DOCTOR WHO fucks

The Manchester Piccadilly train station pulsed with life, the chaotic energy of the morning rush colliding with the drab, overcast sky above. Jim moved through the throng like a ghost, his face pale and drawn, etched with the unmistakable fatigue of a sleepless night. His heart weighed heavy, burdened with the kind of loss that hollowed a man out from the inside. In his hand, he gripped the handle of a modest suitcase—its contents a spartan mix of essentials and a few carefully concealed gadgets from his Torchwood days. The suitcase felt more like an anchor than a lifeline, tethering him to a past he had desperately tried to escape.

The train to Cardiff awaited him on Platform 7, its doors yawning open like the maw of a beast. Jim stepped aboard, the hum of the station fading behind him. He found an empty seat near the window and sank into it, craving the solace of solitude. Cardiff was calling—Cardiff, the city where the ashes of Torchwood still smoldered, where whispers of its former glory clung to the air like ghosts. He stared out the rain-streaked window, willing the outside world to mirror the storm within him.

But solitude wasn't in the cards.

"Man U's got no chance this season, eh?"

The voice came from a man who had dropped into the seat beside him, uninvited and completely undeterred by Jim's silent demeanor. He was burly, red-faced, and clad in a red rugby jersey that hugged his bulk like a second skin. The man radiated boisterous energy, the kind of presence that demanded attention, whether welcome or not.

Jim flicked his gaze to the man, then back to the window, offering only a grunt in response.

The man either didn't notice or didn't care. "But the Six Nations—now that's where the real action is! Did you see the match last weekend? Bloody unbelievable!"

Jim shifted in his seat, wishing for invisibility. Rugby talk wasn't on his list of priorities—his mind was preoccupied with the Master, the Doctor, and the unrelenting ache of a home reduced to tragedy. But his disinterest was lost on his new companion.

"And the scrum!" the man continued, leaning closer into Jim's personal space. "Mate, you ever play? That's where you feel the game in your bones, you know?"

"No," Jim replied curtly, not bothering to turn his head. "Never played."

"You're missing out! It's all about teamwork, strategy, and, of course, a good pint after. Nothing like it. So, where you headed?"

"Cardiff," Jim muttered, his patience thinning.

"Cardiff!" The man's face lit up. "Great rugby city. Got a match there soon, you should come along. Welsh crowds—they're something else!"

Jim's knuckles tightened on the armrest as the train pulled away from the platform. The man's chatter rolled on, a relentless wave of rugby anecdotes and unsolicited opinions. Jim barely heard him. His thoughts churned, circling back to his family, to Torchwood, to the shadows that seemed to close in tighter with every mile the train traveled.

He glanced at his phone, hoping for updates from old contacts. Nothing. The silence on the other end felt deafening, even against the man's unyielding monologue.

By the time the train neared Cardiff, Jim was teetering on the edge of his nerves. The rugby fan finally stood, gathering his things as he prepared to disembark. Even as he moved toward the door, his voice lingered, promising Jim he'd "never seen a game like the one coming up." Jim didn't bother replying.

The train hissed to a halt. Jim stepped onto the platform, the cool Cardiff air rushing to greet him like an old acquaintance. He stood for a moment, breathing it in, letting the city's atmosphere seep into his skin. Behind him, the train pulled away, taking the chatter and noise with it. Ahead, the streets of Cardiff sprawled out, 

Jim's steps echoed against the ancient stone pavement of Cardiff, each footfall a ghostly reminder of a path he once knew well. He stopped at a spot that appeared no different from the rest of the street—unremarkable to any passerby, but Jim knew better. With practiced precision, he pressed down on one of the stones, activating a concealed mechanism. The ground shifted beneath him, opening to reveal a descent into shadow.

The familiar scent of history mixed with the faint tang of advanced technology greeted him as he descended. It was like stepping into a memory, the walls seeming to hum with echoes of past missions and whispers of agents long gone.

At the bottom, the narrow passage widened into the cavernous expanse of the Torchwood hub. The dim electronic glow revealed a space both familiar and alien, a blend of the known and the unexpected.

But the scene awaiting him wasn't what he had envisioned. Gone were the familiar faces of his old colleagues. Instead, a new team occupied the hub.

A Japanese man sat at a console surrounded by flickering screens, his hands flying across keyboards as he managed streams of data that Jim couldn't even begin to interpret. Nearby, a young Black woman clad in unmistakably alien tech stood on high alert, her weapon already trained on him. To her side, an Indian man in a traditional Sikh turban crouched calmly, feeding a creature that looked like a cross between a cat and something out of a nightmare.

The group's reaction to Jim's arrival was immediate and defensive. The Black woman's reflexes were razor-sharp, her gun steady. "Who the hell are you?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the quiet hum of the hub.

Jim raised his hands in a gesture of peace, his gaze fixed on the weapon aimed at him. "I'm Jim Denham. I used to work at Torchwood."

The Japanese man paused, swiveling in his chair to size up the intruder. "Jim Denham? We've heard the name, but you're not on any current lists. How did you even get in here?"

"The old ways," Jim replied, his voice steady despite the tension in the room.

Jim stepped forward cautiously, his eyes scanning the room. "Where is Captain Jack?" he asked, his voice edged with urgency.

The Japanese man glanced up briefly from his screens, fingers still flying across the keyboard. He shook his head. "We don't know where or when he is," he said, his tone matter-of-fact.

The Black woman kept her weapon trained on Jim, her expression skeptical. "He went off on one of his solo adventures," she explained curtly. "Now he's nowhere to be found."

Jim exhaled a humorless chuckle. "Hm. That sounds like him," he muttered.

The Japanese man's hands paused as he focused on one of his monitors. "Wait," he said, his voice rising slightly. "Jim Denham. Cardiff Torchwood officer—twenty years ago."

The Black woman's eyes narrowed, her grip on the weapon unwavering. "That still doesn't explain why you're here. What do you want?"

Jim's face hardened, his jaw tightening as he looked between them. "The Master," he said grimly. "The Master has the TARDIS."

The words hung in the air like a thunderclap, the weight of them drawing shocked expressions from the team.

The Black woman's stance shifted slightly, her voice rising. "What did you just say?"

"I said," Jim snapped, anger flaring in his voice, "The Master has the TARDIS. And he's taken my wife and daughter."

The Indian man, who had been silent until now, stood up from where he had been feeding the strange creature. His voice trembled. "But... but where is the Doctor?"

Jim's shoulders slumped slightly as if the question carried a weight he couldn't bear. "I... I don't know," he admitted, frustration leaking into his voice.

The Black woman pressed him further, her tone urgent. "But you've met him, haven't you? You've met the Doctor."

"Yes," Jim replied, his eyes darkening as memories surfaced. "He had the same ginger-haired face I've known him to have... but it's not him."

The Black woman lowered her gun, her gaze softening as she took in the anguish etched into Jim's face. "How do you know this?" she asked, her voice quieter now, less confrontational.

Jim's hands trembled as he covered his eyes, his voice breaking. "He... he assaulted my wife and child right in front of me. And then he took them. It's not him, I tell you—it's not the Doctor."

Centhia, seeing the raw pain radiating from the man, let out a soft sigh. "I'm... I'm so sorry to hear that," she said, her tone laced with genuine sympathy. "My name's Centhia. The creepy nerd over there is Inemoto," she gestured toward the Japanese man, "and the humble guy feeding the alien cat-thingy is Raul."

Inemoto adjusted his glasses, smirking slightly. "You can call me a nerd all you want; it's not offensive anymore. Let's be honest—if you're working here, you're definitely a nerd," he quipped without looking up from his screens.

Jim's lips twitched in a fleeting ghost of a smile, but the weight of his mission kept him focused.

Inemoto continued, his fingers now flying over the keyboard. "So, let me get this straight—you're saying the Doctor and the Master have the same face? And you don't know where the Doctor is?" He paused, glancing back at Jim. "There's a pretty big possibility the Doctor's been mind-controlled."

"Or imprisoned somewhere," Centhia added, her tone darkening. "Or worse... impersonated. The Master might've killed him and taken his place."

Raul, who had been silently listening, spoke up, his voice steady but tinged with concern. "Let's hope it hasn't come to that. But this... this is why Torchwood—and UNIT—have been scrambling lately. The Doctor's absence has left chaos in his wake."

Inemoto leaned back in his chair, studying Jim. "So, what do you want us to do?"

Jim met his gaze, his expression firm. "I need you to locate the TARDIS—and find my family."

A dry laugh escaped Inemoto as he shook his head. "We can't even locate our own captain across spacetime. And you want us to find a time machine?"

Jim didn't hesitate. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a battered phone, holding it up for them to see. "Yes," he said, his voice filled with determination, "because I have this."

Suddenly, an alarm blared from the monitors. Inemoto straightened, adjusting his glasses as he frantically typed. "We've got a murder," he announced, his voice sharp with urgency.

Centhia immediately activated a sleek wearable device strapped to her forearm. The quarter-length screen lit up, displaying a map overlay. "Where?" she asked, her tone all business.

"Working Street," Inemoto replied without looking away from his screens.

Jim, standing nearby, leaned forward. "Can I join you?"

Centhia glanced at him, then gave a small shrug. "Sure. You still have the clearance, don't you?" A playful smirk touched her lips. "Besides, I've been meaning to show off my babies."

Without wasting a moment, they headed out, emerging onto the streets. Jim and Centhia climbed into a sleek, black, heavily tinted car that radiated authority. Centhia slid into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel like it was an extension of her own will. As they sped through the city, her driving was as bold and unrelenting as her personality.

"So," Centhia said, breaking the silence as she expertly wove through traffic, "why did you leave Torchwood?"

Jim's gaze lingered on the streets flashing by before he answered. "The Doctor gave me an opportunity I couldn't refuse."

Centhia's brows lifted slightly, a glimmer of envy in her tone. "Wow. You traveled with the Doctor? I've always wondered what that's like. What's out there?"

A wistful smile played on Jim's lips as he stared out the window, the memories filling his voice. "Oh, it's... it's indescribable. There's nothing like it. Nothing like traveling with the Doctor."

But as quickly as the wonder appeared, it was eclipsed by pain. His jaw clenched, and his eyes darkened. "And now, to think he did this..." His voice trailed off, heavy with sorrow.

Centhia glanced at him briefly, her expression softening, but she said nothing. The car came to a smooth yet decisive halt.

They stepped out, the sleek vehicle drawing attention even among the chaos of the crime scene. Police officers immediately noticed them and stepped aside, clearing a path to the site.

Centhia strode forward with purpose, her tone authoritative. "Alright, everyone, clear the area. This is our scene now.

Jim and Centhia approached the body, the faint buzz of the crime scene swirling around them. The police tape flapped lightly in the breeze, and the murmurs of officers faded into the background as Jim locked eyes on the victim. His breath caught.

The face was unmistakable—it was the man from the train, the rugby fan who had shared idle chatter with him just hours ago. Jim froze, his blood running cold as a wave of shock hit him like a tidal wave.

"No... no, no, no," he muttered, his hands trembling as they went to his head. He staggered back a step, the weight of the realization crashing over him. "What's wrong with me? Am I... am I cursed?"

Centhia, crouching near the body to inspect the scene, looked up sharply at him. She rose to her feet and moved toward Jim, her eyes narrowing in concern. "Jim," she said firmly, placing a steadying hand on his arm, "what's going on? You know this guy?"

Jim's voice was strained, his mind spiraling. "He was... he was on the train with me. Just a passenger. He was... he was talking about rugby. Just a normal guy." His voice broke, and he clenched his jaw as if trying to hold himself together. "And now he's dead? Everywhere I go, My family's gone, the Doctor's gone, and now this."

Centhia reached into her gear and pulled out a sleek gadget resembling a transparent, glassy screen. She held it over the body, the device glowing faintly as it began to process data.

Jim, noticing the unusual technology, leaned in. "What's that?" he asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

Centhia's lips curled into a small, proud smile, a glint of excitement in her eyes. "This," she began, "is a Momentary Temporal Display. It shows what happened to an object or person within a brief window of time. We've managed to get it working for up to three minutes of an object's past."

Jim's brows furrowed in intrigue as the screen flickered to life. A hazy projection appeared, showing the man alive and walking down the street. For a moment, everything seemed normal—until he suddenly collapsed. Blood began to seep from his back, staining his shirt as his body crumpled to the ground.

Jim's eyes widened. "What the hell just happened?" he said, his voice sharp with shock.

Centhia's brow furrowed, confusion flickering across her face. "Maybe he fell sick," she offered hesitantly, though doubt lingered in her tone. She pointed at the image on the display. "But that can't be it. Look—there's a stab wound."

Jim's voice rose, the unease in his tone unmistakable. "How can this be? He was just walking, and then—"

Centhia stared at the screen, her mind racing. "It doesn't make sense. There's no one else in the feed, no sign of a weapon, no indication of a struggle." She paused, glancing at Jim. "It's almost as if... whatever did this wasn't there physically."

Jim's expression darkened, his jaw clenching. "Not physically? You mean something... invisible?"

Centhia's eyes met his, her voice steady but grim. "Or something out of phase with our reality. Either way, we've got a problem."