Interestingly, This is the First Torchwood Fic I've Written. Sort Of.
I've not had the chance, as of yet, to watch either the Torchwood finale(s) or the debut of Sarah Jane's own spinoff (erm, unless you count K-9 and Company, but let's not). I did, however, finally write something for sarahafterdark, the community that asks the question "What would Torchwood be like if Sarah Jane were a member of the team?" and answers it with "Damned cool!" There's currently a fic challenge thingy going on over there, with different challenge topics for each day (or, actually, night) until the end of this week. Tonight's challenge was to destory the Earth and/or Gallifrey and "make it echo through time and alternate dimensions." Mostly, I've used that as an excuse to make one extended, gratuitous "Pyramids of Mars" reference. Anyway, here it is, crossposted from there. It's PG, about 400 words, probably spoilery only for the abovementioned Who episode, a little.
Sandstorm in a Sideways Hourglass
The world was destroyed in 1911. By 1980, there was nothing left of Earth but sand and rock and wind.
Sarah knows, because she saw it. She also knows that it didn't really happen, that it was only... what? An alternative universe, a might-have-been, a glimpse at the possible consequences of abandoning responsibility. Leave before the battle's over and you've not just given up the future, you've betrayed everything in your past. It's a lesson she likes to think she's learned.
But they didn't walk away, not that time, not ever, and 1980 was still there when she returned. 1980 and all the years after it, following each other neatly in the way she'd nearly forgotten that years are supposed to do. So why is it that every time she stands on a certain paving stone in Cardiff, on that one secret, invisible spot, she can once again see dead sand moving on the face of a dead world and hear the empty howling of the wind?
She asked Jack about it once, and got an answer involving "partially-realized divergent universes" and "sympathetic chronostatic resonances" and "residual temporal field effects." But she knew Jack well enough even then to tell that the stream of technobabble and bluster was merely covering up the fact the he scarcely knew any better than she did, and she finally cut him off with an exasperated cry of, "Honestly, sometimes you're just as bad as the Doctor!" She felt bad about that afterwards, as if she'd violated some sort of sacred taboo. Except for that moment, she and Jack have never talked about the Doctor. At best, they talk in circles that spiral around the Doctor, never ever quite daring to put him into words.
It did, however, shut Jack up. They haven't spoken about the subject again.
And it's all right, really. She certainly doesn't let it frighten her. She tells herself, each time, that it's a good reminder of the importance of what Torchwood does -- of what she does -- and of just how high the stakes can be. And every time she emerges from the sand into the beautiful, bustling ordinariness of Cardiff it's as if she's saved the world all over again, and the world is welcoming her home.
But sometimes -- just sometimes -- when she lies awake in the dark, a vision of sandy desolation whirls about in her mind, and she cannot help but wonder.... What if it's that world that's reality, and this one only the might-have-been?
Sandstorm in a Sideways Hourglass
The world was destroyed in 1911. By 1980, there was nothing left of Earth but sand and rock and wind.
Sarah knows, because she saw it. She also knows that it didn't really happen, that it was only... what? An alternative universe, a might-have-been, a glimpse at the possible consequences of abandoning responsibility. Leave before the battle's over and you've not just given up the future, you've betrayed everything in your past. It's a lesson she likes to think she's learned.
But they didn't walk away, not that time, not ever, and 1980 was still there when she returned. 1980 and all the years after it, following each other neatly in the way she'd nearly forgotten that years are supposed to do. So why is it that every time she stands on a certain paving stone in Cardiff, on that one secret, invisible spot, she can once again see dead sand moving on the face of a dead world and hear the empty howling of the wind?
She asked Jack about it once, and got an answer involving "partially-realized divergent universes" and "sympathetic chronostatic resonances" and "residual temporal field effects." But she knew Jack well enough even then to tell that the stream of technobabble and bluster was merely covering up the fact the he scarcely knew any better than she did, and she finally cut him off with an exasperated cry of, "Honestly, sometimes you're just as bad as the Doctor!" She felt bad about that afterwards, as if she'd violated some sort of sacred taboo. Except for that moment, she and Jack have never talked about the Doctor. At best, they talk in circles that spiral around the Doctor, never ever quite daring to put him into words.
It did, however, shut Jack up. They haven't spoken about the subject again.
And it's all right, really. She certainly doesn't let it frighten her. She tells herself, each time, that it's a good reminder of the importance of what Torchwood does -- of what she does -- and of just how high the stakes can be. And every time she emerges from the sand into the beautiful, bustling ordinariness of Cardiff it's as if she's saved the world all over again, and the world is welcoming her home.
But sometimes -- just sometimes -- when she lies awake in the dark, a vision of sandy desolation whirls about in her mind, and she cannot help but wonder.... What if it's that world that's reality, and this one only the might-have-been?