Fic: The Key
Title: The Key
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: 9 ficlets, ~5,150 words total
Rating/Warnings: PG/moderate violence
Spoilers: Utopia and Sound of Drums
Betas: crystalshard and miss_zedem who don't let me get away with anything. This story wouldn't have made it without them.
A/N: Based on that list in Utopia, combined with various discussions following Sound of Drums, which resulted in a drabble, also called The Key. This is an expansion on that idea. Oh, and I should also put a warning in for 'animal death' in Part 2 as people tend to get more upset about that than 'Jack death.'
A/N 2: Now with added drabbles in comments, courtesy of myself and unfeathered
Crossposted to torch_wood, dwfiction, galactic_conman and torchwoodgenfic
Summary: Death is not the only constant in Jack's life.
The Key
All things have rest, and ripen towards the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Lotus Eaters.
Ellis Island, 1892
The first thing Jack did when he woke up was to check whether or not he was still wearing his clothes. Along with counting body parts, it had become an instinctive reaction, owing nothing to thought and everything to experience. Trousers, shirt, arms, legs and all other appendages seemed to be present and correct and a quick flex of muscles sent back the reassuring knowledge that nothing had been tied down. Not bad for starters.
The next priority was to get his eyes open, a manoeuvre he immediately regretted as the world spun around him. He'd seen enough to tell him that he was inside, maybe in one of the store rooms or little offices in the main building. Shifting a bit, he winced as his shoulder blades pressed into a hard, unyielding surface that one groping hand identified as wooden planks. Well, that was better than being dumped on the cold concrete floor, and the wood felt smooth and sanded. At least he wouldn't get splinters.
Groaning softly, he forced his eyes open again, blinking against the dizziness and trying to clear some of the fog in his mind. The wooden surface - maybe a desk or one of the benches from the endless waiting rooms - was remarkably uncomfortable, and Jack shifted again, trying to ease protesting muscles. Beds probably hadn't been a priority when they were fitting the place out, and were certainly too much to hope for in these kinds of situations. Of course, right now, he was having trouble remembering exactly what this kind of situation was, but as no one was shouting at him or sticking anything in him, a little discomfort was probably the least of his worries. He was reasonably concerned that his head was going to implode as he struggled to sit up, but didn't let it stop him. Whatever he'd done this time, it packed one hell of a punch.
No, he remembered suddenly, hitting his elbows as he fell backwards. Not a punch. A bullet.
He'd been shot. He remembered the argument, the shouting, the gun, the noise. He remembered lying on his back, feeling the coldness spread across his chest, watching the blue sky fade to shades of grey. It was strange, but even now, he couldn't remember what they'd been fighting about. Nothing important enough to be killed over. He didn't have anything worth killing for, didn't have anything worth dying for, not now. He'd left everything behind, wanting to start again. America had seemed like a good idea at the time, sick as he was of being stared at for his accent or manners in Victorian Britain. He'd go back in a few years and, after all, he was as likely to run into the Doctor here as-
Almost without thinking, he lifted his hand to his chest, groping about for a moment, only vaguely registering that there were no gaping wounds or healing scars under his searching fingers. The key was cold against his skin, unwarmed by his body heat, as always. He clenched his fingers around it through the thin cotton of his shirt, wondering if that was the answer. After all, you heard about people's lives being saved by the Bibles in their pockets, and the key was made of the same stuff as the TARDIS itself. Maybe it was strong enough to protect him.
It didn't explain the memories of dying, of the pain and the darkness. But maybe it had all been imagined. Maybe he'd hit his head, knocked himself out. It wasn't like there was a doctor around, so maybe they'd just mistaken his unconsciousness for death. Maybe. After all, that was the only explanation that even approached making some kind of sense. Because no-one could survive being shot in the heart.
Jack swung his feet to the floor, not entirely convinced his legs were going to support him. The room looked to be an empty office, with the desk, chairs and cupboards waiting for their new occupant, and everything covered in the thin layer of grime that seemed to lie over everything in this place. As he staggered to the door, hand still around the key, Jack decided that the half-built rooms and halls were to his advantage. The immigration centre was still being finished off and it should be easy enough to slip past the staff from here. He opened the door a crack, forcing himself not to panic and gripping the key more tightly. He could panic later, when he had the time. For now, he'd hold onto the only thing that he knew for sure: he still had his TARDIS key. Everything was going to be alright.
Taking a deep breath, he tucked the key away again and slipped into the corridor. Time to start again.
Montana, 1900
This, Jack decided, was why he preferred machines to animals. Speeders were easier to feed, a car sorted out its own waste products and he'd take the thrum of a jet engine over the neigh of a horse any day. And while he'd hurt himself badly in various crashes over the years, at least he'd been the one at the wheel and in control (more or less). At no point had a vehicle he'd been driving been startled by a snake, bucked and reared and finally, inevitably, plunged over the edge of a cliff into the ravine below. Jack wasn't sure if the fall was worse when you could see it coming. Was knowing it was about to happen better than having it come as a surprise? Either way, it hurt like hell.
Gingerly, he half-rolled over, feeling the ache in every part of his body. His ankle was still wrapped in the stirrup, but he seemed to have avoided being crushed by the horse's body. The sun was bright in his eyes and he lifted a hand to shade them, blinking up at the cliff. It was higher than he'd thought. He was also becoming aware that, although every muscle in his body ached, there was none of the tell-tale, searing pain that indicated broken bones. Which, given the distance he'd dropped and the number of rocks, boulders and outcrops he had to have hit on the way down, was physically impossible.
Staring up past his hand at the clear, blue sky, Jack tried to remember what had happened. After the moment of panic, and the realisation that there was no way to calm the terrified animal, he'd tried to get his feet out of the stirrups, only to find that his ankle was trapped. Then there had been a sudden rush of air in his ears, the sensation of flying and the slowing down of time. The brief peace had been shattered by a moment of horrendous, agonising pain, then there was nothing.
Blinking again as his eyes began to water in the glare, he tried to judge the height of the cliff. It wasn't easy from this angle, lying on his back with the sun beating down and the boulders that littered the floor of the ravine throwing things out of proportion, but he was fairly sure the fall should have killed him. Maybe it had.
Automatically, he brought his other hand up to his side, sliding his fingers along the chain that ran from his waistcoat buttonhole into the small pocket. A slight tug freed the object at the other end, the metal feeling as chilly as ever as he pulled it into his fist. However much he tried to explain it as some strange effect from the TARDIS key or a fluke of luck, there was no way of avoiding the fact that he should have been dead. Again.
Rolling over, Jack tucked the key away before carefully reaching down to start untangling his ankle. He needed to get back on his feet, retrieve what he could from the saddlebags and hope that his canteen hadn't been smashed in the fall. Although now, he had to wonder if that was actually going to be a problem. Would it even be possible for him to die of thirst? Shaking himself, he decided that he didn't want to find out if at all possible. First get himself free, then start the long walk back to what passed for civilisation out here. He had a lot to think about on the way.
Cardiff, 1912
Waking to the sound of screaming was becoming routine. Jack kept his eyes closed, ignoring it for a moment as he tried to work out where he was this time. The surface beneath him was soft, if slightly lumpy, and the cloth under his fingers felt like starched cotton. There was a smell of disinfectant in the air, mixed with an odour that he couldn't name, but had learned to associate with sickness. That almost certainly meant a hospital, a guess that was confirmed when he opened his eyes in an attempt to identify the source of the screaming.
A girl in a grey dress and white apron was cowering against the wall, a basin lying abandoned at her feet in a widening puddle of water and a cloth pressed to her mouth that seemed to be doing little to muffle the sound of her hysterics. The noise certainly wasn't doing much for Jack's aching head. He was fairly sure that a shod hoof had made contact with his temple before he'd lost consciousness and, although the damage seemed to have healed, he still felt as though his brain was rattling around the inside of his skull.
Almost absently, he brought a hand up to his chest, where he definitely remembered a heavy weight landing, crushing ribs and sending shooting pains down his back. Why his back, when the damn horse had been standing on his front? The half-laugh turned into a cough as he tried to sit up. Because, clearly, his most pressing concern right now was the nature of pain deferment. Somewhat more urgent was probably the fact that someone seemed to have taken all his clothes and he panicked for a moment, sitting up too quickly and making his head spin. It had the unexpected benefit of making the nurse stop screaming, and in the sudden silence, Jack remembered that he'd left the key back at his lodgings, not wanting to risk losing it down at the docks.
Well, if nothing else, the runaway coal cart had answered the question of whether it was him or the TARDIS key that was causing the anomaly that wouldn't let him die. As usual, it looked like it was his fault. Still, one thing at a time. Right now, he needed clothes and a way out of here. Turning to the nurse, he gave her his best smile, which had yet to let him down. Sure enough, she smiled back, just a little, still unsure and unsettled. That was important. Give her time to think and she might start wondering how a man who'd been trampled by horses could get up again a few hours later. As it was, Jack was fairly sure he could get her to overlook little details like that, along with the fact that he didn't have any clothes on right now. In fact, he decided, as her smile turned from shy to curious, it might even be to his advantage.
Arras, Northern France, 1917
Mercifully, this time Jack had woken up before he could be buried in the terrible suffocating mud, and he wondered vaguely if his body was getting used to healing bullet wounds, bringing him back that much faster. He didn't want to count how many times he'd been killed in this damn war.
Lying in the mud, hearing the barrage continuing somewhere a long way off, he wondered how much more he could take. He'd spent two years with dead men walking, watching their courage, listening to their fears and hearing them scream at night as he pretended to sleep through the continual hell of life in the trenches; rats and guns and mud and dying men. He knew about survivor's guilt now, the awful weight of being the one who made it through. There was only so much more of it that he could carry.
Maybe he could just stay here, shivering on the cold, boggy ground and staring at the dark, star-specked sky above. If he lay here long enough, maybe whatever it was that kept doing this to him would take pity and just let him go.
Shifting slightly, he felt something move against his skin, a cold pressure on his chest. He knew what it was, of course. He'd taken to wearing it again, not wanting to lose it if something happened to his uniform. The chain had broken three times, but the key was unscathed. Like him, it just kept on going.
Jack pulled himself out of the mud, staying low as he started the long trek back to his own lines. The key pulled at the end of its chain as he walked, the weight of responsibility tugging him onwards. He had a lot to live up to; fortunately, it looked like he was going to have a lot of lives to do it with.
Paris, 1942
The key was in the right place, by some miracle. It had taken more courage to leave it behind than it had to accept the fool mission in the first place. The thought of losing it, of losing the one thing that reminded him of who he really was, had been enough to make Jack unusually unreasonable. After all, he hadn't refused any of the previous missions they'd planned for him. He hadn't complained or made a fuss or made any demands other than those necessary for success. But this had been his deal-breaker, the one thing that he had to know: that the key would be waiting for him in the place he named. He'd had to steal it back from a Nazi officer's desk last time and there was no way he was taking that chance again.
Slipping the chain round his neck, he stretched his back, hearing cracks and pops that he was sure weren't normal, as though every vertebrae in his spine was clicking back into place. The safe house was still and quiet, almost eerie after the noise and shouting he'd endured over the last few days and the sound of his creaking bones seemed to echo in the silence.
Wearily, he pulled out the small bundle of documents that had been lying underneath the key. A new name to remember, a new legend to memorise, so much information and so little time. As always. Everything changed, all the time, faster than he could keep up with. The only constant was the burn of the chain on the back of his neck, the chill of the key against his skin.
He didn't dare put on the light, attracting attention to the apparently empty house, so he took the papers over to the window, sitting with his back to the wall, and using the tiny torch also provided to peer at the documents, trying to see who he was supposed to be this time. His vision was still a bit blurry and he rubbed at his eyes briefly, blinking to clear them. It didn't normally take this long for him to recover, but then, this time had been a bit different. Next time, he was going to get himself shot before anyone could even start to heat the branding irons. Being buried alive for a few hours hadn't helped.
Torchwood were certainly getting their money's worth out him, sending him on these damn suicide missions, knowing that he'd come back every time. He'd noticed an improvement in the quality of the forgeries and the back stories they were leaving for him, now they'd realised he really was going to return, even after the reports of his death reached them. The missions were getting harder too, and he supposed he should be flattered. They trusted him. Trusted him enough to let him die for them, frequently.
Taking a final swipe at his eyes, Jack angled the light towards the paper and began to read, one hand idly playing with the chain around his neck as he forced himself to concentrate. He had to have this memorised by morning. His life could depend upon it.
Berlin, 1955
Jack couldn't work out whether poisoning was retro, traditional or usual for this time period. Given his continual tendency to make an inconvenience of himself, he supposed he should ask a bit more on favoured methods of murder around here, so he'd know what he was walking into. Not that it would stop him walking into it, of course, it was just that he believed in keeping himself informed.
His hand clenched reflexively as another cramp twisted through him, leaving him trembling and sweating. How much longer was this going to take? Groaning, he rolled over on the narrow bed, focussing his attention on breathing and holding onto the small, cold object in his right hand. Briefly, he wondered if it would get warm now, now his temperature was going through the roof and his insides felt as though they were being incinerated. He'd always considered 'burning up' to be a cliché, not a literal description.
But the key stayed cold. As cold as the vacuum of space where it had been born, burning into Jack's fist so that he was sure it was branding him. He didn't dare open his hand, not knowing if he'd manage to close it again. Instead, he poured all his energy into holding onto to the searing cold metal, despite barely having the strength to breathe.
He did spare enough energy to feel just a touch of satisfaction at a job well done. One traitor found, one leak that could be plugged, once he was feeling up to it. No more passed secrets, another battle won in this coldest of wars. The look on Marcus' face when he walked back into the office, alive and well, was going to be worth all this on its own.
The soft laugh turned into a groan, turned into a muffled scream as he pressed his face into the pillow, letting the agony wash over him, sparks shooting up his spine and through his body. It couldn't be much longer now, could it? He was starting to regret leaving the Webley on the other side of the room. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much, and if he'd known-
Another wave of cramps broke the chain of thought, overwhelming him and carrying him closer to the brink. He was almost gone, he knew. He hoped, desperately, that it wouldn't be much longer, even as the darkness overtook him.
Antarctica, 1976
Jack finished in the kitchen and moved into the first of the labs. His hands were shaking, although he couldn't tell if that was the after effects of his latest resurrection or the fear that he might, finally, have lost the damn thing. The base didn't have that many rooms, but he'd been wandering a bit towards the end. He had a vague memory of wanting to put it somewhere safe, somewhere that nothing could happen to it. It had made sense to his delirious mind at the time, which meant that he now had no idea what he'd done.
Methodically, he began opening drawers and boxes, forcing himself to think, make plans, do anything except panic. Panic would lose him any chance of finding it, as well as making a mess to be cleaned up later. So, what else was he going to need? Water, of course, at some point, for comfort rather than survival. Starving to death was bad enough, without adding thirst to the equation. He wondered how long it would take this time. He had three and a half months, after all. How long did it take to starve to death if you were starting with an empty stomach?
With a jolt, he realised he'd been through four drawers without actually checking the contents properly. Going back, he tried to concentrate, moving the jumble of equipment out of the way and sorting through the assorted junk that seemed to accumulate in even the tidiest of labs. And what the hell was the tin opener doing in here? Had he done that? He'd eaten from the last of the tins three months into his lonely vigil. He didn't remember moving it, but anything was possible. Jack moved to the next set of drawers, opening and closing, rummaging and moving things, all the time keeping his mind on what he was doing. The thought of getting water wasn't helping his concentration. There was plenty of it outside, just needing melting, but going outside would mean walking past the rest of the team, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that yet.
One of the few things he could remember, burned into his memory, was the shifting of the six bodies, done while he still had the energy. He hadn't even tried to dig graves under the blanket of snow, not seeing the point. Torchwood One had decided that he was going to have to wait out the year, just to be sure that the last of the alien virus was really, really dead, so he'd dragged the bodies outside, leaving the doors of the base open to let the elements in, purging the interior with cold. He'd died of exposure within hours, waking up on the freezing floor and taking days to feel warm again.
Moving into the tiny living space, Jack realised that this was therefore the third time he'd woken up in the base. He'd died, screaming from the pain of the virus, then again, shivering from the cold. The last time had been almost peaceful in comparison, lying on the narrow bunk for days as the last of his strength ebbed away.
The thought took him over to the bed, frowning down at it. This was the last place he'd been, drifting gently as he waited to die. Crouching down, he lifted the edge of the mattress, smiling in triumph as the key glinted in the dim light. It was cold to the touch, as ever, and after a moment's indecision, Jack pulled out his key ring and slipped it on there. He couldn't bear to have the cold against his skin again, not yet. It would be safe enough in his pocket for now.
Sighing with relief, he straightened up and went slowly back into the main room of the base. Time to call in and let Torchwood know he was alive, again.
Birmingham, 1987
The first thing Jack became aware of was pain. He'd thought he was used to it, in all its colours, shapes and sizes, but he wasn't prepared for the sheer, searing agony that was ripping through him. This isn't right some part of his brain was screaming; the pain was supposed to come before the darkness, not afterwards. He hadn't managed to get his eyes open yet, what with the explosions going off through his body, but beyond them, he could hear the wind ruffling the trees at the edge of the field and an odd, fluttering sound.
Taking a breath - and, hell, that hurt even more - Jack opened his eyes, looking up and up again at the six foot metal pole looming above him. For a wonderful moment, surprise overtook agony, and he blinked in disbelief, automatically bringing his hands up to his stomach. As they closed around the place where the spike entered his body, the jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through him. Turning his head and gasping for air, he managed to identify the source of the fluttering noise. The area around him had been enclosed with police tape, which meant that he was going to have some explaining to do. They'd followed proper procedure, he was sure, leaving the damn thing in him, and he couldn’t really blame them, but that didn't stop him feeling an unreasonable surge of anger as he got a better grip on the javelin. Because this was really going to hurt.
This time, he woke up mercifully pain free, albeit a little light-headed. Dimly, he made a mental note to take the first-aid instruction 'do not remove' more seriously in the future, although most of his brain was occupied with pushing the javelin, still sticky with blood, out of the way and getting him on his feet again. Police tape meant police officers, probably staying at a safe distance to avoid forensic contamination. This quiet corner had seemed like a good idea at the time, out of the way and private, perfect for meeting a nervous contact. It was also that much harder to eavesdrop in an open field than in a city building.
Or it would have been. Juvenile delinquents with a penchant for athletics equipment hadn't been on the agenda for this meeting. Jack had already checked out the sports field next door and assumed, wrongly, that since the school wasn't using it, there wouldn't be anyone around. Vaguely he wondered what the little toe-rags had done after they'd heard him cry out. His contact hadn't stuck around, not that he could blame him. It was hard enough trying to get through twentieth century England with blue skin. Getting spotted by the police would not have helped matters.
As he pushed himself to his feet, Jack had the odd sensation that something was wrong. There was a hole in the front of his shirt as well as the back and he could feel light rain against his skin, but that wasn't what had caught his attention. Gingerly, he brought a hand up to his chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart. It was only as he took a step forwards that he realised what was missing. Clamping a hand to his pocket, he looked around frantically. He couldn't see his keys anywhere. The grass was short and the bunch was large so there was no way he could miss them. Calming down, he realised that, if they'd thought he was dead, if the police had been on the scene, they would have gone through his pockets and taken his personal effects to identify him from.
Looking round, he saw two uniformed figures hurrying across the grass, no doubt alerted by the movement. Good, Jack decided, ducking under the tape and striding over to meet them, anger steadying his steps. If they didn't have his keys ready and waiting for him, there was going to be hell to pay.
London, 2008
"Give me your keys."
The Doctor held a hand out to Martha, waiting as she fished the small piece of metal out of her pocket. Jack watched too, wondering how she could do that so casually, so easily, as though it was nothing. Then he saw the look she gave the Doctor, the absolute trust in her eyes, and he understood.
He knew it was coming, even as the Doctor fiddled with some of the equipment on the table, but it was still hard to fish the bunch of keys out of his pocket, slip the right one from the ring and pass it over. There was no shock of connection as their fingers brushed together, no electric spark or shiver that passed through either of them. The Doctor was too pre-occupied with what he was doing to even notice the worry that Jack couldn't disguise. He knew it was showing because Martha gave him a bright, reassuring smile, as though trying to tell him that it was all going to be alright.
Smiling back, Jack retreated to the crate he'd been sitting on, flicking through news sites and cross-checking the Torchwood server. Anything to distract himself from the activity going on a few feet away. Martha was watching the Doctor, leaning forwards as he attached wires and soldered pieces together. Despite telling himself that he was just being silly, that it was the Doctor's key anyway, not his, not really, Jack couldn't help feeling that there was something wrong about the whole thing.
After a few more minutes of surfing, Jack sighed and closed the windows again. There was no point pretending that he was reading when he was actually watching the Doctor out of the corner of his eye. Carefully, feeling the crate creak underneath him, he turned so that he could see properly, watching as the Doctor carefully put a tiny black chip onto each key.
Jack winced as the smell of solder filled the air again, his expression going blank as the Doctor glanced up in his direction. It was the briefest of moments, a flick of the eyes up then down again, but this time, Jack felt the spark. There had been an acknowledgement in that snatched second, a silent promise that it was going to be alright. There might even have been a question, surprise that Jack still had the key after all this time and even more surprise that he carried it around with him.
Getting to his feet, Jack went over to watch, folding his arms and shaking his head when Martha caught his eye with a questioning look. It turned to laughter as they tested the perception filter, Martha nearly going cross-eyed as she tried to focus on the Doctor. Such a simple idea, but so effective. He made a point of not snatching as his key was held out to him, the look on the other man's face gentle and understanding. Slipping the string round his neck, Jack had the odd sensation of having come full circle, the metal resting against his chest and the cold seeping all the way through to his skin again. He looked up to see the Doctor watching, an odd expression on his face, curiosity and amusement and maybe just a touch of an apology. Acutely aware of Martha's presence, Jack reached up and wrapped his hand around the key, gripping it for a moment before letting go and reaching out for his greatcoat.
Then he and Martha were following the Doctor, the key hitting his chest with every step. The cold stung a little and he still wasn't entirely convinced that the whole insane scheme was going to work. But he was following the Doctor, this time in the flesh, not a shadow on the timeline, and he still had the key to the TARDIS. Really, what else did he need to know?
In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself.
J Krishnamarti
Author: jadesfire2808
Words: 9 ficlets, ~5,150 words total
Rating/Warnings: PG/moderate violence
Spoilers: Utopia and Sound of Drums
Betas: crystalshard and miss_zedem who don't let me get away with anything. This story wouldn't have made it without them.
A/N: Based on that list in Utopia, combined with various discussions following Sound of Drums, which resulted in a drabble, also called The Key. This is an expansion on that idea. Oh, and I should also put a warning in for 'animal death' in Part 2 as people tend to get more upset about that than 'Jack death.'
A/N 2: Now with added drabbles in comments, courtesy of myself and unfeathered
Crossposted to torch_wood, dwfiction, galactic_conman and torchwoodgenfic
Summary: Death is not the only constant in Jack's life.
The Key
All things have rest, and ripen towards the grave
In silence; ripen, fall and cease:
Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease.
Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Lotus Eaters.
Ellis Island, 1892
The first thing Jack did when he woke up was to check whether or not he was still wearing his clothes. Along with counting body parts, it had become an instinctive reaction, owing nothing to thought and everything to experience. Trousers, shirt, arms, legs and all other appendages seemed to be present and correct and a quick flex of muscles sent back the reassuring knowledge that nothing had been tied down. Not bad for starters.
The next priority was to get his eyes open, a manoeuvre he immediately regretted as the world spun around him. He'd seen enough to tell him that he was inside, maybe in one of the store rooms or little offices in the main building. Shifting a bit, he winced as his shoulder blades pressed into a hard, unyielding surface that one groping hand identified as wooden planks. Well, that was better than being dumped on the cold concrete floor, and the wood felt smooth and sanded. At least he wouldn't get splinters.
Groaning softly, he forced his eyes open again, blinking against the dizziness and trying to clear some of the fog in his mind. The wooden surface - maybe a desk or one of the benches from the endless waiting rooms - was remarkably uncomfortable, and Jack shifted again, trying to ease protesting muscles. Beds probably hadn't been a priority when they were fitting the place out, and were certainly too much to hope for in these kinds of situations. Of course, right now, he was having trouble remembering exactly what this kind of situation was, but as no one was shouting at him or sticking anything in him, a little discomfort was probably the least of his worries. He was reasonably concerned that his head was going to implode as he struggled to sit up, but didn't let it stop him. Whatever he'd done this time, it packed one hell of a punch.
No, he remembered suddenly, hitting his elbows as he fell backwards. Not a punch. A bullet.
He'd been shot. He remembered the argument, the shouting, the gun, the noise. He remembered lying on his back, feeling the coldness spread across his chest, watching the blue sky fade to shades of grey. It was strange, but even now, he couldn't remember what they'd been fighting about. Nothing important enough to be killed over. He didn't have anything worth killing for, didn't have anything worth dying for, not now. He'd left everything behind, wanting to start again. America had seemed like a good idea at the time, sick as he was of being stared at for his accent or manners in Victorian Britain. He'd go back in a few years and, after all, he was as likely to run into the Doctor here as-
Almost without thinking, he lifted his hand to his chest, groping about for a moment, only vaguely registering that there were no gaping wounds or healing scars under his searching fingers. The key was cold against his skin, unwarmed by his body heat, as always. He clenched his fingers around it through the thin cotton of his shirt, wondering if that was the answer. After all, you heard about people's lives being saved by the Bibles in their pockets, and the key was made of the same stuff as the TARDIS itself. Maybe it was strong enough to protect him.
It didn't explain the memories of dying, of the pain and the darkness. But maybe it had all been imagined. Maybe he'd hit his head, knocked himself out. It wasn't like there was a doctor around, so maybe they'd just mistaken his unconsciousness for death. Maybe. After all, that was the only explanation that even approached making some kind of sense. Because no-one could survive being shot in the heart.
Jack swung his feet to the floor, not entirely convinced his legs were going to support him. The room looked to be an empty office, with the desk, chairs and cupboards waiting for their new occupant, and everything covered in the thin layer of grime that seemed to lie over everything in this place. As he staggered to the door, hand still around the key, Jack decided that the half-built rooms and halls were to his advantage. The immigration centre was still being finished off and it should be easy enough to slip past the staff from here. He opened the door a crack, forcing himself not to panic and gripping the key more tightly. He could panic later, when he had the time. For now, he'd hold onto the only thing that he knew for sure: he still had his TARDIS key. Everything was going to be alright.
Taking a deep breath, he tucked the key away again and slipped into the corridor. Time to start again.
Montana, 1900
This, Jack decided, was why he preferred machines to animals. Speeders were easier to feed, a car sorted out its own waste products and he'd take the thrum of a jet engine over the neigh of a horse any day. And while he'd hurt himself badly in various crashes over the years, at least he'd been the one at the wheel and in control (more or less). At no point had a vehicle he'd been driving been startled by a snake, bucked and reared and finally, inevitably, plunged over the edge of a cliff into the ravine below. Jack wasn't sure if the fall was worse when you could see it coming. Was knowing it was about to happen better than having it come as a surprise? Either way, it hurt like hell.
Gingerly, he half-rolled over, feeling the ache in every part of his body. His ankle was still wrapped in the stirrup, but he seemed to have avoided being crushed by the horse's body. The sun was bright in his eyes and he lifted a hand to shade them, blinking up at the cliff. It was higher than he'd thought. He was also becoming aware that, although every muscle in his body ached, there was none of the tell-tale, searing pain that indicated broken bones. Which, given the distance he'd dropped and the number of rocks, boulders and outcrops he had to have hit on the way down, was physically impossible.
Staring up past his hand at the clear, blue sky, Jack tried to remember what had happened. After the moment of panic, and the realisation that there was no way to calm the terrified animal, he'd tried to get his feet out of the stirrups, only to find that his ankle was trapped. Then there had been a sudden rush of air in his ears, the sensation of flying and the slowing down of time. The brief peace had been shattered by a moment of horrendous, agonising pain, then there was nothing.
Blinking again as his eyes began to water in the glare, he tried to judge the height of the cliff. It wasn't easy from this angle, lying on his back with the sun beating down and the boulders that littered the floor of the ravine throwing things out of proportion, but he was fairly sure the fall should have killed him. Maybe it had.
Automatically, he brought his other hand up to his side, sliding his fingers along the chain that ran from his waistcoat buttonhole into the small pocket. A slight tug freed the object at the other end, the metal feeling as chilly as ever as he pulled it into his fist. However much he tried to explain it as some strange effect from the TARDIS key or a fluke of luck, there was no way of avoiding the fact that he should have been dead. Again.
Rolling over, Jack tucked the key away before carefully reaching down to start untangling his ankle. He needed to get back on his feet, retrieve what he could from the saddlebags and hope that his canteen hadn't been smashed in the fall. Although now, he had to wonder if that was actually going to be a problem. Would it even be possible for him to die of thirst? Shaking himself, he decided that he didn't want to find out if at all possible. First get himself free, then start the long walk back to what passed for civilisation out here. He had a lot to think about on the way.
Cardiff, 1912
Waking to the sound of screaming was becoming routine. Jack kept his eyes closed, ignoring it for a moment as he tried to work out where he was this time. The surface beneath him was soft, if slightly lumpy, and the cloth under his fingers felt like starched cotton. There was a smell of disinfectant in the air, mixed with an odour that he couldn't name, but had learned to associate with sickness. That almost certainly meant a hospital, a guess that was confirmed when he opened his eyes in an attempt to identify the source of the screaming.
A girl in a grey dress and white apron was cowering against the wall, a basin lying abandoned at her feet in a widening puddle of water and a cloth pressed to her mouth that seemed to be doing little to muffle the sound of her hysterics. The noise certainly wasn't doing much for Jack's aching head. He was fairly sure that a shod hoof had made contact with his temple before he'd lost consciousness and, although the damage seemed to have healed, he still felt as though his brain was rattling around the inside of his skull.
Almost absently, he brought a hand up to his chest, where he definitely remembered a heavy weight landing, crushing ribs and sending shooting pains down his back. Why his back, when the damn horse had been standing on his front? The half-laugh turned into a cough as he tried to sit up. Because, clearly, his most pressing concern right now was the nature of pain deferment. Somewhat more urgent was probably the fact that someone seemed to have taken all his clothes and he panicked for a moment, sitting up too quickly and making his head spin. It had the unexpected benefit of making the nurse stop screaming, and in the sudden silence, Jack remembered that he'd left the key back at his lodgings, not wanting to risk losing it down at the docks.
Well, if nothing else, the runaway coal cart had answered the question of whether it was him or the TARDIS key that was causing the anomaly that wouldn't let him die. As usual, it looked like it was his fault. Still, one thing at a time. Right now, he needed clothes and a way out of here. Turning to the nurse, he gave her his best smile, which had yet to let him down. Sure enough, she smiled back, just a little, still unsure and unsettled. That was important. Give her time to think and she might start wondering how a man who'd been trampled by horses could get up again a few hours later. As it was, Jack was fairly sure he could get her to overlook little details like that, along with the fact that he didn't have any clothes on right now. In fact, he decided, as her smile turned from shy to curious, it might even be to his advantage.
Arras, Northern France, 1917
Mercifully, this time Jack had woken up before he could be buried in the terrible suffocating mud, and he wondered vaguely if his body was getting used to healing bullet wounds, bringing him back that much faster. He didn't want to count how many times he'd been killed in this damn war.
Lying in the mud, hearing the barrage continuing somewhere a long way off, he wondered how much more he could take. He'd spent two years with dead men walking, watching their courage, listening to their fears and hearing them scream at night as he pretended to sleep through the continual hell of life in the trenches; rats and guns and mud and dying men. He knew about survivor's guilt now, the awful weight of being the one who made it through. There was only so much more of it that he could carry.
Maybe he could just stay here, shivering on the cold, boggy ground and staring at the dark, star-specked sky above. If he lay here long enough, maybe whatever it was that kept doing this to him would take pity and just let him go.
Shifting slightly, he felt something move against his skin, a cold pressure on his chest. He knew what it was, of course. He'd taken to wearing it again, not wanting to lose it if something happened to his uniform. The chain had broken three times, but the key was unscathed. Like him, it just kept on going.
Jack pulled himself out of the mud, staying low as he started the long trek back to his own lines. The key pulled at the end of its chain as he walked, the weight of responsibility tugging him onwards. He had a lot to live up to; fortunately, it looked like he was going to have a lot of lives to do it with.
Paris, 1942
The key was in the right place, by some miracle. It had taken more courage to leave it behind than it had to accept the fool mission in the first place. The thought of losing it, of losing the one thing that reminded him of who he really was, had been enough to make Jack unusually unreasonable. After all, he hadn't refused any of the previous missions they'd planned for him. He hadn't complained or made a fuss or made any demands other than those necessary for success. But this had been his deal-breaker, the one thing that he had to know: that the key would be waiting for him in the place he named. He'd had to steal it back from a Nazi officer's desk last time and there was no way he was taking that chance again.
Slipping the chain round his neck, he stretched his back, hearing cracks and pops that he was sure weren't normal, as though every vertebrae in his spine was clicking back into place. The safe house was still and quiet, almost eerie after the noise and shouting he'd endured over the last few days and the sound of his creaking bones seemed to echo in the silence.
Wearily, he pulled out the small bundle of documents that had been lying underneath the key. A new name to remember, a new legend to memorise, so much information and so little time. As always. Everything changed, all the time, faster than he could keep up with. The only constant was the burn of the chain on the back of his neck, the chill of the key against his skin.
He didn't dare put on the light, attracting attention to the apparently empty house, so he took the papers over to the window, sitting with his back to the wall, and using the tiny torch also provided to peer at the documents, trying to see who he was supposed to be this time. His vision was still a bit blurry and he rubbed at his eyes briefly, blinking to clear them. It didn't normally take this long for him to recover, but then, this time had been a bit different. Next time, he was going to get himself shot before anyone could even start to heat the branding irons. Being buried alive for a few hours hadn't helped.
Torchwood were certainly getting their money's worth out him, sending him on these damn suicide missions, knowing that he'd come back every time. He'd noticed an improvement in the quality of the forgeries and the back stories they were leaving for him, now they'd realised he really was going to return, even after the reports of his death reached them. The missions were getting harder too, and he supposed he should be flattered. They trusted him. Trusted him enough to let him die for them, frequently.
Taking a final swipe at his eyes, Jack angled the light towards the paper and began to read, one hand idly playing with the chain around his neck as he forced himself to concentrate. He had to have this memorised by morning. His life could depend upon it.
Berlin, 1955
Jack couldn't work out whether poisoning was retro, traditional or usual for this time period. Given his continual tendency to make an inconvenience of himself, he supposed he should ask a bit more on favoured methods of murder around here, so he'd know what he was walking into. Not that it would stop him walking into it, of course, it was just that he believed in keeping himself informed.
His hand clenched reflexively as another cramp twisted through him, leaving him trembling and sweating. How much longer was this going to take? Groaning, he rolled over on the narrow bed, focussing his attention on breathing and holding onto the small, cold object in his right hand. Briefly, he wondered if it would get warm now, now his temperature was going through the roof and his insides felt as though they were being incinerated. He'd always considered 'burning up' to be a cliché, not a literal description.
But the key stayed cold. As cold as the vacuum of space where it had been born, burning into Jack's fist so that he was sure it was branding him. He didn't dare open his hand, not knowing if he'd manage to close it again. Instead, he poured all his energy into holding onto to the searing cold metal, despite barely having the strength to breathe.
He did spare enough energy to feel just a touch of satisfaction at a job well done. One traitor found, one leak that could be plugged, once he was feeling up to it. No more passed secrets, another battle won in this coldest of wars. The look on Marcus' face when he walked back into the office, alive and well, was going to be worth all this on its own.
The soft laugh turned into a groan, turned into a muffled scream as he pressed his face into the pillow, letting the agony wash over him, sparks shooting up his spine and through his body. It couldn't be much longer now, could it? He was starting to regret leaving the Webley on the other side of the room. He hadn't expected it to hurt so much, and if he'd known-
Another wave of cramps broke the chain of thought, overwhelming him and carrying him closer to the brink. He was almost gone, he knew. He hoped, desperately, that it wouldn't be much longer, even as the darkness overtook him.
Antarctica, 1976
Jack finished in the kitchen and moved into the first of the labs. His hands were shaking, although he couldn't tell if that was the after effects of his latest resurrection or the fear that he might, finally, have lost the damn thing. The base didn't have that many rooms, but he'd been wandering a bit towards the end. He had a vague memory of wanting to put it somewhere safe, somewhere that nothing could happen to it. It had made sense to his delirious mind at the time, which meant that he now had no idea what he'd done.
Methodically, he began opening drawers and boxes, forcing himself to think, make plans, do anything except panic. Panic would lose him any chance of finding it, as well as making a mess to be cleaned up later. So, what else was he going to need? Water, of course, at some point, for comfort rather than survival. Starving to death was bad enough, without adding thirst to the equation. He wondered how long it would take this time. He had three and a half months, after all. How long did it take to starve to death if you were starting with an empty stomach?
With a jolt, he realised he'd been through four drawers without actually checking the contents properly. Going back, he tried to concentrate, moving the jumble of equipment out of the way and sorting through the assorted junk that seemed to accumulate in even the tidiest of labs. And what the hell was the tin opener doing in here? Had he done that? He'd eaten from the last of the tins three months into his lonely vigil. He didn't remember moving it, but anything was possible. Jack moved to the next set of drawers, opening and closing, rummaging and moving things, all the time keeping his mind on what he was doing. The thought of getting water wasn't helping his concentration. There was plenty of it outside, just needing melting, but going outside would mean walking past the rest of the team, and he wasn't sure he was ready for that yet.
One of the few things he could remember, burned into his memory, was the shifting of the six bodies, done while he still had the energy. He hadn't even tried to dig graves under the blanket of snow, not seeing the point. Torchwood One had decided that he was going to have to wait out the year, just to be sure that the last of the alien virus was really, really dead, so he'd dragged the bodies outside, leaving the doors of the base open to let the elements in, purging the interior with cold. He'd died of exposure within hours, waking up on the freezing floor and taking days to feel warm again.
Moving into the tiny living space, Jack realised that this was therefore the third time he'd woken up in the base. He'd died, screaming from the pain of the virus, then again, shivering from the cold. The last time had been almost peaceful in comparison, lying on the narrow bunk for days as the last of his strength ebbed away.
The thought took him over to the bed, frowning down at it. This was the last place he'd been, drifting gently as he waited to die. Crouching down, he lifted the edge of the mattress, smiling in triumph as the key glinted in the dim light. It was cold to the touch, as ever, and after a moment's indecision, Jack pulled out his key ring and slipped it on there. He couldn't bear to have the cold against his skin again, not yet. It would be safe enough in his pocket for now.
Sighing with relief, he straightened up and went slowly back into the main room of the base. Time to call in and let Torchwood know he was alive, again.
Birmingham, 1987
The first thing Jack became aware of was pain. He'd thought he was used to it, in all its colours, shapes and sizes, but he wasn't prepared for the sheer, searing agony that was ripping through him. This isn't right some part of his brain was screaming; the pain was supposed to come before the darkness, not afterwards. He hadn't managed to get his eyes open yet, what with the explosions going off through his body, but beyond them, he could hear the wind ruffling the trees at the edge of the field and an odd, fluttering sound.
Taking a breath - and, hell, that hurt even more - Jack opened his eyes, looking up and up again at the six foot metal pole looming above him. For a wonderful moment, surprise overtook agony, and he blinked in disbelief, automatically bringing his hands up to his stomach. As they closed around the place where the spike entered his body, the jolt sent a fresh wave of pain through him. Turning his head and gasping for air, he managed to identify the source of the fluttering noise. The area around him had been enclosed with police tape, which meant that he was going to have some explaining to do. They'd followed proper procedure, he was sure, leaving the damn thing in him, and he couldn’t really blame them, but that didn't stop him feeling an unreasonable surge of anger as he got a better grip on the javelin. Because this was really going to hurt.
This time, he woke up mercifully pain free, albeit a little light-headed. Dimly, he made a mental note to take the first-aid instruction 'do not remove' more seriously in the future, although most of his brain was occupied with pushing the javelin, still sticky with blood, out of the way and getting him on his feet again. Police tape meant police officers, probably staying at a safe distance to avoid forensic contamination. This quiet corner had seemed like a good idea at the time, out of the way and private, perfect for meeting a nervous contact. It was also that much harder to eavesdrop in an open field than in a city building.
Or it would have been. Juvenile delinquents with a penchant for athletics equipment hadn't been on the agenda for this meeting. Jack had already checked out the sports field next door and assumed, wrongly, that since the school wasn't using it, there wouldn't be anyone around. Vaguely he wondered what the little toe-rags had done after they'd heard him cry out. His contact hadn't stuck around, not that he could blame him. It was hard enough trying to get through twentieth century England with blue skin. Getting spotted by the police would not have helped matters.
As he pushed himself to his feet, Jack had the odd sensation that something was wrong. There was a hole in the front of his shirt as well as the back and he could feel light rain against his skin, but that wasn't what had caught his attention. Gingerly, he brought a hand up to his chest, feeling the reassuring beat of his heart. It was only as he took a step forwards that he realised what was missing. Clamping a hand to his pocket, he looked around frantically. He couldn't see his keys anywhere. The grass was short and the bunch was large so there was no way he could miss them. Calming down, he realised that, if they'd thought he was dead, if the police had been on the scene, they would have gone through his pockets and taken his personal effects to identify him from.
Looking round, he saw two uniformed figures hurrying across the grass, no doubt alerted by the movement. Good, Jack decided, ducking under the tape and striding over to meet them, anger steadying his steps. If they didn't have his keys ready and waiting for him, there was going to be hell to pay.
London, 2008
"Give me your keys."
The Doctor held a hand out to Martha, waiting as she fished the small piece of metal out of her pocket. Jack watched too, wondering how she could do that so casually, so easily, as though it was nothing. Then he saw the look she gave the Doctor, the absolute trust in her eyes, and he understood.
He knew it was coming, even as the Doctor fiddled with some of the equipment on the table, but it was still hard to fish the bunch of keys out of his pocket, slip the right one from the ring and pass it over. There was no shock of connection as their fingers brushed together, no electric spark or shiver that passed through either of them. The Doctor was too pre-occupied with what he was doing to even notice the worry that Jack couldn't disguise. He knew it was showing because Martha gave him a bright, reassuring smile, as though trying to tell him that it was all going to be alright.
Smiling back, Jack retreated to the crate he'd been sitting on, flicking through news sites and cross-checking the Torchwood server. Anything to distract himself from the activity going on a few feet away. Martha was watching the Doctor, leaning forwards as he attached wires and soldered pieces together. Despite telling himself that he was just being silly, that it was the Doctor's key anyway, not his, not really, Jack couldn't help feeling that there was something wrong about the whole thing.
After a few more minutes of surfing, Jack sighed and closed the windows again. There was no point pretending that he was reading when he was actually watching the Doctor out of the corner of his eye. Carefully, feeling the crate creak underneath him, he turned so that he could see properly, watching as the Doctor carefully put a tiny black chip onto each key.
Jack winced as the smell of solder filled the air again, his expression going blank as the Doctor glanced up in his direction. It was the briefest of moments, a flick of the eyes up then down again, but this time, Jack felt the spark. There had been an acknowledgement in that snatched second, a silent promise that it was going to be alright. There might even have been a question, surprise that Jack still had the key after all this time and even more surprise that he carried it around with him.
Getting to his feet, Jack went over to watch, folding his arms and shaking his head when Martha caught his eye with a questioning look. It turned to laughter as they tested the perception filter, Martha nearly going cross-eyed as she tried to focus on the Doctor. Such a simple idea, but so effective. He made a point of not snatching as his key was held out to him, the look on the other man's face gentle and understanding. Slipping the string round his neck, Jack had the odd sensation of having come full circle, the metal resting against his chest and the cold seeping all the way through to his skin again. He looked up to see the Doctor watching, an odd expression on his face, curiosity and amusement and maybe just a touch of an apology. Acutely aware of Martha's presence, Jack reached up and wrapped his hand around the key, gripping it for a moment before letting go and reaching out for his greatcoat.
Then he and Martha were following the Doctor, the key hitting his chest with every step. The cold stung a little and he still wasn't entirely convinced that the whole insane scheme was going to work. But he was following the Doctor, this time in the flesh, not a shadow on the timeline, and he still had the key to the TARDIS. Really, what else did he need to know?
In oneself lies the whole world and if you know how to look and learn, the door is there and the key is in your hand. Nobody on earth can give you either the key or the door to open, except yourself.
J Krishnamarti