Bruce sat at his desk transfixed by the caller on the line. He couldn't even reach forward to put the call on the speaker. It was either melodrama or fear. He could not tell which.
"I have a little task for you, Bruce. Just a tiny little favor. But it will mean prising you out of your comfort zone, your little box under the ground, for a few days. Sorry, it can't be helped. Possibly a few weeks. No more than three." The voice was smooth, relaxed, apologetic, almost dismissive.
Bruce had no idea what to do, what to say. "Thank you for thinking of me, Prime Minister. I'm quite honored, and a little surprised. I'm sure whatever you have in mind there are more… effective operatives at your disposal Mr. Saxon, sir. I'm more of an intelligence man."
"Don't be coy, Bruce. You have talents, and a… ruthless approach to problems. I need some clever people to be distracted for a little while. Just to help me out." Mr. Saxon appeared to know what he wanted. And how to get it.
Bruce was taken aback. "I'm not really called on to meet people, Prime Minister." He could not hide the reluctance in his voice. At first, it had not seemed odd that so many people wanted to instantly do what Mr. Saxon asked them to do. Sycophancy, after all, was a trait important to most species of primate. But Bruce was totally the opposite, being naturally reluctant to do anything that anyone else instructed him to do. Eventually it dawned on him that something more than just specious loyalty was being exhibited; people were almost entranced en masse by their new leader. But Bruce did not allow himself to be bothered by the trivialities of other people's behavior. What would it benefit him?
"Come now." Mr. Saxon was reassuring. "These aren't just any people. On no, no, no. I'm sure you have their pictures above the fireplace. I'm talking about your esteemed colleagues at Torchwood." Mr. Saxon took relish in emphasizing the last syllable in 'esteemed'. Esteem-ed.
Bruce was shocked. "At Torchwood? Which one? Not that shower that Harkness keeps as pets?" Now it seemed that the possibilities were endless.
"Ah, Bruce. Does that sound more interesting now?" There was a small chuckle from the end of the line. Bruce began to think quickly, his deep hidden urge to compete struggling with his natural urge to flee the conversation.
"What's our end game?" He whispered. "My end game?" He needed to show that he had a plan, and that he was already working on it, which he was.
"Total and utter removal from our lovely kingdom. A jolly sojourn from this sceptred isle." The voice was casual, but the scale of the task was not lost on Bruce.
"No red files?" Certain awful responsibilities flooded his mind.
"I'm sorry, I'm not up to speed yet on secret servant talk. You can, of course, choose whatever color of stationery suits your purposes." The voice was tailing off as Mr. Saxon's mind appeared to be drifting. With a thrill of fear, Bruce realized he would have to be quick in securing what he wanted from this opportunity.
"Apologies, Prime Minister. One occasionally lapses into a Cold War lexicon. Do you expect it will be necessary for one or more of my colleagues to be executed? Harkness might be tricky by all accounts, but I could work on it."
"Oh. The Captain will not be a problem. He is on a mission of his own choosing." There was a reflective pause. "I had not been thinking of death, premature death, but don't tie yourself creatively. You have a free hand. Individuals need not be an issue." Bruce imagined a magnanimous hand being waved in London. All his winter festivals had collided on just one day. It was good to know that, for some reason, Harkness would not be loitering with his inane grin, interfering randomly with the most careful of plans. Of all the people Bruce had been forced into contact with, Captain Jack Harkness had been the most insulting.
"Understood. Leave it to me. I can work-up most of the intel from here, but – hmm – maybe some other specialist bits of kit would come in handy." He had to make a quick bid for some exceptional concessions.
"Whatever you need, Bruce. Excellent. Just go to the Torchwood toy cupboard and take what you like. I'll let Ben know. It's yours to handle now." The energy in Saxon's was voice dipping quickly.
"Thank you, Prime Minister." His glee was barely hidden.
"And thank you, Bruce." The conversation appeared to be over.
Bruce felt almost child-like in his excitement. He already had enough kit in Glasgow to take on any modern Spanish Armada. But he had seen an opportunity and impulsively asked for free rein. The 'toy cupboard' indeed. All of Torchwood's trinkets at his disposal. He reflected that no work day would ever be better than this. He opened on-screen access to the combined archive of kit stored by U*N*I*T, Torchwood and a few other agencies.
"Bruce?" The PM was still on the line. Bruce winced. He had been distracted by his own eagerness, potentially a fatal lapse.
"Yes, Prime Minister?" He attempted a positive air; not something Bruce was accustomed to revealing.
"Don't let me down." The PM's air was equally positive; almost cheerful. There was a long pause.
"No, Prime Minister." The call went quiet as Bruce was still speaking, signalling that now he was definitely on his own. Figuratively and literally. The challenge that Saxon had presented him was great, almost fantastical, in its scale, but the rewards would be great too.
As Bruce scrolled further and further thru the catalog of stored alien kit, it also dawned on him that the reward for failure could be all too simple. But there was nothing to be gained from worrying about his long-term future, and everything to be gained from planning big.