A/N: Hi guys! While I gather ammo for witty dialogue for THA, I've somehow or another stumbled upon writing this 4-parter. It's an adventure piece, something fun and sci-fi to appease my geeky side. There will be mentions of places and concepts that I've borrowed from Doctor Who. If you're a fan, you'll probably get the references. However, you don't have to watch it to understand anything, I promise. Any scientific jargons in here are basically gibberish that I've made up—no logic, whatsoever—so nothing is mathematically accurate.
Enjoy!
xXx
CeruleanBlues
Roads Untraveled
Part 1
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 64, Abandoned Warehouse
02.04.2805, 1430hrs
Sam Evans crouched down on a low ledge, his boots scuffing against the rubble beneath his feet and waited with bated breath for his next instruction. Pulse racing from the adrenalin, he stole a quick glimpse over his shoulder to ensure that the rest of his team were in position and gave them a curt nod. He slung his trusted sonic blaster protectively across his torso, cradling the muzzle with one hand and a finger poised at the trigger, ready to pull if need be.
He certainly hoped not.
In the span of eight years, he reckoned he had seen enough violence and death to last him a lifetime; he wanted to wrap this up with as little bloodshed as possible, for everybody's sake. The assignment given to them wasn't difficult—a cakewalk compared to some others that he had been on before—but the stakes were higher. One single mistake could cost them everything, their lives and the jeopardy of the agency.
He scuffed on the spot and dug his heels into the ground, debris crunching against his thick sole. A skilled sniper yet brilliant in combat with an array of honorific accolades, Sam was the perfect soldier. At the age of sixteen, he was the youngest member in Torchwood history to ever be recruited; handpicked by the Director, William Schuester, himself. Within a year, he was leading his own group of special agents for missions throughout the galaxy.
The headset crackled in his ear, and Noah 'Puck' Puckerman's gruff voice gave him final confirmation from his station as surveillance.
"Moving in," Sam gave his orders. "Surprise attack; less lethal. The agency wants him alive."
With a brisk signal, the team jumped into action, swiftly and stealthily. The ambush caught the perpetrator off-guard as his men scrambled haphazardly for their firearms. Shots rang high in the warehouse, bright laser beams penetrating through the windows and glass shattering from above their heads. From his peripheral, Sam caught sight of Sebastian Smythe—the man behind half of the terrorist attacks in the past three months—as he tried to escape with a suitcase in one hand and a pint-sized blaster in another.
"Sam!"
He whipped his head around just as a burly middle-aged dude came barreling towards him; face pinched and snarling, and wielding something sonic in the air. With nimble precision, Sam threw a spin kick to his assailant's ribs before delivering a powerful blow across his jaw, effectively knocking him out cold.
"Sam!" Mike Chang called out once more, gaining his attention. "Smythe!"
"Puck," Sam barked into his headset as he took off sprinting out the back door. "Get the Glider ready. I'm bringing him your way. Finn, I need you up front."
"Copy," both men acknowledged.
Smythe hadn't gone far. The red dot flashing on Sam's wrist monitor indicated his location. It had stopped moving and was simply blinking idly, which could only mean one thing: the son of a bitch had ditched the tracker. Rounding the corner, twenty feet away, the blonde sergeant ducked behind a concrete wall. From the side pocket of his pants, he pulled a hand-held thermal scanner that instantly projected a holographic representation of the premise, pinpointing Smythe's heat signature at the other end of the perimeters.
"Finn, what's your 20?"
"I'm five feet from the Glider drop zone," he promptly replied.
"Smythe is heading your way," Sam informed him. "Round him up or send him back to me."
"Copy."
The Glider was a silent piece of aerospace technology that flew under the radar at Mach 3—triple times faster than the speed of sound—without alerting any form of detection, and had a cloaking mechanism that aided in camouflage. It took a unique set of dexterity to pilot the beast, and Puck was the only one qualified enough to tame it.
"Head's up, Sam," Finn's voice warned. "Smythe at your six o'clock."
He smirked; this was too easy.
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 15, University of Archaic Studies
02.04.2805, 2200hrs
Quinn Fabray heaved a sigh and rubbed her tired eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as she strained to stay awake. Operating without sleep for thirty hours straight was finally taking its toll on her, but she couldn't afford to stop now; she was so close to a monumental breakthrough. Papers and books were strewn on the desk in front of her, spread out in an organized mess that only she could make sense of.
There was an incessant beeping of someone calling and she shoved a pile of folders aside to reveal the surface computer, scoffing when a flattering image of Santana Lopez graced the small square of space. With extreme reluctance, she accepted the video chat.
"Bitch, don't tell me you're still slaving away in the office."
"I'm busy, Santana," Quinn huffed, tucking some stray strands of hair behind her ear. "If it's not an emergency, please make it quick."
"You're fucking married to your job, Fabray," the other woman tutted. "Why don't you come out of hibernation and have some fun? We could finally have that shot of hyper-vodka you promised."
She groaned. "I really can't tonight. I still have a couple of Circular Gallifreyan codex to decipher by tomorrow morning, and I think I'm on the brink of discovering something that's going to change how we perceive Time Lord history."
"Wow, that's really interesting—not," Santana remarked with a roll of her heavily-kohled eyes. "Look, Quinn, my point is that the inscriptions will still be there in the morning. Nothing is going to change from now till then, so just get your pretty ass off that chair and make sure you're down here in half an hour or I'm going to go there personally to drag you out—"
"Fine, fine," she relented. "But make that forty-five minutes. Don't think I'll be able to catch a Hover-cab at this time of the night."
Santana did a celebratory twirl, whooping in delight. "That's my girl! All right, then I'll catch you later, Blondie."
As soon as the surface blanked out again, Quinn slowly began to gather her documents. Working as an epigrapher had always been a lifelong ambition of hers—ever since the first time her dad had brought her along on an archaeological expedition to the Kasterborous Constellation.
The Time Lords were a powerful civilization that existed even before the first Old Earth Neanderthals were said to have walked the planet. Evidence had been dated so long back, it was a wonder how they were only discovered some two hundred years ago when a space explorer by the name of Burt Hummel stumbled across a wide span of remains of their majestic architecture. Excavation efforts and archaeological findings indicated an advanced race had dictated the lands—hints of booming agriculture, science and technology—until a day where they simply vanished. Nobody knew of much else beyond that.
Until recently.
Quinn straightened her notes—even with top-of-the-line triple processors, she still preferred the pen and paper—and was shuffling them into a folder when a page slipped out and fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, she realized immediately that it was a scan of the very last page of the complete almanac. She still had a long way to go—had just completed translating the second out of the five volumes—and was about to slide it back in with the rest when a set of symbols—rather, a paragraph of complex system of interlocking circles, hexagons and lines—caught her attention.
Something wasn't right about it; the passage made no sense. Squinting down at the writings, she mulled at the unusual choice of expressions.
"Why would they be talking about an apple that grew from a bunch of shoe laces?" she mused out loud.
From what they had gathered, the Time Lords were a rather literal bunch—everything up to that point had been about their ideas, how they understood that time was always in flux, and used phrases such as 'more like a ball of wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff', which made them seem like a bevy of airhead hippies—but they never spoke in metaphors. Intrigued, she began searching for the fifth volume of the almanac.
The first page was pretty generic. It took her twenty minutes to fully decipher three lines, but then it became apparent that anything after that was pure gibberish.
"What on New Earth is going on here?" she groused in frustration.
The symbols stared mockingly back at her, boggling her mind into a frenzy. There were random bouts of ramblings on chicken pie that didn't quite sit with the rest of the text, and she was fast getting all worked up about it.
Santana Lopez would have to wait.
Plopping back down in her seat, she reached for her leather-bound journal and a pencil.
"Okay," she slowly exhaled. "Let's do this from the start."
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 24, Torchwood Headquarters
08.04.2805, 0900hrs
Shirtless and dripping with sweat, Sam huffed and puffed as his feet steadily thudded on the treadmill in time to the heavy thumping of bass drumming in his ears. Fifteen minutes in, and he was determined to break his personal best, especially with an evaluation coming up, he couldn't afford to slack off now. He was so close to a promotion—could practically feel it on his fingertips—he wasn't going to risk it with complacency.
"Hey, Evans!"
He glanced up to find Mike's head popping out from behind a wall.
"What?"
"The Director wants a meeting with us in ten," he informed, pointing a thumb over his shoulder. "I suggest you put on a T-shirt or something."
Rolling his eyes good-naturedly, Sam waved him off dismissively. "Fine, fine. I'll be there in a jiffy."
Mike scrunched up his nose. "Who says 'jiffy' anymore?"
"Shut up, Chang."
When his teammate ducked away, Sam stopped the machine before hopping off. Breathing heavily, he reached for the red water bottle on the holder and squirted a heaping amount of isotonic concoction into his mouth. He snatched his towel from the bar, dapping at his face and neck as he jogged over to the shower room. After a quick scrub and a change of clothes, he headed for the meeting room. A scan of his identity card and a thumbprint validation, and the device gave a beep before the soundproof door slid open.
The round table had the Torchwood logo emblazoned in the center, and his men were already seated, restlessly waiting for the head of commands to arrive.
"So, what's this about, then?" Puck was the first to break the silence, directing the question to his team leader.
Sam slumped down on a swivel chair, hitching his ankle up on one knee. "Honestly, I'm as clueless as you are, lads. It's not every day we're being summoned by the Director."
As if he'd heard their predicament, the person in question entered with his personal assistant. Emma Pillsbury, her name was, and almost immediately, she huddled at the furthest corner of the room and prepared to take notes. William Schuester strode to the front, his gray suit crisp and sharp, and slightly intimidating as he stoically took in the circle of agents at his disposal.
"Good morning Team One," he addressed formally, sweeping his gaze over each and every one of them. "I would like to congratulate you on the successful mission regarding Sebastian Smythe, and a job well done on keeping collateral damage to a minimum. That being said, I am here to brief you on your next important assignment."
Sam's brows furrowed in slight perplex. "Not that we don't appreciate this, sir, but isn't that usually what the Captain does? Is he okay?"
The Director seemed to have anticipated such inquiries and nodded. "Everything is fine where the Captain is concerned, and he has been alerted to this briefing. However, the mission that you are all about to embark in is strictly classified. The lesser people we have involved in this, the better. We can't risk any of the information leaking out."
Now that William had garnered the entire room's interest, he cleared his throat and danced his fingers on the table as it doubled up as a surface computer. He keyed in his password, and after running a few encryptions and knocking down a couple of firewalls, a holographic projection blinked to life, producing an intricate amount of hieroglyphics that Sam had not seen before.
"These are Circular Gallifreyan codex inscriptions," Director Schuester explained. "They are—"
"The language of the Time Lords," Sam breathed, utterly entranced now that he was aware what the symbols were.
The Director was impressed. "That's right, Agent Evans."
"I thought the Time Lords were a myth."
A small smirk made its way to the corners of William Schuester's lips. "Well, they're not. Two hundred and fifteen years ago, they were proven to have existed amongst the Kasterborous Constellations. Till today, we have archaeologists and epigraphers working to decipher their complex language. There have been substantial progresses as of late," he paused to ensure that the team was still following. "Until last week."
He pulled up a profile of a gorgeous blonde woman, reaping the attention of all five of his most-abled men. "This is Quinn Fabray, daughter of the famous archaeologist, Russell Fabray. She has been translating Circular Gallifreyan from the age of twelve, the youngest-ever recipient of the Burt Hummel Award at sixteen, had her Ph.D. in Archaic Studies from McIntosh University at eighteen, and is now a TA at the UAS."
Puck released a low whistle, a reaction that was unappreciated by the Director.
"She noticed a flaw in the way people have been reading the scribes and released a paper. It was only meant to be seen by her department, but two days ago, the university's system had been hacked," he continued.
"What's so secretive about deciphering the code?" Finn asked. "I mean, it's not like the inscriptions are made available to the entire universe, right?"
"Unfortunately, Agent Hudson, that's exactly what it means," Director Schuester stated solemnly. "When the system was hacked, all of the files were scattered across DNA lines."
"So you're saying that everybody within this solar system and the next has access to these documents?" Sam clarified. "A massive server sharing black market information?"
"That's absolutely correct."
"So, why exactly are these scribes so classified?" Mike wondered out loud with a tilt of his head. "And what does it have to do with us?"
William turned to his assistant and gave her a nod. She whipped up a handful of data chips and handed them out individually to each agent. Without further instructions, they slid the widget into their wrist monitors and programmed them to the appropriate settings.
"Torchwood is working on tracking those files and deleting them off public servers," he added on. "But there's no telling who's already gotten their hands on those scribes and it's going to take way too long to track them all. What we're left with is containment, but that's not going to be sufficient."
"Why not?" Brody Weston piped up.
"Because the scribes contain a map to a lost book," William explained, his voice lowering. "And if that book falls into the wrong hands, things will get uglier in this galaxy, and now that the codes have been released, there's no telling who else is trying to find it. With those data chips, you are allowed unrestricted access to everything about the mission. You will be given automatic updates from The Book of Rassilon Project, which includes an elite group of epigraphers, archaeologists and linguists. If there's anything else you need, please let Emma know. Your job is to find the book and bring it back in one piece before anybody else. Any questions?"
"Yeah, just one," Puck spoke up.
William arched an eyebrow. "Agent Puckerman."
"Mission commencement date, sir?"
He smirked. "As of twenty minutes ago."
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 35, Powell Penthouse
08.04.2805, 1915hrs
Someone had been tailing her home, she was sure of it—could see it from the rearview mirror in the Hover-cab, a black carbon-fibred Swifter—and she made a mention of it to the driver. When asked about it, she spun a tale of a jealous ex-boyfriend, which then sparked a round of twists and turns in an attempt to lose the vehicle. Eventually, though, she was dropped two blocks away from her condo by her insistence.
Clutching the satchel closer to her chest, she made a dash for the opened windows and activated the sun-shields. Her apartment now draped in darkness, she turned the lights on and felt the hair at the back of her neck stand at the realization that she might not be alone. Wide hazel eyes darted around for signs of movement, or of any indication that her home had been violated, her heart pounding wildly in her chest.
Cautiously, she crept into her bedroom and cursed under her breath when she saw that her curtains were drawn back, living her vulnerably exposed. Swallowing the lump lodged in her throat, she edged closer towards the bedside drawer and pulled out a vintage handgun that had been passed down from her grandfather. In the deafening silence, every movement sounded too harsh as she pressed her back to the wall and strifed to shut the blinds.
And then she heard it.
The engine and propellers.
Despite knowing it was a stupid decision, she took a peek.
"Get down!"
Something hard and solid rammed into her side and knocked her down onto the ground just in the nick of time before the thick panel of glass exploded into lethal shards that rained down heavily upon her. She barely registered the rounds of ammo being fired as she curled into a protective ball underneath the warmth of a man's body.
"Finn, we're under attack," she heard a voice growl out. "Position compromised, subject in danger. We need back-up."
Shots were still ringing in the air, and then someone was tugging to lift her up. All she saw was a pair of striking green eyes before he all but hauled her roughly by the arm. Another uniformed-clad agent appeared and promptly strapped on a Kevlar vest over her torso. She opened her mouth, finding that she desperately needed to say something or else she might pass out, but then he was clipping a carabiner to his own gear and she was suddenly firmly enveloped in his strong arms.
"Puck, what's your 20?" There was a slight pause before he aimed those gorgeous pools of green orbs right at her. "Ma'am, we're going to jump, but please do not struggle or scream. Agent Mike Chang over here will be your number two, in case something snaps and you fall."
"Great," she squeaked.
He gave her a lopsided grin. "Hang on tight and don't let go."
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 24, Torchwood Headquarters
08.04.2805, 2130hrs
"How is she?" Sam asked the medic that had just exited the examination room, hands jammed into the pockets of this cargo pants.
"A little shaken up," Rachel Berry replied empathetically. "But other than that, she's fine. Just a few scrapes and bruises but nothing too severe."
He nodded, and for the umpteenth time resisted the urge to barge in to see for himself that Quinn was indeed unharmed. The fall had been bumpy; he might have jostled her up a bit during the landing and when he had checked to ensure that she was still alive and kicking, she had been unconscious. When they had arrived back at headquarters, she had been whisked for a check-up and his team had been corralled for a debrief.
"I can see you lurking outside, you know."
Startled by the sound of her voice, he blinked through the window and noticed the cheeky grin on her soft features. She sat perched on a cot, bare feet dangling and still covered in a thin layer of soot. He felt the whoosh of blood flooding his cheeks and reached up to rub the nape of his neck, mentally chastising his socially inept self. During the rescue, he hadn't been paying attention—though he knew she was an attractive woman by the image on her profile page—but now that he had a chance to take a proper look, he couldn't deny her endless beauty.
Berating himself to suck it up and not be such a wuss about the situation, he inhaled a lungful of air and scanned his thumbprint for entry. When the door slid open, he was hit with the clinical scent that he always hated.
"Hi," he muttered stupidly, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall.
Her radiant smile never faltered. "Hi."
"Look, I'm sorry about that earlier," he said, gesturing vaguely at her from head to toe. "I didn't mean to knock you out and all."
"Oh, no," she blurted out, looking adorably sheepish. "I should be thanking you instead, for saving my life. I was aware that Torchwood would be involved, but I didn't really expect—you know—but thank you."
He shrugged. "I had a job to do. It's kind of my thing."
"Of course," she chuckled, sweeping some stray strands of hair out of her eyes. "I suppose it doesn't help that I'm rather jeopardy-friendly."
"It tends to come with the territory when you're involved with classified material. Everybody wants a piece of you, don't they?"
Realization dawned on her, then as she frantically searched around. "My satchel; all of my documents are in there. Where is it?"
"Hey, relax," he assured her, taking a step closer when it appeared that she was about to flee and conduct her own raid. "It's with the Director. It's safe."
A wave of relief washed through her instantly. "Oh, thank goodness," she murmured. "I don't know what I'd do if I lost it, I mean, that's practically my entire life's work, and The Book of Rassilon—"
His expression grew serious. "We can't talk about it here. There's a surveillance camera in the room and not everybody in Torchwood gets clearance for everything. This mission is top secret."
Sam was cut off by a light rapping on the window panel. Turning his head, he caught sight of Finn motioning impatiently for his attendance in the common area, and only then did he notice the proximity between Quinn and him. On reflex, he jerked away and cleared his throat.
"Duty calls," he told her apologetically.
"Sure, don't worry about it."
"Someone's going to come in later to get you settled into a proper room," he notified. "Get a good rest tonight; I'll see you bright and early tomorrow."
He made to take his leave when she stopped him in his tracks.
"Wait, I—I don't even know your name."
He tried not to think too much into it as he replied.
"I'm Agent Sam Evans."
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 24, Torchwood Headquarters
09.04.2805, 0730hrs
She hadn't slept all night. As soon as her satchel and documents had been delivered to her room, Quinn had begun poring through the scribes; working tirelessly even though the table lamp was seriously starting to strain her eyes. The fate of the universe was in her hands—on how quickly she could decipher the Circular Gallifreyan codex—she didn't have the luxury of time to dally on.
Hunched over her journal with a graphite pencil in hand, she hadn't even realized the knock on the door until someone was calling out her name. Instantly she recognized that rich timbre and swore to the ceiling. Bolting out of the chair, she winced when she saw her disheveled appearance in the mirror. Her blonde hair looked like something died on her head and she was pale beyond measure. Pinching her cheeks for some color, she straightened her clothes as best as possible before answering the door.
Sam's boyish face split into a wide grin, but one look at her and his expression turned into one of much amusement. It was a frustrating sight, especially since she had yet to brush her teeth and there he stood, like the front cover of a clothing catalogue in a black shirt and standard cargo pants.
"I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
She tried in vain to settle her wild mop of tresses. "No, you didn't. I—I was actually up all night."
His emerald eyes darkened. "I thought I told you to rest."
"Well, there's a world that needs saving and I can sleep when I die, so that's that," she retorted stubbornly, hating how he seemed to be treating her like some incompetent child. "Is there something you need?"
He held his palms up. "Whoa, relax, Quinn. I just—you shouldn't—you'll be surprised what a good night's sleep can do, but whatever you decide to do is entirely your choice. I came by to let you know that we're meeting with the Director for an update in half an hour. You might want to freshen up before that and grab some breakfast. I trust you can find the dining hall on your own."
"Yeah, thanks."
Sam departed without a backwards glance, and she was left feeling like a massive idiot. Groaning at her lack of communication skills, Quinn grabbed the bag of toiletries and Torchwood-issued clothes, and made her way down to the communal shower room. It was relatively empty—she reckoned Torchwood didn't have that many female agents—and the warm water sluicing down her naked body was simply lovely. She had to make do with the undergarments—had to flip her knickers inside out—and the attire was a little bit baggy on her, but she couldn't deny the comfort of breathable cotton and combat trousers. Hair still damp, she pulled it into a ponytail and returned to her room to retrieve her satchel and papers.
Five pairs of eyes zeroed in on her the instant she stepped into the dining hall, four sets of jaws hanging open and a spoon frozen in midair en route to Finn's mouth.
"Good morning," she chirped, attempting to break the awkwardness, and plopped into an unoccupied seat. "What's for breakfast?"
That seemed to snap them out of their blatant gawking, and she had to remind herself that she was in the vicinity of highly-skilled secret agents and not hormonally-imbalanced teenagers. She didn't know whether to be embarrassed or flattered.
"Toast," Mike choked out and hastily shoved his plate in front of her. "Here, you can have mine. I've had three servings already."
"Would you like some coffee or tea or juice?" Puck scrambled to his feet, attempting to fetch a beverage for her. "Or if you prefer, you know, a soda or—"
"I'm fine," Quinn said, slightly disoriented by the planetary amount of attention. "I'll just—I can fix a cup for myself, don't worry."
As soon as she had her back turned to the coffee machine, she heard a distinct smack, followed by a yelp. There were stern murmurs too inaudible to discern, so she kept her gaze fixed on the dark liquid dispensing in a dark blue mug and tried to hide her flustered state. She returned to the table and immediately noticed the men's sedated demeanor.
"So, Quinn," Brody boldly ventured to engage in polite conversation as she nibbled on Mike's leftovers. "I don't think we've been formally introduced. I'm Agent Brody Weston, team firearms expert; that's Agent Finn Hudson, geographical field specialist; Agent Noah Puckerman, team pilot; Agent Mike Chang, tactical and strategic analyst; and you know Agent Sam Evans, team leader."
She cocked her head and shot the blonde enforcer a thoughtful glance. "You don't have a specialty?"
He looked visibly offended. "Why don't I send you a copy of my distinctions? I'm sure you'll find a list to your approval."
Flinching at his harsh tone, she reckoned she ought to leave before she aggravated him any further—as she seemed accustomed to doing as of late—and abruptly stood up, dusting off crumbs from her hands and trousers. Snatching her satchel up, she slung it over her shoulder and presented a thin smile to the team.
"I guess I'll see you lads in the meeting room."
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 24, Torchwood Headquarters
09.04.2805, 0750hrs
His teammates were glaring daggers his way, and even though he knew very well the reason why, he opted for the oblivious route, ignoring their scowls of disapproval as he polished off the remains of his breakfast. If anybody could dispel an awkward situation, it was Puck.
"You're a fucking douchebag," he remarked.
"She implied that I was under qualified," Sam sniffed, miffed that he was made the bad guy.
"She didn't mean it like that and you know it," Mike said, more of a factual statement. "What's with you, anyway? You were fine with her last night."
"I dare say he's more than fine with her, actually," Brody snickered. "She didn't come outright and reject you, did she?"
Having had enough for the morning, Sam slammed his hands on the table. "Okay, you know what? Why don't you guys haul your asses into the meeting room instead of gossiping like a bunch of high-school girls? It's none of your bleeding business."
Nobody argued as they promptly cleared the room.
"She's smoking hot, though," Puck piped up out of the blue while they were traipsing down the corridor. "It should be illegal for a woman to look so damn delectable in an agent's uniform."
"You're such a fucking pig," Sam growled.
"If you're not shagging her by the end of this mission, I'm calling dibs."
More than irritated, he thwacked his fellow agent on the back of his Mohawk. "Be professional, Puckerman."
Quinn was already nose-deep in her work when they arrived into the room, so focused scribbling away in her journal that she barely acknowledged their presence until the Director himself sauntered in with a gait of measured importance, the tension clear in his face. Behind him, Emma trailed along diligently, not a strand of hair out of place.
"Good morning Team One," he greeted tersely. "And welcome to Torchwood Ms. Fabray."
"You can just call me Quinn," she quipped. "I don't work well under formal designations."
For the first time in his entire career, Sam witnessed Director William Schuester smile—a rare occasion indeed, and he wondered for a split second if they should start popping the champagne—but as unexpectedly as it appeared, the grin was wiped clean of any lingering traces of humor.
"Ms. Fabray, as of today, nothing that you are working on leaves this agency. You are not allowed to confide or converse with your fellow peers on anything with regards to The Book of Rassilon." the man instructed, his tone leaving no further arguments on the subject. "Your daily updates on the closed server are terminated. You are not to discuss matters to anybody outside of this circle. No other academics are allowed access inside. As of ten minutes ago, you are the only person working on this project."
Her brows furrowed. "What? Why?"
"There had been a hacking attempt into our servers last night," he announced calmly. "We traced the address to the computer belonging to one Ms. Mercedes Jones."
A gasp escaped Quinn's throat, an expression of pure devastation and betrayal marring her otherwise exquisite features. "What—but—that can't be."
"Who's Mercedes Jones?" Sam asked.
The surface computer sprang to life, projecting a holographic profile and credentials of the accused suspect, and after a quick read, came to identify the woman as Quinn's colleague in the university.
"She joined the faculty six months after I did," the epigrapher explained ruefully. "When there was a vacant spot for a dig in Dalton VI, she was picked to join the team. We became close friends and we supported each other no matter what. A year later, I was promoted, and Figgins wanted me on the Rassilon Project. Mercedes and I had a falling out, but four months ago, I pulled her in, and we grew closer than ever. Everything was fine, until scribes started to go missing, and since she was in charge of cataloguing the inscriptions, it was only logical that Figgins held her responsible. Eventually, we found out that she had been sneaking the almanacs out and commissioning replicas to be sold in the black markets."
Sam leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "What happened, then?"
"Figgins had her fired, of course," she replied, but not without a slight tremble in her voice. "It wasn't pretty. She wouldn't accept it; had a lawyer sue the department for wrongful termination. The evidence that we had against her mysteriously disappeared and she was compensated."
"Torchwood has reason to believe that she is after the book," Director Schuester told them. "And since this is a top secret mission, we can only assume that someone from the inside is releasing classified information."
Quinn's head snapped up. "You mean a mole?"
"Until we can pinpoint the exact origin of the leak, we're taking all necessary precautions," the Director declared. "We've scanned your cellphone and computer for bugs. A chip had been fixed for added firewall. If anybody tries to hack into your system, the agency will be alerted."
"But—but I can't figure this out on my own," she protested. "My specialties do not include Gallifreyan geography and historical patterns, not to mention my limited knowledge on cosmology and astrophysics that seems to be a fascination among the Time Lords."
"Ms. Fabray," William began, slightly exasperated. "These five agents are remarkable men and they are tasked to aid you in any way possible to retrieve the book. Agent Chang has a Ph.D. in Quantum Mechanics, Agent Weston has linguistics background, and Agent Evans has extensive experience with the Kasterborous Constellations. Anything beyond that, unfortunately, we are unable to grant you."
"I understand," Quinn murmured idly.
New Earth, McKinley IV, Area 24, Torchwood Headquarters
10.04.2805, 0100hrs
She was still in the briefing room when he passed by on his way to the pantry for a cup of tea. A part of him admired her sheer determination, no matter how foolish he found her actions to be, running without sleep two nights in a row, and instinctively, he poured a mug for her as well.
"Hey."
After tearing her focus away from her work, she graced him with a polite smile. "Hey."
The table was a mess of papers and books with a three-dimensional holographic projection of the great Citadel—now in ruins—looming in high-definition detail. Sam took a seat on the swivel chair next to her, he waited as she jotted down the last of her train of thoughts before extending the beverage for her to take.
"You should really get some sleep," he said gruffly, noticing the dark circles underneath her intelligent hazel eyes.
She took a tentative sip and hummed in appreciation. "You're one to talk. Why are you still awake?"
He shrugged. "I always have a cup of tea before bed. It relaxes me."
"Thanks, though."
"You're welcome."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, both finishing up the drinks at hand, decompressing from the day. He reckoned he ought to catch what remaining hours he had left before his morning exercise, and was about to take his leave when something caught his attention. Under the jarring bright lights, he noticed the darkening bruise on her arm. She caught him staring for a moment and attempted to shield it from his view.
"No, don't," he breathed. Involuntarily, he reached out, his thumb tracing the patch of purple tainting the otherwise flawless skin, and grimaced guiltily. "Crap, I'm sorry; I didn't mean to—"
"I'm fine," she reassured. "It doesn't really hurt unless you press on it, honestly."
He forced his gaze up to meet hers and found himself momentarily stupefied when her pink tongue darted out to wet her lips. The intensity at which he was studying her mouth should probably scare her, but instead of pulling away, he leaned in just a little bit more. She sucked in a sharp intake of air, quivering beneath his fingertips, and he wondered if he was imagining the subtle pressure of her hand on his knee. He shouldn't—was more than certain that he couldn't—but the urge to kiss her accosted him so fiercely, he shuddered against her when the tip of his nose brushed against the apple of her cheek.
Until she pulled away.
"Erm…" she mumbled, coughing awkwardly as she turned back to her papers. "I should get back to work—and—and you should, you know, get some sleep."
When the smoked cleared, a stab of disappointed was the only thing he felt—coupled with a side of shame—and he quelled the irrational part of himself that severely berated him for indulging in such baser desires.
"Yeah," he grated out, mechanically making his way out. "Good night, Quinn."
"Good night, Sam."
Weep not for roads untraveled
Weep not for paths left alone
'Cause beyond every bend
Is a long blinding end
It's the worst kind of pain
I've known
A/N: So, to reiterate my earlier point, the physics jargon, the places, they're all borrowed and made up. Nothing should make sense except for the skeletal fact that Sam is an agent and that Quinn is an epigrapher. Part 2 is on the way, and THA chapter 12 is still work-in-progress.
Song used: "Roads Untraveled" by Linkin Park