Torchwood Is Yours 2/12
Sep. 22nd, 2010 10:36 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
humantalesTitle: Torchwood Is Yours
Author:humantales
Beta:quean_of_swords
Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
rotaryphones
Character: Captain Jack Harkness, OC's
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,236
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: When Jack lands over a hundred years past where he was aiming, he has some time to fill. Why not spend it baby-sitting the Rift?
Masterlist
1869
Jack woke up in a filthy alley, alone. He checked his pockets and confirmed that he still had all his supplies. Now, he just had to confirm he was in twenty-first century Cardiff and set up his meeting area.
When he walked out of the alley, he realised that his coordinates had been off, but he wasn't too worried. It wasn't uncommon for coordinates to be off a bit on the longer jumps; once you were closer to the target, the jumps became more accurate. Stepping back into the alley, Jack went to reprogram his coordinates. His vortex manipulator would still boot up, but the screen went dark when he tried to access the time travel function. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that it had been a very long jump and sometimes tech took a while to boot back up. He'd give it an hour or so and try again. After all, he was a time traveller; time was his to command.
He checked his clothes, but they were nondescript enough that he didn't think he'd stick out. He had his blaster; he'd be fine. First step, find out where and when he was.
A young boy was selling papers on a corner; Jack was able to get a glimpse of the front page. The Western Mail, with a date of 27 October, 1869. Good, for a jump of nearly two hundred thousand years, he wasn't that far off. Next, he found a shop where he could change a small piece of gold for currency, a lot more currency than he'd expected. It was enough to get him a room for as long as he would need and then some. On his way to find a room, he picked up some food and whiskey from a market. He closed the door and started working on his vortex manipulator.
He'd been telling himself that he wasn't in that much trouble. Now that he could take a proper look at the vortex manipulator, he knew that he was in trouble and he had no way to get out of it. Both the time travel and teleport functions were burned out. Jack was good at fixing equipment--he'd enjoyed it ever since he was a boy—but this was beyond his abilities. He was stuck. If the Doctor didn't go back for him and didn't try to find him when he didn't show up immediately in Cardiff, he would be spending the rest of his life in the nineteenth century.
Admitting that to himself took the last emotional energy he had. Jack had enough resources, fortunately, to set himself up to live comfortably, but he'd start on that tomorrow. For now, he set the food he'd bought aside, pulled the whiskey towards him and proceeded to get thoroughly drunk.
The next day, using techniques he'd been taught by the Time Agency and had used before both when working for them and afterwards, Captain Jack Harkness began setting himself up for survival. It wasn't impossible that the Doctor would come here, but Jack knew it was highly unlikely—at least in a time and place where he could find the Time Lord. So, he settled in, creating a quiet, private life for himself, one that would attract no attention. He knew he'd get bored of it eventually, but he could reconnoitre and find a good situation for himself in the meantime. The easiest thing to do would have been to join the military. He'd been a soldier for almost all of his life; it seemed that it would be a natural fit. He found, however, that the idea made him cringe. No more taking orders; he'd had enough of that.
When Jack heard that Charles Dickens was going to read on Christmas Eve, he knew he had to go. Even in his time, The Christmas Carol was an archetypal story that was used as inspiration; to hear the original read by the author? It would have taken a far better man than Jack to resist it.
When people started screaming, Jack started looking around for trouble. When he saw the Doctor, he turned away and started fading back, making himself as invisible as he could. He'd forgotten, but Rose had told him this story. She'd been as excited as he was to hear Dickens, but it meant he couldn't approach them now. He was too much the Time Agent to cross timelines like that, no matter how tempting it was. He slipped out of the theatre, went back to his hotel, and drank himself to sleep.
Waking on Christmas Day, 1869, Jack wondered how long it would be before he'd see the Doctor and Rose again. Knowing it was futile, he ran the diagnostics on the teleport and vortex manipulator again. As he'd thought, the teleport and vortex manipulator were still fried; unless another friendly time-traveller showed up, he was stuck. However, the scanners were showing the residual energy of a more current rift event. Couldn't be the Gelth; Jack knew they were dead. Although . . .
Throwing water on his face, Jack threw on clothes and started tracking. He had to be careful—his wrist strap computer was centuries more advanced than anything local—but he was able to track the energy to its source. Not, as he'd expected, at the funeral parlour where the Gelth had been, but several blocks away.
There in the middle of the street, was a Morinian mine. Jack's blood ran cold; if it exploded, it could take out a significant part of the planet. And one of the local policemen was poking at it. Jack took a deep breath and approached the other man.
"What is that thing?" he asked, wondering what kind of answer he'd get.
"Don't know," came the unsurprising reply. "We get odd things like this appearing now and again. No one knows why and who'd come to Cardiff to investigate."
"Me," Jack said without thinking. The policeman straightened up and looked at him. "Captain Jack Harkness," he said, holding out his hand. "Now, this little beauty is a mine. If we're not careful, well, we won't have to worry about it."
The policeman jumped back at that, his eyes grown huge. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice hushed.
"Tell you what," Jack said. "If you figure it out, would you let me know?" He carefully picked up the mine, noticed that it was live and carefully disarmed it. Then he sighed. "So, you get a lot of this stuff."
"Sometimes," the policeman said. Then he shook his head. "Wait a minute. Who did you say you were?"
"Captain Jack Harkness," Jack said, holding out his hand to be shaken, again. "Who would I talk to about setting something a little more official up? And what is your name?" The policeman was pretty attractive, in a rough-hewn way. About average height, he had black hair and hazel green eyes.
"Officer Richard Lloyd," he said. "And no one official will talk with you; they just look down their noses at us. 'Superstitious Taffys' is the nicest thing they say."
"Well, Officer Lloyd," Jack said, slinging his arm around the policeman, "they're going to be calling you much nicer things if I have anything to say about it. It's for certain that you've been helping to protect this city from far worse than robbers and ruffians."
1870
Author:
humantalesBeta:
quean_of_swordsArtist:
rotaryphonesCharacter: Captain Jack Harkness, OC's
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 1,236
Warnings: AU
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.
Summary: When Jack lands over a hundred years past where he was aiming, he has some time to fill. Why not spend it baby-sitting the Rift?
Masterlist
1869
Jack woke up in a filthy alley, alone. He checked his pockets and confirmed that he still had all his supplies. Now, he just had to confirm he was in twenty-first century Cardiff and set up his meeting area.
When he walked out of the alley, he realised that his coordinates had been off, but he wasn't too worried. It wasn't uncommon for coordinates to be off a bit on the longer jumps; once you were closer to the target, the jumps became more accurate. Stepping back into the alley, Jack went to reprogram his coordinates. His vortex manipulator would still boot up, but the screen went dark when he tried to access the time travel function. He took a deep breath and reminded himself that it had been a very long jump and sometimes tech took a while to boot back up. He'd give it an hour or so and try again. After all, he was a time traveller; time was his to command.
He checked his clothes, but they were nondescript enough that he didn't think he'd stick out. He had his blaster; he'd be fine. First step, find out where and when he was.
A young boy was selling papers on a corner; Jack was able to get a glimpse of the front page. The Western Mail, with a date of 27 October, 1869. Good, for a jump of nearly two hundred thousand years, he wasn't that far off. Next, he found a shop where he could change a small piece of gold for currency, a lot more currency than he'd expected. It was enough to get him a room for as long as he would need and then some. On his way to find a room, he picked up some food and whiskey from a market. He closed the door and started working on his vortex manipulator.
He'd been telling himself that he wasn't in that much trouble. Now that he could take a proper look at the vortex manipulator, he knew that he was in trouble and he had no way to get out of it. Both the time travel and teleport functions were burned out. Jack was good at fixing equipment--he'd enjoyed it ever since he was a boy—but this was beyond his abilities. He was stuck. If the Doctor didn't go back for him and didn't try to find him when he didn't show up immediately in Cardiff, he would be spending the rest of his life in the nineteenth century.
Admitting that to himself took the last emotional energy he had. Jack had enough resources, fortunately, to set himself up to live comfortably, but he'd start on that tomorrow. For now, he set the food he'd bought aside, pulled the whiskey towards him and proceeded to get thoroughly drunk.
The next day, using techniques he'd been taught by the Time Agency and had used before both when working for them and afterwards, Captain Jack Harkness began setting himself up for survival. It wasn't impossible that the Doctor would come here, but Jack knew it was highly unlikely—at least in a time and place where he could find the Time Lord. So, he settled in, creating a quiet, private life for himself, one that would attract no attention. He knew he'd get bored of it eventually, but he could reconnoitre and find a good situation for himself in the meantime. The easiest thing to do would have been to join the military. He'd been a soldier for almost all of his life; it seemed that it would be a natural fit. He found, however, that the idea made him cringe. No more taking orders; he'd had enough of that.
When Jack heard that Charles Dickens was going to read on Christmas Eve, he knew he had to go. Even in his time, The Christmas Carol was an archetypal story that was used as inspiration; to hear the original read by the author? It would have taken a far better man than Jack to resist it.
When people started screaming, Jack started looking around for trouble. When he saw the Doctor, he turned away and started fading back, making himself as invisible as he could. He'd forgotten, but Rose had told him this story. She'd been as excited as he was to hear Dickens, but it meant he couldn't approach them now. He was too much the Time Agent to cross timelines like that, no matter how tempting it was. He slipped out of the theatre, went back to his hotel, and drank himself to sleep.
Waking on Christmas Day, 1869, Jack wondered how long it would be before he'd see the Doctor and Rose again. Knowing it was futile, he ran the diagnostics on the teleport and vortex manipulator again. As he'd thought, the teleport and vortex manipulator were still fried; unless another friendly time-traveller showed up, he was stuck. However, the scanners were showing the residual energy of a more current rift event. Couldn't be the Gelth; Jack knew they were dead. Although . . .
Throwing water on his face, Jack threw on clothes and started tracking. He had to be careful—his wrist strap computer was centuries more advanced than anything local—but he was able to track the energy to its source. Not, as he'd expected, at the funeral parlour where the Gelth had been, but several blocks away.
There in the middle of the street, was a Morinian mine. Jack's blood ran cold; if it exploded, it could take out a significant part of the planet. And one of the local policemen was poking at it. Jack took a deep breath and approached the other man.
"What is that thing?" he asked, wondering what kind of answer he'd get.
"Don't know," came the unsurprising reply. "We get odd things like this appearing now and again. No one knows why and who'd come to Cardiff to investigate."
"Me," Jack said without thinking. The policeman straightened up and looked at him. "Captain Jack Harkness," he said, holding out his hand. "Now, this little beauty is a mine. If we're not careful, well, we won't have to worry about it."
The policeman jumped back at that, his eyes grown huge. "Who sent you?" he asked, his voice hushed.
"Tell you what," Jack said. "If you figure it out, would you let me know?" He carefully picked up the mine, noticed that it was live and carefully disarmed it. Then he sighed. "So, you get a lot of this stuff."
"Sometimes," the policeman said. Then he shook his head. "Wait a minute. Who did you say you were?"
"Captain Jack Harkness," Jack said, holding out his hand to be shaken, again. "Who would I talk to about setting something a little more official up? And what is your name?" The policeman was pretty attractive, in a rough-hewn way. About average height, he had black hair and hazel green eyes.
"Officer Richard Lloyd," he said. "And no one official will talk with you; they just look down their noses at us. 'Superstitious Taffys' is the nicest thing they say."
"Well, Officer Lloyd," Jack said, slinging his arm around the policeman, "they're going to be calling you much nicer things if I have anything to say about it. It's for certain that you've been helping to protect this city from far worse than robbers and ruffians."
1870
