Archive of Our Own ^beta

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even when you're out of work you still have a job to do
even when you don't know what it is, your job knows what it is
what it is, is it's coming to get you

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Torchwood. It was the job of a lifetime. The most exciting organization in the world, involved in the absolute thick of things as the social structure of the known universe changed rapidly right under humanity's feet. After a shaky start at the turn of the century, the flood of first contact scenarios had started coming thick and fast, and as the existence of Torchwood became public knowledge, the applications to work for them went through the roof. There were government positions, of course, or military, which would allow a person to get a glimpse of an alien – get a finger in the pie of new interstellar politics – but Torchwood was legendary for being the group that didn't just talk. They investigated alien crime, collected and studied alien technology, had dinner with alien ambassadors. They were the front line! They were myth, they were legend!

And Bram was about to go to xir first day of work for them.

The odds of being recruited were astronomically unlikely. Extraordinarily talented, qualified applicants were a dime a dozen. Bram didn't even work in a tech field - xe had only been at Interpol for two years, and spent most of that time as a junior office gofer, running everyone else's errands. But xe had an instinct for connections and human nature that made even xis most senior officemates come to Bram to ask for a fresh eye on all sorts of tangled knots of clues. Bram wanted more, Bram had ambition, but Bram was willing to put in the hard work and drudgery and effort of climbing the ranks of Interpol, and xe thought xe had made a good, solid start.

Until xe took a holiday, and ended up on the same plane as Jack Harkness and an Unquoraean hijacker trying to steal Earth technology to sell off-planet. (It hadn't ever occurred to Bram that in the new interplanetary marketplace, sometimes human technology would be superior and desirable to other species. Old science fiction films made most people believe the opposite.) Bram had seen the man in the ancient military greatcoat board the plane, wondering if he was in costume for something, but shrugging it off at the time... until the plane had gone wild, the alien had started threatening the pilot, and both Bram and the costumed bloke had stood up at the same time and yelled their credentials - "Interpol!" overlapped with a loud American "Torchwood!"

One frantic, impossible afternoon later, Bram and the man xe now knew was Captain Jack Harkness had slogged out of the peat bog the plane had ended up in (worse for wear and stuck in mud, but all passengers alive), and Jack, looking Bram up and down, had said, "You like Interpol?"

"Um," Bram had replied. "Love it."

"Want more? Want this?"

Bram wasn't sure what xir face looked like in that moment, but whatever it was, Jack had smirked as though he had won.

"Come work for me. My branch has a job going spare, police liaison skills preferred."

Bram opened and closed xir mouth, boggled.

"Cardiff, first thing Monday after next, six-week trial period. I'll talk to your bosses. Think about it. If you don't show, no harm, no foul." Jack stuck out a muddy hand, and his smile was dazzling. "In the meantime, it's been a pleasure working with you, Bram Hudson."

Bram's heart had fluttered, stomach flopped like a dying fish, palm sweated profusely as xe shook the Captain's hand. Xe very nearly blurted out that xe was single, but managed to swallow it down and simply nod instead.

And there was absolutely no way on God's green earth that Bram would not have shown up bright and early in Cardiff two Mondays later, in xir best suit, heart hammering, about to throw up from nerves as xe walked along the Plass.

Bram had done all the research xe could, but Torchwood Three, though legendary in its public doings, was still highly secretive about its base and personnel. Of course everyone, even average civilians, knew where the base was located... generally speaking. Entrances, not so much. Bram hadn't heard from Captain Jack again since two weeks ago, and although xir bosses had signed off on xir trip to Cardiff and six-week secondment, they hadn't been able to say anything more about details. Bram had done xir own investigating after arriving in Cardiff the day before, and come up with a lot of tall tales, rolled eyes, and people pointing towards Mermaid Quay.

Xe walked the length of the Plass twice, trying to look like xe knew what xe was doing, but rapidly becoming certain that xe'd been had by some kind of elaborate joke. It was cold out, and passersby were all walking fast to warm themselves up, chatting with friends or beelining towards unknown destinations. Bram eyed every square meter, looking for some secret message or welcoming expression, feeling more stupid by the moment.

A shop door partially hidden by the overhang of the pier opened and an older man stepped out. Bram's eyes passed over him first but then returned, interest snagged by the cut of his black wool overcoat - it looked old-fashioned, and that made Bram think of the Captain in his period-drama RAF costume. The man (although Bram didn't like to assume, xe could do no better until xe had a chance to ask) had a very faint limp and walked with a cane, briefcase under one arm, more slowly and deliberately than Bram thought his limp would necessitate.

Bram looped the Plass again, idly looking at other people, keeping xir suspect in the corner of xir eye until xe reached the pier overhang where the man had emerged. A shabby little tourist office, small windows blocked completely by taped-up fliers, leaflets, band tours, bus schedules, posters of landmarks. The office had no posted hours. Bram thought back on the man in the wool coat - he hadn't locked up. Bram touched the door handle, gave it a faint twist, but it was unyielding.

Bram rapidly scanned the Plass and barely spotted the man turning a corner. Half jogging, Bram managed to reach the spot just in time to see the door of a small coffee shop swing closed.

It was blessedly warm inside the shop. The man in the black coat was taking a seat at a corner table . Not enough time had passed for him to place an order, much less for it to be made, but a shop employee was already walking over with a tray in hand, two steaming cups and an assortment of pastries.

Hesitantly, suddenly wondering if xe was being a complete fool, Bram took a few steps towards the table.

"Come on," said the man, looking up and gesturing towards the chair opposite. "Yes, it was a test, yes you passed, sit, you're making me tired." His accent was thick, cultured Welsh, his tone dry.

Not quite knowing how to feel about all of this, Bram sat.

"Coffee," said the man, "breakfast, I know you haven't eaten - nerves. We frown on passing out from low blood sugar on the first day." He put his own coffee to the side and pulled a thick file out of the briefcase, laid it on the table in front of him. "Right, Bram Hudson, Liverpool, born 2019, twenty-six years old. Decent marks, not exceptional at school but never failed a class. Career aptitude test and various counselors pushed you towards social work but you picked law enforcement. Interpol internship right out of graduation, two years now, home office in London, no international cases." The man flipped the folder shut and looked up at Bram. "None of it particularly relevant, because Jack likes you, and what Jack wants, he gets."

"Er," said Bram.

The man's expression softened a bit. He pushed the cream and sugar across the table. "Yeah, he has that effect. I'm Agent Jones. He, him. Recruitment officer for the time being. Don't worry, you'll have your six weeks regardless, this isn't a pass/fail. It's just breakfast."

"Oh, um," said Bram. "Xe. Bram. But you knew... you knew that."

Jones reached over the table and Bram shook his hand. "Rather hear it from you," he said, and picked up his coffee. "Right. Unquoraean? Nasty buggers. Low-level psychic manipulators. Tell me about the plane."

"Didn't... isn't there a report from Captain Harkness?" Bram asked cautiously.

Jones rolled his eyes. "Much rather hear it from you."

So Bram talked. Hesitantly at first, but gaining confidence as Jones barely interrupted, listening carefully, only asking a rare incisive question that encouraged Bram to add detail, emotional observations, explain xir own deductive reasoning. By the end, Bram realized xe had relaxed enough to eat two danishes, not having been able to appreciate how hungry xe was earlier. Jones was on his second coffee. He listened with his eyes half-lidded, giving the simultaneous impression that he was considering Bram's every word very deeply, and that he was a million miles away, thinking about something else entirely.

Now that xe had the chance, Bram really studied Jones. He was older but distinguished, face lined and weathered but nothing ingrained to suggest that he often frowned or glowered. When he smiled, his crow's feet deepened as if with much use. Bram could see he was lean and fit after he'd come out of his coat and unbuttoned his suit jacket to sit. His hair was more salt than pepper, and he had a neat, closely maintained goatee. Bram would guess his age at over fifty, under seventy - but it was hard to pinpoint from there.

"Can I ask," Bram said cautiously, "what's the job like?"

"I do mostly admin," Jones said blandly. "The woman whose duties Jack's pegged you for, Agent Williams, she was very much our interoffice liaison. And behavioral science specialist, to some degree, though she had no formal training in that. Jack seems to think you've got a lot of the same qualities. Ability to see a pattern, understand where strings are being pulled from, that sort of thing. I can see why he thought so." Jones finished his coffee. "Right. Ready for a day of it?"

After they'd stood and Jones had gone to pay, it occurred to Bram that Jones had not really answered the question.

Jones led the way to a late-model electric car, black, two-seater, with an all-access parking permit of a classification Bram had never seen before stuck inside the windscreen. Jones tossed Bram the key fob, and Bram nearly fumbled it before staring at Jones.

"Hospital, come on, haven't got all day," Jones said. "Two dead, swimmers, odd rash. Alien disease or remnants of the outbreak of vibrio vulnificus in the bay two years ago?"

"I'm not a medic," Bram said.

"Neither am I," said Jones. "Get in."

"I don't know the way to the hospital," Bram objected.

Jones smiled. "Good," he said. "Unhesitating to admit what you don't know. Doesn't matter. It's a company vehicle, get in and see."

Bram did, and xe saw.

The car was smarter than any car on the market, and seemed to nearly anticipate where Bram wanted it to go. Jones said "Hub tech" dismissively when Bram asked about it. "Integrated with the mainframe. If you're really interested you'll have to ask Adrija."

"Computer specialist?"

"Actually she's our crypto-xenolinguist, but she accidentally ended up psychically bonded to the Hub. Don't ask."

Head spinning, Bram let it go. How exactly was a low-level office runner still wet behind the ears from police academy supposed to be an asset to this team, Bram wondered?

In the hospital, Jones took point, and Bram found xirself left out of the official conversations, standing awkwardly to the side. Looking around, xe found a patient watching them curiously, and stepped aside to say hi. Bram had a kind face, xe'd been told. Approachable. And xe'd always been good at idle conversation that dug deeper without pushing too hard - when xe'd been much, much younger xe'd wanted to be a reporter - so it didn't take long before xe knew all sorts of things about the young woman in hospital, where she'd been to the beach last, who she'd gone on holiday with, whether she'd heard about the deaths.

Bram had meandered off, attention caught by the girl's mention of her friend in the next wing with an embarrassing itch (she'd said it with an air of scandalous confession, half-giggling), when Jones called, "Hudson. Morgue." He jerked his head towards the other end of the hall, the elevators.

For a moment, Bram automatically stepped back towards Jones. But the hunch had gotten under xir skin, and xe bit xir lower lip. "I've, erm," Bram said, "I wanted to check something out. Do you need me?" Xe didn't point out the obvious: that, not being a medic, xe wouldn't get anything out of looking at a dead body except a loss of appetite.

Jones looked at Bram for a long moment, then walked over, cane clicking lightly on the tile floor, and pulled something out of his pocket. "Initiative," he said, giving Bram a faint, approving smile. He held out his hand, an earbud in his palm. Bram took it. "You've seen the car, you know it's all bound by psychic entanglement. It's non-invasive, has to be triggered deliberately. Think of me and then talk. No need to speak up, it's sensitive to bone vibration." Jones tapped his own ear. "Keep in touch, use common sense, try not to cause an international incident."

Bram swallowed and nodded, eyes wide.

The earbud felt like nothing once it was in. Bram had a giddy moment when xe got to identify xirself as Torchwood at the nurse's desk, asking to be directed to a patient's room, but the nurse on duty seemed uninterested.

Bram found who xe wanted to see, and was soon sitting at her bedside, laughing and chatting. Twenty minutes of get-to-know-you later, xe had some relevant information as well as a phone number and a wink. (Xe was a bit flustered at the latter, but considering the nature of the girl's hospital admission, xe wasn't too inclined to call her anyway.)

Xe found an elevator and punched the sublevel button, then tried to do what Jones had said. Xe pictured Jones the best xe could, selecting the kind of details that Bram had trained xirself to see and file away during police training. Blue eyes, a faint left crook to his nose as though it had been broken once, the faintest hint of a bruise rising above his perfectly starched shirt collar.

"Agent Jones?" Bram asked of the empty elevator, feeling silly.

"Strong connection." The Welshman sounded like he was right by Bram's ear, making Bram jump. It didn't sound the way voices sounded over phones or any other communication tech Bram had ever used. The audio was utterly undistorted, clean and immediate. "It's in your head, Bram," said Jones, sounding amused. "Have you had any psychic aptitude testing?"

"No," said Bram, hand against the elevator door to steady xirself, feeling dizzy.

"I'd put your score around 4, 4.1. No one will take me up on bets anymore, though. Always right."

"Four out of what?"

"Ten," said Jones. "It fluctuates in your lifetime. My highest score was a 3.2. Sitting at 2.5 now. Adrija is a clean 8. Anyway, what have you got?"

Bram let out a shaky laugh. Psychic aptitude? Xe pushed it away as something to return to, and have an existential crisis about, later. "There's another, um, swimmer with a rash. Details sound similar. I'll need to see the body to compare, though. On my way to the morgue."

"I've ordered it quarantined," Jones said, "and sent the bodies on to the Hub for our medic to autopsy. I want you to try something for me, since you're a natural at the comms. Wherever you are, stand still, look at your feet, and form your hands into a triangle. Thumbs touching, fingers tented. Look at your hands and clear your mind."

Brow furrowed with confusion, Bram did as xe was told. As xe stared into the imperfect triangle and tried to dismiss every thought as it arose, xe felt a little flicker in xir mind - a tug, like someone pulling at xir sleeve for attention. For half a blink, Bram saw xir hands change from smooth, deep brown skin into someone else's - aged, white, one palm propped on the top of a cane, a pale metal ring on one finger. Then the bizarre feeling of doubling consciousness into one body slid away and Bram saw, as clearly as if seeing it with xir own eyes, a body in a morgue drawer. No, not the body. Bram felt xir focus drawn by an external director, even though the scope of the image didn't change; like a hand gently pushing xir head around to look at one thing in particular, Bram saw and then focused on the rash on the body's side and abdomen. Xe had a good, solid few seconds to look at it and study it, and then it was all gone, and Bram was just staring at xir hands in an elevator that was dinging and sliding open.

Bram looked up to see Jones on the other side of the door, lowering his hands into the more natural pose of one on the cane, one in a pocket. He stepped into the elevator, smiling, and pushed the button for the ground floor, while Bram didn't move.

"That," Bram finally said, "was fucking mental."

“Good, isn't it?” said Jones. “Very limited for now. Isolated still images. And the further back in your memory you go, the more deteriorated the image is. Adrija's been working on it.”

“I just read your mind,” Bram said.

“Saw through my eyes,” Jones corrected. “What was I thinking? What was my opinion of the body, when I was looking at it?”

Bram's mounting hysteria was put on pause as xe considered the question. “I don't know,” xe admitted. They left the elevator, headed for the car park.

Jones nodded. “Just a recorded image, like a camera. Both parties have to deliberately initiate the shared-sight. No one's invading your mind.” He reached over and patted Bram on the shoulder as they reached the car.

“All right,” Bram said, processing. Xe breathed deep, and let it go. “All right. God, that's – so brilliant.” Xe couldn't help breaking into a huge grin.

Jones shook his head, looking amused but slightly impatient. “You've had a look at the corpse, and a potential living victim. Thoughts?”

“Oh, um,” Bram said, starting the car and sitting back, trying to focus xir mind on the case at hand. “Looked very similar. Need tissue samples for comparison. Wait, you said you quarantined the morgue but the living girl, is she -”

“Potentially infectious?”

“Oh, shit,” said Bram, gorge rising. “We need to get her into the safe zone as well. Anyone she's come in contact with. Close off the hospital -”

Jones fiddled with something on the inside of his door and the car make a solid-sounding clunk. Bram looked over at him, startled, then tried xir door – it was locked.

“Calm down,” said Jones. “Deep breath. Think.” He looked Bram in the eyes, took a measured breath, and let it out. Bram understood that xe was meant to follow suit. The next inhale and exhale, Bram matched Jones, then carried on with the calming breathing on xir own. “Think,” Jones repeated. “Tell me why the living girl doesn't need to be quarantined.”

Bram closed xir eyes and cleared xir head. Finally, xe said, “Because you didn't put her there. You haven't panicked. You know something.”

“I do.”

“You've seen this before.”

“I have.”

Bram opened xir eyes and let out a breath. “It isn't infectious. You ordered the morgue quarantined to...” Bram furrowed xir brows. “Clean up trace evidence?”

Jones shook his head, but his eyes were sharp on Bram, and he looked encouraging.

“Containment,” Bram guessed. “Establishing a perimeter.”

Jones' lips quirked up. “I had the bodies taken to the Hub, but that won't be common knowledge. A quarantined wing is very visible.”

“It's a trap,” Bram said, realizing. “You laid a trap. Someone else wants those bodies.”

“So, what's the verdict on the rash?” Jones asked, folding his fingers together in his lap. “Alien or mundane?”

“Uh...” Bram leaned xir head on the steering wheel, thinking back through the hundreds of news items xe'd read in the last two years. “Vibrio vulnificus... um, lives in bad oysters, causes gangrene. Didn't look like that. Didn't look like necrotic tissue. So, rule out that outbreak – could be a different bacteria or pathogen, but you've seen it before, so – alien?”

Jones made a noncommittal sound.

“Both,” Bram said suddenly, sitting up. “Both. It's an immune reaction to something alien. It's a contact reaction. I knew I'd seen – my mum had a photosensitive reaction once, to a chemical cleaner. She'd touched it plenty of times before, but this time she hadn't washed thoroughly, and then she was in the sun and it blew up – so it's the sea, it must be, it's something about the seawater reacting with something alien. How am I? I'm rambling, I'm sorry.”

Jones smiled. “The species are called blowfish,” he said. “They have mildly toxic bodily secretions. Contact alone causes tingling, a warming sensation. Activation by saline causes dermatitis, itching, boils.”

Bram recalled the placement of the rashes, and the flirtatious living girl, and suddenly blurted out, “Wait, she fucked a fish?”

“She did indeed,” Jones said dryly.

“That doesn't sound deadly.”

“I'm not worried about the living girl with the rash. Good job tracking her down, though.”

Bram barely had brain space to process the praise, too busy connecting further dots. “The rash on the bodies, that had nothing to do with their deaths.”

Jones held up a finger and gave Bram a hard look.

“No,” Bram backpedaled, “it's related, it just wasn't what killed them.”

Jones tipped the finger to point at Bram. “Almost there.”

“It -” Bram huffed in frustration. “I don't know, I'm not a medic! Anything could have killed them, then.”

“They had more in common.”

“I don't know their histories.”

“Don't need them. Physically, visually, what did they have in common?”

Bram thought back. “Young,” xe said, “fit – swimming – short, small...” Xe trailed off. “Small. Low body mass. Very thin, all of them. And the living girl – excitable, energetic. Wide eyes. Dilated...” Xe suddenly clicked with memories of interview training, the many sessions of substance identification. “She was high. The deaths – overdose?”

Jones put his hand down, smiling again. “Not overdose, impurities in the cocaine. At this juncture I should let you know that the puzzle piece you're missing is that we have quite a problem with underground drug operations run by blowfish in South Wales. But you got nearly all the way there just by chatting up a couple of pretty girls in hospital, so I can see why you caught Jack's attention.”

Bram blushed hard.

“Blowfish,” Jones reiterated, settling back in his seat. “Not an inherently criminal species, no species is, we've just had the bad luck that a few mafia-equivalents fell through the Rift a couple hundred years back. They set up the only business they knew how to run, and they've thrived. Like I said, their secretions are toxic, and if the fish handling the product packaging hasn't washed their hands, or sneezes, that coke is now cut with a mildly neurotoxic agent. Gives most people a pounding headache, gives an unfortunate few people deadly anaphylactic shock.”

"So... this only belongs to Torchwood and not the National Crime Agency because of alien involvement."

"Actually," said Jones, "the drug ring case does belong to the NCA. They've been contacted. Only the two bodies belong to Torchwood now. Why?"

"Murder," Bram said.

Jones nodded. "Good. Torchwood still has jurisdiction over alien criminal activity that results in loss of human life. A beat copper can just pull over a blowfish for speeding and ticket them like anyone else nowadays. Time was, Torchwood did everything alien, from petty as parking your spaceship on the double yellow to megalomaniacs tryin' to take over the world. We're more homicide detectives than traffic cops now. Think on that, decide if that's something you're prepared for. Most of the time you won't get to beg out of going down to the morgue."

Bram swallowed. "Yes, sir," xe said.

For some reason, that made Jones give an abrupt laugh. When he caught Bram's look of confusion, he shook his head. "It's the suit," Jones said. "Never mind."

"Right." Bram started the car and tightened xir hands on the wheel. "So, where to? Police station? Back to base, to help with the bodies?"

"Tesco's," said Jones. "Milk. Two liters semi-skim, one whole, pint of soy." He appeared a wallet from somewhere inside his jacket and handed over a few notes. "Packet of Krakus blackcurrant biscuits for Daf. Got that?"

"Er," said Bram.

So they went to the shops. Jones made Bram remember the list and go in alone, saying his leg was aching, but the glint in his eyes prevented Bram from quite believing that. Bram glanced back and saw through the car window that Jones' mouth was moving; he was talking to someone on the comms. By the time Bram returned with bags and handed over the receipt for filing, Jones was doing some sort of rapid data entry on a tablet, which he put away when Bram got in the car.

"Now?" Bram asked, without high hopes.

"Bomber's," Jones said.

"The sandwich shop," Bram said.

"Yep."

Bram looked over at Jones. Jones gave a totally placid, unreadable stare in return.

Objections died on Bram's tongue. Xe reminded xirself that it was xir first day and of course, of course the newbie would get sent on the milk runs. Xe'd just have to put up with it for now, smile through, put in the hard work of being so good at xir job that Captain Harkness would have to take notice. Same as any other office, Bram thought, stomach clenching a bit at the realization. Torchwood seemed like this magic place, wish fulfillment embodied, but it was still just a job.

So Bram asked the car for directions to the sandwich shop, and they went.

Jones didn't send Bram in on xir own this time (and, as Bram had suspected, his achy leg seemed to miraculously clear up). The line was out the door, but Jones bypassed it without hesitation. No one seemed perturbed, and everyone let Bram pass as well since xe was obviously with Jones. Inside the shop was hot and bustling, but people stood aside to let Jones past as he made his way to the end of the counter.

"It's me, Nina," Jones called.

A large woman with frowsy red hair tied back by a scarf burst through the kitchen door. "Ianto, you sod," she said cheerfully. "What happened last week, then?"

Jones rolled his eyes. "Emergency trip to the Gower," he said. "Took most everybody to clean up that shit. Sorry I had to cancel."

Nina tsked, handing over one of the shop's chip readers. "Well, no worries, love. Got yours ready. Who's this?"

"New hire," said Jones, working out the payment. Bram glanced down and saw the total and then the gratuity Jones added, and nearly choked. How big was this order? "Hudson, say hello," Jones said distractedly.

"Oh." Bram held out xir hand to shake Nina's. "Bram Hudson."

Nina looked Bram up and down and then said, "Jack picked this one."

"Yep."

"Can always tell, when they're that pretty."

Bram's mouth dropped open. "Pardon?" xe squeaked.

"Leave Bram alone," Jones said, handing back the reader, but he sounded affably amused. "Xe hasn't even had a day yet to process."

Nina winked at Jones. "You keep letting him pick up these strays, Ianto, you'll just make trouble for yourself."

"Stop it, Nina, you're ruining my air of intrigue," Jones deadpanned. "Release me from your machinations, I've got milk going off in the car as we speak."

"All right, all right," she said, turning back for several large, over-packed bags of food. "Give Gwennie my love when you talk to her next."

Bram, of course, ended up carrying the majority of the bags, while Jones hugged Nina across the counter and gave her a swift kiss on the cheek in parting. Back at the car, Jones gestured Bram over to the passenger side this time, sliding behind the wheel like he lived there.

"Where now?" asked Bram.

"Back to the Hub, check in on those bodies," said Jones, pulling out onto the road. "Start drafting the report, append the log of blowfish toxin cases to add these few, lunch. This afternoon we'll do your clearances, get your ID, weapon, all that."

Bram stuck momentarily on the word weapon. Xe'd seen that Captain Harkness carried an old-fashioned revolver, of course, and it had startled and alarmed Bram at first, but then xe'd found out Jack was the head of a branch of Torchwood and it at least made sense. But they gave every new office scrub a gun on the first day? It seemed excessive.

“You'll need to pass a field license exam before you can take your weapon out of the firing range, of course,” Jones said dryly.

Bram was not convinced that Jones had been truthful about his low psychic rating.

But they'd barely gone half a kilometer when Bram's earpiece emitted a faint chiming tone into xir head, followed by a sudden voice. Just like earlier, the speaker sounded as though they were no more than an arm's length away from Bram's ear, but this time it wasn't a voice Bram recognized.

“Code Pisces, everyone. Got four briny friends moving in, could use some backup.”

Jones immediately reached for a button in the roof of the car Bram hadn't noticed before. Emergency vehicle lights snapped on all around, and Bram blinked against the flashing blue and red. “Daf, I'm nearest the hospital. ETA three minutes.”

“One's separated off,” said the voice in Bram's ear, and apparently Jones's as well.

“Do not engage until you've got backup -”

“See you in three, Ianto.”

Jones snapped “twmffat” under his breath, but Bram was pretty sure it wasn't over the comms. “Hold on,” he told Bram, before spinning the wheel, flooring the pedal, and triggering a low, whooping siren.

Bram might have shrieked a bit after that. Two minutes later, stomach in xir throat, still clinging to the door handle and dash with bloodless knuckles, wishing fruitlessly for a change of trousers, Jones flung the car into park near a side entrance to the hospital.

In the time it took Bram to shakily get to xir feet, Jones was out of his coat and suit jacket as well as the car, revealing a shoulder holster over his waistcoat. “There's a red case under the seat, size of a paperback book,” Jones called. “Bring it.” Then he was off, and Bram was doing xir best just to grab the right thing and keep up.

Heart pounding, Bram thought, this is it. Get through a few months of being the lowest on the totem pole, and xe wouldn't be picking up sandwiches, xe'd be like – like Daf, whoever that was, obviously a field agent, the sort of person who hunted through the silent corridors of a closed morgue for alien criminals. Bram chased after Jones, too exhilarated by the possibilities to really notice how little Jones' limp affected his ability to dash down two flights of stairs.

Bumping up against the door into the morgue, Jones held his hand out to stop Bram and put a finger to his lips. He touched his ear, and Bram nodded – comms only, and stay quiet. Then Jones held out his hand for the red box, and passed Bram his cane. For half a second Bram was on xir way to offended, but then xe took hold of the cane and holy shit, it was heavy. Xe barely caught it before it could clank loudly against the floor.

“You'll be needing a weapon,” Jones murmured. “Use it as a last resort. You see a fish, you get out of sight and comm your location. If you're seen, run and comm. These will be fixers, probably armed with stingwhips. Meter and a half range, carbon nanofiber barbs, cnidarian venom. Don't get stung.” He checked the clip and pulled the slide on his gun. “Stay back, eyes on the exits. Three, two -” He spun into the door, pushing it open with the side of his arm, gun up and steady.

Bram gripped the cane in both hands, realizing belatedly that xir palms were sweating. Xe held the door but allowed Jones a good head start, clearing each door he passed, before xe edged out into the hall to follow. It was eerily quiet. Bram wasn't sure if it was all the talk of fish playing tricks on xir mind, but xe thought xe smelled a hint of brine in the chilly air. Rounding a corner, Bram saw the strips of hanging plastic that demarcated the edge of the quarantine zone. One was waving faintly, as though recently disturbed.

Up ahead, Jones stopped and crouched, and Bram heard his whisper in xir ear: “Agent down. To me, Hudson.”

Bram hurried up the hall and spotted the figure Jones was kneeling over – a brick wall of a person, tall and heavy-set with what looked to be pure muscle. They were collapsed on their back, but as Bram got closer xe could see that their eyes were open and alert.

“What did I bloody say, Daf,” Jones was muttering, holstering his gun and wrestling with the red box. He got a small slot open in one side and pulled out a slim green hypo, the one-use punch kind, which he jabbed into the fallen agent's chest.

Daf sucked in a deep breath, blinking hard against an apparent headrush. “Got two of 'em, though,” they rasped, and grinned.

“Day one, rule one, don't get stung,” Jones hissed.

“Aw, it's not that bad,” Daf said, struggling to sit up.

“Someday there won't be antivenin straight to hand.” But Jones helped Daf up regardless. “Fuck me,” Jones muttered. “Right, Hudson, this is Daf, don't let him get himself killed. Daf, where're the other two?”

“Right here!” bellowed a smug voice that sounded as though the speaker had recently been gargling. Bram spun around. Blocking either end of the hall were two people who were... well... fish. Bram had seen photos before, but nothing as real, immediate, and viscerally amazing as having an honest to God alien fish-person standing there, holding up a lumpy-looking length of cord attached to a boxy handle, smirking for all the world like a cartoon supervillain.

“This is the best the great Torchwood can send these days, is it?” the blowfish crowed, moving in closer with a swagger. Bram was momentarily distracted by watching its head fins twitch and flicker. “Their mutants, their greenhorns... their senior citizens. What a pathetic little showing for the once-great Institute. You'll never -”

“God, they love to monologue,” Jones sighed, and drew faster than Bram could follow.

A shot rang out – a gargling bellow of pain – Bram staggered back, was caught by a big hand around xir upper arm – Jones was whipping around, red box flying, hitting the second blowfish in the head with the force of a wrecking ball – and then a blowfish, bleeding, all sharp teeth and blind rage, was grabbing onto Bram, trying to drag away a hostage, and Bram shoved back, trying to see where the fish's weapon had gone in the chaos, head full of a chant of don't get stung, don't get stung, don't get stung.

But it was all over in a heartbeat. Jones pistol-whipped Bram's attacker in the temple, grabbed the cane out of Bram's hands while the fish was staggering, twisted something on the length of the cane, and then jabbed the metal foot-cap into the blowfish's sternum. There was a brief, hot smell like grilling squid, and the fish jerked and fell.

Breathing hard, trying not to panic, Bram stood there in shock while Jones sighed, walked over to the second blowfish – now struggling to get back up after being beaned by the antivenin case – and poked it with the cane as well. It flopped to the ground.

“Did you just -” Bram said, unmoving, unblinking. “Did you just -”

“Stunned,” Jones said, twisting his cane again. “Vulnerable to electric shock. Daf, are your two secure?”
Daf nodded, wiping sweat off his brow. “It took the sting a bit to set in,” he said. “Had time to bag and tag.”

“Then do these two, if you don't mind,” Jones said. He didn't even look winded. He picked up the red case and brought it over to Bram, pressed it into xir hands. “You did well,” he told Bram sincerely.

“I...” Bram trailed off. “I didn't... I was... I was such a useless twit.”

“You did everything I told you to do, which is already better than Daf, clearly, and he's been on the team two years. You listen well and react quickly. That's very good, Bram. The rest comes with time and practice.”

Jerkily, Bram nodded.

“Take that back to the car, then find the head of security, let them know they can lift the fake quarantine. Clearance code is 408B, tell them that and that you're Torchwood, they'll know procedure from there.”

Given something concrete to do, Bram felt xe could finally breathe freely again. Not to mention, xe was all too eager to get out of the fishy-smelling basement. Blowfish blood smelled like hot anchovies and copper, and it was making Bram's head swim.

Organizing the cleanup took no more than fifteen minutes. Jones emerged from the morgue to talk to a security officer, and his relentless efficiency left Bram feeling as tired as if xe'd actually done any fighting. To take xir mind off xir impending existential crisis, Bram took the chance to meander over to Daf, who was standing to the side of the nurses' station, poking at a nasty wound on his side with an antiseptic wipe and hissing.

“Can I help?” Bram asked, gesturing at the wipe.

“Ah, hell,” said Daf, poking and wincing again. He huffed a sigh and handed Bram another wipe, still in its sterile packet. “Yeah, please. Never trust those fish fucks to keep their weapons clean.”

Bram tore open the pack and did a quick but thorough job of swabbing down the wound – Daf hissed and groaned complaint, but Bram had done enough first aid training at academy to know that it was better to just push on than waffle around being delicate about it. The wound was strange looking, a stripe about ten centimeters long of purple, puffy, closely spaced punctures, all of it totally bloodless.

Daf handed over a tube of some sort of gel. “Numbing,” he said, at Bram's questioning glance. “Hurts like shit. Jellyfish stings, that's what that venom is.”

“Damn,” said Bram, spreading the gel on. Tension bled out of Daf's shoulders as the pain faded.

Finally bandaged up, Daf tugged his shirt back down and sighed with relief, clapping Bram on the shoulder. “Good show, mate. Mr. Hudson?”

“Bram. Xe, please.”

“Gotcha. Be Agent Hudson, soon, anyway.” Daf laughed, a sound that was both far too loud and oddly comforting. He was over a head taller than Bram, face creased with obvious joviality. His skin was a whirling patchwork of vitiligo, pale brown and beige, and his eyes were ice blue. “Technically I'm Agent Onyekachukwu, but hell if anyone's going to yell that over the comms in an emergency. And only Mum calls me Dafydd. So Daf it is.”

“Nice to meet you, then, Daf.”

“Tell us about the plane, then!” Daf urged, leaning in conspiratorially. “I haven't seen an Unquoraean in person. Did Jack have any crazy stories about them? He always seems to.”

But Jones chose that moment to walk back over, and interrupted the conversation with a dry, “Don't ask Jack for the Unquoraean stories unless you have a strong stomach. He once escaped a prison of theirs by seducing a guard, and trust me, you don't want to know.”

Bram's jaw dropped. “Wait, but they have all the – the bits.” Xe made a vague gesture with xir hands.

“And spines,” Jones agreed.

“Wait – how was he in a pris-”

“Ready to get on with it, then?” Jones interrupted. “Milk's getting warm, sandwiches are going stale. Back to the Hub. Daf, you coming with us?”

“If you don't mind. Elly's riding in on the transport for the blowfish, and she can take the SUV back.”

On the way out, Bram nudged Daf behind Jones' back. “What did he mean, escaped a prison?” Bram whispered. “What prison, where?”

“God knows,” Daf murmured back. “Maybe Unquoraea, if that's what their planet's called.”

“But we're nowhere near interstellar travel, technologically. How...”

Daf pushed Bram's shoulder lightly, grinning, and Bram tried not to stagger too much. “Just hold your water a minute, we'll be at the Hub soon and then you'll really be pissin' yourself.” He shook his head. “I love new blood.”

Bram ended up squashed uncomfortably into the sliver of padded fold-down bench that passed for an emergency third seat, because Daf was simply too big. After being jostled around the back with the shopping for the whole drive back to Roald Dahl Plass, on top of the morning xe'd already had, Bram's head was truly beginning to ache. Still, xe collected all the bags as they piled out of the car, determined to be helpful.

It didn't surprise Bram much that Jones led them directly to the tourist office door. The handle turned easily in Jones' hand without him doing a thing to unlock it, so Bram wondered if, like the comms, the door mechanism was mildly psychic. Inside, the office was tiny and shabby, but all the brochures were up to date and there was even a little selection of gift shop items featuring the Welsh dragon. Jones reached under the counter without looking and triggered something that opened a hidden door in the back wall.

“Proper James Bond shit,” Daf said, elbowing Bram in the side.

Jones stepped back and gestured Bram forward, for all the world like a venerable butler. “Youth before beauty.”

Daf snorted and pushed Bram to the front.

Bram tightened xir grip on the bags as xe strode forward, trying to look as confident as xe didn't remotely feel. Xe didn't look back to check that Jones and Daf were following, determined not to seem like a lost, frightened puppy.

Claustrophobic low-ceilinged tunnel gave way to dreary concrete steps leading down, and then another door, backlit red with hazard lights, a sign posted next to it warning to keep fingers clear of moving parts. Bram didn't have to figure out what to do with the door, because it started rolling aside as xe approached.
Bram stepped through, into what Jones and Daf kept calling the Hub.

Xe stopped. Xe stared.

At some point, the bags were taken out of xir hands. There were other voices, people calling from distant, disparate parts of the massive structure, greetings and banter echoing through the space. Bram was too fixated on staring up, feet moving without xir conscious input, walking forward into the vast and cluttered space. It smelled of metal, of damp, of something animal and warm, of coffee and ozone and infinite potential. Under the voices, the place hummed with life – the literal hum of the equipment, the electricity, and the less quantifiable vibrations that sang through all places long-occupied and well-loved. It was the sort of feeling you got in palaces, in pyramids, in war memorials. The place was made up of so many different architectural styles, it was like chunks of time itself had been glued together.

Up above, some mad creature let out a cry that was half-screech, half-melody.

Bram realized xe was about to cry. Xe looked down, frowning, and sucked it all in, gulping back emotions and schooling xir face into calm. For the first time, xe looked around and noticed that no one was talking, and everyone was watching.

“Aw,” sighed one person from an upper balcony.

“Tell me you got it,” Daf called up.

“Every second. Cinematic masterpiece.”

“What?” Bram croaked.

Daf clapped xir shoulder. “You get to go in the clipshow,” he said cheerfully. “Every new hire's first time walking in. It's a laugh and a half with the ones who shit themselves. Come on, you need to sit and get some food in you before you fall out.”

Bram swallowed thickly. “Um, J – Agent Jones, is he -” Bram looked around, feeling pathetically lost without the authority figure who had rapidly become Bram's rock during this mad day.

The person from the high balcony came clanging down a set of spiral steps. “Gone to report to Jack about the hospital incident. Hi, I'm Adrija!” She stuck her hand out and Bram shook it, still a bit dazed. She was short but stocky, long black hair shaved on one side of her scalp up to around her temple, showing a complex implant of some sort – faintly glowing circuitry partially woven under her skin, which looked like it had grown there, like a vine.

“The, um, the linguist,” Bram said.

She beamed. “Cryptolinguist by training, xenolinguist in practice, and sort of stuck as the avatar of an alien binary intelligence for the time being?” She shrugged. “It's the sort of thing you get used to at Torchwood. It's Bram, right? Come on in the conference room, it's quiet in there.”

Bram followed her and Daf, grateful for direction and for their understanding that xe needed at least a temporary break from the madness. The conference room was blessedly normal-looking – big table, nice chairs, four walls blocking out the Escher architecture of the Hub at large. One of the sandwich shop bags was slumped on the table, its contents much reduced.

“Where is everyone?” Bram asked, taking a seat.

“All over,” Adrija said, taking a sandwich. “Herb chicken?”

“Um – yeah, sure.” The last thing in the world Bram cared about at the moment was the contents of a sandwich. But xe took the offered food, and upon catching a whiff of it, realized that xe was ravenous.

Adrija and Daf had also tucked in. Mouth full, Daf said, “The offices go way on back and down. Use't be storage.” He swallowed. “Off-site containment for a lot of stuff now. Was just five years ago that they finished building our alien detention center, that's where the fishy lads are goin' now. They used to be down in the basement cells. Howlin', gibberin'-” He'd leaned in, eyes glinting.

But Bram swallowed xir mouthful of sandwich and said, “But you've been here two years.”

Adrija snorted with laughter, clapping a hand over her mouth. “Got you,” she told Daf, teasing.

Daf made a derisive noise and crammed sandwich in his mouth.

“Daf's full of shit,” said Adrija, “but he means well, and you definitely want him there to take a bullet for you.”

“Oy!”

“It didn't hit anything vital,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“See if I do anything out of the goodness of my heart for you again.”

“I just meant, Daf's always who you want with you in the field,” she said, conciliatory.

“Damn right,” he muttered.

“Who goes in the field, then?” Bram asked. “Seems like everyone.”

Adrija brushed her hair back. “Well, not really. I don't, unless I have to. But the roles are all a bit blurry here, except that Jack's word is God and Ianto's is the Pope's.”

“But I thought...” Bram hesitated, thinking back over the day. Jones had identified himself as admin and temporary recruitment officer, not the head of anything. But his actions had told a different – no less conflicting – story. Doing the shopping, picking up the groceries... carrying a firearm in public, fighting aliens like a damn ninja... Bram honestly didn't have the faintest clue what it was, exactly, that Agent Jones did.

Adrija was looking at Bram funny. “Senior Field Agent Ianto Jones?” she prompted.

“He only said Agent, though,” said Bram.

“Longest-serving Torchwood employee, bar one? Last living survivor of Torchwood London? He's only bloody legend.” Adrija groaned in frustration, leaning back. “I'd kill to spend a whole morning running around the city with him! Pick his brain on everything he's seen, everything he knows?”

“He knows everything,” Daf said, dead serious.

“I didn't know,” Bram said, feeling like xe'd failed somehow.

“Agent Williams used to do all the orientation for newbies,” said Adrija. “She was a total sweetheart, soft on new hires. Drove Jack a bit mad, I think, but he loved her anyway. You're the only person in years who's been properly in the field with Ianto. He isn't often out doing major operations anymore.”

“Agent Williams... how did she...?”

“What? Oh Christ no, she's not dead, she's retired to the country! Her oldest had a baby and Jack told her to get out and be a doting grandmum or else he'd toss her in the bay.”

“Oh,” said Bram, relieved. “I'd heard that... well, there's a certain casualty rate among Torchwood employees, I know that.”

“Much lower than it used to be,” said Daf, “but this is a serious law enforcement job, you know that, yeah? It's dangerous. You do what you can to be safe, and keep everyone else safe, but it's still dangerous.”

“We lost Maria just last year,” Adrija said, subdued. “Went to retrieve an artifact the rift dumped out, and it looked like nothing much but it turned out to be intensely irradiated. A kind we hadn't seen before, didn't show up on the scans. The radiation poisoning set in too fast to control. Sometimes things happen, and we just... we just can't help.”

“There's a memorial wall, down the corridor with the offices. So we don't forget.” Daf finished his sandwich. “Starts with two Jones used to work with, actually. Sato and Harper. So Jones is the only person here who's known every one them on that wall.”

“He doesn't talk much about himself,” said Adrija. “But we reckon he doesn't go in the field much anymore because, you know. He's been there for too many losses.”

“He's got the leg, too,” Daf said. “Bad break about ten years back. Same leg he'd broken once as a kid, so arthritis has been a bit compounded.”

“It didn't seem to slow him down,” Bram said, thinking of the weighted, weaponized cane that Jones certainly hadn't used while running up and down stairs.

Both Daf and Adrija laughed. “Nothing slows him down,” Daf said. “He'll push through damn near anything and deal with the consequences later. Jack gets on him about it, too. You should hear some of the shouting rows.”

“Agent Jones doesn't seem to like Captain Harkness much,” Bram said. “Do they not -” But xe had to stop, because Daf and Adrija had both burst into intense laughter, Daf leaning back in his chair and crowing while Adrija buried her face in her hands and shook.

“Oh my lord,” Adrija said finally, wiping her eyes. “That's brilliant.”

“What?” Bram asked, a bit put out.

“Okay, Mx. Observational Skills,” said Daf, pointing at Bram. “What else d'you know about Jones? Think on him, think on the whole day.”

Bram racked xir brain. “Um... I dunno, he gets on with shop owners. Knows a lot of civilians. Efficient. Looks like his nose has been broken before.” Adrija nodded. Encouraged, Bram tried to pick out finer details. “He says he's not very psychic, but whatever he has got, he's good at it. Um...” Thinking of the moment of mind-sharing in the elevator, Bram remembered watching xir hands flicker into Jones' during the overlap. A plain metal ring on his right hand. “He's married,” Bram said. Extrapolating from other conversations, Bram hazarded, “Wife's name Gwennie, or Gwen.”

That set Daf off again so hard he got up from the table and had to walk away. Bram shrunk down in xir seat, feeling a bit wretched. “What?” Bram muttered.

Adrija was obviously trying to hold back laughter, too, but she said, “Gwen Williams, that's Agent Williams who just retired. She's got a house out in the west country with her husband Rhys now. Yeah, Ianto's married, but just – it's hysterical to think of him and Gwen. No!” She shook her head, a giggle escaping. “Not in a million years, no.”

“Fine,” said Bram, beginning to get irritable. “So he's married, what of it? Why does it matter who to? Why does it matter what I know about him? I just – I just really want this job.” Xe's stomach clenched up. “I know it's dangerous, I know it's a lot, I'm kind of overwhelmed now, but... but God, I do want it! How am I supposed to go back to a cubicle at Interpol after seeing this place? I don't care about Agent Jones' personal life, I care about – about whatever's screeching up in the rafters, and how that sting weapon worked, and how many more people are out there with, I don't know, undiagnosable alien diseases. This is mad, and it's so important, and I just want to stay.”

A ringing silence followed Bram's outburst. Xe felt hot in the face, small and childish but desperate to be taken seriously, desperate to be believed. And then, a couple of slow claps from behind Bram's seat.

Xe spun around to see Captain Harkness in the doorway, smiling like the sun. Bram had nearly forgotten how pretty the man was, and was glad that at least xir face couldn't possibly get any hotter, or the circumstances any more humiliating. Xe hurried to stand, wondering if xe was supposed to salute, surreptitiously trying to wipe sandwich crumbs off xir hands behind xir back.

“See? I know how to pick 'em.” Harkness turned partially in the doorway, and Bram realized that Jones was standing behind him. Jones stepped past him into the conference room and gave Bram a small smile.

“Xe'll do,” Jones said. He looked back at Jack. “You have been cruel, though.”

Jack threw his hands up. “What?”

“I told you to stop breaking their hearts.”

“I can't help this,” Jack said, gesturing up and down at himself.

Jones rolled his eyes. He looked over at Daf and Adrija. “You two, you've had your fun. Daf, I know you're wounded, but Elly could use another pair of hands. Addie, Mica wanted to talk to you about the last readings for the -” Jones gestured vaguely at her circuited head.

“I haven't had a headache in weeks, though,” Adrija objected.

“Just go talk to her,” Jones sighed, “please.”

“Your niece is a right nag,” Adrija muttered, but she swept up the wrappings from her lunch and tossed them in the shop bag. She patted Bram on the arm. “It's nice to meet you, Bram. You'll be fine, I promise.”

“Yeah, welcome to the team,” said Daf, clapping Bram's shoulder. Then the two of them were gone, leaving Bram alone with Harkness and Jones.

“Caught some of what you were saying,” said Jones, smiling faintly. “I appreciate your priorities. The mad screeching in the rafters is our pteranodon, by the way. We did have every intention of bringing you straight in this morning, but she was throwing a bit of a fit and making a mess, and she wouldn't have taken well to a new smell. She's nesting, see.”

“Two eggs,” said Jack, grinning. “Ianto'll be a granddad soon.”

“Shut up, you,” Ianto said good-naturedly, and that's when it clicked.

Jack had thrown up his hands in mock outrage a minute ago, and the room lights had glinted off of something metal.

“Oh,” Bram said stupidly.

“Yep,” said Ianto.

“Oh.”

Ianto drew his wallet out of his jacket. “Now, to clarify, one of us is a cradle-robber, but it's not me.”

“Hey,” Jack objected.

Ianto held out a photo. Bram took it, studied it for a moment, then looked up in disbelief. Checked again, back and forth. In the wedding photo, Jones could not possibly be a day over thirty, black hair, immaculate suit, not a single line on his smiling face. And Jack, in full military dress, looked exactly the same as the face watching Bram now.

Jones took the photo back, tucked it in his wallet. “I'm sixty-three,” he said.

“And I'm immortal,” said Jack. “It is what it is. But, hey, if you're feeling adventurous -” He raised his eyebrows.

“Jack,” Ianto said firmly. “What have I said about breaking hearts?”

“Mm, that anyone's other than yours is fair game?”

Ianto scoffed and walked over to the table to finish clearing up.

“Come on, make the new kid do that,” Jack said.

“I may become old, but I shall not become slovenly,” Ianto said primly, rolling the bag of rubbish tight and depositing it in a bin in the corner. “It takes a few hundred years of bad habits to become as much of a mess as Jack,” he told Bram. “Right, think you can handle filling out paperwork for the rest of the afternoon? When it's done I'll take you round, introduce you to everyone.”

Bram swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting xirself to speak anymore.

Jack stepped forward and held up a hand. “Hang on, I'm still the boss, and I haven't actually interviewed Mx. Hudson for the position yet.”

Bram froze, and Ianto cast Jack a glare.

“So,” said Jack, eyes twinkling. “The interview is one question.” He pointed at Bram. “How does Ianto take his coffee?”

Bram's mouth dropped open. Ianto muttered something under his breath about Jack being impossible. Bram racked xir memory back to this morning, what Jones had done in the coffee shop, the smells and sounds and fine details.

Then xe cleared xir throat and squeaked, “Dark roast, double cream, no sugar.”

“Hired,” Jack declared, looking at Ianto triumphantly.

Ianto sighed. “Can you work an espresso machine?”

Bram nodded, bemused.

“Well. I'll show you the kitchen, then.” Ianto pointed at Jack. “You are not to abuse this.”

“I never abused you,” Jack said innocently, “unless you wanted me to.”

“Diawl bach,” Ianto muttered, and put a hand on Bram's shoulder to lead them out of the room.

Jack laughed as he split off and headed towards another set of stairs. “See you tomorrow, Bram!” he called. “Can't wait see what kind of trouble we can get you into.” Then he disappeared around a corner.

It was quiet in the Hub, besides Bram and Iantos' footsteps on the metal flooring on the way to the kitchen. Bram's pounding heart was finally beginning to slow, and xe concentrated on deep, cleansing breathing. Xe looked up midway across the Hub and thought xe spotted the edge of a nest of twigs high in the rafters, and a rustle of movement amidst it.

At the door to the kitchen, Ianto stopped and turned back to Bram. He smiled, warm and honest, and said, “Welcome home.”