to his belt, then realized Myka had the Tesla. “Mrs. Ericson, I’m afraid I’m holding you up,” the stranger said to someone in the room. “Forgive me. I’ll return later.” He stepped out of the room, followed by a short, plump woman with silver hair.
“It’s really not a problem,” she was telling the stranger, who shook his head, smiling briefly at Pete as he came around the desk.
“Sir,” Pete said. But the cat took that moment to leap onto his shoulder; releasing a startled yelped, he jumped back into a massive oak cabinet, banging his shoulder hard.
Mrs. Ericson rushed to him, trying to grab either the cat or Pete; he extricated himself from sharp claws and brittle fingers to fling himself out the door after the stranger.
The road was empty.
Pete flipped open his phone, stepping back into the shop. “Myka,” he said as soon as she answered. “The English guy. We need to find him.” He adjusted his coat, discovering several jagged tears along the lapel.
“What?” Her voice was thin through weak reception. “Did you find him?”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, shifting position, trying to improve the signal. “I lost him right away, but yeah. I found him.”
“And you got a vibe or what?”
“My Spidey-sense is tingling,” he confirmed, rubbing his bruised shoulder. “Look, I don’t think he’s a suspect, not that kind of vibe, but-anyway, listen, he’s easy to spot. Frock coat, kind of girly hair, one of those old-fashioned ties like he walked out of a Jane Austen movie.”
“A cravat?” she offered.
“Sure. I-Mrs. Ericson, did that man give you a name?”
The old woman shook her head. “He just told me to call him the Doctor.”
“The Doctor,” repeated Pete into the phone. “You got that?”
“Sure. Sure thing, Pete. Listen, I’m almost done here. I’m going to have Artie follow up on what we have so far.”
The cat on the counter was watching him, and Pete held its gaze, refusing to give it the upper hand again. “Yeah, okay. Meet me here when you’re done.” He flipped the phone shut, then turned back to the shop’s owner. “Mrs. Ericson,” he said, approaching. “I’m sorry, but I need to talk to you about your son. And,” he added as an afterthought, “I’d like to hear about this Doctor.”
+
“Damn,” Artie muttered, fingers flickering over the keyboard.
“You know, Macs are expensive, but you get your money’s worth,” Claudia remarked from across the room. Still flipping idly through the book, she slumped in an armchair, ragged gray hoodie pulled up over her ears. The sweatshirt had been Joshua’s once, and its frayed sleeves fell past her fingertips. “Join the twenty-first century, Artie. You know you want to.”
He glanced up briefly, the computer screen reflected blue in his small round glasses, then shook his head. “Not the computer. This Doctor person Myka mentioned.” He opened another tab. “You look in the right places, he’s everywhere. UNIT files, Area 51 files, something called Torchwood in Wales that I can’t get into, even conspiracy forums.” A few more keystrokes, and he leaned forward, squinting. “A lot of contradiction, though. There might be a few people called the Doctor. Or . . .” He trailed off. “Or something else.”
“What? What?” She stood, laying the book precariously on the chair’s arm, the hood falling to her shoulders. “Don’t be suspense guy, what?”
“Hang on,” he said, picking up the Farnsworth.
+
Mrs. Ericson had suggested a few more leads; the only thing she seemed sure about, though, was her son’s innocence. They thought to return to the police station and left the shop, with little information and a consolatory box of cookies. The sun still shone, but dark clouds loomed to the north, and branches overhead rattled in the growing wind.
Myka stopped midstride along the sidewalk, grabbing Pete’s arm. “It’s Artie,” she said, drawing out the Farnsworth.
“You figure?” he answered, but she snapped it open, ignoring him.
“I looked up this Doctor.” Artie looked serious, dark eyebrows drawn together. “I didn’t think I’d find him, but-look, you guys watch out.”
“Are you saying he’s dangerous?” Myka asked, tucking a curl behind her ear, shouting over the sudden wind. “Artie, Pete said-”
“I’m not saying he’s dangerous, exactly.” Artie set the Farnsworth on his desk. The view shook for a second, tilting to the office ceiling and a brief glimpse of Claudia looking over his shoulder, then settled again. “But I am saying he tends to turn up in dangerous situations.”
“Okay,” Pete said from over Myka’s shoulder, “but who is he?”
He coughed into his fist. “I’m, uh, I’m not a hundred percent sure,” he admitted, and there was a clattering sound of his typing. “UNIT had another nameless Doctor on staff a few decades ago, though, and there have been sightings of similar people for-well, for centuries. The UNIT crew called him a science expert. But there are reports . . .” He hesitated, looking skeptical. “Well, they suggested he may have been an alien.”
Myka looked to Pete, whose eyes were very wide. A single bird called in the distance, then stilled. For a moment, there was silence.
“What, seriously?” Claudia’s voice broke through the background, and she snorted audibly.
“Yeah, that,” Myka agreed.
“I’m just telling you what it says, but that’s not the point. Here’s the point,” Artie said, and then suddenly his face loomed huge and severe in the sepia screen. “Watch your backs. The Doctor probably means well. But you know what they say about good intentions.”
He broke the connection.
Myka stared at the screen for a moment, then looked up at Pete. “Well,” she said, pocketing the Farnsworth. Then she shook her head. “He’s not our problem.”
“No, he’s not,” Pete agreed, straightening his back. “Do you want to-”
It must have been a sound that made both look up then, though neither could have stated what.
He wasn’t tall, standing there before them-shorter than Pete, certainly--but he stood straight with a calm, gentle confidence. His golden-dark hair fell in soft curls around his face, and he wore his cravat and gray waistcoat with no apparent self-consciousness. He met their gaze and smiled, a boy’s smile on a grown man’s face.
“Hello,” he said, voice warm and soft as velvet. His eyes were very bright. “I hear you’ve been asking about me.”