I pack my case. I check my face. I look a little bit older. I look a little bit colder....
John Thane is prowling, with the sort of half-sated hatred that really just has him on the lookout for something fun. He's in a comparatively good mood, not that it makes him much nicer - he's still got the same hunger for pain as always, but it's not running on anger right now. It's just... how he operates. How he interacts. Take, hurt, break, control. Hey, it's lasted him the last - to his mind, anyway - seven years, at least.
He's not going into the prisoners' room, not yet. He likes a little time between sessions, and both of the Doctor's girls have been quite nicely broken for the moment. He's pondering another raid on Torchwood, if Hart wants to come along. Or something else. Wonders idly how the Doctor would react to random bystanders being snatched up. Fuck, it's not like Thane cared anything for most of the people on Boe-Shayne, anyway.
Across the city, Dmitri Lang has used a set of finely-forged Chicago Police Department credentials to talk her way into a penthouse apartment which was apparently rented at gunpoint by someone the Police were already looking for, and subsequently occupied by a couple of rather noisy tenants, one of whom matched Jack Harkness' description. She wasn't exactly investigating Jack, or she didn't start out that way, but when Torchwood acts strange and secretive and your leads lead you to an abandoned room with a shed coat that looks suspiciously like that of one immortal ex-Time Agent...
Well, it's not like Dmitri needs extra encouragement to start asking questions.
At the moment she's poking around the drawers and closets, taking pictures with a small camera. She's already rifled through the pockets on Jack's coat, and stowed a few of the more interesting things in her messenger bag. His journal wasn't there, unfortunately. Which could honestly mean anything - knowing Jack, he probably takes it wherever he goes.
After a while she takes out her journal and jots down a note to Gwen. Hey, sometimes Torchwood tells her things. Just... not without a little encouragement.
He's not going into the prisoners' room, not yet. He likes a little time between sessions, and both of the Doctor's girls have been quite nicely broken for the moment. He's pondering another raid on Torchwood, if Hart wants to come along. Or something else. Wonders idly how the Doctor would react to random bystanders being snatched up. Fuck, it's not like Thane cared anything for most of the people on Boe-Shayne, anyway.
Across the city, Dmitri Lang has used a set of finely-forged Chicago Police Department credentials to talk her way into a penthouse apartment which was apparently rented at gunpoint by someone the Police were already looking for, and subsequently occupied by a couple of rather noisy tenants, one of whom matched Jack Harkness' description. She wasn't exactly investigating Jack, or she didn't start out that way, but when Torchwood acts strange and secretive and your leads lead you to an abandoned room with a shed coat that looks suspiciously like that of one immortal ex-Time Agent...
Well, it's not like Dmitri needs extra encouragement to start asking questions.
At the moment she's poking around the drawers and closets, taking pictures with a small camera. She's already rifled through the pockets on Jack's coat, and stowed a few of the more interesting things in her messenger bag. His journal wasn't there, unfortunately. Which could honestly mean anything - knowing Jack, he probably takes it wherever he goes.
After a while she takes out her journal and jots down a note to Gwen. Hey, sometimes Torchwood tells her things. Just... not without a little encouragement.