Notes: In terms of Pete's World, set about twelve years after Journey's End; in terms of the home Universe, sometime before The Pandorica Opens/The Big Bang. Same 'verse as my other Duplicate Tenth stories, but designed to stand on its own. Also, plot. Lots and lots of plot, and therefore a bit outside my comfort zone. I took some liberties with temporal mechanics and took advantage of the eleventh Doctor's tendency to be exceptionally vague and/or downright untruthful when he explains things. Any feedback you guys can give me would be wonderful.

(For people who are as bad with names as I am, Angela Price was the real name of 'Mrs. Moore' from Rise of the Cybermen/Age of Steel. In Age of Steel she tells the Doctor that she has a husband and children who think she's dead, information which the Doctor passes on to Jake with the understanding that he'll inform them of her true end.)

-DW-

"I heard he speaks every language in the Universe."

"I heard he has a password with the highest possible clearance, but he hacks the computers instead, because it's more fun."

"I heard Adams poisoned his tea once, and he just knocked it back, smiled, and asked for another."

"I heard he's a crack shot, too."

Torchwood Agent Liam Price rolled his eyes. He was beginning to regret speaking so freely about being assigned to a team which included the legendary Doctor. The claims were going from amusingly absurd to blatantly false. Everyone knew that the Doctor didn't carry weapons.

"No, really!" Brian insisted, his head jerking in a way which was probably supposed to convey his sincerity, but only succeeded in getting his sandy hair in his eyes. "There was this ship, right, and they were trying to negotiate with it, but then it dropped a missile. No warning, no time to do anything but hit the ground – not for most people. But the Doctor just grabs the nine millimeter from the bloke next to him and shoots it. Just like that, it explodes midair, no harm done. A high-speed missile the size of a teacup. With a handgun."

"That's the least of it," said Jamie, leaning forward. "You know why he doesn't carry weapons himself?"

"Because he doesn't like them?" Liam theorized long-sufferingly, glancing down at the Boss's office. She was doing paperwork, probably still annoyed that HQ had commandeered her techy.

"Because he doesn't need them. I heard he's never hit anyone in his whole life, because he just touches your head –" Jamie tapped his fingers against his temple in demonstration. "—and you go out like a light."

"I heard you go mad," Brian contradicted.

"He doesn't even need to touch you," said Stephen darkly, joining the conversation for the first time. He remained leaning against the railing beside them, limbs held tight to his body and brow lowered in a vaguely sinister expression, as always.

"What d'you mean?" asked Brian, slightly nervously.

"Remember that nutjob militia a few years ago?" asked Stephen, and continued before they could answer. "We got one of their guys, tougher than nails, trained and conditioned to resist interrogation – we worked him for days and couldn't get a word. Then his people captured Agent Tyler."

"Damn," said Jamie, while Brian sucked in a horrified breath and Liam grimaced. Improbable rumors aside, everyone knew that messing with the Tylers was the fastest way in the world to bring the fires of Hell raining down on your head.

"Yeah," Stephen agreed, still trying to sound nonchalant, though he was obviously pleased by the reaction. "The Doctor walked into the interrogation room, calm as anything, and talked. Just talked. Didn't lay a finger on him, but when he walked out five minutes later he had everything we needed to know and the nutjob had a serious case of the shakes."

"Good to know," said Liam, deadpan. "I was planning on doing everything I possibly could to hack off the Doctor, but now that you've told me that, I guess I'll just be professional."

Jamie gave a bark of laughter. Stephen glowered and stalked off with an air of affronted dignity.

"No, but seriously," said Jamie, once their offended colleague was out of sight. "This is incredible, mate. Off to London, to work with the best in the business." He handed Liam his bag and clapped him on the shoulder. "You'd better bring back some stories."

"I will," Liam promised.

-DW-

His friends' stories were not what Liam was thinking about on the three-hour driver from the Cardiff branch of Torchwood to London headquarters. He was thinking about the other stories. The ones which people weren't so eager to share. People still talked – people would talk about anything – but it was in hushed, fervent whispers in corners, not cheerful storytelling around the coffee pot. They seemed too sacred, too secret, too strange to be spoken aloud.

It was said that the Doctor had lived for longer than Torchwood had existed.

It was said that the Doctor sometimes forgot which language he was speaking and, if you were lucky when he did, you could hear the language of the Universe.

It was said . . .

Well. People would say anything.

-DW-

Torchwood London was sleek, and impressive, and huge. Liam stared around the spacious lobby, feeling a little lost and more than a little out of place. It was just after noon, and people were streaming past in both directions, talking and laughing and arguing, some shooting him vaguely curious looks, most not giving him a second glance. It was certainly a far cry from the (charmingly) dank and dark compound which housed the five-person Cardiff team.

If some stranger had walked into the Hub, they'd have had a gun to their head before they had time to twitch. The Boss took confidentiality seriously.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Liam turned. A well-groomed man of about forty stood in front of him, holding a cup of coffee, wearing a very nice suit and a look of polite expectation.

"Uh – yeah, sorry, I'm not quite sure where I'm meant to go. I'm Liam Price." He hastily shifted his bag to his left hand and pulled out his identification.

"Torchwood Cardiff," said the other man, nodding. He handed the ID back to him and extended his hand. "Welcome to London, Agent Price. I'm Ianto Jones."

"Thanks," said Liam, irrationally relieved to have made someone's acquaintance. "Agent Simmonds requested me . . ."

"His office is downstairs," said Agent Jones – Mr. Jones? He looked more like an analyst than a field agent. "I was just headed that way; would you like to accompany me?"

"That would be great, thank you."

Agent Simmonds wasn't on the very bottom floor, but it was close. The elevator ride was a long one; just long enough for the silence to grow awkward. Liam was glad when they finally slowed to a stop and the doors slid open.

"Just this way," said Mr./Agent Jones, leading the way across the half-empty bullpen. Here, Liam attracted a bit more attention; most people spared him at least a passing glance, and he received a piercing look from a sharp-eyed man whom he recognized as the notorious chemist Dr. Adams. The rather unsettling gaze followed him until he and Mr./Agent Jones were down a corridor and out of sight.

"Here we are," said Mr./Agent Jones as they came to a halt in front of a plain, white door, marked only by a simple bronze nameplate. Mr./Agent Jones gave him a nod of farewell, and was gone before Liam could even voice his thanks. Liam steeled himself, raised his hand to knock, and lowered it abruptly.

After straightening his clothes and smoothing his hair, he really did knock.

"Yeah, it's open, come in," came the slightly muffled and also slightly harried response. Fervently hoping that he didn't look as nervous as he felt, Liam pushed the door open.

The last time he had seen Agent Jake Simmonds had been fifteen years ago, when he had appeared on his doorstep to inform him that his mother was dead. Only nine years old at the time, Liam remembered the day as one of confusion more than grief. Of course his mother was dead. She had been for a while now. Except now it turned out that she hadn't been, but she was now, and she was a hero . . . .

It had been the second and last time that Liam had seen his father cry.

Agent Simmonds hadn't been an agent then, of course. He had just been a slightly strange, extremely cool man with spiky hair and clothes like one of those rogue assassins on telly. Liam had decided that he wanted to be just like him when he grew up. But he was too morally conscious to be an assassin, and most government agencies took one look at his school record and wanted to shove him into forensics or IT. Torchwood, it turned out, would give him the excitement he craved and all the alien tech he could dream of. He had leapt at the chance.

All that had brought him here, to the doorway of his idol's office.

Said idol didn't look all that different than Liam remembered. His hair was darker and less aggressively gelled, his clothes slightly more reserved, but the scowl on his face as he glared at his paperwork and the curses he muttered under his breath were sharply reminiscent of the surly, incredibly cool young man who had stood in Liam's childhood home all those years ago.

Liam cleared his throat.

Agent Simmonds looked up, seeming surprised to see Liam standing there.

"Oh, sorry," he said, setting down his pen and standing. "I wasn't expecting you until later. Agent Price, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir," said Liam, shaking his hand firmly. "Liam Price."

"Yeah, of course. Met you before, didn't I? When you were a kid?"

"Yes, sir."

There was a beat of silence.

"Suppose we should go and find the Doctor, then," said Agent Simmonds, and Liam blinked.

"Sorry, sir?"

"Didn't anyone tell you? It's him you're here for, not me." Agent Simmonds grabbed his coffee from his desk and headed for the door. Liam trailed after him, trying to calm the fluttery mix of excitement and panic which was rising in his chest. His specialty was tech, after all. It only made sense that he would be working with the Doctor, a scientific genius, rather than the head of the entire operation.

"Can I ask – I received very little information, sir – how exactly am I to be involved in this mission?"

"First off, it's not a mission," said Agent Simmonds over his shoulder. "And you'll be involved however the Doctor wants you to be, so damned if I know. I requested you because he asked me to. He's a consultant; he can't make official requests himself. Ianto! D'you know where the Doctor is?"

"No, sir," replied Mr./Agent Jones. "He was here earlier, I believe."

"Yeah, I know; he stole half my breakfast." Agent Simmonds sighed and glanced around. "I suppose Adams has buggered off as well."

"Yes, sir. I could check the cameras, if you like, but Agent Tyler has been away for a few days, now . . ."

"Nah, don't bother, I'll just check the labs. I needed a break from paperwork, anyway. C'mon, Agent Price; looks like you're getting a bit of a tour."

"Sir, what did he mean, 'Agent Tyler has been away'?" Liam questioned as he followed him back to the elevator and stepped inside.

"Oh, the Doctor gets a bit stroppy when Rose is out of town," answered Agent Simmonds, hitting the button for the lowest level. "He hates the surveillance cameras at the best of times, so they're usually the first to go."

". . . oh. And, when you said that it's not a mission . . ."

"The Doctor doesn't do missions," said Agent Simmonds, in a tone of resigned exasperation. "The Doctor does whatever the hell he wants, and right now he wants to work with you. You want to know why, you'll have to ask him." The doors slid open with a ding, just in time for them to witness another door slamming open halfway down the corridor, releasing an outpouring of smoke and a tall, coughing figure.

"Ah," said Agent Simmonds cheerfully. "There he is now."