I really need to get a non-Axis icon that is neither specifically approving nor disapproving. Hm.

Five Stops on the World Tour of Martha Jones
Fandoms: Doctor Who, Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters/Pairings: Martha Jones, France, Prussia, Hungary, Russia, Japan, America, mentions of others; teeeensy bit of America-->England if you squint
Rating: R for Prussia's mouth
Wordcount: 7,371
Spoilers: Through The Sontaran Strategem for Doctor Who, nothing for Hetalia beyond the concept of the series
A/N: Companion piece to The Perils of a Democratically-Elected Leadership, though you don't need to have read that to understand this.
Disclaimer: None of it mine, for either series.

Walking the Earth takes quite some time, it turns out.

Martha knew it wouldn’t be easy—airplanes were grounded, major roads were closed, and the Toclafane were everywhere, if she hadn’t had the perception filter she’d have been dead a hundred times already—but it still strikes her, everywhere she goes, just how impossible her task is. Even if the people she meets are willing to listen, she has to be able to meet them in the first place. So she walks. She learns five different ways to treat blisters, and four more to avoid them. And she moves forward.

She had to hide when the invasion first started, of course, but after the initial chaos, after the Master had declared his rule and established his laws, she started her journey. England at first, of course, then Wales and Scotland and both Irelands, but it took time, and she only had a year. So she braved the long road back (more houses, more gatherings, more people) and found her way to the Thames, and then—well, she’d always wanted to visit Paris.

France is in no better condition than the United Kingdom, though it still clings to its culture; she sees open cafes, and people wearing somewhat ridiculous outfits, and more than once does its tenacity make her smile. Her first stop is at, of course, a rebel meeting—the French are nothing if not familiar with revolution. And, though she does not speak much of the language, the TARDIS translator lets her passion ring clear as a bell. Her story is believed. There are cynics, of course, but the people want to believe. Martha leaves the meeting hopeful and proud.

At the door, when the rest have left to sneak past the curfew, she is stopped by a man with not-quite-shoulder-length ash-blond hair. He is as worn-looking as the rest of him, but there is still an odd shine to his eyes, and his smile is friendly. “Quite the story you tell, mademoiselle,” he says.

Martha stands firm. “And every word of it is true,” she replies. “There is a Doctor, and he will help us, we just have to—we just have to believe.” It does sound a little ridiculous even to her ears, but she’s seen so many bizarre things since she met the Doctor; the power of belief is hardly the most unusual concept.

The man raises an elegant eyebrow. “I never said it wasn’t,” he says. “When monsters fill the skies, one’s perceptions of the way the world works are subject to change.” He gives her an appraising look. “You are English, no?”

“Born and bred,” Martha says, and she is proud as she says it.

“Of course you are. Only his people would be so stubborn.” The man’s expression turns wry.

Martha frowns. “Whose people?”

The man waves his hand dismissively. “It is no matter, ma chère. Have you a place to rest for the night? My home is not in the best of conditions, but it is open to all who would aid my people.”

“Thanks, but I should get going,” Martha says. “I don’t sleep much these days. There’s too many things I have to do.”

“Always in such a rush,” the man says, sighing. “Though I suppose there’s good reason for that as of late. Ah, well. Perhaps we will see each other again, under less trying times?” There’s a sly undercurrent in his words that reminds Martha almost painfully of Jack, and she smiles.

“I can’t make any promises,” she says. “But I’d like to see this place when things are better again.” She doesn’t say, not that you’d remember me even if we did meet again; she tends to leave that part out of the story. It would only confuse people.

“When your Doctor fixes everything, of course,” the man says. “And that will take so long—though certainly there have been longer times of duress for this land. Perhaps not as extreme, but regardless, a smattering of months is little compared to a war of a hundred years.” He grins. “And perhaps you are the latest Jeanne, no?”

“I don’t think I want to be burned at the stake,” Martha says. “But I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“As it was intended to be,” the man says. “Now, if you wish to avoid the curfew, you should leave—the Toclafane have much dampened the nightlife, alas.”

Martha nods. “I’ve got a lot of road to cover before dawn,” she says. “Remember what I told you about the Doctor—and tell it to as many other people as you can.”

The man nods in return. “Of course. I could never refuse the request of a lady as fine as you.” And he takes her hand and kisses it, and damn if he doesn’t wink at her when he gives it back.

Martha definitely isn’t blushing (and even if she was, both the night and her skin would hide it). “Best of luck to you, monsieur,” she says, and waves as she returns the perception filter to her neck, walking back into the dark.

The man stares at where, a moment ago, he was sure she had been. Then he shrugs. The English. So odd, they are.

---

The roads through Germany are hard—the more time passes, the more the Toclafane spread out, and more than once Martha is scared the perception filter will break. But she makes it into the country, and throughout as much of it as she can, and finally allows herself a moment of rest in a pub in Dresden. Not that she’s planning to get drunk—she can’t afford the possibility that she might say a little too much, that she might be sitting next to an informant. Besides, alcohol is getting more and more expensive these days.

The possibly-informant next her appears to have far fewer compunctions, however. He throws back the remains of his glass and slams it onto the table, snarling for another. Martha frowns—she’s never seen gray hair on someone who looks hardly older than her.

“God damn it all to fucking hell,” the man mutters, and takes a swig from his freshly-filled glass. He wipes his mouth on his sleeve. “To fucking. Hell.”

Martha’s tempted to ask just what specifically God should damn to fucking to hell, but before she does, a woman with long brown hair bedecked with a flower steps up to the bar and pushes the man’s glass away. He tries to grab it back. She promptly pushes him off the stool.

“And god damn you too,” the man says, getting back up with a wince. “Don’t spill that, it was paid for by the hard-working taxpayers of this brilliantly stable economy.”

“You shouldn’t be drinking so much,” the woman says, glaring at him. Then she takes a swig of it herself. “Not without me, anyway.”

The man glares right back. “Get your own damn beer. Better yet, buy me another one while you’re at it. It’s not like we can die of fucking alcohol poisoning.”

“No, but we can wish we could,” the woman replies. “Come on. Get up. You’re not going to do any good moping around in here.”

“Oh, like you’ve done so much,” the man growls. “At least you have some fucking idea of where your darling ex is. For all I know, my brother’s in fucking Venice or some shit like that. He could call. What the fuck am I supposed to think if he vanishes? That obviously everything is fine and dandy and in no way did fucking Saxon add another to his collection?”

“Your brother is a very durable person and you know it,” the woman says. She pushes a pile of Euros at the bartender. “Besides, he didn’t exactly leave this place on its own, did he? You’re here. You can handle things. That’s the bonus of having two of you.”

“Wonderful. Great. I’m the back-up plan. This isn’t even my land by name any more, they’re all his people, he should fucking be here,” the man says. He still doesn’t budge from his stool. “Not disappearing to fucking Naples or Florence or wherever the fuck he thinks he has some duty to be. If he isn’t dead already, I’ll kill him myself.”

Martha blinks. She shouldn’t be listening in, but they are right next to her, and—the man must be wearing contacts. She’s seen red eyes before, but not on this planet. And what are they talking about? His land, his people—the TARDIS translator must be acting up. Or maybe they’re just weird. It occurs to her that maybe she really has seen too many things if that’s not the first explanation that comes to mind.

“And that’ll solve all your problems, I’m sure,” the woman says. She grabs his arm. “Come on. Let’s get back to work trying to rescue the person we do know the rough location of, shall we?”

The man stares grimly at the bar. “Will I get to kill anything?”

“Not if you stay here,” the woman says. This time, she pulls him all the way off the stool and towards the door before he plants his feet firmly on the ground and refuses to move.

“You’re like a damn toddler, you know that?” the woman says, shaking her head.

“I’m a toddler with a missing brother and a fucking headache that won’t go away because of the fucking thousands of my people who are fucking dead,” the man says. “I. Need. Just one more fucking beer. And then we can go get our revolution on.”

“I brought my frying pan in my knapsack,” the woman says.

The man pauses. “Half a fucking beer.”

“Only if you promise not to throw up on the carpet,” the woman replies.

“I make no guarantees,” the man says, and returns to grab the still-mostly-full glass from the counter where the woman left it. Martha stares at him as he does. He notices.

“What the fuck are you looking at?” he asks, turning those red eyes on her.

“I have no idea,” Martha replies, and it’s the honest truth.

“Damn right,” the man says, and swallows the remainder of the glass in one impressive gulp. He makes his way back towards the woman, not quite as unsteadily as he ought to given his apparent level of alcohol consumption.

Once he and the woman have gone, Martha shakes her head and hands the bartender her own handful of currency. Tomorrow she’s got another border to cross. She can’t waste time thinking about strangers with their own missions to deal with.

Still, though. Did he have mutant cataracts or something?

---

Martha can’t tell whether it’s just the natural turn of the seasons or something more sinister, but the cold increases dramatically the further she goes east. Or, she supposes, it could simply be where she is; Moscow is not known for its sunny climes. Still. At night, she feels the freeze right down to her bones, and she wonders how anyone could possibly live here, in this land where going outside in December is an extreme sport.

Then again, that’s part of why she’s here, isn’t it? She’s heard stories about the successes of the Toclafane in subduing the area—or rather, the lack thereof. Even metal from a hundred trillion years away can freeze, and blizzards have been whipping up overnight, crushing everything in their path. Including people, of course. The Russians are retreating from major cities, where the Toclafane gather most, because that is where the weather gathers most as well. Out in the steppes, life is difficult, but it is not impossible. Odd, how things change.

Here, Martha’s able to hitch a ride with a family late to the migration, and they bundle together in an old truck for as much warmth as can be had. They believe the story readily, and promise with determined eyes to follow through on their end of the bargain. The cold does not seem so bad when you are surrounded by such strong belief. Martha wonders if this is a part of the Doctor’s plan, if the slow build of mental power is starting already. It’s a nice thought, and it keeps her warm.

Travel through the rest of the country is hard, though, and once she and the family have arrived at an encampment, Martha realizes she can’t afford to spend the time finding any others. So she repeats the mandate of spread the word, tell the story to everyone you see, keep it moving, and hopes it’s enough.

The next available transport takes a week to arrive. Martha spends the time doing as much work around the camp as she can, desperate to provide help more immediately substantial than words. The people say she’s welcome to stay for as long as she wishes, but she has to leave, she has to, there’s so much world to cover and as much as she’d like to help everybody she has to reach every continent and there won’t be enough time. So she can barely sleep the night before the transport will come, and instead she volunteers for guard duty, standing watch for—for whatever. There’s nothing much they can do if the Toclafane come, but perhaps they just need the illusion of doing something to protect themselves.

Outside the camp is a great white spread of nothingness, masked in the deep, dark blue of the night sky. Martha tries to identify constellations, but all the ones she can remember are for different skies, different worlds. The night is quiet. It would be peaceful if she could remember what that was, either.

She doesn’t see the man next to her until he’s suddenly there. She jerks around, gun at the ready (for all the Doctor disapproved of them, well—it wasn’t as if any deaths would last, was it), but he looks like any other member of the camp, quiet and heavy with clothing. This does not preclude her lowering the gun, however.

The man tilts his head at her. When he speaks, his voice seems too soft for his size. “You are helping,” he says.

“Yes,” Martha says. “If you’ve come to join us, you’re welcome to, but if you’ve brought the Toclafane down on our heads—”

“The Toclafane,” the man says. He frowns. “That is what they’re called. I hadn’t known. To the General, they are just…things.” He chuckles. There’s something odd about it, something that sends a chill up Martha’s spine that has nothing to do with the cold. “As are we all, really.”

“The General?” Martha asks. Every country still has their military, of course, but much reduced; the Toclafane have seen to that.

“The one who protects us,” the man says. “And destroys us. He does not listen to me, not any more. I do not know if I would tell him to do different even if he did. But you, you are helping.” His stare is less unnerving than his laugh, for which Martha is thankful.

“I have to,” Martha says. “The world needs help. There’s a man—”

Her speech is cut off. “The world, always the world,” the man says. “I do not care about the world. There are a few, but—this is the world. The rest can burn, so long as this land stands.”

She stares at him, horrified. “That’s sick,” she manages. “What if people in other places thought the same about you? Would that be acceptable?”

“I have invited them to join me,” the man says. “So many times. But none accept, and the ones who were with me have left. I do not know where they are now.” His stare turns blank, as if he were seeing something far, far away.

“Whatever you think about the rest of the world, I’m still going to save it,” Martha says, her mouth tight. “Every person on this planet is going to lead the lives they should have led. I won’t let anything stop me. Not even this weather.”

The man looks genuinely surprised. “You would do what armies have not?” he asks. “So brave, for a fool.”

“You said I was helping,” Martha replies. “I’m going to save your people and everyone else’s besides. And if I have to do it in a blizzard, I will.”

“I know a person as stupidly confident as you,” the man says. “I don’t know where he is now, either. Perhaps he is dead. I did tell him he would be, someday. He did not listen. He does not listen to anybody, I think.”

“I’m sure I’d love to meet him,” Martha says. “Now, are you going to come in? We’re open to everyone, even if they’re crazy. I think there might be a bed free.”

“I have not slept in some time,” the man says. “I would rather stay out here. It is where I first was, and where I will always be, no matter where else I am.”

Martha shakes her head. “Cryptic much? Well, you’re welcome to join us whenever. Maybe you’ll make a better impression on the others. I’ll be gone tomorrow.”

“Gone to help the rest of the world,” the man says. “Do as you will. The General will not care.” But there’s something in his eyes that looks suspiciously like hope. His violet eyes. It must be a trick of the light, or lack thereof.

“Just you wait,” Martha says. “And join your people when it comes time to gather. Maybe then you’ll understand.” And then you’ll forget that you did.

“So many maybes, and only one guarantee,” the man says. “Winter is waiting. I mustn’t disappoint it.” And he fades back into the snow from whence he came, a dark figure blending into the night as if he were never there.

Martha stands guard until dawn. When the transport arrives, she bids the camp goodbye and moves onward, to the next group, the next country, the next land that needs her.

She does not think of the strange man again for some time.

---

The months are ticking down, down, down, and Martha’s finally managed to go as east as she can get before it officially becomes west (and how does that work, anyway, who decided that?). Japan is a beautiful country outside the cities—or it was, of course. The more time passes, the more the Master grows aware of resistance groups, and the less amused he is by them. Whether Japan has been particularly uppity or he just wants to make an example of it, Martha doesn’t know, but there’s an air of uneasiness around the place, an unspoken feeling that the increase in Toclafane attacks is a sign of something to come.

Cities are always dangerous places to be—chock-full of Toclafane watching and waiting for anyone to make a false move. Martha only takes off the perception filter when she’s inside, now. There’s too much risk that she’ll be spotted. She wanted to go to Tokyo—so many people there, still—but there’s a factory right outside it, Toclafane buzzing around making sure the workers do satisfactory jobs, and it aches to know that she can’t afford to stir people up when they’re so close to being found out. So she’s in Yokohama, instead, close but not too close, hoping that neighbors might spread the word more quietly than a stranger could.

It only occurs to her now that she might have overestimated the distance. In Tokyo there’s a factory, but in Yokohama there’s a lab, and labs are—she’s only been in one before, briefly, helping out a rescue mission in Beijing. It wasn’t successful, and if she hadn’t had the perception filter, she knows she wouldn’t have made it out. Afterwards, as far away from it as she could manage, she’d thrown up. It was almost a relief to think of the people who had simply been cut down by the Toclafane. In a sense, they had been spared.

Martha knows, by the screeching sound of the alarms and the chatter of the ever-increasing cloud of Toclafane, that something’s gone wrong. She’s not in the lab, she’s not even right outside it, she’s still horrified by the thought of having found one in the first place, but if there’s such a commotion, there must be something big going on, and—well, anything that angers the Toclafane is worth checking out. She ducks into the remains of a sliced-up building and watches.

Less than a minute passes, and Martha can’t tell what’s happened—her vantage point isn’t that great—but there’s a man running past her, away from the lab, and she can hear the Toclafane come surging after him. Martha hesitates. She could—well, there’s only one of him, and he must be important, she could try—

She darts through the building and grabs the man by the collar of his shirt, pulling him inside. He looks very confused, as you presumably would be if you were grabbed by something you couldn’t see, but then she manages to squeeze the necklace holding the perception filter around his neck too, and then he just looks more confused. It’s a tight fit. She can feel his heartbeat racing against her chest, his ragged breath against her neck, the way the whole of his small body is tense as a tightened rope. “Don’t worry,” she whispers, right next to his ear. “Just—keep quiet, and stay still, and they won’t notice us.”

He does exactly as she says, and as the minutes pass, his heartbeat slows, his breath becomes more controlled. His body remains tense, and his face is wary, but he’s in less danger of collapsing from exertion now.

Slowly, carefully, Martha signals to move further into the building. The Toclafane are still buzzing outside, but they seem to be moving outward in their search. Still, there’s never such a thing as being too cautious, not these days. It isn’t until they’re ensconced in a fully-closed room that she lifts the perception filter off their necks, giving them both room to breathe.

“My name is Martha Jones,” she says. “And I’d really like to know who you are.”

The man watches her with a guarded expression. “My name is not important,” he says. “I thank you for your aid. But I must leave—I am needed elsewhere.”

“Then they’ll have to wait until the Toclafane are far enough away to make leaving feasible,” Martha says. “Even this thing isn’t perfect if something sees you moving too fast.” She holds up the filter.

His expression does not change. “That is not human technology,” he says, as if he is stating an obvious fact. Which, well, he kind of is.

“No, it’s not,” Martha says. “It’s—well, there’s this man…”

He listens silently as she goes through the entire speech, never showing any indication of emotion one way or another. But when she finishes, he speaks.

“The person who calls himself the Master, during visits, sometimes spoke of such a man,” he says. “He is in a similar circumstance as an acquaintance of mine, I believe.”

“I’m sorry,” Martha says, and means it.

“My acquaintance is familiar with hardship. I do not worry for him,” the man says. “But I fear that his separation from his people is causing difficulties for them. My people, I know…” He falls silent.

“I won’t lie to you,” Martha says. “Japan’s being hit hard. I hate to say it, but—” She hesitates. “It might not be a bad idea to get out of here. Find someplace safer. Korea wasn’t too bad, when I was there. Not great, but…better than here.”

“I will not leave,” the man says, and there is steel in his eyes. “I cannot leave. Until every living thing on these islands is wiped out, I will not leave them.” Martha almost shivers at the hardness of his voice. He must be a leader, or a soldier. But one important enough to be chased after by every Toclafane in the lab, and he doesn’t look any older than she is. What is he?

“My family is up there,” she says, resolute. “I don’t know if they’re dead or alive. I don’t know if being dead would be better for them. But I left them, and I left the Doctor, because I knew it wouldn’t do them any good if I was trapped with them. If you want to help your people, you can help them leave before something even worse happens.”

The man says nothing. For the first time, Martha suddenly notices the extent of his condition—he hides it well, but he’s far too thin, and there are scars peeking out from the tears in his clothes. There’s a bloody stain on his shoulder; he’s taking care not to move one of his arms. Only his eyes do not show signs of complete physical exhaustion.

Martha rummages in the pockets of her tac vest and pulls out a small bottle. “Here,” she says, handing it over. “I managed to smuggle some Percocet a while back. You look like you could use some.”

The man shakes his head. “I have survived far worse injuries. There will be others who need it more.”

Martha sighs. “You know, everyone says that. Why can’t anybody admit that they need help? It doesn’t make you weak to rely on others once in a while.”

“Perhaps they feel that if they appear strong, they will inspire the rest,” the man says. “There is never enough help to go around. It is better for those who need it the least to go without, so that those who need it the most may be aided instead.”

“Very inspirational, I’m sure,” Martha says. “But the only one in this room to be inspired is me, and I’ve got all the motivation I need. Just take the painkiller. I’m a doctor. That’s an order.” Well. In-training. But he doesn’t need to know that.

The man looks almost as if he might smile, but he doesn’t. “Very well,” he says, after a moment. And he takes a single pill out of the bottle and swallows it.

“I don’t have any water on me, I’m afraid,” Martha says. “If you just keep swallowing, your throat will relax eventually.”

The man nods. “I am aware.”

They spend the next few minutes in a peaceful, if wary, silence. Eventually, Martha puts the filter back on and goes outside to check. It’s as safe as it’s going to be. She returns, and tells him as such. He readily agrees to leave.

It’s difficult walking with the filter around both their necks, but manageable. Once they’re far enough away from the lab that Martha feels comfortable taking it off, she does so, and breathes a little easier.

“I’ve got a boat to catch,” Martha tells him. “You should come with me. They’re still going to be looking for you here, but we can still do the perception trick if you follow me.”

Again the man shakes his head. “I cannot leave,” he repeats. “It is better to die here than to flee, for if I did the latter, the former would happen anyway.”

“I hope you get back to your people, then,” Martha says. “And that I’m wrong about needing to leave.” She wants to tell him that she is, that the Master will grow bored and find something else to occupy his time, but if such an important person has escaped from his grasp—well, she doesn’t think the Master is going to stop paying attention any time soon.

“I wish you luck with your journey,” the man replies. “May you be reunited with your family when the time comes, and may your plan succeed.” He bows slightly. “Once more, I thank you for your aid in my escape.”

“I wouldn’t be much of a rebel leader if I hadn’t, right?” Martha says, smiling. “Sayonara, sir.” And they part their ways.

It isn’t until later, when she’s on the boat, that she sees the fire fall from the sky, and realizes what she might have done.

---

Martha’s memories of the last time she visited America are mixed. Granted, it was the Great Depression at the time and there were monstrous killer robots and hideous genetic experimentation, but she does remember how people banded together, how even through the horror, they’d managed to survive. She’s not in Manhattan now, of course; to someone used to a continent where the borders of countries are all jumbled together and driving across them could be a day trip, the idea of a single country stretching for thousands of kilometers from coast to coast is astounding, and she’s far from reaching the other end yet.

She wonders how the people here can maintain their cultural identity across such a distance. There are different attitudes, of course, the differences between states, and she’s heard of the dissonance between the coasts and the South, but they still all consider themselves American. Perhaps that is why so many of them are so fervently patriotic; they have to remind themselves that they are all the same, to keep their identity from stretching thin and cracking at the edges. It is strange to think about.

The reason Martha thinks of it is because she is seeing this patriotism in full force, every American she meets being viciously proud of their country and insisting that it is they who will fix this, because naturally that is their job, they are supposed to be the ones who charge in and save the day. Oh, there are some who think otherwise, to be sure, but decades of pop culture glorification have left the majority under the impression that this story is about them. Martha has to remind them that it’s about everyone, and tells them about the thousands of people she has met who suffer and fight as much as they do, perhaps more.

(The memory of Japan burning stays in her mind. That is the story she tells to people who are hesitant to take action; if no one fights, she says, the Master will do such things whenever he likes. She does not tell them that taking action may have been what doomed the country in the first place.)

A former homeless shelter in Phoenix, Arizona hangs onto her every word and proceeds to argue with all of them. The world can’t be saved that easily, they say, That can’t work, only a real fight will bring him down, what we need is science, that can’t work, that won’t work. Martha’s about to strangle some of them when a blond man with glasses and a bomber jacket steps out from the crowd.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s strange how his voice suddenly quiets them down. “You said your name was Martha Jones, right?”

Martha nods.

He flashes her a brilliant grin. “Great name, Jones. I’ve heard about you. You did some real good stuff in Europe and Asia. Top notch.”

“I’m just doing what needs to be done,” Martha says, but she smiles; something about the man makes her feel proud.

“Y’know, I haven’t met a hero who didn’t say the same thing, and believe me, I’ve met a lot,” the man says. He glances around at the rest of the crowd. “You guys should listen to her. She knows what she’s talking about.”

There’s a general grumbling, but most of them look less sceptical. She finishes the speech with the blond man by her side, more confident that her words will be actually heard this time.

When she’s done, and the group disperses, the man turns back to her and says, “So, you’re English, right? I mean, you come from England? I guess you could be from here, there are plenty of folks who come from all over and have tons of different accents, it’s actually pretty cool, but I heard you came from England, so, you did, right?”

Martha blinks at the man’s rapid-fire speech. “I haven’t been there in a while, but yeah, that’s my home. I’m going to go back there someday.” The last day, she knows, the time when everything comes together and all of this ends.

“Great country, England,” the man says. “Well, not as great as here, obviously, but, you know, it’s up there.” He pauses. “So, uh, how were things going the last time you were there? How bad was it?”

She wishes she could sugarcoat it, but— “The Master doesn’t like us very much,” she says. “Or he’s amused by us, which might be worse. I don’t know what it’s like there now, but I don’t think it’ll have improved much.”

The man’s face falls. “Oh. That’s…yeah. I guess that makes sense. But, uh, you still like your country, right? You don’t feel like something’s missing from it? Like, I don’t know, you still feel…English, right? Like you have a real home to get back to, not just an island?”

“I suppose that I do, yeah,” Martha replies. In truth, she feels her home like a phantom limb, aching to get back to it, her family, the land she was born in, her home. The world is vast and beautiful even amidst the horror, and the universe even more so, but she hasn’t been properly back in England for ages. She misses making tea in her old kitchen (milk, no sugar) and bickering with Tish over Dad’s latest girlfriend and walking to the hospital through streets so crowded she could barely move. She misses exams, even, and that right there is proof enough that this year needs to finish so she can get her mind back to what passes for normal.

The man grins again, lighting up the room. “Good. That’s good. Stupid question, really, I’d have known if—but anyway, yeah, that’s awesome. You’re awesome. Anything you need, just ask. I carry a lot of weight around here. Big rebel hero comes in, how can I refuse? Anything, seriously. You hungry? There’s this place right down the street, free of charge.”

Martha takes all of a second to consider it. “Food would be great. I know there isn’t always a lot of it to go around, though, so I don’t need much—”

“Nonsense, too much travel always makes you extra-hungry. Believe me, I know. C’mon.” He grabs her arm and pulls her out of the shelter. When they reach the street, Martha instinctively tenses—the filter’s not around her neck—but there aren’t any Toclafane in the sky, and they reach the place soon enough. She breathes freer inside, though.

It’s a cozy place, with a few other small groups of people sitting at booths and tables, talking quietly. The man drags her to a booth in the corner. A few moments later, a woman comes out from behind the back counter, smiling at them. “Well, hey there,” she says, looking at the man. “Meeting let out early tonight?”

“Miss Martha Jones here was so inspirational we didn’t need the extra time,” the man replies, nudging Martha across the table and grinning back. “Whatcha got for someone who went halfway around the world just to visit your lovely establishment?”

“Stop it, you. There’s a big pot of vegetable soup waiting, plus bread and I think there’s some pie left.”

“Apple?” the man asks hopefully.

“Cherry.”

The man pouts. “I guess cherry’s good too. I don’t suppose you’ve got any—”

“Beef’s been rationed and you know that, hon,” the woman says, shaking her head. “Try your luck in farm country. We don’t have the buns, anyway.”

“Farm country doesn’t have much either,” the man says glumly. “And I swear, the day Heinz closed—but, uh, anyway, Martha! Soup sound good? And pie?”

“It all sounds great,” Martha says, smiling. “I haven’t had real cooked food in—well, in a while.”

“Then we’re just going to have to fix that, aren’t we,” the woman says. “I’ll be back in a few. You two sit tight.” And she heads into the back.

“So where’d you get that jacket from?” Martha asks, looking at it across the booth. “I knew a guy who was into period military dress. He’d probably like it.” He’d probably like the rest of you, actually, but that doesn’t need to be mentioned.

“Oh, you know,” the man says, waving a hand dismissively. “War stuff. It gets around. Had it for ages, really. It’s way more comfortable than the suits they had me wearing before all this—to be honest, I never liked those things anyway, I don’t know how En—uh, that is, I’ve just had it in my closet for a while and I thought I should wear it again. Memories, and stuff.”

Martha gestures at her tac vest. “This thing gets a little heavy, but it’s not so bad. I only had to wear a lab coat back when I was working in a hospital—well, I had to wear clothes under it, obviously, but lab coats aren’t a bad uniform either. They get dirty like you wouldn’t believe, though. Who thought it was a good idea to wear white in a building full of sick people?”

The man laughs. “Uniforms have always been kinda weird,” he says. “I remember when bright red was considered the height of military dress—made’em much easier to pick off, I can tell you…” He trails off and goes silent for a few moments.

“What were you, before all this?” Martha asks, eventually. “Just a soldier?” There’s something off about the way he phrased things, something that wasn’t entirely unlike the way the Doctor sounded when he was being deliberately vague.

“Military, politics, a bit of business now and again, I had this phase where I really wanted to be an archaeologist but my bosses said it wasn’t practical—a lot of things, really. Never an idle moment, and all that,” he says.

Martha raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look like a politician.”

“Well, I’m not, really, only sort of—well—um. I’m a lot of things.” The man’s grin turns sheepish. “It’s hard to explain. Think of me as an advisor.”

“An advisor who spends his free time in resistance groups,” Martha says. “Although I suppose that’s not all that uncommon these days.”

“Oh, believe me, I know a lot about resistance—okay, that sounded weird. I’m good at rebelling, let’s put it that way.”

The woman returns, bearing a tray containing two bowls of soup, two slices of thick bread, and two slices of what looks like very sticky cherry pie. The man falls on his soup the moment it’s set before him; the woman smacks him on the shoulder and he stops, sheepish again.

“Sorry, it’s just kinda been a while. I don’t need as much food as everyone else does, so—I really appreciate it when I let myself have some, you know?” the man says.

“I’ve been around worse table manners,” Martha says dryly, remembering what the Doctor had been like when they’d found that noodle shop on Avalato. It’d taken ages to get the bits of possibly-cilantro out of her clothes.

The man grins again and seems to take that as his cue to return to his soup. Sighing, the woman sets down Martha’s food in front of her. “I hope you’ll take good care of him,” the woman says, looking pointedly at Martha. “He’d wear himself down to the bone if people let him. Hell, he’s not even going to be around here much longer—he always says he has to keep moving, cover the rest of the country. Like it’s his job.”

“I know the feeling,” Martha says, and fails to remember exactly how many kilometers she’s gone. Not enough, whatever it is.

“Hpf hpf hpfy pfob,” the man says around a mouthful of potato. He swallows. “I have to help as many people as I can. Otherwise I think I’d go crazy.” He laughs nervously. “Gotta keep busy, you know? Can’t just sit by and watch everything get worse, ‘cause that’ll just make you worse, and—and I’m not done yet. I can’t go down so early, I’ve barely even started compared to—other people,” he finishes.

The corner of Martha’s mouth quirks upwards. “Other advisors?” she asks.

“Something like that, yeah,” the man replies. “It’s just—not so soon. Not yet.” He takes another big gulp of soup, and stays silent while he eats. The woman returns to the counter.

Martha takes the opportunity to try her own bowl. It’s not remarkable—the broth probably came from powder, the vegetables were canned. But it’s food, and it’s hot, and it’s better than a quick granola bar snagged at a store. She eats it as greedily as the man does, sopping it up with the bread.

The man veritably devours the pie when he gets to it, leaving sticky red streaks around his mouth. “It’s not apple, but it does the trick,” he says, licking more filling off his fingers. “God, what I’d give for some apple pie. Or a baseball game. All the big leagues have shut down. Hell, I’d give my left leg for a burger, and I’m not sure I’m kidding when I say that.”

“There’ll be plenty of pie and baseball and burgers once the year is up, don’t worry,” Martha says. Even if you won’t know you ever went without them.

“Miss Jones, I am going to hold you to that,” the man says, pointing a finger at her. He wipes the rest of the filling off his face with the back of his hand, and licks that, too.

Martha finishes her pie with somewhat more grace. “Then I’ll do my best not to disappoint you,” she replies. “But for now, I really ought to get going—I want to try to hit New Mexico by morning.”

“I’ll get you a truck, no problem,” the man says. He gets up out of the booth, and she does the same. “Even a full tank of gas. Anything for a fellow hero.”

Once they’re outside, Martha shakes his hand, smiling. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mister Advisor. I hope you reach as many people as you can.”

“Same to you, ma’am,” he says, grinning back at her. “And when you get home, be extra patriotic, you hear? Show some more pride for your country. ’cause you’ve got a hell of a one, and don’t let anybody tell you different.”

“Oh, I won’t,” Martha says. “Seeing so much of the world—it does make you appreciate where you came from.” To see her family and her city again, safe and not going anywhere—that’s not a small part of what keeps her moving.

They part ways into the night, the man heading to find her that truck and Martha returning to the shelter to pick up what few things she’d brought. There are still months to go, and such a distance, but it doesn’t seem so impossible, now. It seems more and more like she could actually do this great, tremendous thing. Be the hero that man insists she is.

Martha Jones smiles, and walks on.
 

---


Working for UNIT is—well, it’s more than a little intimidating, that’s what it is. Everyone respects her so much, just because the Doctor said they should (and because she’s living up to it, she likes to think), and sure, she’s seen the universe, but she never thought she would have so much power back at home. She didn’t think people would still listen to her after the year flipped around and everyone forgot what she’d done. But now…

…now, she’s back in America, of all places. New York. Because UNIT likes to keep tabs on major political events these days (especially with that warning about elections), and a meeting of the United Nations definitely counts as that. Right now, though, she’s not even in the building; she’s not late, she knows there are still people waiting inside, so she takes a deep breath, walks into the gathering of waiting world leaders—

—and stares.