Memento Mori - part one
Feb. 5th, 2011 09:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
snarklyboojumTitle: Memento Mori
Author: Misty
Prompt: Memento
Character/Pairing(s): Ianto/Lisa, Ianto/Jack
Rating: Let’s go with R for violence, language, andtwo guys making out adult situations.
Warnings: Needles, home-made tattoos, temporary character death, and weird storytelling.
Spoilers: Pre-series, post Canary Wharf. AU like whoa. No real spoilers for Memento aside from the narrative structure and a few lines too good not to borrow.
Word Count: 24,152
Disclaimer for TW and the movie you are using: It’s their beach; I’m just building castles on it and waiting for the tide. Torchwood is owned by RTD and the BBC. Memento is owned by Newmarket Films and Christopher Nolan.
Summary: “The palest ink is better than the best memory.” - Chinese Proverb
Betas: The fantastic![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
wynkat1313 and a_silver_story, who were quite patient with me about this whole thing.
Author's Notes: Special thanks to the mods of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
reel_torchwood for being overwhelmingly generous. Lisa’s tattoo looks like this, only without the horizontal lines. Oh, and if you’re considering getting a tattoo please see a professional artist rather than doing it yourself. Your body will thank you.
BEFORE YOU READ: This was too long to post in a single livejournal entry so I was forced to split it up. Please keep in mind that it’s meant to be read as a continuous piece and the division of parts doesn’t really matter. You can either view it on my lj by following the link below or download the entire fic via Google Docs here or as a PDF from Google Docs here.
we are the hollow men
we are the stuffed men
leaning together
headpiece filled with straw. alas!
There’s blood and bits of other things sliding down the wall, though Ianto tries not to look too closely as he calls up the camera application on his PDA. His hands are steady when he focuses the lens on the still body before him. A simple click and it’s there forever, pixelated evidence of what he’s done.
He stares at the blinking cursor for a moment, unsure how to label something like this. Companion Number One, he types, Captain Jack Harkness.
He saves the image to a new folder and turns off his PDA, his Guide. The screen dims slowly into the darkness of the building. Knees shaking, he lowers himself to the floor, careful to avoid the blood pooling around the corpse. Ianto sits in a bit of sunlight streaming through a broken window and wonders how many times he has to do this before the Doctor comes and stops him.
* * *
The room is…well, it’s just a room. Just some anonymous room with bad lighting and scratchy sheets. It feels like the first time you’ve been there but you’re not sure; you could have been resting on the bed for days - months. This could be your empty room in your empty house for all you know. But no, there’s nothing you recognize except for a messenger bag by the door. The nightstand’s drawers are empty except for a note about how to dial an outside line on the phone.
It’s a little frightening, not knowing where you are or how you got there. The windows look out onto a dreary street, though the haze in the distance and birds in the sky mean the sea’s not too far away. It’s like a thousand other streets you’ve seen; you could be in London or Wales or Venezuela, for all you know. The uncertainty isn’t a new feeling, it’s just unsettling.
You may not know where you are, but you do know who you are and what you’re meant to be doing. There are just… holes in your mind where memories should be. The last thing you remember is smoke and heat and metal so you try not to think about it.
Your suit jacket is hanging in the closet, the inside pocket reassuringly heavy. The PDA inside is still quietly running the search program; it will alert you if anything important happens, so you take a moment for inventory. There’s a paper bag on the bed next to you stuffed with pens, sewing needles still in their packaging, thread, shaving cream, and a razor. A note is crammed against the side of the bag, instructions to shave your right thigh and the tattoo you should place there. You stare at the words for a moment, thinking about what they mean.
Still, you always make it a point to trust your own handwriting and that wonky little f could come from no one else.
Time to start shaving.
* * *
There’s a huge SUV parked outside the warehouse when the taxi pulls up, the conspicuous type designed to guzzle gas and intimidate tourists at zebra crossings. The man leaning against it is about as subtle - the period military coat and designer shades make for a shiny anachronism in the morning sun. He greets Ianto with a grin and pays for the taxi before Ianto can even get out of the backseat.
The man’s expression remains fixed after the taxi pulls away, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. Ianto’s hackles rise. Those teeth are far too bright to be real. Maybe this stranger is an alien, and Ianto’s escorting him somewhere for Torchwood? He feels for a note in his right trouser pocket but the man speaks before Ianto can do more than grasp the bit of paper nestled inside.
“Nice suit, Ianto. Not really appropriate for the area, though. Of all the places in Cardiff to meet, I still don’t understand why you picked here.” The man has an American accent. Ianto supposes that explains the teeth, anyway.
He squints against the brightness, fingering the paper but not yet taking it out. “It’s quiet and deserted. No one will bother us here.” He recognizes the old warehouse from his misspent youth - the home of nefarious schemes and drug deals. There’s a weight at the back of his belt that suggests this isn’t altogether a virtuous meeting, either, and he tugs at his jacket, hoping to settle anything that might have gotten jostled on the ride over.
The grin quirks up at the side and Ianto’s mouth waters, inexplicably. “You and me, out here all alone… Whatever shall I do with you?” He sticks out a hand to shake and Ianto grips it reflexively. “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three. You know, I used to consider myself unforgettable until you came along.”
The Captain’s thumb rubs against the soft part of Ianto’s wrist before pulling smoothly away. It’s subtle but only in the most obvious way possible, and the look in the Captain’s eye suggests that the rumors about Torchwood Three were true, after all.
Ianto takes a deep breath and straightens his tie. “I assume you’ve heard about my condition. I-“
“Have lost the ability to form short term memories due to a head injury and an overdose of retcon. Yeah, you might have mentioned it once or twice.” The Captain gives him a long look, the smile slowly fading from his eyes.
Ianto stares back, uncomfortable in the silence. He knows that look. Captain Harkness is trying to gauge whether or not Ianto remembers the last time they met each other - if they’ve met each other at all. It’s possible he’s trying to catch Ianto in a lie or prove he’s faking his condition. It seems like a forfeit to read the note in his pocket, though there’s little doubt in his mind that it would tell him why he was meeting Harkness here.
He’s just about to break and ask what two Torchwood agents are doing meeting at an abandoned warehouse in the middle of Cardiff when Harkness spins on his heel and heads toward the front doors of the building. Ianto takes a moment to appreciate the dramatic whirl of his coat then follows quickly behind.
It’s shadowy and dark inside the warehouse compared to the brilliance of the early morning outside, and Ianto nearly runs headlong into the broad back of Captain Harkness, stopped just a few paces from the door. Blinking to adjust his vision, Ianto can barely make out a dark smear on the floor in front of them. It’s hard to tell whether it's blood or some kind of machine oil - with the history of the place, Ianto assumes it could be either.
Harkness crouches for a better look, tucking the sunglasses into the open 'V' of his dress shirt. While he’s distracted Ianto pulls the paper out of his pocket and reads it quickly. It’s torn from the notepad he keeps with him at all times and written in his own messy script.
CJ Harkness is a companion. KILL HIM! Do it for Lisa.
Ianto feels strangely detached. Calm. Like the heartbeat pounding in his ears belongs to someone else. The weight at the small of his back makes much more sense now. I’ve finally found one, he thinks. How long have I been looking?
He pulls the gun – an antique Webley of all things - and takes careful aim between the Captain’s broad shoulders. Harkness straightens from his crouch though his eyes remain fixed on the stain. “It was never meant to get this far, Ianto. Someone’s messing with you, changing your information. It’s not safe anymore.” He sighs and wipes his hands together, brushing away invisible grime. “There’s an island I want to take you to. It’s small, out of the way. More like a hospital than anything else. It wasn’t ready when you were first injured, but now… I checked with the head nurse this morning. I think you’d be helpful there. You’d be safe.”
Hospital. Ianto’s been in Torchwood long enough to know their idea of a safe hospital. He can actually feel his body kick-start at the idea of being forced into a place like that, nerves jangling through his arm and making his hand twitch on the grip of the gun.
Keep calm, he tells himself. Keep calm. Do it for Lisa.
Harkness turns at the small click of the safety going off. His whole body seems to droop at the sight of the Webley. “Oh,” he sighs, “not this again.”
“I’m not going to any hospital, Captain. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be.”
“Ianto, put the gun down.”
“No. I have to kill you. If I do then the timeline will fracture and the Doctor will come to fix it.” And then Ianto would make him do the same for Lisa and Canary Wharf. Somehow. “The Doctor will come if I kill you.”
“No.” The barrel reflects huge in the captain’s eyes; for one terrifying moment Ianto wonders if he’s made a mistake. “He really won’t.”
Ianto takes a deep breath and adjusts his aim on Harkness’ chest. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand, but I have to do this. It’s for the greater good. The world isn’t supposed to be like this - surely you can see that? Once everything’s better it will be like your death never happened. You’ll be fine.”
“Time travel doesn’t work that way, Ianto. I should know. You can’t fix what’s already broken... and I was a fool to try.” Harkness raises his empty hands but takes a step closer, stopping when Ianto raises the gun pointedly to his head. They stare at each other for a moment.
Ianto can feel the time ticking further away, his thoughts getting hazy. If this drags on any longer there’s a danger he’ll lose it and get too confused to continue. All he has to do is tighten his finger on the trigger...
He never should have let Harkness turn around.
Ianto only realizes Harkness is moving forward again when a beam of light from the broken window makes his hair glow golden. “This isn’t you, Ianto. You don’t want to do this.”
He needs to pay more attention. Focus. “Yes, I do. And I hardly think you’re one to judge who I am.”
Another slow step; the gun is trembling inches from Harkness’ face now and he won’t stop talking, his voice a low buzz in Ianto’s ears. “I know you better than you know yourself,” he says, stepping closer still. “You see a stranger in the mirror every morning.”
“Shut up.” Don’t let him distract you.
Harkness’ eyes catch the sun, glistening bluer than the ocean. “You’re not certain of anything anymore and that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it? You don’t even know who you are.”
“Of course I know who I am. My name is Ianto Jones, I work for Torchwood One in London-”
“That’s who you were. Torchwood One doesn’t exist anymore. You don’t exist anymore. The Cybermen killed you just like they killed her.”
This time it’s Ianto stepping forward, the muzzle pushing against Harkness’ skin. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”
“But they didn’t kill her, did they? That was all—“
“I said shut it!” Ianto rushes forward, pressing the gun hard against Harkness’ forehead and leaning in, the grip hot in his hand.
Harkness leans right back, staring past the gun into Ianto’s eyes. “I can do this all day, Ianto. Is that what you want? Will killing me make you happy?”
Ianto’s teeth grind together and he pushes the sound from between clenched jaws. “Yes.”
He pulls the trigger, recoil pounding up his arm. Harkness’ head rocks back, blood and brains spattering a Rorschach on the wall behind him. The gun falls from Ianto’s numb hand, echoing when it hits the floor the same time as the body.
He stares at the mess for a moment, heartbeat slowing, then pulls the Guide from his inside jacket pocket and opens the camera application.
* * *
Tattoos always remind you of Lisa. She’d designed six and was working on a seventh before she died. She often joked that if the “alien thing” didn’t work out she could always open her own tattoo parlor, add a couple piercings, and be a real punk girl. You’d have to work reception there, handle appointments and do the accounting. Dye your hair pink to match the dress shirt she bought you for your birthday.
It was a good fantasy, one that got you through hours of interviews and filing, even after the ghosts appeared and management went insane. There was never a post-Torchwood scenario where you weren’t together, scaring the tourists on Piccadilly. Though for all your imaginings you knew deep inside that the two of you would never leave Torchwood. And even if you did you weren’t likely to remember working there or having met each other, anyway.
Researching the effects of retcon made that very clear, if nothing else.
Until the day Torchwood struck them down, Lisa kept her tattoos limited to places she could hide with sleek suit jackets or tailored dresses. Avant-garde expressions of self were strictly forbidden in Torchwood Tower and the bursts of color on her dark skin were always a shock when she peeled her clothes off at the end of the day. Sometimes you’d peel them off for her, tasting the surprise of each one with your tongue.
Your favorite rode low on her hip, just barely peeking over the cotton of her knickers. She’d returned to the flat not long after you’d moved in together with cotton taped over the new tattoo, surprisingly shy about showing it off. You pulled the small strip off in the end, sinking to your knees to better to see what mark she’d taken without telling you first. The thin overlapping circles looked like ripples on a pond, or like the Celtic swirls on a stone you’d seen in the museum on your second date. Their flow along her skin appeared organic, though there was a simple maths to the curves that begged for touching. When you asked her what they meant she’d mumbled something like chamber or maybe coffee, you couldn’t be sure. Lisa was always smarter than you and saw how the world connected differently than other people did.
She’d eventually run her thumb over your eyebrow and whispered, “They remind me of you.”
You spent hours that night ghosting your mouth over the rings, getting lost in the patterns and gentling the tender skin until Lisa moaned and pushed your head lower and to the left.
Tattoos were never the same for you as they were for Lisa. You’d played with the idea of getting one when she’d been alive - a stylized L on your thigh, maybe – but needles make you queasy and you could never quite work yourself up to it. Now they weren’t an expression of anyone’s art or passion but an essential part of the system that allows you to function. A necessary way of keeping information with you, no matter the circumstances.
Still, you’re glad Lisa was an ink-junkie - with the confidentiality agreement you signed on your employment at Torchwood you couldn’t let just any tosser with a needle have at you. You’ve had to do most of the tricky bits yourself. The preparations are almost ritual by now: Drink a few shots from the hotel mini bar to bolster your embarrassingly low pain threshold and to keep your hands from shaking too badly. Disinfect the needle - just in case – then tie the thread to the side. Let the thread soak up the ink from the broken pens. Take another shot. Make sure your design is exactly what you want to say.
Lisa would have hated the rustic quality of the lettering – she abhorred home-made tattoos - but what the tattoos lack in style they make up for in reliability. Your own handwriting anchored under your skin is something you can trust. The words are truth and you know it without question. You always will.
The phone on the nightstand goes off just as you break open the first biro, ink seeping into the towel you’ve cushioned on your leg. You manage to grab it before the second ring, jostling the headset into place between your shoulder and ear. The unfamiliar voice on the other end is almost lost over your heart pounding in your ears. You can’t think why anyone would be calling you, let alone in some random hotel room.
“Hello? Who is this?”
* * *
The sunlight’s just creeping onto the tabletop when an alarm goes off, startling Ianto into nearly dropping the vibrating PDA. Quickly minimizing the file he was reading, Ianto opens the search application flashing in the corner of the screen.
A tutorial begins automatically when he opens the program, explaining the altered blood cells it’s programmed to search for and how Torchwood modified the PDA to scan every human within an expanding radius for them. The tutorial references his own notes on the Doctor and how known companions interviewed by Torchwood all had the same abnormal biochemistry. It reminds him that the only predictable way to control the Doctor is through his companions.
He hurriedly skips to the end of the tutorial – there’s nothing there he doesn’t know already – and the results of the latest scan spill onto the screen. It’s immediately apparent what caused the alarm: the search came back positive.
There was a companion in Cardiff. Granted, the city and era had the highest concentration of Doctor-sightings anywhere in the world (which Ianto still found hard to believe) but to actually find a companion in this current time so quickly… The Doctor had access to all of space and time. The odds of finding someone in Cardiff right now that he’d deemed important enough to abduct and drag along for the ride were practically impossible. Ianto had only tried in the first place as a desperate final attempt to track the Doctor’s movements. To actually locate a companion must mean the timeline was wrong, that it was meant to be fixed.
Ianto’s plan will work. It’s the only chance he has of forcing the Doctor’s hand; surely such a being kept track of his chosen few? If they were in danger he’d appear to help them… or at least to avenge their deaths, if nothing else. It’s the only hope Ianto has.
He reads through the search results quickly, rubbing absently at a bit of soreness in his shoulder. It was a single signature, the mutated cells so concentrated that the companion lit up the screen like Piccadilly Circus. The readings were coming from somewhere near the Millennium Centre, according to the map overlay.
Fuck. He could walk there from here.
Though the search program tagged most people with a number, a select few – those that donate blood locally or have had a previous experience with Torchwood – have a name listed as well. The blinking cursor labels the companion as “C J Harkness”.
Why does that name sound familiar? Ianto’s sure he’s heard it somewhere before.
Minimizing the scan results, Ianto searches for the word “Harkness” in the accessible parts of the Archive on his PDA. The lovely Guide has almost the entire Doctor File and even some files normally too classified for Ianto to access without additional clearance. He’s lucky to have access to anything at all – it’s a breach in national security to export archival information away from Torchwood property. The contact that copied the files for him must either really like Ianto or really hate Torchwood.
Only one entry for the name: a candid photo of a grinning man he can only assume is C J Harkness. The image is hosted in his private gallery of all places, which means he must have taken the picture himself. Ianto had been close enough to a companion to take his picture and didn’t do anything about it? Had he not known?
The label under the picture is brief but tells him everything he needs to know: CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies.
Of course. The legendary Captain Jack of Torchwood Three. Rumors about the enigmatic leader ran - had run rampant through the Tower. It’s fairly obvious now that they were all true. Ianto pulls a thin pad of paper and pen from the left pocket of his jacket and hastily scribbles a note: CJ Harkness is a companion.
The Guide dings again - a different sound this time - and Ianto nearly jumps out of his skin as it vibrates right off the table. He catches it in his right hand, bounces it to his left and narrowly avoids dropping it by slamming it against his thigh. A brief burst of pain flickers through his leg but fades to a dull throb after a moment. He breathes carefully to calm his heart, and then looks at the screen.
The calendar icon is blinking. He taps it and a meeting reminder opens. Ten a.m. – Meet with Jack. 1975 Lobel Drive. Jack. Awfully informal for a Captain of Torchwood. The only thing on Lobel Drive was an abandoned warehouse that Ianto used to knock around in as a kid. That’s assuming it hasn’t been torn down and replaced with a Starbucks in the years since he’s been in town.
Ianto rubs at his shoulder and tries to think things through. He must have already contacted the companion and arranged a meeting. No turning back now. God, could he really going to go through with this? Could he kill another human being, even if the deed would be erased when time reset itself? And what was he going to kill him with - his bare hands?
Closing the calendar application brings up the Guide’s desktop wallpaper. DON’T PANIC, it says, in large friendly letters. His mind conjures up a perfect image of Lisa reading at the kitchen table in her pajamas, coffee mug forgotten and cold on the counter top behind her. He used to tease her about reading science fiction. She’d flip him the bird and flash the 42 tattooed on her arm.
He puts the Guide away in the proper pocket and returns to the note. KILL HIM! he adds. Do it for Lisa. The note is placed in his right trouser pocket.
Rising from his chair and in a hurry to keep his appointment, he trips over the messenger bag laying at his feet. Embarrassed at almost forgetting it (again) he nearly misses the dull thump when his toe connects with what should be an empty side pocket. He ducks into an alley next to the café on the way out; he doesn’t want to cause a fuss pulling something alien out of his bag in the middle of a crowded café and one never knew when dealing with Torchwood.
Instead of some alien artifact there is a gun stuffed tight in the pocket. A very old Webley from the look of it, with three rounds left in the cylinder. Well. That solves one problem.
Ianto tucks the gun into the waistband of his trousers - the suit jacket loose enough to cover any suspicious bulges. He takes one more deep breath and steps out to hail a taxi.
* * *
“Prove it.”
The string of numbers and letters coming from the headset are perfect, though the cadence and rhythm is a little off. It’s certainly possible that the codes haven’t changed since Canary Wharf, though you can’t help but think that they must have. The agent could be using outdated codes to get you to talk, but really, what would be the point?
You catch the writing the back of your left hand out of the corner of your eye. Good advice, you think, and turn back to what you were doing before the phone rang.
Cradling the headset against your shoulder, you quickly run the lighter along the length of the sewing needle to sterilize it. The agent on the other end of the line keeps talking, apologizing for bothering you in your hotel. “No, I understand,” you reply. “You have to follow procedure about things like this. I have to be cautious because of my condition, that’s all. You know about my condition, right? I mean, if you’re calling for a status update then I’m sure you already know about that.”
You listen for a moment and check the paper in front of you a final time to be sure of letter placement and spelling. The first needle prick into your skin is sharp, but not unbearable. It’s relatively easy to keep your voice steady when you answer their question.
“I just prefer to talk to people in person. It’s easier to gauge their reaction that way. Well, it used to be part of my job.” It’s surprising the agent doesn’t know that already if they’re in charge of your case. “Why, what does it say in my file? Oh. I was part of the team studying the effects of retcon. Had to interview the subjects when the scientists were done with them and then compile their recognition pre- and post-retcon.”
One letter done and you take another shot from the bottle at your side for fortitude. Probably not the best idea while on the phone, but you always were good at multitasking.
“It’s a valid research project no matter what the field agents say. We know retcon affects the part of the brain that creates memory, but not how or how much of the drug should be used per event in relation to the effected timescale. If an agent gets the dosage wrong then you could have a civilian unable to form new memories or access old ones. It’s enforced brain damage; you can’t just lob pills in the water supply and hope for the best. There’s a science to it.”
* * *
The café is busy this early in the morning, but Ianto’s able to find a small table near the front windows. The city outside looks a little like Cardiff, though he last remembers being in London. Still, no reason to worry about it when breakfast was cooling on the table. Tucking the messenger bag on his shoulder between his feet he takes a bite of the warm bacon and egg sandwich, only realizing after the grease hits his tongue exactly how hungry he is. He swallows the whole thing in three bites and is well into the other pastry when a woman Ianto’s never met before slides into the chair opposite him, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. She’s pretty in a librarian sort of way - not quite his type but lovely all the same. Ianto makes an effort to chew gracefully; given her expression, though, his cheeks must still puff out like a cartoon chipmunk’s.
There’s a loose strand of hair artfully framing her face. She moves it out of her eyes with a knuckle, making herself comfortable at Ianto’s table. “Sorry it took so long, they had to run into the back for more milk. I’ve got your espresso, though I -- Are you eating my croissant?”
Ianto swallows, guiltily. “Um. Yes?”
The woman frowns but passes the coffee to him anyway. “That’s all right. I’ll get another one on the way out and take it back to the Hub. You must have been hungry.”
She sips daintily from her cup – something with chai from the smell – and Ianto feels around in his inside jacket pocket as unobtrusively as possible.
It’s empty. His PDA is gone. It’s not in any of his other pockets and a quick check of the floor around his feet comes up short of anything but crumbs. The messenger bag is zipped tight and he would never put the Guide in there. He must have left it somewhere - oh shit - he left it and now he’s stuck in a Starbucks with a woman he doesn’t know who hasn’t stopped smiling at him since she sat down. What the fuck was he going to do?
He returns the woman’s smile - strained a little after witnessing his frantic searching - and attempts to think rationally enough to calm his shaking hands. The Guide was gone; he has to get through the moment before he can do anything about it. Feel out the situation. Nothing to worry about. The PDA would probably turn up in the lost and found somewhere soon, anyway. He can handle a little conversation without it.
Ianto sets the remains of the croissant down, carefully wiping his buttery fingers on his napkin. The woman is watching him expectantly, fiddling with the lid of her drink. The whole thing is unbearably awkward. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I have this condition-”
“Oh!” Her skin darkens ever so slightly in a blush, the rose on her cheeks highlighting full lips and dark eyes. Yes, definitely librarian-pretty. “I’m sorry, Ianto, I completely forgot! It’s not like me, I’m so sorry. My name is Toshiko Sato. I work for Torchwood Three.”
Ianto’s spine snaps straight at the mention of Torchwood and the memories of what happened there. Three was in Cardiff - so he was back - and had a very small employee base. Higher mortality rate than One or Two, based on the statistics from the last fifty years. And then there were all those rumors. Even the one about the bipedal space dog, which Ianto finds a little hard to believe.
He pushes his untouched coffee across the table towards Ms. Sato. “If this is about Canary Wharf I should warn you that retcon doesn’t work on me anymore. It’s useless to even try.”
The smile fades from her lovely mouth as quickly as the steam dissolving from their mugs. “What? No! Is that what you think? No.” One of Toshiko’s earrings gets tangled in the loose strand of hair when she shakes her head. “I would never do that to you, Ianto. This is just breakfast. Two friends going out for breakfast. The coffee’s just coffee, though it’s probably getting cold. It’s safe, I swear.”
“I don’t know anyone from Torchwood Three.”
She tugs at her earring, the small beads only knotting further. “We helped in your rehabilitation. You needed some therapy after... um, your injury, and we were in the best position to offer it. You were in our base last night and I asked you out for coffee this morning. That’s all. There’s no need for retcon or secrets.”
She glances down at his left wrist and Ianto notices writing there for the first time. Trust Torchwood, in his own inelegant scrawl. It doesn’t come off when he rubs a thumb over it and he thinks about what that means. A tattoo is truth, a way to carry information without question… After a moment he reaches over to help untangle her earring, the hair silky against his fingers. Studs really would be far more practical in her line of work but Ianto isn’t going to mention it now. She blushes again at the contact and he can’t help but wonder exactly what he was doing in their base the night before.
He snags his coffee on the way back across the table, taking a careful sip. It doesn’t really matter if the drink is retconned, anyway – he won’t remember this conversation in twenty minutes one way or the other. The espresso is exactly as he likes it; dark, with a hint of sweetness. Just like his women, he thinks, and immediately feels ashamed. That his inner sarcasm has grown an American accent is a worry for another day.
“Sorry,” he says. “With my condition it’s hard to trust people. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Her smile is smaller this time, and her eyes lower to the table and back again. “I’m not insulted, just embarrassed. I don’t normally forget things like this. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
He’s beginning to wonder if they’ll spend the whole meal apologizing to one another when she pulls a small black square out of her bag. Ianto grabs it out of her hands, immediately thumbing the power button on the side. The PDA comes to life with a cheery little hum and Ianto can actually feel the tension sliding out of his body as the wallpaper brightens into existence. DON’T PANIC, in large friendly letters.
He pushes the thoughts of Lisa aside and begins familiarizing himself with the programs and information linked on the desktop, scanning the notes he’s written in lieu of file names. He opens the Battle of Canary Wharf document with a lump in his throat.
The Cybermen come from an alternate universe, accessible to our own via the ghost shifts. Several Daleks used the shift as well, fighting the Cybermen inside Torchwood Tower. Low in numbers, the Cybermen converted Torchwood staff to fight the battle for them. This you know.
The Doctor - held prisoner for a short time by Torchwood One - stopped the battle and defeated both alien fronts, though it is unclear how. The Doctor then abandoned the survivors (twenty-seven, not including those partially converted or missing in action) to the fire consuming levels four through thirteen and escaped using the TARDIS (see DF10693). It has been suggested that his then-companion (an unidentified Caucasian woman, blonde) was killed during the battle.
It is the Doctor and his manipulation of the TARDIS that have the greatest possibility for reversing the events of Canary Wharf, though the alien is notoriously erratic and unpredictable. Access to a time machine makes him doubly so. There is only one constant when dealing with the Doctor: he will have a companion nearby. His dependency upon and relationship with certain humans is a weakness that can be exploited if handled delicately.
A cough from across the table makes him jump guiltily in his seat. The woman – Tomiko? Toshiko? - is still there, taking a final demure sip of her coffee. Ianto concentrates hard for a moment, focusing on what they were talking about a few moments ago. Toshiko. Her name is Toshiko.
He minimizes the file, slipping the PDA into his inner jacket pocket and offering a sheepish smile. She swallows her drink and waves a hand at him. “Oh, I understand completely. I’ve been caught up in tech before myself. Sort of an occupational hazard, actually.” She nods at his PDA. “Jack left it on my desk last night. The screen was cracked, remember? It was easy to fix, so I got it done first thing this morning. I took the liberty of recharging the battery and running a few maintenance programs for you. It should work even better now than it did before; a few of the programs were seriously corrupted, probably from accessing the databases remotely. I should have given it back right away but I suppose it must have slipped my mind. Things have been a little hectic lately…”
Ianto nods, though he has no idea who Jack is or how the Guide was damaged. He should make a note to be more careful with it – there was information stored inside that shouldn’t be available to the public. Hell, if Torchwood knew what he was doing…
He holds his own cooling espresso just in front of his face, blocking his expression from her line of sight. “Did you read any of the files? There’s some sensitive information archived in there.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.” Toshiko’s earrings are in danger of getting tangled in her hair from all the swinging. Studs would be far more practical in her line of work but Ianto is hardly going to suggest it now. “I didn’t even turn it on; Torchwood can gain remote access using our mainframe. We thought it was a good idea in case you, you know, forgot to charge it or left it in the loo or something.”
His breakfast churns in his stomach, the rising acid threatening to burn a hole straight through his waistcoat. Torchwood’s had access to his files all this time? What if they found his plans for the Doctor? What if they changed something without his knowing?
But the tattoo on his hand tells him not to worry. He strokes it, searching for the truth in his mind. Trust Torchwood. Trust Torchwood.
Toshiko continues, unaware that Ianto was moments away from bolting from his chair. “It’s a good thing you brought it in when you did. It’s fascinating technology, really, a mix of earth and alien matrices working together. I’m not sure where Suzie dug it up but I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look if you ever feel like upgrading.”
Ianto smiles politely but keeps the Guide securely in his pocket, uncomfortable with the gleam in her eye. “Thank you for your help, Toshiko. I’d be lost without it.”
“You’re welcome. I’m surprised Suzie didn’t notice the corruption the last time she scanned it for you. This has been her project from the beginning, though I’m normally the one doing tech-things. I had my hands full with One’s debris at the time and she wanted to help you. You’re one of the few things she has kept an interest in lately - you and that bloody glove.”
A cheerful sound interrupts her just as Ianto’s pocket vibrates. Toshiko’s shoulders tighten; he’s eerily reminded of One’s field agents springing to alert at an alarm. “Is that your PDA? What’s wrong with it?”
He pulls the Guide out of his pocket and absently unlocks the keypad. “Nothing, sorry. It just goes ding when there’s stuff.” The calendar icon on the Guide is blinking rapidly, reminding him of an appointment. He opens it and laughs. “Oh, look! 9:00 is breakfast time. I’m ahead of schedule today.”
Toshiko laughs, too, and the tension melts out of her shoulders. She brushes a strand of hair from her face – artfully arranged – and watches him fiddle with the Guide for a moment. “It’s good to see you again, Ianto. You had us all worried when you stopped coming round. Jack, especially, though he’d never admit it.”
Who’s Jack? He takes another sip of coffee, grimaces, and sets it down. Cold. He hates cold coffee. “You needn’t worry, Toshiko. I’m fine. I have projects to keep me busy and this to keep me sane.” He waves the PDA before setting it down on the table. “It’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s my life. I’m functioning. I’m fine.”
“You’re fine.” Her voice is softer, contemplative, and Ianto is sure she knows he’s lying. There’s only one thing in the universe that could make him fine. “Tell me about her. Please?”
“Why?” He considers playing dumb for a moment but, really, what’s the point? There was only one her she could possibly mean, anyway.
“Because you like remembering her.” She’s blushing again, charmingly. “And because I like watching you remember her. Your smile is a little more real then.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair, watching people walk past the window. “What can I say? She was smart and gorgeous. Way out of my league, but-”
“No.” Tosh’s hand on his wrist is warm; it feels like a long time since anyone’s touched him. “Don’t just say the words. Close your eyes and remember her. The way she was.”
Ianto sighs and does as she asks – closes his eyes and thinks about Lisa. Within moments his senses are swimming in her: the way she smelled, tasted, looked. Lisa is always easy to conjure, a specter skirting the boundaries of his mind. Like she’s hidden forever just beyond the corner of his eye.
Despite – or perhaps because of - her nearness, it’s hard to talk about her, to explain to Toshiko why he loves her so much. “All I have left are pieces,” he says. “Little things I never considered important. That I never put into words. All these little moments…”
The smell of old paper, waterlogged and loved.
Painting her toenails to match his ties. Laughing when he paints his, too.
Leaving all the dishes dirty in the sink, except for the coffee mugs and her favorite cereal bowl.
Lilies, always lilies.
“And then I have these extreme thoughts; flashes of feeling. Of want.”
The curve of the sun on her skin and how soft it feels under his lips.
The gleam of metal in her ears and ink under her skirt.
Circles spooling down her hip like ripples in a lake.
“I put all these thoughts together and I get the feeling of her, of someone I love. I miss her so much it hurts to breathe. I think about how I lost her and how I hate what took her away. How I’ll do anything to get her back.”
Fire reflecting in the metallic wetness of her cheek, powdery grit falling from his hair onto her face. Ash and retcon in his mouth.
Her smile.
He opens his eyes to find Toshiko watching him, eyes shiny. She takes a deep breath and gathers their empty breakfast things to throw away. “I hope you find it, Ianto. Whatever it is you’re looking for.” She pauses on her way past to kiss him gently on the cheek, just barely grazing his skin with her lips. It’s like being kissed by a ghost.
She’s almost out the door when he gathers his wits enough to call her name. Toshiko turns, and the click of the camera on his PDA is almost lost in the busy café. “Something to remember you by,” he tells her, and her smile is blinding.
“My contact information is listed in the maintenance file. Call me anytime.” And then she’s gone, out of the door and into the sunlight rising in full force outside.
He settles back into his chair and saves the image of Toshiko in his files, cross-referencing it to the maintenance file she mentioned. Like all the shots taken by the PDA the details are grainy and pixelated , but he thinks he’s captured the sadness in her eyes. Toshiko Sato, he types, a friend. Good with technology. Call her “anytime”.
He examines the other icons on the desktop, restarting the search program and reviewing the files Torchwood has on Canary Wharf and the Doctor’s involvement there. The sunlight’s just creeping onto the tabletop when the alarm goes off, startling him into nearly dropping the PDA vibrating in his hands.
* * *
“I was part of the team researching Compound B67 and its effects. Just took notes and ran data, but it was interesting work. Before the experiments field agents just dosed witnesses by estimated age and body weight, which is inaccurate and leaves all kinds of space for loopholes. With the new information on how the chemical interacted with the brain we could make drug administration more precise and less damaging.”
The rhythm of the story takes hold of Ianto’s mind, helping him ignore the pain of the needle. His hands continue their work without him telling them to do so, the words appearing on his skin like magic.
“The scientists would pay some daft student fifty quid to memorize something – a set of numbers or a poem – and I’d quiz them on it and their activities throughout the day. It was important to set up a timeline of events so that we could establish how much memory was lost depending on dosage. Usually memory loss was preceded by drowsiness and loss of motor skills; I’d give them a retcon tablet and send them to sleep it off in one of the labs. We’d measure how long it took to take affect and how the brain reacted to it.”
Lisa had made you a badge to wear on Thursdays: Do not operate heavy machinery while deleting the MiB from your brain. Thursdays were always black-suit-white-shirt-black-tie day in your color-coded wardrobe. You’d thought it was hilarious until your supervisor caught you wearing the badge and gave you hell for it.
“After an hour or so I’d wake the student up and quiz them again to see how much they could recall. The goal was to target the specific information we provided them but leave the rest of their daily activity intact. It was tricky stuff. Like... they’d remember driving to the Tower but not what they did there or who they talked to. After a session we’d call them back a month later to see how well the short term memory translated into long term, and what kind of effect the retcon was having on their brain.
“Altogether the study was going very well. We were learning a lot of new things and refining how to contain the public’s exposure to events Torchwood deemed too dangerous or complicated for them to know about.”
You pause, taking a moment to break another biro.
“Once we knew how retcon worked we could get to the real reason for the study. Every agent knows that it’s possible to reverse the effects of retcon given proper stimuli, usually visual or aural in nature – it’s why most of us keep a handwritten diary hidden away somewhere. My department was trying to work around that, but it was proving difficult. A few subjects remembered their poem after I specifically asked them about it. Others remembered when contacted for the follow-up examination. One guy even remembered my name after he heard my accent over the phone. That’s a potentially dangerous issue for our field agents.”
The laughter comes easy when the agent finally gets a word in edgewise. “Thank you for saying so,” you respond, “but let’s leave my vowels out of this for the moment, shall we?”
* * *
There’s a fresh suit laying on the bed when he gets out of the shower, with the dry cleaning tag still attached to the hanger and a note taped to the tie.
Ianto –
Your PDA is in good hands - don’t panic! It will be ready soon. You left these here the last time you stayed over at the Hub. I grabbed your bag out of the SUV, too.
You always did look good in this suit.
See you after breakfast.
- Jack
The handwriting on the note is unfamiliar, as is the name of the person who wrote it (Jack?) but the clothes are in his size and of a decent quality. His muddy shoes and messenger bag are laying on the floor next to a dirty pair of trousers and a matching suit jacket, though the shirt is conspicuously absent. He transfers the contents of his pockets carefully before tucking the dirty clothes inside his bag for cleaning later. There’s just enough space in the jacket and trousers for his items to be arranged properly.
Feeling a little ridiculous but hoping to find his errant PDA, Ianto climbs the stairs hanging from a hole in the ceiling. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he mutters and rises into an office like none other he’s ever seen before: everything’s crumbling stone and shiny steel, with large glass windows and an art deco desk. What looks like an ancient wall safe takes up most of one corner while state of the art monitors and unrecognizable equipment take up the others. There’s a piece of coral randomly taking pride of place under the desk lamp. Ianto counts no fewer than fifteen empty coffee containers, the mold inside probably growing more sentient by the second.
He sneaks a peek at the towering inbox to discover the Torchwood letterhead and improperly filed requisition forms. He’d heard rumors about the other two branches while at London, of course; that Three was led by the crazy, charismatic, coffee-and-coitus-craving Captain Harkness and that Two was, well, weird. He supposes he might be inside either one of those places if the state of this office was anything to go by.
One of the windows has spirals drawn on it in pen. They remind Ianto of the tattoo on Lisa’s hip. He desperately wants the Guide to tell him what to do.
Looking around a final time he takes a deep breath, rubs a thumb over the words written on his hand, and leaves the office.
The room outside is just as inscrutable but on a much grander scale. Everything is shiny and new but has enough retro flair to make a steampunk burst into paroxysms. The cables and wires littering the ground resemble nothing so much as the roots of a bizarre metallic tree, the trunk of which rises straight through the center of the room and right out of the cavernous ceiling.
This Torchwood is impressive, there’s no denying that, but Ianto finds himself hesitant to actually touch anything. For all its technological splendor it looks as though a tornado of takeaway boxes, paperwork, and broken machinery had torn through the atrium, leaving piles of refuse in its wake. There’s puddles of water everywhere, which is a clear safety hazard given the amount of electricity that must be running through the building. There’s also an odor coming from one of the doors leading out of the room that smells distinctly of shut in animal, which Ianto really doesn’t want to think about.
There’s a woman sitting in the epicenter of the mess surrounded by computer monitors and bits of tech Ianto can’t identify. She looks up at his polite cough and he can see lines of code reflected in the lenses of her glasses. “Good morning, Ianto! Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.” Ianto automatically returns her smile, and upon closer reflection realizes that it might actually be true. His mind feels sharp and his body relaxed, aside from the occasional twinge in his shoulder and thigh. He’d never slept particularly soundly, even before the Battle, so a full night’s rest is always something to be grateful for.
The woman takes off her glasses and brushes an artfully arranged strand of hair out of her face. She reminds him of a rather pretty librarian or scientist – lovely but distant. Ianto checks his right pocket for a note one more time, though he already knows that it’s empty.
Without a hint it was always best to start at the beginning. He reaches out a hand to shake, polite smile still firmly in place. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have this condition-“
She takes his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “I know. You suffer from anterograde amnesia: a condition in which the brain is unable to form new declarative memories - in your case following a severe head injury. You can still learn new skills and habits after extended repetition, but the day to day stuff is gone in about twenty minutes. My name is Toshiko Sato, by the way.” She gestures around her with her other hand. “This is Torchwood Three, Cardiff branch.”
“Ahh.” Ianto arches a brow. “That wouldn’t happen to be Doctor Sato, would it? You explain the medical jargon better than I do.”
“Strangely enough, I have been called ‘doctor’ before. It’s just that I read your case file after Canary Wharf. We helped you recover as best we could.” She shrugs away the apparent invasion of his privacy and powers down two of the three monitors at her desk. The third is streaming a complicated series of numbers that makes Ianto’s head spin. It’s either a screensaver or a Doomsday Clock, though he couldn’t say for sure which.
Toshiko smiles reassuringly at him. “Still, that was a long time ago and you’re much better now. It’s nice to see you again, Ianto. Suzie said not to expect you to drop by the Hub anymore, since you’re checking in by phone now, but I kept expecting to find you at one of the crime scenes. They were all within a couple miles of your hotel.”
“Crime scenes?”
“Oh, forget I said anything. I’m just worrying for no reason.” She grabs her purse and stands, earrings swinging gently back and forth. “Let’s eat! Breakfast is on Torchwood today.”
Ianto’s stomach grumbles obligingly at the thought. Toshiko laughs and threads her arm through his, ladylike and old-fashioned. “Come on. Jack left some petty cash and strict instructions to feed you up before your meeting this morning. And I’m dying for a coffee.”
She steers him through the revolving door and up into the early morning sunshine of Cardiff in the spring.
* * *
Click to read on…
Author: Misty
Prompt: Memento
Character/Pairing(s): Ianto/Lisa, Ianto/Jack
Rating: Let’s go with R for violence, language, and
Warnings: Needles, home-made tattoos, temporary character death, and weird storytelling.
Spoilers: Pre-series, post Canary Wharf. AU like whoa. No real spoilers for Memento aside from the narrative structure and a few lines too good not to borrow.
Word Count: 24,152
Disclaimer for TW and the movie you are using: It’s their beach; I’m just building castles on it and waiting for the tide. Torchwood is owned by RTD and the BBC. Memento is owned by Newmarket Films and Christopher Nolan.
Summary: “The palest ink is better than the best memory.” - Chinese Proverb
Betas: The fantastic
wynkat1313 and a_silver_story, who were quite patient with me about this whole thing.Author's Notes: Special thanks to the mods of
reel_torchwood for being overwhelmingly generous. Lisa’s tattoo looks like this, only without the horizontal lines. Oh, and if you’re considering getting a tattoo please see a professional artist rather than doing it yourself. Your body will thank you.BEFORE YOU READ: This was too long to post in a single livejournal entry so I was forced to split it up. Please keep in mind that it’s meant to be read as a continuous piece and the division of parts doesn’t really matter. You can either view it on my lj by following the link below or download the entire fic via Google Docs here or as a PDF from Google Docs here.
we are the hollow men
we are the stuffed men
leaning together
headpiece filled with straw. alas!
There’s blood and bits of other things sliding down the wall, though Ianto tries not to look too closely as he calls up the camera application on his PDA. His hands are steady when he focuses the lens on the still body before him. A simple click and it’s there forever, pixelated evidence of what he’s done.
He stares at the blinking cursor for a moment, unsure how to label something like this. Companion Number One, he types, Captain Jack Harkness.
He saves the image to a new folder and turns off his PDA, his Guide. The screen dims slowly into the darkness of the building. Knees shaking, he lowers himself to the floor, careful to avoid the blood pooling around the corpse. Ianto sits in a bit of sunlight streaming through a broken window and wonders how many times he has to do this before the Doctor comes and stops him.
The room is…well, it’s just a room. Just some anonymous room with bad lighting and scratchy sheets. It feels like the first time you’ve been there but you’re not sure; you could have been resting on the bed for days - months. This could be your empty room in your empty house for all you know. But no, there’s nothing you recognize except for a messenger bag by the door. The nightstand’s drawers are empty except for a note about how to dial an outside line on the phone.
It’s a little frightening, not knowing where you are or how you got there. The windows look out onto a dreary street, though the haze in the distance and birds in the sky mean the sea’s not too far away. It’s like a thousand other streets you’ve seen; you could be in London or Wales or Venezuela, for all you know. The uncertainty isn’t a new feeling, it’s just unsettling.
You may not know where you are, but you do know who you are and what you’re meant to be doing. There are just… holes in your mind where memories should be. The last thing you remember is smoke and heat and metal so you try not to think about it.
Your suit jacket is hanging in the closet, the inside pocket reassuringly heavy. The PDA inside is still quietly running the search program; it will alert you if anything important happens, so you take a moment for inventory. There’s a paper bag on the bed next to you stuffed with pens, sewing needles still in their packaging, thread, shaving cream, and a razor. A note is crammed against the side of the bag, instructions to shave your right thigh and the tattoo you should place there. You stare at the words for a moment, thinking about what they mean.
Still, you always make it a point to trust your own handwriting and that wonky little f could come from no one else.
Time to start shaving.
There’s a huge SUV parked outside the warehouse when the taxi pulls up, the conspicuous type designed to guzzle gas and intimidate tourists at zebra crossings. The man leaning against it is about as subtle - the period military coat and designer shades make for a shiny anachronism in the morning sun. He greets Ianto with a grin and pays for the taxi before Ianto can even get out of the backseat.
The man’s expression remains fixed after the taxi pulls away, his eyes hidden behind the dark glasses. Ianto’s hackles rise. Those teeth are far too bright to be real. Maybe this stranger is an alien, and Ianto’s escorting him somewhere for Torchwood? He feels for a note in his right trouser pocket but the man speaks before Ianto can do more than grasp the bit of paper nestled inside.
“Nice suit, Ianto. Not really appropriate for the area, though. Of all the places in Cardiff to meet, I still don’t understand why you picked here.” The man has an American accent. Ianto supposes that explains the teeth, anyway.
He squints against the brightness, fingering the paper but not yet taking it out. “It’s quiet and deserted. No one will bother us here.” He recognizes the old warehouse from his misspent youth - the home of nefarious schemes and drug deals. There’s a weight at the back of his belt that suggests this isn’t altogether a virtuous meeting, either, and he tugs at his jacket, hoping to settle anything that might have gotten jostled on the ride over.
The grin quirks up at the side and Ianto’s mouth waters, inexplicably. “You and me, out here all alone… Whatever shall I do with you?” He sticks out a hand to shake and Ianto grips it reflexively. “Captain Jack Harkness, Torchwood Three. You know, I used to consider myself unforgettable until you came along.”
The Captain’s thumb rubs against the soft part of Ianto’s wrist before pulling smoothly away. It’s subtle but only in the most obvious way possible, and the look in the Captain’s eye suggests that the rumors about Torchwood Three were true, after all.
Ianto takes a deep breath and straightens his tie. “I assume you’ve heard about my condition. I-“
“Have lost the ability to form short term memories due to a head injury and an overdose of retcon. Yeah, you might have mentioned it once or twice.” The Captain gives him a long look, the smile slowly fading from his eyes.
Ianto stares back, uncomfortable in the silence. He knows that look. Captain Harkness is trying to gauge whether or not Ianto remembers the last time they met each other - if they’ve met each other at all. It’s possible he’s trying to catch Ianto in a lie or prove he’s faking his condition. It seems like a forfeit to read the note in his pocket, though there’s little doubt in his mind that it would tell him why he was meeting Harkness here.
He’s just about to break and ask what two Torchwood agents are doing meeting at an abandoned warehouse in the middle of Cardiff when Harkness spins on his heel and heads toward the front doors of the building. Ianto takes a moment to appreciate the dramatic whirl of his coat then follows quickly behind.
It’s shadowy and dark inside the warehouse compared to the brilliance of the early morning outside, and Ianto nearly runs headlong into the broad back of Captain Harkness, stopped just a few paces from the door. Blinking to adjust his vision, Ianto can barely make out a dark smear on the floor in front of them. It’s hard to tell whether it's blood or some kind of machine oil - with the history of the place, Ianto assumes it could be either.
Harkness crouches for a better look, tucking the sunglasses into the open 'V' of his dress shirt. While he’s distracted Ianto pulls the paper out of his pocket and reads it quickly. It’s torn from the notepad he keeps with him at all times and written in his own messy script.
Ianto feels strangely detached. Calm. Like the heartbeat pounding in his ears belongs to someone else. The weight at the small of his back makes much more sense now. I’ve finally found one, he thinks. How long have I been looking?
He pulls the gun – an antique Webley of all things - and takes careful aim between the Captain’s broad shoulders. Harkness straightens from his crouch though his eyes remain fixed on the stain. “It was never meant to get this far, Ianto. Someone’s messing with you, changing your information. It’s not safe anymore.” He sighs and wipes his hands together, brushing away invisible grime. “There’s an island I want to take you to. It’s small, out of the way. More like a hospital than anything else. It wasn’t ready when you were first injured, but now… I checked with the head nurse this morning. I think you’d be helpful there. You’d be safe.”
Hospital. Ianto’s been in Torchwood long enough to know their idea of a safe hospital. He can actually feel his body kick-start at the idea of being forced into a place like that, nerves jangling through his arm and making his hand twitch on the grip of the gun.
Keep calm, he tells himself. Keep calm. Do it for Lisa.
Harkness turns at the small click of the safety going off. His whole body seems to droop at the sight of the Webley. “Oh,” he sighs, “not this again.”
“I’m not going to any hospital, Captain. I’m sorry, but this is the way it has to be.”
“Ianto, put the gun down.”
“No. I have to kill you. If I do then the timeline will fracture and the Doctor will come to fix it.” And then Ianto would make him do the same for Lisa and Canary Wharf. Somehow. “The Doctor will come if I kill you.”
“No.” The barrel reflects huge in the captain’s eyes; for one terrifying moment Ianto wonders if he’s made a mistake. “He really won’t.”
Ianto takes a deep breath and adjusts his aim on Harkness’ chest. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t understand, but I have to do this. It’s for the greater good. The world isn’t supposed to be like this - surely you can see that? Once everything’s better it will be like your death never happened. You’ll be fine.”
“Time travel doesn’t work that way, Ianto. I should know. You can’t fix what’s already broken... and I was a fool to try.” Harkness raises his empty hands but takes a step closer, stopping when Ianto raises the gun pointedly to his head. They stare at each other for a moment.
Ianto can feel the time ticking further away, his thoughts getting hazy. If this drags on any longer there’s a danger he’ll lose it and get too confused to continue. All he has to do is tighten his finger on the trigger...
He never should have let Harkness turn around.
Ianto only realizes Harkness is moving forward again when a beam of light from the broken window makes his hair glow golden. “This isn’t you, Ianto. You don’t want to do this.”
He needs to pay more attention. Focus. “Yes, I do. And I hardly think you’re one to judge who I am.”
Another slow step; the gun is trembling inches from Harkness’ face now and he won’t stop talking, his voice a low buzz in Ianto’s ears. “I know you better than you know yourself,” he says, stepping closer still. “You see a stranger in the mirror every morning.”
“Shut up.” Don’t let him distract you.
Harkness’ eyes catch the sun, glistening bluer than the ocean. “You’re not certain of anything anymore and that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it? You don’t even know who you are.”
“Of course I know who I am. My name is Ianto Jones, I work for Torchwood One in London-”
“That’s who you were. Torchwood One doesn’t exist anymore. You don’t exist anymore. The Cybermen killed you just like they killed her.”
This time it’s Ianto stepping forward, the muzzle pushing against Harkness’ skin. “Shut. Your. Mouth.”
“But they didn’t kill her, did they? That was all—“
“I said shut it!” Ianto rushes forward, pressing the gun hard against Harkness’ forehead and leaning in, the grip hot in his hand.
Harkness leans right back, staring past the gun into Ianto’s eyes. “I can do this all day, Ianto. Is that what you want? Will killing me make you happy?”
Ianto’s teeth grind together and he pushes the sound from between clenched jaws. “Yes.”
He pulls the trigger, recoil pounding up his arm. Harkness’ head rocks back, blood and brains spattering a Rorschach on the wall behind him. The gun falls from Ianto’s numb hand, echoing when it hits the floor the same time as the body.
He stares at the mess for a moment, heartbeat slowing, then pulls the Guide from his inside jacket pocket and opens the camera application.
Tattoos always remind you of Lisa. She’d designed six and was working on a seventh before she died. She often joked that if the “alien thing” didn’t work out she could always open her own tattoo parlor, add a couple piercings, and be a real punk girl. You’d have to work reception there, handle appointments and do the accounting. Dye your hair pink to match the dress shirt she bought you for your birthday.
It was a good fantasy, one that got you through hours of interviews and filing, even after the ghosts appeared and management went insane. There was never a post-Torchwood scenario where you weren’t together, scaring the tourists on Piccadilly. Though for all your imaginings you knew deep inside that the two of you would never leave Torchwood. And even if you did you weren’t likely to remember working there or having met each other, anyway.
Researching the effects of retcon made that very clear, if nothing else.
Until the day Torchwood struck them down, Lisa kept her tattoos limited to places she could hide with sleek suit jackets or tailored dresses. Avant-garde expressions of self were strictly forbidden in Torchwood Tower and the bursts of color on her dark skin were always a shock when she peeled her clothes off at the end of the day. Sometimes you’d peel them off for her, tasting the surprise of each one with your tongue.
Your favorite rode low on her hip, just barely peeking over the cotton of her knickers. She’d returned to the flat not long after you’d moved in together with cotton taped over the new tattoo, surprisingly shy about showing it off. You pulled the small strip off in the end, sinking to your knees to better to see what mark she’d taken without telling you first. The thin overlapping circles looked like ripples on a pond, or like the Celtic swirls on a stone you’d seen in the museum on your second date. Their flow along her skin appeared organic, though there was a simple maths to the curves that begged for touching. When you asked her what they meant she’d mumbled something like chamber or maybe coffee, you couldn’t be sure. Lisa was always smarter than you and saw how the world connected differently than other people did.
She’d eventually run her thumb over your eyebrow and whispered, “They remind me of you.”
You spent hours that night ghosting your mouth over the rings, getting lost in the patterns and gentling the tender skin until Lisa moaned and pushed your head lower and to the left.
Tattoos were never the same for you as they were for Lisa. You’d played with the idea of getting one when she’d been alive - a stylized L on your thigh, maybe – but needles make you queasy and you could never quite work yourself up to it. Now they weren’t an expression of anyone’s art or passion but an essential part of the system that allows you to function. A necessary way of keeping information with you, no matter the circumstances.
Still, you’re glad Lisa was an ink-junkie - with the confidentiality agreement you signed on your employment at Torchwood you couldn’t let just any tosser with a needle have at you. You’ve had to do most of the tricky bits yourself. The preparations are almost ritual by now: Drink a few shots from the hotel mini bar to bolster your embarrassingly low pain threshold and to keep your hands from shaking too badly. Disinfect the needle - just in case – then tie the thread to the side. Let the thread soak up the ink from the broken pens. Take another shot. Make sure your design is exactly what you want to say.
Lisa would have hated the rustic quality of the lettering – she abhorred home-made tattoos - but what the tattoos lack in style they make up for in reliability. Your own handwriting anchored under your skin is something you can trust. The words are truth and you know it without question. You always will.
The phone on the nightstand goes off just as you break open the first biro, ink seeping into the towel you’ve cushioned on your leg. You manage to grab it before the second ring, jostling the headset into place between your shoulder and ear. The unfamiliar voice on the other end is almost lost over your heart pounding in your ears. You can’t think why anyone would be calling you, let alone in some random hotel room.
“Hello? Who is this?”
The sunlight’s just creeping onto the tabletop when an alarm goes off, startling Ianto into nearly dropping the vibrating PDA. Quickly minimizing the file he was reading, Ianto opens the search application flashing in the corner of the screen.
A tutorial begins automatically when he opens the program, explaining the altered blood cells it’s programmed to search for and how Torchwood modified the PDA to scan every human within an expanding radius for them. The tutorial references his own notes on the Doctor and how known companions interviewed by Torchwood all had the same abnormal biochemistry. It reminds him that the only predictable way to control the Doctor is through his companions.
He hurriedly skips to the end of the tutorial – there’s nothing there he doesn’t know already – and the results of the latest scan spill onto the screen. It’s immediately apparent what caused the alarm: the search came back positive.
There was a companion in Cardiff. Granted, the city and era had the highest concentration of Doctor-sightings anywhere in the world (which Ianto still found hard to believe) but to actually find a companion in this current time so quickly… The Doctor had access to all of space and time. The odds of finding someone in Cardiff right now that he’d deemed important enough to abduct and drag along for the ride were practically impossible. Ianto had only tried in the first place as a desperate final attempt to track the Doctor’s movements. To actually locate a companion must mean the timeline was wrong, that it was meant to be fixed.
Ianto’s plan will work. It’s the only chance he has of forcing the Doctor’s hand; surely such a being kept track of his chosen few? If they were in danger he’d appear to help them… or at least to avenge their deaths, if nothing else. It’s the only hope Ianto has.
He reads through the search results quickly, rubbing absently at a bit of soreness in his shoulder. It was a single signature, the mutated cells so concentrated that the companion lit up the screen like Piccadilly Circus. The readings were coming from somewhere near the Millennium Centre, according to the map overlay.
Fuck. He could walk there from here.
Though the search program tagged most people with a number, a select few – those that donate blood locally or have had a previous experience with Torchwood – have a name listed as well. The blinking cursor labels the companion as “C J Harkness”.
Why does that name sound familiar? Ianto’s sure he’s heard it somewhere before.
Minimizing the scan results, Ianto searches for the word “Harkness” in the accessible parts of the Archive on his PDA. The lovely Guide has almost the entire Doctor File and even some files normally too classified for Ianto to access without additional clearance. He’s lucky to have access to anything at all – it’s a breach in national security to export archival information away from Torchwood property. The contact that copied the files for him must either really like Ianto or really hate Torchwood.
Only one entry for the name: a candid photo of a grinning man he can only assume is C J Harkness. The image is hosted in his private gallery of all places, which means he must have taken the picture himself. Ianto had been close enough to a companion to take his picture and didn’t do anything about it? Had he not known?
The label under the picture is brief but tells him everything he needs to know: CPT Jack Harkness, leader T3 Cardiff - Don’t believe his lies.
Of course. The legendary Captain Jack of Torchwood Three. Rumors about the enigmatic leader ran - had run rampant through the Tower. It’s fairly obvious now that they were all true. Ianto pulls a thin pad of paper and pen from the left pocket of his jacket and hastily scribbles a note: CJ Harkness is a companion.
The Guide dings again - a different sound this time - and Ianto nearly jumps out of his skin as it vibrates right off the table. He catches it in his right hand, bounces it to his left and narrowly avoids dropping it by slamming it against his thigh. A brief burst of pain flickers through his leg but fades to a dull throb after a moment. He breathes carefully to calm his heart, and then looks at the screen.
The calendar icon is blinking. He taps it and a meeting reminder opens. Ten a.m. – Meet with Jack. 1975 Lobel Drive. Jack. Awfully informal for a Captain of Torchwood. The only thing on Lobel Drive was an abandoned warehouse that Ianto used to knock around in as a kid. That’s assuming it hasn’t been torn down and replaced with a Starbucks in the years since he’s been in town.
Ianto rubs at his shoulder and tries to think things through. He must have already contacted the companion and arranged a meeting. No turning back now. God, could he really going to go through with this? Could he kill another human being, even if the deed would be erased when time reset itself? And what was he going to kill him with - his bare hands?
Closing the calendar application brings up the Guide’s desktop wallpaper. DON’T PANIC, it says, in large friendly letters. His mind conjures up a perfect image of Lisa reading at the kitchen table in her pajamas, coffee mug forgotten and cold on the counter top behind her. He used to tease her about reading science fiction. She’d flip him the bird and flash the 42 tattooed on her arm.
He puts the Guide away in the proper pocket and returns to the note. KILL HIM! he adds. Do it for Lisa. The note is placed in his right trouser pocket.
Rising from his chair and in a hurry to keep his appointment, he trips over the messenger bag laying at his feet. Embarrassed at almost forgetting it (again) he nearly misses the dull thump when his toe connects with what should be an empty side pocket. He ducks into an alley next to the café on the way out; he doesn’t want to cause a fuss pulling something alien out of his bag in the middle of a crowded café and one never knew when dealing with Torchwood.
Instead of some alien artifact there is a gun stuffed tight in the pocket. A very old Webley from the look of it, with three rounds left in the cylinder. Well. That solves one problem.
Ianto tucks the gun into the waistband of his trousers - the suit jacket loose enough to cover any suspicious bulges. He takes one more deep breath and steps out to hail a taxi.
“Prove it.”
The string of numbers and letters coming from the headset are perfect, though the cadence and rhythm is a little off. It’s certainly possible that the codes haven’t changed since Canary Wharf, though you can’t help but think that they must have. The agent could be using outdated codes to get you to talk, but really, what would be the point?
You catch the writing the back of your left hand out of the corner of your eye. Good advice, you think, and turn back to what you were doing before the phone rang.
Cradling the headset against your shoulder, you quickly run the lighter along the length of the sewing needle to sterilize it. The agent on the other end of the line keeps talking, apologizing for bothering you in your hotel. “No, I understand,” you reply. “You have to follow procedure about things like this. I have to be cautious because of my condition, that’s all. You know about my condition, right? I mean, if you’re calling for a status update then I’m sure you already know about that.”
You listen for a moment and check the paper in front of you a final time to be sure of letter placement and spelling. The first needle prick into your skin is sharp, but not unbearable. It’s relatively easy to keep your voice steady when you answer their question.
“I just prefer to talk to people in person. It’s easier to gauge their reaction that way. Well, it used to be part of my job.” It’s surprising the agent doesn’t know that already if they’re in charge of your case. “Why, what does it say in my file? Oh. I was part of the team studying the effects of retcon. Had to interview the subjects when the scientists were done with them and then compile their recognition pre- and post-retcon.”
One letter done and you take another shot from the bottle at your side for fortitude. Probably not the best idea while on the phone, but you always were good at multitasking.
“It’s a valid research project no matter what the field agents say. We know retcon affects the part of the brain that creates memory, but not how or how much of the drug should be used per event in relation to the effected timescale. If an agent gets the dosage wrong then you could have a civilian unable to form new memories or access old ones. It’s enforced brain damage; you can’t just lob pills in the water supply and hope for the best. There’s a science to it.”
The café is busy this early in the morning, but Ianto’s able to find a small table near the front windows. The city outside looks a little like Cardiff, though he last remembers being in London. Still, no reason to worry about it when breakfast was cooling on the table. Tucking the messenger bag on his shoulder between his feet he takes a bite of the warm bacon and egg sandwich, only realizing after the grease hits his tongue exactly how hungry he is. He swallows the whole thing in three bites and is well into the other pastry when a woman Ianto’s never met before slides into the chair opposite him, a steaming cup of coffee in each hand. She’s pretty in a librarian sort of way - not quite his type but lovely all the same. Ianto makes an effort to chew gracefully; given her expression, though, his cheeks must still puff out like a cartoon chipmunk’s.
There’s a loose strand of hair artfully framing her face. She moves it out of her eyes with a knuckle, making herself comfortable at Ianto’s table. “Sorry it took so long, they had to run into the back for more milk. I’ve got your espresso, though I -- Are you eating my croissant?”
Ianto swallows, guiltily. “Um. Yes?”
The woman frowns but passes the coffee to him anyway. “That’s all right. I’ll get another one on the way out and take it back to the Hub. You must have been hungry.”
She sips daintily from her cup – something with chai from the smell – and Ianto feels around in his inside jacket pocket as unobtrusively as possible.
It’s empty. His PDA is gone. It’s not in any of his other pockets and a quick check of the floor around his feet comes up short of anything but crumbs. The messenger bag is zipped tight and he would never put the Guide in there. He must have left it somewhere - oh shit - he left it and now he’s stuck in a Starbucks with a woman he doesn’t know who hasn’t stopped smiling at him since she sat down. What the fuck was he going to do?
He returns the woman’s smile - strained a little after witnessing his frantic searching - and attempts to think rationally enough to calm his shaking hands. The Guide was gone; he has to get through the moment before he can do anything about it. Feel out the situation. Nothing to worry about. The PDA would probably turn up in the lost and found somewhere soon, anyway. He can handle a little conversation without it.
Ianto sets the remains of the croissant down, carefully wiping his buttery fingers on his napkin. The woman is watching him expectantly, fiddling with the lid of her drink. The whole thing is unbearably awkward. “I’m sorry,” he finally says. “I have this condition-”
“Oh!” Her skin darkens ever so slightly in a blush, the rose on her cheeks highlighting full lips and dark eyes. Yes, definitely librarian-pretty. “I’m sorry, Ianto, I completely forgot! It’s not like me, I’m so sorry. My name is Toshiko Sato. I work for Torchwood Three.”
Ianto’s spine snaps straight at the mention of Torchwood and the memories of what happened there. Three was in Cardiff - so he was back - and had a very small employee base. Higher mortality rate than One or Two, based on the statistics from the last fifty years. And then there were all those rumors. Even the one about the bipedal space dog, which Ianto finds a little hard to believe.
He pushes his untouched coffee across the table towards Ms. Sato. “If this is about Canary Wharf I should warn you that retcon doesn’t work on me anymore. It’s useless to even try.”
The smile fades from her lovely mouth as quickly as the steam dissolving from their mugs. “What? No! Is that what you think? No.” One of Toshiko’s earrings gets tangled in the loose strand of hair when she shakes her head. “I would never do that to you, Ianto. This is just breakfast. Two friends going out for breakfast. The coffee’s just coffee, though it’s probably getting cold. It’s safe, I swear.”
“I don’t know anyone from Torchwood Three.”
She tugs at her earring, the small beads only knotting further. “We helped in your rehabilitation. You needed some therapy after... um, your injury, and we were in the best position to offer it. You were in our base last night and I asked you out for coffee this morning. That’s all. There’s no need for retcon or secrets.”
She glances down at his left wrist and Ianto notices writing there for the first time. Trust Torchwood, in his own inelegant scrawl. It doesn’t come off when he rubs a thumb over it and he thinks about what that means. A tattoo is truth, a way to carry information without question… After a moment he reaches over to help untangle her earring, the hair silky against his fingers. Studs really would be far more practical in her line of work but Ianto isn’t going to mention it now. She blushes again at the contact and he can’t help but wonder exactly what he was doing in their base the night before.
He snags his coffee on the way back across the table, taking a careful sip. It doesn’t really matter if the drink is retconned, anyway – he won’t remember this conversation in twenty minutes one way or the other. The espresso is exactly as he likes it; dark, with a hint of sweetness. Just like his women, he thinks, and immediately feels ashamed. That his inner sarcasm has grown an American accent is a worry for another day.
“Sorry,” he says. “With my condition it’s hard to trust people. I didn’t mean to insult you.”
Her smile is smaller this time, and her eyes lower to the table and back again. “I’m not insulted, just embarrassed. I don’t normally forget things like this. I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable.”
He’s beginning to wonder if they’ll spend the whole meal apologizing to one another when she pulls a small black square out of her bag. Ianto grabs it out of her hands, immediately thumbing the power button on the side. The PDA comes to life with a cheery little hum and Ianto can actually feel the tension sliding out of his body as the wallpaper brightens into existence. DON’T PANIC, in large friendly letters.
He pushes the thoughts of Lisa aside and begins familiarizing himself with the programs and information linked on the desktop, scanning the notes he’s written in lieu of file names. He opens the Battle of Canary Wharf document with a lump in his throat.
The Cybermen come from an alternate universe, accessible to our own via the ghost shifts. Several Daleks used the shift as well, fighting the Cybermen inside Torchwood Tower. Low in numbers, the Cybermen converted Torchwood staff to fight the battle for them. This you know.
The Doctor - held prisoner for a short time by Torchwood One - stopped the battle and defeated both alien fronts, though it is unclear how. The Doctor then abandoned the survivors (twenty-seven, not including those partially converted or missing in action) to the fire consuming levels four through thirteen and escaped using the TARDIS (see DF10693). It has been suggested that his then-companion (an unidentified Caucasian woman, blonde) was killed during the battle.
It is the Doctor and his manipulation of the TARDIS that have the greatest possibility for reversing the events of Canary Wharf, though the alien is notoriously erratic and unpredictable. Access to a time machine makes him doubly so. There is only one constant when dealing with the Doctor: he will have a companion nearby. His dependency upon and relationship with certain humans is a weakness that can be exploited if handled delicately.
A cough from across the table makes him jump guiltily in his seat. The woman – Tomiko? Toshiko? - is still there, taking a final demure sip of her coffee. Ianto concentrates hard for a moment, focusing on what they were talking about a few moments ago. Toshiko. Her name is Toshiko.
He minimizes the file, slipping the PDA into his inner jacket pocket and offering a sheepish smile. She swallows her drink and waves a hand at him. “Oh, I understand completely. I’ve been caught up in tech before myself. Sort of an occupational hazard, actually.” She nods at his PDA. “Jack left it on my desk last night. The screen was cracked, remember? It was easy to fix, so I got it done first thing this morning. I took the liberty of recharging the battery and running a few maintenance programs for you. It should work even better now than it did before; a few of the programs were seriously corrupted, probably from accessing the databases remotely. I should have given it back right away but I suppose it must have slipped my mind. Things have been a little hectic lately…”
Ianto nods, though he has no idea who Jack is or how the Guide was damaged. He should make a note to be more careful with it – there was information stored inside that shouldn’t be available to the public. Hell, if Torchwood knew what he was doing…
He holds his own cooling espresso just in front of his face, blocking his expression from her line of sight. “Did you read any of the files? There’s some sensitive information archived in there.”
“No, I wouldn’t do that.” Toshiko’s earrings are in danger of getting tangled in her hair from all the swinging. Studs would be far more practical in her line of work but Ianto is hardly going to suggest it now. “I didn’t even turn it on; Torchwood can gain remote access using our mainframe. We thought it was a good idea in case you, you know, forgot to charge it or left it in the loo or something.”
His breakfast churns in his stomach, the rising acid threatening to burn a hole straight through his waistcoat. Torchwood’s had access to his files all this time? What if they found his plans for the Doctor? What if they changed something without his knowing?
But the tattoo on his hand tells him not to worry. He strokes it, searching for the truth in his mind. Trust Torchwood. Trust Torchwood.
Toshiko continues, unaware that Ianto was moments away from bolting from his chair. “It’s a good thing you brought it in when you did. It’s fascinating technology, really, a mix of earth and alien matrices working together. I’m not sure where Suzie dug it up but I wouldn’t mind taking a closer look if you ever feel like upgrading.”
Ianto smiles politely but keeps the Guide securely in his pocket, uncomfortable with the gleam in her eye. “Thank you for your help, Toshiko. I’d be lost without it.”
“You’re welcome. I’m surprised Suzie didn’t notice the corruption the last time she scanned it for you. This has been her project from the beginning, though I’m normally the one doing tech-things. I had my hands full with One’s debris at the time and she wanted to help you. You’re one of the few things she has kept an interest in lately - you and that bloody glove.”
A cheerful sound interrupts her just as Ianto’s pocket vibrates. Toshiko’s shoulders tighten; he’s eerily reminded of One’s field agents springing to alert at an alarm. “Is that your PDA? What’s wrong with it?”
He pulls the Guide out of his pocket and absently unlocks the keypad. “Nothing, sorry. It just goes ding when there’s stuff.” The calendar icon on the Guide is blinking rapidly, reminding him of an appointment. He opens it and laughs. “Oh, look! 9:00 is breakfast time. I’m ahead of schedule today.”
Toshiko laughs, too, and the tension melts out of her shoulders. She brushes a strand of hair from her face – artfully arranged – and watches him fiddle with the Guide for a moment. “It’s good to see you again, Ianto. You had us all worried when you stopped coming round. Jack, especially, though he’d never admit it.”
Who’s Jack? He takes another sip of coffee, grimaces, and sets it down. Cold. He hates cold coffee. “You needn’t worry, Toshiko. I’m fine. I have projects to keep me busy and this to keep me sane.” He waves the PDA before setting it down on the table. “It’s not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but it’s my life. I’m functioning. I’m fine.”
“You’re fine.” Her voice is softer, contemplative, and Ianto is sure she knows he’s lying. There’s only one thing in the universe that could make him fine. “Tell me about her. Please?”
“Why?” He considers playing dumb for a moment but, really, what’s the point? There was only one her she could possibly mean, anyway.
“Because you like remembering her.” She’s blushing again, charmingly. “And because I like watching you remember her. Your smile is a little more real then.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair, watching people walk past the window. “What can I say? She was smart and gorgeous. Way out of my league, but-”
“No.” Tosh’s hand on his wrist is warm; it feels like a long time since anyone’s touched him. “Don’t just say the words. Close your eyes and remember her. The way she was.”
Ianto sighs and does as she asks – closes his eyes and thinks about Lisa. Within moments his senses are swimming in her: the way she smelled, tasted, looked. Lisa is always easy to conjure, a specter skirting the boundaries of his mind. Like she’s hidden forever just beyond the corner of his eye.
Despite – or perhaps because of - her nearness, it’s hard to talk about her, to explain to Toshiko why he loves her so much. “All I have left are pieces,” he says. “Little things I never considered important. That I never put into words. All these little moments…”
The smell of old paper, waterlogged and loved.
Painting her toenails to match his ties. Laughing when he paints his, too.
Leaving all the dishes dirty in the sink, except for the coffee mugs and her favorite cereal bowl.
Lilies, always lilies.
“And then I have these extreme thoughts; flashes of feeling. Of want.”
The curve of the sun on her skin and how soft it feels under his lips.
The gleam of metal in her ears and ink under her skirt.
Circles spooling down her hip like ripples in a lake.
“I put all these thoughts together and I get the feeling of her, of someone I love. I miss her so much it hurts to breathe. I think about how I lost her and how I hate what took her away. How I’ll do anything to get her back.”
Fire reflecting in the metallic wetness of her cheek, powdery grit falling from his hair onto her face. Ash and retcon in his mouth.
Her smile.
He opens his eyes to find Toshiko watching him, eyes shiny. She takes a deep breath and gathers their empty breakfast things to throw away. “I hope you find it, Ianto. Whatever it is you’re looking for.” She pauses on her way past to kiss him gently on the cheek, just barely grazing his skin with her lips. It’s like being kissed by a ghost.
She’s almost out the door when he gathers his wits enough to call her name. Toshiko turns, and the click of the camera on his PDA is almost lost in the busy café. “Something to remember you by,” he tells her, and her smile is blinding.
“My contact information is listed in the maintenance file. Call me anytime.” And then she’s gone, out of the door and into the sunlight rising in full force outside.
He settles back into his chair and saves the image of Toshiko in his files, cross-referencing it to the maintenance file she mentioned. Like all the shots taken by the PDA the details are grainy and pixelated , but he thinks he’s captured the sadness in her eyes. Toshiko Sato, he types, a friend. Good with technology. Call her “anytime”.
He examines the other icons on the desktop, restarting the search program and reviewing the files Torchwood has on Canary Wharf and the Doctor’s involvement there. The sunlight’s just creeping onto the tabletop when the alarm goes off, startling him into nearly dropping the PDA vibrating in his hands.
“I was part of the team researching Compound B67 and its effects. Just took notes and ran data, but it was interesting work. Before the experiments field agents just dosed witnesses by estimated age and body weight, which is inaccurate and leaves all kinds of space for loopholes. With the new information on how the chemical interacted with the brain we could make drug administration more precise and less damaging.”
The rhythm of the story takes hold of Ianto’s mind, helping him ignore the pain of the needle. His hands continue their work without him telling them to do so, the words appearing on his skin like magic.
“The scientists would pay some daft student fifty quid to memorize something – a set of numbers or a poem – and I’d quiz them on it and their activities throughout the day. It was important to set up a timeline of events so that we could establish how much memory was lost depending on dosage. Usually memory loss was preceded by drowsiness and loss of motor skills; I’d give them a retcon tablet and send them to sleep it off in one of the labs. We’d measure how long it took to take affect and how the brain reacted to it.”
Lisa had made you a badge to wear on Thursdays: Do not operate heavy machinery while deleting the MiB from your brain. Thursdays were always black-suit-white-shirt-black-tie day in your color-coded wardrobe. You’d thought it was hilarious until your supervisor caught you wearing the badge and gave you hell for it.
“After an hour or so I’d wake the student up and quiz them again to see how much they could recall. The goal was to target the specific information we provided them but leave the rest of their daily activity intact. It was tricky stuff. Like... they’d remember driving to the Tower but not what they did there or who they talked to. After a session we’d call them back a month later to see how well the short term memory translated into long term, and what kind of effect the retcon was having on their brain.
“Altogether the study was going very well. We were learning a lot of new things and refining how to contain the public’s exposure to events Torchwood deemed too dangerous or complicated for them to know about.”
You pause, taking a moment to break another biro.
“Once we knew how retcon worked we could get to the real reason for the study. Every agent knows that it’s possible to reverse the effects of retcon given proper stimuli, usually visual or aural in nature – it’s why most of us keep a handwritten diary hidden away somewhere. My department was trying to work around that, but it was proving difficult. A few subjects remembered their poem after I specifically asked them about it. Others remembered when contacted for the follow-up examination. One guy even remembered my name after he heard my accent over the phone. That’s a potentially dangerous issue for our field agents.”
The laughter comes easy when the agent finally gets a word in edgewise. “Thank you for saying so,” you respond, “but let’s leave my vowels out of this for the moment, shall we?”
There’s a fresh suit laying on the bed when he gets out of the shower, with the dry cleaning tag still attached to the hanger and a note taped to the tie.
Ianto –
Your PDA is in good hands - don’t panic! It will be ready soon. You left these here the last time you stayed over at the Hub. I grabbed your bag out of the SUV, too.
You always did look good in this suit.
See you after breakfast.
- Jack
The handwriting on the note is unfamiliar, as is the name of the person who wrote it (Jack?) but the clothes are in his size and of a decent quality. His muddy shoes and messenger bag are laying on the floor next to a dirty pair of trousers and a matching suit jacket, though the shirt is conspicuously absent. He transfers the contents of his pockets carefully before tucking the dirty clothes inside his bag for cleaning later. There’s just enough space in the jacket and trousers for his items to be arranged properly.
Feeling a little ridiculous but hoping to find his errant PDA, Ianto climbs the stairs hanging from a hole in the ceiling. “Curiouser and curiouser,” he mutters and rises into an office like none other he’s ever seen before: everything’s crumbling stone and shiny steel, with large glass windows and an art deco desk. What looks like an ancient wall safe takes up most of one corner while state of the art monitors and unrecognizable equipment take up the others. There’s a piece of coral randomly taking pride of place under the desk lamp. Ianto counts no fewer than fifteen empty coffee containers, the mold inside probably growing more sentient by the second.
He sneaks a peek at the towering inbox to discover the Torchwood letterhead and improperly filed requisition forms. He’d heard rumors about the other two branches while at London, of course; that Three was led by the crazy, charismatic, coffee-and-coitus-craving Captain Harkness and that Two was, well, weird. He supposes he might be inside either one of those places if the state of this office was anything to go by.
One of the windows has spirals drawn on it in pen. They remind Ianto of the tattoo on Lisa’s hip. He desperately wants the Guide to tell him what to do.
Looking around a final time he takes a deep breath, rubs a thumb over the words written on his hand, and leaves the office.
The room outside is just as inscrutable but on a much grander scale. Everything is shiny and new but has enough retro flair to make a steampunk burst into paroxysms. The cables and wires littering the ground resemble nothing so much as the roots of a bizarre metallic tree, the trunk of which rises straight through the center of the room and right out of the cavernous ceiling.
This Torchwood is impressive, there’s no denying that, but Ianto finds himself hesitant to actually touch anything. For all its technological splendor it looks as though a tornado of takeaway boxes, paperwork, and broken machinery had torn through the atrium, leaving piles of refuse in its wake. There’s puddles of water everywhere, which is a clear safety hazard given the amount of electricity that must be running through the building. There’s also an odor coming from one of the doors leading out of the room that smells distinctly of shut in animal, which Ianto really doesn’t want to think about.
There’s a woman sitting in the epicenter of the mess surrounded by computer monitors and bits of tech Ianto can’t identify. She looks up at his polite cough and he can see lines of code reflected in the lenses of her glasses. “Good morning, Ianto! Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.” Ianto automatically returns her smile, and upon closer reflection realizes that it might actually be true. His mind feels sharp and his body relaxed, aside from the occasional twinge in his shoulder and thigh. He’d never slept particularly soundly, even before the Battle, so a full night’s rest is always something to be grateful for.
The woman takes off her glasses and brushes an artfully arranged strand of hair out of her face. She reminds him of a rather pretty librarian or scientist – lovely but distant. Ianto checks his right pocket for a note one more time, though he already knows that it’s empty.
Without a hint it was always best to start at the beginning. He reaches out a hand to shake, polite smile still firmly in place. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I have this condition-“
She takes his hand in a surprisingly firm grip. “I know. You suffer from anterograde amnesia: a condition in which the brain is unable to form new declarative memories - in your case following a severe head injury. You can still learn new skills and habits after extended repetition, but the day to day stuff is gone in about twenty minutes. My name is Toshiko Sato, by the way.” She gestures around her with her other hand. “This is Torchwood Three, Cardiff branch.”
“Ahh.” Ianto arches a brow. “That wouldn’t happen to be Doctor Sato, would it? You explain the medical jargon better than I do.”
“Strangely enough, I have been called ‘doctor’ before. It’s just that I read your case file after Canary Wharf. We helped you recover as best we could.” She shrugs away the apparent invasion of his privacy and powers down two of the three monitors at her desk. The third is streaming a complicated series of numbers that makes Ianto’s head spin. It’s either a screensaver or a Doomsday Clock, though he couldn’t say for sure which.
Toshiko smiles reassuringly at him. “Still, that was a long time ago and you’re much better now. It’s nice to see you again, Ianto. Suzie said not to expect you to drop by the Hub anymore, since you’re checking in by phone now, but I kept expecting to find you at one of the crime scenes. They were all within a couple miles of your hotel.”
“Crime scenes?”
“Oh, forget I said anything. I’m just worrying for no reason.” She grabs her purse and stands, earrings swinging gently back and forth. “Let’s eat! Breakfast is on Torchwood today.”
Ianto’s stomach grumbles obligingly at the thought. Toshiko laughs and threads her arm through his, ladylike and old-fashioned. “Come on. Jack left some petty cash and strict instructions to feed you up before your meeting this morning. And I’m dying for a coffee.”
She steers him through the revolving door and up into the early morning sunshine of Cardiff in the spring.
Click to read on…
