Title: Fallout, Part TwentySeven

Author: Emma

Characters: A whole bunch of folk.

Rating: Starts PG, but hey, it’s got Jack in it!

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?
Author's Note: This fic is CoE compliant

Part One is here; Part Two is here; Part Three is here; Part Four is here; Part Five is here; Part Six is here; Part Seven is here; Part Eight is here; Part Nine is here; Part Ten is here; Part Eleven is here; Part Twelve is here; Part Thirteen is here; Part Fourteen is here; Part Fifteen is here; Part Sixteen is here; Part Seventeen is here; Part Eighteen is here; Part Nineteen is here; Part Twenty is here; Part TwentyOne is here; Part TwentyTwo is here; Part TwentyThree is here; Part TwentyFour is here; Part TwentyFive is here; Part TwentySix is here

            “Jack, we need to find Donna.”

            “Hello, Doctor, nice to see you again,” Jack said with exaggerated politeness. “What can Torchwood do for you?”

            “Are you trying to be funny? The TARDIS keeps saying that there’s another Time Lord on Earth. When I remind her of the Master, she shows me an energy signature that I’ve never seen before. And the only other person on Earth who could… ouch!" The smack on the back of the head had him whirling around. “Donna?”

            “Who did you think it would be, you skinny Martian?”

            He swept her into a tight hug, his eyes misty. “Oh, Donna.” As realization struck, he put her down, pushing her away enough to examine her. “How?”

            “Yan found a way.” Jack said. “She’s fine. Memories intact but no Time Lord knowledge.”

            “But the only way he could have done that is if…” He felt the presence behind him and turned slowly, on his heels, hand on his pockets. “Ah. The TARDIS was right.”

            “Yes and no.”  Yan made a face. “I’m… Frankenstein’s monster.”

            “Yan!”

            “Oi! Don’t talk about yourself like that!”

            The Doctor grinned at Yan. “It seems you have defenders. But in this instance, they’re right, you know. From the genetic standpoint, everyone is a bit of a Frankenstein monster anyway. It’s the mind that matters, especially for us.”

            “Us?”

            “Well, you have one heart and you’re mortal and you’re not likely to get your own TARDIS… but in every other way… welcome to the clan.” He grabbed Ifan’s hand, shook it enthusiastically, then dropped it as another thought distracted him. “Um… I have to talk to Martha.”

            “She’s on her way.” Ifan said. “I asked her to come.”

            “Oh?”

            “I’ve been… sorting through the stuff in my head. I did not mean to invade your privacy, Doctor. Not that you left behind a great deal of personal information, but there was some.”

            The Doctor smiled. “I trust you to keep my secrets, Ifan.”

            Martha walked in and threw her arms around the Doctor, who hugged her back enthusiastically.

            “Martha,” Ifan said, “I know you’ve been doing some research on the methods the Master used to splice my genes together.”

            “Yes. Human and Gallifreyan genes are so different that there should be no possibility of a proper splice with current technology. I examined the equipment, and it’s top of the line, but it’s the stuff currently used in fertility clinics with some minor alterations. There is no way the Master should have done what she did.”

            Ifan started to say something to her, then turned to the Doctor. “I’m sorry Doctor but I need to ask you something. My memories show you… were a father once.”

            “Yes.”

            There was something ominous in the single syllable, but Ifan continued. “And grandchildren. You had grandchildren?”

            “I am not so young and patient as I once was, Mister Jones.”

            Ifan took a deep breath as if trying to steady himself. “My four times great grandmother came to Wales as a refugee. There was a war in her country and her husband had been killed. She was pregnant.”

            The Doctor had grown very pale. “Ifan?”

            “She named her son Ifan, which is Welsh for John because she said her grandfather sometimes went by it. She never told anyone much else, except that it had taken her a long time to get to Wales.” He took another breath. “She made sure at least one or two men in each generation carried a variation of the name. She died at one hundred and twenty five, a revered elder of her family and her community.”

            “Ifan?”

            “Her name was Susan Foreman.”