A/N: The first two chapters are mainly for exposition and to take care of potential plot-holes. I promise life won't be this simple for them in the future.
Lady Christina de Souza was a true Lady. She was prepared with witty repartee, sufficient tools, and just enough moxie to suit any situation. This aligned well enough with the expectations of the public in situations resembling dinner parties with high society. Things fell a little bit apart when flying double-decker busses and crime were introduced into the picture.
Of course, that just made life fun. With how much fun she chased, the brunette rarely followed anyone's expectations. The Interpol officer she was gliding away from made a good example. She'd never been in a situation like this before, but suspicion told her having alien technology and knowledge would eventually get them taken off her case. UNIT and Torchwood had to keep these sorts of things quiet. Laying low wasn't an exciting choice, but Christina was willing to wait for that aspect of her life to come around again. At least she got the adventure of picking up some supplies, first.
Knowing the day would come when she had to break into her own house, the Lady had planned for today with skylights, secret passages, and anything else that inexplicably worked to the advantage of criminals in those ridiculous movies. She just never expected to have a giant floating anchor for when she entered the skylight closest to her main storage area. Interpol was focused on the ground and any signs of noisy aircraft, so she could assume the interior would be fairly sparsely guarded. Still, she readied some chloroform. Once inside, she unbuckled her harness and started to slink around the walls and corners. It was much more of a challenge to sneak when dressed for night crimes in a well lit area.
Christina crept to the junction near the door she needed incident free, then caught her breath. There was a police presence inside her house. Thinking on her feet, she tossed a ring at the corner next to her. This guard had obviously seen a few movies, because after seeing what clattered to the ground was a harmless piece of metal, he investigated the opposite corner. Too easy. A hand wielding a cloth inched toward the man's mouth; the inching became a grip, the grip became a vice, and the man became unconscious.
She picked up his gun (guns weren't her style, but Christina was such an advocate of practicality over ideals that she became an idealist in always making the decision to compromise her identity for a day rather than suffer a decreased chance of survival). Proceeding to rob him of his identification, communication, and recover her ring, she practically scurried into the safe room.
Caring more about time wasted now than later, the black-clad brunette shoved items haphazardly into her pack. She had no apparent regard for organization, only for what would be harder to purchase on the lamb. Glass cutters, bolt cutters, drugs, a small crossbow, forged passports, more carbon-fiber rope, and an extensive set of lock picks found their way into the bag. As for money, a small stack of bills and a dainty yet somewhat hefty bag of precious gems could hold her over for a year.
When her fellow bus passengers thought she carried everything in her backpack, they were incredibly wrong. She'd left behind dozens of trophies Interpol would happily collect, all her blueprints and other "research materials," a fully furnished home and a fully stocked kitchen. Pointedly, her stomach grumbled. The plan was to take the bus over rarely frequented international waters, then acquire smaller amenities. It was a decent enough plan for now, but several faults needed to be taken care of. Running water, hot food, and a bed, for instance. Her line of thought was completely interrupted by the whoosh of air displacement by one of the wheels. The tires were already flat, so the comforting explanation was completely ridiculous.
The Time Agency may have given Jenny an algorithm to hone in on alien technology, but as she found herself appearing in mid-air next to a large hunk of metal she barely recognized as a bus, it became painfully clear that things were not always well thought out. Imprints of lighting fast instincts from the progeneration machine and the adaptability of those that came from her timelord DNA… those were hardly sufficient to get one hand desperately clutching to rubber before the rest of her body got accelerated at the earth standard of 9.8 meters per second per second. Worse, the wheel was starting to creak in a sinister way as if it planned on rotating.
Deciding she'd rather not race gravity at reprogramming the vortex manipulator, Jenny let out a strained shout followed by an awkward, "Uhh… Hello?"
Christina had already done what she knew to put the bus in a three dimensional version of "parked" and peeked out the window. She couldn't help laughing a little. This was clearly not a person in a position of strength, but curiosity and practicality both voted the blonde be saved… then perhaps incapacitated and questioned.
The Lady pulled tight two overhand knots on a length of cord, leaving a loop at either end. She fastened one to the driver's seat and lowered the other to the mysterious woman hanging off her vehicle. That would ensure she remained secure long enough to prepare a proper winch-powered rescue. For her part, Jenny was reveling in the confusion and adrenaline. She'd have to watch that. She knew she was programmed with the knowledge of how to fight and how to die, but images of Donna and Martha flooded her head. They knew where to stop, unlike the leader she was literally born to follow, who shot at her father, and she, who dove in front of the bullet.
With a bit of effort and a few scrapes, Jenny was in the bus: a welcome sight. Her next sight was an imposingly composed woman pointing some old fashioned weapon at the blonde. "Who the hell are you?"
Not so welcome.