Vworp, vworp, vworp, vworp.
The Doctor stuck his head out of the TARDIS door, inhaling deeply and grinning. He'd landed correctly. Always a good sign. And it was the…21st century? Tasted like it. USA, Mid-west someplace. Chicago, Illinois judging by the particular tang of the air and the wind.
"Been awhile," he muttered to himself. "Last time I was here I was carrying an umbrella and Ace was helping me sell bootleg liquor. Al Capone wasn't terribly pleasant as I recall. And then there was that other thing I had to take care of…Oh, and my trip…" The Doctor hurriedly consulted his watch, relieved that it was 2012 rather than 2006. Couldn't go running into his first regeneration. Crisscrossing timelines and all that.
Out of habit, he glanced behind him into the TARDIS, about to call to his friends before remembering that he'd just left Amy and Rory tucked away in a house elsewhere on Earth, finally living like a married couple should.
The loneliness dissipated as another smell drifted past his nose, causing him to smile.
"Pizza! Been awhile. Wonder how many toppings you're allowed…"
Locking the TARDIS he made a beeline for the neon sign that read Uno Chicago Grill, a place he knew to be the home of the Chicago deep-dish. Didn't think much of the name change, but hey. As long as the food was good, they could call it whatever they wanted.
The Doctor was almost there when he saw someone—he was almost positive it was a woman—disappear into an alleyway. Normally he wouldn't pay as much attention, but he recognized a perception filter when he saw…through one.
Running past the open door and the tempting smells of Uno Chicago Grill, the Doctor was already reaching for his sonic as he dodged around people and whirled into the alley in time to see a young woman struggling with a tall humanoid in tight blue armor, a helmet the shape of bird's head on top. Light came through chinks in the armor, instantly telling the Doctor who it was.
The problem of why would have to wait. Right now, the woman needed help.
"Stop!" he called authoritatively, flourishing the sonic like a wand as it whirred…not quite menacingly, but hopefully convincingly. "Release her, now!"
Both struggling people looked at him at once. The woman seemed confused, but he could have sworn the attacking extra-terrestrial narrowed whatever it called eyes before letting go of the woman and using a personal transporting device to vanish.
The Doctor wasted no time staring at the spot before turning off the sonic and turning to the woman. He grabbed her shoulders gently and helped her to steady herself.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I'm quite alright," the woman said as she waved him off. Her voice carried a slight accent, but one that belonged to the area. She began brushing off her gray business jacket then looked at her hands in mild disgust. In the dim light the Doctor saw a sticky coating on her hands.
"I hope this isn't snot," the woman said. "I refuse to get sick."
The Doctor scanned her with the sonic and flicked it open with a snap of the wrist, checking it.
"No snot, just a mild numbing agent. Enough of it and you'd stop struggling. Good thing you were wearing long sleeves."
"I always wear long sleeves."
"Even in summer?"
"Most buildings I'm in have air conditioning," she said with mild disdain. The Doctor got the feeling that she felt a lot more than she was willing to express. Whatever she did for a living required no emotions. She looked him up and down pointedly.
"At least my attire is a bit more suited to the times than yours. My grandfather wore bow-ties and tweed, but you are hardly ninety."
"Can't disagree with you on that," the Doctor said, deciding it best not to mention his real age of 908. The woman ignored him and glanced around, soon locating her bag. After picking it up again, she straightened, looking exceedingly professional, particularly since she had produced a pair of sharp glasses from her bag and put them on.
"Thank you for your assistance sir. If you'll excuse me…"
The Doctor, ever one to ignore manners, did not. "Has anyone else tried attacking you before?"
"I've had a few…followers, but pepper spray usually deterred them."
The Doctor didn't doubt the statement. Her figure and simple but pleasant face would easily make her a target for less than scrupulous types. "But no one's actually attacked you before?"
"I can't see that it would matter much to you, but no," she snipped, checking her watch. It looked expensive, yet tasteful. This woman either had a very good job or a very attentive boss. Maybe both looking at the designer handbag, tailored clothes, and manicured nails.
"What about interested parties?" the Doctor pressed. "Has anyone approached you recently?"
The woman smiled vaguely at some private joke, even as she started to edge around the Doctor to the entrance of the alley. "I see many people in my line of work, and many, many interested parties pass in front of me daily. I even speak to some of them."
"Friendly type, aren't you?"
"Friend is a nice word for a co-worker, Mr..."
"Sorry, I'm the Doctor," the Doctor said cheerfully. "And you are…"
She blinked at him, reminding him of a cat. Except the woman had brown eyes. "Doctor is a position, not a name."
"You couldn't pronounce my name."
"I may not be English, but my English is far better than that of most I meet, Dr. Jones."
"Not Smith?"
"While Smith is the most common surname in England, Jones is a close second."
The Doctor gave his usual half smile. "Then what's my first name?"
"Guessing your age to be near thirty, you would have been born in the early 80's. The most common boy's name was Michael. You refuse to give me your true name, so I must presume your name to be Michael Jones until you provide evidence to the contrary."
The woman was now standing in the entrance of the alleyway, having managed to maneuver around the Doctor without really seeming to move.
"I really must go Dr. Jones. Again, thank you for your assistance."
"I never did get your name," the Doctor said as she turned to go. She said something over her shoulder before disappearing around the corner.
"Persephone Sterling. Not very common. Still, I don't suppose she is either," the Doctor mused. "I'd like a longer chat with her. Don't think I'd get one without an appointment though."
Turning back around the Doctor re-scanned the area, not really expecting to find anything new. "Why are the Drast here?" he wondered aloud to himself. "They work by economic take-over. You think they'd start someplace with a stable economy."
He rubbed his forehead as the memory came back. "No. No they did. Japan, the Year that Never Was! The timeline was fixed and they were put back right where they'd started. Oh, why didn't I remember to check on that sooner? No telling how far they've gotten by now."
He straightened, all thoughts of pizza forgotten. "I need to find out who's at the top of the business food chain here. If anyone knows about this, they will."
Andrew Lessman was the C.E.O of World Maps Inc. It was a sizable business, with its headquarters residing in Chicago while holding several other hubs in different large cities, including a few overseas. All in all, Andrew Lessman was very wealthy.
The door to his office swung open and he focused on finishing writing something, certain of who it was. It was another Tuesday morning. It would be his Personal Assistant with his coffee, and she would likely remind him about ten things and three meetings that needed to be done today. He'd think of a few things before the day was out as well. Still, it was life, and he enjoyed keeping busy.
"Hello, hate to bother you but I really need to speak with a Mr. Andrew Lessman. Is that you?"
Mr. Lessman looked up at the sound of the English accent and was greeted by a square jawed man with floppy dark hair and bowtie. Definitely not his P.A.
"I am he," Mr. Lessman said slowly, unsure how this character had managed to get past everyone with no appointment and no forewarning. He'd have to ask his assistant about this when she arrived.
"I'm John Smith," the English man said, ignoring propriety and taking the chair on the opposite side of the desk from Mr. Lessman. Reaching into his tweed coat he produced a thin wallet, flashing its contents at Mr. Lessman. He barely caught sight of the words "Press" and "Chicago Tribune" before the card disappeared into the man's coat again.
Mr. Lessman looked at John Smith for a moment. Something had to be up; if this was a normal interview, then his assistant would have told him about it days ago and would have found a list of the questions ahead of time. "What new piece is your paper working on?"
"We're trying to write up several sections on the rise of the great business men and women of our time," Mr. Smith responded smoothly. "We're doing our best to go in order of monetary holdings."
Ah. Mr. Lessman thought. That's why this wasn't planned ahead of time.
"I was hoping you could let me know how to contact Mr. Snow."
"You don't find Mr. Snow," Mr. Lessman said, certain this was some kind of test, though why he was being tested he wasn't sure. "Mr. Snow will find you, Mr. Smith. You just have to put out the word you're looking for him."
"But Mr. Snow owns half of the companies based here in Chicago," Mr. Smith pressed. "And you're the one he seems to have the most contact with. You must know something."
"Mr. Snow is a very, very private person," Mr. Lessman said tightly. "It's true he is extremely wealthy and intelligent. He picks his C.E.O.s with caution, and those of us who get a spot are always—I can say this truthfully and without boasting—the best. Anyone stupid enough to not accept his offer of a merger doesn't deserve to run a taco stand, much less a company. The one who did refuse truly does own a hot dog stand, if you wish to meet him."
"But I need to speak with Mr. Snow as soon as possible."
"You might—might—merit a phone call." Mr. Lessman reached for his buzzer, intending to have the pushy reporter removed.
"You don't understand," Mr. Smith insisted. "There's something huge going on, and I have to get his help on it."
"What could a reporter possibly know that Mr. Snow wouldn't?"
"I'm—" Mr. Smith started. Then he seemed to change his mind about whatever it was he was going to share. He inspected Mr. Lessman for a long moment before standing. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. I don't think you can help me."
"Very true Mr. Smith."
The English man disappeared through the door not five seconds before Mr. Lessman's P.A. came in, carrying a take-away coffee cup in her hand. She set it down on his desk before producing a planner from her bag and flipping to a page. She didn't look particularly confused, but Mr. Lessman had worked with the woman long enough to read what little emotion she deigned to reveal.
"A Mr. Smith asking about Mr. Snow. He said he was from the "Tribune," but I don't quite believe him."
She nodded and slid the book back into her bag before producing another, larger one. "Your first meeting is at ten about the new GPS Software. Usual update, but they also wanted to start asking about the official release in order to be better prepared for it than the last time. You have a lunch set up with Charles F. Bolden, Jr., the administrator of NASA. Mr. Snow is trying to get in on the space program and needs you to do the initial representation for him. The basic technology for funding swap."
Mr. Lessman nodded a little absently. "Good. When is the next meeting with Mr. Snow?"
She turned a few pages. "I have it down for next Monday, first thing. Is it in the usual room?"
"Yes. Make sure the phone lines are secure before he calls. I have no intention of being fired like the last man."
The woman turned back to today's page. "That reminds me, you have a dinner with your wife at six this evening."
Mr. Lessman looked at her oddly. "For being so uptight, you have an unusual sense of humor, Penelope Starling."
She smiled ever so slightly. "Comes with the territory sir."
*Constructive critisisim welcome, praise happily accepted, flames not wanted*
