52 Days of Disaster - Day 33
Torchwood/Star Wars
Based slightly (okay, a lot) on this photo.
"I'm not about to admit to anything. I hope you realise that you're wasting your time here."
Ianto glared up at the helmeted face at another press from the tip of the gun.
"Look, will you stop doing that? I know you can understand perfectly well, there's really no need to be constantly pointing weapons at me."
The one with the orange patch on its (his? her? Who knew, and Jack had always said that gender really wasn't an issue on a lot of planets- and he was stopping right there, because thinking about Jack still HURT, dammit all to hell) shoulder, who was walking in front, suddenly stopped (halted, Ianto decided, definitely halted) and then turned.
"Kneel," he said, and it was probably a guy. Well. In so much as they had any difference in vocal modulation that Ianto could discern. Maybe with a lot of listening and relistening he might be able to start telling any sutble differences, but right now he certainly couldn't.
Ianto knelt, feeling the comforting pull of his stunner against the skin of his ankle as he did so. There was a more conventional pistol hidden under his jacket, but nothing more than that; it was actually his day off. Not that Torchwood Cardiff had anything like the 9-5, Monday-Friday work that he'd gotten slightly used to at Torchwood London, but it was definitely his day off. He'd been planning on enjoying that day off, thank you very much, not tumble into a rift and wind up on a spaceship somewhere out in the middle of whoknowswhereville.
How was this his life again? He was fairly certain this had nothing to do with his job, or else they'd probably have killed him by now. He was out of the suit and everything, just popping out to the shop for a beer and bread refill.
Then he scratched his nose, and suddenly most of the guards in their depressingly-white uniforms who surrounded him raised their weapons, and Ianto decided to put his hands behind his head.
Honestly. As if today could get any worse?
Based slightly (okay, a lot) on this photo.
"I'm not about to admit to anything. I hope you realise that you're wasting your time here."
Ianto glared up at the helmeted face at another press from the tip of the gun.
"Look, will you stop doing that? I know you can understand perfectly well, there's really no need to be constantly pointing weapons at me."
The one with the orange patch on its (his? her? Who knew, and Jack had always said that gender really wasn't an issue on a lot of planets- and he was stopping right there, because thinking about Jack still HURT, dammit all to hell) shoulder, who was walking in front, suddenly stopped (halted, Ianto decided, definitely halted) and then turned.
"Kneel," he said, and it was probably a guy. Well. In so much as they had any difference in vocal modulation that Ianto could discern. Maybe with a lot of listening and relistening he might be able to start telling any sutble differences, but right now he certainly couldn't.
Ianto knelt, feeling the comforting pull of his stunner against the skin of his ankle as he did so. There was a more conventional pistol hidden under his jacket, but nothing more than that; it was actually his day off. Not that Torchwood Cardiff had anything like the 9-5, Monday-Friday work that he'd gotten slightly used to at Torchwood London, but it was definitely his day off. He'd been planning on enjoying that day off, thank you very much, not tumble into a rift and wind up on a spaceship somewhere out in the middle of whoknowswhereville.
How was this his life again? He was fairly certain this had nothing to do with his job, or else they'd probably have killed him by now. He was out of the suit and everything, just popping out to the shop for a beer and bread refill.
Then he scratched his nose, and suddenly most of the guards in their depressingly-white uniforms who surrounded him raised their weapons, and Ianto decided to put his hands behind his head.
Honestly. As if today could get any worse?