Disclaimer: I own nothing but the vague plot

Of course they discovered him. There was no realistic way that they wouldn't have. Jack had known that the moment he had got in the back of the truck. The black clothed minions, he could only think of them as such (they can't have been earning enough to be called employees) may have been dragging him forcibly through the greying corridors of what could only be an abandoned office complex, or warehouse, or a combination, but that didn't matter.

It didn't matter that he had been caught; the coordinates had been sent to SHIELD, and they'd come. He didn't know how many were left, but hopefully they'd know what to do. And in the meantime, it wasn't like they could kill him.

He actually hoped that the Master would appear, so that he could give him a piece of his mind. Spending a year chained up, whether it happened or not, and then having the man die before he could pay his thanks just wasn't fair.

The doors to each room that the guards dragged him past were securely shut; Jack wondered whether it was worth making a run for it, so that he could see inside, get some more info for the others. If the Master had technology that they weren't equipped to deal with, then they were all in trouble.

Come to think of it, they were all in trouble anyway. He had managed to take a peek at the hidden files on the Arctic database, and there were no words to describe how terribly, not even a little bit good they were. He'd only gotten a look at some genetic files, some that looked like particle physics…not enough time to understand what was being planned, but just enough to know that it would affect everyone. Not just the group of people gathered elsewhere, but everyone.

He was jolted from his ponderings as the two guards threw him bodily through an open door, leaving him sprawled on the carpet as they locked him in. Looking up and around, Jack was floored slightly by the room; it was too…normal.

There were shelves and filing cabinets, all of which were stacked with books and personal affects, although there were no pictures, the carpet was pristine apart from the path treaded from the door to behind the standard desk in the centre, on which lay papers and an open laptop, and behind which sat the smug face from the CCTV and the file, watching him with a bored expression.

Jack scrambled to his feet and glared at the man, who merely raised an eyebrow in amusement.

"You're Moriarty?" he demanded, tensing as the man at the desk sat back, lacing his fingers together in front of him.

"And you're Captain Jack Harkness." Moriarty replied; he pulled and quashed the words, his lilt making them sound like he were experimenting and taunting at the same time. It set Jack's teeth on edge, "Head of Torchwood, the man who can't die…I'm glad you stayed."

"What?" Jack shot back cautiously; there was something about the man, something about the looseness of his stance, with the stiffness of his face, or the vacantness in his eyes that seemed to scream out at him…or the facsimile of a vicious grin that adorned his lips, that made him want to back away. No monster had had that effect.

"I'm glad you stayed. The 'Master', or Harold as I've been calling him – the Master, it's a powerful name, but so infantile, I feel sick just saying it, Harold Saxon was a decent disguise though, I actually considered allying with him when I was alive – but anyway, he thinks you're funny, said you're fun to kill…but I see deeper." Moriarty's voice vacillated as talked, and his eyes pinned Jack into place, making him listen without interruption, despite the sick churning in his stomach, "I…I think you could be useful. Your…abnormality could be useful."

"Abnormality?" Jack repeated slowly, "I'd have thought you of all people would appreciate the whole reincarnation gig."

"NO!" Moriarty snapped; it was like a switch, one moment pleasant, the next murderous, then slipping straight back to creepy calm, "My resurrection was perfect, I was brought back to life, one life – you are abnormal, suspended in your own purgatory…I have control, I can leave whenever I want."

Jack didn't know what to say. This man was insane, that much he could tell, but there was little else other than the need to run away very quickly. And good luck with that, with guards probably stood outside the door. But…seeing as he was in the talking mood.

"Where's Lucinda?" Jack asked quickly, as it looked as if the psychopath was about to continue. Moriarty rolled his eyes in frustration, slamming his hands onto the desk, sending papers scattered to the floor.

"The amount of times I've been asked that!" he hissed furiously, and then as if he were no more than reporting a lost toy, or a chess victory, "She was dull, and no use to anyone, so we had her killed."

"She's dead?" Jack surged forward, but Moriarty raised his hands and shook his head, glaring at him like a wronged school teacher.

"You were coming anyway!" he justified, and Jack stumbled back as if burned, "The others were useful, fun to play with; they're other halves might have just killed us rather than sit around talking. You on the other hand, aren't the run in and kill type."

Jack shook his head desperately, and brought his clenched fist to his mouth. This was wrong, this was all wrong, and all his fault. As he did this, Moriarty reached across his desk and pressed a button on the laptop.

"I've just called the guards, they're going to go and put you somewhere." He informed him as he settled comfortably in his chair.

"And then what?" Jack asked bitterly. There was no way to fight this, but he could know what was going on if someone came for him.

Moriarty grinned, pleased with himself.

"Like I said, I see deeper. I assume that when you were scouring our databases, you saw the genetic files, and the experimental results?" he inquired pleasantly; Jack nodded guardedly, and Moriarty hummed under his breath, "Well…wouldn't it be grand if my army could not only be large and powerful, with whatever Timelord aspects that Harold adds…but also immortal?"

That was definitely bad. Jack tried to rush forwards, to make a grab at Moriarty, but at that moment the door swung open with a bang, hitting the wall behind it, and two armed guards pinned his arms behind his back.

"No, you can't do that!" Jack shouted as they dragged him into the corridor, "Just think about what you're doing!"

There were sounds, garbled, but definitely there- and colours…it didn't take Bruce's mind long to work out that he was waking up. Painfully at that. This wasn't the usual muffled shuffling towards the light, and then pitch into stark reality; no, this was like forcing himself through clotted soil, digging the wrong way to reach the surface.

The last thing that he remembered was…that Master man, the Timelord.

That was it! There had been talk of him, talk of the Hulk…they were surrounded. The others- it was a small space…the others could handle it though…unless the Other Guy had panicked, felt too closed in. If he'd hurt them…

Bruce heard Tony's voice in his head, snarking and rolling his eyes (although he was pretty sure, as foggy as his mind was, that it wasn't real).

'Honestly Banner, if you wake up in a strange place, the last thing you need to worry about is everyone else…look at it logically! Would the Hulk have taken a nap if there were people to smash?'

It wasn't real, but it was enough to ground him. More or less. Everything was still blurry; the sounds, the sights…he shifted as much as he could, but found that wasn't very far. Every inch of his flesh felt numb and heavy, and the movement had his head tingle…kind of like the interference on those old TVs, he thought unhelpfully.

He was detachedly aware that his thoughts weren't coming as quickly as they should. Normally he'd just hop up and get out of wherever the Hulk had landed him as quickly as possible…but moving seemed…unimportant, like a thought that slipped away the moment it took root.

That was when he noticed; arms…they were the easiest to use, he should move them about. Ah! Why everything was so blurry. He supposed it wasn't so bad, things were beginning to sharpen up…and then slip back into a blur.

Come on Genius, stay on track! Donna scolded fondly…except she was with Tony; not real. If she were, he'd have heard it in his ears, not his head. That thought alone was enough to have Bruce inwardly asking himself what the hell the Other Guy had hit his head on before he passed out.

Or…now that he thought about it, now that the effects of sleep were wearing off…it didn't feel like sleep grogginess. Everything was too sluggish…the movements, the train of thought…feeling. Bruce tried to swipe at his eyes, to wake himself up; he couldn't. His arms jammed at an awkward angle…but there was no pain, just a sort of…uncomfortable pressure.

It was odd, the way that the sudden caution brought a flash of alertness. It faded quickly, and Bruce's head lolled more than turned to look down at his hands. Down…more sort of along…again, that flare of panic. He tried pulling his arms frantically, rocking restrictedly side to side on the…the sheets were soft…they must have been sheets (it felt soft beneath him- but he still couldn't see more than blurry masses, although they were beginning to look plural, rather than a single messy blob).

His arms were tied down. He couldn't tell what with…it could have been steel rope or leather for all the dull feeling in his limbs revealed. It was cold…but his head was hot, like something was roasting just behind his eyes. Moving at all felt like trying to lug clay limbs about…but his arms, his legs were the clay, and he was feeling that from inside them.

Logical! Bruce told himself to be logical…don't panic, that wouldn't do anyone any good. He just needed to control his heart rate…but…for all the worry, he wasn't even breathing heavily. It was just sort of, stilted…like his body had been turned to…no more similes…Donna would have a field day.

He hoped she was safe; that detective…Sherlock…yes, that was it…he and Natasha weren't likely to put themselves back in danger to help, so Donna should be alright.

He wasn't though. Bruce may have been mentally compromised, but he was still running well enough to know that …who tied him down? Somebody did…but they must know about the Hulk…trapping him would be stupid…Of course! They could sedate him.

That only made the panic turn to fear. Bruce thought that he should probably be glad for the burst of ice down his centre…that was some feeling at least…but it was impossible to sedate him. If you could prevent his heart rate from rising, then the Other Guy wasn't an issue…but no sedative on Earth could do that.

Except…dread…that was what he was feeling…he didn't know whose voice had just provided that insight.

That Master wasn't from Earth…science may say no, but after the last few years, Bruce had to admit that 'science' didn't stop anything from happening really.

His head rolled back onto the bed. Oh…definitely a bed. He still felt slow (was it possible to feel slow), but the cacophony of thoughts were getting clearer…placing themselves in neater rows. Information poured a little steadier through his senses.

It wasn't just his arms that were pinned down…yes, his legs were too, he thought as he tried to bend them. The restraints were a hard juxtaposition to the soft sheets- good, it kept him alert…there would be no more falling asleep.

But…if the Master had him…if he was tied down…then they had succeeded, him and that Irish man. The others had failed.

He hoped they were alright. The thought of Tony, or Steve and Thor…they were a laugh really…that was an awful thought, if they had failed…but Donna would have gotten way. There were ways out arranged…

They all got out, Bruce told himself firmly. Donna had been positively reinforcing optimism…she'd laugh if she heard him think that.

The room was very dark…but everything else was light. Greyish…a lot of white…that was what he had to do. Work out where you are. Was that Tony or Steve's voice? Tony had taken up a habit of parroting some of Steve's finer points…nobody tell him. It was funny.

No…back on track. Bruce couldn't remember ever having been sedated this badly before…they should absolutely fire whoever directs hospital dramas…no coma patient ever wakes up that quickly. He'd tell them himself…if he did big cities…which he didn't.

"Have you got your bearings yet, or would you like a hand?" a cheerful voice cut through Bruce's garbled thought processes, bringing the beginning of an internal argument over focus to a grinding halt.

Up until then, the sounds around him had just sounded like a single stream of white-noise, but with something solid to centre on, Bruce could just distinguish heavy breathing…and clicking? Beeping? He wasn't sure. He recognised the voice though.

He let his head drop to the side…so his captors had allowed him a pillow? That was awfully pleasant of them.

Across the room…it was still dark, but everything looked so clean, like every other thing was made of steel. Oh, it occurred to Bruce as he sought the source of the voice, it's kind of like a…hospital… No, the walls were wrong…it was all wrong.

"Bruce?"

Bruce's eyes fixed on the man across the room. The Doctor; why would he be here? Was he captured too? That didn't bode well for everyone else. Or…no, the Doctor had seemed beyond horrified by the Master's plan…he wouldn't…

With more than a little confusion, he observed how the Doctor was sat stiffly, as if pinned to his chair. He couldn't quite see, but…he must have been strapped down as well (so definitely not in cahoots with the bad guys)…and…

"Bruce?" the Doctor sounded concerned, worried, "Bruce do you know what's happening?"

Bruce tried to shake his head, but ended up merely rubbing the back of his skull further into the pillow.

"Wh-ur-ess-" he mumbled, and then hearing the noise that came out of his mouth, tried again, taking extra care to force his lips to move in the right way, "Yes…uh, yes 'nd… no…"

"Okay, okay, don't try to speak," the Doctor instructed; Bruce thought he sounded tired, and his voice was hoarse, as if he'd been shouting, or talking for hours, "Just…try working your jaw a bit, get the blood flowing…and move your fingers and toes as much as you can."

Bruce closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly before opening them again; he tried not to flinch at the light flooding in, which stung his retinas. Come to think of it, he couldn't be sure if he had flinched or not.

Looking at the Doctor, now definitely a person shape, with some actual features, it was obvious that he had been there for hours. His tweed coat was absent, as was his bow-tie, and his cream shirt was crumpled and pulled partially open, revealing not only a small expanse of chest, but also slowly reddening patches. His arms were fastened to the arms of the high-backed chair that matched the rest of the room's medical feel. The playful interest in the case was absent from his face, which now just looked tired and drawn, the black bags under his eyes the least of Bruce's worries.

It was as if the Doctor could follow his train of thought, (not something that Bruce even wanted to consider), as the moment that his somewhat bleary examination of his surroundings came to a stop, he began talking again, reeling off information with a paced and knowledgeable lilt to his tone.

"This isn't a hospital, although it's kitted out like one. The Master and Moriarty have clearly been networking far longer than I thought, as once they removed us from the Arctic base we were shipped directly to this place here, in London." He explained, and it took all Bruce's effort to keep track of the words, so much so that he let his eyelids droop again, so as to cut out the excess visual information, "A silly idea really, what with all those people and all the secret organisations near here; UNIT and Torchwood are just the beginning, but Moriarty must have a nostalgic streak." The Doctor paused there, and Bruce could just about imagine him shrugging non-committedly, "There are abandoned warehouses, all with basements, all along the Thames, and elsewhere in London, so I reckon that's where we are. No doubt Moriarty's had his men picking up resources for months now – they've raided at least one hospital, two science labs, and a military compound or three. It'll be him and not the Master that's done that; the Master's got the imagination and the genius, but he's never been one for the technical side of things…that's always been his downfall, he's too self-centred, forgets that there are other people out there that might want to stop him…he's not got that problem anymore."

Bruce soaked this in; it was terrifying really, what these men were capable of (and even more worrying was the way that the Doctor laid it out like the facts of life). But that wasn't important really; looking back wouldn't help…it was the future that was truly frightening. But first…

"D-Donna…" he stuttered; the Doctor had been right, speech was getting easier, but it still wasn't good, what with his brain functioning much like a water-mill running on treacle, "Arr-Are they…did they ge-t out?"

The silence that that was met with had Bruce opening his eyes yet again. To his surprise the Doctor was smiling mutedly at the ground, but he glanced up hastily, pinning a taut grin onto his face.

"Oh yes, they all got out all right. They're perfectly fine." He assured Bruce; the brittleness of that statement, along with the constant weight on his wrists, did not set Bruce's mind at ease. The Doctor, all-knowing as he was, must have seen that too, as his smile turned bitter, self-deprecating, "I'm sorry Bruce, but that doesn't mean they'll stay that way."

Bruce understood immediately; it was blaringly obvious that their plan, designed to save the abducted and then have everyone safe and sound had failed miserably. In fact, knowing that it was a trap didn't make it any more difficult for them to fall straight into it. The Master had never wanted Donna, or any of the others, save to get them out of the way; no, he had wanted him.

Years hidden away, and now all of his efforts, all of his attempts to keep everyone else safe had blown up in his face. He'd let his guard down…well done collective effort of Tony and Donna! No matter how much he hated himself for thinking it, Bruce couldn't mute the voice that said he should never have let them talk him into anything.

Everything came down to him.

"What...w-what have they done t-to me?" he forced out. At this the Doctor looked truly guilty.

"It's a sedative, anaesthetic type substance, it slows your heart rate and keeps you calm and, well…un-Hulked. They wouldn't have been able to do anything with your DNA if you smashed them within seconds." He said with a wry quirk of the lips; Bruce thought he looked sad.

"H-how did they…how'd they do that in the first place?" Bruce pushed, watching for the Doctor's reaction. The rest of the world may have been a swimming mess, but the man had answers, so was to be grasped like a lifeline. It was like a tangible shadow passed over the Timelord's face.

"That would be my fault." He answered, and Bruce was sure in that moment that, yes, it was self-loathing he had heard before, "They wouldn't have been able to get close to you, but…you were out of control, becoming a danger to yourself…so I used my sonic screwdriver, one of the more refined settings, to interfere with your brainwaves just a little, just enough to put you to sleep…and knocked you out long enough for them to sedate you and get their plans underway."

Bruce took a moment to digest that. The cold rush of acceptance, that daunting prickle that worked under his skin settled comfortably where it hadn't been welcome for some time.

"So…what you're saying is that we're all doomed." He elucidated, meeting the Doctor's gaze, "They've got access to my DNA, my genetic code-"

"Don't forget that the Master won't be shy when it comes to cutting me open and using my genetic code." The Doctor interjected; Bruce thought that it might have been an attempt at injecting humour into the situation, but it didn't work.

"So we're doubly doomed. They'll pulverise the Earth, and then destroy Asgard, and then move on from there." He rasped, shaking his head as best as he could at the Doctor's disgruntled huff, "Don't look like that, if I could fight back I would, but there's no hope if they've already started the process."

The Doctor pursed his lips, and then raised himself to his full height, while still strapped to the steel chair; his expression was defiant, and if Bruce wasn't mistaken, there was a smirk pulling at his cheeks and a burning that hadn't been in his miserable eyes until then.

"Don't say that. There's always hope, no matter how desperate things get." He said proudly, and if nothing else, it was obvious that he believed it, "The rest of the Avengers are still out there, all super-powered up, if I'm right, they're being helped by the smartest man in London and his blogger, and though that may not sound like much, I know that when you add that many unstoppable forces together, they're going to make some headway." His eyes glazed over, as if he were remembering events gone by, "and in all my years, all my lives, there have never been two women that I have trusted, and feared, more than Rose Tyler and Donna Noble -" at this his eyes flew upwards, and bored into Bruce's, making his stubborn hopelessness stutter, "and you've got me. I promise you, Bruce Banner, that no matter how far this scheme goes, how horrific the things you might see, I will get you out alive, and then I'll save everyone else on this planet, and the next. The Master is my responsibility, and I will put this right!"

...And that's it for now. Hopefully things are pulling together.

I do like writing Moriarty, he's such a creeper. And let me tell you, you never know how hard it'll be to write someone drugged to the nines until you have to write a genius that is drugged and sluggish

Updates might be a bit sporadic, as I'm back in school on Tuesday, but I'll try to be as on time as usual.