Title: Back Again
Verse: Torchwood Alex Rider
Characters/Pairings: Gwen/Jack, Toshiko/Owen, Alex Rider, PC Andy, Ianto, Martha, Rhys
Spoilers: Minor End of Days
Disclaimer: I wish ...
Summary: Gwen Cooper left Torchwood after Jack did, all those years ago when he abandoned them for the Doctor. Eleven years, 132 months, 3994 days later, she's back ... working as an undercover KGB agent with no previous memory of Jack or Torchwood. Her task - infiltrate Torchwood.
Authors Note: As with the prologue, this is being reposted on LJ on my writing journal. If you've seen this before please bare with me while I sort everything out and update this on, whilst deleting the fiction stuff on my old one.
12th JANUARY 2019
Gwen Cooper had aged well, although she was fast approaching her forty-third birthday, her black mane of hair was untainted with the tell tale streaks of grey, her green eyes retained the same old sparkle and she was able to still walk with a spring in her step. This in itself was an achievement as working for the RIS you encountered encounters that many people wouldn’t have the guts to handle. Yet Gwen was one of the only people that found themselves, in the main, unaffected by the line of work she’d pursued. It was as though she’d built an ‘immune system’ (said some of her co-workers); it was as though she’d seen something much worse, something that couldn’t be compared to anything that they dealt with.
The room she was sat in was sparsely decorated: a pot plant stood in one corner; posters adorned the wall, attempting to make the office more welcoming and a vast desk, littered with papers, letters and computer monitors took up the majority of the space.
Gwen sat on one side of the desk, while a plump balding man dressed in combats and a tight jumper that wouldn’t look out of place on a young woman sat in a larger and comfier chair on the other. He began speaking fluently in Russian to a multilingual Gwen.
“Gwyneth Peters. Mother to Adam Peters. Born in Moscow. Moved to Wales when you were three months old. Parents died in a car crash when you were two. Raised by your mother’s welsh parents in Tenby. Got married when you were twenty-six. Husband, James Peters left you when you were pregnant for a gorgeous eighteen year old. Recently mov ...”
“Valera?” Gwen spoke for the first time since she’d entered the boiling heat of the office twenty minutes ago. He stopped his obviously rehearsed speech and looked across at Gwen. “What are you saying?” Valera merely looked befuddled at the loose question. “About the gorgeous teenager? What are you insinuating?”
“Shut up Cooper.” His voice remained, with years of practice, indifferent and aloft but his lips twitched upwards a fraction. “As I was saying ... you recently moved to Cardiff with fourteen years old Adam because you needed a fresh start after your grandmother FINALLY died of old age.”
Gwen tilted her head slightly to acknowledge his ending.
“I know the protocol – the files will go into more details, read them on the plane. Just tell me what the hell I’m supposed to be doing.”
“The English won’t be happy about this so you’ve got to remain undercover. We’re investigating someone, well three people actually – Toshiko Sato, Owen Harper and Martha Jones. The explosion that was all hushed up a couple of months back? They come marching into our country and blow half of it up! Well, I want to know who they work for, what they do, who they are. Now, I’ve got some contacts at MI6 who know a kid, Alex Rider who works for them on occasion. He’ll strengthen your story.”
“Where is Alex? Why the hell do MI6 have a kid working for them?”
“This has taken months to organise Cooper. Don’t mess it up.”
“You fly out tomorrow morning at 11am. You’ll meet Alex outside the airport – he’ll be holding a sign saying ‘Mum’ as though you’ve been away. A cab’ll be waiting. He’s one of my contacts and you’ll be taken to your new home.”
“The files are with Mrs Tomanova. Pick them up on your way out.”
Gwen shook his hand over the desk and turned to the door.
“Dasvidanya Gwen Cooper.”
“Spasiba Valera Borshch.”
“Kharoshih shastye. Good luck.” He repeated it the language of his country and then of hers.
“Da.” She turned on her heel and exited the office.