- 20 -

As soon as the Doctor had landed the TARDIS, Ianto left the console room in long strides, hardly paying attention to the Doctor's exclamation of, "Ianto, wait...!"

He stepped out into a large, high-ceilinged room that was flooded with sunlight. The TARDIS was parked right in its middle, surrounded by marble, dust and corpses.

"Doctor?" Ianto asked softly, watching tiny specks of matter dance in the streams of light that were shining on the dead. These people hadn't died recently. Their bodies were dry and decayed and the air filling his lungs smelled perversely clean. He thought he could hear faint singing in the distance, a half-familiar hymn from his childhood.

"They died twenty-four years ago. There was a virus," the Doctor explained, his voice sounding muffled. "Jack... The Face of Boe protected parts of the city by giving his own life energy. He died from the strain... It's through here."

The Doctor led Ianto to a door that revealed a smaller, darker room. There was all sorts of technical equipment standing around, consoles and screens and cables that looked remarkably antiquated considering the year they were in. A huge jar was positioned against a wall, broken into a thousand pieces. Splinters and some sort of liquid were covering the floor in front of it.

Apart from that, however, the room was abandoned.

"What?" the Doctor said. "What?"

He squinted at the ceiling as if to make sure that no-one was hiding there. Then he crouched down in front of the broken jar and dipped his fingers into the clear liquid, picking up a shard of glass and turning it in his hand.

"He was here. He was here, Ianto!"

"How long has it been?" Ianto asked carefully.

"Three hours," the Time Lord answered. "Maybe four, but – he was here! And Hame, she couldn't have moved him on her own, not with a broken teleporter."

Ianto knelt next to the Doctor and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to fend off the oncoming dizziness.

"Maybe he came back to life," he finally suggested.

"But he died! And even if, he was... Well, he was the Face of Boe. It's not like he could have simply got up and walked away!"

"I suppose we won't ever find out now."

Ianto rose. Dust was filling his nose as well as something else. The smell of death, perhaps.

"Let's go," he said. "There's nothing here. Not anymore."

- 21 -

"What do you think?"

The Doctor grinned and spun round, stretching out his arms as he did so.

"It's a dress," Ianto said dubiously.

"This is not a dress! These are Trachain ceremonial robes of the highest quality!" the Doctor sniffed and twirled around once more, his long robes flaring as he did so.

Ianto had to admit that the texture and colour of the fabric were gorgeous. Smooth and rich to the touch, they were midnight blue in colour with silver threads running along the hem. Still, whatever the Doctor was wearing resembled an elaborate dressing gown more than anything else and Ianto told him so.

"Spoilsport," the Doctor huffed and inspected his appearance in one of the body-length mirrors that the TARDIS wardrobe had to offer. "So you don't think I should be wearing these tomorrow?"

"Where are we going tomorrow?"

"No idea! Still, they look pretty. Sort of. Where do you want to go?"

"I couldn't possibly say," Ianto said, making himself more comfortable in a squashy armchair. Most of the time the Doctor wore a rather generic outfit consisting of black trousers and a white shirt. Sometimes however he couldn't resist the urge to try out nearly every single item of clothing he owned. On those days the two of them would spend hours in the wardrobe, bickering over the Doctor's – non-existent, in Ianto's opinion – fashion sense. The Doctor usually emerged wearing something highly random and elaborate, only to ditch the outfit some hours later because it prevented him from running for his life and sprawling bonelessly.

As for Ianto himself, he'd quietly packed away the suit he'd worn the day he'd met the Doctor in one of the drawers in his room. He'd been sticking to contemporary – for him – jeans and shirts, withstanding every attempt by the Doctor to dress him up in something more adventurous.

Now the Doctor shrugged off the robe and stood before Ianto clad only in his boxer shorts, completely unconscious of the fact that he was half-naked.

"Don't give me that!" he said, "You've been quiet these last few days, ever since that trip to New New York. What's on your mind? Jack?"

"Well. Yes," Ianto admitted.

"I should have known," the Doctor said, bending down to pick up his crumpled pair of trousers and treating Ianto to the involuntary view of his rather skinny behind.

"I don't know why. It's just curiosity? Maybe. We used to spend hours wondering who Jack really was, you know."

Ianto tipped back his head and studied the lights on the ceiling with more attention than was strictly necessary. "Tosh ran every available search option on him and found nothing. He told Gwen more than the rest of us, but even so. She was – is – special to him, but he didn't even tell her the truth."

"Does that bother you?"

"It's a moot point, really," Ianto avoided the question. "He was our leader. We all betrayed him, one by one. He must have known not to trust us. And at the end of the day it doesn't really matter."

"I think it does!" the Doctor answered, buttoning up his shirt and stretching lazily. "It matters because you, Mr Ianto Jones, are still moping after nearly half a year in the most magnificent place in the universe."

"I," Ianto said with great dignity, "have never moped in my entire life."

The Doctor snorted and Ianto raised a questioning eyebrow. "It's the truth!"

"If you say so. Anyway. Tell me where you want to go and answer me honestly this time."

"The 51st century," Ianto replied promptly and the Doctor rolled his eyes.

"I should have known."

- 22 -

Ianto eyed the slim wristband the Doctor had handed to him with some curiosity. It was made out of light brown leather, with a small computer interface on its top. In fact, it strongly resembled Jack's mysterious all-purpose wristband.

"Put it on and don't lose it," the Doctor said. "Bit paranoid, this 51st century lot. Anything goes as long as you're recognised as a citizen by the central system. If the system doesn't recognise you... Well. The consequences aren't pretty. This is your ID, phone, diary, credit, network access, all compressed into one not-so-trendy bit of accessory."

"You created me a false identity for just one trip?" Ianto asked and tied the band around his left arm. The leather felt warm against his skin and the computer emitted a soft beep.

"The second you step out of the TARDIS the central system detects you as a human life form. Earth is ravaged by interplanetary wars as well as corruption in this century. You can imagine what they'd do to unidentifiable strangers stepping out of a random blue box."

"So where exactly are we going?"

"London, 5085. I don't want you running into any familiar faces -" he looked a bit puzzled at his own, inadvertent punt before swiftly resuming, "and Jack was born off-planet. If he ever went to Earth it would have been to enter Time Agent training and their headquarters are in Tokyo."

The Doctor fiddled with some of the buttons on the console and the grinding noise that indicated that they were leaving the time vortex gained in volume. It came to an abrupt halt and Ianto, already standing near the exit, opened the door and stepped out of the TARDIS.

He frowned and was turning around at the Doctor's frantic shout of, "Ianto? Ianto, come back here, we're -" when the door banged shut and the TARDIS dematerialised with a groan.

"Doctor?" Ianto asked softly, taking a step back and observing the place where a blue police box had stood just a moment before.

"Doctor!" he called out again, stretching out his hands as if trying to grasp at something invisible.

"Doctor!"

This was an exercise in futility, however. The TARDIS was gone. So was the Doctor.

- 23 -

Later, Ianto couldn't even begin to guess for how long he'd stood rooted to the very spot where the TARDIS had disappeared. At some point his legs started to cramp so he sat down on the tarmac ground. He sat cross-legged, his hands resting on his knees. He didn't move, didn't even so much as twitch. There was only his own soft breathing, the world going black for a split-second when he blinked and the growing panic in his mind.

He was here, presumably in the 51st century on Earth. The Doctor was in the TARDIS and the TARDIS had disappeared.

The TARDIS was gone.

It was this sentence that was running through his mind over and over again, a choked crescendo full of disbelief and the dim knowledge that he was way out of his depth here.

He couldn't fix this. He didn't even know with any certainty what had gone wrong.

Surely if the Doctor had decided to dump him he would have at least given him a warning? But the Doctor had called out to him, had told him to come back. The Time Lord had sounded genuinely agitated.

No, Ianto had to conclude that this had been an accident, an unfortunate glitch due to the TARDIS' precarious technology and the Doctor's adventurous navigation. Come to think of it, he'd never got around to fixing those temporal stabilisers properly. He'd fiddled, he'd cursed, he'd talked about replacing them ever since his regeneration had damaged them in the first place. At the end of the day, though, there had always been more interesting things to do, places he wanted to show to Ianto where it didn't matter whether they arrived ten years early or late.

Ianto had to believe this. He had to believe that the Doctor hadn't left him deliberately. He had to believe that right now the Time Lord was doing everything in his power to stop the TARDIS from moving any further through time. Ianto refused to contemplate the alternative because that way lay madness. The Doctor could be incredibly clever and resourceful if he wanted to be. He'd bring back the TARDIS, back to this very spot and in a couple of hours they'd both be getting mildly drunk in the console room, toasting to bad luck and timely intervention.

Ianto had to believe that.

From time to time, he looked up at the patch of sky visible between two skyscrapers as if to make sure that the TARDIS wasn't suddenly flying through the air and towards him. The colour of the sky slowly changed from an unclouded blue to grey; from orange to red and finally darkness, a starless, black night sky.

It had been at least twelve hours since the TARDIS had disappeared. Ianto's breathing had gone from frantic staccato to long gulps of air to keep himself from hyperventilating, to short, shallow breaths. His entire body felt cold although it had been a summer's day, judging by the mild temperature now that it was night. He suddenly became aware that he was hungry and that the clenching in his stomach didn't stem from either panic or fear.

Ianto got up slowly, having to push himself to his feet using both his hands. His world spun for a moment and bile rose in his throat.

If he left this place now; if he left wherever the TARDIS had stranded him, he'd actually choose to enter the active time stream. He would be seen by people. Even if they only became aware of him in peripheral vision it was still proof that he was indeed here, wherever that happened to be. The thought terrified him. It would be accepting the fact that the Doctor wouldn't return within the next few minutes. And what would happen if he did and find that Ianto was gone? What then?

No. He couldn't afford to leave this place. Not yet.

A sudden idea occurred to Ianto and he fumbled for the wristband the Doctor had given to him, taking it off his wrist and inspecting it more closely. The Doctor had said that this thing could do pretty much everything – taking the iPhone ten steps further and combining everything into one tiny device. He pressed the largest button and a holographic screen flashed up in front of him.

'Welcome to the terrestrial ß-Network,' it read and Ianto swallowed dryly. After some random clicking and virtual scrolling he found what he was looking for and pressed the 'Connect directly – now with human operator!' button with caution as if the expected it to explode in his face. There was a bleep, then a click and a cheerful voice rang out, "Seyjoun Antique Foods, how may I help you?"

"Yes. I was just wondering how long it would take you to deliver a European pizza to the coordinates I'm transmitting...?"

- 24 -

When Ianto woke up from a gritty haze he found himself leaning against the wall of a building and surrounded by empty take-away boxes.

He winced in distaste at the fuzzy feeling in his mouth and stood up. He was still in the abandoned alleyway where the Doctor had left him, a narrow dead end wedged between two improbably high skyscrapers. Above him a new day was dawning and there was still no sign of the TARDIS.

Sleep had not been restful for Ianto. He was feeling dizzy again, probably from sitting down all day and then eating too much of the food he'd ordered last night. He'd expected someone to deliver it to him and had mentally prepared himself for at least one or two awkward questions as to why exactly he wanted to have a full meal delivered to an otherwise empty alleyway. He'd been spared the potential embarrassment, however, because his food had been teleported directly into his lap about five minutes after he'd ordered it.

It was roughly twenty-four hours since he'd been left here. It was clear that Ianto couldn't stay in this alleyway forever. Sooner or later he'd have to go out and join the real world, even if it was only to find a place to take a shower and clean his teeth. Ianto could only hope that if – when – the Doctor managed to come back, he'd wait for some time before giving up on Ianto as a lost case.

Ianto stretched his aching muscles one by one and grimaced as he touched the stubble of beard on his face. Then he slowly shuffled out of the alleyway, blinking as a new day unfolded in front of his eyes.

Despite the early hour, the street he found himself in was busy with people, although curiously absent of any sort of vehicles. There were skyscrapers all around him, shining dully in the still-weak daylight. Some of them were projecting holographs which spun lazily in mid-air. From what Ianto could make out they were bits of news and the inevitable advertisements. The people bustling around him were dressed in all sorts of uniforms and most of them were talking, chatting away on phones that were no larger than a small earring attached to their ear lobes.

One thing Ianto noticed immediately was that everybody surrounding him looked distinctly Asian, probably Japanese. He was the tallest person as far as he could see, standing out in his oddly casual and outdated clothing. He never cared to blend in when he was with the Doctor, had never really given it much thought. It wasn't necessary, the Doctor said, because the trick was to act as if you owned the place and then nobody dared to comment on appearances. Even so, they'd been arrested once for inappropriate clothing – but that had been an accident.

Now, however, Ianto couldn't have drawn more attention to him if he'd tried. He was distinctly out of time, definitely scruffy and obviously ill at ease. People passing by raised their eyebrows and walked just a little bit more quickly, raising their voices on the phone to demonstrate their indifference.

Ianto desperately wished he was wearing one of his suits right at that moment.

He started walking and joined the flow of professionals going to work. Keeping his head low, he concentrated on his wristband instead. He still didn't know exactly when and where he was.

The initial welcoming screen flashed up once again. Ianto pressed the 'News' button and sagged as he read the title: 'Thursday, 22nd of August 5050, City of Tokyo'. The Doctor had apparently miscalculated and landed Ianto in the very place ad time he'd wanted him to avoid. Tokyo was where the headquarters of the Time Agency were located and the probability of accidentally bumping into a past version of Jack were slightly more than zero than elsewhere on planet Earth.

Ianto clicked on the 'Location' function next and a miniature map of his surroundings sprang up in half-transparency before his eyes, indicating his exact position as a small, red dot. Apparently he was in the District of Finance & Democracy right now. The nearest hotel was half a mile away, a deluxe twelve star house supplying everything from a football-pitch sized swimming pool to willing and complimentary partners of all genders and species, as the blurb appearing on the map informed Ianto.

He could only hope that the Doctor had put enough money into his false bank account to pay for this decadence.

Ianto tucked the wristband into his trouser pockets and walked faster.

- 25 -

Postcard #3

City of Tokyo, 27th of August 5050

Doctor,

greetings from Japan!

To be honest, I wouldn't have thought I'd ever have to write a postcard to you, seeing as we were... well. Together?

It's been nearly a week, by the way, and I'm still here. I suppose I have to at least thank you for creating an identity for me, someone who is moderately wealthy. I wouldn't have appreciated being reduced to walking the streets, wondering where my next meal would come from. I do that anyway, wandering the streets, I mean. Not much else to do for me, is there? It seems that the endless stream of heroic adventures and life-threatening situations don't expand to your companions because so far the most exciting thing that's happened to me was when three Chula warriors propositioned me over breakfast this morning.

At this point it was quite tempting to accept their offer, actually.

In conclusion, the City of Tokyo is beautiful and I see now why Jack has these rather unconventional views regarding... dancing, as you put it? For me, however – I'm out of time and I'm stuck here.

Please come back.

Ianto

- 26 -

Ianto finished writing the postcard addressed to 'The Doctor, TARDIS, time vortex' and scanned it with his wristband. The wristband was supposed to recognise addresses automatically and then charge the price for a virtual stamp so the actual card could then be posted. In this case, however, it beeped in a puzzled sort of way and a message flashed on its tiny screen: 'Not valid. Please try again.' Ianto repeated the scan, with the same results: 'Not valid. Please try again.'

He nearly crumpled the postcard by shoving it in the same pocket as his sonic screwdriver and drained his shot of hypervodka in one long gulp. Ianto barely resisted coughing as the liquid burned its way down his throat and dimly wondered what his team from Torchwood would say if they saw him like this: Hair in a disarray, with bloodshot eyes and a gaunt face from far too little sleep. He was still wearing his own clothes and simply had them laundered every night at the hotel he was staying at. And now he was sitting in a dingy bar at noon and downing a shot of alcohol so strong it was probably illegal in his own time.

This was a long way off from Ianto Jones, chief recorder and archivists of Torchwood Three.

Then again, he was a long way off from where he belonged. 21st century Cardiff or the TARDIS were both equally beyond his reach now.

He stood up to leave the bar. He couldn't remember why he'd thought that it would be a good idea to get drunk in the middle of the day. After one shot of hypervodka, he could think of a dozen reasons for not doing so, and killing his taste buds as well as his liver was only one of them. He had to stay alert and in control. He had to keep looking for the Doctor.

Most nights Ianto didn't even bother trying to sleep because restlessness always drove him out of bed in the end, halfway across the inner city and to that alleyway. Ianto would usually lean back against the wall of a building and wait, dimly listening to the nocturnal sounds of urban life around him until exhaustion made him fall asleep on his feet.

At that point he'd go back to the hotel, but even then he'd wake up every half hour or so, panic clawing in his guts. He'd feel that something wasn't right, that something was missing. In those few seconds between instinct and reality he could harbour the hope that maybe he was wrong, maybe everything was all right, maybe he was simply feeling the aftershocks of a nightmare.

And then his mind would clear up, knowledge that his dread and fear were justified sinking in and he would fall asleep again, eyes flickering beneath his lids as he dreamt.

Really, it was enough to drive any man to drink.

Ianto left the bar and stood outside, blinking in the overly bright sunlight.

Ianto had found out enough about 51st century Earth and its mildly confusing morals and customs to satisfy even his curiosity. His mental picture of Captain Jack Harkness was still incomplete but a few more puzzle pieces had slotted into place, belated answers to the why'sand how's he'd asked himself while working for the other man. The flirting, the flippancy, the slightly derogatory comments about their century all made more sense now that Ianto was witnessing the 51st century firsthand: The total acceptance of every life style imaginable and the seeming absence of discrimination were paired with a curious emotional coldness in the endless news reports of a violent interplanetary war that Earth was currently engaged in. Pregnant human men walked the streets of Tokyo and Ianto had watched a wedding ceremony between to human women and an unidentifiable alien only yesterday. At the same time the Time Agency overruled all jurisdiction whenever it suited them and there were rumours of drafting in colonists to fight for their mother planet in the war.

Was that why Jack had joined the Time Agency? Had he been drafted in to fight against Earth's worst enemy imaginable? Or had he joined out of his own free will, thinking that adventures would lie in wait for him?

Those were puzzle pieces Ianto knew he was never likely to find. But those questions added to the weight in his mind and the best way to distract himself was to walk and to observe, to concentrate on the here and now. Ianto turned to the right and crossed the street, apologising as he avoided bumping into strangers. That was another thing that baffled him: He could still make himself understood and he himself understood everyone perfectly, everything up to and including the lewd remarks the Chula warriors had sent his way this morning. Most people spoke with an American accent and some spoke Welsh, which meant that the TARDIS was still translating for him. It was further proof for his theory that the temporal stabilisers had malfunctioned. The TARDIS was still and again standing in that very alleyway. It was shifted out of linear time, however, caught between the time vortex and the present City of Tokyo.

Ianto chose to walk through a large park that led to one of the rivers. It was noon and the park was busy with people eating their lunch and catching up with friends. There was chewing, talking, laughing and quite an amount of snogging as well as unabashed groping. He forced himself to look away from a particularly enthusiastic couple and sat on one of the numerous benches near the river to clear his head from the hypervodka.

Closing his eyes, Ianto stretched out his arms along the bench, sinking further into the seat and slouching. He couldn't reach the Doctor. He couldn't even send him a bloody postcard. He had no idea of when the TARDIS would finally stop her temporal hiccups and materialise again. Maybe she wouldn't. Maybe the Doctor had left for good after all, or the ship had gone backwards in time. Even if the TARDIS was skipping forwards right now, who could know how much time would pass? On Orion Three it had been five years. On Heyl it had been a hundred.

Ianto couldn't afford to wait that long. He had enough money to last him quite a while, that wasn't his concern. But he didn't belong in this time and he missed the Doctor. He missed Tosh and Gwen and even Owen. He missed Jack and the thought of dying as an old man in the 51st century while his former lover was taking the slow path through his own century filled him with horror.

He didn't belong here. More importantly, he didn't want to belong here.

Later, Ianto didn't know whether it was the hypervodka that had given him ideas or whether he'd finally scraped together enough courage to act on his own. In any case it suddenly occurred to him that time travel was entirely possible in this time period. It was inaccessible to civilians as well as illegal, but it was not impossible. And Ianto knew an organisation that had made it its objective to know everything about the intricacies of time travel, preserving the flow of linear time and punishing those who threatened it.

He nearly ran out of the park, towards the underground station whose line went straight on to the artificial island of Obaida, the location of the headquarters of the Time Agency.

- 27 -

"And why do you want to work for the Time Agency, Ianto Jones?" the white-haired man wearing a pair of incredibly old-fashioned spectacles asked.

Ianto leaned forward in his chair and hoped that he projected confidence.

"Because there are certain... disruptive elements in our intergalactic society which threaten the peace and personal freedom we're all striving to achieve. And because it is, quite frankly, the most exciting challenge I can imagine."

"Quite right, quite right," a gender-neutral alien sitting next to the white-haired man murmured. "Peace and personal freedom. Tell me, Ianto Jones, where have you picked up your rather unusual outfit?"

Startled, Ianto couldn't avoid glancing at his jeans and tee shirt. It had occurred to him while sitting on the train that maybe changing into something more formal might have been appropriate, considering that he was applying to become a Time Agent. Then again, with fashion what it was in this time, a pair of jeans didn't necessarily constitute casual wear and in any case he hadn't expected to be invited to stay for an interview right after filling in the appropriate forms anyway.

"Oh, here and there," he answered evasively. "I've always been fascinated by the late 20th and early 21st century."

"The 21st century is when it all changes," his third interviewer, a human woman in her fifties, said and Ianto looked at her sharply.

"So would you want to specialise in this particular time period?" she continued.

"If there is a demand for me in this field, then yes," Ianto answered firmly. "I think I could be an asset for the Time Agency in this respect."

He listened to himself talk and was reminded of the day he'd interviewed for a position at Torchwood One. He'd been nearly ill with anxiety back then, whereas now he was almost perversely relaxed, something that might be due to the alcohol through his veins. Ianto had also taken the time to read up on the Time Agency using his wristband on the train journey. The organisation was in some difficulties right now, with accusations of corruption and war-mongering flying about. There was talk of bringing in Torchwood to sort them out – and Ianto had allowed himself a small smile, realising that it still existed – and the Time Agency was opposing this vehemently. Recruitment had been decreasing steadily over the last few years. All in all, Ianto didn't think they'd turn down anyone who applied, even someone who looked and talked like a relic from three thousand years ago.

"Well," the gender-neutral alien said and blinked at him, its milky white eyes momentarily obscured by an orange sheen of skin, "this has been most fascinating. You would certainly be an usual addition to this year's intake of recruits. We will let you know about our decision as soon as possible, Ianto Jones."

"Thank you very much."

Ianto got up and smiled at every single one of his interviewers before leaving the room. He kept his back straight and his face impassive as he left the large HR building at the edge of the island and went to catch a train back to the main land, just in case they were observing him on camera. It was something Torchwood One had done, observing its potential recruits to see what they were like when they weren't pretending to be competent and clever.

Once he'd boarded the train he allowed himself a small grimace, licking his suddenly dry lips. He fumbled in his pockets and found the postcard he'd written to the Doctor some hours earlier. Its front showed the various incarnations of Tokyo Tower, its original Eiffel-tower shape, subsequent destruction and recent resurrection as a high-class virtual brothel. It had appealed to Ianto's sense of humour, buying something that showed the passage of time from his personal present to this strange new world.

He smoothed out the creases in the paper and scanned the postcard with his wristband again, just in case.

'Not valid. Please try again.'