Rose thought about the name John- really thought about it, not just as a label, but for its implications. "I suppose I see the point," she nodded. "Nobody ever expects a name like John Smith t' be the one doin' the mischief." No, John Smith was the bus driver, or the unassuming bloke behind the counter at the bank. Surely, this very idea had already saved him more than once.

"I-" Once given permission, Rose couldn't help herself. Her mouth became uncorked like a bottle. "Do I still work for Torchwood? Does my dad do any inventin'? Do the papers try t' photograph ya like they did with me? Does Tony say any words? 'ow abou' the zeppelins-"

She could almost hear the sound of their future shattering. And she didn't much care.