Guuuys~
So I'm poking around in my writing folder (well, writing, scraps, ideas, notes and generalised word explosions folder) and I've just found a whole Torchwood ficlet that I'd totally forgotten writing (if anyone's interested, it's the original, long-prose version of Stop Watch that clocked in over the character limit and was consequently axed into a completely different shape and style. There are some points of similarity still) as well as the even smaller ficlet snippet that appears to be the start of a Jack-centric Torchwood ficlet that I might've started writing immediately after seeing Utopia and squealing like a big, big girl for several hours.
Who knows?! I certainly don't, because I'd managed to lose the thing so thoroughly that it missed being included on the WsIP meme a while back. Awww. That makes unfinished 'fic sad.
Maybe someone could give me a hint as to where I seemed to want to go with this one? Apart from, y'know, beating on Jack with the woobie stick until everyone's mightily tired of it. Also, I've just noticed, ignore the honking great big bit of wrongness about Jack not remembering his childhood, because Last of the Time Lords obviously put paid to that with that totally left field, thanks Mr RTD revelation about *mouths* you know who.
"Destination"
If you can see where you came from, you can remember what you wanted.
Someone told Jack that once, although he can’t remember who, now. A philosopher, maybe? Socrates, Homer, the Thiddlethwrip of Episilon Seven… to be honest, they all blur together in the patchy mess that makes up Jack’s memory. Add or subtract a few limbs and a suitably daft looking toga and, nine times out of ten, you’re there.
Where he came from. That’s the one thing, actually, that Jack can’t say. Not because of any great conspiracy (at least not one that he was a willing part of) or because of some secrecy documents he was obliged to sign lifetimes ago, but because he doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember a thing about his origins, does the Captain.
It’s another black mark against the Time Agency. One day, he’s going to find out where they stored the memories and childhood and the two whole years that they stole from him and he’s going to get them back. And then Captain Jack is going to take steps against those that performed the stealing because while he may be a conman and a rogue agent and any five of the hundred other things that are listed on the intergalactic warrants for his arrest, he knows what he wants.
He wants his life back.
He wants his life to end.
“What, pray tell, vagabond, are you doing in my carriage?”
He wants to know why the hell he’s suddenly sitting in a Regency carriage, opposite an offended looking woman dressed in an elaborate gown that’s taking up two thirds of the room.
A faint wisp of smoke curls up from the vicinity of Jack’s left wrist and he stifles a heartfelt curse, before gamely smiling at the offended looking woman.
The first rule of getting what you want is to find out where you are.
Who knows?! I certainly don't, because I'd managed to lose the thing so thoroughly that it missed being included on the WsIP meme a while back. Awww. That makes unfinished 'fic sad.
Maybe someone could give me a hint as to where I seemed to want to go with this one? Apart from, y'know, beating on Jack with the woobie stick until everyone's mightily tired of it. Also, I've just noticed, ignore the honking great big bit of wrongness about Jack not remembering his childhood, because Last of the Time Lords obviously put paid to that with that totally left field, thanks Mr RTD revelation about *mouths* you know who.
"Destination"
If you can see where you came from, you can remember what you wanted.
Someone told Jack that once, although he can’t remember who, now. A philosopher, maybe? Socrates, Homer, the Thiddlethwrip of Episilon Seven… to be honest, they all blur together in the patchy mess that makes up Jack’s memory. Add or subtract a few limbs and a suitably daft looking toga and, nine times out of ten, you’re there.
Where he came from. That’s the one thing, actually, that Jack can’t say. Not because of any great conspiracy (at least not one that he was a willing part of) or because of some secrecy documents he was obliged to sign lifetimes ago, but because he doesn’t know. Doesn’t remember a thing about his origins, does the Captain.
It’s another black mark against the Time Agency. One day, he’s going to find out where they stored the memories and childhood and the two whole years that they stole from him and he’s going to get them back. And then Captain Jack is going to take steps against those that performed the stealing because while he may be a conman and a rogue agent and any five of the hundred other things that are listed on the intergalactic warrants for his arrest, he knows what he wants.
He wants his life back.
He wants his life to end.
“What, pray tell, vagabond, are you doing in my carriage?”
He wants to know why the hell he’s suddenly sitting in a Regency carriage, opposite an offended looking woman dressed in an elaborate gown that’s taking up two thirds of the room.
A faint wisp of smoke curls up from the vicinity of Jack’s left wrist and he stifles a heartfelt curse, before gamely smiling at the offended looking woman.
The first rule of getting what you want is to find out where you are.