-.-.-TEL AVIV-.-.-
William grabbed a beer and his gun. Probably not the best combination, but he was a dead man anyway—one with nothing to lose and a death sentence on his head, which was probably an even more dangerous combination. There wasn't much left in his life worth living or fighting for. Didn't mean he wouldn't go out fighting, though. He intended to fight tooth and nail (or bullet and blade) to stay alive as long as he could.
"Well, Ben, I'm thoroughly fucked." He informed the cat sitting on the couch as he flopped down beside it.
The cat jumped up, looking affronted at the intrusion. "Meow?"
"Thanks for your insight."
"Talking to a cat?" A woman's voice said. "New low, I think."
His head jerked up. Leaning on the doorframe like she owned the place was an attractive blonde woman. Her accent sounded mildly British, but mostly just good old American—though she was good with the Arabic.
Her mouth had just the slightest upward curve, and her calm grey eyes were reassuring as she flipped open a file. "William Blumenthal, first generation Israeli-American. Parents and grandparents mercenaries, sort of a family thing—great uncle runs a mercenary service. Joined at fifteen along with girlfriend Madison Hayes, both moved to Israel. Quit after being forced to kill her. Did I miss anything?"
"The price on my head," He offered.
She grinned. "4000 shekels, which translates to roughly a thousand dollars. You're dead, William Blumenthal. Unless," Here, the woman paused and appraised him.
"I'm not going to say it." He snapped.
Laughing ruefully, she said, "Fine! You're dead unless you accept my job offer."
"I'm done with being a mercenary."
"Which is why you're a candidate—I would never hire a mercenary."
"If you don't want a mercenary, why would you come to me?" He said, scoffing. "I'm the best—at being an assassin-for-hire."
"I need a field agent, actually. I'm the head of a team in Cardiff, Wales—we're not the government, or the police. We're a lot more. It's called Torchwood. I'm sure you saw all those children several months ago, all talking in unison?"
"Yeah, when the aliens took over, or so they say."
"The last Torchwood team fought the 456 off. We're Earth's first, best, and last defence against hostile aliens, which generally fall through the huge gap in time and space and right into Cardiff."
William scanned her face for signs of lying.
There were none.
"Do you believe me?"
"Yep." He said, switching to English.
Her mouth was definitely twitching upwards now. She switched too. "Any questions?"
"Where to start?" He joked. "How about, can Ben come?"
"He can stay in the Hub, if he wants."
"Will they be able to find me?"
"I'll delete any trace of you. It'd be like trying to find a ghost that never lived."
That sounded like a pretty good deal, actually.
"What's your story?"
"Me? Oh, nothing as exciting as mercenaries and tragic romance." She said vaguely.
"One more thing."
"Yes?"
"When do I start?"
Professor Rosabel Stalon beamed.
-.-.-PARIS-.-.-
"Your usual?" The bartender asked.
"Please," Peter said, distracted by the blonde woman sitting next to his usual seat, chasing a cherry across the bottom of a glass with a slim straw, face shadowed. "Bad night?" He asked politely.
She glanced up, and replied in equally perfect French, "Can we switch to English? I've got a headache from speaking Arabic yesterday."
"Why were you speaking Arabic?" He replied coolly, in English.
"I travelled to Israel for business."
"Is that why you're in France?"
"Yes." She said. "It's also why I'm drinking whiskey. My new recruit is a talker—he was still discoursing on advanced weaponry when I put him on the plane back to Cardiff."
He was rather taken aback. She seemed to be talking about the military, but the details were wrong. Most people recruiting for the military didn't do much chattering with civilians—and she wasn't drunk. He should know, with his military father, who had quite the fondness for drink himself. And her deportment wasn't right for a military woman.
"What line of work are you in, precisely?" He asked as the bartender set the vodka soda on the bar.
"Ah, the brilliant psychologist, deducing away. Deduce this: I hunt and fight hostile aliens."
There was not even the tiniest tic. Her eyes were steady, not blinking. She didn't shift, there wasn't the tiniest hint of sarcasm, and there was even a trace of a self-deprecating "yeah, I can't believe it either". And she knew who he was.
"Delusions," He said firmly.
"Really?" She said, shaking her head as she opened a briefcase and took out a file. "I expected better from a PhD—Dr. Peter Walker, psychologist, specialist in PTSD, spent two years in Oxford England. Grew up in Rhodes. Abusive father, no steady relationships on record despite being 26, extraordinarily high IQ."
"So you're what, CIA?"
"Nope."
"Alright, so what are you? Actually, who are you?"
She grinned. "Don't you buy a girl a drink before you ask personal questions?"
"Fine." He turned to the bartender. "Whiskey sour."
"Aw, thanks, sweetheart." She said.
He turned to face her, scowling. "Who do you work for?"
"Myself. I'm head of a group called Torchwood. Above the government, beyond the police—we're the fourth generation. It was set up in Scotland by Queen Victoria."
"And why are you telling me?"
She picked up the new whiskey sour and smirked. "If you don't join, you'll forget this entire conversation ever happened. I have a drug known as Retcon, which will wipe your memory."
"Why do you want me?"
"Do you know how many people have gone absolutely insane working for Torchwood? Too many. I need a PTSD councillor, someone who's in the know. You wouldn't be in danger. And the pay is phenomenal."
He glanced down at his second hand suit. "Where would I be working, exactly?"
She sounded distinctly American, and he didn't want to end up across the world in a cultureless, cookie-cutter American city.
"Cardiff, Wales."
"I'm in."
"I thought you might say that," She said, handing him a business card and an aeroplane ticket. "See you soon."
-.-.-PENDOYLAN-.-.-
Mustering up all of her patience, Dr. Elizabeth Llewellyn stepped into the examination room, where an American woman was waiting. She'd been working nonstop for four hours.
"Hello. What seems to be the problem, Ms. Stalon, is it?"
The young woman kicked her legs back and forth. "Well, I went to Israel and France the past few days, and I'm here from America. Now I'm showing virus symptoms, so I came to get checked out."
"Did you get your vaccinations?"
"Yep."
"Well, we're waiting on your blood tests yet." And you're the quietest patient I've seen all day, so I'm going to make small talk, Elizabeth thought."Why are you travelling?"
"Business. I'm recruiting from all over the world for a team based in Cardiff."
"What sort of team?"
The blonde stretched. "Mm… It's called Torchwood."
Elizabeth stiffened. Every Cardiff native knew that name, and the destruction that followed. It was why she'd left the city.
"Ah! You have heard of us. The Rift activity is why you moved out of Cardiff a little over a year ago. Mother, father, and sister live in London. You're absolutely brilliant—finished six years of university at nineteen, like me. Bet you're bored here, in a small rural area, tending to sprains and sore throats.
"Also, there is no blood work, because I'm not human. So if you want to study non-human entities—like me, apparently—you should join. Refuse to join, I drug you. Fantastic, right? Well, for me.
She flopped back onto the bed and addressed the ceiling. "Look, I tried easing into this, but I'm sort of bored. I mean, I went to Israel and France and did this pitch already. But they're idiots." The woman propped herself back up. "You're smart enough to get it without me going through it. So, will you join, or will you forget?"
"Come with you to… fight monsters?"
"Yeah, that sums it up nicely. You also get a lot of time to yourself, and a lot of excitement."
Beth Llewellyn grinned. "Sign me up, Ms. Stalon."
"It's Professor Stalon." She said seriously, then handed her a business card. "And I'll see you at this address tomorrow at 8am."