we are the hollow men, we are the stuffed men -- closed, end narrative
Is it like this in death's other kingdom? Waking alone at the hour when we are trembling with tenderness, lips that would kiss form prayers to broken stone.
Three hundred and sixty-five nightmare days have culminated in this: the day the rockets launch, the end of the world. Eliot had no idea. The human race sees its first day of idleness since this all began, maybe since the beginning of time. We may not be the most superior race in the universe, but we must be the most resilient. Even though the face of the earth is nearly unrecognizable, life continues. People still love, still hate-- though most of us are now, for the first time ever, joined in a single, solitary hatred: for the Time Lord known as the Master.
This version of the end of the world is not so big. It involves but one man and his dog.
I'm not the only one left, but close enough to it. Torchwood was betrayed to the Master six months ago, betrayed by Dafydd Jones-- my own brother. He was trying to protect his wife and children, and despite knowing better, I trusted him out of my own selfishness, in the hope that perhaps I'd be able to rescue Jack. I know now there's no salvation left to be found here, but there was enough idealism-- or simple ignorance-- left in me at the time that I thought we could make a difference.
Dafydd came to us, carrying the virus that would kill ninety-five percent of our ranks. He died first, followed by our sister, who'd relentlessly cared for him after he fell mysteriously ill. It didn't take Owen long to figure out what had happened. He tried to find a cure, to develop an inoculation; in the end, the only real treatment was morphine, the only cure a bullet to the brain. Gwen was taken in the first flood; Owen and I were among the last to become infected. By that time, so many were dying that there were hardly any left to dispose of the dead. We continued on until we began to drop-- Owen succumbed to death thirty-six hours before my fever broke.
I was the most bitter survivor of twenty-four, all told, who made it out. We had to abandon the river installation, once we could be sure we wouldn't spread the infection to the surface, but we couldn't integrate ourselves into the population-- we would not fall under the Time Lord's control. Even at that, our nadir, we made a conscious decision to refuse, resist. We became like ghosts, drifting from place to place, spreading the story Martha Jones had told us at the beginning, just as things started to go so horribly wrong. The tale of the Doctor-- I don't believe it. I have no room left for hope, for faith, God, or anything else. We're hollow now, the lot of us.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but a whimper--
I'll wait, eyes turned to watch the rockets ascend, and hope that Jack was right:
In the end, there's nothing but the dark.
*
There is no darkness, but a sudden disorienting spin. Ianto wonders if this is the end, just before it all stops-- and he finds himself standing in the Torchwood command center, surrounded by people he remembers watching die only months before. The television screens in front of them have just turned into a media frenzy-- the broadcast from aboard the Valiant has been cut, and frantic reporters are telling the death of Arthur Coleman Winters in half a dozen different languages.
A ripple of surprise has run through the assembled crowd. Ianto looks around himself, watching as the confusion begins to dawn on their faces, the memories of the year that suddenly never was returning to fill their minds. His own head feels heavy, too full with things he experienced; does this mean it doesn't matter anymore? He doesn't have time to think about it. His people are scrambling around-- he turns and begins to bark out orders to the personnel. A field team will mobilize, they need to make contact with the UNIT members aboard the airship, the Valiant will have to be landed and boarded, Harold Saxon taken into custody.
Ianto takes a moment to hug his sister, alive and whole; to spin Moira around for an unexpected and joyous kiss on the cheek; to clap Owen on the back even though the doctor seems to still be dealing with his confusion. They'll all have to be taken care of, eventually-- but what matters now is that it's over. They're alive. He will, against all hope, get to see Jack again-- and he'll do it right, this time.
And he swears, as long as he's a part of Torchwood, this won't happen again.