Fic: Tourist Bait (Torchwood)
Title : Tourist Bait
Author : Gunbunny
Fandom : Torchwood.
Pairing : none
Rating : No sex and very little violence. :sigh:
Summary : It's not just Cardiff that has regular disappearances that Torchwood's had to investigate over the years. This case took place in 1924.
Disclaimer : Not mine. Russell's and Chris's.
Feedback : I accept burnt offerings and alcohol.
Archive : http://burntcopper.com/fic , anywhere else feel free.
The case starts, as is common, with readings. Torchwood instruments regularly scan the isles the Institute is charged to defend for anything strange, or particularly strong. Some areas have their own dedicated scanners - Cardiff, for instance, with its rift that spits out marvels and horrors on a regular basis. Others merely have to wait until Torchwood gets round to them. Or gets equipment that's more capable of sifting and isolating readings, as is the case on this particular rainy day in spring, 1924.
Ainsworth frowns as the radar on the newest piece of equipment travels over that part of the country. "Interesting."
"What is it, old man?" Bobby Watts asks. She's a very modern girl - hair bobbed in the latest style, fascinated beyond all measure by engines and spends half her time installing new kit into the cars that Torchwood possesses. When she isn't on duty, she can regularly be found in the dance halls, dancing to the new music styles, the ones that blare out of her record player set up in the garage. "Radar acting up again?"
"Strong but constant pulse of eerie energy. It's a little like the rift but of a distinctly different frequency. This new instrument is certainly powerful. The trick is now to figure out whether the energy's harmful or not."
"Overlay it with a map, then, see where it is we're looking at." Ainsworth hits a couple of keys to bring up the corresponding Ordnance Survey map for the area the radar covers.
Watts leans forward and taps the screen. "Hazelmere. Does that ring any bells?"
Ainsworth leans back, rubbing his mouth. "Hazelmere? So it seems the circle towns really do have something about them. We hadn't been able to pick up any traces on previous equipment. And now we've got a solid gold reason to investigate."
"Circle towns? That's a new one on me." Watts says.
"Call Harkness in. This is definitely something he'd be useful for."
"Isn't he in Cardiff right now?"
"There are trains. Put a message through to the Hub, will you?"
Jack Harkness breezes in a few hours later, not a hair out of place, pulling off his gloves. "What can I do for you, Fred? Bobby, looking lovely as ever, I see."
"It's only been a month, Jack."
"A guy can't give a girl a compliment?" Jack grins. Bobby rolls her eyes.
"Settle down, Jack, we've got a new mission." Ainsworth says, putting up the projector. "Circle towns. They've been on Torchwood's radar for a long time, since they hold up large banners saying 'weird', and then proceed to prance around with bells on. They figure a lot in local legend, and there's a good few of them scattered throughout these isles. Towns and villages where the townsfolk have a reputation for being strange, wild, touched, that kind of thing. Every kind of story gets told about them, from 'sold their soul to the devil' onwards. As the name suggests, they've got a local stone circle. They have a recorded history of disappearances and violent deaths that goes back centuries, since records began. We've thought about investigation under the maxim that 'where there's smoke, there's fire', but there's nothing really been solid beyond rumours and coincidence. However, with the
technology newly at our disposal, it's also been discovered that energy readings are through the roof - they stick out like a sore thumb. Combine it with the disappearances and deaths..."
"...And you want me to check if there's really something going on, right?" Jack replies. "Strange, touched and wild. Sounds right up my street."
"Not just touched. They're pagan." Ainsworth adds, going through his notes.
"Pagan?" Bobby perks up, looking interested. "My word, and I thought that area of the country was boring aside from Jo-Jo Blenkins' parties. Are there naked spring rites?"
Ainsworth gives her a mildly reproving look. "The records just say pagan. Quite probably the Church of England variation of quiet worship, if they never attracted witchfinders. One of the local diocese documents lists them as 'resistant to the church but very polite about it'. Sorry to disappoint." He finishes shuffling his notes. "Anything to add, Harkness?"
"I know as much about it as her. All I ever heard about the circle towns was to avoid them like the plague. They emit some sort of energy that screws up signals and location finders."
----
Bobby folds her arms and huffs as the train leaves the station in a puff of smoke. "I don't see why we couldn't take the car."
Jack shrugs, folding over the paper and getting a pencil out in an attempt to make some sense of the crossword. No matter how much training he's had with clues and ciphers, the Times crossword defeats him every time. The Doctor used to hum happily as he did it over a cup of tea and a biscuit, declaring them a pleasant past time. Jack has promised himself he'll defeat it one day, and it's not like he can die trying. "Weird energy fluctuations might affect the engine when we need it most."
"You trust the train." She points out.
"The train has a track record of working in the area, the car doesn't. And I think old Harry just wanted to see you sulk." He taps the pencil against the paper. "Now be a good girl and read your engineering manual."
Bobby straightens her hat when they get off the train at Hazelmere station. "This looks so ... bucolic." She declares. "Do you think we can expect morris men? They're pagan, aren't they?"
"No idea." Jack says. "The hankies and bells give me the creeps. But there's something to be said for men who're that good at co-ordination and handling large weapons when drunk."
Bobby looks at him. "Harkness, are you pondering that from the viewpoint of a military man or a louche invert?"
Jack smirks. "A man can't choose both?"
Bobby sighs and tucks a piece of hair back under her hat that came loose when she straightened it. "Knowing you, Harkness, you can never tell."
-----
As they stand on the platform, Jack checks the energy readings. Bobby peers over his shoulder.
Jack eyes her. "Someone's being nosey."
"Like you're one to talk," She says cheerfully, then nudges him. "Well, go on then. What does your fabulous wrist watch tell you? The time for once?"
He taps a couple of buttons, frowning. "Energy readings are off the scale for the wavelength we detected. The place reads as one giant life sign."
She snorts. "We knew that. What's odd about that?"
"The energy readings from *everything* are equally as strong. You don't expect the station clock to have any life sign, let alone the same strength and type as the station porter." Jack points out, then eyes the station porter, who's 70 if he's a day, creakily trundling someone's luggage up the platform. "Mind you, considering the state of him, maybe it's understandable."
Bobby smacks her hands together. "Well, that's certainly something to start with." She links her arm with his and picks up her case. "I suggest we get on with it sharpish, then. Coming?"
As they continue further into town, Bobby stops. And blinks. "Good lord, it's like they were going for the award for most verdant village in the county. Does Kew Gardens have a colonisation program?" The town is covered in greenery, with plants and trees everywhere - ivy growing over lintels, potted evergreens outside each door, every possible spare space festooned with some sort of plant.
"Could be worse." Jack says. "At least it's pretty. What I want to know about is those." He says, pointing at the large crossed iron circle on one of the building walls.
"Looks like a wall strengthener." Bobby says. "In some villages they use an 'S', in others it's an 'X'."
"I'm worried about your powers of observation, Bobby. It's on everything from lintels to bollards."
She shrugs. "It could be the local handiworkers' symbol. Have you ever been to Cornwall? The Duchy symbol is everywhere in some of the towns."
"I don't think brand advertising and civic pride go this far." Jack says, pointing his vortex manipulator at the one on the wall. Once again, the energy's no different from the surrounding area, or the plant life. The last time he saw proliferation of a symbol like this, it was in a village for a corporation's workers where everything down to their socks were branded. Not exactly common policy in the early twentieth century.
They get rooms at the White Horse. Bobby pushes his door open and leans up against the doorpost after dumping her bags in her room. "I think I'd describe it as charmingly rustic."
"Don't knock it, it's got electricity." Jack says, unpacking his spare shirts. "I went through most of the war without it."
Bobby rolls her eyes. "Yes, but this is civilisation." She narrows her eyes at the prints of shire horses on the walls. "Theoretically." She straightens up. "Come on, I think we need a drink to fortify ourselves after getting a good overview of the town and being spectacularly nosey."
"How much fortifying were you thinking of doing?" Jack asks, doing one last sweep of the room.
"I suggest several later after a tour about the place. We could encounter morris men, Harkness. And may have to steady our nerves."
They take a small trip around the town. And they do mean small. It takes less than an hour to go around the main part of the town. Aside from the sheer amount of greenery and the proliferation of the crossed iron circle on everything, it looks exactly like what it appears to be - a small country town. They haven't been out to any of the farms or outlying cottages, but they've covered most of it. Of course, they got clocked as strangers the minute they stepped out of the White Horse, but they weren't expecting any less in a town like this.
"It's marvellous being stared at so obviously," Bobby says cheerily. "Do you think we'd get glaring if I went starkers?"
"You'd probably get less." Jack says just as cheerily in reply. "I'm personally all for being adored as I deserve."
"I'll join you in that," Bobby says. "What do you think, Harkness, a perfect picture postcard for a small country towns?"
"First prize, I think."
"Which means I can't wait to find out what's so odd. Let's go digging. Stone circle or getting brushed off by the locals first?"
"I vote for getting some solid readings under our belt first to set us up for being brushed off by the locals."
"You mean you don't want to visit it when it looks rather romantic and mystical at sunset? Captain Harkness, you really don't know how to treat a girl."
"Honey, if I wanted to romance you I'd hand you a pair of grease-stained overalls and access to one of those new model Rolls."
Bobby' eyes go distant. "Or a Bentley. A Bentley would be very nice."
Jack puts his hands in his pockets, grinning. "I've seen some plans - I'd estimate it'll be a few years before we get a real beauty. '26, '27 maybe."
"Now you're just leading a girl on with things she can't have." She straightens her hat and gets a determined look in her eye. "Lay on, Macduff, we've got a piece of tourist bait to see. Which way's the nearest copper?"
"Why do we need one of those?" Jack asks.
"Darling, I know you're American, but I think you've lived long enough in Blighty to know that the local bobby is the first port of call for directions in such places. For a start, they're far less nosey and suspicious than shopkeepers and postmistresses."
The local bobby, it turns out, is in the middle of posting a letter. "Afternoon," He grins, giving off the impression of a nice country lad. "What can I do for you?"
Bobby smiles. "We're down for a nice break, and we decided to see what your lovely town had to offer. I heard you had a stone circle, and my cousin here just loves that kind of thing. Give him a bit of history and he's there. Could you tell us the directions to it?"
The policeman turns his gaze to Jack. "Can't say I fault your taste, it's a nice sight. Don't get too many visitors around here. Second street over, and follow the road down to the smithy. You really can't miss it - just use your ears. Then follow the track that takes you past it. It's about a mile after that. Hope you've got your walking boots on, miss." His eyes don't leave Jack, though.
"Oh, thank you, officer, you've been ever so helpful." Bobby says, and tugs on Jack's arm. "Come along, Jack."
Jack puts his hand out and smiles. "Thanks for your help, officer."
The policeman shakes his hand, grip warm and capable as you'd expect, and smiles back. "Pleasure to help."
They continue on their way, and Jack looks back to see the copper watching them go. Specifically, he's watching Jack. He catches Jack's gaze and grins again, tipping his helmet and starting off down the street. Jack turns his head to see Bobby giving him a look. "What?"
"Don't think I didn't notice you trying to corrupt him, Harkness." She says, swatting his arm.
"I can look, can't I?" Jack protests.
"Just leave some for the rest of us."
Jack pokes her in the arm. "I'd have thought he was too law-abiding for your type."
"I'm expanding my horizons."
As directed, they take the road that leads past the smithy. That quickly becomes a country lane that meanders through a field that has a couple of cows chewing contentedly over the far side. After about a mile and a half, they arrive at the stone circle, set in the middle of a field. The woods start a ways in the distance after that, the haze blurring them slightly. Standard placement for a worshipping point or monument in primitive settlements in Jack's experience. The townsfolk didn't want the gods and priests too close. You never know if they might go off, metaphorically or literally.
Bobby looks the stones up and down. They're well-tended and in far better condition than most stone circles you see - all of them in place and upright aside from the central altar stone. On top of that, the stones are covered in weather-worn carvings. Bobby kneels to look at the base of one of them, tracing the line of one down into the grass, carefully not touching it. Employment in Torchwood's taught her that if in doubt, you don't touch. "Jack, have you seen this? It's got traces of paint still on it. Campbell at the British Museum would give his eye-teeth to see this."
Jack grunts. "I'm not so concerned about the traces of paint as the traces of blood."
Bobby looks up sharply. "Blood?"
Jack nods. "There's traces of blood in the crevices of all the stones." He taps a couple of buttons on his wrist device to bring up a hologram. Bobby straightens, coming over to his side of the circle to see the light picture. Harkness rarely does it, but the little revolving solid light pictures are always worth a look.
"Ooo, pretty." She says admiringly.
"Down girl. Anyway, that's the stones. Now see what happens when I overlay the blood traces."
The yellow light is almost completely swallowed up by the red, with only a couple of specks of yellow left on the model.
Bobby stares. "Tell me that's animal."
"All human." Jack says grimly. "And it goes from Iron Age to last year."
"Oh dear lord. Do you think this is where the death records come from?"
"I'm thinking a distinct yes. Human sacrifice to feed the gods. Or make the sun come up. Your guess is as good as mine when it comes to religion."
"What else have we got aside from possible human sacrifice?"
"Well, the stones or what's under them don't appear to be the source of the energy, as we suspected originally. They're not emitting any more or less than our friend the station porter."
----
They retire to the tea shop to go over their readings and get some refreshment. Or as Bobby put it, "If I don't get some tea in me soon I'm not going to be responsible for the carnage, Harkness."
The waitress, a pleasant woman who is very clearly someone's mum, takes their order.
Bobby blows on her tea when she comes back with their order. "Looks like it's not just the men who have it."
Jack raises an eyebrow at her comment. "Go on."
"Either you were busy leching or you're testing me." Bobby says, glaring at him.
"I can't do both?" Jack asks, taking a forkful of cake and making a 'go on' gesture with his loaded fork.
"Knife scar here." She indicates a line with her fork on her forearm. "Thought it was a similar profession or hobby, but it was on every man we passed, and I'll bet your constable has it under his uniform. And if our waitress has it, that ups the chances that everyone has it."
"Anything else about the wound?"
"Knife is all I can tell. I know specific ones like mechanic's forearm or cook's elbow, but that's it."
"Pretty good." Jack notes. "The angle it's at says it's self-inflicted. Which screams initiation ritual. Since I don't see any militia around here, I'd say coming of age or cult, cult being most likely given that the place is known to be pagan. Didn't know that the English did obvious coming of age ceremonies, though."
"We don't, unless you count some of the frankly odd things you hear about in boys' public schools." Bobby replies.
After another slice of cake and a sausage roll, Jack pushes his notes back. "Wonderful as this data is, I think we're going to have to get a look at the records."
"Which means harassing that nice young copper, I presume." Bobby says dryly.
"Sadly, yes." Jack says.
"The chances of getting anything useful out of the local constabulary isn't very high in my experience." She warns, getting up and putting her coat on.
"Yes, but what he won't tell us should give us some very useful leads." Jack says, putting on his hat.
----
At the police station, the constable's standing there, sorting through some papers. "What can I do for you?" He asks, looking up as Jack and Bobby walk in the door.
"Constable Tom Harper?" Jack asks.
"That'd be me."
Bobby pokes Jack. "When did you get that information?"
Jack shrugs. "I made a call when you went to the loo."
"You could have told me." Bobby mutters.
"Just what you want in a mate." The constable comments. "What kind of thing were you after?"
"Disappearances and deaths. I'll take a wild stab at it, but I'm guessing that's connected with why the place feels weird and that the local constabulary knows something about it." Jack says, all business but with a pleasant edge. Nothing threatening.
"What concern's it of yours?"
Jack smiles smoothly. "We're investigating it on behalf of the Crown." He says, pulling out his ID.
Harper raises an eyebrow after studying it. "Hate to tell you, Captain Harkness, but all the forces the Crown can bring to bear won't do anything to the disappearances."
"Sounds like you know exactly what causes them."
"That we do, and you wouldn't understand."
"Are the deaths related to the blood covering the stone circle?"
"Don't tell me, we've been accused of being devil worshippers again?" The constable smiles slightly without the faintest hint of humour. "Sorry to disappoint the gossips that you were talking to, but anyone whose blood is shed on the stones has to be able to walk away. Heathen doesn't mean blood sacrifice."
"But it can mean control through blood.” Jack points out. “What about the weird feeling you get around here?"
Harper raises an eyebrow and make a notation on his paperwork. "What an imagination you have, Captain Harkness."
"And the deaths and disappearances this town has a long record of?"
"I can show you a record of every single one dating back to before Roman times, but you'd not understand why. Not if you lived to be a thousand."
Bobby blinks. "Every single one? But you can't have. The books wouldn't exist."
The constable shrugs. "This town has a long memory, and we recorded every single one. And transcribed and copied the books when they fell apart." He gives her a sympathetic look. "We've been living with this for a very long time, and are inclined to take it somewhat seriously since we're the buggers who have to live with it. You can go off and write your nice reports for your superiors, but we'll still be here, and still recording the deaths when you're long gone and dust."
Jack looks irritated. "When you say I won't believe it, I've been through wars, travelled the globe, and I'm not inexperienced in weird things dismissed as phantasms."
"No." Harper says firmly, straightening his papers and reaching for his helmet. "Was there other business? I've got patrol."
"Why the greenery and iron?" Bobby asks.
"We're pagan. It goes with it like the god-botherers go with churches. Which they keep trying to build and we keep firmly saying 'no thank you'. After a bit they leave us alone until the next idiot who won't listen comes in."
"And the energy our instruments are showing?"
"Wouldn't know, don't have your fancy instruments. For a wild stab in the dark, this place and everything in it's the Wild's."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Not my fault you don't have the keys to unlock the answer." He says, firmly ushering them out.
Bobby glares in his direction as he proceeds down the road. "I hate him. Really. Bastards who know far more than they're telling really get on my nerves."
Jack grins. "Time to feel sympathy with all the people who have to deal with Torchwood, huh?"
"Harkness, you know perfectly well you're on the top of that list. Now shut up."
They try the stone circle again, but the readings are identical. Jack lifts his hand to shade his eyes against the setting sun, looking at the woods. "How far do you think the energy readings extend?"
"Well, you could check the original readings."
"They're too vague. I'd like to check whether they start fading out or they're constant and then cut off."
"And you also want to find what's causing the creepy feeling. I say human paranoia. The greenery is just weird because it's outside our usual expectations." Bobby says dismissively.
"Human paranoia developed for a reason, Miss smarty-pants." Jack says, straightening his shoulders. "Come on, field trip. It's fresh air. It'll do you good."
Bobby glares. "There's a suspicious lack of car fumes out here. And back there are nice things like alcohol."
"Like you don't have your hip flask on you."
Bobby pouts. "That's the problem, I left it on the sideboard in the inn."
"You'll survive." He says, patting her shoulder and setting off for the tree line.
As he goes, he idly flicks through his database for anything pertaining to 'the Wild' 'wild energy' or something similar. "Ever heard of the Wild? Fairy stories or anything?"
"Jack, you're not that desperate."
"Hey, it could have a couple of strands of truth. The Torchwood Institute was founded after an attack of monastic werewolves on Queen Victoria. Just because the change was alien in origin didn't mean the tales didn't have truth in them. So, anything about wild stuff?"
"You're on your own there. My nanny believed on raising a girl on stories of pirates, not princesses. The bloodier and more terrible the better." She cranes her head. "What does the wristwatch of marvels have to say?"
"Not much. Associated with greenery and out of the way places. If you do find energy labelled 'wild', it's not harnessable."
"My word. Do you think that entry won the prize for common sense?"
"Resulting in lightning strikes or similar natural destructive phenomena directly targeting the person trying to harness it."
"And I'll bet it's all anecdotal. Come on, Jack, the faster we get there, the sooner we can find civilisation again. And by civilisation I mean the bar of the White Horse, preferably resembling mothers' ruin."
They're most of the way to the woods, with no sign of the energy fading, when they see three figures emerge from the edge of the trees. Bobby shades her eyes. "Do you think it's anyone we need to be concerned about?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." Jack shrugs.
When they pass them, close enough to see that one's carrying a sack over his shoulder, the men nod in acknowledgement. "Evening."
Bobby nods back. "Evening."
They're all of five yards past each other when the mist descends. Out of a clear sky. The men suddenly look terrified. "Oh, fuck." One swears.
"The town - we have to make it to the town. You too! You have to come now, and you have to run like buggery." The other says, darting back and grabbing Bobby and Jack's arms, pulling on them. "Now! We have to run for the town. I'm not bloody joking, miss, run now!"
Bobby shakes her arm to dislodge him, but his friend's come up and grabbed them as well, the both of them pulling hard enough to start towing Jack and her in the direction they want, the third shoving them from behind. "I'm sorry, but we don't have to come anywhere."
"Do you want to live? You don't have to understand, but you have to run for your bloody lives now!" They look really, really terrified. Jack's reminded of those times the Doctor used to yell 'Run!', but while that was common, the Doctor never looked this terrified.
"I think it'd be wise to follow their advice." Jack says, picking up his feet.
The mist is soon so thick that it's fog, and fog that's so thick that they can barely make out the shape of the town ahead. Out of the fog comes the noise of horses' hooves cantering up behind them, catching up, but the fog's distorting the noise. A laugh rings out through the fog. It's not a nice laugh. You could describe it as like a bell, only a bell that had cracked and become horribly distorted. It's the laugh Jack's heard on the mad. Specifically, the mad who have a taste for breaking things. The men with them pick up their pace.
No matter how fast they run, over distance, a horse will always outrun a human. They don't come from behind, either. Two of them swoop in from the side, cutting Jack and one of the locals out from their loose pack as though they were deer. The impression he gets of the riders is some cross between medieval and Pict, with a bit of Red Indian chucked in for good measure - feathers and war paint and rags, and their horses are foaming at the mouth, red-eyed and mad. One of them pulls a sword, leaning low to slash at his back. Jack feels the impact of the sword against his back - the flat, not the edge, they're trying to make him trip - and stumbles slightly, but keeps running. A quick glance backwards reveals his fellow runner's dropped behind. Jack's hit by some sort of projectile - from the way he has to adjust his balance, he'd say arrow. Arrows? In this day and age? The creeping stiffness around there indicates some sort of poison. There's another pass at his legs, and then another, and it knocks him flat on his front. He picks himself up, trying not to focus on the gradually getting smaller figures in front of him, shaking his head to clear his vision, which is refusing to go at the edges. Probably the poison. He's into a crouch when one of the riders rams straight into him, sending him flying. He doesn't get a chance to pick himself up this time, and the paralysis is spreading fast, so he only manages to raise his head in time to see the rider wheel their horse around and come back and - oh fuck. The pain, that time. The horse ran right over him, and he's just learnt that being trampled by a horse is not a fun experience. Another rider goes for it, and that was his kidneys and thigh bone.
Another pass, and then another, and as his guts are leaking onto the ground, he's aware of one of the riders coming to a stop beside him. "Oh, you're interesting. We haven't seen one of your kind in a very, very long time." The voice is oddly tonal, like bells, but contains that edge as though they're almost sharp and about to break. Jack's head lolls to one side, and though his vision's blurring, he can see the shape of his fellow runner slung over one of the horses. He's pretty sure the poor bastard's got worse waiting for him, or at least they've got plans for a body that doesn't appear to be mortally wounded. "You'd be such fun to play with, I dare say. Lucky for you we don't have time." With that, another horse rides over him, and Jack thanks any deities that might possibly be watching that he blacks out from the pain before he gets to feel his next organ being crushed beneath heavy hooves.
Jack wakes up to voices. One of them's Bobby's, which he hopes means she wasn't captured too. Her tone's a little placatory - the type you use to reassure civilians and tell them there was some funny smoke in the air and certainly not anything that might be out of the ordinary - which doesn't induce him to open his eyes to indicate he's alive. At least not until he's got absolute confirmation that it'll be vaguely okay.
"My partner was severely injured and they appear to have kidnapped the other man with him." Bobby says. From the tone, she's probably folding her arms and doing her best sceptical schoolmarm impression. Jack's always impressed at the results it gets, as it plays on some deep-seated guilt he never managed to acquire, having not grown up on Earth. "Yet you appear to be incredibly calm about this."
"There's not much we can do about it aside from record it, miss. Getting frantic won't help anyone." That's the very cute but very obstinate Constable Harper, sounding just as obstinate as the last time they saw him. "As for your partner, we've got some questions of our own."
"He was severely injured by those men on horses, do you think he's in any condition -"
"They're not men." Harper says in a tone that could freeze nitrogen, before continuing. "They don't leave their prey alive if they don't take it with them. There's no fun in just severely injuring something, they want to break it properly. His throat was a pulped mess not five minutes ago and now it looks like it's just scratched. I'm not inclined to trust that kind of thing." Jack gets a nudge in the side from someone's boot. "Open your eyes, man, I can see you breathing. Stop playing dead." Jack opens his eyes cautiously to see several of the townsfolk, including Constable Harper, with their guns trained on him. "You've got one minute to explain why you're waking up from the dead." Harper says flatly.
Bobby sighs. "Jack doesn't stay dead, if you must know. Much as we wish he might on occasion. They probably did kill him, he just comes back to life." She nudges him with her foot. "What happened, Harkness?"
Jack coughs, trying to speak around his now bruised larynx. It's better than crushed, at any rate. "Riders rode us down. Trampled me - they used arrows to deliver a paralytic to bring us down. Good to see you got away." It appears the paralytic they used was fairly short-lived. Don't really need a long-lasting one if you're intending to kill your subjects.
"And Greg?" one of the others asks, twitching his gun. Oddly, he doesn't look angry. More resigned.
"That his name? Last I saw, he was slung over a horse. I was most of the way to dead by then."
"Fuck. I was hoping he'd managed to evade them." Constable Harper says quietly. "Here's hoping we've got a photo of the poor sod for the records."
"Jenny Adams should have one."
"Now that we've found out what happened, perhaps we could set up a search party?" Bobby asks.
"If you can find a way to scour the whole of the Summer Country, miss, be my guest." Harper retorts. "Fae don't give up their toys just like that."
Jack carefully lifts his hand to check how his stomach's healing. Fortunately, his arm's healed enough to be able to do that and no-one tries to shoot him for moving. From the feel of it, his stomach's mostly healed. They haven't taken their guns off him yet, though. "I take it this is the source of the high disappearance and death figures."
"Could be." Harper shrugs.
"And this has been going on for hundreds of years?" Bobby demands. "That's how far the records I saw go back."
"Thousands." One of the others says non-committally.
"This is the modern era." Bobby says. not sounding impressed. "You could massacre them, they're only using bows and arrows. We could bring you heavier guns -"
"Guns didn't help us in India." Jack says. He sits up, gingerly. His ribs are still tender, and he can feel his liver piecing itself back together. "You say they're fae. Didn't look like little fairy lights."
"Same name for different things. " Constable Harper says. "What did you do to attract their attention?"
"My men killed a Chosen One. They killed us for it."
"Understandable." One of the others notes. "They like their toys."
"Does anything else come through?" Jack asks.
Harper gives him a look. "Like what?"
"Other creatures?" Bobby asks. "Planes?"
Everyone looks at her as though she's crazy. "Don't know what you'd expect, miss. Only things to come through are the fae and the occasional beast of theirs." Pause. "And the occasional poor mad bastard they've tired of, but they never last long."
"Report?" Ainsworth asks as they walk in, puffing on his pipe. They couldn't get any more out of the locals, and were firmly pointed in the direction of the train back to London. Unlike some other times, they weren't physically escorted, but the landlady at the White Horse made some very pointed comments about settling their bill in the morning after breakfast.
"Localised rift." Jack says. "Locals have it under control."
Ainsworth takes the pipe out of his mouth. "The deaths are 'under control'?"
"As best as we're going to get. I'd refer to my India report."
Ainsworth actually looks mildly perturbed at that. "The one involving the ...act of revenge?"
"Similar situation." Jack says. It took him a while to train himself not to react when passing a florists.
"Ah. Watts, anything?"
"We learnt absolutely nothing of use, the locals are bastards and I feel the urge to find my way to a large stiff one." She replies, hanging up her hat and coat and heading in the direction of the garage. Like any self-respecting Torchwood section, it contains a stash of alcohol. Numbing the senses is generally regarded as necessary on occasion in the institute.
Jack directs a sympathetic look at Ainsworth. "I'd file it under closed and put a large flag in the files to stay away from circle towns unless Torchwood wants to get in over their heads very, very quickly."
"Noted." Ainsworth says. “Send my regards to Cardiff.”
END
Author : Gunbunny
Fandom : Torchwood.
Pairing : none
Rating : No sex and very little violence. :sigh:
Summary : It's not just Cardiff that has regular disappearances that Torchwood's had to investigate over the years. This case took place in 1924.
Disclaimer : Not mine. Russell's and Chris's.
Feedback : I accept burnt offerings and alcohol.
Archive : http://burntcopper.com/fic , anywhere else feel free.
The case starts, as is common, with readings. Torchwood instruments regularly scan the isles the Institute is charged to defend for anything strange, or particularly strong. Some areas have their own dedicated scanners - Cardiff, for instance, with its rift that spits out marvels and horrors on a regular basis. Others merely have to wait until Torchwood gets round to them. Or gets equipment that's more capable of sifting and isolating readings, as is the case on this particular rainy day in spring, 1924.
Ainsworth frowns as the radar on the newest piece of equipment travels over that part of the country. "Interesting."
"What is it, old man?" Bobby Watts asks. She's a very modern girl - hair bobbed in the latest style, fascinated beyond all measure by engines and spends half her time installing new kit into the cars that Torchwood possesses. When she isn't on duty, she can regularly be found in the dance halls, dancing to the new music styles, the ones that blare out of her record player set up in the garage. "Radar acting up again?"
"Strong but constant pulse of eerie energy. It's a little like the rift but of a distinctly different frequency. This new instrument is certainly powerful. The trick is now to figure out whether the energy's harmful or not."
"Overlay it with a map, then, see where it is we're looking at." Ainsworth hits a couple of keys to bring up the corresponding Ordnance Survey map for the area the radar covers.
Watts leans forward and taps the screen. "Hazelmere. Does that ring any bells?"
Ainsworth leans back, rubbing his mouth. "Hazelmere? So it seems the circle towns really do have something about them. We hadn't been able to pick up any traces on previous equipment. And now we've got a solid gold reason to investigate."
"Circle towns? That's a new one on me." Watts says.
"Call Harkness in. This is definitely something he'd be useful for."
"Isn't he in Cardiff right now?"
"There are trains. Put a message through to the Hub, will you?"
Jack Harkness breezes in a few hours later, not a hair out of place, pulling off his gloves. "What can I do for you, Fred? Bobby, looking lovely as ever, I see."
"It's only been a month, Jack."
"A guy can't give a girl a compliment?" Jack grins. Bobby rolls her eyes.
"Settle down, Jack, we've got a new mission." Ainsworth says, putting up the projector. "Circle towns. They've been on Torchwood's radar for a long time, since they hold up large banners saying 'weird', and then proceed to prance around with bells on. They figure a lot in local legend, and there's a good few of them scattered throughout these isles. Towns and villages where the townsfolk have a reputation for being strange, wild, touched, that kind of thing. Every kind of story gets told about them, from 'sold their soul to the devil' onwards. As the name suggests, they've got a local stone circle. They have a recorded history of disappearances and violent deaths that goes back centuries, since records began. We've thought about investigation under the maxim that 'where there's smoke, there's fire', but there's nothing really been solid beyond rumours and coincidence. However, with the
technology newly at our disposal, it's also been discovered that energy readings are through the roof - they stick out like a sore thumb. Combine it with the disappearances and deaths..."
"...And you want me to check if there's really something going on, right?" Jack replies. "Strange, touched and wild. Sounds right up my street."
"Not just touched. They're pagan." Ainsworth adds, going through his notes.
"Pagan?" Bobby perks up, looking interested. "My word, and I thought that area of the country was boring aside from Jo-Jo Blenkins' parties. Are there naked spring rites?"
Ainsworth gives her a mildly reproving look. "The records just say pagan. Quite probably the Church of England variation of quiet worship, if they never attracted witchfinders. One of the local diocese documents lists them as 'resistant to the church but very polite about it'. Sorry to disappoint." He finishes shuffling his notes. "Anything to add, Harkness?"
"I know as much about it as her. All I ever heard about the circle towns was to avoid them like the plague. They emit some sort of energy that screws up signals and location finders."
----
Bobby folds her arms and huffs as the train leaves the station in a puff of smoke. "I don't see why we couldn't take the car."
Jack shrugs, folding over the paper and getting a pencil out in an attempt to make some sense of the crossword. No matter how much training he's had with clues and ciphers, the Times crossword defeats him every time. The Doctor used to hum happily as he did it over a cup of tea and a biscuit, declaring them a pleasant past time. Jack has promised himself he'll defeat it one day, and it's not like he can die trying. "Weird energy fluctuations might affect the engine when we need it most."
"You trust the train." She points out.
"The train has a track record of working in the area, the car doesn't. And I think old Harry just wanted to see you sulk." He taps the pencil against the paper. "Now be a good girl and read your engineering manual."
Bobby straightens her hat when they get off the train at Hazelmere station. "This looks so ... bucolic." She declares. "Do you think we can expect morris men? They're pagan, aren't they?"
"No idea." Jack says. "The hankies and bells give me the creeps. But there's something to be said for men who're that good at co-ordination and handling large weapons when drunk."
Bobby looks at him. "Harkness, are you pondering that from the viewpoint of a military man or a louche invert?"
Jack smirks. "A man can't choose both?"
Bobby sighs and tucks a piece of hair back under her hat that came loose when she straightened it. "Knowing you, Harkness, you can never tell."
-----
As they stand on the platform, Jack checks the energy readings. Bobby peers over his shoulder.
Jack eyes her. "Someone's being nosey."
"Like you're one to talk," She says cheerfully, then nudges him. "Well, go on then. What does your fabulous wrist watch tell you? The time for once?"
He taps a couple of buttons, frowning. "Energy readings are off the scale for the wavelength we detected. The place reads as one giant life sign."
She snorts. "We knew that. What's odd about that?"
"The energy readings from *everything* are equally as strong. You don't expect the station clock to have any life sign, let alone the same strength and type as the station porter." Jack points out, then eyes the station porter, who's 70 if he's a day, creakily trundling someone's luggage up the platform. "Mind you, considering the state of him, maybe it's understandable."
Bobby smacks her hands together. "Well, that's certainly something to start with." She links her arm with his and picks up her case. "I suggest we get on with it sharpish, then. Coming?"
As they continue further into town, Bobby stops. And blinks. "Good lord, it's like they were going for the award for most verdant village in the county. Does Kew Gardens have a colonisation program?" The town is covered in greenery, with plants and trees everywhere - ivy growing over lintels, potted evergreens outside each door, every possible spare space festooned with some sort of plant.
"Could be worse." Jack says. "At least it's pretty. What I want to know about is those." He says, pointing at the large crossed iron circle on one of the building walls.
"Looks like a wall strengthener." Bobby says. "In some villages they use an 'S', in others it's an 'X'."
"I'm worried about your powers of observation, Bobby. It's on everything from lintels to bollards."
She shrugs. "It could be the local handiworkers' symbol. Have you ever been to Cornwall? The Duchy symbol is everywhere in some of the towns."
"I don't think brand advertising and civic pride go this far." Jack says, pointing his vortex manipulator at the one on the wall. Once again, the energy's no different from the surrounding area, or the plant life. The last time he saw proliferation of a symbol like this, it was in a village for a corporation's workers where everything down to their socks were branded. Not exactly common policy in the early twentieth century.
They get rooms at the White Horse. Bobby pushes his door open and leans up against the doorpost after dumping her bags in her room. "I think I'd describe it as charmingly rustic."
"Don't knock it, it's got electricity." Jack says, unpacking his spare shirts. "I went through most of the war without it."
Bobby rolls her eyes. "Yes, but this is civilisation." She narrows her eyes at the prints of shire horses on the walls. "Theoretically." She straightens up. "Come on, I think we need a drink to fortify ourselves after getting a good overview of the town and being spectacularly nosey."
"How much fortifying were you thinking of doing?" Jack asks, doing one last sweep of the room.
"I suggest several later after a tour about the place. We could encounter morris men, Harkness. And may have to steady our nerves."
They take a small trip around the town. And they do mean small. It takes less than an hour to go around the main part of the town. Aside from the sheer amount of greenery and the proliferation of the crossed iron circle on everything, it looks exactly like what it appears to be - a small country town. They haven't been out to any of the farms or outlying cottages, but they've covered most of it. Of course, they got clocked as strangers the minute they stepped out of the White Horse, but they weren't expecting any less in a town like this.
"It's marvellous being stared at so obviously," Bobby says cheerily. "Do you think we'd get glaring if I went starkers?"
"You'd probably get less." Jack says just as cheerily in reply. "I'm personally all for being adored as I deserve."
"I'll join you in that," Bobby says. "What do you think, Harkness, a perfect picture postcard for a small country towns?"
"First prize, I think."
"Which means I can't wait to find out what's so odd. Let's go digging. Stone circle or getting brushed off by the locals first?"
"I vote for getting some solid readings under our belt first to set us up for being brushed off by the locals."
"You mean you don't want to visit it when it looks rather romantic and mystical at sunset? Captain Harkness, you really don't know how to treat a girl."
"Honey, if I wanted to romance you I'd hand you a pair of grease-stained overalls and access to one of those new model Rolls."
Bobby' eyes go distant. "Or a Bentley. A Bentley would be very nice."
Jack puts his hands in his pockets, grinning. "I've seen some plans - I'd estimate it'll be a few years before we get a real beauty. '26, '27 maybe."
"Now you're just leading a girl on with things she can't have." She straightens her hat and gets a determined look in her eye. "Lay on, Macduff, we've got a piece of tourist bait to see. Which way's the nearest copper?"
"Why do we need one of those?" Jack asks.
"Darling, I know you're American, but I think you've lived long enough in Blighty to know that the local bobby is the first port of call for directions in such places. For a start, they're far less nosey and suspicious than shopkeepers and postmistresses."
The local bobby, it turns out, is in the middle of posting a letter. "Afternoon," He grins, giving off the impression of a nice country lad. "What can I do for you?"
Bobby smiles. "We're down for a nice break, and we decided to see what your lovely town had to offer. I heard you had a stone circle, and my cousin here just loves that kind of thing. Give him a bit of history and he's there. Could you tell us the directions to it?"
The policeman turns his gaze to Jack. "Can't say I fault your taste, it's a nice sight. Don't get too many visitors around here. Second street over, and follow the road down to the smithy. You really can't miss it - just use your ears. Then follow the track that takes you past it. It's about a mile after that. Hope you've got your walking boots on, miss." His eyes don't leave Jack, though.
"Oh, thank you, officer, you've been ever so helpful." Bobby says, and tugs on Jack's arm. "Come along, Jack."
Jack puts his hand out and smiles. "Thanks for your help, officer."
The policeman shakes his hand, grip warm and capable as you'd expect, and smiles back. "Pleasure to help."
They continue on their way, and Jack looks back to see the copper watching them go. Specifically, he's watching Jack. He catches Jack's gaze and grins again, tipping his helmet and starting off down the street. Jack turns his head to see Bobby giving him a look. "What?"
"Don't think I didn't notice you trying to corrupt him, Harkness." She says, swatting his arm.
"I can look, can't I?" Jack protests.
"Just leave some for the rest of us."
Jack pokes her in the arm. "I'd have thought he was too law-abiding for your type."
"I'm expanding my horizons."
As directed, they take the road that leads past the smithy. That quickly becomes a country lane that meanders through a field that has a couple of cows chewing contentedly over the far side. After about a mile and a half, they arrive at the stone circle, set in the middle of a field. The woods start a ways in the distance after that, the haze blurring them slightly. Standard placement for a worshipping point or monument in primitive settlements in Jack's experience. The townsfolk didn't want the gods and priests too close. You never know if they might go off, metaphorically or literally.
Bobby looks the stones up and down. They're well-tended and in far better condition than most stone circles you see - all of them in place and upright aside from the central altar stone. On top of that, the stones are covered in weather-worn carvings. Bobby kneels to look at the base of one of them, tracing the line of one down into the grass, carefully not touching it. Employment in Torchwood's taught her that if in doubt, you don't touch. "Jack, have you seen this? It's got traces of paint still on it. Campbell at the British Museum would give his eye-teeth to see this."
Jack grunts. "I'm not so concerned about the traces of paint as the traces of blood."
Bobby looks up sharply. "Blood?"
Jack nods. "There's traces of blood in the crevices of all the stones." He taps a couple of buttons on his wrist device to bring up a hologram. Bobby straightens, coming over to his side of the circle to see the light picture. Harkness rarely does it, but the little revolving solid light pictures are always worth a look.
"Ooo, pretty." She says admiringly.
"Down girl. Anyway, that's the stones. Now see what happens when I overlay the blood traces."
The yellow light is almost completely swallowed up by the red, with only a couple of specks of yellow left on the model.
Bobby stares. "Tell me that's animal."
"All human." Jack says grimly. "And it goes from Iron Age to last year."
"Oh dear lord. Do you think this is where the death records come from?"
"I'm thinking a distinct yes. Human sacrifice to feed the gods. Or make the sun come up. Your guess is as good as mine when it comes to religion."
"What else have we got aside from possible human sacrifice?"
"Well, the stones or what's under them don't appear to be the source of the energy, as we suspected originally. They're not emitting any more or less than our friend the station porter."
----
They retire to the tea shop to go over their readings and get some refreshment. Or as Bobby put it, "If I don't get some tea in me soon I'm not going to be responsible for the carnage, Harkness."
The waitress, a pleasant woman who is very clearly someone's mum, takes their order.
Bobby blows on her tea when she comes back with their order. "Looks like it's not just the men who have it."
Jack raises an eyebrow at her comment. "Go on."
"Either you were busy leching or you're testing me." Bobby says, glaring at him.
"I can't do both?" Jack asks, taking a forkful of cake and making a 'go on' gesture with his loaded fork.
"Knife scar here." She indicates a line with her fork on her forearm. "Thought it was a similar profession or hobby, but it was on every man we passed, and I'll bet your constable has it under his uniform. And if our waitress has it, that ups the chances that everyone has it."
"Anything else about the wound?"
"Knife is all I can tell. I know specific ones like mechanic's forearm or cook's elbow, but that's it."
"Pretty good." Jack notes. "The angle it's at says it's self-inflicted. Which screams initiation ritual. Since I don't see any militia around here, I'd say coming of age or cult, cult being most likely given that the place is known to be pagan. Didn't know that the English did obvious coming of age ceremonies, though."
"We don't, unless you count some of the frankly odd things you hear about in boys' public schools." Bobby replies.
After another slice of cake and a sausage roll, Jack pushes his notes back. "Wonderful as this data is, I think we're going to have to get a look at the records."
"Which means harassing that nice young copper, I presume." Bobby says dryly.
"Sadly, yes." Jack says.
"The chances of getting anything useful out of the local constabulary isn't very high in my experience." She warns, getting up and putting her coat on.
"Yes, but what he won't tell us should give us some very useful leads." Jack says, putting on his hat.
----
At the police station, the constable's standing there, sorting through some papers. "What can I do for you?" He asks, looking up as Jack and Bobby walk in the door.
"Constable Tom Harper?" Jack asks.
"That'd be me."
Bobby pokes Jack. "When did you get that information?"
Jack shrugs. "I made a call when you went to the loo."
"You could have told me." Bobby mutters.
"Just what you want in a mate." The constable comments. "What kind of thing were you after?"
"Disappearances and deaths. I'll take a wild stab at it, but I'm guessing that's connected with why the place feels weird and that the local constabulary knows something about it." Jack says, all business but with a pleasant edge. Nothing threatening.
"What concern's it of yours?"
Jack smiles smoothly. "We're investigating it on behalf of the Crown." He says, pulling out his ID.
Harper raises an eyebrow after studying it. "Hate to tell you, Captain Harkness, but all the forces the Crown can bring to bear won't do anything to the disappearances."
"Sounds like you know exactly what causes them."
"That we do, and you wouldn't understand."
"Are the deaths related to the blood covering the stone circle?"
"Don't tell me, we've been accused of being devil worshippers again?" The constable smiles slightly without the faintest hint of humour. "Sorry to disappoint the gossips that you were talking to, but anyone whose blood is shed on the stones has to be able to walk away. Heathen doesn't mean blood sacrifice."
"But it can mean control through blood.” Jack points out. “What about the weird feeling you get around here?"
Harper raises an eyebrow and make a notation on his paperwork. "What an imagination you have, Captain Harkness."
"And the deaths and disappearances this town has a long record of?"
"I can show you a record of every single one dating back to before Roman times, but you'd not understand why. Not if you lived to be a thousand."
Bobby blinks. "Every single one? But you can't have. The books wouldn't exist."
The constable shrugs. "This town has a long memory, and we recorded every single one. And transcribed and copied the books when they fell apart." He gives her a sympathetic look. "We've been living with this for a very long time, and are inclined to take it somewhat seriously since we're the buggers who have to live with it. You can go off and write your nice reports for your superiors, but we'll still be here, and still recording the deaths when you're long gone and dust."
Jack looks irritated. "When you say I won't believe it, I've been through wars, travelled the globe, and I'm not inexperienced in weird things dismissed as phantasms."
"No." Harper says firmly, straightening his papers and reaching for his helmet. "Was there other business? I've got patrol."
"Why the greenery and iron?" Bobby asks.
"We're pagan. It goes with it like the god-botherers go with churches. Which they keep trying to build and we keep firmly saying 'no thank you'. After a bit they leave us alone until the next idiot who won't listen comes in."
"And the energy our instruments are showing?"
"Wouldn't know, don't have your fancy instruments. For a wild stab in the dark, this place and everything in it's the Wild's."
"Care to elaborate?"
"Not my fault you don't have the keys to unlock the answer." He says, firmly ushering them out.
Bobby glares in his direction as he proceeds down the road. "I hate him. Really. Bastards who know far more than they're telling really get on my nerves."
Jack grins. "Time to feel sympathy with all the people who have to deal with Torchwood, huh?"
"Harkness, you know perfectly well you're on the top of that list. Now shut up."
They try the stone circle again, but the readings are identical. Jack lifts his hand to shade his eyes against the setting sun, looking at the woods. "How far do you think the energy readings extend?"
"Well, you could check the original readings."
"They're too vague. I'd like to check whether they start fading out or they're constant and then cut off."
"And you also want to find what's causing the creepy feeling. I say human paranoia. The greenery is just weird because it's outside our usual expectations." Bobby says dismissively.
"Human paranoia developed for a reason, Miss smarty-pants." Jack says, straightening his shoulders. "Come on, field trip. It's fresh air. It'll do you good."
Bobby glares. "There's a suspicious lack of car fumes out here. And back there are nice things like alcohol."
"Like you don't have your hip flask on you."
Bobby pouts. "That's the problem, I left it on the sideboard in the inn."
"You'll survive." He says, patting her shoulder and setting off for the tree line.
As he goes, he idly flicks through his database for anything pertaining to 'the Wild' 'wild energy' or something similar. "Ever heard of the Wild? Fairy stories or anything?"
"Jack, you're not that desperate."
"Hey, it could have a couple of strands of truth. The Torchwood Institute was founded after an attack of monastic werewolves on Queen Victoria. Just because the change was alien in origin didn't mean the tales didn't have truth in them. So, anything about wild stuff?"
"You're on your own there. My nanny believed on raising a girl on stories of pirates, not princesses. The bloodier and more terrible the better." She cranes her head. "What does the wristwatch of marvels have to say?"
"Not much. Associated with greenery and out of the way places. If you do find energy labelled 'wild', it's not harnessable."
"My word. Do you think that entry won the prize for common sense?"
"Resulting in lightning strikes or similar natural destructive phenomena directly targeting the person trying to harness it."
"And I'll bet it's all anecdotal. Come on, Jack, the faster we get there, the sooner we can find civilisation again. And by civilisation I mean the bar of the White Horse, preferably resembling mothers' ruin."
They're most of the way to the woods, with no sign of the energy fading, when they see three figures emerge from the edge of the trees. Bobby shades her eyes. "Do you think it's anyone we need to be concerned about?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." Jack shrugs.
When they pass them, close enough to see that one's carrying a sack over his shoulder, the men nod in acknowledgement. "Evening."
Bobby nods back. "Evening."
They're all of five yards past each other when the mist descends. Out of a clear sky. The men suddenly look terrified. "Oh, fuck." One swears.
"The town - we have to make it to the town. You too! You have to come now, and you have to run like buggery." The other says, darting back and grabbing Bobby and Jack's arms, pulling on them. "Now! We have to run for the town. I'm not bloody joking, miss, run now!"
Bobby shakes her arm to dislodge him, but his friend's come up and grabbed them as well, the both of them pulling hard enough to start towing Jack and her in the direction they want, the third shoving them from behind. "I'm sorry, but we don't have to come anywhere."
"Do you want to live? You don't have to understand, but you have to run for your bloody lives now!" They look really, really terrified. Jack's reminded of those times the Doctor used to yell 'Run!', but while that was common, the Doctor never looked this terrified.
"I think it'd be wise to follow their advice." Jack says, picking up his feet.
The mist is soon so thick that it's fog, and fog that's so thick that they can barely make out the shape of the town ahead. Out of the fog comes the noise of horses' hooves cantering up behind them, catching up, but the fog's distorting the noise. A laugh rings out through the fog. It's not a nice laugh. You could describe it as like a bell, only a bell that had cracked and become horribly distorted. It's the laugh Jack's heard on the mad. Specifically, the mad who have a taste for breaking things. The men with them pick up their pace.
No matter how fast they run, over distance, a horse will always outrun a human. They don't come from behind, either. Two of them swoop in from the side, cutting Jack and one of the locals out from their loose pack as though they were deer. The impression he gets of the riders is some cross between medieval and Pict, with a bit of Red Indian chucked in for good measure - feathers and war paint and rags, and their horses are foaming at the mouth, red-eyed and mad. One of them pulls a sword, leaning low to slash at his back. Jack feels the impact of the sword against his back - the flat, not the edge, they're trying to make him trip - and stumbles slightly, but keeps running. A quick glance backwards reveals his fellow runner's dropped behind. Jack's hit by some sort of projectile - from the way he has to adjust his balance, he'd say arrow. Arrows? In this day and age? The creeping stiffness around there indicates some sort of poison. There's another pass at his legs, and then another, and it knocks him flat on his front. He picks himself up, trying not to focus on the gradually getting smaller figures in front of him, shaking his head to clear his vision, which is refusing to go at the edges. Probably the poison. He's into a crouch when one of the riders rams straight into him, sending him flying. He doesn't get a chance to pick himself up this time, and the paralysis is spreading fast, so he only manages to raise his head in time to see the rider wheel their horse around and come back and - oh fuck. The pain, that time. The horse ran right over him, and he's just learnt that being trampled by a horse is not a fun experience. Another rider goes for it, and that was his kidneys and thigh bone.
Another pass, and then another, and as his guts are leaking onto the ground, he's aware of one of the riders coming to a stop beside him. "Oh, you're interesting. We haven't seen one of your kind in a very, very long time." The voice is oddly tonal, like bells, but contains that edge as though they're almost sharp and about to break. Jack's head lolls to one side, and though his vision's blurring, he can see the shape of his fellow runner slung over one of the horses. He's pretty sure the poor bastard's got worse waiting for him, or at least they've got plans for a body that doesn't appear to be mortally wounded. "You'd be such fun to play with, I dare say. Lucky for you we don't have time." With that, another horse rides over him, and Jack thanks any deities that might possibly be watching that he blacks out from the pain before he gets to feel his next organ being crushed beneath heavy hooves.
Jack wakes up to voices. One of them's Bobby's, which he hopes means she wasn't captured too. Her tone's a little placatory - the type you use to reassure civilians and tell them there was some funny smoke in the air and certainly not anything that might be out of the ordinary - which doesn't induce him to open his eyes to indicate he's alive. At least not until he's got absolute confirmation that it'll be vaguely okay.
"My partner was severely injured and they appear to have kidnapped the other man with him." Bobby says. From the tone, she's probably folding her arms and doing her best sceptical schoolmarm impression. Jack's always impressed at the results it gets, as it plays on some deep-seated guilt he never managed to acquire, having not grown up on Earth. "Yet you appear to be incredibly calm about this."
"There's not much we can do about it aside from record it, miss. Getting frantic won't help anyone." That's the very cute but very obstinate Constable Harper, sounding just as obstinate as the last time they saw him. "As for your partner, we've got some questions of our own."
"He was severely injured by those men on horses, do you think he's in any condition -"
"They're not men." Harper says in a tone that could freeze nitrogen, before continuing. "They don't leave their prey alive if they don't take it with them. There's no fun in just severely injuring something, they want to break it properly. His throat was a pulped mess not five minutes ago and now it looks like it's just scratched. I'm not inclined to trust that kind of thing." Jack gets a nudge in the side from someone's boot. "Open your eyes, man, I can see you breathing. Stop playing dead." Jack opens his eyes cautiously to see several of the townsfolk, including Constable Harper, with their guns trained on him. "You've got one minute to explain why you're waking up from the dead." Harper says flatly.
Bobby sighs. "Jack doesn't stay dead, if you must know. Much as we wish he might on occasion. They probably did kill him, he just comes back to life." She nudges him with her foot. "What happened, Harkness?"
Jack coughs, trying to speak around his now bruised larynx. It's better than crushed, at any rate. "Riders rode us down. Trampled me - they used arrows to deliver a paralytic to bring us down. Good to see you got away." It appears the paralytic they used was fairly short-lived. Don't really need a long-lasting one if you're intending to kill your subjects.
"And Greg?" one of the others asks, twitching his gun. Oddly, he doesn't look angry. More resigned.
"That his name? Last I saw, he was slung over a horse. I was most of the way to dead by then."
"Fuck. I was hoping he'd managed to evade them." Constable Harper says quietly. "Here's hoping we've got a photo of the poor sod for the records."
"Jenny Adams should have one."
"Now that we've found out what happened, perhaps we could set up a search party?" Bobby asks.
"If you can find a way to scour the whole of the Summer Country, miss, be my guest." Harper retorts. "Fae don't give up their toys just like that."
Jack carefully lifts his hand to check how his stomach's healing. Fortunately, his arm's healed enough to be able to do that and no-one tries to shoot him for moving. From the feel of it, his stomach's mostly healed. They haven't taken their guns off him yet, though. "I take it this is the source of the high disappearance and death figures."
"Could be." Harper shrugs.
"And this has been going on for hundreds of years?" Bobby demands. "That's how far the records I saw go back."
"Thousands." One of the others says non-committally.
"This is the modern era." Bobby says. not sounding impressed. "You could massacre them, they're only using bows and arrows. We could bring you heavier guns -"
"Guns didn't help us in India." Jack says. He sits up, gingerly. His ribs are still tender, and he can feel his liver piecing itself back together. "You say they're fae. Didn't look like little fairy lights."
"Same name for different things. " Constable Harper says. "What did you do to attract their attention?"
"My men killed a Chosen One. They killed us for it."
"Understandable." One of the others notes. "They like their toys."
"Does anything else come through?" Jack asks.
Harper gives him a look. "Like what?"
"Other creatures?" Bobby asks. "Planes?"
Everyone looks at her as though she's crazy. "Don't know what you'd expect, miss. Only things to come through are the fae and the occasional beast of theirs." Pause. "And the occasional poor mad bastard they've tired of, but they never last long."
"Report?" Ainsworth asks as they walk in, puffing on his pipe. They couldn't get any more out of the locals, and were firmly pointed in the direction of the train back to London. Unlike some other times, they weren't physically escorted, but the landlady at the White Horse made some very pointed comments about settling their bill in the morning after breakfast.
"Localised rift." Jack says. "Locals have it under control."
Ainsworth takes the pipe out of his mouth. "The deaths are 'under control'?"
"As best as we're going to get. I'd refer to my India report."
Ainsworth actually looks mildly perturbed at that. "The one involving the ...act of revenge?"
"Similar situation." Jack says. It took him a while to train himself not to react when passing a florists.
"Ah. Watts, anything?"
"We learnt absolutely nothing of use, the locals are bastards and I feel the urge to find my way to a large stiff one." She replies, hanging up her hat and coat and heading in the direction of the garage. Like any self-respecting Torchwood section, it contains a stash of alcohol. Numbing the senses is generally regarded as necessary on occasion in the institute.
Jack directs a sympathetic look at Ainsworth. "I'd file it under closed and put a large flag in the files to stay away from circle towns unless Torchwood wants to get in over their heads very, very quickly."
"Noted." Ainsworth says. “Send my regards to Cardiff.”
END