For theatrical_muse #293 Talk About A News Item
Timeline: 3 days post the defeat of the Four-Five-Six
The sound of plates clattering against plates and the metallic clang of cutlery mixed with the voices and the distant hum of a song on the radio that provided a white noise soundtrack to the room around him. Two tables away a mother struggled to keep her children under control as they ran in circles around the room. The sound of a baby crying rose above the noise, an occasional wailing scream adding a beat to the activity in the room. Things were back to normal. The world carried on.
Jack turned his head and looked out of the window. The rain outside hit against the glass and the droplets against it were out of focus as he looked beyond them. The place felt like nothing, as though it was nowhere; separate to everywhere and disconnected from the world around it. That in part, was why he liked it. Just a faceless stop on the side of a motorway where the only defining factor was the extortionate amount you’d pay for a half cold and insipid cup of coffee.
In front of him Jack’s plate was cold and barely touched; the limited heat from his mug felt numb against his hand. The food had no flavour. The world had lost its colour.
Just three days ago families were running scared, terrified as their children were bungled off in coaches from their schools. The army - the people they’d been told to trust - tearing families apart in their homes. But here they were, laughing, smiling, arguing... carrying on.
“The Human Condition,” Jack imagined the Doctor might say with an appreciative grin. It was that ability to go on, no matter what.
He looked away from the window as the rain fell harder and echoed as it hit against the corrugated plastic of the roof. A building that he was sure could have never been made to last, but somehow did. At the next table he noticed a group of people deep in conversation. One woman sat with another and gesticulated wildly while the other gazed into her open copy of the days The Sun newspaper.
The odd word or two trickled over towards him; disconnected parts of a conversation that fought to be heard over the noise of the room. There were names and statements, the odd unfounded accusation with all the authority of a single mother. But then it dawned on him. They were talking about the children. They were talking about Frobisher.
“Well it had to be him, didn’t it! Right bastard, killing his poor family like that. Unhinged, that’s what he was. Better off dead, I tell you. God knows what he’d have done to our kids. You know they took our Ben, don’t you?”
The words continued but Jack tuned out. It could be so painful, the truth that people would construct. Frobisher made mistakes but then so did every one. Jack could relate. Frobisher was a man who was put in a situation where he was left with no choice. He did what he had to do, just as Jack did.
“And who the hell does he think he is anyway? Some jumped up nobody. Civil service, what do they even do? Conspiracy, Bev, that’s what it is. Beggars belief it does, what some people will lower themselves to. And he was having it off with some young thing in his office too. Bastard.”
The rumour mill had started already; headlines in newspapers that defamed his character, which painted him as a monster. It was all so impossibly easy. The public might not trust the government but they trust their media. They get told something in a red top and within hours it’s part of the public consciousness, part of the universally believed truth, even though nine times out of ten it’s cooked up by someone in an office, sitting behind a desk.
It was always this way though, wasn’t it? He thought; always some hidden higher power telling the public what to believe. In times gone he’d done it himself. Mask a report of an alien appearance with a fabricated story. And people believed it. They always did. People believed what they were told to believe, even if they’d argue until they’re blue in the face that they wouldn’t. The voice of one became the masses. Nothing really changed, just the message was different.
In the back of his head there was still a part of Jack that wanted to fight against it. That tiny tickling urge that told him to get up and walk over and tell the women they were wrong. He wanted to rip the newspapers up and shout just to end the cycle. But it wouldn’t, he knew that really. The newsreaders behind their desk would still tell the same stories. The respectable people that the public believe will continue to tell them of the evil in the world and that they’re safe now. He knew too that there was no real reason to shatter that illusion. It would only cause unrest and fear and Jack had had his fill of that.
So the public would turn to their heroes, the ones between the printed pages and on the ticker tapes of BBC News. They’d never know the truth, and never know the true people that sacrificed so much to keep them alive, to keep humanity safe; the people that sacrificed their lives every day and would never be known about. They were the people that could never be known about. And that’s the way it’d always be. It would be up to Jack to remember them.
The din of the chatter around Jack became all too suddenly overpowering. It was an assault from each angle as he realised his own truth. The voices seemed suddenly louder and they formed an uncomfortable mix with the tinny sound of the radio as it blared out an unpleasant track. He couldn’t escape this, it was overwhelming. He couldn’t escape being the man that could read beyond the headlines; being the man that wherever he looked would know what truly happened and would know what he did. Normality had suddenly become painful. A life that Jack had built for himself and found solace in had turned into something he wanted to run from. He wondered how he could have ever enjoyed this. How could it have ever given him anything other than this bad taste in his mouth?
There was a poignant and sad irony, Jack realised, in the fact that just what he fought to save he couldn’t bare to look at any more. That by his actions, he’d removed himself completely. It wasn’t just the connection to the Four-Five-Six he’d severed; it was the world’s connection with him.
As the women continued to lay down the law and act as judge, jury and executioner, Jack stood. He walked past them unnoticed as he left the room, and they gave not even a second glance back to the man who the newspapers would never speak about.
Muse: Captain Jack Harkness
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Words: 1,172
The sound of plates clattering against plates and the metallic clang of cutlery mixed with the voices and the distant hum of a song on the radio that provided a white noise soundtrack to the room around him. Two tables away a mother struggled to keep her children under control as they ran in circles around the room. The sound of a baby crying rose above the noise, an occasional wailing scream adding a beat to the activity in the room. Things were back to normal. The world carried on.
Jack turned his head and looked out of the window. The rain outside hit against the glass and the droplets against it were out of focus as he looked beyond them. The place felt like nothing, as though it was nowhere; separate to everywhere and disconnected from the world around it. That in part, was why he liked it. Just a faceless stop on the side of a motorway where the only defining factor was the extortionate amount you’d pay for a half cold and insipid cup of coffee.
In front of him Jack’s plate was cold and barely touched; the limited heat from his mug felt numb against his hand. The food had no flavour. The world had lost its colour.
Just three days ago families were running scared, terrified as their children were bungled off in coaches from their schools. The army - the people they’d been told to trust - tearing families apart in their homes. But here they were, laughing, smiling, arguing... carrying on.
“The Human Condition,” Jack imagined the Doctor might say with an appreciative grin. It was that ability to go on, no matter what.
He looked away from the window as the rain fell harder and echoed as it hit against the corrugated plastic of the roof. A building that he was sure could have never been made to last, but somehow did. At the next table he noticed a group of people deep in conversation. One woman sat with another and gesticulated wildly while the other gazed into her open copy of the days The Sun newspaper.
The odd word or two trickled over towards him; disconnected parts of a conversation that fought to be heard over the noise of the room. There were names and statements, the odd unfounded accusation with all the authority of a single mother. But then it dawned on him. They were talking about the children. They were talking about Frobisher.
“Well it had to be him, didn’t it! Right bastard, killing his poor family like that. Unhinged, that’s what he was. Better off dead, I tell you. God knows what he’d have done to our kids. You know they took our Ben, don’t you?”
The words continued but Jack tuned out. It could be so painful, the truth that people would construct. Frobisher made mistakes but then so did every one. Jack could relate. Frobisher was a man who was put in a situation where he was left with no choice. He did what he had to do, just as Jack did.
“And who the hell does he think he is anyway? Some jumped up nobody. Civil service, what do they even do? Conspiracy, Bev, that’s what it is. Beggars belief it does, what some people will lower themselves to. And he was having it off with some young thing in his office too. Bastard.”
The rumour mill had started already; headlines in newspapers that defamed his character, which painted him as a monster. It was all so impossibly easy. The public might not trust the government but they trust their media. They get told something in a red top and within hours it’s part of the public consciousness, part of the universally believed truth, even though nine times out of ten it’s cooked up by someone in an office, sitting behind a desk.
It was always this way though, wasn’t it? He thought; always some hidden higher power telling the public what to believe. In times gone he’d done it himself. Mask a report of an alien appearance with a fabricated story. And people believed it. They always did. People believed what they were told to believe, even if they’d argue until they’re blue in the face that they wouldn’t. The voice of one became the masses. Nothing really changed, just the message was different.
In the back of his head there was still a part of Jack that wanted to fight against it. That tiny tickling urge that told him to get up and walk over and tell the women they were wrong. He wanted to rip the newspapers up and shout just to end the cycle. But it wouldn’t, he knew that really. The newsreaders behind their desk would still tell the same stories. The respectable people that the public believe will continue to tell them of the evil in the world and that they’re safe now. He knew too that there was no real reason to shatter that illusion. It would only cause unrest and fear and Jack had had his fill of that.
So the public would turn to their heroes, the ones between the printed pages and on the ticker tapes of BBC News. They’d never know the truth, and never know the true people that sacrificed so much to keep them alive, to keep humanity safe; the people that sacrificed their lives every day and would never be known about. They were the people that could never be known about. And that’s the way it’d always be. It would be up to Jack to remember them.
The din of the chatter around Jack became all too suddenly overpowering. It was an assault from each angle as he realised his own truth. The voices seemed suddenly louder and they formed an uncomfortable mix with the tinny sound of the radio as it blared out an unpleasant track. He couldn’t escape this, it was overwhelming. He couldn’t escape being the man that could read beyond the headlines; being the man that wherever he looked would know what truly happened and would know what he did. Normality had suddenly become painful. A life that Jack had built for himself and found solace in had turned into something he wanted to run from. He wondered how he could have ever enjoyed this. How could it have ever given him anything other than this bad taste in his mouth?
There was a poignant and sad irony, Jack realised, in the fact that just what he fought to save he couldn’t bare to look at any more. That by his actions, he’d removed himself completely. It wasn’t just the connection to the Four-Five-Six he’d severed; it was the world’s connection with him.
As the women continued to lay down the law and act as judge, jury and executioner, Jack stood. He walked past them unnoticed as he left the room, and they gave not even a second glance back to the man who the newspapers would never speak about.
Muse: Captain Jack Harkness
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Words: 1,172