A/N: This has all been beta-d by Veritas 6.5. Many thanks for correcting my miserable abuse of the semicolon.


The site should have been abandoned this early in the morning; she had asked that the team meet her at 8:30. In spite of her instruction, there is a small figure sitting on the steps leading up to the plain white doors. If Lois wants to be this early then she can wait a little more while Gwen takes the time to look around. The director slows her pace, taking in the new building for the first time. Plain. Squat. New but not conspicuous. Perfect. She pauses in front of the stenciled white sign for Smith & Jones, CPA and smiles. The cover story had been Lois' idea; it was quite clever and Mickey had been absolutely tickled by it. After all, who'd want to stop by an accounting firm if they didn't absolutely have to?

The young assistant bounds down the steps, disinclined to wait any longer, taking two of the bags Gwen balances in her arms. "I know you said eight-thirty, but it's so exciting!" She stares at the entrance for a moment, adjusting the weight of her burden, dark eyes wide. "It's all so new and fresh, feels like anything could happen."

It was for this reason that Gwen had intended to arrive long before the others. It was her best chance to start fresh. No overwhelming sense of transience. No bad dreams to dog her steps. Resenting the eager younger woman's presence won't change anything though. Gwen pulls out the new keys and fights the stiffness of a shiny new lock before pushing the door open to a small empty foyer. "Would you set those tables up over here, Lois? Yeah, off to the side." As the assistant pops open the shoddy card tables, checking their stability, Gwen sets out a cheap paper cover and the coffee, doughnuts, and bagels she had picked up on her way over.

Lois comes to help her set out small bottles of cream, packets of sugar, and paper cups. She scurries off for a moment and returns, victorious, dragging two large waste bins. "Expecting a big group?"

She flicks out two bags to line the bins with, and knots one loosely in place. "I want everything critical moved this weekend, so we're not trying to work between two places. I hired a team of movers to expedite the process a little. Gwen excuses herself and slips into the next room. She treads softly on the new blue carpet, crossing the virgin expanse of uncharted floor to stare out a window at the dawn-lit sky. It smells of fresh paint and possibility. The big empty silence of a big empty space envelopes her, welcoming, protecting, promising. Or maybe she's letting her fancies run amok again. Still, it's nice to think that there is something intrinsic to the place itself that is happy that she's here. "I'll make it a good place; a safe place." She feels that it needs a name, though. It can't be the Hub. A unique place with its own future and its own personality needs its own name. There goes her imagination again. But maybe Martha or Lois would have an idea. It's not just her place, whatever name she gives it. A stir in the other room: sleepy voices greeting each other, just outside her range of hearing. She sticks her head around the door frame, and smiles at her newly arrived colleagues.

Mickey waves, his mouth already full of pastry. He mumbles something incomprehensible with a puff of powdered sugar and a fine spray of crumbs. Martha slaps him on the shoulder as a scolding, and the gesture is so familiar that Gwen freezes, lost for a moment in a different marriage a long time ago. With strength she didn't know she had, she lets the feeling go, returning her attention to Martha.

"…Brought the truck over like you asked. We weren't sure where you wanted us to put it, so it's still at the curb."

"I'll take care of it. You guys just… hang out for a bit. Poke around." She catches the keys Mickey tosses at her, and jogs out to the truck they had spent yesterday loading with office furnishings and high-priority equipment. She waves to a larger lorry lumbering up behind their vehicle and saunters over. "I'll move, you guys can park here on the curb. I think everything you've got needs to go to the top floor…" She chews her lip a moment and shrugs. All the misfiles can be sorted out later.

Truck parked in the garage, Gwen carefully pushes past the door, trying to see around a large box. "Hey!" Her voice echoes around the empty room as she sets down her load, stretching her back. She crooks a finger at the three faces peering around the door. "Well, come on. Let's get it all in." The morning and most of the afternoon whizzes past in a cloud of coffee, stairs, boxes, and stairs. It's impossible to be everywhere she wants to be at the same time; but she does her best to divide her attention among the groups. She's there when her employees finish unloading the first delivery of boxes from the Base, and she sends them back out for a second load and some pizzas. She's on the top level orchestrating the setup of her new archives, and cajoling them into staying to help move a delivery of electronics and furnishings to the lower levels.

It's been dark outside for a long time when she dismisses the moving crew, and sags against a crate, popping open a bottle of beer someone had brought along and left behind. Today was only the beginning. She feels heavy, overwhelmed by the task she set herself.

Lois studies the trio sprawling limply around the room. They looked beat, and by her judgment, there was no way Mickey, Martha, or Gwen were good for any more heavy lifting tonight. "Let's come back tomorrow and finish moving the archives and set up work stations, then. We should celebrate our new place tonight."

Mickey drags himself up from where he's slumped. "That… sounds like a really good idea. Come on, get up." He pokes Martha in the ribs until she stirs with a grumble, batting his hand away.

"I don't know; there's still so much I need to do. You guys go, have fun," Gwen said.

The two other women roll their eyes at each other in response to her excuse. "You need to get out, Gwen. It'll all be here when you get back." Martha offers her hand to Gwen with a tired smile.

She's right, of course, and Gwen has a sinking suspicion that Martha knows that she's just as beat as the rest of them. She sighs and accepts the hand up, letting the other women drag her to her feet. "I don't know what's around here."

Lois smiles with just a trace of mischief, "let's go find out then."


The rest of the week blurs together; bursts of sleep and rift alerts between endless hours of wrestling with Ikea furniture, hooking computers to their servers, arranging and rearranging everything, and what feels like thousands of trips between the new place and the old, ferrying over load upon load of archived material and records.

Martha finds her one afternoon, coaxing another flat-packed bed into its proper shape. "I don't understand something, Gwen. Why'd you set up all this space? What do we need a dormitory for? Or a laboratory separated by three floors from the medical bay? What do we need an empty level for? I asked Lois to look up the blueprints; you never said what sub-level four was supposed to be used for. It's empty on the floor plan. It seems unnecessary."

"Hold this for a moment." She waits for Martha to take hold of the two slats, and hammers them together, prodding to check its sturdiness. She sits back on her heels, swiping a sweaty strand of hair out of her face from where it had fallen out of her ponytail. "This job is bigger than any of us. We don't know what Torchwood will need in ten years, or fifty, or one hundred. Hell, next month we could find ourselves in need of another fifteen workers. We could be besieged by invaders and need not only fortifications here, but the facilities for comfortable living. We might need to house troops or civilians one day. I don't know what the future holds, so I tried to make a place that could adapt to every unknown." She stands, dusting off her knees. "That reminds me. Can you go find Mickey and Lois, and bring them down to sub-level two?"

Martha works her jaw for a moment at this explanation, then nods, turning on her heel, and jogs down to the space for storing high-security archives. She collects her charges and they slog back up the steps to the cement chamber that had been designated firearms range and armory.

The Director looks up from where she's shifting boxes of weaponry and unassembled gun racks in front of a large clear wall at their approach. "Thanks for coming. There are a few security features for this place I realized I hadn't explained." She gestures for them to get comfortable. "In case of emergency, contamination, escaped specimens, or attacks against our personnel, lockdown will be set in motion. There's software on all our trackers that can activate it remotely, or on site, if it is not triggered automatically, or if something happens that the sensor wasn't set to account for. Malfunction or shut down of the primary generator will also trigger it. All ports to the outside will be sealed, as well as individual floors. To lift the lockdown, power must be on and Martha or I, as well as one additional operative, need to enter the passcodes into the system." She pauses to make sure there's no confusion, and then continues, "But we all have temporary physical overrides. All the doors to the different levels have a groove like this on either side." She motions to a shallow sensor beside the entrance to the armory. "Press your arm against it and it'll take a blood sample, compare it to the sequence on file and let you through if it matches."

Lois frowns, "I'm sorry to interrupt, but this seems like it only encourages extra risk to us. It incentivizes intruders to do more harm to workers, and gives them more access to more of Torchwood than inviolable seals would."

"For an ordinary business that would be exactly right. But there's stuff here that's worth more than any of our lives. We need to be able to contain whatever tries to get in or out, but we also need to be able to access it in order to contain or stop whatever it is." Mickey looks to Gwen for confirmation.

"Precisely. Though, ideally, it will never be an issue." A quick review of the alert program on their rift trackers, and she shoos Mickey and Lois back to their work; enlisting Martha to help set up the racks and disassembled guns; big and little, complicated and simple.

They work in silence for a moment then Martha looks up from placing pistols on their shelves to find Gwen writing up an order for further munitions. "Why all these elaborate plans? Measures and counter measures, what are you so worried about?"

She sighs, rubbing her eyelids, looking for the right words to explain. "Jack always said that there's a storm coming. That message echoes everywhere we go; even now that he's gone. I can't get away from it. It's not any particular thing, I guess, just paranoia."

At those words, the doctor pales under her rich complexion. Truly, those words echo through time and space. "I've heard that before: There's a storm coming." She admits slowly, tossing an empty box aside and begins reassembling a box of rifles. "But it seems like that's the nature of the universe, you know? There's always conflict somewhere; and always more conflict on the horizon." She stares off into space, lost in a memory of old battles, old adventures. "But I don't believe any longer that it's building to some ultimate showdown."

This bears some thought. "Why do you believe that?"

Martha looks old, suddenly. There's a light in her far away stare that is eerily reminiscent of Jack. "I've seen so many worlds end, so many times. Every time, I thought it would be the definitive conflict: Armageddon. That after the dust settled and the fires burned themselves out, that peace would come and stay. But it never did. So, sure I believe that there's a storm coming. But there's one raging somewhere right now. And all of history is just one big parade of catastrophe and crisis and storm stretching back to the beginning."

That stuns Gwen for a moment; she had never considered it that way. "I see." She's the one to reach for Martha's hand this time; she offers the squeeze of comfort.

Martha regains a bit of color, and returns the gesture. "I think all the work you've put into this is great. Really, I do. It's made to UNIT specifications, if I'm not mistaken, and will be a great asset, whatever happens. I'm sure of it." But Gwen can hear the doubt; the disbelief that anything could fully prepare for what might come.

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Gwen stands, folding her forms into pocket sized square."I'd like to hear more about your travels, someday."

"I'd like to hear more about your Rhys, someday."

Her heart twists for a moment; she can't breathe. "Maybe later. Let's get back to work."


Gwen hadn't really counted on how difficult it would be to find her coworkers once they scattered through the building to explore and settle into their new work spaces. She had been checking the office's workstations for proper server connectivity when a delivery of sandwiches arrives. After taking the package and paying the girl, she stands in the foyer for a moment; trying to estimate the amount of time it might take to find everyone scattered around the structure. Too much effort; easier just to send a text: 'Lunch in the office'. Martha and Lois are clattering up the stairs when her phone beeps with a response from Mickey: 'In 5th lvl. Deliver? '. She hesitates before writing up a snarky reply. The fifth sub-level is their designated high-security archive; and she's been too busy trying to oversee everything, to poke through what's stored down there. A few words to Martha and Lois and she's jogging down the endless flights of stairs, a sandwich for Mickey tucked under her arm.

"Oi, back here!"

There's no way to find where the voice is coming from behind the stacks of crates. She passes cartons piled precariously high, reading snippets from the labels in passing. Turning a corner, the space opens up, revealing a tangle of wire and metal at the foot of a large display case.

Mickey straightens with a groan from where's he's bending into the open display, realigning artifacts with their labels as best he can. "Wasn't sure if you were going to come." He catches the sandwich out of the air and begins wolfing it down.

Gwen shrugs, picking her way through the debris on the floor to get a better look at the half-ordered case. "Been meaning to see what's down here." The little pieces of metal, some moving, some tinted wonderful and mysterious colors, capture her imagination. What could they all be for? The tags are vague at best: Perpetual motion machine. Silicate reactor. Laser gun [discharged twice]. "I wonder what that runs on. Could we ever use it?"

He comes to stand beside her, finishing off his lunch. "There's a lot we don't know about this stuff. Some of it doesn't have any data in its report except the date and place of discovery. It's a shame."

There's some question lingering unasked in his statement. "Is this stuff of interest to you?"

"You think I'm just some nerd who doesn't know how to be happy away from a computer?" He laughs at her frozen expression. "I like to know how stuff works, you know? Take it apart, poke around; see what it can do. And all this is so… wild. It could be anything. It could do anything."

She nods slowly, "and you want my permission to learn how these work? Take them apart and poke around in them, as you said?"

"Well when you phrase it like that…" He lets the jest trail off and continues more seriously. "Seems like a waste of potential to just leave it down here and forget about it. It might all be scrap, but until we look and try to figure it out we'll never know."

"You don't have to twist my arm quite so hard." On anyone else her expression would have been called a smirk. "I think it's a really good idea, Mickey. A little reorganization, and you could have a proper work space set up down here." She studies the mess on the floor pensively. "If Lois has some time to spare, she might be able to help with some of the research or documentation. But I want to know everything that goes on here, understand? I don't care how minute the details are. You're messing with stuff we know nothing about. Just… remember that, ok?" She had been glaring at him without realizing it, and makes an effort to soften her expression. "I'd hate to wake up and find myself irradiated or exploded or green one morning."

He snickers at her choice of words. "Sure thing, boss. Should I let Lois know?"

"Sure. But I'd get this cleaned up a bit before starting. Send me a list of stuff you might need for this; I've got another order going out tomorrow."


Gwen had counted on the size of the building to complicate Martha's hunt for her. It appears now that she miscalculated the other woman's tenacity, or maybe she simply isn't very good at choosing clever places to hide. She looks up from the latest police report regarding alien activity: a Weevil had somehow been loosed in a shopping mall late last night, and though the material damages were high no one had been badly hurt. "Something I can help you with?" Just play it cool, there's a chance she's just here to give an update.

Martha smiles and takes a seat without asking, a quick glance of the room taking in the heaps of papers, empty coffee mugs, the cot in the corner, and bags stowed underneath. "Are you planning on living here, too?"

"Someone has to be on duty at night." It's a hollow excuse, but no less true.

That battle isn't worth fighting right now. "Are you still having nightmares?"

Gwen shrugs unhappily. "Sometimes. I've gotten a bit better at sleeping through the night, though."

The doctor smiles encouragingly. "That's good." The two women stare at each other for a long stretch of silence. Martha breaks it first, "you've done really well with therapy so far. Can you feel a difference from when we started?"

Another shrug. "Can't tell." Everything's still too tangled inside.

"Would you agree that your physical symptoms are more in control now than they were half a year ago?" Certainly it's a leading question, but sometimes it has to be risked.

She nods slowly; there is no arguing that in that respect she had improved. "Do you think I'm better?"

The doctor pauses, trying to find the best answer before proceeding. "You never 'get better' from grief, Gwen. The pain of the loss fades, but it's not like recovering from the flu. I think you've made significant progress with your depressive symptoms, but you've been through some truly terrible things, and those scars don't heal easily."

"I know that." Gwen buries her face in her hands. "And I know you think that part will get better someday. But I don't feel like it ever will. It feels like everything will be horrible forever, and whenever I start thinking that maybe someday things will get better, something shoves me over and shits all over me until I'm back where I started."

"Have you tried confronting those somethings?" Maybe there was a better way to have put that. Too late now.

"How?"

That's close enough to an invitation to bring the subject up directly. "Are you talking about the things that remind you of your husband?"

Gwen freezes then nods slowly. She peers up through her fingers to see Martha watching her sadly, compassion clear on her face.

"The only way I know to overcome reactions to triggers like those is stop running from them; either confront or accept them. It will hurt at first, but eventually the recollection becomes something to treasure, and you stop fearing those memories." She pauses then continues when Gwen doesn't react. "I can help you with this; but only if it's something you want."

Gwen doesn't know how to respond to this offer. She wants to scream and shout and run away. It's too soon. It's relief she doesn't deserve The only way she can redeem herself as his widow is through this pain. She peers sideways at Martha sitting placidly in her chair, still watching.

Martha waits for some sign, some visible need of Gwen's, to comfort or continue; moving only when she notes a faint tremor in the woman across from her. She stands then, helping her trembling patient to the cot, sitting close beside her; as much her friend as her doctor.

Gwen sags against the stronger shoulder, unresisting. "This is my penance. After all I've done to him… I deserve this."

Martha carefully contains a retort and folds her companion into a hug, murmuring into her hair, "it's okay to be afraid of moving on. Whatever happened in life, it's over now for him. He won't be any better or worse off now however you torture yourself."

The older woman chokes down a sob, clutching blindly at the other's hands. "He deserved better. There was no evidence I could show him that he'd accept. Not until I came here. Then we both knew I wasn't any good… but he didn't leave when he could have." She blows out a wavering sigh. "To move on, to be happy… after all the time I spent making him unhappy… that would betray what he gave me."

Martha shakes her head gently with disagreement. "The only way we betray the dead is by hating the beauty of our own lives simply because they have departed. As long as you hold dear the memories that defined the your relationship with him, you'll stay faithful." She waits for the sobs to subside, and provides a tissue when needed. "Tell me about him. What was he like?"

Gwen stares out into space stoically, tissue balled in her hand, forgotten. Ten years of memories is a lot to wade through, and the recollections leave her chilled and tired. "Big. Loud. Everyone loved him; you couldn't find anyone who'd hold a grudge against him. He loved terrible jokes and when he told them everyone laughed, and he laughed with them. Sometimes I'd smack him for it." She tries to smile, and fails. "He gave so freely to everyone. And loving him was so safe… and I fell in love with that safety… that worship he offered, even though it wasn't right."

Martha lets Gwen talk herself out, encouraging her when her recollections peter out and words fail, making mental notes where she hesitates or changes the subject. Whatever poison Gwen was trying to bleed off with these disclosures, it's obvious that there's more she isn't ready to go into yet. That time will come when she's ready for it, and Martha will still be there to help however she can, whenever it happens. For now she just listens, fitting a deluge of new information into her understanding of the hurting woman before her.