{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes","title":"prochytes","subtitle":"in life he suffered from unreality, like so many Englishmen...","author":{"name":"prochytes"},"link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"service.feed","type":"application\/x.atom+xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom","title":"prochytes"}}],"updated":"2021-08-09T07:57:28Z","entry":[{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:39743","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/39743.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=39743"}}],"title":"Fic: Miracle and Wonder (Doctor Who\/Torchwood\/Wonder Woman, PG-13)","published":"2021-08-09T07:53:48Z","updated":"2021-08-09T07:57:28Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"doctor who"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Miracle and Wonder.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Torchwood\/Doctor Who (2005)\/Wonder Woman (Jenkins films).
Rating: PG-13.
Characters\/Pairing: Diana, Jack Harkness, Gwen Cooper, Jack Harkness\/Rose Tyler\/the Ninth Doctor.
Disclaimer: Neither of these intermittently angsting quasi-immortals belongs to me.
Summary: An (unavoidably) immortal goddess and an (accidentally) immortal former Time Agent wait out the Twentieth Century, sometimes in each other's company.
Word Count: 2532.
A\/N: Big spoilers for the 2017 Wonder Woman<\/i> film, Wonder Woman 1984<\/i>, the whole run of Torchwood<\/i>, and Doctor Who<\/i> to \"Last of the Time Lords\".



Jack first met her in London, during that second, less fun, stab at the Blitz.

The all-clear had sounded some time before. Dawn was announcing itself, delicately, at the edges of the London skyline; those who had homes to go to were wending thither. Jack had been putting in some quality time the previous night at the Caf\u00e9 de Paris, while that was still an option. As a result, he was less sure-footed than usual, and almost tripped over the woman sitting on the curb as he staggered out of Piccadilly Circus.

At first, he took in only the mass of long and unkempt hair, bent over what was easily, even after seven decades of data-sampling, the best pair of legs that he had seen on Planet Earth. Then, she squinted up to stare at him, and Jack found himself looking down at the face of a woman who looked like a goddess. (There was an easy explanation for that. But the Thirties had set Jack\u2019s generic expectations firmly to thrift-store realism, and he didn\u2019t think of it.)

Once, such a face alone would have been enough to arrest Jack\u2019s onward movement. But the Jack Harkness of 1940 bis<\/i> was not the man he had been the first time around \u2013 before the TARDIS; before the Game Station; before Rose and death and glory and The Doctor. Now, it was almost as important that this woman didn\u2019t seem to have a friend, beside the half-empty bottle of expensive brandy in her hand.

\u201cHey, beautiful,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m Captain Jack Harkness. Room down there for a passenger?\u201d

\u201cI am Diana,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd I am drunk. Always Diana; very seldom drunk.\u201d She patted the pavement. \u201cYou may sit down.\u201d

***

Jack settled on the curb next to Very Seldom Drunk Diana. The cold stone was insistent through the seat of his pants. He considered trying to cadge a swig of the brandy, but the intentness with which Diana was applying herself to it suggested that her necessity was yet greater than his.

\u201cLooks like you\u2019ve been enjoying quite the session there,\u201d he said.

\u201cMm,\u201d said Diana, absently. Her gaze was fixed upon the sky over the East End. Smoke hovered above unquenched fires.

\u201cWhen did you get started?\u201d

Diana\u2019s brow furrowed. \u201cTuesday,\u201d she said, at last. \u201cOr maybe the Tuesday before that. It's hard for me to get drunk. I need a run-up.\u201d

\u201cIf you don\u2019t mind my asking, what brought this on?\u201d

\u201cYou\u2019re doing it again.\u201d

Historically, people had tended to say variations on that to Jack when he had just accomplished something amazing, appalling, or, for preference, both. Business had been slow on that front since the last coronation but three; Jack had forgotten how much he\u2019d felt the lack. Diana\u2019s next words, however, revealed his misapprehension.

\u201cYou\u2019re all doing it again,\u201d she said. \u201cI thought I\u2019d made my peace with the fact that it didn\u2019t need my brother. I hadn\u2019t.\u201d She took a pull of brandy long enough to make Jack wince before continuing. \u201cI knew the darkness was in you, but I thought\u2026 I hoped\u2026 you\u2019d learned. And then, in twenty years \u2013 twenty tiny<\/i> years - you do it again. Except harder, and with even more genocide.\u201d

Jack considered, as Diana stared at the sky, and hunched her solid shoulders. All those second persons were instructive; \u201ctwenty tiny years\u201d, doubly so. Diana shouldn\u2019t even have been a teenager by the Armistice.

Jack wondered, briefly, whether he had another ageless prophet on his hands. The century will turn twice before you find each other again.<\/i> Diana could just about be The Tarot Girl\u2019s taller, buffer, not-so-creepy sister, who had forsaken portentousness and card games for the gym. (Not that pumping iron would be a big thing for a while yet; Jack hadn\u2019t realized how much he\u2019d miss lycra.) But there were so many other possibilities.

\u201cYou\u2019re not human, are you?\u201d he said, at last. Not subtle, by any mean, but subtle could fuck itself. It was five a. m.; his ass was cold; and Earth was already playing footsie on its second date with Hell.

\u201cNo.\u201d Diana peered as though seeing him properly for the first time. \u201cAnd neither are you. Not completely. Not any more. My apologies,\u201d she added hastily, as Jack flinched, \u201cI am drunk; I did not mean to cause offence.\u201d

\u201cNone taken. Well, maybe just a little.\u201d Diana proffered the almost-empty bottle; Jack accepted it. \u201cSomething happened to me. Now, I can\u2019t die.\u201d

\u201cEven gods die. I have established this, empirically.\u201d

\u201cIs that what you are?\u201d Jack wiped his mouth, and returned the bottle. \u201cA god?\u201d

\u201cYes. I am the last god left that walks on Gaea.\u201d Diana waved an arm. Its sweep took in the whole of London: the parts on fire; the parts that had been on fire; and the parts that would be on fire before too long. \u201cAs you can see, I\u2019m doing a great job.\u201d

***

Shortly thereafter, Diana heard the tell-tale crack of masonry in a neighbouring street. Jack spent much of that morning ferrying people to safety, and telling passers-by that Diana was simply leaning against the wall (\u201dSorry, gentlemen: my gal came over funny\u2026\u201d<\/i>) which she was actually holding up. Diana sustained the full weight of the collapsing building for a little under an hour, until Jack had helped all the denizens to safety. Then, she was noisily sick over his shoes.

This episode fostered three beliefs in Jack: first, that Diana sometimes wanted to be a cynical and disaffected loner, but sucked at it; second, that, in all likelihood, she really was a god; and third, that he now had blackmail material on one of the very few people with whom he was pretty much guaranteed to be waiting out the Twentieth Century.

All three of these beliefs were quite correct.

***

Diana worked in the museum sector. She changed jobs, every now and again, but not as often as an immortality rookie might have expected. Jack had learnt at the Time Agency, long before he had contracted his own case of glacial ageing, that people tended not to pursue lines of investigation that would potentially make their own lives more difficult. Institutions were prepared not to ask a helluva lot of questions about an employee who worked that hard; looked that good; and, for some reason, never needed to borrow workmen or forklift trucks when she was moving big exhibits. This would all become more of a challenge once they started networking computers and databases at century\u2019s end, but cross that bridge once someone got around to building it.

After the War, Jack ran into her most often at fancy parties.

\u201cDo you ever wonder,\u201d she said, at the opening bash for the London Transport Museum in 1980, \u201cwhether we are right to live in such seclusion?\u201d

\u201cSpeak for yourself,\u201d said Jack, as he received a top-up of Champagne. Diana smiled warmly at the wait staff, but held a hand over her glass. \u201cIn case you haven\u2019t noticed, Diana, there\u2019s a measure of difference between Captain Jack Harkness and a hermit.\u201d

\u201cI know. And I know, too, that you have loved, in your time upon this world.\u201d

\u201cI have,\u201d said Jack, thinking of Angelo, and Lucia, and Estelle. He drained the glass.

\u201cBut your eyes always stay trained upon that promised reunion \u2013 the one that will come once the century has turned over twice. I have my solitude; you have your wait.\u201d Diana set down her flute. \u201cI\u2019m no longer as sure as I was that either is wise.\u201d

\u201cWell,\u201d Jack plucked a canap\u00e9 from a passing tray, \u201cat least we have each other.\u201d

\u201cYes. I have an idea about that. I think that the likes of us collect, if we let ourselves, particular...\u201d Diana hesitated for a moment \u201c\u2026 genres of people as their friends. Not necessarily as lovers\u2026\u201d

\u201cMore\u2019s the pity,\u201d said Jack, with feeling. He looked at the double-deckers, and tried not to engage in happy speculations about thighs that could dead-lift them wrapped around him. Diana\u2019s momentarily narrowed eyes suggested that she knew exactly where his thoughts had headed, but she pressed on:

\u201c\u2026 not necessarily as lovers, and other friends are just as dear. But there are some\u2026 types to which we return.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m not buying it,\u201d said Jack. \u201cYou think that because the love of your life and I have a little in common, that you\u2019re always going to be collecting men with great jaw-lines and funky outfits, who like to zip around in the sky and save the day? If that were true, I\u2019d be constantly finding intense brunette women with amazing legs who spend half their time starry-eyed about the wonders of the world, and half smacking the bits of the world that don\u2019t get with the programme.\u201d He bit down on the salmon. \u201cQ. E. D..\u201d

Diana opened her mouth to reply. At this point, however, a problem arose with the insufficiently curated Underground exhibit, and it became hard to hear conversation over the screaming. Jack and Diana spent the rest of the evening respectively shooting and punching Yeti.

***

\u201cI never thought I\u2019d see you again,\u201d said Rose. Her voice was muffled against Jack\u2019s chest.

\u201cI never gave up,\u201d said Jack, into her hair. \u201cI\u2019ve waited so, so long.\u201d

\u201cBut not long enough,\u201d said The Doctor. His eyes flickered between Jack\u2019s face and the TV screen; of course, he\u2019d already worked it out. Jack had missed exactly this: Rose\u2019s compassion; the candour and the genius of The Doctor. They had made him the man that he was now. And the man he was now couldn\u2019t not do what needed to be done.

Jack kissed the top of Rose\u2019s head, and gently slipped out of her arms. He threw The Doctor a salute, and drew a breath.

\u201cI renounce my wish,\u201d he said.

***

\u201cDid you wish for him?\u201d Jack asked.

\u201cYes. I did.\u201d

\u201cBut you gave him up.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d Diana rested her elbows on the ledge of the balcony, and looked down at the Thames. \u201cI did. I was selfish; it took me far too long. You were stronger than I was.\u201d

\u201cIt was easier for me. I knew that all I had to do was go on waiting. And now,\u201d Jack gestured back at the bulk of Tate Modern, \u201cnow the century has<\/i> turned over twice. It won\u2019t be long.\u201d

\u201cJack\u2026 this reunion won\u2019t be what you expect. Things will be different. Better, I hope. But different.\u201d

\u201cYou can\u2019t know that, Diana.\u201d

Diana glanced at Jack\u2019s face, and changed the subject. \u201cThe Curator of the National Gallery is a very strange man indeed.\u201d

\u201cAlien?\u201d

\u201cI think so.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ll look into it,\u201d said Jack.

He didn\u2019t.

***

Not much later, Jack got his reunion. It was not what he had expected, even leaving aside the part where the serving UK Prime Minister repeatedly tortured him to death. (Jack never found out what happened to Diana during that period, though he did recall hearing Saxon mutter darkly once that something would have to be done about Spice Girl Island.)

Diana\u2019s analysis was entirely vindicated. Jack decided that a mature and proportionate response to this would be to avoid her for more than a decade so that she couldn\u2019t say \u201cI told you so\u201d, which he duly did. Jack now had other people to say \u201cI told you so\u201d at him, anyway.

Other people. A gift the fullness of which, after all these years, he could finally acknowledge. Jack sighed; steeled himself; and (within barely another twelvemonth or two) picked up the \u2019phone.

It was time that Diana and he met each other\u2019s friends.

***

\u201cGwen,\u201d said Jack, \u201cmeet Diana of Themyscira. Diana, meet Gwen Cooper.\u201d

Diana looked at Gwen\u2019s hair. Diana looked at Gwen\u2019s legs. Diana opened her mouth.

\u201cNot one single word,\u201d said Jack.

***

\u201cDiana\u2019s amazing,\u201d said Gwen. \u201cHow did you two meet?\u201d

\u201cShe was drunk and depressed; I barged in thinking about something else; and a building collapsed,\u201d said Jack.

\u201cUsually, those things happen in the opposite order.\u201d

\u201cVery funny.\u201d Jack drank up his tea. \u201cIt horrifies me how well you two get on.\u201d

\u201cWere you expecting us to fight over you?\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019d be hot,\u201d said Jack hopefully.

\u201cIt\u2019d be short,\u201d said Gwen. \u201cOn my best day, I\u2019d land one punch she barely noticed before Diana KOed me with her thumb. But one of the things about being a normal person, which, you may recall, was why you hired me, long ago\u2026\u201d

\u201cYeah \u2013 kinda started rethinking that after the first time that you decked me.\u201d

\u201c\u2026 one of the things about being a normal person, is putting up with the knowledge that there\u2019s always someone in your extended friendship circle who\u2019s smarter than you, nicer than you, prettier than you, cooler than you, and could most likely kick your arse. I can live with that, Jack: Anwen\u2019s godmother is Martha Jones.\u201d Gwen put down her own tea. \u201cIt\u2019s good that there\u2019s someone who\u2019s that for you.\u201d

Jack harrumphed. \u201cDiana is not cooler than me.\u201d

\u201cDiana is in every way cooler than you, Jack.\u201d

\u201cI have an invisible \u2019plane.\u201d

\u201cYou had<\/i> an invisible \u2019plane. It exploded. Diana can make any \u2019plane invisible by concentrating.\u201d

\u201cI have an underground base.\u201d

\u201cYou had<\/i> an underground base. It exploded. Diana told me that her stone-rich mate in that new crew of hers lets her use his. I have a strong suspicion that it\u2019s bigger than yours was.\u201d

Jack snorted.

\u201cShe talked a lot, while you were playing with Anwen, about that new crew you\u2019re both off to meet. They sound less preoccupied with sex than Torchwood was. Mind you: so is Anwen\u2019s rabbit. I think they\u2019re good for her, like I hope\u2026 I hope we were for you. \u201d

\u201cMmm,\u201d said Jack. His eyes were far away.

\u201cRhys and I named our son after him, you know,\u201d Gwen said quietly, after a long silence. \u201cIt\u2019s a good Welsh name. He\u2019s not forgotten.\u201d

\u201cThank you.\u201d Jack rose and pulled Gwen into a hug. \u201cI\u2019m sorry Rhys was picking up at the school. Tell him I said \u2018hi\u2019.\u201d

\u201cUnderstood. Don\u2019t be a stranger.\u201d

Jack looked out into the garden over Gwen\u2019s shoulder. Diana was teaching Anwen a dance move, or possibly a spin-kick. After more than a century out in the world, he still wasn\u2019t sure she understood the difference.

***

\u201cGwen\u2019s great,\u201d said Diana, as she accompanied Jack back out on to the country lane. \u201cOutside Themyscira, I\u2019ve seldom seen a faster jab.\u201d

Jack stopped. \u201cAre you telling me that you two sparred while I was playing with Anwen?\u201d

\u201cGwen felt that having you there might make you over-excited.\u201d

Jack scowled, and walked on quickly. The scheduled rendezvous with a Wayne Enterprises jet at the nearest private airport was only half an hour away.

Diana \u2013 naturally \u2013 had no trouble keeping up. \u201cWhy did your friend try to borrow my lasso?\u201d she asked.

\u201cIt\u2019s probably better if I don\u2019t answer that.\u201d Jack unlocked his car. \u201cGwen and Rhys can be\u2026 innovative.\u201d

\u201cHumanity,\u201d said Diana, settling into the passenger seat, \u201chas an astounding appetite for perverting wonders.\u201d

\u201cYeah. It\u2019s why we love them.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d Diana clicked her seat-belt, and smiled. \u201cI suppose it is.\u201d

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:39429","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/39429.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=39429"}}],"title":"Fic: Story of O (Doctor Who\/Torchwood, NC-17)","published":"2020-03-29T18:56:03Z","updated":"2020-03-29T19:01:31Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"doctor who"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Story of O.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandoms: Doctor Who\/Torchwood.
Rating: NC-17. Dark themes and violence.
Characters\/Pairing: The Master; The Master; The Master; Gwen Cooper.
Disclaimer: All the Beeb’s.
Summary: The Doctor could have warned her old friend that the slow path is often a bumpy one.
Word Count: 1032.
A\/N: Spoilers for the Old!Who story “The Daemons” and DW to “Spyfall: Part 2”.



The vicarage sitting-room was a great deal more spacious than he remembered. Inattention, perhaps: he had been quite preoccupied at the time. Or maybe it just looked bigger than a German cell. He sighed, and brought his mind back to the matter at hand:

“I’m only asking to borrow the wretched thing.”

“No.”

“It’s my TARDIS, too.”

“But not, at least by your account, just yet.”

“You can say that again.” He smiled winningly. “Pretty please?”

“Absolutely not. You must appreciate that my plan here rests on a knife’s edge. That interfering witch from the W. I. already knows too much.”

“Jam and Jerusalem. I can’t even. You have no idea how long it’s been since I thought that the Master of all matter was best served by being the Master of all Ambridge.”

“The name of this village is Devil’s End.”

“Pop culture reference. You’ll get better at those.” He sighed. “Look: the plan goes pear-shaped, OK? Azal meets cute with a tiny bimbo and explodes. During this period, the failures come thick and fast. They average out at a little under one per month.”

“I see. And why, exactly, can’t you use your own TARDIS?”

“I lost it. Mislaid it, I mean. In World War Two. I was being a Nazi, and things got out of hand. The details aren’t important. I have an appointment, and I mean to keep it.”

“When?”

“In 2020.”

“So, in my golden years, I fail at a more geriatric pace.”

“You always did substitute smugness for achievement.”

“What a blessing that’s a vice I shall outgrow. No. Some roly-poly for the road?”

***

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. Let me explain.” He leaned forward, as far as the bonds allowed. “I am The Master, and you will obey m…”

She punched him hard and deftly in the throat.

“You need some new material.” She inspected her finger-nails while he choked. “Respiratory bypass should kick in at three, two, one… And you’re back.”

“How… how did you know about my physiology?” He coughed, as a dark suspicion blossomed. “Are you my future? I must seriously lose my knack for regeneration, if I ever let myself get Welsh, with teeth like that.”

“I’m not your future, Harold. You won’t remember much of this bag and tag, but that’ll be down to drugs, not your dominant time-stream calling dibs.”

“Hmm. You surely know that I’ve gone by ‘O’ more recently…”

“I do. That must have put a spoke in your trademark anagrams.”

“… yet you think of me as Saxon, even looking like this. It must have been my last face but one that screwed you. Could it be… No – that’s not possible. I know for a fact that Torchwood’s dead.”

“Do you? You couldn’t find Martha Jones when you ran the world. You barely found Donna Noble when you were<\/i> the world.” The Welshwoman rose, and moved out of his line of sight. “Attention to detail isn’t your strong suit, Harold.”

“You’re aware of ‘O’.” Behind his back, he heard her rummaging in a drawer. “But you went after this<\/i> new me, not the one who’s playing burnt spy in the Outback now. So you know the difference. Which means… Ah. The Doctor left you a note, didn’t she?”

“Yes. The S.O.E. forwarded a time-locked package to my outfit during World War Two. That package opened for me last week.”

He slouched back, and grinned. “This isn’t a tag and bag. It’s a tag and release. She wants<\/i> me to make our appointment in 2020; probably has one of her sticky Hallmark redemption plays in mind. So you can’t touch me, because Handsome Jack’s girl dances to The Doctor’s tune. It’s good, isn’t it? I’m in the chair, but you’re the one whose hands are tied.”

“For the sake of the time-line, and against my better judgment, I’m obliged to release you.” The drawer snapped shut. “Mostly intact.”

“Torchwood loses from beyond the grave. This is better than Netflix; it really is.” He paused, and frowned. “‘Mostly intact’?”

“You tortured my friend to death, Harold. A lot.” Her breath was warm beside his ear. “Say your name. I love it when you say your name.”

He relaxed a little. “That’s more like it. Mas…”

“Not that name.” In the Welshwoman’s hand, a pair of pliers glinted. “The new one.”

***

“… and then I woke up on a bumpy ’bus between Lampeter and Aberystwyth. Still don’t know what happened. Probably a future self gate-crashing my life for the lulz; you can’t imagine how annoying that is. Actually, at the moment, I suppose you don’t have to.”

The pianist continued to stroke a nocturne from the keys.

“There’ll come a time when this Quantum Fold Chamber will seem to have been palatial, by the way. I’d tell you to get ahead with acquiring a taste for rat tartare, but I know you didn’t.”

Rubato teased the stolid air.

“I look at you, and all that goes through my mind is ‘What was I thinking?’ One slender stretch of odious self-doubt, set between two seas of glorious rage. The Miss-thmus.” A pause, to see whether that had struck home, was filled only with brimming Chopin. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

“Because I’m you, dear.” Her fingers had not stopped moving. “You enough to know that we don’t stage meetings for someone else to do the talking. Music arises from silence, every bit as much as the gaudy notes; my gift to you, obnoxious little future-me, is silence. What’s on your mind?”

“I am The Master. I do not have anything<\/i> on my mind.”

“But you do. It’s burning you up. You can’t tell our old friend, for some reason. I imagine that would ruin a big reveal. You can’t tell the apes, because their tiny brains would melt. You need someone who’ll apprehend, but not remember.” The piece complete, the piano-lid snapped shut. His stomach clenched, and he did not know why. “You need me.”

He scowled. “Smart-arse.”

“That’s a constant, dear.”

“Very well. I don’t care if you’re sitting comfortably, because soon you won’t.” He took a deep breath. “This concerns the Timeless Child…”

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:39249","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/39249.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=39249"}}],"title":"Fic: Smell the Glove (Torchwood\/MCU, PG-13)","published":"2019-03-27T13:41:44Z","updated":"2019-03-27T13:46:26Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"mcu"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Smell the Glove.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Torchwood\/MCU.
Rating: PG-13. Angst and dark themes.
Characters: Jack Harkness, Ianto Jones, Gwen Cooper; Nova Prime, The Collector, The Ancient One.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, any of it.
Summary: Five ways Torchwood didn\u2019t stop the creation of the Infinity Gauntlet, and one way they did.
Word Count: 600 (six drabbles).
A\/N: Small spoilers for Avengers: Age of Ultron and Torchwood to the end of S4; big spoilers for Captain Marvel, Guardians of the Galaxy, Doctor Strange, and Avengers: Infinity War. Angst and dark themes. Originally posted on AO3 in 2019.




1. A king of infinite space.<\/u>

\u201cIn 1995,\u201d said Jack, \u201cI was eaten and regurgitated by a cat.\u201d\t

\u201cI think that means Owen wins the pool,\u201d said Ianto. \u201cHe was the only one who went with \u2018death by domestic pet\u2019.\u201d

\u201cTechnically, she was a flerken, not a cat. I was chasing something in her stomach.\u201d

\u201cWhat?\u201d

\u201cAn item of unimaginable power.\u201d

Ianto lifted his head, professional instincts roused. \u201cIs that still in the cat?\u201d

\u201cS.H.I.E.L.D. has it now. Safe as houses.\u201d

Ianto snorted. \u201cI saw Tosh break into a semi-detached over by Roath Park in fifteen seconds on Tuesday. Houses aren\u2019t safe.\u201d

\u201cI know. Sleep well.\u201d

2. Mind, mind has mountains.<\/u>

\u201cSo there are six crystals, which clusterfuck Creation when they\u2019re assembled.\u201d

\u201cYup.\u201d

\u201cThe Key to Time.\u201d

\u201cNo, Gwen. The Key to Time is something else. I should know: I dated part of it.\u201d

\u201cThere\u2019s more than one world-killer artefact? This Universe and its flat-pack Armageddons\u2026\u201d

\u201cAnyway, here is our chance to grab the Mind Gem. Strucker has it over in that compound.\u201d Jack flexed his knuckles. \u201cThis time, the plan is water-tight.\u201d

\u201cJack\u2026\u201d

\u201cOh yeah. Punching a Nazi never goes out of fashion.\u201d

\u201cJack, it\u2019s a clear sky. And I just heard thunder.\u201d

Jack\u2019s reply was swallowed by things exploding.

3. If, drunk with sight of power, we loose wild tongues.<\/u>

\u201cOne of the outlying worlds sent an ambassador to Terra, forty cycles ago,\u201d said Nova Prime. \u201cYour Institute sent him back in surgical bags. At least you didn\u2019t bill them for the stamp.\u201d

\u201cI wasn\u2019t the guy in charge, back then.\u201d

\u201cTorchwood trades on faith it never earned. There are two Captains of Terra I would trust with the Power Stone, Jack Harkness. You aren\u2019t either.\u201d

\u201cWar is coming.\u201d

\u201cThen go back to your troops \u2013 both of them \u2013 and prepare for it. The Power Stone is alien, Captain Harkness.\u201d Nova Prime, standing to leave, beckoned a guard. \u201cAnd it\u2019s ours.\u201d

4. Humankind cannot bear very much reality.<\/u>

\u201cDice you for it,\u201d said Jack.

The Collector rolled his eyes. \u201cGames are my brother\u2019s bag.\u201d

\u201cThen trade the Reality Stone to Gwen and Rex, and take me as an exhibit in its place.\u201d

The Collector sighed. \u201cI\u2019m tempted. You\u2019d look swell between the Psyche-Magnetron and the mouthy duck.\u201d

\u201cThere you go. Who needs infinity when he can display eternity instead?\u201d

\u201cBut the thing is, Jack: you make the mistake of thinking that all of my collection is behind glass. You want the Aether so bad that I already<\/i> own you. And your pain is so much more piquant free-range.\u201d

5. World enough, and time.<\/u>

\u201cI could stop this.\u201d Jack evicted desperation from his voice.

\u201cI\u2019ve seen the path where you do. She never forgives you.\u201d

\u201cWhat?\u201d

\u201cNo matter. It stays with me.\u201d

\u201cYou know the stakes better than anyone. With your Time Gem, Thanos could keep the TARDIS at bay.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d The Ancient One looked sad. Lambent, diminished vistas span around her. Her eyes were bright with the light of lives unlived.

\u201cWe\u2019d go into that fight without The Doctor.\u201d

\u201cI know.\u201d The Ancient One plucked a future from the air: a car on a darkling road, beset by rain. \u201cI\u2019ve found a locum.\u201d

(6. A little soul for a little.)<\/u>

\u201cThe Soul Gem\u2019s on Vormir.\u201d

\u201cGreat.\u201d Gwen sipped at her mug of tea. \u201cWhen do we leave?\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ve already been. Met a guy I hadn\u2019t seen since World War Two.\u201d

\u201cHappy reunion?\u201d

\u201cNo. He\u2019s still an ass-hole.\u201d Jack had not moved from the doorway. \u201cHe asked me for something I couldn\u2019t give.\u201d

\u201cWhy not?\u201d

\u201cBecause I\u2019m Captain Jack Harkness. All the things I could have given, I gave already. Gwen\u2026\u201d

\u201cYes?\u201d

\u201c\u2026 I\u2019m going to need your help.\u201d

Gwen saw the look in Jack\u2019s eyes, and shut her mouth. Silence fell. They heard laughter from the garden, where Anwen played. <\/i>

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:38922","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/38922.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=38922"}}],"title":"Fic: The Wonder of the Thing (Arrow, PG)","published":"2018-12-18T23:32:12Z","updated":"2018-12-19T00:10:00Z","category":{"@attributes":{"term":"arrow"}},"content":"Title: The Wonder of the Thing.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Arrow.
Rating: PG. Angst.
Characters\/Pairing: Talia al Ghul\/Bruce Wayne.
Disclaimer: All the middle-aged ninja pretty belongs to DC.
Summary: There is no truth in masks.
Word Count: 1042.
A\/N: Spoilers for Arrow to 7x07 \u201cThe Slabside Redemption\u201d. Quotations from Edgar Allan Poe\u2019s \u201cThe Raven\u201d, and Arthur Conan Doyle\u2019s \u201cThe Final Problem\u201d.





Dusk was stealing distinction from the view. The avenue of basswood below the Manor\u2019s study, seeded, as the master of the house well knew, by slow labour in his grandfather\u2019s time, had shed its last remnant of leaves a week before. Now, night had all but resolved the inky outlines of the trees into a general and accommodating black. A crack, as of thunder, sounded in the distance. He lowered the screen of his laptop, and raised his head.

\u201cI just updated my security systems,\u201d he said, without looking around.

\u201cYes. They were almost adequate.\u201d

\u201cHow was Slabside?\u201d

\u201cIt was the Inferno\u2026\u201d

\u201cApt, for one who calls herself a demon.\u201d

\u201c\u2026 but you, of course, would know that, having put me there.\u201d She walked around into his field of view, blade and dark gaze alike unsheathed. \u201cI have killed so many men, for so much less.\u201d

\u201cYes. But I don\u2019t kill.\u201d

\u201cI know. Such mercy is not in you.\u201d She fingered a decanter of brandy, without lowering the sword. \u201cNapol\u00e9on.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d

\u201cBarrelled in the year when I was born.\u201d She frowned. \u201cYou were expecting me.\u201d

\u201cCall it an educated guess.\u201d

\u201cBut why send me to Slabside, if you knew that I would only\u2026 Ah, I see. You deduced my debts to Diaz, and to Oliver Queen. You gambled that I would treat with the one; and then aid the other. The Green Arrow walks free; your hand, as ever, remains hidden.\u201d Her shoulders slumped, as she sheathed her sword. \u201cI thought that I had outlived the hope of surprising you, Detective.\u201d

\u201cYou have always been able to surprise me. That is not a gift given to many.\u201d He poured two generous measures of cognac from the decanter, and handed one to her. \u201cHow is your second prot\u00e9g\u00e9?\u201d

\u201cThe Green Arrow is a great warrior, now. Greater than I.\u201d She paused, with the tumbler at her lips. \u201cGreater than you.\u201d

\u201cAre you trying to prick my ego, Talia?\u201d

\u201cThat would not test an archer of my skill. It\u2019s a large target, and one that rarely moves.\u201d She drank, and set down the tumbler, as her gaze travelled around the room. \u201cI have never visited your study. You do, indeed, have a bust of Pallas just above your chamber door. Is there anything of you that isn\u2019t an allusion?\u201d

\u201cVery little.\u201d

\u201cSo I recall. But the man I trained was not one to start at thunder.\u201d

\u201cThere was no thunder,\u201d he raised the lid of his laptop again, and briefly typed, \u201cmerely a sonic boom. The auditory profile suggests a speedster. Of the two presently active, one is unfamiliar with the configuration of the continental U.S. in this time-period, and wouldn\u2019t trust herself at full pelt cross-country. The likelier bet is therefore Mr. Allen. His jaunts outside Central City are largely determined by gastronomic preferences, but it\u2019s too late in the evening for a food run. An anomaly, then, which deserves attention.\u201d He looked up. \u201cYou smile.\u201d

\u201cI never tire of watching your face as you read our world, Detective. If it only knew who weaves the thousand schemes that hang in its defence.\u201d She pulled down a volume from the bookshelf; flipped through the pages; and read aloud: \u201cHe sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them. He does little himself. He only plans. But his agents are numerous and splendidly organised.<\/i>\u201d

\u201cAn evocative description \u2013 though not, if memory serves, of a detective.\u201d

\u201cAn accurate one. You have spun your darkness into light, while I\u2026 I saw a truth in masks that was not there.\u201d

Her head was bowed, now, over the book, the dark hair veiling the scarred face. He rose; crossed the room; took the volume gently from her hands; and replaced it on the shelves. For a time, they stood in silence.

\u201cWhy are you here, Talia?\u201d he said, at last.

She lifted her chin. \u201cPerhaps to kill you, as you deserve.\u201d

\u201cWe have both deserved many deaths, but not tonight. Why?\u201d

She looked up at him from under her brows, hands folded behind her back \u2013 a posture he remembered from her tutelage, long ago. \u201cI showed you the way of the mask, of hiving off the monster. You never followed it.\u201d

\u201cNo. I saw you, your beauty and your skill and your mistake, and I\u2026\u201d He gestured at the room. The laptop hummed in its wan pool of light. \u201cI did otherwise.\u201d

\u201cAnd now you are the unseen power that throws its shield before the justice-doer, while the daughter of Ra\u2019s al Ghul has dwindled to a common thug.\u201d Her mouth twisted. \u201cYou\u2019ve been uncharacteristically slow to say that you were right.\u201d

He shrugged. \u201cWe were different, then. Less so, now.\u201d

\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d

\u201cWell, for one thing,\u201d he watched her face, \u201cwe are both orphans.\u201d

Her brows lowered. \u201cDo not speak of him.\u201d

\u201cI must. You raged for your father. You killed for him. But have you wept for him?\u201d

Her eyes sought out his. \u201cDid you, for yours?\u201d

\u201cYes. If I hadn\u2019t, if I had been so consumed\u2026 perhaps I would have become the monster of your devising. Perhaps I did, on those Earths beyond number young Mr. Allen plumbs. But not here.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cWeep for your father, Talia. You are more than he was.\u201d

She held his gaze for a long moment. Then, at last, she heaved a sigh.

\u201cMy student surpasses me, for the second time in a week. I find that trying.\u201d She nodded. \u201cThank you.\u201d

He inclined his head. \u201cMy pleasure.\u201d

\u201cI will use the Lazarus waters no more. I thought I was their master, but I was not. Time calls me to the dance; it would be churlish to decline.\u201d She touched a hand to her face. \u201cI have deserved these scars.\u201d

His fingers closed over hers. \u201cYou wear them well. Now, if you don\u2019t mind\u2026\u201d

\u201cYes; I know. A world of justice to be nudged; I\u2019ll not detain you.\u201d She pressed against him, leather and steel and muscle and silk and sorrow, as she craned up for the kiss. \u201cUntil the next time, Detective.\u201d

\u201cUntil then.\u201d

FINIS


<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:38732","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/38732.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=38732"}}],"title":"Fic: Valkyries (Torchwood\/Stan Lee's Lucky Man, PG)","published":"2018-09-23T21:21:55Z","updated":"2018-09-25T12:14:02Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"lucky man"}}],"content":"Title: Valkyries.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Stan Lee’s Lucky Man\/Torchwood.
Rating: PG-13. Angst.
Characters\/Pairing: Suri Chohan\/Toshiko Sato, Harry Clayton.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, any of it.
Summary: Suri meets a woman whose future is behind her.
Word Count: 1837.
A\/N: Spoilers for Torchwood to 2x11: “Exit Wounds” and Stan Lee’s Lucky Man to 3x06: “The Art of War”.






Closing a case always served up its own special cocktail of elation. It wasn’t entirely<\/i> about the puzzles (there was a reason Suri Chohan was not a logician) or about the doing good (nor yet a human rights lawyer, nor a doctor). It was a dubious froth shaken together from all of the above, and the high tended to be followed by a nasty crash. At such times, Suri almost envied Harry his fifty-two cardboard harbingers of bliss or woe. Almost.

After the collar of Rachel Spikes, Suri had sought solace for the evening on the South Bank, not far upriver from HQ, where the bars and restaurants jostled like commuters and the blowsy hub-bub of patrons spilled down as far as the glinting Thames. On nights like this, more even than usual, she missed Ben. It was hard, as you reached that point in the dusk when the Embankment’s lights bled into the darkening sky, to feel like DS Suri Chohan, Long Arm of the Law, and not just Suri Chohan, a small woman in a big city, whose neon make-up had started to run.

“May I sit here?”

The voice was tentative, and rather posh. Suri looked up from the journeyman Chardonnay she had been nursing. The speaker appeared to be in her early thirties. She was short – about Suri’s own size (Suri, a connoisseur of such matters, recognized the sort of heels that let you run and still see over hedges). A plum-coloured leather jacket flattered her supple figure.

Suri smiled, and shuffled along the bench. “Be my guest.”

“Thank you.” The woman sat down, placing her own glass of white wine next to Suri’s. “This place is heaving.”

Comparative silence descended, for a time. The newcomer spent most of that time staring at the Thames, and gnawing her lip. Every now and again, she would steal a sidelong glance at Suri. When the Chardonnay was low in the glass, Suri’s curiosity finally overmastered her.

“I’m sorry… have we met? It seems as though you know me.”

The newcomer blushed. “Not exactly. I… I saw you briefly, at a press conference.”

“You’re a journalist?” Suri frowned.

“I work in tech security.”

Suri’s brow cleared. “Ah. The driverless car murder. That was unsettling. Living in the future, eh?”

“The future,” the newcomer repeated. “That’s rather what I suspected. I can almost smell the paint drying on it. Every present is a future, wondering what just happened.”

Suri felt it her duty as a midweek barfly to rouse the stranger from her melancholy. “You’re a poet… um…”

“Toshiko. My name is Toshiko. I’m far from a poet.” The stranger – Toshiko – smiled pensively, and sipped her wine. “As I said, I work in tech.”

“Anything interesting?” Suri prompted.

“My colleagues and I were looking into two paired devices from China. They’re interesting, and not easy to come by. We managed to obtain one while it was… between owners. But the other one will ultimately develop a glitch; a glitch that has consequences before it even really happens. There was an…. accident of resonance in my lab. And so I took an unexpected trip.”

Suri thought back to elaborately decorated cul-de-sacs in her own investigations. “Can you claim expenses?”

“Not, I suspect, as much as the journey will turn out to have cost. Although, if my calculations are right, there shouldn’t be too many stops before I’m back where I started.”

Suri grimaced in sympathy. “In that case, I hope that you’ll let me buy you another.”

“If you’re getting yourself one, too, I won’t say no. Thank you.”

***

The glasses had just been lined up on the bar when Suri’s mobile ’phone vibrated in her pocket. She fished it out, to cradle against her ear.

“Evening, Suri.”

“Hello, Harry. Is something wrong?”

“Not at all – right as rain.” Suri couldn’t tell exactly from the background noise where Harry was. It sounded as though he might be on public transport. There had been a time, when Harry’s problem was at its worst, when a phone-call at this hour would invariably have played out to the accompaniment of a clicking roulette table, and a chorus of “vingt et un<\/i>”. Suri still felt a small surge of pleasure that those days seemed to be behind him.

“Just a call to check that you’re OK,” Harry continued. “I know that the end of a case can be a tricky time.”

“That means a lot to me, Harry, but I’m fine.”

“Good to hear. Sounds like you’re in a bar?”

“I am.” Suri looked back at the bench. Toshiko had returned to contemplating the Thames. “I seem to have acquired a beautiful stranger.”

“Seriously? Jesus, Suri, we can’t have sexy, enigmatic women queuing at your door. Leave me something<\/i> I do better than you, for pity’s sake.”

Suri chuckled. “I’ll try to bear that in mind. Anyway, must dash. I need to take a drink back to the mysterious Toshiko.”

“Toshiko?” Harry’s tone changed abruptly. “Toshiko Sato?”

“She hasn’t said her last name.”

“Japanese? Wears a plum-coloured jacket? Bit of a short-arse?”

“Remember who you’re talking to, Harry…”

“Petite<\/i>, then. Hot, in an earnest way?”

Suri watched the Embankment lights jewel Toshiko’s throat as she swallowed the last of her wine. “Definitely.”

“Suri, I met that woman a few months ago. There’s something very odd about her.”

“How so?”

“She told me that her name was Toshiko Sato, and that she had a professional interest in art objects. She asked me some questions about my brace… about Rich’s business. She was polite, sweet, maybe a touch reserved.”

“Sounds like the woman I’ve just met.”

“Thing is – there’s no such person as Toshiko Sato. I looked her up after our conversation. The only ‘Toshiko Sato’ who matches her description is a woman who once worked at the MoD. That Toshiko Sato disappeared more than a decade ago, only to turn up dead a few years later from a gunshot wound.”

“Hmm. Did they catch the killer?”

“The investigating officer thought that the family knew more than they were telling. Nothing he could prove.”

Suri shivered. “Creepy. But it’s not that unusual a name.”

“True.”

“Harry…. do you think she’s a threat?”

There was a long pause before Harry spoke again. Suri could just about hear someone swearing at a cyclist on the other end of the line. Harry must be flush if he was in a taxi. “No. I don’t. Ms. Sato never quizzed me about any active investigation. If anything, she seemed afraid I’d tell her something she wasn’t supposed to know. My hackles rose, a bit, when she asked about… about Rich’s business. But, even then, she looked… resigned, more than anything else. Resigned, and a little sad.”

“Should I bring her in?”

“No. My gut tells me that Toshiko Sato’s on the side of the angels. Grab the drink, and give that dead woman walking a good time. Like a Valkyrie.”

“Huh?”

“The choosers of the slain. They make a fuss over warriors doomed to die. Might even snog them, although I’m not sure whether that detail is authentic, or wishful thinking.”

“You’re an erudite man, Harry Clayton.”

“I’m a man whose teenaged daughter can’t be arsed to do her own mythology homework, is what I am. See you tomorrow, Suri.”

“See you then.”

***

Toshiko looked up as Suri deposited the drinks. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure. Are you a spy?”

Suri had been hoping for a splutter, or a stagey glance to left and right. Toshiko tasted the wine, and held it to her lips. “Ah. You’ve been talking to Harry Clayton.”

“You told him that your business is art objects.”

Toshiko shrugged. “Technology is art. At least, if you do it properly.”

“You’re prevaricating.”

“Yes. I am.” Toshiko’s eyes narrowed as she regarded Suri over the rim of the wine-glass. “So, it seems I give him a different story. That’s careless of me - though, since you’ve told me, I must remember to do that. I’m probably still a little drunk when I talk to him.”

Suri frowned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s complicated.” Toshiko placed her glass back on the table. “You’re too unnerved for that to be all that Harry shared with you. I’m guessing that after he speaks to me, he looks me up. But the only way information about me would be back in the public domain would be if…” She sighed. “Oh. I see. He must have told you how Toshiko Sato died.”

Suri swallowed. There wasn’t any anger or threat in the other woman’s face. Only, as Harry had said, a certain sadness. “Yes. The police reports…”

“Don’t tell me. I already know too much. The future has to stay a peep-show, in reverse. Touch,” Toshiko’s hand was so close to Suri’s on the table that she could feel the warmth. “Don’t look.”

“You aren’t that Toshiko Sato, though.”

“How could I be?” Toshiko cocked her head. “What did Harry think you should do with what you know?”

Suri reddened. “He thought that a dead woman walking deserved a good time. And that she could use an obliging Valkyrie to deliver it.”

“That sounds to me like excellent advice.”

Suri (Ben had said) always tried to take control of kisses. The covert strength that belied her short frame usually made that easy. But Toshiko (whose lips tasted of white Burgundy and balm) was somehow, in this heady wrestling match, the stronger. It wasn’t Suri’s night for finishing ahead.

***

When they were done, they sat back, lulled by the murmur of the oblivious crowds.

“Thank you,” said Toshiko in a quiet voice. She gently disengaged Suri’s arm, and stood. “It was an honour to meet you properly, Suri Chohan; but I have to go. My movements, at the moment, aren’t really under my control.”

Suri looked up at her. “You still haven’t explained what you mean by that.”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Toshiko paused. “In fact, I know<\/i> you won’t, when you sober up, so it doesn’t matter if I do.”

“You said that one of those items of Chinese tech you mentioned is going to develop a glitch. Were you sent to London to stop that happening?”

“No. That’s not the sort of thing I’m allowed to do, under these circumstances. I can observe; gather data, within strict<\/i> limits. But no more. The future has its rules. And the thing is…” Toshiko took a deep breath, as though reaching a decision. “This accidental trip of mine, with its erratic stops, is happening back to front. That’s how I know that I’m heading home.”

Suri frowned. She was feeling entirely too drunk for this. “But I thought you said…”

“I’ve already seen the glitch develop. My initial stop in London was when the other device turned black. I did first see you at a press conference. But it wasn’t one about a driverless car.” Toshiko sighed. “Thank you again for the kiss, Suri Chohan. I’m afraid you weren’t the only one who was the Valkyrie.”

Suri opened her mouth to reply, but a bunch of revellers interrupted her view of Toshiko Sato. When they had passed, the woman in the plum-coloured jacket was gone. Night joggers, blithe as sparrows, swooped through the circles of light beside the river, blundering from darkness into darkness.

FINIS<\/a><\/xml:namespace>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:38487","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/38487.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=38487"}}],"title":"Fic: The Look of Flowers That Are Looked At (Torchwood\/The Gifted, PG-13)","published":"2018-08-21T17:01:14Z","updated":"2018-08-21T17:09:33Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"the gifted"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: The Look of Flowers That Are Looked At.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandoms: The Gifted\/Torchwood
Rating: PG-13. Angst.
Characters\/Pairing: Caitlin Strucker, John Proudstar, Lorna Dane (The Gifted<\/i>); Gwen Cooper (Torchwood<\/i>).
Disclaimer: Marvel and the Beeb own the goodies.
Summary: A strange Welshwoman brings tech from beyond the stars to help the Underground. Caitlin investigates the price.
Word Count: 2512.
A\/N: Small spoilers for The Gifted<\/i> to 1x04: “eXit strategy” and Torchwood<\/i> to 4x01. The title is from “Burnt Norton”, by T. S. Eliot.



Tuesday meant laundry, and all of its attendant complications. The base’s available room was whittled away with each incoming refugee. What the building lacked in floor area, it made up in great and gracious sweeps of vertical space; across this loom, Caitlin strung the weft of her washing-lines. Even so, it was hard, of a Tuesday, to walk the cluttered floors of the HQ without feeling the momentary brush of drying fabric on one’s cheek – the clammy wing-stroke of whichever unreliable angel stands over the house-proud in time of trouble.

Tuesday meant fresh eggs. There was a farmer (somewhere, not too far). She had served with John before returning to her family acres, and did her bit (“salved her conscience”, Lorna would say, mulishly quieting under John’s glare) by regular contributions from her poultry. Caitlin, reluctant convert to the asceticism of the nomad, was trying not to become too dependent on this respite from the reign of macaroni cheese.

Tuesday meant a lot of things. But Caitlin sometimes wondered whether she alone, of all the base’s denizens, meant<\/i> Tuesday – that is to say, fingered its differences from Monday before and Wednesday beyond like the bead on a rosary. Tuesday was a square like any other on the chequer-board of nights and days across which John (and, increasingly, Reed) plotted out their strategies; Tuesday was a digital progression in the clock behind Sage’s darting eyes. Caitlin, alone, thought Tuesday was Tuesday. She held on to its hebdomadal return, with the fervour of a faith all others had forsaken.

***

It was on a Tuesday morning that Caitlin saw the woman in the grounds.

The woman wore odd clothes, surprisingly well. All that drapery and ribbons, unbounded by anything as bourgeois as a belt, should surely only have flattered the waifish young. This woman was a well-preserved forty, if Caitlin was any judge, with a solid, long-legged frame, a little above the average in height. The final effect was more successfully Woodstock than it really had any right to be.

A large black bag dangled from the woman’s left arm. She held her right hand out before her, the elbow jutting forward and a little sideways from her flank, with the forearm crooking once more inward. The awkward posture at once stirred Caitlin’s professional instincts.

“Excuse me,” she called out from the terrace. “Are you hurt?”

The woman looked back at Caitlin, puzzlement etched on her freckled forehead. “I’m sorry?”

“I can see you’re favouring your arm,” Caitlin pointed. “Would you like me to take a look for you? I’m a nurse.”

The woman’s brow cleared. She smiled, and, slowly, dropped her right arm to her side. “Just out of the cast. I’m a little stiff, but nothing more. You’ve a good eye, er…”

“Caitlin.” Caitlin proffered the name without hesitation. It was unusual for anyone to appear on the grounds other than by the Underground’s own vehicles, but this woman couldn’t have approached from that direction without being vetted by Pedro first. “Caitlin Strucker.”

“… You’ve a good eye, Caitlin Strucker.” The woman hefted her bag. “Is John around?”

“I am.” John walked past Caitlin to join the woman on the lawn. “You’re early.”

“Lucky with the traffic.” The woman smiled again at Caitlin. “John will settle us in. But I hope to meet you properly later, Caitlin.”

“Likewise,” Caitlin replied. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“My name is Gwen Cooper,” the woman said.

***

Elementary math with the younger children kept Caitlin busy for the next hour or so. She was sharing progress reports that arose from the class with John (who took a dutiful, if somewhat perfunctory, interest in how the makeshift school was shaping up) when Gwen Cooper poked her head around the door.

“Settled in OK?” asked John.

“Snug as a bug in a rug.” Gwen Cooper eyed Caitlin. “Is now a bad time?”

Caitlin made as if to rise. “I can go…”

John held up his hand. “No need. It’s time you knew a little more about our logistics. Gwen is one of our… suppliers.”

“Indeed.” Gwen slipped into a chair beside Caitlin, and began placing items from her black bag on the table, amongst the progress reports. “I come bearing gifts. These,” she pointed at a phial containing two small blue crystals, which she had just used to weight the saga of Ellie Brown’s ongoing death-match with Pythagoras, “are Tears of the Silence. Crush one, and it kills all Terran tech in a radius of about one hundred feet for fifteen minutes. Like an EMP, but cleaner, and hard to spot. I know that I always say this, but, for the love of God, make sure that intact ones don’t fall into the hands of the opposition. We’d rather that The War of the Worlds<\/i> didn’t join The Chrysalids<\/i> in their spank-bank.”

John nodded.

“A red crystal is inert unless you bring it into contact with a green one. If that happens, there’ll be nine and a half seconds before a bang. Yield’s about the same as a high-end hand-grenade. That might even put a dent in you, so take a tip from me and store them separately.”

“Understood. What does the snow-globe do?”

“The snow-globe’s a snow-globe, John. It snow-globes. I have to bring a prezzie home for Rhys. It’s not as though I go through Duty Free.”

“I’m sorry your husband couldn’t make it, this time.”

“So is he. Pressure of work, I’m afraid. He says ‘hi’.” Gwen shifted in her chair. When she spoke again, it was with a constraint that Caitlin had not heard before. “About our other business…”

“Sonya’s not home yet. She should be here in about three quarters of an hour. We can do it then.”

“Thank you.” Gwen stood up. “I’ll leave you two to your hypotenuses.”

Caitlin discovered, shortly after wrapping up her pedagogical debrief with John, that she had lost a pencil, and went back to the office in search of it. The door was slightly ajar. Caitlin was about to push it further open when she saw through the gap that John was not alone.

Sonya had returned earlier than expected. She was sitting in the office, as was Gwen. John was looking at the only empty chair. Sonya’s dreaming mists languidly rippled between his lips and Gwen’s. The visitor’s eyes were bright with tears.

Caitlin took her hand off the door, and stole away.

***

“Things are different, in the U. K.,” said Gwen. Somewhere close, a bird struck up a two-tone warble, like a car alarm. Caitlin thought that it was possibly a ground dove. She had been getting up natural history for the school, with spotty results. “Earnest opinion pieces in the Guardian<\/i>; placards soddening under gentle drizzle in Trafalgar Square. It’s all frightfully genteel, until it isn’t. Kids get kicked in behind the bike-sheds, but Hello!<\/i> will run a two-page spread about a lass with purple hair. The Great British Public doesn’t mind a mutant, as long as she’s posh, and looks good in a swimsuit.” Gwen rested her back against the balustrade. “Also a psychic, though that’s not widely known. My people avoid her; we’re professionally cautious around mind-readers.”

“Except Sonya.” Caitlin was loath to jostle the intimacy that had grown between her and Gwen during this conversation in the sun. But she was inclined to suspect that the Welshwoman, who didn’t seem to miss much, already knew that the strange interlude in the office had been observed.

“Sonya gives me something that I need. And she’s a good woman; I like her. I’ve done the work that Sonya has to do. That sort of cleaning makes you dirty, in a way you can’t scrub out. Her dreams are kinder than my drugs.”

“But you don’t get on with Lorna.”

Gwen cocked her head. “What makes you say that?”

“The way you dress.”

Gwen chuckled. “I said you had a good eye, Caitlin Strucker.” She clambered to her feet. “John and I time my visits so that Lorna isn’t here. I should get cracking, actually, before…” Gwen looked past Caitlin’s shoulder, and sighed. “Oh. Arse. Speak of the devil.”

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Lorna’s voice was harsh; spots of colour branded her white cheeks. There were days, Caitlin knew, when a fragile truce held between Lorna and the world, when the life she had to lead didn’t chafe her, quite so much. Today wasn’t one of those days.

“Lorna,” said Caitlin. “I thought you were on a mission.”

“I was. The safe house was already blown; nothing there but bodies.” Lorna turned her attention back to Gwen. “You’re not welcome in this house.”

“I’m sorry you feel that way, Lorna,” said Gwen. “But that decision isn’t yours to make.”

“Maybe it should be.” Lorna advanced on the Welshwoman, pushing her back against the balustrade. “Gives you a kick, doesn’t it, coming here. Wearing compassion like a ribbon for the day.”

“Your hand’s on my neck, Lorna.” Gwen’s tone had not changed. “Only three people get to touch me there. Consider that warning Number One of ‘Not Many’.”

“I think everyone needs to calm dow…”

“Can it, Caitlin.” Lorna leaned in. “You like to play the mysterious stranger, Gwen Cooper. But in the end, you’re just another fucking groupie, who thinks she gets a free pass because of her d…”

It wasn’t actually uncanny. “Uncanny” was a term of art in this new and garish world. Caitlin had seen uncanny speed; the movement of the Welshwoman’s right hand wasn’t that. But it was close.

“Caitlin’s started up a school,” Gwen said, in conversational tones. “Have you seen that? I was impressed. When I was at school, I used to like CDT. Craft, Design, and Technology… did you do the subject here? All those shelves we built for books we never owned. My favourite bit was pottery. Or, to put it another way, ceramics.”

Lorna’s throat was tense beneath the point of the blade that was held against it. Caitlin saw the fingers of her left hand – the one not grasping the Welshwoman’s neck – begin to twitch. Gwen smiled.

“Just worked it out, have you? Some were smarter. I don’t come to this house dressed like a hippy because I’m in mourning for Altamont. No buckles; no zips; no studs.” She lifted herself a little to whisper in Lorna’s ear. “No metal<\/i>. There’s some on you, of course, and some about. You’re young, and very, very good; perhaps you could bring it in fast enough. Perhaps. Take your hand off my neck, Lorna. I’ve had a shit day, and, by the sound of it, you’ve had a worse one. Neither of us really wants to find out exactly how fast you’d have to be.”

“You know where the gate is.” Lorna released her grip. “Don’t let it smack your ass on the way out.”

Gwen preserved a serene demeanour until Lorna was out of sight. Then, she palmed the blade, and kicked the wall.

“Bollocks. Sorry you had to see that, Caitlin. I prefer to keep my claws sheathed, unlike some.”

“Lorna’s tightly-wound right now,” said Caitlin, carefully. “What’s her problem with you?”

“Lorna thinks I’m a conniving, unreliable bitch who only comes here because she has to. That would be less galling, if it weren’t true.” Gwen exhaled. “I’ll head in and smooth the waters before I go. I know that some manners don’t travel well across the Atlantic, but I’m fairly sure that everyone frowns on almost shanking one of your hosts. Nice to have met you, Caitlin. I hope I can get to know Reed and the kids, the next time I’m around.”

“I’d like that.”

“Good.” Gwen was silent, for a while. The bird resumed its minatory murmur. “Do you remember what it was like?”

Caitlin looked puzzled. “What?”

“To be in a place where you hadn’t counted the exits?”

***

“Looking for this?” John held up a pencil.

“Thanks.” Caitlin slipped into the office, shutting the door behind her. “It’s so annoying to mislay things.”

“I’ll take your word for that.” John handed over the pencil. “Haven’t been able to mislay an object since I was nine.”

“Handy.”

“It is. But sometimes I wish I could.”

Caitlin looked at the shadows beneath his eyes. “I heard about the busted safe-house.”

John nodded, tight-lipped. “That was rough.”

“And I saw the, er, aftermath. Is Lorna OK?”

John’s jaw clenched. “More or less. Gwen came and ate crow, although she’s a picky eater. Sonya finally talked Lorna down.”

“All the way?”

“Enough that she was visible from the ground. That was about as much as could be expected.”

“No one’s happy; everyone’s functional. On the wards, we called that a win.” Caitlin fidgeted with the pencil. “May I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“What brings Gwen here?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Caitlin tapped the pencil against the table, considering. Eventually, her brows unknotted. “I think I see. Or rather, I think I didn’t.”

“Go on.”

“When I first met Gwen in the grounds, she said: ‘John will settle us<\/i> in.’ But whenever I saw her afterwards, she was alone. She was holding her right arm oddly, that first time; she told me that she had just ditched the cast. But that arm didn’t slow her down any when she drew on Lorna. I don’t think that she was holding it that way because she had been injured; I think that she had it wrapped around someone’s shoulders. Someone small,” Caitlin looked up at John, “like a little girl.”

“Her name is Anwen,” John said. “Gwen is Homo sapiens<\/i> herself, but the X-gene runs in the family. Her great-great-something-aunt could read minds. Gwen’s daughter was very young when her gift began to kick in. Anwen can’t be seen or heard, by any person or machine.”

“Except you.”

“Except me. My tracking is all that overcomes it. Anwen can’t turn her talent off. Gwen keeps tech active that lets her be sure of Anwen’s status and location. She wouldn’t take her anywhere, otherwise. But Gwen hasn’t seen or heard her daughter in four years.”

“So you see and hear Anwen for her.”

“Yes. When they visit, Sonya takes my memories of Anwen, and gives them to Gwen. To her husband, too, when he can make it.”

Caitlin’s lips thinned. “You sell a mother glimpses of her child.”

“We’d probably do it for free. But I won’t pretend Gwen’s gratitude isn’t helpful. Her organization is well-disposed to mutants, but we’re not high up the list of their concerns. This arrangement changes that. Like you said: no one’s happy; everyone’s functional.”

Caitlin thought about Gwen’s eyes, in the dreaming mists. “I guess so.”

“She took a shine to you, you know.” John rose. “Gwen, I mean, although Anwen did tell me you have pretty hair. Gwen guessed that you hadn’t been part of this world long.”

“How?”

The big man looked sad, as he opened the door. “Because you’re still unnerved that you’re so good at it.”

FINIS<\/a><\/xml:namespace>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:38277","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/38277.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=38277"}}],"title":"Fic: A Very British Coup (Black Panther\/Torchwood, PG-13) ","published":"2018-04-27T10:36:28Z","updated":"2018-04-27T10:38:05Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"black panther"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"mcu"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: A Very British Coup.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Black Panther\/Torchwood.
Rating: PG-13.
Characters: Nakia, Everett Ross, Shuri, T\u2019Challa (Black Panther<\/i>); Gwen Cooper, Lois Habiba, Jack Harkness, Rex Matheson (Torchwood<\/i>).
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, any of it.
Summary: The Republic of Wales has a secret.
Word Count: 6262.
A\/N: Spoilers for Torchwood<\/i> to 4x10: \u201cThe Blood Line\u201d and the 2018 Black Panther<\/i> film; small spoilers for Thor: The Dark World<\/i>.





1. Welsh Incident<\/u>


4 Reasons We Love The Republic Of Wales <\/b>
<\/p>


It isn\u2019t all Tom Jones and Laverbread. <\/b>
<\/p>

Wales hasn\u2019t always been popular \u2013 even with the Welsh.<\/p>

<\/p>



Roger Jones<\/b>

@BigFatRog

\u201cLand of my fathers? My fathers can keep it.\u201d \u2013 Dylan Thomas. Never a truer word, mate. Never a truer word.<\/p><\/blockquote>


Via: mirthattydfil.co.wa<\/i>
<\/p>

But Wales today is more than an eisteddfod<\/em> waiting to happen. Here are just a few of the reasons to love Europe\u2019s youngest and hippest sovereign state.<\/p>

1. The Brecon Beacons. OK - secession\u2019s not the reason for Wales\u2019 natural beauty. It was born that way. Still, get a load of that bone structure.

Via Flickr: reddragonpics<\/em><\/p>

2. But Wales isn\u2019t just a pretty face. This tiny country was the one of the first to pass laws against anti-Inhuman discrimination.

Via Flickr: standingup<\/em><\/p>

3. The Cardiff Expo. Some cutting-edge nanotech with your rarebit, cariad<\/em>? Don\u2019t mind if I do. Take that, Tony Stark!

Via Flickr: reddragonpics <\/em><\/p>

4. Angharad. That is all.

Via reddit.com<\/em><\/p>

(BuzzFeed article: accessed 4.3.2018)<\/p>

***<\/p>

Everett Ross was already late for his ten a. m. with the Mayor of Cardiff when he glanced across at the Water Tower while crossing the Plass, and got a glimpse of who was standing beside it. He frowned, and stopped for another look. Ross had never been a man disposed to doubt the evidence of his eyes; recent experience had only dimmed his scepticism more. But that particular figure \u2013 a little rumpled in outline, and tie-less, as (Ross recalled) he had usually been \u2013 had no business being seen in Cardiff, or anywhere else.<\/p>

Ross hoped that, on a second viewing, sight would expose memory\u2019s three-card trick, and reveal the man across the Plass to be nothing more than some solid stranger. A gaggle of tourists blocked his view for a moment \u2013 some of those assembling for the Freedom of the City ceremony in the evening, perhaps, or a battalion of the self-renewing legion always eager for a glimpse of Angharad at play. By the time they had passed, the figure was gone. Only the slow sidle of water down the Tower remained to accompany Ross\u2019s thoughts (as he picked up the pace on the approach to the Mayor\u2019s office) about Rex Matheson \u2013 the part that he had played in a troubled world, and the murk that had swirled around his departure from it.<\/p>

***<\/p>

Ross\u2019s preoccupation spilled over, rather too obviously, into his belated meeting with the Mayor.<\/p>

\u201cPenny for them?\u201d<\/p>

Ross was jolted out of his reverie. \u201cPardon?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cPenny for your thoughts?\u201d The Mayor looked at him inquiringly. \u201cI couldn\u2019t help noticing that my commentary on the security implications of our infrastructure reforms didn\u2019t seem to be holding your attention.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOh. Er.\u201d Ross decided to lighten the mood. \u201cLet\u2019s be honest \u2013 is anyone really riveted by roads?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cMy husband is in charge of the Transport Ministry.\u201d<\/p>

Ross remembered why he didn\u2019t do diplomacy. \u201cAh. Um. Sorry?\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor looked at him appraisingly, before relenting and pushing over a plate of biscuits. \u201cFair enough. Infrastructure\u2019s not for all tastes. What\u2019s on your mind?\u201d<\/p>

The external query jerked loose the word at which his recall had been fumbling. \u201cTorchwood.\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor smiled. \u201cThat\u2019s a name to conjure with, in this town.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou know what it means?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWell\u2026 no.\u201d The Mayor\u2019s tones were replete with the pain of a professional politician forced to admit there was something she did not know. \u201cTorchwood is one of Cardiff\u2019s urban legends. About a decade back, there was a gang of weirdos flouncing around in a big black SUV who used to call themselves that. Christ knows why.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOh.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI think that they might have been a rubbish indie band, grubbing for some free publicity. We suffered through a lot of those, back in the day. Not,\u201d the Mayor added hastily, as though recalling herself to the order of service, \u201cthat Noughties Wales didn\u2019t also enjoy the flourishing and vibrant music scene which it still retains. Think Catatonia; think Stereophonics; think the Manics.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAbsolutely,\u201d said Ross, wondering whether he could be bothered to hit Wikipedia after the meeting about all that, and deciding, on balance, that he probably couldn\u2019t.<\/p>

\u201cWhere did you hear of Torchwood, if you don\u2019t mind my asking? I always thought that they were local news.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNothing important.\u201d Ross looked out of the window, over the Plass. The Tower continued to ripple in the morning light. \u201cSomething to do with a man I used to know.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWell, whatever Torchwood were, they\u2019re long gone. We\u2019re living in the future now, Commander.\u201d<\/p>

Ross reached for another biscuit. \u201cLucky us.\u201d<\/p>

***<\/p>

\u201cHow has it fared, so far?\u201d Nakia asked, without looking up from her desk, when Ross dropped by her hotel room after his meeting broke for lunch.<\/p>

\u201cThe Mayor of Cardiff thinks \u2013 with some justification \u2013 that I\u2019m a moron, but I probably haven\u2019t started a war with the Welsh Republic. On balance, I\u2019m considering that a win.\u201d Ross craned over her shoulder. \u201cWhat are you looking at?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThe many deaths of me.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cHuh?\u201d<\/p>

Nakia waved a hand above the desk. Her face stared back at Ross a hundred-fold, from a plastic field of cards. \u201cMy cover identities. If I am to be in charge of our Outreach Programme, I must retire them.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI see.\u201d Ross examined the furrow between Nakia\u2019s brows. \u201cThink you can cope with having to be yourself, after all these years?\u201d<\/p>

He was relieved to see Nakia break into a smile. \u201cIs the old spy asking for a friend?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cMaybe just a little.\u201d<\/p>

Nakia shrugged. \u201cI can live with it.\u201d She resumed her scrutiny of the multifarious credentials. \u201cThese cannot.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThanks again for letting me ride shotgun on the royal jet.\u201d Ross sat down on the bed and loosened his tie. \u201cThe Company and the Joint Counter Terrorist Center appreciate your help in cutting down on our carbon footprint.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOur pleasure.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019m still not quite clear on why T\u2019Challa decided to accept the Freedom of Cardiff in person.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cHe likes the symbolism, and the timing.\u201d Nakia picked up one badge, and smiled in reverie. \u201cWakanda and Wales are two countries new to the world stage. The King thinks it appropriate that we should step into the light together. And Wales is a story of triumph against the odds. You can imagine how that resonates with T\u2019Challa.\u201d<\/p>

Ross recalled a bed of snow, in M\u2019Baku\u2019s realm. \u201cI can.\u201d He poured himself a glass of water. \u201cThe Welsh economic miracle took everyone by surprise. I remember the Company analysts scratching their heads about it. It\u2019s not as though Wales had North Sea oil to play with.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cExactly.\u201d Nakia replaced the badge. \u201cDoes the security situation look robust?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSolid as a rock. Solid as a vibranium rock. Except\u2026\u201d<\/p>

\u201cExcept?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cProbably nothing. I thought I saw Rex Matheson, in Roald Dahl Plass.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cRex Matheson?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSomeone I knew at the Company. A jack-ass, even by our exacting standards, but a smart guy, when he could be convinced to put his brain in gear.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWhy would his presence here be an issue?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cBecause Rex Matheson is dead. Remember the weird zombie plague, a few years back? Maybe you don\u2019t. This was before the Chitauri, even; it gets hard to hang on to the details of the last apocalypse but twelve. Matheson was embroiled in that, somehow. When it ended, he was an early re-adopter of mortality.\u201d Ross sipped the water. \u201cCompany scuttlebutt said that Matheson\u2019s last project, just before he died, was connected to a word I didn\u2019t recognize.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWhat was the word?\u201d<\/p>

\u201c\u2018Torchwood.\u2019\u201d Nakia\u2019s head snapped around. \u201cYou\u2019re the second woman this morning who\u2019s seemed to know that name. I\u2019m guessing that you don\u2019t link it to the Grammys.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou\u2019re positive that this Matheson was looking into Torchwood?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYes. What does it mean?\u201d<\/p>

Nakia frowned. \u201cIt means that one of my deaths will have to be deferred.\u201d<\/p>

***<\/p>

\u201cUlysses Klaue was not always Wakanda\u2019s bogeyman-in-chief,\u201d Nakia continued, as she began to pack away her cards. \u201cHe was not the first to guess what we were hiding. Ever since the days of dawn, there have been outsiders who glimpsed the light, who envied it. Long before there was Klaue, there was Torchwood.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cJesus. How far back does all this go?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThe Nineteenth Century, or so our records say. Torchwood was the dirtiest of the British Empire\u2019s secrets, the darkest shadow of the sun that never set. An agency outside the government, beyond the police. Those were the fat years of imperial plunder, but Torchwood was unique in its thirst for marvels \u2013 and its zeal for pursuing them. The educated thug, who knows where the old lady hides her rubies.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cTorchwood found out about vibranium?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThey suspected. They never knew quite enough to be a problem. All Wakandan War Dogs still have standing orders to investigate if Torchwood rears its head. That hasn\u2019t happened, to my knowledge, in at least a decade.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cIt probably isn\u2019t happening now.\u201d Ross spread his hands. \u201cI think<\/em> I saw a man who might<\/em> have been looking into Torchwood when he died. Torchwood may<\/em> have had a presence in this town years ago. But why would a relic of the British Empire retain any interest in the Cardiff of 2018? Wales isn\u2019t even part of the United Kingdom any more.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYes \u2013 but secession is recent, and it wasn\u2019t pretty. Torchwood of old wouldn\u2019t have been above subverting a neighbour state; your Center would want to know, if that is so. Maybe your Agent Matheson went dark to chase them down.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOr maybe a soon-to-retire spy is going stir-crazy, and wants to stretch her legs.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cPlease?\u201d<\/p>

In an experience of women which had extended over many nations and three separate continents, Ross had encountered few as tough as Nakia. Nevertheless, she could deploy one hell of a doe-eyed stare. No wonder T\u2019Challa turned to putty around her. Ross sighed.<\/p>

\u201cOK. What do you need?\u201d<\/p>

***<\/p>

\u201cCommander Ross\u2019s friend has arrived,\u201d the Mayor\u2019s P. A. announced, about three quarters of an hour into the afternoon segment of the meeting.<\/p>

\u201cWonderful,\u201d said the Mayor. \u201cWe\u2019re pretty much done. Would you be an angel and show her in?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOf course. Did the First Minister come back with an answer about the end of the month?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cHe did. It\u2019s locked in, I\u2019m afraid. No help expected through the usual channels.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI see.\u201d The P. A. nodded politely at Ross, and withdrew, shutting the door to the office behind her.<\/p>

\u201cYour P. A. sounds English,\u201d said Ross.<\/p>

\u201cShe is.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cIsn\u2019t that politically sensitive?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cTaking bread from good Welsh mouths, you mean? Wales is a forward-looking country, Commander Ross. We bear no ill-will to our English brothers and sisters.\u201d The Mayor smiled. Ross had read somewhere that a good politician could smile in a way that would make ten thousand people at once feel that they had just been individually made privy to a secret. The Mayor of Cardiff, he suspected, was a very good politician. \u201cAnd if it\u2019s one in the eye for Whitehall when I poach their staff, well, that\u2019s icing on the cake.\u201d She looked over Ross\u2019s shoulder as the door opened once again. \u201cYou must be Ms. Kimathi. Welcome to Cardiff. Commander Ross has told me a lot about you.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAll true, I hope,\u201d said Nakia, coming forward to shake the Mayor\u2019s hand, \u201cand do please call me Jane.\u201d<\/p>

Ross drifted away from the murmur of the mutual introductions, to the further reaches of the Mayor\u2019s airy but understated office. A sampler hanging on the far wall caught his eye. He wandered over to inspect it.<\/p>

\u201cThat which is marred at birth Time shall not mend<\/em>,\u201d he read aloud. \u201cNor water out of bitter well make clean; All evil thing returneth at the end, Or elseway walketh in our blood unseen.<\/em>\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNice, isn\u2019t it?\u201d The Mayor\u2019s voice at Ross\u2019s elbow made him jump. He hadn\u2019t heard her move. \u201cChaucer.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSo I see,\u201d said Ross, peering at the attribution. \u201cBit dark, surely, for a motivational poster?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThis is Wales, Commander Ross. Our mantra is chirpiness, on a bedrock of despair. That was nearly the national motto, you know. I lobbied for it, but the PR gurus kicked up a fuss.\u201d The Mayor beamed back at Nakia, who had settled in a seat, and produced a tablet. \u201cThis puff piece for your journalist mate shouldn\u2019t take too long. Why don\u2019t you sit out in the foyer until it\u2019s done? My P. A. can bring you an espresso.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSounds tempting.\u201d Ross turned on his heel. \u201cThanks again for giving Jane your valuable time.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI always try to make time for the press.\u201d<\/p>

Ross headed for the foyer. The Mayor had turned her attention back to Nakia.<\/p>

\u201cYour beads are lovely. Sorry for the gauche question, but do they have any cultural significance?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNone at all,\u201d replied Nakia brightly. \u201cThey just look nice.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI can see them being ace as worry beads.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWouldn\u2019t know,\u201d Ross heard Nakia say, as the door closed behind him. \u201cNever do.\u201d<\/p>

***<\/p>

\u201cYour espresso, Commander Ross.\u201d<\/p>

Ross looked up from his smartphone. \u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cIs everything OK? You look a little preoccupied.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOh, nothing. Just slightly puzzled about something I read, that\u2019s all.\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor\u2019s P. A. smiled, and returned to her desk. Ross continued to stare, with furrowed brow, at a Kipling website.<\/p>

Hello, colonizer<\/em>, said Shuri, in his ear. Ross choked momentarily on his coffee, eliciting another worried look from the P. A.. He swallowed; pressed some random buttons on his \u2019phone; and held it to his ear.<\/p>

\u201cHello? I, um, wasn\u2019t expecting you to call me from this number.\u201d<\/p>


What? Oh \u2013 I see. You\u2019re in company, and you\u2019re wondering how I can talk inside your head.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cThat was at the forefront of my mind, yes.\u201d Ross grinned in reassurance at the P. A. until she went back to her typing. He lowered his voice. \u201cHow exactly is that possible?\u201d<\/p>


A new design I\u2019ve just developed. I can run coded signals to the auditory nerve from a vibranium tattoo, which the brain then interprets as my voice. Ditto in reverse, for vibrations from the larynx.<\/em>
<\/p>

Ross\u2019s forehead creased. \u201cBut I don\u2019t have\u2026.\u201d he glanced at the P. A., \u201c\u2026one of those.\u201d<\/p>


You do now, o tool of the hegemony. I gave you one when I dug out your bullet.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cSeriously?\u201d<\/p>

No word of a lie. You have a<\/em> tramp stamp. Shuri flourished the idiom proudly, like a fake I.D.. Ross sighed, contemplating, not for the first time, the hazards of wrangling a human-ceiling intelligence with the outlook of a bouncy teenager. How had S.H.I.E.L.D. corralled the Starks for all those years?<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019m fairly sure that you\u2019re supposed to clear stuff like that with your brother. In advance.\u201d<\/p>


Oh, you\u2019re no fun. Is Nakia in position?<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cCan\u2019t you just ask her?\u201d<\/p>


I\u2019m streaming data to and from Nakia\u2019s dinky tablet, but that\u2019s all. Her current tattoo does not support this tech. She makes excuses whenever I tell her to come in for an upgrade.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cI think that I\u2019d probably be a little apprehensive about going under the knife of my ex\u2019s sister.\u201d<\/p>


You spies. So untrusting.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cAnyway, she\u2019s where she told me she needed to be. What are you planning to do?\u201d<\/p>


Nakia didn\u2019t know much about Torchwood\u2019s playbook, but she said that, in their heyday, they liked to keep tabs on municipal authorities. If they\u2019re still around in Cardiff, they\u2019re probably surveilling the Mayor. I\u2019ve now initiated a deep scan of the office through Nakia\u2019s Kimoyo beads. If any bugs are active, my tech should enable me to run a back-trace.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cSounds good.\u201d<\/p>


I\u2019ve also been data-diving on the personnel Nakia mentioned. It shouldn\u2019t be long before\u2026 Oh. What? No. This can\u2019t be right.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d said Ross, careful to keep his tone light, for public consumption.<\/p>

I\u2026<\/em> Shuri\u2019s voice trailed off, before returning at a volume that almost made him wince. Commander Ross, you need to get yourself and Nakia out of there.<\/em><\/p>

\u201cWhy?\u201d<\/p>

I\u2019m reading the energy signatures of the office. The whole place is larded with <\/em>very serious tech.<\/em> Ross felt a chill settle in his stomach. Shuri never thought that tech was serious. To her, it was always a glorious game. I have nothing like this. Stark has nothing like this. The only people who ever had anything like this were S.H.I.E.L.D., and that was because\u2026<\/em><\/p>

\u201cIt wasn\u2019t local?\u201d<\/p>

If by \u201clocal\u201d, you mean \u201chuman\u201d, then you\u2019re right.<\/em> Shuri drew a hissing breath. And that\u2019s not all\u2026<\/em><\/p>

Ross listened on, with an expression of bland equanimity, for almost half a minute, until Shuri\u2019s voice (\u2026 which means that you need to get to Nakia at once. I\u2019m sending this to her tablet, as well, but I\u2019m not even su\u2026<\/em>) cut out in mid-word. He sighed, said \u201cI see; thanks for calling\u201d into the \u2019phone, and looked up.<\/p>

The Mayor\u2019s P. A. was looking back at him.<\/p>

\u201cI think I\u2019d better collect Ms. Kimathi and go,\u201d he said, easily. \u201cWe\u2019re both invited to the reception after the ceremony tonight; we should change.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019m afraid I can\u2019t let you do that, Commander,\u201d the P. A. said. From behind the office door, Ross heard a muffled thud. He frowned.<\/p>

\u201cI don\u2019t see how\u2026\u201d Ross played back the recent memory of his environment in his head \u2013 the Muzak to which every spy\u2019s mind learns to sing along \u2013 with more attention than he had been able to give it while listening to Shuri. He kicked himself. Going soft. \u201cYou\u2019ve been typing with only one hand for about a minute. You have a gun trained on me, under that desk.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYes,\u201d the P. A. said. She sounded sad. \u201cI\u2019m afraid I do.\u201d<\/p>

From beyond the door, there came another thud.

\u2003<\/p>

2. Dayspring Mishandled<\/u>

Secession of Wales<\/b>

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia<\/p>

<\/p>

<\/p>

<\/p>

<\/p>

<\/p>





This article needs additional citations for verification<\/u>.<\/b> Please help improve this article<\/u> by adding citations to reliable sources<\/u>. Unsourced material may be challenged and removed. (March 2018)<\/em> (learn how and when to remove this template message<\/u>)<\/p><\/blockquote>

<\/p>

The Secession of Wales<\/b> was the withdrawal of Wales<\/u> from the United Kingdom<\/u>, which took place on 1 March 2015. The withdrawal was the consequence of the 2014 Welsh independence referendum<\/u>, and led to the formation of the Republic of Wales<\/u>, the first independent Welsh government in more than seven hundred years.<\/p>


Contents<\/b>
<\/p>

1 Background: Welsh nationalism, 1858-2009<\/u><\/p>

2 Prelude to referendum, 2009-2014<\/u>

2.1 Cardiff Marches, 2009-11<\/u>

2.2 Greenwich Incident, 2013<\/u>

3 Welsh independence referendum, 2014<\/u>

3.1 Campaign<\/u>

3.2 Voting<\/u>

3.3 Controversies<\/u>

4 Secession and aftermath<\/u>

5 See also<\/u>

6 References

<\/u>7 External links<\/u><\/p>

***<\/p>

\u201cWas the espresso OK?\u201d asked the Mayor\u2019s P. A..<\/p>

\u201cIt was great, thank you,\u201d Ross replied. The plump armchair wheezed in protest as he attempted surreptitiously to shift his weight. Fat chance of making it out of the line of fire.<\/p>

\u201cWe\u2019re breaking in a new machine. It\u2019s temperamental.\u201d It sounded as though furniture had just splintered behind the door.<\/p>

\u201cNo \u2013 absolutely fine.\u201d He studied her face. \u201cIs this a usual part of your job? You seem quite calm.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cTerrified, always.\u201d The Englishwoman bit her lip. \u201cBut functional. Please don\u2019t move.\u201d<\/p>

Ross had opened his mouth to reply when the door burst open, and the Mayor of Cardiff tumbled through. She found her feet with disconcerting grace, turning to face Nakia, who had stalked after her.<\/p>

\u201cWhere did you find a ring blade?\u201d Ross asked, looking at what Nakia was holding.<\/p>

\u201cBrought it in my bag,\u201d said Nakia. A bruise bloomed on her cheek; she was breathing heavily.<\/p>

Ross turned his attention back to the Mayor. His eyes widened. \u201cWhere did she<\/em> find a ring blade?\u201d<\/p>

Nakia had dropped into a martial stance. \u201cShe caught it.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNot as impressive as it sounds, Commander Ross,\u201d said the Mayor. She wiped blood away from her split lip. \u201cI\u2019m fairly sure that that was only your friend\u2019s second serve. A reflex test, which I passed \u2013 or failed, depending on your perspective. Very clever. Hmm.\u201d She cocked her head on one side. \u201cNakia of the River Tribe, unless I\u2019m much mistaken. You more than live up to your reputation.\u201d<\/p>



\u201cI am wondering,\u201d said Nakia, \u201cwhy I do not know yours.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI think that Shuri found the answer to that question.\u201d Ross kept an eye on the Mayor\u2019s P. A.. She looked flustered, but resolute. No immediate respite, then, from the possibility of a bullet.<\/p>

\u201cWhat do you mean, Ross?\u201d Nakia asked.<\/p>

\u201cThe Mayor of Cardiff, as a person, doesn\u2019t exist. Her history before a few years back is fake. And she\u2019s not the only one.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cHow is that even possible?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cIt\u2019s easier than it used to be. Project Insight drove a coach and horses through cyber-security. Who knows how many records were corrupted when Ultron tried to eat the Internet? All the same, Shuri says that the imposture is immaculate. Your Princess is conceivably the smartest woman on this planet. Even she could barely see the joins \u2013 and even she would have trouble proving it.\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor smiled. \u201cWhat does that tell you, Commander Ross?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cIt tells me that Killmonger wasn\u2019t the only person who ever stole a country.\u201d Ross shook his head. \u201cWe were wrong, Nakia. Torchwood isn\u2019t beyond the Welsh Government. Torchwood isn\u2019t subverting the Welsh Government. Torchwood is<\/em> the Welsh Government.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cOnce again,\u201d the Mayor said absently, \u201cvery clever.\u201d Ross saw tendons sharpen in her wrist as she balled a fist; the crease of muscle in Nakia\u2019s shoulders as the War Dog leaned forward. He decided to go for broke.<\/p>

\u201cWe\u2019re at an impasse, here,\u201d he said. \u201cYour P. A. can perforate me in a second. On the other hand, you \u2013 somehow \u2013 cut off a Princess of Wakanda in mid-sentence. She\u2019ll have noticed. Right now, Shuri\u2019s most likely despatching her brother to see what\u2019s wrong. That should scare you more than a bloody gunboat.\u201d He took a breath. \u201cWe still have a dwindling chance to dial this down. I hope you\u2019ll take it.\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor of Cardiff stared at him for a long and loaded moment. Then she sighed; made a mollient gesture at her P. A.; and proffered the ring blade in her hand to Nakia, who warily accepted it.<\/p>

\u201cYou\u2019re a much better diplomat when your blood is up, Commander Ross,\u201d she said.<\/p>

\u201cI have my moments.\u201d Ross exhaled gratefully. \u201cBut I\u2019m still struggling to see the whole picture. Why has an echo of Empire installed itself as the first Government of Wales?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cDo you think that we should tell them?\u201d the Mayor asked her P. A..<\/p>

\u201cI think that we should show them,\u201d said the P. A., closing the drawer of her desk, and locking it.<\/p>

\u201cReally?\u201d The Mayor looked Ross and Nakia up and down. \u201cThey\u2019ll have to wrap up warm.\u201d<\/p>

Nakia arched an eyebrow. \u201cIt\u2019s twenty degrees outside.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNot where we\u2019re going,\u201d said the Mayor.<\/p>

***<\/p>

Everett Ross had never liked snow \u2013 the betrayals of it, the slither and the slip, the seeming concessions to your tread that only lured you to commit your weight to a negotiation you could never win. He liked it even less after that long, nightmare trek into the Wakandan mountains, when the world had seemed only regicide and defeat. He hunched his shoulders, and hid his face in the shifting curtains of his breath. A little over fifteen feet away, tourists promenaded and ate ice-cream in the Cardiff sun.<\/p>

\u201cHow do you manage to maintain this place?\u201d Nakia asked. \u201cI think that I can probably hazard a guess.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThe environmental control tech for the enclosure is almost all human,\u201d said the Mayor. She was bundled up in a massive greatcoat, as was her P. A.. Both held steaming buckets, from which arose a less than toothsome smell. \u201cNot quite, though. We wanted to keep it discreet, but as green as possible: this place has to subtract a lot of heat. Cardiff \u2013 though you could sometimes be forgiven for thinking otherwise \u2013 is a lot more temperate than Jotunheim.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019m still not seeing why you brought us here.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou will, shortly.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cPerhaps we should not have called off Shuri.\u201d Nakia turned. \u201cDoes this make any sense to you, Ross?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSome.\u201d Ross raised his head. \u201cYou never really thought that this would happen, did you?\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor rolled her eyes. \u201cThis wasn\u2019t how I planned to spend my Friday \u2013 no.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNot today.\u201d Ross made a vague expansive gesture. \u201cAll of this.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWhat makes you say that?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThe poem on your office wall. I looked it up. It isn\u2019t Chaucer. It\u2019s Kipling \u2013 pretending to be Chaucer. Kipling wrote it for a story about a man who runs a con. He fakes a Chaucer manuscript, because he knows that exposing the fraud later will destroy someone. But when he should pull the trigger, he finds he can\u2019t. By the end, he has to inhabit the con that he created. Nice place you have here.\u201d He stared steadily at the Mayor. \u201cLovely cage.\u201d<\/p>

There was a long silence before the Mayor spoke again.<\/p>

\u201cThe First Minister should never have given me that sodding sampler. Literary flourishes are a weakness of his. It would be helpful if he could sometimes forget that he shagged Isherwood.\u201d She looked out, through the plexiglass wall of the enclosure, over the bay. \u201cThere used to be some people: Frines, Costerdane, and Ablemarch. They were businessmen, after a fashion, and they once farmed this world like a factory chicken. When the clamour for Welsh Independence came, they thought they were quids in. We\u2019d been fighting them for years, with fuck all to show for it. Torchwood were never very good at being heroes. But then we remembered: we were always very, very good at being thieves.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou stole Wales before they could,\u201d breathed Nakia. \u201cThat\u2019s\u2026 insane. It couldn\u2019t work. Do you know what just happened in Wakanda?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWe heard. Don\u2019t get me wrong: Erik Stevens was driven and resourceful. But he was trained as a killer, not a thief. The bad pickpocket stops to admire the swag in his hand. We\u2019re still running.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou haven\u2019t told us,\u201d said Ross, \u201cwhy Torchwood cares.\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor turned, and smiled radiantly over Ross\u2019s shoulder. \u201cThere\u2019s someone you should meet.\u201d She hefted her bucket, and walked forward. \u201cHello, Angharad.\u201d<\/p>

Ross looked round, and almost jumped out of his skin. Nothing that large should have been able to approach that quietly.<\/p>

\u201cShe\u2019s\u2026 bigger than she looked on the London footage,\u201d said Nakia, who had also taken a prudent step back. The impossible confection of horn and bone and glinting eyes before them trotted up to the Mayor and her P. A., who started patting it and making cooing noises. \u201cAnd friendlier.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAngharad is a sweetheart, really,\u201d said the Mayor. She held out her bucket to the vast creature, which slurped at the protein broth inside it. \u201cShe gets cranky for the same reasons as most people: because she\u2019s hungry; because she\u2019s been disturbed when she\u2019s trying to have a kip; or because the Convergence of the Nine Realms has just dumped her on someone else\u2019s planet.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThe Greenwich Incident,\u201d said Nakia. \u201cThe moment Westminster lost control.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWith only themselves to blame.\u201d The Mayor dropped the empty bucket on the ground. \u201cTorchwood reached out to warn the UK Government that Convergence was coming. They told us to fuck off and tried to catch us. Same old, same old. S.H.I.E.L.D. listened, but they were stretched, and only made it for the clean-up.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou speak to S.H.I.E.L.D.?\u201d asked Ross.<\/p>

\u201cWe have lines of communication. I hope that counts for something, as long as they\u2019re not terrorists this week. Are they?\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor\u2019s P.A. gave her a reproachful glance. \u201cThere was a memo.\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor looked contrite. \u201cSorry. In any event: you all know what went down. Svartalfheim parked on the Greenwich Meridian like it was a double yellow line, and Whitehall\u2019s credibility was left in tatters. It took a literal deus ex machina<\/em> to save the day.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThor,\u201d said Nakia.<\/p>

\u201cMmm. Thor.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cMmm.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAm I literally the only biped in this cage who isn\u2019t having a moment about Thor right now?\u201d asked Ross.<\/p>


Not just in the cage.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cShuri\u2019s back, by the way.\u201d<\/p>


Just to tell you that the story seems to be checking out. I should go; Mother is pressing me to choose a dress for the reception. She needs to chill; I\u2019ve narrowed it down to ten.<\/em>
<\/p>

\u201cShe\u2019s gone again.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYour Princess is a marvel,\u201d the Mayor said, quietly. \u201cI only ever knew one other woman who could think like her \u2013 the one who built the sonic tech I used to cancel your vibranium.\u201d<\/p>

Nakia shivered, as though feeling a chill beyond the gelid grip of pseudo-Jotunheim. \u201cWhere is that woman now?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cBeneath Roald Dahl Plass, with the rest of our honoured dead.\u201d The Mayor looked away. \u201cShuri\u2019s about eighteen, yes?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThereabouts.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThen you\u2019ll remember the day when those bright eyes shuttered, and that brain was stilled, and all you heard from her mouth was the 4-5-6. Greenwich was the end, but that was that day when Wales first lost its faith. London took our children to feed them to the monsters.\u201d Ross saw the Mayor\u2019s hand clench. \u201cThe First Minister\u2019s sampler doesn\u2019t get it right. A fake chunk of Chaucer will always be a fake. But I am Torchwood and the Mayor of Cardiff \u2013 just as he is Torchwood and the First Minister of Wales. None of the things we are makes any of the rest less true. What do you think that Angharad means?\u201d<\/p>

Nakia looked puzzled. \u201cI don\u2019t understand the question.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAngharad is a trophy \u2013 a prize Torchwood stole and put up on display. She didn\u2019t become the mascot of Welsh Independence by accident; it wasn\u2019t chance or fate that she surfaced again in Cardiff after London couldn\u2019t hold her.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cHow did you manage that?\u201d asked Nakia, with the disinterested curiosity of one professional quizzing another.<\/p>

\u201cMy gift for sniping. The biggest tranq gun in the world. Two men who can\u2019t die (long story \u2013 we\u2019ll come to that) baiting her into position. And a tricked-out Harwood\u2019s lorry with my better half at the wheel. He\u2019s\u2026\u201d<\/p>

\u201c\u2026 In charge of the Transport Ministry now,\u201d said Ross. \u201cI remember.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAngharad is a trophy, like that plaster elephant Napoleon erected where the Bastille used to be. She\u2019s also us, as Commander Ross implies: a creature used to the cold and to the dark, staked out in the wincing light for all to see.\u201d The Mayor stroked the massive flank. \u201cBut, above all, she\u2019s a frightened thing, far from home. We protect her, like all our waifs and strays. I\u2019m sure Wakanda knows what Torchwood was. This is what we are. A reminder that you can blunder into virtue, as well as vice.\u201d<\/p>

Angharad huffed contentedly. Beyond the plexiglass, a woman in a tracksuit was wearily dissuading one small child from putting a chocolate sundae into the hair of another. An old man watched waves crease up to the horizon.<\/p>

***<\/p>

The reception after the ceremony granting T\u2019Challa the Freedom of Cardiff was an appropriately lavish affair, at which the King of Wakanda displayed the grave bonhomie that came naturally to him in public. After his introduction to the First Minister of Wales (that famous smile, that mellifluous, oddly American-sounding voice, that deft touch at your elbow that impelled without enforcing \u2013 they really were very, very good at this), Ross secured two fingers of Talisker, and retreated to a corner. He savoured the Scotch in silence for a while, until he became aware of a presence at his shoulder.<\/p>

\u201cRoss.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cMatheson.\u201d Ross set down his tumbler. \u201cYou look well.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cNever better.\u201d A shadow passed over the big man\u2019s face. \u201cEver better, actually, as you may have heard. I haven\u2019t answered to that name in quite a while.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou unpersoned yourself, like your new friends? The Mayor said that the woman behind that process was dead.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cShe is. I never met her. But the tech is distributed, and self-updating. Anyone can use it, if you\u2019re savvy enough to work out where it is. Not many have. The last was some little hacker with the Rising Tide; never did discover what happened to her.\u201d The big man threw an olive into the air, and caught it in his mouth. \u201cHow\u2019s life treating you?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019ve just flown in an invisible jet out of a magitech kingdom hiding from the world to a magitech republic hiding from itself. I\u2019ve had slower weeks.\u201d<\/p>

The big man chuckled. \u201cFair enough.\u201d He looked out over the festive throng. Nakia (her bruises of the afternoon masked by make-up and Wakandan tech) was effortlessly charming a Cardiff businesswoman. \u201cWe didn\u2019t think that the new head of Wakandan Outreach would be making her first popular appearance.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cLet\u2019s just say that today has convinced her that it\u2019s time to step out into the light. We all get made, eventually.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cBut what do we choose to get made into?\u201d Another olive sailed into the air. \u201cThat\u2019s the question.\u201d<\/p>

Ross eyed his old acquaintance. \u201cThis is crazy, Rex. Your little posse stole a country<\/em>. Do you ever plan to give it back?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cProbably. But not today. It\u2019s a tricky time.\u201d The big man pursed his lips, and lowered his voice. \u201cYou might want to tell your Wakandan friends to be on the alert. We have intel that the end of the month will be rough.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cFor who?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cFor everyone.\u201d<\/p>

Ross held his gaze, and nodded. \u201cI\u2019ll pass it on.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cThank you.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cAll part of the service.\u201d Ross picked up his tumbler again, and surveyed the crowd. The Mayor of Cardiff was regaling an EU diplomat with the anecdote (onerous shopping \u2013 a curious and decided terrier \u2013 a door that had swung open the wrong way) of how she had split her lip that afternoon. \u201cThe friendliest woman who ever punched your face in, working for a deathless grifter. And her incalculably efficient English P. A., who scares me more than the other two put together. You run with a strange pack now, Matheson.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSo do you.\u201d<\/p>

Near the centre of the room, Shuri\u2019s voice, hands, and hair appeared to be carrying on three separate conversations with three different people. Ross had already caught T\u2019Challa checking twice to make sure that she wasn\u2019t sneaking bubbly. He smiled, and raised his Scotch.<\/p>

\u201cYes,\u201d he said. \u201cSo do I.\u201d<\/p>

***<\/p>

The Mayor\u2019s P. A. liked to leave a clean desk at the end of the evening. It was an observance left over from her Westminster days. Whitehall was no longer a religion that she practised, but its sacraments gave her comfort, all the same. She looked at an open diary on her desktop, and drummed her fingers.<\/p>

\u201cLois?\u201d<\/p>

The P. A. raised her head, to see the Mayor standing in the doorway with her coat on.<\/p>

\u201cSorry \u2013 didn\u2019t spot you there. How did the reception go?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cLovely,\u201d the Mayor advanced into the room, \u201calthough the canap\u00e9s still aren\u2019t a patch on Rhys\u2019s hotpot. You need to come over for dinner again, soon. Anwen hasn\u2019t seen her god-mum in far too long.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019m almost done here,\u201d the P. A. said. \u201cFancy a G&T in the bar, before heading home?\u201d<\/p>

The Mayor grimaced. \u201cTempting, but I should probably call it a night. I\u2019m too long in the tooth to dance with the impossibly suave King of Wakanda after going best of ten with his Outreach Director and not feel it afterwards. Middle age, Lois. You\u2019ll see what I mean, some day.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWill I?\u201d the P. A. asked.<\/p>

The Mayor inspected the younger woman\u2019s face. \u201cAh. The end of the month.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYes. The end of the month.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cYou think we should have told our guests everything.\u201d The Mayor sighed, and sat on the edge of her P. A.\u2019s desk. \u201cIf everything were anything, I\u2019d agree. But we don\u2019t know what happens precisely<\/em> \u2013 that\u2019s the trouble. Enough to be scared, but not enough to help. Very Torchwood.\u201d She snorted. \u201cWe\u2019re so very different, now, yet still the same.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cWhat, exactly, do we know?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cBecause of the\u2026 objects involved, a Time Lock is more-or-less inevitable. That\u2019s why we can\u2019t expect help through the usual channels. Not that you should ever rely on him<\/em> to turn up when he\u2019s needed, anyway.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cHer<\/em>, now. Usually.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cReally? Oh. Memo?\u201d<\/p>

\u201cMemo.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cSorry.\u201d The Mayor kicked her heels against the desk. \u201cI\u2019ve had longer to come to terms with this than you. It\u2019s practically the first thing that our fearless leader ever told me. Still, time may not mend, but at least it passes. There\u2019ll be a day, like any other. And if there\u2019s a day after it, there\u2019ll be paperwork. Does that help?\u201d<\/p>

The P. A. smiled. \u201cPossibly a little.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cGood girl.\u201d The Mayor stood up, and headed back to the outer door. \u201cMaybe I have one G&T left in me, after all. Meet me at the bar when you\u2019re finished; I\u2019m buying. Your Mayor hath spoken.\u201d<\/p>

\u201cI\u2019ll see you there.\u201d<\/p>

The P. A. went back to contemplation of her screen, as the Mayor departed. She scrolled through her diary, and stopped at the end of the month. This held her attention, again, for a pensive moment. She closed the diary, and shut down the desktop, collecting her coat before she walked out into the Cardiff night.<\/p>


Wed 25 April: <\/em>
<\/p>



09h00-12h30 Ways and Means Committee.<\/em>

12h30-13h30 Lunch with charity heads.<\/em>

13h30-17h30 Planning Committee (QUERY \u2013 late circulation?).<\/em><\/p>


Thu 26 April: <\/em>
<\/p>



09h30-13h00 Finance Committee (papers to follow).<\/em>

13h00-14h00 Strategy lunch (TBC).<\/em>

14h00-18h00 Education Working Group.<\/em><\/p>

<\/p>


Fri 27 April:<\/em>
<\/p>




Everything changes.<\/em>
<\/p>

“This rig looks different from what Cisco showed us over Skype,” said Laurel. She looked at her watch, and tried not to think about the briefs piled up in her office.<\/p>

<\/p>

“I know,” Oliver knelt to make an adjustment. “Dr. Fitz and Dr. Simmons had to reconfigure the set-up. Daisy’s powers aren’t quite the same as his.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What are the differences?” asked Daisy, flinching a little as Oliver tweaked the tech-bedizened headband that she was wearing.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Basically, he’s the scalpel; you’re the nuke. Cisco can read psychometric vibes on objects…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I can’t do that. Sounds useful. And very cool.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“... but he has to push hard to move anything big. I think that you’re in front when it comes to earth-breaking.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“So - this tiara is supposed to focus my abundance of mojo in the right direction?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes. Once it’s activated, you just have to project a vibe calibrated to what the headband is putting out. If you do it here, where you first punched through, that should snap you back to your multiversal base state, and send you home.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy looked out over the parking lot, on which a chilly light mist had descended. “Beats a pair of ruby slippers, any day.”<\/p>

<\/p>

The labours of Fitz and Simmons had consumed another couple of days. These had seen, by the recent standards of Star City, little obvious activity on the villain front. Oliver had nevertheless felt it prudent to keep Daisy’s site of attempted departure more than adequately guarded. As well as Laurel, and Oliver himself, Thea was standing sentry over the proceedings. Speedy was trying, with indifferent success, to conceal her excitement at witnessing this particular efflorescence of Mad Science. Oliver sighed, and turned back to Daisy.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Are you ready?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I was born ready. Well, emerged from a cocoon ready, technically.” Daisy squared her shoulders, and breathed deeply. “Here goes nothing.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy flipped a switch on the apparatus. She closed her eyes. Shortly thereafter, she extended her hands towards the ground. In contrast to what had happened in the cell, the quivering that now began to communicate itself to the surrounding area was barely perceptible. A few minutes passed.<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m not exactly an expert on these things,” said Thea, eventually, “but I’m detecting statistically significant quantities of ‘Still Here’-ness from our visitor at the moment.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How does it feel, Daisy?” asked Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“The strain is… considerable.” A light sweat had broken out on Daisy’s brow. “Nothing I can’t handle, but I’m feeling it. Something’s happening. But I’m not sure what it is.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Well, the night’s young.” Thea pointed at the sky over the twilit city. Brief blossoms of fireworks were visible in the distance, their brightness softened by the encroaching mist. “And someone’s celebrating.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“That’s not a celebration.” Oliver frowned. “That’s a challenge.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“A League signal?” Laurel looked warily at Oliver. “Shiva’s finally calling you out?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“She is.” Oliver settled the quiver on his shoulders. “I have to go.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel moved to stand in front of him. “You really don’t.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Honour demands that Al-Sahim meet the Shiva one-on-one.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel nodded in the direction of Daisy. The young woman’s head was bowed now, her frame slightly shaking. “Morality demands that the Green Arrow not leave innocents undefended.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I know. That’s why I’ll contact Spartan to come with me after Shiva - since I’m not the Ra’s now, I don’t really have to play by her rules - and trust you and Speedy to watch out for Daisy while I’m elsewhere.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel smiled. “Wow. My little vigilante’s all grown-up.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Oliver smiled back. “Took a while, didn’t it? Be safe, Canary. Look after things here until I get back.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Be safe, Green Arrow. Give Shiva something she doesn’t expect.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Oliver raised a hand in salute, and loped off into the night.<\/p>

<\/p>

About a quarter of an hour elapsed. The mist deepened, as did the furrows on Daisy’s brow. Finally, Laurel put a hand to her ear.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Overwatch? Yeah, I’m reading you. Good thing that you worked out how to make the comms go on functioning around Daisy. What’s the problem?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel listened for a moment, frowning. Daisy watched her face.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Something up?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Maybe. Spartan and the Green Arrow checked in with Overwatch. They went to the site of the fireworks; no one was there. The Arrow says that he’s heading back here.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Weird.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yeah. From what he’s said, it doesn’t sound like it’s Shiva’s way to duck out of a fight. I wonder…” Laurel staggered as a short tremor shook the ground. “Was that you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Maybe.” Daisy looked puzzled. “Felt…. Felt like something just came loose.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel touched her ear again. “I’ve lost Overwatch. This is unhelpful.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Canary,” Thea had moved the edge of the parking lot, and was peering out into the mist. “You should probably see this.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What is it? Daisy’s still here.” Laurel moved over to where Thea was standing. “Apart from faulty comms and one tremor, nothing’s happening.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel looked in the direction where Thea was pointing. Her jaw dropped open.<\/p>

<\/p>

“I think,” said Thea with the careful calm that was never a good sign in a denizen of Star City, “I think that something is.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

Galaxied Star Cities, sleeting past. The <\/i>Queen’s Gambit is accepted, declined; the game plays out in a thousand different ways. A phalanx of archers; an aria of Canaries. Distant in the void, a rosary of Kryptons clicks out its sorrows: dying because the sun explodes; dying because the core explodes; dying because, because. And then Krypton does not die, because it was never there at all.<\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

A.R.G.U.S. is the DEO. A.R.G.U.S. is Stormwatch. <\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

The landscape shifts. The Speed Force is sparser, now, meted out in grudging heart-beats, on the approach to the close conveners, the almost-homes. An abacus of Infinity Stones snaps back and forth. The lives of Calvin Zabo\/Johnson bubble like his potions in the alembic of fates.<\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

A.R.G.U.S. is Black Air. A.R.G.U.S. is…<\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m fairly sure,” said Thea, her eyes transfixed on the vista that swirled just beyond the edge of the parking lot, “that this isn’t what happens when Cisco breaches.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“It’s like the Green Arrow said,” Laurel was similarly unmoving, “Cisco’s the scalpel; Daisy’s the nuke. She’s dragging this entire city block<\/i> through the Speed Force.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“At least Overwatch called a fake gas leak on the area ahead of time. There’s no one on this joyriding chunk of Earth-1 but the three of u…”<\/p>

<\/p>

Thea was still talking as light from a firework bursting on the other side of the lot threw shade and crimson across her face. She swallowed. “Shiva.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Uh-huh.” Laurel raised her tonfas, eyes darting.<\/p>

<\/p>

“This was where she was always going to be. She sent Spartan and Green Arrow on a wild-goose chase.” Speedy nocked an arrow. “What do you think she wants?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Plenty of time to ask that once we take her down.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You think that we can do that? From what the Green Arrow said, she’s just as good as he is.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“There’s three of us.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Two.” Daisy had buckled to one knee. Her hair was matted with sweat. “There’s two of you. If I understood FitzSimmons correctly, it would probably kill us all if I stopped channelling this before my Earth snapped into focus. And… God, the strain…” She dropped to both knees. “I’d be weak as a kitten, even if I did.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hang on in there”, said Laurel. “We’ve got your back. She can call herself what she likes: Shiva; Al-Fursan; the Destroyer. She’s still only human. And she’s still going dow…”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy’s head snapped up. “Say that again.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Huh?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I never heard you call her anything but ‘Shiva’. Say those other names again.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Al-Fursan; the Destroyer. What…?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy shuddered. “Canary, you and Speedy have to hide. Now. You’re no kind of match for what’s coming.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Why are you so scared of a name?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Not one name. That’s the point. You don’t speak Arabic, do you? The big guy does, I bet, but he wouldn’t have seen any reason to explain.” Daisy bit her lip. “My first S.O. … well, he wasn’t a lot of the things his file said he was, but he sure did know a lot of languages. He started me on a few of them, even though I never go that far. And I can tell you this: ‘Al-Fursan’ doesn’t mean ‘The Destroyer’.”<\/p>

<\/p>

A second firework kindled on the other side of the lot. When the light guttered out, a woman was standing there - a slight, sinewy Asian woman, in early middle age. Her face was very beautiful. Her eyes were dead. Daisy sighed, as though all was lost.<\/p>

<\/p>

“It means: ‘The Cavalry’.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

(A warm still day in Bahrain, untroubled by the querulous Shamal, or by a woman’s world ending, somewhere else. Laos Spain Chile Vanuatu Finland Canada Brunei. The backdrop is irrelevant; it could have happened anywhere. The backdrop is everything; it happened here.<\/p>

<\/p>

The agent walks in; the Cavalry rides out. It could happen anywhere. It happens here.)<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

“This is one of those scary badasses who taught you?” whispered Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“The scariest.” Daisy’s eyes were locked on Shiva. “And I think this version has the brakes off.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel slumped for a moment, but stiffened her back. “Be that as it may,” she raised her voice, “Lady Shiva - Al-Fursan - you know our ways, so you know the drill. You have failed this city. Yield while you can.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“This fight is not yours, little bird.” Shiva’s voice was deep, and slightly halting, as though rusty with disuse. When she stepped closer, Laurel could see that she was wearing a curious bracelet, bright against the sable of her clothes. “Nor yours, swift one.” She nodded at Thea.<\/p>

<\/p>

“If you come after innocents in our town, you make it our fight,” said Thea. She fired her arrow. Shiva barely seemed to move as it passed within an inch of her head. And then…<\/p>

<\/p>

All Hell did not break loose. It would have been less frightening if it had. Hell revealed itself in inches and fractions of a second: the moment by which Speedy’s first kick missed as their enemy walked forward; the minute movements of Shiva’s hands here and here, which sent the younger woman sprawling to the peregrine asphalt below. Laurel snarled and leapt in, tonfas spinning. Once again, it seemed that Shiva barely moved at the eye of the batoned whirl - the devil in the details. She struck: once, twice, a third time. Laurel, too, crumpled to the ground. She watched, head ringing, as Shiva walked on.<\/p>

<\/p>

Shiva stopped in front of Daisy, who still knelt in the centre of the lot, and hunkered down to look her in the eye. Daisy gazed back, chin held high.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Daisy Johnson. The little girl who makes the world to tremble. You came to my Earth looking for death.” Shiva cocked her head on one side. “What do you think, now that you have found her?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’re not Death.” Daisy had not blinked. “I don’t know exactly how your story panned out here. What made you this. But all I’m seeing is a broken, solitary woman, who needs to believe that she’s a force of nature.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“So speaks the Quake.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy flinched. “You know a lot about me.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Your coming was foretold.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hmmm.” Daisy’s expression was thoughtful, as another tremor shook the lot. She looked past Shiva, locked gazes with Laurel, and laughed.<\/p>

<\/p>

“What amuses you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Just remembering something a friend said to me. You need to bear in mind, Lady Shiva, that on Earth-Whatever, it isn’t just the bad guys who understand redundancy.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Ah. So she is here.”<\/p>

<\/p>

The laugh died in Daisy’s throat. “You knew?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Of course. I told the Black Canary that this wasn’t her fight.” Shiva turned, and moved smoothly into a defensive stance. “Did you really imagine that it was yours?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel saw a dark-clad blur streak out of the gathering night. Then she lost her tenuous grip on consciousness. The night took all.<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

“Canary? Can you hear me?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel opened her eyes to the sight of Thea’s concerned face. She tried to sit up, and then wished she hadn’t.<\/p>

<\/p>

“How are you feeling?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Like I was hit by a kung-fu truck.” Laurel groaned. “I think I’m seeing double.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You might want to hold on to that thought.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel craned to look past Thea. Her eyes widened.<\/p>

<\/p>

The mist had gone. It was now clear that the parking lot was perched incongruously on a desolate plain. There wasn’t a Star City on Earth-Whatever. Daisy had picked a lonely place to die.<\/p>

<\/p>

At the centre of the lot, two women were locked in unarmed combat. One of them was Shiva. The other, in face and build, could have been her twin. Laurel gasped.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Is that…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“May.” Daisy’s voice at Laurel’s shoulder startled her. “That’s Agent May. The woman who turned into Shiva on your Earth, and trained me on this one.” Daisy gnawed her lip, as the woman she had called May staggered for a moment, barely managing a block against Shiva’s kick. “But even May isn’t a match for that.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“We have to help her.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How?” Daisy’s voice was low and without hope. “You can barely stand. That Overwatch lady didn’t have time to fix your Canary Cry. Shiva fractured Speedy’s arms. And the effort of bringing us here took everything I had. Simmons would say that I couldn’t vibe the skin off a rice pudding right now.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Listen to me, Daisy.” Laurel held her gaze. “Remember our bout when you first arrived? You beat me, but you still lost, because I had a home advantage. This is Earth-Whatever. We’re in your house, now. There’s something you can do. You just have to find it.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I don’t think… Wait. You’re right.” Daisy raised her voice: “May?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Kinda… busy here, Daisy,” May hissed, wincing as another punch, and another, slipped through her guard.<\/p>

<\/p>

“May, what’s wrong with this picture?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Huh? I…” May turned and, in that moment, Shiva struck. A cascade of blows and desperate, flagging counters ended with May on the ground, while Shiva knelt above. Her right hand was poised, fingers claw-like, above May’s head. Laurel remembered what Oliver had said about the Leopard Strike. Shiva spoke:<\/p>

<\/p>

“You fought well. But you are not my equal.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Maybe not.” May spat out blood and grinned. “But I just won, all the same.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Shiva looked down. May’s hand was wrapped around the bracelet on her left wrist.<\/p>

<\/p>

“The thing that was wrong with this picture. I don’t accessorize.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Well played.” The dead eyes, for a moment, looked enchanted. “Very well played.” Shiva bowed her head. “I remember being you. The people; the ’planes; the chains of command. Fuel gauges and compassion and constraint. They blunt you. Slow you down. The warrior must be the warrior - nothing else. Two souls in one body cannot abide.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I disagree,” said May. “You’re an extraordinary fighter. But you’re alone.” She nodded at Daisy. “I had someone to call the plays.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“An insight I shall think on.” Shiva turned her gaze to the group on the edge of the lot. “My thanks to you all. Convey my apologies to Al-Sahim for my deception. He interests me, but it is not yet his time.” She looked down again. “Farewell, Agent May.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Farewell”, said May, “Melinda.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Shiva smiled as May squeezed the bracelet. For a moment, her outline was limmed with blue fire. Then, she was gone. Four women only knelt on the darkling plain.<\/p><\/xml:namespace>



Epilogue<\/u>

“Iskandar,” said Laurel. “That should have been the clue.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How so?” asked Thea. “These bone-pills are astonishing, Daisy. Does Agent May have any more?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“’Fraid not. I get through them quickly.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Some people go further than the old story that Alexander the Great dreamed of new worlds to conquer,” Laurel continued. “They say that, once he ran out of people worth fighting, he would have fought himself. Thanks to the League prophecy about Daisy, that’s exactly what Shiva managed to do.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“She hitched a ride out of her own reality for a fight,” said Daisy. “Guess that’s why she’s the Shiva. Was I right to think that that bracelet was probably from the place you call S.T.A.R. Labs?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Uh-huh. My guess is that the recent break-in wasn’t Zoom this time. It was Shiva. She needed an.... anchor, I suppose. Cisco hasn’t had much luck in finding a way to open new breaches that doesn’t involve someone who can vibe or mainline the Speed Force, but I suppose he built something that could snap you back to your own universe if you were wearing it when you left. Shiva stole that, and trashed the place to cover what she had taken. It was her way home.” Laurel looked over to where May was talking (a little) and listening (a lot) to her smartphone, keeping her distance from the two planar refugees to maintain the line. “Speaking of going home… who’s this guy that just rang Agent May?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Daisy. “According to May, about three people in the whole world are meant to know that number.”<\/p>

<\/p>

May looked up from her ’phone. “Says he’s a representative of the Kamar-Taj. The Master of the New York Sanctum, whatever that is. His people have a professional interest in dimensional incursion, apparently; Daisy’s belly-flop back into this world caught their attention. Our former Director left instructions about cooperating with them in his Toolbox.” She listened to the ’phone again. “I'm told that this will need a hair from one of you two, but ‘not the zombie’. That mean anything to you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Thea glared. “Honestly, you take a dip in one Lazarus Pit…”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel reached under her wig, and yanked out a hair, which she handed to May.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Thanks.” May walked away, and picked up her ’phone again. Laurel shifted uneasily.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Daisy…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes, Laurel?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel tried to look innocent. “Who’s that?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Oh for God’s sake, Laurel<\/em>.” Daisy rolled her eyes. “I spent the best part of a week in Star City; there was Internet; and I’m kind of like Overwatch - Felicity<\/em> - when it comes to computers. How many athletic five seven-and-a-half female attorneys with a family background in law enforcement do you think there are in your town? And the Green Arrow is former millionaire playboy Oliver Queen, whose sister is currently chugging my bone-pills like there’s no tomorrow.”<\/p>

<\/em><\/p>

“Sorry,” said Thea.<\/p>

<\/em><\/p>

“Just leave me a couple, OK?”<\/p>

<\/em><\/p>

“Fair enough,” said Laurel. “You’ve made your point. But what do you think of what Shiva said? That two souls can’t abide in one body?”<\/p>

<\/em><\/p>

“<\/em>Shiva wouldn’t be my first pick for a life coach.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Still… do you think she could be right? I’m not sure anymore - I haven't been for a while- that I can go on being a lawyer and a vigilante.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“The intellect of man is forced to choose\/ perfection of the life, or of the work<\/em>.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Who said that?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Beats me.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“She probably read it on Twitter,” said May, who seemed to be depositing Laurel’s hair at the exact centre of the displaced ground. “Daisy’s deep moments tend to max out at 140 characters.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Sorry if I’m speaking out of turn,” whispered Thea, “but Not-So-Evil-Yet-Still-Scary-Shiva is totally your mom.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy scowled. “Tweeted or not, I don’t believe it’s right. There’s room for more than one person in all of us. I knew a boy…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“We’re gal-pals now?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I knew a boy, when I was about ten<\/em>. His name was Matty. Matty wanted to be a ninja. Except on alternate days, when he wanted to be a lawyer. Eventually he decided that he wanted to be a ninja lawyer. I never did find out what happened to him. But - and this is just my opinion - I think that ‘ninja lawyer’ has a lot going for it.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Maybe.” Laurel continued to watch May, who had moved to the far side of the lot. “What does that mean for Quake?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy flushed. “That’s different. I… I’ve done a lot of harm, here. Being something other than Quake would just hurt more people.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Perhaps. But, from what Agent May told us, she and someone she calls ‘Coulson’ staked this place out for days after you vanished and they worked out what had happened. Once the vigil paid off, she took on the Up To Eleven version of herself without a second thought, to save you. Just my opinion, but I don’t think that being alone is your choice to make.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Our guests need to be in the centre of the lot,” May announced. “It’s time.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Is our caller in New York sure that this will work?” Daisy asked, as Thea and Laurel moved into position.<\/p>

<\/p>

“He says so. Ordinarily, it would be very hard to repatriate a chunk of land this size; one of the Kamar-Taj would have to be here in person to manage it. But your repeated ram-raiding of local reality has made things a lot easier. He’s going to ’phone it in.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How does that work?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Like this.” May held her smartphone aloft. A sigil leapt from its screen, to hang lucent against the sky.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Flatpack sorcery,” breathed Thea. “Living in the future.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Guess this is goodbye,” said Daisy. “Thank you. Both of you. And give my regards to the big guy.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Au revoir, you mean,” said Laurel. The air around began to crackle like a walk through autumn leaves. “Don’t forget that you still owe me a rematch.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy smiled, and seemed about to reply. But then the sigil erupted in waxing light, and Earth-Whatever was swept away. A thousand Earths unfurled before Laurel and Thea. One was home.<\/p>

<\/p>

FINIS<\/p><\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:36572","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/36572.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=36572"}}],"title":"Fic: Duel and Duality (Arrow\/Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., PG-13) (1\/2)","published":"2017-03-04T20:27:08Z","updated":"2017-03-04T20:28:19Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"arrow"}}],"content":"
Title: Duel and Duality. (Chapters 1-2)

Author: Prochytes.

Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Arrow.

Rating: PG-13. Angst, dark themes, and violence.

Characters\/Pairing: Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz, Melinda May, Jemma Simmons (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.<\/i>); Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Thea Queen, Felicity Smoak (Arrow<\/i>).

Disclaimer: Marvel and the Distinguished Competition share the goodies.

Summary: The world’s greatest assassin is on the prowl in Star City. A young woman has appeared in the Glades who isn't from a remotely familiar Earth. Oliver and company must face these challenges domestic and inter-dimensional, if everyone is to get out of this alive.

Word Count: 8534.

A\/N: Spoilers for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> to 4x04: “Let Me Stand Next to Your Fire” and Arrow<\/i> to 4x13 “Sins of the Father”.




1. The Girl in the Glades.<\/u>



The night was young, but the fight was old. Laurel Lance’s adversary was obviously groggy, but still on her feet. Laurel could feel her own muscles burning, her options dwindling. She honestly wasn't sure that she could win this.

<\/p>

Tonfas - disarmed. Canary Cry - fritzed (there was a strangeness to how that had happened which Laurel intended to explore, but not right now). Fists and feet it was, then. Her adversary was fast and graceful, with a more than serviceable arsenal of strikes and blocks, but Laurel had the slightest of edges when it came to power. Roll the dice. She's exhausted, too. Just one more big punch…<\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

The other woman tottered from the impact of Laurel’s desperate hook. Go down. You know you want to. Your body’s craving the ground as much as mine…<\/i> . But the gamble failed. Steely fingers wrapped around Laurel’s over-extended wrist; a knee drove the wind from her lungs; an elbow in the back hammered her to the newly riven asphalt, while the glaring streetlights reeled above. Got to get up. Got to fight on, somehow. But nothing left. <\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

I’ve failed this city.<\/i><\/p>

<\/p>

“Stay on the deck, lady, for both our sakes.” The stranger was leaning against a wall, bent almost double, forcing the words out between gasping breaths. “I don’t… I don’t think that I could lay you out again.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You… you said that you caused the earthquake.” Laurel tried to will strength back into her recalcitrant limbs. It was a work in progress. “You’ll have to kill me, if you want me to stay down after that.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Huh?” The stranger’s eyes widened. “You thought that I would cause all this…” she gestured at the fractured cityscape around them with the hand that was not supporting her against the wall, “...deliberately? What kind of a crazy does that?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’re new in town,” Laurel raised herself, with difficulty, on one elbow. “I can tell.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Newer than you’d guess.” Her opponent had picked up one of Laurel’s tonfas, and was inspecting it.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Well, here’s another thing that a newbie should bear in mind about Star City.” Laurel smiled. “It’s not just the bad guys who understand redundancy.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“PUT DOWN THE TONFA AND STEP AWAY FROM THE BLACK CANARY.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What?” The stranger twisted to look at the burly figure who had spoken from the other side of the parking lot. She turned back to Laurel. “‘Black Canary’? That’s you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“On a good day, yes.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“OK. Pretty sure that anomalously chromatic songbirds don’t usually punch that hard, but I’ll roll with it.” She raised her voice. “Listen up, archer boy. I don’t want any trouble. But I’m not used to taking orders from a Hawkeye wannab…”<\/p>

<\/p>

An arrow jolted the tonfa out of her hands.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hawkeye who?” said Oliver Queen. And then he charged.<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel, despite a sneaking regard for the ragged determination with which her former opponent fought, knew before the first blow landed how the bout would end. Fresh, the stranger might have been able to give Oliver a work-out, but the hard-won victory over Laurel had sapped almost all her strength. Oliver himself seemed a little off his game; nonetheless, barely a couple of minutes passed before the stranger slumped unconscious to the ground. Oliver caught his breath and turned to Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Status, Canary?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Well, I can walk.” Laurel finally struggled to her feet. “But I can’t sing.” She tapped her necklace. “Something took out the Canary Cry at the start of my fight with…. whoever she is.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’ll ask Overwatch to look into it.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Overwatch needs to look into our comms, too. Have you noticed that they seem to have stopped working?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I have. It was the static from your end that made me check up on you.” Oliver tapped his ear. “Now it looks like mine have gone, as well.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Strange.” Laurel frowned at Oliver. “Are you<\/i> OK? You looked a little… sub-par just now.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“It wasn’t my first fight of the evening.” Oliver put his hand on his shoulder and winced. “We have a problem.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Besides Damien Darhk?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“More urgent than Darhk.” Oliver knelt to pick up the stranger. “I’ll tell you back at base.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

“While you were checking out those tremors, I was investigating the reports of gang activity on Wesinger and Papp. By the time I got there, the issue had already been… resolved.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel reflected upon the usual character of conflict resolution on the streets of Star City. “By a bigger issue?” she asked.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Pretty much.” Oliver massaged his shoulder again. “If I’ve reconstructed what happened correctly, eight of the gang-bangers were on their way home after some standard mayhem when they ran into a lone woman in an alleyway. They decided that they had time for a little fun.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Which, I’m guessing, was a mistake.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Uh-huh. The kind of mistake that means you’ll never make another. I arrived just in time to see the move she used to finish off the last one. That was how I knew for certain who she was.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“And who was that?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Someone I was told about in the League of Assassins. Only one person knows the Leopard Strike.” Oliver fell silent for a moment. “The League call her Shiva. They say that she cannot be overcome.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“She’s that good?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Maybe.” Oliver frowned. “She knocked me down twice in quick succession. Never said a word. The second time, I wasn’t fast enough getting back up to re-engage. She dropped one of the League’s smoke-bombs, and disappeared.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What’s this Shiva doing in Star City? Doesn’t she know that Nyssa dissolved the League?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“She may not care. Ra’s told me that the Shiva stands outside League law. Violence was the League’s religion. But religions have their hermits as well as their monasteries. The Shiva’s sole aim is to perfect her art.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“And now she wants to perfect it in Star City.” Laurel bit her lip. “Is she gunning for you, Ollie? Has the Green Arrow got good enough to catch her eye?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“We’ll see.” Oliver sat back. “So, tell me about your day. You think that the woman downstairs set off the earthquake in the Glades?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“She said she did. I found her standing, alone, not far from where Felicity had mapped the epicentre. Everyone else had fled to the neighbouring streets. She said: ‘Stay away from me; I did this.’ And then…” Laurel sighed. “Then I saw red. It was like the Undertaking, all over again. Like…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Tommy.” Oliver looked away.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yeah.” Laurel toyed with her necklace. “I tried to use the Cry on her, but it…. sparked out. Never did that before. So I went in, and fought her hand-to-hand, but she matched me, strike for strike. Neither of us could hang on to an advantage. It felt like hours. As you saw,” she prodded a bruise, and winced, “I cracked first.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“So we know that she can fight. We know that she dresses….”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Like us? Yeah. It’s an aesthetic that sends a message.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“And we know that she says that she caused this evening’s tremor.” Oliver scratched his chin. “But that makes no sense. Dig and Thea swept the scene after we left. There’s no kind of tech there which could possibly renew the Undertaking.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Maybe it isn’t tech we need to look for.” Laurel stood up. “I think that I should go down and talk to her.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Oliver’s jaw tightened. “It would be better if I did that.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Says the Green Arrow, surprising no one.” Laurel patted him on his unbruised shoulder. “Relax. I’ve got this. I think that I was beginning to build a rapport with her.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Was that before or after she decked you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’ll let you know what I find out.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

The stranger had been sitting cross-legged in one of Oliver’s cages, not unlike Nyssa in similar circumstances. She rose to her feet as soon as she heard Laurel enter the room. Under the artificial lights of the base, her lineaments were clearer than they had been in the Glades. She stood a little shorter than Laurel, but boasted a comparable physique. Asian and Caucasian ancestry mingled in her bruised features. She looked to be in her mid-to-late twenties.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hello again, songbird. Thirsty for a rematch?” The stranger drew a hand lazily along the insides of the bars. “You bring the fight; I’ll bring the cage.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How are you feeling?” said Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Groggy.” The stranger touched her neck and grimaced. “The big guy sure knows his way around a choke hold, doesn’t he?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“He puts a great deal of work into not killing people.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Good to know.” The stranger cocked her head on one side. “Why are you here, lawyer-lady?” She smiled as Laurel was not quite able to suppress a start. “Ah. Thought so. It’s the paper cuts - not standard vigilante wear-and-tear. You have another job, which still occasionally means shuffling sheets. Even with your fighting togs on, you look a bit upscale for a PA. Lawyer, then, or maybe journalist. If I’d been wrong, I’d have shrugged it off as liking the alliteration.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Cute.” Laurel’s lips thinned. “You think you’re the only one who can play that game?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’ve been in your shoes. From where you’re standing, the only sensible move in this game is not to play.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’re probably right.” Laurel walked forward, unlocked the cage, and stepped inside.<\/p>

<\/p>

“My.” The stranger’s brow wrinkled. “This really isn’t the city of the sensible people, is it?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’re just getting that now?” Laurel folded her arms. “I’m not afraid of you.”<\/p>

<\/p>

The stranger snorted. “Then you really haven’t been paying attention.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I acknowledge your strength and skill and… the other thing. Whatever that is. Given how our fight panned out, I kinda have to. But this whole Blood Knight routine you’re trying to pull? I’m not buying it. I saw the expression on your face when you realized that I thought you meant to cause the earthquake.”<\/p>

<\/p>

The stranger averted her eyes. Shorn of her bravado, she looked tired and worn. Laurel persisted:<\/p>

<\/p>

“You were horrified.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’re right. I was.” The stranger’s face was still turned away. “Canary…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Is this Hell?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel started. “What?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Sorry. Forget I said that.” The stranger looked back to meet Laurel’s gaze. “Did… Did I hurt anyone?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“We don’t think so. Folks in the Glades have got good at running away from trouble. Your only casualties were my chin, my back, my abs, and my ego. They won’t forgive you in a hurry.”<\/p>

<\/p>

The stranger broke into a small smile. “They can join the club. You dished out some serious damage yourself. I’m just too stoic to let it show.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“This is you doing stoic?”<\/p>

<\/p>

The stranger grinned outright. “I know. Frightening, isn’t it? You mentioned ‘another thing’.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I did.” Laurel tapped a hand against her leg. “There’s something about the way you’ve been behaving. You’re caged in a city you don’t know, outnumbered, physically overmatched…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Huh. While the big guy’s around, maybe.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“... but you’re not afraid. Not even a little. It’s like you’re only here because you think that this is where you ought to be.” Laurel leaned forward. “What’s your ace in the hole?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Can’t you guess?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“When I tried to use my Canary Cry on you, you put up your hand, and, all of a sudden, the tech stopped working. I thought at first that that was a coincidence. But it wasn’t, was it? You’re a meta.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m a what now?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Meta.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Well, I’m told that a generous helping of genre-savvy is a key component of my subversive charm, but I don’t see how that’s…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’re a metahuman<\/i>.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Oh. I think I can guess what you mean by that. We have a different name for it, where I come from.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“So, then. What can you do?”<\/p>

<\/p>

The stranger closed her eyes. She extended her hands towards the floor. Laurel felt it in the air - a heaviness, a thrumming insistency - before the shiver communicated itself to the bars, to the floor, to her own flesh and bone. The stranger’s eyes snapped open. The shiver ceased.<\/p>

<\/p>

“My name is Daisy,” she said. “Vibration belongs to me.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

Felicity was in the control room when Laurel returned.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Oliver’s gone to check in with Dig and Thea,” she said by way of greeting, “And you need to be aware of something. Your new friend? She is not from around here.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’d gathered that.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Your new friend is very seriously not from around here.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What do you mean?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You know how you and Oliver kept losing comms when you were near her? Well, I ran some scans. And then I video-conferenced Barry, Caitlin, and Cisco. They confirmed what I’d already suspected.” Felicity looked at the monitor that was covering the cells. Daisy was sitting cross-legged once more on the floor. “Your sparring partner isn’t from this Earth.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel frowned. “She’s from Earth-2? One of those metas that Barry says were dumped here by Zoom?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“That’s where it gets freaky. Our friends in Central City have got started on mapping the dimensional signature of people from Zoom’s Earth. Daisy doesn’t display anything close to that. I don’t think that she’s even from the Earth with the superstrong flying alien chick that Barry took a wrong turn at Albuquerque into the other da…” Felicity stopped when she saw Laurel’s expression. “Oh. Oliver hasn’t told you yet about Barry and the superstrong flying alien chick? Well…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Felicity, can we take a rain check on the superstrong flying alien chick? Even though that’s a sentence that I seriously never expected to hear myself say? Solving the mystery of Daisy is kind of the priority right now.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Felicity looked a little disappointed, but nodded. “OK. The thing is: I suspect that Daisy’s Earth may be radically different from ours. Even though,” she tapped the monitor, “it still has metas. I’m glad that she only set off three<\/i> of the security alarms with that little display just then.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yeah.” Laurel peered absently at the screen. “But how did she get to Earth-1? She’s not a speedster, that’s for sure. Girl’s got some serious reflexes, but our fight would have lasted for less than a second if she could move like Barry. In fact, if she’s anyone on Team Flash, she’s…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Cisco.” Felicity beamed. “You’re brilliant!”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I am?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“More hot Central City gossip, courtesy of Oliver. Cisco’s vibes can open breaches from Earth to Earth.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Seriously, those people should set us up a news feed. Cisco can jump between universes now?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“More or less. It isn’t easy, and he needs some tech to do it. But, my guess? Little Miss Daisy’s powers brought her to Star City.” Felicity sat back. “She tore through the vibratory barriers between the Earths.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel shivered. “When we were talking just now, she asked me whether this was Hell.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I heard.” Felicity stared sombrely at the image of the cells. “I don’t think she knew that she could do that. Which, if true, leads to the million-dollar question…”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel nodded. “... How does she get back to the Earth she came from?”


2. The Man in the Mirror.<\/u>
<\/p>

“Detroit?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yeah.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Sacramento?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yeah.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“New York?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Grew up there. For a bit, anyway.”<\/p>

<\/p>

A few days had passed since the duel in the Glades. After several more rounds of tests, a long video-conference with Barry Allen, and a great deal of input from Felicity (“It’s not as if we can actually keep her prisoner if she doesn’t want to be one, Oliver. The only ways to do that would be to send her to S.T.A.R. Labs or put her in a coma, and sweet Jesus tell me that expression doesn’t mean you’re actually considering Door Number Two…”), the Green Arrow had reluctantly conceded Daisy a room outside the base instead of a cell, while the question of her future trajectory was considered.<\/p>

<\/p>

Those considerations had brought Laurel, Oliver, and Daisy to the vicinity of a hipsterish apartment block not far from the Glades. Oliver was scouting ahead; Laurel knew that, with Damien Darhk and this Shiva individual at large, he was not disposed to take any chances. She shook herself from a brief reverie, and continued:<\/p>

<\/p>

“Keystone City?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“No.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Coast City?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“No.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hub City?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Now you’re just dropping random nouns in front of ‘City’. That’s a place here?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Uh-huh.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy exhaled a breath and watched it frost. “Serious imagination deficit amongst the settlers this side of the looking-glass, then.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel considered leaping to the defence of her universe, but found herself at something of a loss as to how to achieve this. Barry, she felt, needed to compile a Book of Interplanar Etiquette. She cleared her throat. “Are there a lot of metas, where you come from?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hooyah. That’s…. partly down to me. Long story.” Daisy looked pensive. “Not a funny one.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What about people like me and the Green Arrow?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Unenhanced do-gooders? Not as many. But the people who trained me have no powers whatsoever, and they’re the scariest badasses that I know.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I can relate,” said Laurel, as Oliver loomed, with his wonted suddenness, into view. “Are we clear?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes.” Oliver inclined his head towards Daisy. “I need a moment with the Canary.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“As you wish, big guy,” said Daisy. She retired to a polite distance, and affected an absorbing interest in a fire hydrant.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Any more news on Shiva?” asked Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“No.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“This doesn’t make sense. If she wants to fight you, then why did she pull that vanishing act?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“There’s an answer. But you won’t like it.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel sighed. “Hit me.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“When Eobard Thawne was impersonating Harrison Wells, he appeared a few times just to goad the Flash. To give him a reason to get faster.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“You think that’s what Shiva is doing? Giving you advance notice so that you bring your best game when you throw down for keeps?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Could be.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“That’s sick.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Assassins aren’t great people.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What else did you find out about her in the League? Is there anything that could give you some kind of edge?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Very little. Even in the League, they speak of her in whispers: Lady Shiva; Al-Fursan; the Destroyer. She plays no part in their politics. She does not partake of the Lazarus Pit, so that the blood-lust does not mar her perfect clarity. She keeps the League’s prophecies - lore with which even the Ra’s cannot be trusted. And her only interest is to fight. They say that she is like Iskandar - Alexander the Great. She’ll fight until she runs out of people worth fighting.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Not helpful.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I know.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel cocked her head in the direction of the fire hydrant. “Why are you keeping this private from Daisy? Beside your usual passion for compartmentalization?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m hoping that this man Cisco told us about can send Daisy home before the business with Shiva goes down. Whatever Daisy did wrong on her Earth, she doesn’t deserve to get caught in that kind of cross-fire.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How do you know that Daisy did anything wrong on Earth-Whatever?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I see that look in the mirror.” Oliver regarded Daisy, as the young woman stared off into space. The Green Arrow’s harshened voice sounded, for a moment, almost sad. “She did something.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

“So who is this guy?” asked Laurel, as Oliver rang the doorbell of the apartment.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Someone who worked at S.T.A.R. Labs before the explosion. Cisco knew him - says he’s an engineering genius. That’s not an arena where Cisco is easy to impress.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’d still feel better if Cisco and Caitlin were handling this.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“So would I. They would if they could. But there was a break-in at S.T.A.R. Labs last week; they’re repairing the equipment that was trashed. Looks like the cold war with Zoom just got hot again.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What’s this man’s name?” Daisy asked.<\/p>

<\/p>

Oliver’s answer was forestalled by the opening of the apartment door. Just beyond stood a small, slender woman with long brown hair, in fraying dark trousers and a threadbare blouse. There was a Dictaphone clutched in her right hand. Daisy gasped.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Jemma…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m sorry.” The small woman’s voice sounded English. “Have we met?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Laurel watched disappointment chase elation off Daisy’s face. “No. You… you reminded me of a friend, that’s all.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Then how did you know my name?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“We’re here for Leo Fitz,” Oliver broke in. “Cisco Ramon sent us.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Oh. Yes. Fitz mentioned that.” The small woman named Jemma toyed nervously with her Dictaphone. Laurel could not blame her. House calls from the Green Arrow, even scheduled ones, tended to find the residents disconcerted. “You’re early. Take a seat; I’ll fetch him.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Jemma disappeared further into the apartment. Daisy sank with a sigh into a sofa, delivering a small whiteboard, adorned with writing in two hands, a sheaf of papers, and a DVD of Ladyhawke<\/i> to a more stable equilibrium on the carpet. After a moment’s pause, Laurel joined her.<\/p>

<\/p>

“You know the version of that woman on your Earth, don’t you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes. Jemma Simmons. She’s a biochemist. An insanely good one.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Sounds a lot like Caitlin Snow. Do you know this ‘Fitz’, as well?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Uh-huh. Where I’m from, Fitz and Simmons… well, they have a thing.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“A romantic thing?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Ultimately. Several clue bats had to be deployed. There was also a stable wormhole and a prison planet. Course of true love, and all that. If they’re half as clever here as they are back home, I think that I may soon be off your hands.” She looked up, as a short man in worn slacks bustled into the room. “Hello, Dr. Fitz.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Hello.” Leo Fitz eyed Oliver, who was looming in a low-key fashion beside a floor-lamp, and swallowed. He set down the Dictaphone which Jemma had been carrying on the table. “Cisco filled me in about your… issue.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Good,” said Oliver. “Is there any way to send our guest here home?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I think so.” Fitz settled into a chair, without taking his eyes off Oliver. “My friend Dr. Simmons… you met her at the door, she’s, um, powdering her nose right now… Simmons had a look at Daisy’s biometric readings, and compared them to equivalent data from Central City. She thinks, and I agree, that, on the basis of her calculations, I could design some technological enhancements to guide Daisy’s powers in the direction of Earth… um...”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Earth-Whatever,” said Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m holding out,” Daisy scowled, “for a cooler name.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“... of the Earth she came from.’<\/p>

<\/p>

“That’s nice,” said Oliver. Laurel’s ears pricked up. Oliver Queen, aspirant politician and former playboy, might describe something straightforwardly as “nice”. The Green Arrow, even on his best behaviour, never would, and there was a mildness in his tone, as he continued, that Laurel found unnerving: “Why don’t you call in Dr. Simmons so that she can join the discussion?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Fitz flushed. “Um… actually, Jemma said that she was going to have a lie-down. We’ve been working round the clock on this.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I don’t appreciate being lied to, Dr. Fitz.” The Green Arrow bowed his head. “Even from a fear that’s probably misplaced.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Fitz was very still. “How did you know?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“The Dictaphone; the whiteboard; the DVD. And what you’re both wearing. This is an expensive apartment, but your clothes are well on the way to being rags.” Oliver lifted his head. “I’m guessing that they were what you had on, back at S.T.A.R. Labs, when the dark matter hit.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes. They were.” Fitz sagged in his chair. “These clothes are the only ones we can take with us.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“What’s all this about, Green Arrow?” asked Laurel.<\/p>

<\/p>

“You’ll see in a moment, Canary.” Oliver turned back to Fitz. “May we talk to Jemma Simmons now?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I suppose so.” Fitz turned on the Dictaphone and spoke into it. “Jemma, they know. Don’t worry; I think that it’s going to be OK.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Fitz set down the Dictaphone on the table. For a moment, his outline shimmered and bent. When the image resolved again, Simmons was sitting in his place. Eyes wary, she reached for the Dictaphone, and played it back. Only when she had heard Fitz’s message did the tension in her muscles very slightly relax.<\/p>

<\/p>

“They’re metas,” Laurel breathed.<\/p>

<\/p>

“They’re a<\/i> meta, like Firestorm,” said Oliver. “The dark matter made them a composite entity. Am I right?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“More or less.” Simmons rested her chin on her hands. “We ran the numbers, when it was clear that the accelerator was unstable. Truth be told, we’d both voiced our concerns in the weeks beforehand to Dr. Wells. But he wouldn’t listen to Hartley Rathaway, and he didn’t listen to us.<\/p>

<\/p>

“When the wave was building, we knew that we couldn’t escape. Fitz will insist that he was trying to shield me from the blast, but actually, I was the one shielding him…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“The Möbius Rescues of Simmons and Fitz.” Daisy smiled. “Some things are clearly multiversal constants.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“We both lost consciousness. When I woke up, Fitz was nowhere to be seen, but I could feel his panic, rubbing against my mind. I… there's no easy way of expressing this, but I sort of reached out in my head… and suddenly I was alone, in the dark. Then I was the one who started panicking.<\/p>

<\/p>

“It took us a while to establish how it worked. Only one of us can be on Earth at any given time. The other is trapped in… another place. It isn't inimical to life, but it’s dark, and featureless, and lonely. The one on Earth can switch places by an act of will; we try to make sure that neither of us has to spend too much time Elsewhere.<\/p>

<\/p>

“We communicate via the Dictaphone, and the whiteboard. Video recordings, sometimes, although that’s usually too much of a palaver. We’ve spent the time since the accident doing tech consultancy on the Internet to make ends meet, and working out how to reverse what the dark matter did to us.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“How’s it going?” asked Daisy.<\/p>

<\/p>

“Slowly. But the new data from the interdimensional breaches have helped a lot. I can save Fitz. I know I can.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy looked at the colour in the Englishwoman’s cheeks. “You love him, don’t you?”<\/p>

<\/p>

The flush deepened. “I don’t see that that’s in any way a licit deduction…”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Please.” Daisy nodded towards Oliver. “The big guy’s not the only one here who’s cried at Ladyhawke<\/i>.”<\/p>

<\/p>

***<\/p>

<\/p>

“Do you think that they can do it?” Laurel asked, on the way back, to break the silence. Oliver was once again scouting ahead. Daisy had been subdued since FitzSimmons had said antiphonal goodbyes at their doorway. “Bring themselves both back to Earth at the same time?”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m sure of it. Interdimensional physics isn’t my thing - I’m more about the computers. But, where I come from, FitzSimmons are the smartest people I’ve ever met. And I used to stalk Tony Stark.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Tony who?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy smiled distantly, before dropping her head. “Besides, they each feel responsible for what happened to the other. That’s one hell of an incentive.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes. And one hell of a burden.” Laurel hesitated before ploughing on: “You never really explained how you ended up in Star City.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Huh? We’ve been through that, Canary. My powers shunted me here.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes. But you didn’t know that your ability could do that. Which leads to the question: what would make you turn your powers on your own body? And why did you ask me whether you were in Hell? There’s really only one answer, isn’t there?”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy did not look up.<\/p>

<\/p>

“You were trying to kill yourself.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Yes.” Daisy sighed. “I was. I’ve been doing my best, lately, to keep it together. But I’m on my own, now, and my failures got too much. After I first developed my powers, I fractured every bone in my arms when I tried to suppress them. It still happens, if I tax myself too much without Simmons’ - my Simmons’ - tech to mitigate the strain. That was why I didn’t use my abilities when we were throwing down, except to block your screechy thing. I was sure that, if I focussed them completely on my body, it would be enough. But I couldn’t even do that right.” She raised her head. “I’ve failed my world, Canary. I don’t deserve a place in it any more.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I don’t believe that,” said Laurel carefully. “And I hope that you don’t altogether believe it, either. A woman who can beat me - just - and still have enough in the tank not to go down first punch to the Green Arrow afterwards has something to give to any Earth.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy, to Laurel’s relief, smiled a little. “That fight did bring things into focus. Adrenaline is the mother of clarity. I may be looking for death, but I’m clear, now, that I want to do some good again before I find it. And - swell place though you have here - I want to do it on the Earth where I was born.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“I’m glad. Good thing I let you win, then.”<\/p>

<\/p>

Daisy snorted. “Yeah. Easily the most convincing dive I’ve ever seen. A casual observer would totally have assumed that you’d just had your ass handed to you.”<\/p>

<\/p>

“Keep stacking up that hubris, Daisy. It’ll just make the rematch all the sweeter.”<\/p>

<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:36186","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/36186.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=36186"}}],"title":"Fic: An End to Talk (Class\/Torchwood, PG-13)","published":"2016-12-18T11:12:40Z","updated":"2016-12-18T11:13:29Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"class"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: An End to Talk.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Class\/Torchwood.
Rating: PG-13. Dark themes.
Characters\/Pairing: Jack Harkness\/Miss Quill.
Disclaimer: All the Beeb\u2019s.
Summary: Quill entertains a gentleman visitor.
Word Count: 475.
A\/N: Small spoilers for Class<\/i> 1x01: \u201cFor Tonight We Might Die\u201d. The penultimate line alludes to Dylan Thomas\u2019 \u201cThe Hand That Signed the Paper\u201d. Written for arachnekallisti and consci_fan_mo.




There is an interlude that she treasures, always, when she rolls off him \u2013 pulse hammering, cheeks aflame. She closes her eyes; takes three measured breathes. His stickiness catches in a thousand places on her hands, her mouth, her thighs. She exhales; lets it begin to cool, to waste its heat on the air of the tepid classroom. Surrenders to entropy\u2019s caress.

Quill does not know to whom she is indebted for this seldom grace. The Prince lacks either the wit or the volition to have arranged it. Perhaps she is being caretaken by the Time Lord, or micromanaged by EverUpwardReach. Perhaps the Captain, with his smile and his broad shoulders and his Brick Lane hipster period military clothes, comes to these trysts for reasons of his own. (He did not tell her what brought him to her door the first time that they did this; he will not tell her today, when he is once more up to conversation.) Quill hopes that this does not hint at the presence of another set of players. Coal Hill is complicated enough without kibitzing.

Quill opens her eyes, and inspects the ceiling tiles. These are still mottled with brown stains from the time, a month ago, when Tanya had a moment of madness with a Diet Pepsi. It is a mystery to Quill why the Governors are thus indulgent to the Michelangelo of carbonated beverages. The slightest evidence of other malfeasance, anywhere on the grounds, always disappears by the following morning. Even Quill finds that ablation disconcerting.

Still, it means that she never has to mop up the Captain\u2019s blood.

This is the loophole of the Arn \u2013 one which Rhodia never knew, and which its last scion, if Quill has any say in the matter, will not find out. Quill cannot initiate violence against another creature. But if she knows, with utter certainty, that she cannot do a creature permanent harm, well\u2026

That\u2019s another story.

A great gulp of air at her side declares its coming \u2013 the indifferent miracle of his resurrection. Quill has learnt little about the Captain, but she knows this: life enough lurks in that frame to cram a thousand Cabinets to bursting, to burn the Shadow Kin entire a hundred hundred times. Life enough, somewhere; Quill cannot find it. And she\u2019s looked.

Quill steels herself, not quite yet ready to meet again those eyes, that smile, to be again the eternal victor in a game that the Arn would not let her play, if she could ever really win. Not quite yet ready to wonder again who would pimp himself out as a murder whore just to keep the last Quill tractable and sane, wearing that endless, perfect smile. To ask what is the hidden end to murder, that puts an end to talk.

Quill rises to a crouch, and balls her fists.

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:35842","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/35842.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=35842"}}],"title":"Fic: Any Other Business (Class\/DW\/TW, PG)","published":"2016-11-09T22:15:16Z","updated":"2016-11-10T08:40:21Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"class"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"doctor who"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Any Other Business.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Class\/Doctor Who\/Torchwood.
Rating: PG.
Characters\/Pairing: The Governors, Miss Quill, Tanya Adeola (Class<\/i>); The Twelfth Doctor (Doctor Who<\/i>); Gwen Cooper, Jack Harkness, Jilly Kitzinger (Torchwood<\/i>).
Disclaimer: All the Beeb’s.
Summary: The Governors like a well-run school.
Word Count: 932.
A\/N: Spoilers for Class<\/i> to 1x04: “Co-Owner of a Lonely Heart.” Small spoilers for Torchwood<\/i> to 4x10: “The Blood Line” and Doctor Who<\/i> to “Dark Water”.




STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL

BOARD OF GOVERNORS, COAL HILL ACADEMY

Minutes of the meeting held on 23 October 2016<\/b>

Ref. No. BoG\/547

Present: [illegible]

1. Minutes of the meeting held on 23 September 2016 (BoG\/546).<\/b>

The minutes of the meeting held on 23 September were confirmed, subject to the following corrections:

Under item 5, for “250 reams of A4”, read “2500 reams of A4”.
Under item 6, for “3570 HB pencils”, read “3750 HB pencils”.
Under item 8, for “HMS Seaspite<\/i> in 1972”, read “HMS Seaspite<\/i> in 1982”.
Under item 10, for “Confession Limiter”, read “Compression Eliminator”.

2. Matters arising not addressed elsewhere on the agenda. <\/b>

The Chair reported that, in response to the concerns about adverse local and media coverage raised at the last meeting, successful Drinks Events had been held on 25 September, 7 October, and 21 October. The Board minuted thanks to the Chair and the external caterers for their industry in this matter.

3. Conflict of Interest Policy.<\/b>

The Board noted and approved its revised Conflict of Interest Policy (Appendix 1).

4. Public Sector Equality Duty.<\/b>

The Board noted that, at future meetings, all tabled items would include a summary of Public Sector Equality Duty implications (template included as Appendix 2) , in order to establish improved consistency going forward with the provisions of the Equality Act 2010.

5. PREVENT Duty.<\/b>

The Board minuted its continuing unease with Section 58 of HMG’s Revised <\/i>Prevent Duty Guidance: for England and Wales<\/i>, and reaffirmed its commitment to the good governance of Coal Hill Academy according to the provisions of the Education (No. 2) Act 1986, the Human Rights Act 1998, the Equality Act 2010, and Conventions 34-38 of the Shadow Proclamation.

6. Building Projects.<\/b>

The Board noted that the Statuary Garden project had been placed on hold, pending selection of new contractors. Arkwright Construction Ltd., despite their competitive offer at the tendering stage, had pursued a policy of moving the statues in at erratic intervals during school hours which had given rise to some unfortunate misconceptions amongst the more travelled members of the staff, and had therefore been released from their contract. Arkwright Construction’s initial threats of legal action against a member of the Physics Department had been dropped, in the wake of a Drinks Event organized by the Chair for the workmen concerned once they had left hospital.

7. Triangle Internships.<\/b>

The Board noted, with regret, its decision not to proceed with the Triangle Internships that had been mooted at previous meetings (see BoG\/544, item 6, and BoG\/545, item 4). Despite the attractiveness of the financial packages associated with the Internships, and the likely advantages in terms of Personal Statements for the purposes of UCAS to the students concerned, it was felt that association with Messrs. Frines, Costerdane, and Ablemarch would not be to the long-term benefit of the Academy, as being likely, amongst other considerations, to invite robust push-back from the former Head of Domestic Maintenance.

The suggestion was made that transmission of the Board’s decision in this matter to the representative of Messrs. Frines, Costerdane, and Ablemarch should be outsourced to the external caterers. At least one of the caterers was, by her own account, always eager to renew her acquaintance with the representative concerned, and would be delighted to impress upon Ms. Kitzinger in the strongest possible terms the Board’s views on the necessary limits to the rôle of big business in guiding the course of secondary education. This proposal met with general approbation.

AP<\/b>: Chair to convey the Board’s decision, and Ms. Kitzinger’s current co-ordinates, to the external caterers.

8. Students of Promise.<\/b>

The Board minuted its delight at the gold medal performance of Ms. Tanya Adeola in the 2016 Schools Maths Olympiad. Statistical analysis of results across the Academy had revealed no sudden rise in mathematical competence amongst the general population, and chemical analysis had confirmed that the composition of the chip-fat for Big Fish Fridays remained unchanged. There was consequently no clear and present need to enact Special Measures.

It was unanimously agreed that Ms. Adeola should be the inaugural recipient of the Danny Pink Mathematics Scholarship. A letter of congratulation had already been prepared, and also a press release for the East London Advertiser<\/i>.

9. Health and Safety.<\/b>

The Board reviewed the Incident Log. The decision at the previous meeting (BoG\/546, item 14) to trial moving the Incident Log away from the main agenda to the SharePoint site was adjudged a success, particularly in terms of reducing Coal Hill’s carbon footprint.

It was noted that, as a consequence of the Autumn Prom, its aftermath, and the unscheduled reappearance on the premises of the former Head of Domestic Maintenance, it had been necessary to arrange Drinks Events for 39 parents, 458 local residents, and almost all of Years Twelve and Thirteen (twice). The Chair observed that the external caterers, upon whom the Board relied heavily for the provision of Drinks Events, were not in general sympathy with the Board’s philosophy of education, although they shared its sense of the importance to the Academy of image management in a media-sensitive age, and that their goodwill going forward could not be taken as a given. In addition, the external caterers had commented, on the basis of their former catering experience in Wales, that repeated attendance at Drinks Events over an extended period might have long-term consequences for the health, freedom from psychosis, and likelihood of attaining 5+ A-C grades at GCSE of the target population.

It was agreed to keep this issue under review.

10.AOB.<\/b>

There was no other business.

There were no apologies.

FINIS<\/a><\/xml:namespace>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:35643","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/35643.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=35643"}}],"title":"Fic: Cluster-Bombing (Sense8\/Torchwood, PG-13)","published":"2016-10-30T15:01:54Z","updated":"2016-10-31T11:17:59Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"sense8"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Cluster-Bombing.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Sense8\/Torchwood.
Rating: PG-13. Angst and dark themes.
Characters: Gwen Cooper, Jack Harkness (Torchwood); Will Gorski, Riley Blue, Nomi Marks, Amanita, Sun Bak, Lito Rodriguez, Capheus, Mr. Whispers (Sense8).
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, any of it.
Summary: Five times Torchwood ran across the cluster, and one time they didn\u2019t.
Word Count: 3269.
A\/N: Small spoilers for TW to the end of S4, and Sense8 to the end of S1.





1.

Will was the first to meet her properly.

January had whetted the morning wind in Chicago. Will was keeping his head down as he hurried to work, with Capheus\u2019s Nairobi afternoon wrapped around his neck for a modicum of warmth. He was surprised, all the same, when he nearly collided with the dark-haired woman standing in the middle of the sidewalk. The woman\u2019s expression was puzzled; her leather jacket and thin blouse manifestly inadequate to the rigours of an Illinois winter. Tourists. Will exhaled a frosted breath.

\u201cSorry; I didn\u2019t see you there.\u201d

\u201cNo. It was my fault.\u201d The line between the woman\u2019s brows deepened. There was an elusive, sing-song quality to her accent. Will could not immediately identify it, for all the stationary globetrotting he had lately done.

\u201cAre you lost?\u201d Will\u2019s professional instincts kicked into gear. \u201cDid you take a wrong turn?\u201d

\u201cYes. I think I did.\u201d

\u201cHow far back?\u201d

\u201cTen years now, give or take. No; that\u2019s flippant.\u201d Contrition replaced puzzlement on the woman\u2019s face. \u201cI love what I do, most of the time. You get to meet such interesting people.\u201d

\u201cChicago\u2019s an interesting city.\u201d

\u201cChicago. I see.\u201d She smiled. \u201cYou owe me a fiver, Rex.\u201d

\u201cRex?\u201d There was no one else visible within earshot. There was only Will, and this woman, whose gaze, he now saw, prowled across the cityscape around them as restlessly as his own. A good cop\u2019s gaze. Will\u2019s spine thrummed to a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. \u201cWho are you talking to?\u201d

\u201cSorry. He isn\u2019t here. Neither am I, really.\u201d

\u201cIf you\u2019re not here,\u201d Will took a step towards her, \u201cwe must have met. And you must be like me.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m reasonably sure that isn\u2019t so.\u201d The woman sighed. \u201cMy name is Gwen. And this is complicated.\u201d

2.

\u201cYou\u2019re psychic?\u201d asked Riley.

Gwen snorted. \u201cBarely. My great-great-great-something-aunt was. Died in Cardiff, she did, in 1869. Something dribbled down the family tree. But there are little bits of paper more psychic than me.\u201d

\u201cWill said that you told him you were psychic.\u201d

\u201cAh.\u201d Gwen shifted her weight uneasily on the stone ledge. \u201cI may have been guilty of bigging myself up a bit for the sake of a dramatic opening impression. That\u2019s standard operating procedure where I work. It would be more accurate to say that I\u2019m\u2026 receptive.\u201d

Riley eyed her sidelong. \u201cThen how are you able to do what we can do?\u201d

\u201cI can\u2019t. Not most of it, anyway.\u201d Gwen sat back. \u201cThere\u2019s one single aspect that works better for me. If I\u2019ve ever made eye-contact with one of you, that means I can visit everyone in your\u2026 um\u2026. cabal?\u201d

\u201cWe prefer \u2018cluster\u2019.\u201d

\u201c\u2026 cluster, even if I\u2019ve never met the rest in person. But you can boot me out by an effort of will any time you like. I understand that that would be much harder, if I were really someone else like you.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d Riley thought about a calm, clear voice; the simple knot on a black tie. She shuddered. \u201cIt would.\u201d

\u201cI can\u2019t borrow your skills, nor you mine. Although, to be honest, there\u2019s little I could lend you. I\u2019m moderately good with guns and fists and wheels and lies and the judicious deployment of being a proper bastard. From what I\u2019ve seen, you\u2019ve got those bases covered. You can\u2019t visit me, either, which is probably just as well.\u201d

\u201cWhere are you now?\u201d

\u201cIn a Morrisons, piloting a trolley. A sack of wank just elbowed me in the ribs. It\u2019s kill or be killed, when the special offers are on. Red in tooth and claw and loyalty cards. Not that I carry a loyalty card, these days. It\u2019s one of the drawbacks of sort of being a terrorist.\u201d

\u201cYou\u2019re shopping for a family?\u201d

\u201cMy husband. And my little girl.\u201d

\u201cI had those, once.\u201d

Gwen bowed her head. \u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d She looked away. The momentary compassion in the Welsh voice made Riley think of her sampled music: a fragment tumbling past in a longer whole, no less the raw in itself for having been so tightly circumscribed.

\u201cWhich of us did you meet, that you can visit us now?\u201d

\u201cYou, actually. It was a long time ago, and only for a moment. I\u2019m not at all surprised that you don\u2019t remember.\u201d

\u201cAnd what\u2019s it like? Being \u2018receptive\u2019?\u201d

\u201cMost of the time, it\u2019s nothing at all. It takes a lot of power from outside to stir anything in me.\u201d Gwen stared out over darkling London. \u201cBut when it comes\u2026 Have you ever stood on Western Avenue, by Gipsy Corner? The traffic thunders past like the cavalry late for Armageddon; it whips up all the dailies abandoned on the pavement as it goes by. Yesterday\u2019s news, in someone else\u2019s whirlwind. That\u2019s what it\u2019s like.\u201d Gwen looked pensive for a moment, and smiled. \u201cBut, as I said to Will, you do get to meet good people.\u201d

\u201cWestern Avenue. You know London.\u201d

\u201cLoathe it to bits. But the parks are nice.\u201d Gwen peered down at the inscription, as evening spooned the dying light upon the stone. \u201c I have conversed with the spiritual Sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill.<\/i> Blake met angels in Peckham Rye.\u201d She shuddered. \u201cI hope that he remembered not to blink.\u201d

3.

\u201cAsk her if she has family in the U. K.,\u201d said Gwen.

\u201cKinda busy here,\u201d said Nomi.

\u201cIs the strange Welsh chick in your head again?\u201d said Amanita.

\u201cIt\u2019s just that she is the absolute spit for a mate of mine,\u201d said Gwen.

\u201cStill kinda busy here,\u201d said Nomi.

\u201cWhat is she saying?\u201d said Amanita.

\u201cYou see, it could just run in the family.\u201d Gwen continued to contemplate Amanita\u2019s face. \u201cMy friend and her relatives do tend towards cheek-bones and big dark eyes and slight, yet athletic physiques.\u201d

\u201cRight this minute, she\u2019s perving on you,\u201d said Nomi.

\u201cCool. Is she hot? She is, isn\u2019t she? I can always tell. You get that adorable furtive look when you\u2019re talking to hot women who aren\u2019t me.\u201d

Nomi sighed, looked up for a moment from her frenzied tapping at the keyboard, glared at Gwen, and resumed. \u201cShe\u2019s got cute freckles and a pretty voice. Which is good, because I\u2019m hearing a lot of it.\u201d

\u201cOuch. You\u2019ve honestly got nothing to worry about. Amanita\u2019s virtue is safe. I\u2019m five thousand miles away, and very happily married. My husband just asked me to keep it down a bit because he\u2019s trying to watch Homes Under the Hammer<\/i>; that\u2019s how happily married I am. I\u2019m just wondering why your stunning girlfriend and my stunning bestie are physically identical.\u201d

\u201cCoincidence?\u201d said Nomi, still typing.

\u201cNo such bloody thing. Maybe Amanita is a spatial genetic multiplicity. I\u2019m one of those.\u201d

\u201cA spatial genetic multiplicity?\u201d

\u201cYou have such<\/i> cool conversations when I\u2019m not there,\u201d said Amanita forlornly.

\u201cThat\u2019s the technical term, straight from the horse\u2019s mouth. Although that particular horse also gave the world \u2018timey-wimey\u2019, so maybe we shouldn\u2019t get overly excited.\u201d Gwen peered over Nomi\u2019s shoulder at the screen. \u201cScore! Good work.\u201d

\u201cStill needs a password, though.\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s \u2018Trixy65Brandy\u2019, no spaces, just \u2018y\u2019s at the end for \u2018Trixy\u2019 and \u2018Brandy\u2019, with the \u2018T\u2019 and the \u2018B\u2019 in upper-case. \u2018Trixy\u2019 is the name of his Pomeranian. \u2018Brandy\u2019 is the name of his mistress. Or possibly the other way around.\u201d

\u201cSounds like a prince,\u201d said Nomi. \u201cWe\u2019re in.\u201d

\u201cMaybe she\u2019s a sequestered, amnesiac stretch of my mate\u2019s time-line.\u201d Gwen\u2019s attention had settled back on Amanita. \u201cThat\u2019s the problem with travelling in the fourth dimension. It\u2019s all fun and games, until someone loses an \u2018I\u2019.\u201d

4.

\u201cI\u2019m still not seeing exactly how this works.\u201d

\u201cYou would know, if you spoke more to Kala about the tests she ran,\u201d said Sun. She was wearing a black crop top, and a similarly sable pair of shorts. \u201cThe fatigue is real. So is the pain. The physical trauma, for the most part, is not.\u201d

\u201c\u2018For the most part\u2019,\u201d repeated Gwen. She was wearing baggy grey yoga pants, and a t-shirt that had been black before the yoghurt. \u201cIs it possible to throw a knock-out punch five thousand miles?\u201d

Sun shrugged. \u201cMaybe you\u2019re fast enough not to find that out.\u201d

\u201cI should make it clear,\u201d said Gwen, as the two women began warily to circle, \u201cthat, spiffy as your dojo here is, I\u2019m in my shed. It\u2019s probably a good idea for us to keep this dialled right down, in case I cannon into those tatty model aeroplane kits my husband refuses to complete or throw away.\u201d She paused for a moment in her bob and weave; her expression brightened. \u201cActually, scratch that. Come at me with everything you have.\u201d

Sun looked at her dispassionately, and lunged.

\u201cYour punches are hard and smart,\u201d she said, eventually. \u201cI fear them, a little, as I should. Your kicks are weak.\u201d Gwen winced and staggered back as Sun\u2019s elbow blocked her ascending knee. \u201cI do not fear them at all. The others have heard you talk; they think you are\u2026 nice.\u201d

Gwen\u2019s eyes were wide and, to all appearance, without guile. \u201cWhat do you think, Sun?\u201d

\u201cI have seen you fight. I think you are not.\u201d

\u201cI killed my father.\u201d

Sun blinked, and, unsighted, did not quite manage to slip the incoming hook. Two more powerful punches landed before her defences stuttered back on-line. She ducked, pivoted, and took Gwen\u2019s legs out from under her, following her opponent to the floor. Minutes passed in the debate of holds, the tax of muscle.

\u201cEnough,\u201d Gwen gasped, at last. \u201cEnough. Can\u2019t\u2026 can\u2019t break this lock. I don\u2019t really want to find out whether you can sleeper me from Seoul.\u201d

Sun released her grip and ghosted to her feet. She looked down as Gwen tried, and failed, to follow suit.

\u201cWas that true? Or just a ruse to gain advantage?\u201d

\u201cTruer than I wish it was. Let\u2019s say that I switched off his life-support. But, yes: I home in on weakness, when I know I\u2019m on the ropes. You\u2019re right, Sun. I\u2019m not really a nice person.\u201d

\u201cIt was cheap.\u201d

Gwen bit her lip. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. You deserve better. You beat me fair and square, for all my shitty little tricks. You\u2019ve earned more honesty from me.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d Sun\u2019s scrutiny continued, unabated. \u201cWhy do you avoid Kala? She is among the best of us.\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s the problem.\u201d Gwen levered herself, groggily, to a sitting position. \u201cI had a Kala, once. She was a scientist, too. Beautiful, sweet, a little shy. Very moral, but with a soft spot for the bad boys. Loved her family, although she didn\u2019t\u2026 she didn\u2019t get to see them very much. She had a mind that could stir the world like a snow-globe, and watch it whirl.\u201d Gwen stared at the ground for a long moment before meeting Sun\u2019s gaze. \u201cShe\u2019s dead, now. I wasn\u2019t fast enough to save her.\u201d

\u201cI am.\u201d Sun held out her palm. Gwen accepted it, and clambered to her feet. \u201cWe shall fight again.\u201d

\u201cAlready dreading it,\u201d said Gwen.

5.

He was tall, and broad-shouldered. He had eyes like the sky of old Mexico, before it became the wash-rag for the sprawling city, and a smile that almost made Lito, one-man guy though he very much was, consider sounding out Hernando about a threesome. He wore the world, the real world, like the men that Lito played.

He was also leaning out of the window of the speeding car, firing what looked like a three hundred year old revolver at pursuers who probably (though not certainly \u2013 Lito was trying to keep his eyes fixed on the road) boasted a full complement of fucking villain moustaches. Lito really was going to die this time.

\u201cTell Jack that the Families are after that old cache of gear from Raxacoricofallapatorius,\u201d said Gwen, from the back seat.

Lito cleared his throat. \u201cShe wants you to know that the Families are after that old cache of gear from Raxacoricofallapatorius.\u201d

Gwen blinked. \u201cWow. I\u2019m impressed. I thought that I\u2019d have to fall back on \u2018that place near Clom\u2019.\u201d

Lito shrugged. \u201cI\u2019m an actor. Learning lines is second nature to me.\u201d

\u201cFrom the way you drive,\u201d said the man called Jack, \u201cI\u2019d guess that riding a gear-stick is, as well.\u201d

\u201cThanks. But strictly speaking, I\u2019m not the one who\u2019s driving.\u201d Capheus grinned and pushed down hard on the accelerator.

\u201cJack had better get his act together sharpish,\u201d said Gwen. The rear wind-screen shattered. \u201cIt takes a lot out of me to keep the link up this long.\u201d

\u201cGwen says that she is flagging.\u201d

\u201cThat wouldn\u2019t be a problem, if she\u2019d ever completed any of those Psychic Stamina self-help courses from London HR that we used to have back at the Hub,\u201d said Jack, as he lined up another shot.

\u201cMaybe Jack should take that up with the line manager who never found time to teach me anything but sexy gunplay before our base exploded.\u201d

Lito\u2019s eyes widened. \u201cSexy gunplay is a thing?\u201d

\u201cShe\u2019s not bringing that up again, is she? Jesus Christ.\u201d

\u201cAnd, of course, I wouldn\u2019t have to rely on a friendly, world-wide network of gifted individuals for this, at all, if someone<\/i> ever remembered to charge his \u2019phone,\u201d said Gwen. She glared out of the window, as pedestrians screamed and ducked for cover. \u201c\u2018In the future, comlinks will run off miniature white holes\u2019, my rear end. Tell Jack he can fuck right off.\u201d

\u201cShe says that it was a price worth paying for knowing a man like you,\u201d said Lito, who was developing a headache.

Jack darted a look back at him and grinned. \u201cMan, you\u2019re good. But I bet she really told me to fuck right off.\u201d

Lito sagged at the wheel. \u201cDo you two even like each other?\u201d

\u201cJack is my best friend in the world,\u201d said Gwen, \u201cthe showboating arsewipe.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019d crawl across ten miles of broken glass to take Gwen out of danger,\u201d said Jack, \u201cand another twenty to escape her notes on how I botched the rescue afterwards.\u201d He brought his head and upper body back into the car. \u201cWe\u2019ve lost them. Good work, team.\u201d

Lito breathed. \u201cYou were quite something, there.\u201d

Jack shrugged. The smile was undimmed, but Lito thought that he saw a shade behind it. \u201cI\u2019ve known for a long time the truth that you\u2019re still learning, Lito Rodriguez. It gets easier to be the hero, when other people already think you are.\u201d

Epilogue<\/u>

The man with the black tie and the white beard sat alone in a long room. He was writing, fountain-pen on foolscap, at a desk that was a confection of chrome and glass. Very occasionally, he raised his head from his calligraphy to contemplate the silent images that bounced on a screen at the other end of the room. The elevation of the images, and their intermittent jerkiness, suggested that they were being streamed from a head-mounted camera. For the most part, though, his gaze stayed fixed on his penmanship.

\u201cSome elements of this story,\u201d he said, without looking up, \u201care necessarily conjecture. Even my sources have some trivial limits. But the main thrust of the tale is clear enough.

\u201cA woman blunders into a London club. She is already drunk, perhaps even a little high. She loathes her visits to the capital; this one was so much worse than all the others. Drink and drugs at this juncture are most unwise; the woman has lately learnt that she is pregnant. Perhaps she hopes that the binge will kill what\u2019s growing inside her; spare her the burden of a choice.

\u201cThe world has just been saved again, more, it must be confessed, by luck than judgment. But a child is dead; her friend is dead; her leader is damned. She does not know whether she could bring another child into this broken world. She does not know whether she could love it if she did.

\u201cThe woman looks into the garish room. She hears the beats that mould the air; she sees the people. Her eyes meet those of the beautiful, white-haired girl, whose music has snatched this moment from the night. And she is visited by the hope that scenes like this atone for all her failures. A charming fantasy, to warm one who is drunk, and perhaps a little high.\u201d He looked up. \u201cWouldn\u2019t you agree, Ms. Cooper?\u201d

Gwen looked back at him across the desk, stony-faced. \u201cIt\u2019s not like you to let me in. I assume that you want more than to tell a story.\u201d

\u201cI do.\u201d The fountain-pen remained poised in the air. \u201cDo you remember how we met?\u201d

\u201cCan\u2019t really say that I do. I\u2019ve looked into the eyes of so many self-important little shits. After a while, you all start to blur together.\u201d

\u201cI saw you, for a moment, at your lost Hub, while Captain Harkness, succumbing to a fit of piety, was rolling up the associations and gentlemen\u2019s agreements that once made Torchwood a force and not a freak-show. Since then, I have tolerated your agency\u2019s antics, as long as that did not impinge on my own concerns. But it has come to my attention that you have been giving succour to my wayward children. That will have to stop.\u201d

Gwen, with deliberation, rested one booted foot upon the desk, and then the other. \u201cOr what?\u201d

\u201cA chain is as strong as its weakest link. There is still one member of Torchwood who can die. The world is very small, Ms. Cooper, when ten thousand pairs of eyes can\u2019t keep you out. If you were to persist in this, I would hunt you down. After sufficient inducement, you would offer up to me everything you know. About the supercomputer in the West of London, say, or the strange little school in the East. Or the nameless Doctor, whose secret is his power. Everything. When that business was concluded, it would be time to think about what to do with your husband,\u201d he laid down the fountain-pen, \u201cand your child.\u201d

Gwen heaved a sigh. \u201cOK. You win. I\u2019m done. I\u2019ll show you where I am.\u201d

\u201cThat is the first sensible thing that you have\u2026.\u201d His eyes widened, as he looked past her at the screen. Gwen smiled; she had not looked around.

\u201cYou\u2019re probably wondering why the gentleman with the camera isn\u2019t moving now, and seems to have developed a hankering for the ground. Pretty good shot, though I do say so myself. I\u2019ll leave the rifle for your other boys to discover. Never let it be said that I\u2019m not a generous woman.\u201d

He found his voice. \u201cYou will regret this.\u201d

She stopped smiling. \u201cI already do. It gives me no pleasure to take a life, although, to be honest, I\u2019ve seen the pictures of what that bloke did for you in Mogadishu. I think that I\u2019ll probably get over this one fairly quickly.

\u201cLet\u2019s be very clear here, Mr. Whispers. Torchwood has a lot of fish to fry. Shark though you are, we don\u2019t have time for you. Threaten me or mine again, and maybe you\u2019ll get the chance to see what it\u2019s like to go head to head with the men who can\u2019t die, and the woman who doesn\u2019t.

\u201cBut I don\u2019t think that you\u2019ll get that chance. I\u2019ve seen the seeds of your destruction. They\u2019re coming for you, Mr. Whispers, and they\u2019re going to win. Because they know that a chain is as strong as its strongest link \u2013 which is every single sodding one of them.\u201d

She leaned over to look at the paper. \u201cYou\u2019ve left a blot. I\u2019ll see myself out.\u201d

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:35568","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/35568.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=35568"}}],"title":"Fic: Some Notes on the Segregation of the Queen (Elementary\/MCU, PG-13)","published":"2016-08-28T10:40:15Z","updated":"2016-08-29T10:40:41Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"elementary"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}}],"content":"Title: Some Notes on the Segregation of the Queen.

Author: Prochytes.

Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Elementary.

Rating: PG-13. Angst.

Characters\/Pairing: Daisy Johnson, Melinda May (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D<\/i>); Sherlock Holmes, Joan Watson (Elementary<\/i>).

Disclaimer: Not mine, any of it.

Summary: In which Joan has a baffling death on a freeway to solve; Sherlock has an enigmatic lodger; and New York City has a case of the shakes.

Word Count: 4658.

A\/N: Spoilers for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> to 3x22 \u201cAscension\u201d and Jessica Jones<\/i> to 1x13 \u201cAKA Smile\u201d; small spoilers for Elementary<\/i> to 4x04 \u201cAll My Exes Live in Essex\u201d. May echoes a short passage from ACD\u2019s A Study in Scarlet<\/i>. Mary quotes Vergil, Georgics<\/i> 4.212 at one point, and Sherlock quotes a line attributed to Vergil of somewhat doubtful provenance; both translations are mine.





The singular affair of the One-Man Gridlock \u2013 the reason why Andrew Helm applied his brakes with an entirely open road ahead of him while cruising along Interstate 90 outside Albany on an unseasonably warm spring day in 2015, and so died when the truck behind ploughed into the back of his BMW \u2013 was amongst the strangest of Joan Watson\u2019s long and illustrious career as a private detective. For Joan, afterwards, the story always seemed entwined with that of Mary \u2013 who had never met Andrew Helm, nor even, during the brief space that she lived under the roof of Sherlock's brownstone, learned that Andrew Helm had ever existed. But Mary was still entirely unknown to Joan when the latter arrived in Sherlock\u2019s kitchen one evening, weary from a day of fieldwork, to find the master of the house glaring at a keyboard.


\u201cAuguste Dupin,\u201d he said, before Joan had had time to shrug off her coat.


\u201cThe guy from \u2018The Murders in the Rue Morgue\u2019?\u201d Joan frowned. \u201cI thought that you hated Poe.\u201d


\u201cI do, with a visceral passion. His unreal fables bear about the same relation to the life of the practising detective that WWE does to WW2. Dupin is a meretricious oaf.\u201d Sherlock drummed his fingers on the table. \u201cAnd I need to work out what kind of coffee he would drink.\u201d


Joan looked at him quizzically. \u201cSeriously?\u201d


\u201cFrapp\u00e9, do you think? I find it hard to imagine Monsieur Dupin as a Cappuccinista.\u201d


\u201cFrapp\u00e9, definitely. Why\u2026?\u201d


\u201cHow was Albany?\u201d


Joan contemplated pursuing the issue; for the moment, she chose to let it slide. She shrugged. \u201cUninformative. But Andrew Helm definitely wasn\u2019t a suicide.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019d guessed as much.\u201d Sherlock saved the document, and minimized it. \u201cThe internal combustion engine can be a potent ally to the prospective self-slaughterer. People gas themselves in sealed garages. Less often, they drive off cliffs and bridges or - much<\/i> less often \u2013 into walls. But no suicide, to the best of my extensive knowledge, has ever parked while driving along an Interstate and hoped for the worst.\u201d


\u201cExactly.\u201d Joan rearranged herself in her seat. \u201cLocal police were trying to sell me on the idea that he was distracted by his \u2019phone. There was a hands-free set in his BMW, and he had just connected a call to his wife. The records of her smartphone confirm it.\u201d


\u201cThey posit, then, that he lost focus?\u201d


\u201cYes. But that doesn't add up, either. Distracted drivers forget<\/i> to slam on the brakes. They don't, as a rule, brake unexpectedly. On top of that, Andrew Helm didn't actually manage to speak to his wife.\u201d


\u201cHow so?\u201d


\u201cVirginia - Mrs. Helm - was out jogging in NYC when he tried to call her. She wears headphones when she's running, so she didn't hear the ring. Virginia thinks that the call connected in her pocket, but she only found out what had happened when she finished her run.\u201d


\u201cI see.\u201d Sherlock sucked his teeth. \u201cWhat do we know about the trucker?\u201d


\u201cDwight Jenkins, from Detroit. Fifty-two years of age; a driver for thirty years without a blemish on his record. He was injured himself in the crash; seems genuinely devastated at what happened. No prior link to the Helms that I've been able to find.\u201d


\u201cDoes Virginia Helm suspect him of some ulterior motive? Is that why she retained your services?\u201d


\u201cNo. She just thinks that there\u2019s something\u2026 off about all this. I\u2019m inclined to agree, though I\u2019m not convinced we\u2019ll ever know what made Andrew hit the brakes. I\u2019ve told Virginia that any progress is unlikely, but she paid me a flat fee anyway.\u201d


Sherlock nodded. \u201cGood hunting, then.\u201d He brought the document back up on his computer. \u201cI fear that I must return to erecting some dizzying edifice of ratiocination on the fundament of a skinny latte.\u201d


***


Joan first made Mary\u2019s acquaintance some days later.


The Helm case continued to chafe inside her head, but she had others. Until her requests for archived forensic evidence came through, she was pursuing these. Dropping by Sherlock\u2019s house in the evening for a consultation, she opened the door to the living-room, stared for a moment thoughtfully, and cleared her throat.


\u201cSHERLOCK?\u201d


\u201cYES, WATSON?\u201d His voice rose muffled from the far reaches of the brownstone.


\u201cTHERE\u2019S A WOMAN VIVISECTING SOME ELECTRONICS ON THE CARPET. SHOULD I BE WORRIED?\u201d


\u201cTHAT\u2019S FINE. IT\u2019S MARY. SHE\u2019S HELPING WITH SOME UPGRADES TO THE HOME NETWORK.\u201d


\u201cGREAT.\u201d Joan smiled at the young woman who was looking up at her warily from her position cross-legged on the living-room floor. \u201cSorry about that.\u201d She stepped forward, hand outstretched. \u201cJoan Watson.\u201d


\u201cMary.\u201d The young woman\u2019s grip was firm, once she had scrambled to her feet for the handshake.


\u201cJust Mary?\u201d


\u201cYes.\u201d


\u201cWITH YOU IN FIVE MINUTES, WATSON. THIS NEW STRAITJACKET SHOULDN\u2019T DETAIN ME FOR VERY MUCH LONGER.\u201d


\u201cOK.\u201d Joan turned back to Mary. \u201cDo you mind if I sit while you work?\u201d


\u201cBe my guest.\u201d


Joan watched for what was, indeed, a little under five minutes as Mary\u2019s fingers danced across circuits and keyboards, with only occasional pauses to rub absently at the bruises on her elbows and lower arms. Sherlock\u2019s head popped around the door.


\u201cSorry for the delay, Watson. Shall we adjourn to the kitchen?\u201d


\u201cLet\u2019s. Nice to meet you, Mary.\u201d


\u201cLikewise.\u201d Mary smiled up at her, and bent again over her work.


Joan and Sherlock immersed themselves in cases for a couple of hours, during which time Mary finished her endeavours and let herself out. At last, Sherlock leaned back in his chair.


\u201cIt\u2019s likely that Mary will be moving into the basement flat.\u201d


Joan considered this statement. It hadn\u2019t been framed as a request - Joan had lost count, long ago, of how many languages Sherlock spoke; he wasn\u2019t at ease with the polite imperative in any of them - but Joan knew that it had been intended as such. Joan was not living in the brownstone at the moment, but Sherlock still wanted her implicit permission to let anyone else stay there. She smiled.


\u201cI\u2019m sure Mary will be a great tenant.\u201d


Sherlock bowed his head in acknowledgment. \u201cWhat do you make of her? You know our methods\u2026\u201d


\u201cSo I\u2019ll apply them.\u201d Joan rested her elbows on the table, and marshalled her thoughts. Some enigmatic moments from the last week clicked into place. \u201cI\u2019m guessing that she used to be a hacker, before a government agency scooped her up and trained her. She doesn\u2019t work for the government any more, though.\u201d


\u201cExcellent. Your reasoning?\u201d


\u201cYou were writing a Dupin coffeeshop AU. The only thing that could force you to do that would be a forfeit from Everyone. Given their knowledge of the digital underground, the time-frame, and what I saw of Mary\u2019s skill-set just now, it seems a reasonable leap that you were asking them about her, and that she used to be a hacker. \u201d


Sherlock nodded. \u201cGo on.\u201d


\u201cUsed<\/i> to be a hacker. Everyone wouldn\u2019t give up anything on one of their own, even if you offered to cosplay Hercule Poirot at Comic Con. She\u2019s dead to them now. For a hacker, the most likely scenario to bring that about would be switching sides. I\u2019m guessing that it wasn\u2019t just her tech skills that her new employers developed, either.\u201d


\u201cYou saw the bruises?\u201d


\u201cI did. She\u2019s been in at least two physical confrontations during the last week, neither of which she lost. Not sparring - the wounds are in the wrong places, and the opposition wasn't wearing gloves. I doubt that she was just a back-room girl. But she doesn\u2019t work for the government any more, or she\u2019d hardly be running tech support for you. Besides\u2026\u201d


\u201cWhat?\u201d


We attract runaways and the forsaken, Sherlock. Their eyes sting at the smoke from their burning bridges.<\/i> \"Nothing. Anyway, you trust her, and that\u2019s good enough for me.\u201d


Sherlock raised his eyebrows. \u201cHow do you know I trust her?\u201d


\u201cSomeone had to have put you in that straitjacket.\u201d


***


Mary\u2019s domestic habits turned out to be a lot like Sherlock\u2019s, though with less in the way of lock-picking, car-jacking, or escapology. She kept irregular hours, punctuated by an exercise regimen of unremitting severity. As a result, Joan saw little of her for a couple of weeks after she had moved in.


One Sunday, however, Joan was sitting in the kitchen, contemplating files for the Helm case on her laptop, when Mary deposited herself near at hand, and began dissecting some inscrutable widget (Joan, while now more than competent in such matters for everyday purposes, knew that she would never be as technically-minded as Sherlock). Mary seemed intent on her task, and made no overt effort to attract Joan\u2019s attention. In light of the brownstone\u2019s size, though, Joan suspected that this benign and proximate industry was intended as some sort of ice-breaker.


\u201cHow are things?\u201d she asked, to get the ball rolling.


Mary grimaced. \u201cCould be better. I have several... projects on the go. Some of them can get a little hairy.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019m sure.\u201d Mary\u2019s bruises, Joan had noticed, never really went away, although they sometimes shifted position. Several ice-packs had become long-term residents of the fridge. \u201cHas Sherlock been helping with any of them?\u201d


\u201cI prefer to work alone, these days. And we\u2019re not\u2026 um\u2026. in case you were wondering\u2026\u201d Daisy flushed.


Joan grinned. \u201cRelax; I didn\u2019t think you were. Although, to be honest, you\u2019re kinda his type. Smart, athletic, rocking just a bit of the bad girl thing. If you had a twin, it would be Yahtzee. You don\u2019t have a twin?\u201d



Mary relaxed and giggled. \u201cNo.\u201d


\u201cOr a clone?\u201d


\u201cThat can\u2019t quite be ruled out, in light of\u2026 um\u2026 what I used to do. But not as far as I\u2019m aware.\u201d


\u201cGood to know.\u201d Joan hesitated, before ploughing on: \u201cSpeaking of former occupations\u2026 did Sherlock tell you what I was, before he helped me become a detective?\u201d


\u201cUh-huh. You were a surgeon.\u201d


\u201cAfter that, I mean.\u201d


\u201cAh.\u201d Mary\u2019s smile was brief and a little sad. \u201cYou want to ask.\u201d


\u201cOnly if you want to tell.\u201d


\u201cHow long since my last fix.\u201d Mary bit her lip. \u201cI thought I\u2019d got so good at hiding it.\u201d


\u201cYou are. Your hands barely shake. I can see you centring yourself, every now and again, but it isn\u2019t obvious.\u201d


\u201cI haven\u2019t used in a few months. We both know that I could give you the day and hour when I stopped, but I\u2019d rather not.\u201d


\u201cThat\u2019s fine. What was it, if you don\u2019t mind my asking? Your symptoms are a little unusual.\u201d


Mary swallowed. \u201cIt was called The Sway. You won\u2019t find it on the street. No one\u2019s making any more.\u201d She put one hand over the other on the table in front of her. \u201cThe Sway gutted me. Once upon a time, I lived out of a van. I had my principles; they were almost as good as a hot meal and a bed for the night. After that I was an agent of\u2026. something, and after that<\/i> I was an agent of nothing. Now I\u2019m just nothing.\u201d


\u201cYou\u2019re far from nothing, Mary.\u201d


\u201cMary. My New York name. Not my favourite. But it's the only one I have left that's clean.\u201d Mary shook herself. \u201cSorry. That all got kinda heavy. I\u2019ll leave you to your work.\u201d


\u201cYou don\u2019t have to go.\u201d


\u201cNo - I could use some alone time. Sherlock says that the roof is nice in this kind of weather?\u201d


\u201cIt is. We\u2019ll talk again?\u201d


\u201cI\u2019d like that.\u201d Mary picked up the gizmo, and withdrew.


Joan worked through her files for a little longer, before seeking out Sherlock in his television room. He sat, now, in the pose that he had occupied when they first met, serene before his screens. News-streams purled through the chamber: the referendum in the United Kingdom; the slow work of reconstruction in Sokovia; reactions from the commodities markets to the unexpected succession in Wakanda. The data anchorite.


She did not bother to advertise her presence, guessing that he knew that she was there. Sure enough, he lifted his head.


\u201cHow goes it, Watson?\u201d


\u201cSlowly. I received the forensic records on the Helm case.\u201d


\u201cNo joy?\u201d


\u201cNone whatsoever.\u201d She moved forward into the room. \u201cThere wasn\u2019t any kind of fault in the BMW. Helm definitely hit those brakes. Traffic cameras didn\u2019t pick up anything on the road ahead. It\u2019s looking like he had some kind of momentary aberration.\u201d


Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. Before he could do so, the brownstone began to shake.


***


Joan would have been the first to admit that she was a little vague on the finer points of earthquake drill. This was, after all, New York City and not L. A.. She was, nonetheless, reasonably sure that you were officially discouraged from moving up the building. On the other hand, Mary was alone on the roof, and Sherlock was already barrelling up the stairs. It was usually more interesting, if more hazardous, to nurse the hope that he knew what he was doing.


He halted for a moment after flinging open the door at the top of the final flight. Joan had little doubt as to why. Mary, wide-eyed, was on her knees. The device that Joan had seen in the kitchen lay broken and forgotten before her. Its innards jumped and rearranged themselves, silicon haruspicy, as the surface beneath them shivered.


Mary was staring at the bees, which, agitated, had boiled forth from their hives. Joan caught her breath and considered options.


\u201cSherlock, see to the bees. I\u2019ll look after Mary.\u201d


He raised a hand in assent, and darted to the far end of the roof. Mary finally wrenched her gaze from the swarm and stared at Joan.


\u201cS\u2026.stay away. I\u2026 I can\u2019t\u2026 I can\u2019t hold this back...\u201d


\u201cMary, everything\u2019s going to be OK.\u201d Joan stepped forward. Mary trembled, and folded in upon herself. Simultaneously, the shaking of the roof redoubled. Joan blinked, and took another breath.


\u201cYou\u2019re having a panic attack,\u201d she said. Which you seem to be able to share with inanimate objects.<\/i> Joan tied that thought off for later contemplation; life with Sherlock taught you when you had to tourniquet the crazy. After all, Joan had endured Indonesian mega-rodentia, and #merridew<\/a> of the abominable tweets, and the thing with the Congressman, the cormorant, and the GPS. She had volunteered at the local hospitals, when it was all hands to the pumps in the wake of The Incident. This wasn\u2019t even in the top ten weirdest things she\u2019d seen.


The house gave another peristaltic ripple, as Mary struggled to master herself. Joan nearly lost her footing. Maybe this was in the top ten. Possibly even in the top three.


\u201cThis will pass. Sherlock and I are here. This will pass, and you will be fine.\u201d


Mary gulped and nodded. The brownstone lurched giddyingly one more time, then came to rest. At the other end of the roof, Sherlock moved back and forth amidst his murmurous host, splashes of black and spendthrift gold against the umber city about them, and below.


***


\u201cI, er, made some deductions about you when we first met.\u201d


\u201cGoes with the territory.\u201d


\u201cI think that I may have missed a trick or two.\u201d


Mary\u2019s eyes had been guarded when Joan went to visit her - two days later - in the basement flat. Joan was relieved to see her face relaxing into a smile. \u201cIf it makes you feel better,\u201d she said, \u201cSherlock didn\u2019t know, either. I\u2019m not as\u2026 altered as some of the other people like me. It\u2019s hard to spot, unless you get a look at my DNA.\u201d


\u201cI wouldn\u2019t be so sure. Sherlock\u2019s not an easy man to fool, especially if you\u2019re his housemate.\u201d He had been very fast, even by his standards, in loping up the stairs when the \u201cearthquake\u201d hit. \u201cSherlock keeps the secrets of the people that we trust. Even from each other.\u201d She glanced at the book wrapped around Mary\u2019s finger. \u201cWhat are you reading?\u201d


\u201cA poem Sherlock gave me. Something Roman. Heavy on the dung.\u201d


\u201cAh. The Georgics<\/i>. One of his favourites.\u201d


\u201cSeriously? I just got to the gripping narrative of cow-fever.\u201d


\u201cHe likes the last book.\u201d Joan watched Mary\u2019s expression. \u201cIt\u2019s all about keeping bees.\u201d


\u201cOh. Pointed, much?\u201d


\u201cThere\u2019s this guy in it called Arist-something. Aristaeus; that\u2019s the name. He\u2019s a beekeeper and his colonies have collapsed. He asks his mother why the bees have died - his mother knows things, she\u2019s kinda immortal\u2026\u201d


\u201cHuh. That happens more often than you\u2019d think.\u201d


\u201c... and it turns out that Aristaeus drove an innocent to death without even knowing it.\u201d This led, Joan knew, into another story, one which Sherlock had once devoured with a passion: a story about a gifted man who lost the woman he loved, won her back from the pallid shades, and lost her again. But Sherlock wasn\u2019t the only one who kept a watchful guard on others\u2019 secrets.


\u201cClassy.\u201d Mary flipped forward in the book and read aloud: \u201cAll have the same mind, while the king survives.<\/i>\u201d She shivered. \u201cAll the parts, working as one. Some people like me think that we\u2019re given our powers for a reason. That we\u2019re cogs in some cosmic plan. Pieces in a puzzle.\u201d


\u201cDo you think that\u2019s true?\u201d


\u201cI hope that it isn\u2019t. If this is a plan, it\u2019s brutal, and it\u2019s stupid, and it kills good men. The world is what the world is.\u201d Mary cocked her head on one side. \u201cYou\u2019re being texted.\u201d


\u201cHow do you know? My \u2019phone\u2019s in the other room.\u201d


\u201cAnd set to \u2018vibrate\u2019. Anything that does a shimmy answers to me.\u201d


\u201cHandy.\u201d


\u201cHey - it isn\u2019t all about damaging real estate.\u201d


Joan rose and went to check her text. It was from Sherlock, and read: Come to the kitchen. Now. Alone.<\/i>


***


Sherlock was standing by the table, hands folded behind his back. He was glaring at a woman Joan did not know.


The interloper was small, and wore a pantsuit. Her features had the sort of high-cheekboned, elegantly weathering beauty that Joan associated with her own mother; a vacancy, a disquieting void of expression, that Joan did not. Such calm under the patent Holmesian scrutiny was not common. Joan slowly deposited her handbag on the floor. The atmosphere in the room right now counselled against sudden movement.


\u201cThis is my colleague, Joan Watson,\u201d said Sherlock. \u201cWatson, this is\u2026 I\u2019m afraid that I didn\u2019t catch your name.\u201d


\u201cI didn\u2019t pitch it.\u201d


\u201cOur guest has expressed an interest in speaking to my lodger.\u201d Sherlock\u2019s eyes had not shifted from the woman in the pantsuit. \u201cShe is, I think, unacquainted with my wonted reaction to nameless lackeys taking liberties.\u201d


\u201cYou appreciate honesty, Mr. Holmes.\u201d


\u201cIt is a virtue as salutary as it is rare.\u201d


\u201cSherlock Holmes. Expert singlestick player, boxer, and swordsman. Joan Watson. Also a singlestick player and boxer. Your guard leaves your head a little too exposed, but your power punching is solid for a woman of your size. I know that you are both formidable individuals, Mr. Holmes. And if I were here to take anything, I know that the two of you together couldn\u2019t stop me.\u201d


Joan heard neither boast nor threat in the flat voice. Somehow, that was a lot more disconcerting than the theatrics that usually attended upon unexpected arrivals at the brownstone (one of Sherlock's pokers still had a kink in it). The world is what the world is.<\/i> The woman in the pantsuit continued:


\u201cBut I\u2019m not here to take anything. If your lodger is willing, I should very much like to speak with her.\u201d


\u201cYou\u2019re confident in your abilities.\u201d Sherlock scratched the back of his head. \u201cThere, are, by my reckoning, about twelve individuals in your line of work who could make good on the claim that you just made. And I\u2019m given to understand that the Black Widow is a redhead.\u201d


\u201cShe\u2019s not Natasha Romanoff, Sherlock. But she could do exactly what she says. And she is a widow, because of me.\u201d Mary moved past Joan into the room. \u201cHello, May.\u201d


\u201cDai\u2026\u201d


\u201cMary, here. How did you find me?\u201d


\u201cThe tremor, the day before yesterday.\u201d


\u201cThere are tremors, every day, across this continent. They prick behind my eyelids when I sleep. Most of them have nothing to do with me. How did you find me?\u201d


\u201cBy the things that you can\u2019t live without. Wi-fi; coffee; people to help. I know you, and how to map that on to the tremors. I\u2019d like to talk.\u201d


Mary bit her lip. \u201cI can\u2019t do this.\u201d She turned, and left the room. They heard the front door slam behind her. Joan cleared her throat.


\u201cGo after her, Sherlock. She needs a friend. I\u2019ll keep our guest company until you get back.\u201d


Sherlock nodded curtly at the woman Mary had called \u201cMay\u201d, and withdrew. Silence lengthened in the kitchen.


\u201cHow did you know the way I box?\u201d Joan asked, eventually.


\u201cThere\u2019s footage of you in the ring with a detective on YouTube. It was a good KO.\u201d


Joan scowled. \u201cDamn smartphones.\u201d She sat back in her chair. \u201cYou didn\u2019t run after her.\u201d


\u201cMary makes her own decisions.\u201d


\u201cShe said that you were a widow, because of her. Is that true?\u201d


\u201cA little. Not very. She blames herself for much that\u2019s not her fault.\u201d


A ghost of animation in that voice. \u201cYou care for her.\u201d


\u201cThat would be a weakness.\u201d


\u201cA weakness worth having.\u201d


May\u2019s lips twitched. \u201cPerhaps.\u201d


\u201cCan I ask why Mary blames herself?\u201d


\u201cHer will was taken from her. That\u2019s the kind of world we live in, now. Mary did things while she wasn\u2019t herself that she can\u2019t forgive.\u201d


Joan shuddered. \u201cNo wonder she got so worked up about the\u2026\u201d Her words trailed off. May stared at her.


\u201cWhat is it?\u201d


Aristaeus didn\u2019t know what he had done.<\/i> \u201cNothing. Sorry. I just had a thought about a case I\u2019m working. Do you mind if I\u2026?\u201d


\u201cGo ahead.\u201d


Joan settled at the table, and booted up her laptop. She scrolled through the archives of some local news-sites. Finally, she fished out her smartphone.


\u201cVirginia? It\u2019s Joan Watson. Listen: this is an odd question, but could you tell me where<\/i> you were jogging at the time of Andrew\u2019s car-crash? Was it down by the docks? Excellent. I\u2019m sending you a link to a picture. I think that I may know why your husband died.\u201d


***


Mary returned with Sherlock about a quarter of an hour later. \u201cOK,\u201d she said, sliding into a chair beside May. \u201cYou\u2019re right. I\u2019m tired, and I\u2019ve been running for far too long. It\u2019s time we talked.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019m glad.\u201d May looked away. \u201cIt means a lot to me that we can do this.\u201d


\u201cConfessing to an emotion around culinary implements.\u201d The careful pleasure behind Mary\u2019s tone reminded Joan of a gymnast, stretching muscles into a move that she thought she had forgotten, and finding it wasn\u2019t that hard for the long abeyance, after all. \u201cThrow in some golf clubs, and this would be your idea of Hell.\u201d


May snorted. \u201cI\u2019m getting better at golf.\u201d Her eyes flickered to Joan and Sherlock and she nodded. \u201cThank you.\u201d


\u201cOur pleasure,\u201d said Joan. \u201cWe\u2019ll give you two the kitchen.\u201d


***


\u201cDo you think that they\u2019ll sort things out?\u201d Joan asked, when she and Sherlock had settled in the living-room.


\u201cI don\u2019t know,\u201d said Sherlock. \u201cBut I hope that it may be so. While I yield to everyone - perhaps even to Everyone - in my admiration for the general level of competence displayed by the laughably misnamed \u2018intelligence\u2019 agencies, I think that what Mary has been doing with her life of late has been, for her, at best, a breathing-space. It should not be suffered to distend into anything more. And I think that the inarticulate Agent May is, after her own fashion, an honourable woman.\u201d


\u201cAdmit it - you like her just a bit.\u201d


\u201cPerhaps a little.\u201d


\u201cThought so. Women who could kill you without breaking a sweat always push your buttons.\u201d Joan fell silent for a few moments before continuing: \u201cI cracked the Helm case.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019m intrigued. How did you account for the brainstorm of your errant motorist?\u201d


\u201cVirginia Helm was jogging down by the docks in New York when Andrew crashed. She received news of the accident about an hour later, went straight to Albany, and stayed there for the whole of the spring and summer. She only came back to this city last month, and didn\u2019t hear any New York local news in the interim, so she never made the crucial connection. But I got thinking, today, about unintended consequences, and people who aren\u2019t themselves, and the nature of the world we live in, now. That was when I realized that I\u2019d got the case all wrong. It wasn\u2019t what was happening on the Interstate that was important. It was what was happening around Virginia in New York.\u201d


Joan brought up a image on her laptop. \u201cWhile Virginia was out on her run, she saw this man,\u201d Joan tapped the screen, \u201ccharging out of a building as though there were a devil at his back. They almost collided, and she remembers that he looked daggers at her, but that kind of thing happens when you\u2019re running, so she mouthed an apology and ran on. Sorry it\u2019s fuzzy; this guy was shy of cameras.\u201d


Sherlock scrutinized the screen. It was filled with a blurry still of a stubbly, brown-haired, forty-something man. \u201cAh - the darkness lifts,\u201d he said. \u201cI remember the coverage. Mr. \u2026 Kilgrave, wasn\u2019t it?\u201d


\u201cYes.\u201d


\u201cA very silly name.\u201d


\u201cYes, Sherlock<\/i>.\u201d


\u201cTouch\u00e9, I suppose.\u201d Sherlock contemplated the image. \u201cHe was like Mary, wasn\u2019t he? But his gift was\u2026\u201d


\u201c... compulsion. If you heard him give an order, you followed it. No ifs; no buts. From the press reports, you originally had to be in his physical presence for his power to work, but in the final days of his life - he died, unmourned, very<\/i> shortly after he ran into Virginia - it got stronger. It could work over a PA system\u2026\u201d


\u201c... or a \u2019phone line.\u201d


\u201cExactly. Andrew\u2019s call had just connected in Virginia\u2019s pocket. There\u2019s some doubt in the reports about what Kilgrave was trying to do, but he was definitely in a hurry, and needed bodies. So he emerged on to the docks, nearly collided with Virginia, saw a lot of people around him, and shouted\u2026\u201d


\u201c\u2018Stop.\u2019\u201d


\u201cYes. Virginia was wearing headphones, and couldn\u2019t hear him. She ran on, and didn\u2019t see what happened next. Her husband, on the other end of the \u2019phone, wasn\u2019t so lucky; that make is really bad for picking up background noise. And that\u2019s how Andrew Helm was killed, accidentally, by an ass-hole who never knew that he existed.\u201d


\u201cIndeed. Good work, Watson.\u201d


\u201cWas it?\u201d Joan\u2019s expression clouded. \u201cWe do what we do to make sense of things. Put the pieces together; solve the puzzle. But then you find out that a good man died just because a button was jostled in a pocket next to the only person on Earth who could weaponize a \u2019phone-call. It makes you wonder whether there\u2019s any sense at all.\u201d


\u201cLeave grand designs, or their absence, to the philosophers, Watson. Virginia Helm knows why her husband died, thanks to you. Dwight Jenkins knows that there\u2019s nothing he could have done. For us, the sublunary ones, that it is enough.\u201d


\u201cI guess.\u201d Joan looked towards the kitchen. \u201cNot all unintended consequences are bad.\u201d


\u201csic vos non vobis mellificatis, apes.<\/i>\u201d


\u201cDon\u2019t make me ask.\u201d


\u201cSo you, the bees, make honey, not for yourselves<\/i>. Not quite accurate in point of natural history.\u201d Sherlock nestled in his chair. \u201cBut evocative, all the same.\u201d


Joan smiled, as the room darkened with the dusk around them. The golden glow from the kitchen, and the murmur of quiet voices from within it, persisted long into the marches of the night.


FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:35198","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/35198.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=35198"}}],"title":"Fic: Anticipation (Dark Matter, PG-13)","published":"2016-08-09T12:38:20Z","updated":"2016-08-10T17:17:53Z","category":{"@attributes":{"term":"dark matter"}},"content":"Title: Anticipation.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Dark Matter (TV).
Rating: PG-13.
Characters\/Pairing: Two, Nyx.
Disclaimer: None of the past-bereft or future-dazzled pretty belongs to me.
Summary: There\u2019s more than one way to read a future.
Word Count: 692.
A\/N: Spoilers for Dark Matter<\/i> to 2x06.



Nyx has been looking forward to this.

Of course, looking forward is what Nyx does. But familiarity often breeds contempt. For Nyx, the present is a gift that\u2019s usually shop-worn. A joke, when you already know the punch-line.

Speaking of punches...

Two closes again, not reckless, but fast. She\u2019s a speed merchant. Jab hides the cross.<\/i>

Nyx looks at that script, and doodles in the margin. Two closes again, not reckless, but fast. [Shift balance, ready for the counterpunch.] She\u2019s a speed merchant. [This customer ain\u2019t buying.] Jab hides the cross. [Slip the cross; counter-jab.]

Two grimaces as Nyx connects. The punch doesn\u2019t land clean, as it would have done on most anyone else that Nyx has ever fought. Two was already moving out of range again when she took the blow.

And there\u2019s the challenge \u2013 what gives Nyx\u2019s jaded palate that little tingle. Nyx has time. Two has speed. Her opponent is so fast that Nyx\u2019s margin, usually ample, dwindles to barely more than an edge. Two loads each groaning second to its limit. The weighted moments are heavy beneath Nyx\u2019s fingers. It\u2019s a rush.

Two\u2019s cheeks are flushed. She\u2019s broken a sweat. Those are not the eyes of a woman who\u2019s used to feeling it. Nyx can relate. The brawl in that cell had been a surprise to both of them.

Two isn\u2019t toting CPA. That is not the nature of her gift. (Nyx counts down to the window for a kidney punch; she grins as Two gasps and very nearly staggers. Girl\u2019s tough, but she isn\u2019t made of iron.) Nyx has been using this bout to scope Two out, just as she is morally certain that Two has been doing with her. Nyx\u2019s interim conclusion: Two is simply\u2026 too. A little too strong; a little too fast; a little too tough. Nyx likes to think that she is herself a walking testimony to how much badass can be packed into a smallish woman. But whoever packed Two was even better at folding.

Still, strength and speed are nothing without a future. Now and forever, the future belongs to Nyx. Haymaker \u2013 ragged. Finally getting tired and desperate.<\/i> Nyx\u2019s smile widens.

Haymaker \u2013 ragged. Finally getting tired and desperate. Nyx\u2019s hands blur into punishing body blows. Already committed to the combo, she receives the next delivery of future\u2026

Oh. Shit.<\/i>

\u2026 and remembers, a fraction of a second too late, that Two\u2019s uncanny athleticism does not come unaccompanied by smarts.

There\u2019s more than one way to read a future.

Haymaker \u2013 ragged. [Let Nyx see I\u2019m] finally getting tired and [look] desperate. Nyx\u2019s hands blur into punishing body blows. [Soak it\u2026 somehow. I can\u2026 I can take this. Just about. Hands free to grasp and\u2026]<\/i><\/b>

Nyx winces as the grip clamps down; her stance is wrecked; the moves crowd in. Her own strength is too eroded, now, to do anything much about it. The downside to combat CPA\u2026

Knee slam. Push for distance. Front kick. Close. Uppercut.<\/i> [Got to rewrite this. Got to. But\u2026 groggy\u2026]

Knee slam. Push for distance. Front kick. Close. Uppercut.

\u2026 is that you can have your ass kicked in stereo.

Nyx slumps to the floor. Once the training room is considerate enough to stop with the spinning, she becomes aware that Two has sat down beside her.

\u201cYou O.K.?\u201d she asks.

\u201cI\u2019ll live.\u201d Nyx manages, with some effort, to sit upright. \u201cYou\u2019re more than pretty good.\u201d

\u201cLikewise.\u201d Two gingerly prods her midriff. \u201cI honestly thought that I was going to pass out, near the end there. But I had to plan a combo too long and elaborate\u2026.\u201d

\u201c\u2026. for me to see. Four-dimensional rope-a-dope. I\u2019m impressed.\u201d Nyx raises her chin. \u201cDon\u2019t expect that to work in the rematch.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ll think of something.\u201d Two looks away. \u201cI adapt. That\u2019s what I do.\u201d

Nyx cocks her head on one side. After almost twenty minutes of feints and blocks, she gets the feeling that that\u2019s the first time Two has genuinely left herself vulnerable. She\u2019s kinda touched. And still more than a little punchy, but them\u2019s the breaks.

\u201cSame time tomorrow?\u201d she asks.

\u201cYou\u2019re the prophet.\u201d Two smiles. \u201cYou tell me.\u201d

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:34935","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/34935.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=34935"}}],"title":"Fic: The Sword in \"The Stone\" (X-Men movie-verse, PG-13)","published":"2016-07-15T08:22:17Z","updated":"2016-07-18T18:48:18Z","category":{"@attributes":{"term":"x-men"}},"content":"Title: The Sword in \u201cThe Stone\u201d.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: X-Men (movie-verse, new time-line).
Rating: PG-13. Angst, with references to racism and substance abuse.
Characters\/Pairing: Psylocke, Raven Darkholme, Brian Braddock.
Disclaimer: All Marvel\u2019s \u2013 not mine.
Summary: When the errant Horsewoman is finally tracked down, it isn\u2019t where most people would have thought to find her.
Word Count: 3689.
A\/N: Spoilers for \u201cX-Men: Apocalypse\u201d.






Rain had surprised the pedestrians of East London after a day of baking brick, and grass smells from the green and gold of Weaver\u2019s Fields. The Stone<\/i> - a small pub, like most of its brethren in Bethnal Green - was crammed to the smoke-haunted rafters in consequence. The journey from the bar back to his seat wrung several tactful gyrations from the big blond man who bore two packets of crisps in one hand and a brimming pint in the other. He sat down with a contented wheeze, and pushed one of the packets of crisps across the table.


\u201cYour next pint is on its way,\u201d the big man said. \u201cThey\u2019re changing casks. Sid told me that he\u2019d send someone over with it shortly.\u201d


\u201cThanks.\u201d


\u201cYou can have mine, if you like, but I know you\u2019re not fond of stout.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019ll wait. You get started on yours. There\u2019s always the crisps.\u201d


\u201cThere\u2019s always the crisps.\u201d


The big man took a pull from his stout as his companion addressed the crisps. Much smaller than him, and lithe, she did not seem troubled by the cramped surroundings. The streaks in her long dark hair excited little attention in the pub. Eighties London was still rolling the taste of Punk around its tongue.


\u201cThese aren\u2019t salted,\u201d she said.


\u201cThey\u2019re Smith\u2019s crisps, Bets. You salt them yourself, with the little blue sachet that\u2019s invariably settled at the bottom. Fishing it out and haphazardly sprinkling the salt is half the fun.\u201d


The woman called Bets gave him a long appraising stare. She bent again to her task. Purple light kindled for a moment between her fingers. Salt rained evenly down from the serrated sachet on the tawny field below.


\u201cThat<\/i> just sucks the joy straight out of everything.\u201d He watched her eat the crisps. \u201cYou\u2019re putting those away quickly.\u201d


She shrugged. \u201cNot much time for food, lately. Or for rest.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019d guessed that.\u201d He noted, with a pang, how the glow from the over-dressed table lamp picked out the sharpened angles of her cheeks and brow. \u201cEven so, you look pretty hungry.\u201d


\u201cI am.\u201d


\u201cOne might almost say \u2018famished\u2019.\u201d


She scowled at him. \u201cStill not telling you which one of them I was.\u201d


\u201cWorth a try.\u201d


\u201cHow\u2019s the firm?\u201d


\u201cIn rude good health, thanks for asking, despite war to the knife between Commodore and Texas Instruments.\u201d He held his pint up against the light. \u201cHome computing would appear to have caught the popular imagination. I can even slope away to watch the Arsenal once in a while.\u201d


\u201cArsenal. Nothing changes. I don\u2019t know why you go on torturing yourself.\u201d


\u201cRubbish, Bets. This year\u2019s their year. I feel it in my bones.\u201d


\u201cProbably arthritis. Love the Gunners all you like. They just don\u2019t love you back.\u201d


\u201cHumph.\u201d


\u201cYou need a less masochistic hobby.\u201d She licked a finger, to make the crisp crumbs adhere. \u201cWhy don\u2019t you travel, now that money\u2019s not a problem? See more of the Continent, like you said you would.\u201d


\u201cHard to find the time.\u201d He lowered the glass. \u201cMight go to Egypt again, though. The Pyramids are a bit samey, but I\u2019ve heard they\u2019ve got some new ones.\u201d


She sighed. \u201cYou won\u2019t let this go, will you?\u201d


\u201cYou know I can\u2019t. That isn\u2019t in me. We\u2019ve been tip-toeing around the late unpleasantness, but\u2026\u201d He drummed his fingers for a moment before looking again across the table. \u201cDid you kill anyone, Bets?\u201d


She did not lift her head. His frown deepened.


\u201cDon\u2019t point that silence at me. Your Marmalade Atkins routine only works so long as the gore stays strictly Kensington. Did you kill<\/i> anyone, Bets?\u201d


\u201cNo.\u201d She met his gaze. \u201cThe desire was there, certainly. I would have killed the one who moved like an ape, the one I told you about, if I hadn\u2019t been\u2026\u201d She stopped, frowning.


\u201c\u2026 KO-ed? Defeated? Beaten<\/i>?\u201d He saw the flush mount in her cheeks, and sighed. \u201cThat\u2019s the problem in a nutshell, isn\u2019t it? It\u2019s harder for you to admit that you lost<\/i> than it is to say that you almost murdered a good man.\u201d


Her gaze did not waver. \u201cYou don\u2019t get to sit in judgment on me.\u201d


\u201cIs that so? I was under the impression that you had brought Days of Judgment back into fashion.\u201d


\u201cI don\u2019t recall you being so righteous in the Seventies.\u201d


He nodded, eyes hooded. \u201cThat\u2019s fair. I\u2019ve let you down too often.\u201d


\u201cYou were a drunk. Death Duties were swallowing the estate, and where were you? Inside a bottle, like you always were. A fine figure we cut.\u201d Her lips twisted. \u201c\u2018Marquis\u2019s son unused to wine\u2019 and the child of James Braddock\u2019s Chinky whore.\u201d


He looked sad. \u201cNo one ever said that, Bets.\u201d


She tapped her forehead. \u201cNo one ever had to.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019m sorry your gift caused you so much pain.\u201d


\u201cIt wasn\u2019t a gift. I\u2019m glad I found a better use for it.\u201d


\u201cThat bloody sword of yours. When was the last time you tried to read a mind?\u201d


She shrugged. \u201cI don\u2019t need to know what people are feeling. It\u2019s a weakness.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019ve heard this tune before. \u2018Compassion would impair me as a warrior.\u2019 You blunt your senses, the better to whet your blade.\u201d He shook his head. \u201cI\u2019ve never understood that about you, Bets. If being a warrior means that you can\u2019t help an old lady across Hyde Park Corner, give up your seat for the tired and laden on the Tube, or get through a working week without ending the world, where\u2019s the earthly point in being one at all?\u201d He saw her attention shift, and frowned. \u201cWhat are you looking at?\u201d


\u201cI think my bitter\u2019s arrived.\u201d


The big man turned in his seat. A scrawny youth in a t-shirt stood at his shoulder, clutching a pint in his right hand. \u201cGood evening, Gary. Is that for us?\u201d


\u201cYes, guv. Sid says \u2018sorry\u2019 for the slow delivery.\u201d


\u201cGood man. Stick it there on the table, please.\u201d


\u201cRight you are, guv.\u201d The young man bustled up to the table. Bets watched as he set down the pint, and began to sweep away the leavings of the crisps.


\u201cI like your suit,\u201d she said, after a while.


The youth looked puzzled. \u201cI don\u2019t have a suit, miss.\u201d


\u201cYes, you do.\u201d Steely fingers closed around his wrist, while a purple dagger appeared in Bets\u2019 other palm. \u201cIt\u2019s a good one. But from what I saw at the bar, earlier this evening, Gary ought to be left-handed.\u201d She glared at her table-companion. \u201cDid you tell her I\u2019d be here?\u201d


\u201cWhat the bloody hell has got into you, Bets?\u201d The big man hastily craned forward, using his bulk to shield the dagger from the other patrons. \u201cGary\u2019s harmless. And, in case you haven\u2019t noticed, a bloke.\u201d


\u201cWill you tell him,\u201d Bets addressed the youth, \u201cor shall I?\u201d


Gary directed a thorough and thoughtful look around the pub. A chant of \u201cHappy Birthday\u201d had just struck up at the other end of the bar; every eye was fixed on the flushed and grinning honorand. When Gary turned back to the table, a statuesque blonde woman stood in his place. The big man\u2019s mouth dropped open, and then snapped shut.


\u201cI will take it very badly,\u201d he said, in a calm, level voice, \u201cif any harm has befallen the boy whose face you stole.\u201d


\u201cGary is fine,\u201d the blonde woman said. \u201cHe slipped out for a cigarette. I agreed to take the pint over for him. My quarrel is not with him, or you.\u201d She looked at Bets. \u201cBut she and I have business to settle.\u201d


\u201cWe do,\u201d said Bets.


\u201cI don\u2019t think you want to draw attention here.\u201d


\u201cThen let\u2019s dress down.\u201d The dagger disappeared from Bets\u2019 hand.


\u201cNo powers. Just strikes and holds. Your muscle, speed, and skill matched against mine. Winner takes all.\u201d


\u201cThere\u2019s a spot outside.\u201d


The blonde nodded. \u201cShow me.\u201d


\u201cJesus wept,\u201d said the big man, to no one in particular. He drained his stout, and buried his face in his hands.


***


London led with its chin during the Blitz. The East End had the worst of it. Four decades on, odd flecks of rubble and rosebay willowherb still mottled the face of Bethnal Green, though their number diminished year by year. Bets guided her blonde antagonist to one such spot, now slick with rain, down beside the railway arches. The big man followed in their wake.


\u201cThis is wrong, Bets,\u201d he said.


\u201cThis is how it has to be.\u201d


\u201cBollocks to that. The justice of a case is not proven by who can hit harder and faster, or stand more pain. And apart from anything else, this is just tawdry. Playing minder to a mad pharaoh might have been morally bankrupt, but it had some<\/i> class. Not brawling outside a pub like Terry McCann.\u201d


Bets began to take off her coat. The blonde woman, who had retired to a polite distance on the other side of the ground, swinging her arms, had already lost, somehow, the jacket that she had been wearing when they left The Stone<\/i>. The big man talked on, in a lowered voice.


\u201cAnd just in terms of tactics, this makes no sense. You\u2019re exhausted, nowhere near the top of your game, and, for reasons I don\u2019t understand, you let her talk you out of using your powers.\u201d


\u201cAn unfair advantage in a duel of honour? I\u2019m shocked to hear you suggest that.\u201d Bets dropped her jacket on a chunk of rubble. \"You\u2019re the one who\u2019s meant to be the paladin.\u201d


\u201cI try to be an honest man, Bets. That doesn\u2019t make me a mug. If one\u2019s trapped in a stupid fight, one might as well win it. But you and your confounded pride\u2026 You could have said \u2018no\u2019.\u201d


\u201cYou know I can\u2019t. That isn\u2019t in me.\u201d She bit her lip. \u201cThank you for being here. Give me your word that you won\u2019t intervene.\u201d


\u201cI\u2026\u201d His shoulders slumped. \u201cYou have my word.\u201d


\u201cAlways the white knight.\u201d She kissed him on the cheek. \u201cThanks again.\u201d


The big man looked on from the shadow of a crumbling wall as the two opponents began to circle each other. Preoccupied, and sick to his stomach, he did not spot a new glint of metal just beyond the wan compass of the street-lamp, until another voice broke the silence:


\"Brrr. Better wrap up warm, boys. There's a Nip in the air.\"


Four men stepped into the light. They wore jeans and thin t-shirts, on which Union flags were discoloured by erratic adherence to the damp flesh beneath. Each also boasted a pair of black metal gauntlets, which covered the arm up to the elbow. Their leader spoke again, addressing the blonde:


\"Is Tiger Lily here giving you any trouble, miss?\"


The blonde eyed him coldly. \"Who the hell are you?\"


\"They're National Front.\" The big man walked forward, taking a place between the two women and the gauntleted newcomers. \"'England for the whites.' They usually drink at the Blade Bone<\/i> on the High Street. Am I right?\"


The leader nodded.


\"I don't like your away kit much.\" The big man gestured at the gauntlets.


The leader smirked. He picked up a piece of rubble and, with deliberation, closed his hand around it. Ground powder dropped from his grasp to dampen on the pavement. The big man nodded.


\"I see. Power gloves. Enhance the weather's strength and durability. The British Army trialled them for the Falklands, but the long-term cost of using them was too high. You go on wearing those, son, you can kiss goodbye to the idea of having children.\"


\"And what a tragedy for the gene pool that would be,\" said Bets.


\"You've got some fucking lip on you, Tiger Lily. Someone needs to teach you a lesson.\"


\"Go home, son,\" said the big man. \"It's late, and your dinner's getting cold. Don't start something you can't finish.\"


\"You some kind of Nip-lover, mate? Like a bit of yellow in your eggs, is that it? Get out of our way.\" The gloved man frowned as Bets stifled a smile.\"What's she laughing at?\"


\"I'm not the mind-reader of the family.\" The big man ambled towards him. \"But I can hazard a guess. Firstly, she's aware that I don't take orders from the Black Shorts, however elegantly they may otherwise be attired.\"


\"You keep your fucking distance, mate.\"


\"No. Secondly, Elizabeth Braddock knows that she's just as English as you or I. Thirdly...\"


The leader snarled and threw a punch. Ruby fire pulsed along the glove as he swung. The big man caught the fist in a languid palm.


\"...she's my little sister.\" He looked back at Bets, while absently applying pressure. His adversary found himself driven to his knees. \"May I?\"


Bets smiled outright. \"Be my guest.\"


The rest of the National Front men had seemed a little mesmerized by the turn of events. Now they shook themselves out of their reverie. They tried to rush to their leader's aid, but a purple whip snaked round the ankles of one, and a blue foot connected with the head of another, and the minute that followed was in general deleterious to their well-being.


When the fight was done, Bets surveyed the vista of groaning and bruised humanity on the ground before her. The luminous blade reappeared in her grasp.


\u201cNo.\u201d The big man stood between her and the fallen. \u201cNo one dies tonight, crowned rider. Not in my manor. Is that clear?\u201d


\u201cRelax, Brian.\u201d Bets stepped around him. \u201cThe blade doesn\u2019t have to cut.\u201d


She knelt beside the gang leader, and plunged the knife into his forehead, whispering, \u201cForget\u201d. No blood marred his skin, but the big man saw the body slump. He scratched his head.


\u201cThat\u2019s a new trick.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019ve been practising.\u201d Bets moved on to the cohorts. \u201cI\u2019d rather they didn\u2019t remember what they saw of me. Would you be able to dump them somewhere else for when they wake up?\u201d


\u201cNot a problem.\u201d The big man, without apparent exertion, draped a body over each shoulder, and gripped the remaining two by the scruffs of their necks. He glanced across at the blonde woman, who had been watching in silence since the brawl had concluded. \u201cI would be greatly obliged if the two of you would resist the urge to knock each other\u2019s block off until I return.\u201d


The blonde slowly nodded. Bets sighed. \u201cYou have my word.\u201d


\u201cGood.\u201d The big man looked carefully around. \u201cBack in a jiffy.\u201d


He crouched for a moment, and kicked away from the ground into the air, disappearing over the railway arches. The blonde woman surveyed his trajectory with a thoughtful expression.


\u201cHe can fly?\u201d she asked.


\u201cHe can jump,\u201d said Bets. A faint wisp of voluble swearing blew across from the other side of the arches. \u201cUngracefully.\u201d


The blonde cocked her head on one side. \u201cYou have a brother.\u201d


\u201cI do.\u201d


\u201cYou have a brother called Brian<\/i>.\u201d


Bets\u2019 eyes narrowed.


\u201cYou have an English brother called Brian, who drinks stout, supports the Arsenal, and calls you \u2018Bets\u2019. It\u2019s a different light on you.\u201d


\u201cThat look she\u2019s giving you right now,\u201d said Brian, who had just landed again with a thump beside them, \u201cis the one I call her \u2018enigmatic, yet sultry\u2019. She practised that for hours in front of the mirror when we were young. Used it to ensnare that susceptible Harrovian, didn\u2019t you, Bets? What was his name? I think that he may be a Cabinet Minister now.\u201d


The blonde looked from Bets to Brian, and back again.


\u201cUncanny, isn\u2019t it?\u201d said Bets. \u201cWe could be twins.\u201d


\u201cBets\u2019 mother, a wonderful woman, was not our father\u2019s wife,\u201d said Brian. \u201cHe adopted her as my sister after her mother died. As I said earlier, Bets is as English as I am. She\u2019s named for our sovereign lady, after all. She only affects that ghastly accent to be annoying.\u201d


\u201cOh, do fuck off, Brian.\u201d


\u201cWhich, as you can see, is a consistent trait.\u201d Brian scratched his chin. \u201cWell, I have to say that I found that little adventure rather diverting. The three of us united in a virtuous cause. I'll drop a note to my friend Alistair in Military Intelligence to let him know where I stashed the gloves, and ask him to look into how those hooligans got their grubby mitts on them. That\u2019s the thing about violence, of course. It can feel cathartic, but, by itself, it rarely solves anything.\u201d


\u201cThis,\u201d Bets said to the blonde, \u201cis exactly as subtle as he ever gets.\u201d


\u201cAll the same,\u201d the blonde replied, \u201cCaptain British here does have a point. You\u2019re not exactly the woman I took you for, and I may have gone in too strong back at the pub. Do you acknowledge that you have a debt to pay?\u201d


Bets looked at Brian\u2019s hopeful expression, and sighed. \u201cYes. I do.\u201d


\u201cMeet me outside St. James the Less, at 10 a.m. tomorrow. Maybe this doesn\u2019t have to end in more bloodshed.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019ll be there. You have my word.\u201d


\u201cThank you. Nice to meet you, Brian Braddock.\u201d


\u201cMutual, I\u2019m sure.\u201d


The blonde nodded. Her form flowed into that of a small boy. The Braddocks watched him scamper away.


\u201cI don't know about you, Bets,\u201d said Brian, after he had disappeared from view, \u201cbut I'm going back to the pub.\u201d


***


Their chairs were unoccupied when they returned to The Stone<\/i>. Of such small felicities are a successful pub night made. Bets looked up as her brother brought their round from the bar.


\u201cThird pint, Brian,\u201d she said, quietly.


\u201cI know. It'll be the last tonight.\u201d Brian deposited the pints, and patted his sister's hand. \u201cBut thanks for remembering that there have been times when I\u2019ve needed someone to keep count.\u201d


He sat down, and took a gulp of stout. \u201cI like your friend.\u201d


\u201cShe's not my friend.\u201d


\u201cForthright. Has no truck with your occasionally overabundant bullshit. A looker, too, though I gather that that's entirely optional.\u201d


\u201cYou and your blondes.\u201d Bets\u2019s fingers were restless. \u201cI could have taken her, you know.\u201d


\u201cI'm sure. I know what you're like when your blood is up. I still carry the scars from the Great Pencil-Case War of \u201962.\u201d


\u201cMmm.\u201d Bets looked at her hands. \u201c'Crowned rider\u2019. You did work out which one I was.\u201d


\u201cIt wasn\u2019t hard. I always was a surprisingly dab hand at Divinity. And I saw, and behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering, and to conquer.<\/i> War has the sword, of course. But the crowned rider is the one who\u2019s all about the winning<\/i>.\u201d He took another pull at his pint. \u201cThe purple leotard was an odd omission from the relevant verse. No doubt precognitive reception at Patmos was on the blink that day.\u201d


\u201cPiss off.\u201d


\u201cIt\u2019s a serious point, though. Your obsession with your own prowess is your greatest weakness, Bets. You always have to be the fastest, the strongest, the best. It\u2019s the hockey captaincy at Roedean all over again. You go blind to everything else. Even if that means throwing in your lot with a Messianic Smurf.\u201d


\u201cDon\u2019t be flippant, Brian.\u201d Bets winced. \u201cYou can have no idea of what he was like.\u201d


\u201cMy apologies. But he\u2019s gone. Which leaves the onerous task of making amends.\u201d


\u201cIf I choose to take it on.\u201d Bets raised her chin. For a moment, she looked very young again. \u201cMaybe I won\u2019t turn up at that church, tomorrow. I could just skip town.\u201d


\u201cYou could.\u201d Brian rested his elbows on the table. \u201cBut you won\u2019t. You came here because you already knew, deep down, what sort of advice you'd receive from me. You just needed to talk yourself into it. It's like that tiresome man Sartre\u2019s fable about going to a priest.\u201d


\u201cI suppose you\u2019re right.\u201d


\u201cThat\u2019s a malady by which I have been latterly much afflicted.\u201d


\u201cI was surprised that you talked my pursuer out of the fight at the arches, though. You really aren\u2019t as inspirational as you think you are.\u201d


He shrugged. \u201cPerhaps the spectacle of a sanctimonious and once drink-addled brother saddled with a wayward adoptive sister struck some sort of chord.\u201d


\u201cPerhaps. Anyway, she couldn\u2019t have made us do anything we didn\u2019t want to.\u201d


\u201cIt shouldn\u2019t be about that, Bets. Justice should be allowed to prevail, always. Not the fact that I can juggle cars and you can bisect them.\u201d


She rolled her eyes. \u201cWe\u2019re back to the old argument. Might or right?\u201d


\u201cMight for<\/i> right, sister dearest. Every time.\u201d


Bets snorted. \u201cWhy do all the people I meet love that book so much?\u201d


\u201cIt would seem you travel in cultivated circles.\u201d Brian drained the last drops of his beer. \u201cShall we make a move?\u201d


\u201cLet\u2019s do that.\u201d


There was a piano against one wall of the pub. As Bets and Brian negotiated their path to the door, the birthday party struck up a sing-along. Brian smiled as he recognized the tune.


\u201cWe are far too young and clever<\/i>. Has anyone ever actually managed the trick of being young and clever simultaneously? Not we benighted Braddocks, that's for sure.\u201d


\u201cI couldn\u2019t say\u201d, Bets replied. She inhaled. The birthday boy, Charlie, was just the right stage of plastered, and managing that delicate act of domestic maintenance with an innocent delight in his own accomplishment. Dave would be sharing with the throng, after the first few songs, the news that Connie had said \u201cyes\u201d when he popped the question. Linda was thinking how much her old man, God rest him, would have enjoyed all this.


Brian took in the expression on his sister\u2019s face. His smile broadened.


\u201cWhy, Betsy, I do believe you\u2019re letting them back in.\u201d


\u201cPerhaps.\u201d The night air was cool again on their faces, although the rain was gone. \u201cA moment of weakness.\u201d


\u201cHere\u2019s hoping for many more of those.\u201d Brian bowed gravely. \u201cLook after yourself, Bets.\u201d


\u201cLook after yourself, \u2018Captain British\u2019.\u201d


\u201c\u2018Captain British\u2019. That has a certain ring to it.\u201d The big man paused, reflecting. \u201cBut I think that it still needs a little work.\u201d

FINIS <\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:34563","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/34563.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=34563"}}],"title":"Fic: Who Only Stand and Wait (MCU, PG-13)","published":"2016-06-26T20:35:05Z","updated":"2016-07-02T19:18:51Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"agent carter"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"avengers"}}],"content":"Title: Who Only Stand and Wait.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Rating: PG-13. Angst.
Characters\/Pairing: Edwin Jarvis\/Ana Jarvis, The Vision\/Wanda Maximoff.
Disclaimer: This all belongs to Marvel.
Summary: Once there was a man called Edwin Jarvis. He was not J.A.R.V.I.S.. He is not The Vision.
The pertinent data are nonetheless of interest.
Word Count: 548.
A\/N: Spoilers for Agent Carter<\/i> to 2x08 \u201cThe Edge of Mystery\u201d, Avengers: Age of Ultron<\/i>, and Captain America: Civil War<\/i>. The title is from the end of a sonnet by John Milton.

Once there was a man called Edwin Jarvis. He was not J.A.R.V.I.S.. He is not The Vision.

The pertinent data are nonetheless of interest.

***

Once there was a boy called Edwin Jarvis. He lived in a world of wood and steam. If a lone car ever harrumphed into the village, people would gather to watch the small drama of its passage: the discursive progress; sputtered irresolution, as the brow of the hill beetled above; glinting fenders, which saluted the crowd below at the achieved summit, just before the final drop from sight.

Less was written down, in the world before the Disinformation Age. Orders were entrusted more often to ears than to costly paper. (One would have needed no visas to leave the country, then, even if one were a softly-spoken weapon of mass destruction.) Edwin Jarvis often ran errands to such biddings. Sometimes he went to procure spices and herbs for the evening meal: thyme, and parsley, and bitter marjoram. England had not yet lost its palate for strangeness.

Edwin Jarvis was deft and indefatigable in his chores. Already, he was good at following orders.

***

Once there was a man called Edwin Jarvis. He lived in a world of steel and gasoline. Staff cars swept generals from decision to decision, faster than reprisal, or remorse.

He found a woman in a ruined land. They cooked goulash, sharp with paprika, together, in the long nights. The city air swung to Benny Goodman, killing time before it shook to bombs. (Bombs always fell on cities, in those days, rather than the other way around.)

Edwin Jarvis was ordered to abandon his Ana, in Budapest. He did not. He saved her life, and so they went on saving each other\u2019s.

***

Once there was a man called Edwin Jarvis and a woman called Ana Jarvis. They lived in a world of Nitramene and Zero Matter. There was a car, which could, on rare occasions, be made to fly.

Edwin and Ana Jarvis were unable to have children. The fault lay with a wound inflicted by another. (The stumbling footsteps of Colonel Rhodes through the Compound are the only sounds now that score the silence.) They regretted this lack, as others have before and after, in crofter\u2019s huts and vaulted mansions and rooms of red. It did not undo them or sour their mutual happiness. They did not speak of it to others.

(Wanda said once, while she was chopping vegetables for dinner, that the mind wraps its layers like an onion. You can make those layers diaphanous, if you choose. But if you do, you should be prepared to cry.)

Edwin and Ana Jarvis took orders from Howard Stark, and sometimes followed them.

***

Once there was a man called Edwin Jarvis and a woman called Ana Jarvis. They died long ago (at least, from the perspective of one born all but yesterday). They lie in a plot, drowsy with honeysuckle, on a Stark estate, far from the lands of their respective births, together. A distant motorway rumbles oblivious to the man (not J.A.R.V.I.S., not The Vision) who knew, lifelong, which instructions to follow, and which to spurn, and the woman who knew likewise.

(The kitchen does not echo to her footsteps, now. The scent of the paprika is almost blown.)

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:34484","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/34484.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=34484"}}],"title":"Fic: Dreams to Sell (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Torchwood, PG-13) (2\/2)","published":"2016-01-16T21:00:57Z","updated":"2016-05-26T10:19:44Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Dreams to Sell (Part Two – Chapters Five to Eight and Epilogue).
Author: Prochytes.
Fandoms: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Torchwood
Rating: PG-13. Angst, dark themes, and violence.
Characters\/Pairing: Gwen Cooper (Torchwood<\/i>); Phil Coulson, Daisy Johnson, Melinda May, Grant Ward ( Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.<\/i>).
Disclaimer: Marvel and the Beeb own the goodies.
Summary: Long ago, an 0-8-4 was cached in the Home Counties. Several parties are interested in securing it. The custodian is very Welsh, and not constrained by a strict regard for the truth. But it’s always possible to make a deal.
Word Count: 12206.
A\/N: Spoilers for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> to 2x22 “S.O.S.” and Torchwood<\/i> to 4x11: “The Blood Line”. Title and chapter-headings are from “Dream-Pedlary”, by Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Coulson at one point quotes Tennyson, “The Passing of Arthur” 2.







5. What Would You Buy?<\/u>

The beam from May’s torch darted about the room as she stepped forward. “Show yourself.”

That would be an arduous undertaking.<\/i> The lunging light revealed bare walls. Would you accept a signature instead?<\/i>

Three gashes opened on May’s cheek, as though from claws. She counter-punched, snake-quick. Her fist met air.

“That won’t work, May. They’re elementals - only real on sufferance. The Friars must have bound them into service.” Gwen raised her voice. “Am I right?”

You are, Twice-Sworn One.<\/i>

Gwen’s jaw tightened. “You don’t get to name me. You don’t know me.”

But we do. You have walked the Halls. Your shame is written in the Ceaseless Scrolls. We know what you did, Twice-Sworn One.<\/i>

Gwen winced as wounds furrowed her throat.

We know what you <\/i> sold.

“I’ve had enough of this.” Daisy clenched her fist.

Gwen took a breath. “You can’t hurt them, Daisy.”

“Wanna bet?”

“She’s right.” Ward stepped in front of Daisy. “What you’re thinking is too dangerous. We’re underground.”

Listen to your betters, child.<\/i> Daisy cried out and clamped her hand to her side. Run home to your dam. Find balm for your bruised knees and kisses for your cheeks. A mother’s love is a holy thing, is it not, Twice-Sworn One?<\/i>

“There has to be some way we can hit these things,” May hissed.

“Jesus Christ, May. You never did know when to fold ’em. It’s your only big weakness as a fighter. Is it true that you once went for an Asgardian with your fists?”

“Asks the woman who machine-gunned a Dalek.”

“Enough.” Coulson raised his hand. “Gwen – you said that, last time, these creatures didn’t give you any trouble?”

“Not a sausage.”

“I see.” Coulson squared his shoulders, and addressed the air. “Hi. We haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Phil Coulson, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.. These people are with me.”

Your titles are of no account, little man. Nothing that lives can defy us.<\/i>

Coulson smiled. “I guess there’s only one way for you to prove that.”

A line of blood scored across the skin of his forehead. There was a hiss as though of quenched metal, and what sounded like a howl of pain.

“That’s what I thought.” Coulson’s smile broadened. “‘Nothing that lives’ really means ‘nothing that hasn’t died’. You could see Jack Harkness coming a mile off. I wasn’t quite enough to ping your radar. But the end result’s the same.” The smile vanished. “These people are with me. Consider yourselves abjured.”

Silence lengthened in the room. There were no more voices.

“‘Abjured’,” said Daisy, eventually. “That was cool.”

Coulson shrugged. “I do a lot of crosswords.”

“Time for us to move on, then?”

“Not quite.” Coulson looked at Gwen. “First, I’ll be needing an explanation.”

Gwen frowned. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“I don’t. I’m choosing to believe the part about ‘what you did’. Care to elaborate on that?”

“We don’t have time for this now, Phil. I thought that you were in a hurry.”

“She has a point, Director,” Ward observed.

“See? Clock’s ticking.” Gwen turned to the passage that led further into the hill. “Right. For the next bit…”

“I’m opening a window in my schedule,” said Coulson. May, somehow, was already standing in Gwen’s way. “And I’m thinking about Rule One. Tell me the truth, Gwen. I want to know.”

Gwen bit her lip. “You really don’t.”

“Try me.”

Gwen glanced back at May, and rubbed her brow. “OK. You remember the Miracle, Phil? Months and months when no one on Earth could die? Population explosion, plague, famine, economic collapse?”

“Of course. That was a mess. We'll have to look into it some day."

“But as soon as the Miracle stopped, humanity just picked itself up, dusted itself down, and went on as though global immortality had never happened. No score-settling, no enquiries, no blackmail, no cults, no one wading in to take advantage. Shuffle the deck, and start again.” Gwen turned. “Does that strike you as at all odd, May?”

May frowned. “That was a mess. We'll have to look into it some day."

“What about you, Mr. Ward?” Gwen’s colour was high now. There was a new edge to her voice. “Obviously, it was better than the alternative. How would the world have tottered back to its feet if it had gone on revisiting what it did? But you have to ask: how the bloody hell did everyone get over it<\/i>?”

“That was a mess. We’ll have to look… into… it…” Ward’s voice trailed off. His eyes widened. “Jesus Christ.”

“Denial,” Coulson whispered. “It’s a magical place.” He strode across the room to look Gwen in the face. “You Retconned the world.”

“I didn’t have a choice.” The colour had drained from Gwen’s cheeks. “I wanted to see every snivelling, blame-storming little shit behind the lies and the profiteering and the ovens burn in a hell I stoked for them. But the people behind the Miracle – the Three Families – well, their back-up plan was to exploit collective guilt over what had been done. The only way I could fight that – the only way to save the world from them, again – was to make it… distant. Everyone sort of<\/i> remembers the Miracle. People know what happened. Those who lost loved ones grieve for them. But no one can really join the dots about the Miracle itself. Your thoughts just slip off it, if you try. As you can see, someone like an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. can break out of that, with very heavy prompting. Most people can’t.

“It worked, more or less. The Families found that their precious Plan B was fucked over. A lot of bad people got away with murder, but that’s nothing new. The world span on.”

“What you’re claiming is impossible, Gwen.” Coulson had not looked away. “Last time I checked, Torchwood had a gift for casual mendacity and a glorified date-rape drug to smooth its path. You couldn’t tinker with the memories of a world. No human has that kind of power.”

“One human does.”

“You mean... Oh.” Coulson passed a hand across his eyes. “Gwen, what have you done? May…”

“I’m on it.” May had unbuttoned a pouch at her belt. It contained salt, which she began to sprinkle in a circle. “Salem Protocol. Daisy, Ward, you need to get inside this circle.”

“There’s really no need.” Gwen’s voice had dropped again. “Even if he cares, which I doubt, he can’t eavesdrop on us right now. The Friars of St. Francis chose Medmenham for a purpose. No one and nothing can spy on these Caves. Even the Watcher on the Bifrost can’t see what happens in this place. Maybe the Carrionites put down an Occluding Word here, long ago, before the Eternals locked them away. Whatever the reason, it suited the Friars down to the ground. ‘Fay ce que voudras’, you see. ‘Do what thou wilt.’”

“I’m not taking the risk.”

“What’s with this routine?” asked Daisy. Her eyes darted between Coulson and Gwen. “Who are you talking about?”

Coulson waited until she stepped inside the circle before speaking again. “During your childhood, Daisy, you spent a while in New York City.”

“Uh-huh. At St. Agnes’.”

“Then you’ve heard the stories about the house on Bleecker Street.”

Daisy stared. “Those were true?”

“Oh yes.” Gwen looked absently at the salt, candid against the dark floor. “Spoken in whispers, maybe. But they’re true.”

“Then why doesn’t S.H.I.E.L.D. ever talk about it?”

“The man who lives on Bleecker Street,” said Coulson, “was a subject cleared for Level Seven Agents and above. Salem Protocol governs all verbal references to him, because there’s a better than evens chance that he can hear them. S.H.I.E.L.D. only ever dealt with him the once.”

“When was that?” asked May.

“That’s how Fury lost his eye. The inhabitant of Bleecker Street always has a price, you see. That price is always far too high.” Coulson looked back at Gwen. “Does he own you now, Gwen? Do you owe him a favour?”

“No,” said Gwen. Her gaze was still locked on the floor. “I paid up front.”

“I see.” Coulson’s face was grey. “Gwen, why did Rhys leave you?”

“I had nothing.” Gwen continued to address the ground. “The Families… they would have taken everything, with Plan B. This whole stupid, screwed-up, gorgeous little world would have been theirs. The serpent was tearing at S.H.I.E.L.D.’s bowels, and none of us knew. UNIT were as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Jack’s other business had taken him away from Earth. And I had nothing. No weapons, no tricks, no edge. Nothing. So I went to the warlock of Bleecker Street.” Gwen looked up. “To save the world, I sold him my daughter’s tears.”

“What does that mean?” said Daisy. She took a step closer to Gwen.

“You don’t ever want to know. I may not be immortal, Phil. But I was telling the truth when I said that, now, I’m just like Jack.”

Daisy’s strike was fast and hard. Gwen made no effort to evade it. Another hand blocked Daisy’s about an inch from her face.

“Stand down, Daisy.” May sounded tired. “We have a mission, remember?”

“OK. I can deal. For now. But if I’m getting this right, she sold her little girl.” Daisy shook free of May’s grip and moved forward to stand right next to Gwen. “When this is done, Torchwood, it’s you and me. “

Gwen nodded. “I’d expect no less.”

“Good. You’ll find I’m not as nice as May.” Daisy shut her eyes and visibly composed herself. “Can we finish this now, Director? Check the 0-8-4 and leave?”

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”


6. Ill Didst Thou Buy.<\/u>

“For the last leg,” said Gwen, after a long silence, “we have an issue. As I mentioned at The Crown<\/i>, Jack and I took special precautions with the final chamber. It has a full body-print lock, keyed to active Torchwood personnel. That means that I’ll have to go into the room alone to switch it off. After that, other people can come in with me, but I’d suggest that only one of you does that. This kind of security system can be a little temperamental.”

“‘Temperamental’ as in ‘car-alarm’?” asked Coulson, in the wistful tone of one who hopes for confirmation, but does not expect it.

“‘Temperamental’ as in ‘blast radius’. It’s classic Torchwood security, I’m afraid. Remember that, at the old Hub, Emergency Protocol One was ‘rip reality a new one’. Because of the risks, it’s better if most of you stay here. Mr. Ward can come along and keep me honest.”

“Why Ward?” said Coulson.

“He’s a big strong lad. I don’t know what the artefact is, but it was made by Asgardians. They may not all be Thor, but even the weedy ones can bench a Volvo. I’ll probably need help carrying it out.”

“Agreed. Ward, you’re with Gwen. The rest of us will stay here until you’re done.”

“Thank you.” Gwen looked at Daisy. “I’m sorry.”

“Go to Hell,” the young woman said, tonelessly.

“Way ahead of you, love,” Gwen murmured, as she led Ward further into the caves. “Way ahead of you.”

A few more stone chambers succeeded each other. At last, Gwen came to a halt in front of another metal door. She put her hand against it and, for a moment, was suffused with dim blue light. The door clicked.

“Good. I’ll turn off the internal security. Wait here.”

Gwen disappeared into the chamber. After a few seconds, Ward heard a muffled “Oh fuck…” He drew his sidearm.

“What’s happening?” he called.

“You’d better get in here, Mr. Ward. We have a problem.”

Ward slipped through the door. The circular room beyond was bigger than any he had seen elsewhere in the complex. Also unlike the others, it was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Light shone down on Gwen, who was standing with her back to Ward, and on a simple stone plinth in the centre of the chamber.

The plinth was empty.

“I honestly can’t see how it happened.” Gwen ran a hand through her hair. “This place was tight as a drum. Either there was never anything here in the first place, or Jack must have come back by himself and nicked it without telling me. He’s always pulling stunts like that.”

“All for nothing.” Ward licked his dry lips. “Torchwood, with its dead secrets and empty coffers…” He looked at Gwen’s back. “You really are a dumb bitch, aren’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Mr. Ward.” Gwen’s gaze was still locked on the plinth. “I have my moments. Right now, for example, I’d bet quite a lot of money that you’re wondering why your sidearm just failed to fire.”

Gwen turned. She looked at Ward, and the gun that was trained on her. She smiled. Ward’s brow furrowed as he pulled the trigger again. Nothing happened.

“State of Temporal Grace.” Gwen toyed absently with her pendant. “The Time Lords invented it on vanished Gallifrey, long ago. In a designated area, energy weapons and firearms just don’t work. My friend Toshiko was very good at reverse-engineering, wasn’t she? Jack put one up throughout the inner chambers.”

Ward found his voice. “How…?”

“You really had me going, for a while. Of course, I knew fairly quickly that something was up. I’m sure you’re a clever man, Mr. Ward. But you were in a hurry, and it showed. S.H.I.E.L.D. pulls me in to consult on a mission, but they take away my guns and ’phone. There’s a time-limit, but no one gives me a straight answer as to why. Phil seems much as I remember him; May still floats like a butterfly and stings like a Vespiform. But even May doesn’t usually wear her combat gear on a mission that might involve a lot of talking to civilians. And you show up with one<\/i> SUV, and a random car. I’m guessing that the car was nicked.”

Gwen stepped forward. “At first, I thought that Daisy was the cuckoo in the nest. In my experience, it’s never a good idea to trust anyone with hair that perfect. But I was wrong about Daisy, with her big eyes, and her compassion, and her pulse of, what, 300 BPM when she’s under stress? I riled her up and took her pulse in the SUV. Oh yes – Daisy has a secret alright, but she’s exactly the sweetheart she seems to be. That really should have been the clue. No one with that much humanity was ever going to be altogether human.

“Which leaves Mr. Ward, whom everyone agrees to be a ‘very long and complicated story indeed’. In exactly those words and that inflection, every time. Mr. Ward, who’s the only one I’ve seen on the blower to anyone who isn’t here. So I have to ask, Mr. Ward: how are you managing the mind-control?”

Ward smiled. “Maybe I was born that way.”

“Bollocks. I know that there are Gifteds able to give orders that no one can disobey. The stories about them are horrible. But if you could do that, you’d have done it to me by now. I’m guessing disposable tech, instead.”

“There wasn’t enough left for you.” Ward held up his other hand. On it, Gwen could see the glitter of silvery motes.

“Cyber-dust. Very fancy. Far-future tech, that is. Must have dropped through a discontinuity. Why isn’t it cybernizing everything it touches?”

“My science boys played around with it. Now, it slaves neural function to the master unit,” Ward tapped the side of his head, “which is just beneath my skin.”

“That explains a lot. Why most of the time Phil and May are behaving very much as usual. It would drain a lot of power to take full control. So, you gave them basic orders about the nature of the mission, and, I’m guessing, suppressed some of their memories of dealing with you before. Aren’t you Mr. Clever?” Gwen’s smile left her face. “Release them. Now. I won’t ask twice.”

“Are you threatening me, Torchwood?” Ward stowed his gun and walked forward to meet her. A big man, about the size of Jack, a head or more taller than Gwen. “How did you describe that Cavalier witch to Phil? ‘A nasty woman, nowhere near as clever as she thought she was, but with a vein of street-fighter’s cunning, and a nose for secrets.’ That’s you. What are you, really, without your alien gossip and your stolen conjuring tricks? Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“That’s an interesting theory, Mr. Ward.” Gwen raised her hands and, with deliberation, balled her fists. “But I’ve got everything I need to beat you right here.”

Ward snorted. “I’m guessing that the great and powerful Time Lords never bothered to interdict kicks or punches. It does drain power from the cyber-unit to give big orders. But I’ve got the minutes in hand. I could call S.H.I.E.L.D. in and pull up a chair. How long do you think that you would last, Gwen, if I told The Cavalry to go easy on the reins? But I think it would be more fun to do that myself.”

“Fine by me. I’ll count to three.” Gwen landed a left hook to Ward’s head. He took the punch, and twisted with it. “Some day.”

“You hit pretty hard for a failed home-maker.” Ward moved in. Gwen managed to block or duck his first few punches, getting in several more blows of her own, before he doubled her up with a hard right to the abdomen. “But you’re delusional if you think that…” Ward stopped. His expression glazed. “What have you done?”

Gwen spat on the floor, and grinned. “Error messages in your head from your shiny cyber-tech, hmm? ‘Full system failure in three seconds’, something like that?”

“How did you…?”

“It’s not the punch, Mr. Ward. It’s the knuckle-duster.” Gwen held up her left hand. “My wedding-ring. It’s made of gold.”

Footsteps could now be heard outside the chamber. They were light and very, very fast.

“I think that we both know who that is.” Gwen’s grin broadened. “I’m inclined to suspect that she’s in a mood.”

Shortly thereafter, the ground began to shake.


7. Fall Like A Rose-Leaf Down.<\/u>

Melinda May barrelled through the doorway, and charged Ward. The two went down in a confusion of arms and legs, as the floor shivered in another tremor.

“Earthquake. Hmm. Dramatically appropriate,” said Gwen. She unbent, wincing, from the gut punch, and stood up. “But I’m ninety per cent sure that I didn’t do it.”

“Gwen.” Phil Coulson was at the doorway. “We need your help, outside. May – you got this?”

“I got this,” said May, as she ducked under Ward’s kick, and threw a jab.

“Excellent.” Gwen ran to the door. “I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted. Welcome back, Phil. What’s happening?”

“Ward’s HYDRA.” Coulson began to hurry out of the inner chambers, with Gwen in tow.

“I’m on that page already.”

“He jumped the three of us while we were out on another mission. Daisy got a good shot in…”

“That will be how she barked her knuckles, then.”

“But then there was this dust and… The next thing I knew, my loyal specialist Ward was ‘reminding’ me that 0-8-4s outside S.H.I.E.L.D.’s control…”

“Where he wouldn’t run into anyone who knew him…”

“… had been compromised, and that we needed to secure them quickly.”

“Because S.H.I.E.L.D. would get suspicious, eventually, once you didn’t check in. Odd strategy, though. A treasure-hunt wouldn’t be my first plan, if I got my hands on limited edition mind-fuck dust. ”

“Ward likes to play the hero. It’s compulsive.”

“And he didn’t bank on Phil Coulson. Even when you were whammied, you just happened to lead him to an 0-8-4 guarded by someone you consider corrosively paranoid. Sometimes I think that your sub-conscious is smarter than my entire brain.” The ground shook once more. Dust feathered from the ceiling. Gwen scowled. “What the bloody hell is going on out there?”

“Ward must have called in reinforcements, to secure us after we delivered up the 0-8-4. They’d just rolled up outside the Caves when you broke the spell.” Coulson went on hustling through the narrow rooms that led back to the light. “Daisy’s holding them off.”

“By herself? Put me out of my misery, Phil. What is she?”

“Can’t you guess?”

Gwen scratched her head. “Let’s see. Mostly human phenotype… Behaves like she was brought up on Earth… Oh bloody hell. She’s only an Inhuman, isn’t she?”

“Torchwood knew about them?”

“We hoped that no one else did. If it becomes common knowledge in the galaxy that there are remains of a Kree experiment surviving on a Level Five world, we’ll be arse-deep in Judoon again before you can say ‘Shadow Proclamation’. So what’s her thing, then, Phil? What did Terrigenesis Bingo saddle her with? Please tell me that it isn’t spoon-bending.”

They had arrived at the main gate to the Caves, which was now hanging off its hinges. Coulson shrugged. “Take a look for yourself.”

Gwen looked. Her jaw dropped open.

“Well,” she said, “that’s not something you often see in Wycombe.”

Daisy had found some cover beside what was left of the SUV. Across the glade from her, a handful of men and women were sniping from the trees. As Daisy presented her palm to them, the air between bulged and distended, like paper at the touch of rain. A tree exploded.

“It’d bend a spoon,” Coulson observed mildly.

“Yes. A spoon in China<\/i>,” said Gwen. “Now that your mind’s your own again, can I have my…”

Coulson pressed a pair of guns into her hands.

“You gorgeous man.” Gwen braced herself. “Here goes nothing.”

Five crowded minutes later, the remaining snipers had fled in rout, and a small piece of Buckinghamshire had been thoroughly deforested. Coulson looked up to see May slipping out of the Caves.

“Ward?” he asked.

May shook her head. “Gone. I lost him in the dark.”

“Are there any other exits, Gwen?”

“None I know, but I can’t rule it out. The Friars probably had some occult fire escapes we never found, just in case – they weren’t in the habit of making friends. Shadow Paths. Travelling like that is… unpleasant. He’ll sleep badly tonight, if he gets out.”

“Badly,” May flexed her hand absently, “and bleeding.”

“Then the day hasn’t…. hasn’t been a bust,” said Daisy. She staggered, and leaned against the wrecked SUV. “I don’t feel so good.”

“You don’t look it, either,” said Gwen. Sweat had painted Daisy’s hair to the sides of her bloodless face. Her legs gave way; she buckled to the grass. “Phil, do your girl’s powers always take it out of her like this?”

“No.” Coulson’s brow creased as he hunkered down by Daisy. “Not since she learnt how to control them.”

“Shit. The cyber-dust in her system must be turning sour.”

“I thought you burned that up, or something. Certainly felt like that for a moment, inside my head.”

“I did – for the most part. But Mr. Ward’s science boys must have calibrated it principally for humans. It’s not playing well with Daisy’s… existing upgrades. That’s probably the real reason Ward stopped her from going seismic in the Caves.” Gwen frowned. “Can you get a S.H.I.E.L.D. evac team here, pronto?”

“Like you said, I’d imagine they’re looking for us already. But we don’t have the instant coverage of the old days. They won’t be able to scramble a crew to Buckinghamshire in under two hours.”

“I see.” Gwen looked at the wreckage of the SUV and the car, then back at Daisy. The young woman’s eyes were unfocused now, her breathing shallow. Gwen straightened her back. “Oh well. It worked while it did. Phil, I can help. I’ll need my ’phone.”

The world already sounded muffled to Daisy as Gwen made her call. (“Hi. The word is ‘hotpot’. Yes – it’s me. Everything’s fine. Did you make it there OK? Good. Listen: a friend is hurt. I’ll need you to fetch the wheels.<\/i>”) The world had retreated to a decorous distance by the time a van pulled into what was left of the glade, prompting a conversation between Gwen and May (“See? I did make you forty metres out.” “How did you warn him? Oh. Right. Colours run.” “Exactly. Colours run.”<\/i>) She was all but unconscious when several pairs of strong, gentle hands picked her up, and carried her to the van. Time passed, with only the rhythmic bump of cat’s-eyes beneath the wheels to mark its passing.


8. This Would Best Heal My Ill.<\/u>

Daisy awoke to the warmth of sunlight through a window, and the pleasant rasp of linen against her skin. She sat up in bed, wincing as the crease in the blankets caught at the claw-marks in her side from yesterday. Looking down, she saw that she was wearing nightclothes that were not her own. She wondered briefly whether that was more or less creepy than the alternatives.

The room held little more than the bed, a wardrobe, and a chair, on which her suit, boots, and gloves were neatly disposed. Daisy stared at them for a while, before slipping out of the nightclothes and putting them on. The wound on her flank, she now saw, had been dressed and bandaged.

The door to the room was not quite closed. Daisy eased it open. She stole along the passage-way beyond, stirring a medley of creaks from the boards beneath her feet, and a reel of motes in the sunlight. At the end of the passage-way, she found descending stairs.

The stair-case opened out into a kitchen. Daisy heard the thump of a kettle about to boil, a sebaceous hiss. She turned. A hefty, brown-haired man in his early forties stood beside a nearby oven, directing an expression of hieratic fervour at a sizzling saucepan. He looked up as Daisy cleared her throat.

“Morning, love,” he said. His voice had a lilt that Daisy had begun to recognize. Some distance beyond him, a small head poked out from behind a table at about knee-level, regarded Daisy gravely for a moment, and withdrew. “We were just about to wake you. Hungry?”

“Starving,” said Daisy, realizing that she was.

“I’ll be dishing up seconds shortly.”

“Thank you, Mr.…”

“Rhys, love. Rhys Williams. We were introduced yesterday, but you were a bit out of it.”

“Rhys Williams,” Daisy repeated. Fragments from the previous night tugged at her recollection. The little girl poked her head out again from behind the table, revealing big eyes, freckles, and long, dark hair. “I remember.” She smiled ruefully. “Torchwood lies.”

“Torchwood lies,” said Coulson. He was sitting at a table set for breakfast towards the other end of the room, opposite Gwen, with a Guardian<\/i> folded at the crossword in front of him. He glanced at Gwen. “But not about everything.”

“Take a pew,” said Rhys Williams. “I’ll fetch the fried stuff over.”

“Why did you lie?” Daisy asked, as she eased herself into a chair between Gwen and Coulson. “About Rhys and your little girl? I nearly laid you out because of it.”

“That reminds me,” said Gwen, through a mouthful of buttered toast. “Is after breakfast alright for that fight of ours?”

“Huh?”

“I believe that your exact words were: ‘When this is done, Torchwood, it’s you and me.’”

“Jeez. Are you for real? I still feel like I was hit by a truck.”

“Jolly good,” said Gwen. She pushed the plate of toast in Daisy’s direction. “You’re young, strong, trained by May, and<\/i> you can squirt earthquakes from your fingers. If we’re throwing down, love, it’s definitely going to be while you feel like shit.”

“Are you always looking for an angle, Gwen?” Coulson asked, without rancour.

“Bullies and victims go for the soft bits, Phil. In our time, Torchwood has been both.”

“You haven’t answered my question.” Daisy began to butter a slice of toast.

“Fair enough.” Gwen sat back. “Two reasons, really. People try to get at Torchwood through Anwen and Rhys. The Three Families did; I almost sold Jack down the river, thanks to that. So, when I can, I run a game. Swear blind that I’m alone in the world, and leave Rhys a message to take Anwen to another safe house. This one, in fact.” Gwen gestured at the kitchen. “Luckily, it’s not that far from Medmenham, and there’s some rather nifty Hipocci automated medical tech stashed in the shed behind Rhys’ Black & Deckers. He was settling Anwen in here when I ’phoned him.”

“May said that you hadn’t tried to contact anyone.”

“May was a bit brain-scrambled yesterday. You all were. Otherwise, she’d have noticed earlier how odd it was that I happened to be putting a red pair of knickers on my washing-line alongside all those whites.”

“Colours run?”

“Colours run. Those knickers are always in my basket, just in case. Rhys looks in on the garden first, if he takes Anwen out for a walk.”

“Gotta love classic tradecraft,” said Coulson, inking another clue into the crossword.

“Where is May, by the way?” asked Daisy.

“Out on the lawn, doing her T’ai Chi.” Coulson popped a fried mushroom in his mouth.

“I was lucky, of course,” Gwen continued. “If May had gone in the house, it would have been different. Or if I’d been hanging Rhys’ soggy y-fronts on the line instead.”

“Thanks for painting our guests a picture, love,” said Rhys, who had approached the table with a tray of bacon, sausages, scrambled eggs, and tea in hand. “I’m just glad that that plan doesn’t involve me shooting at anyone. Couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, me.”

“You’d be a decent shot, love, if you wouldn’t keep aiming for the knees.”

“Cent-ah of mass<\/i>,” announced Anwen, from across the room.

“Exactly, sweetheart.”

“Concern for your family was one reason,” said Daisy. “What’s the other?”

Gwen coloured. Rhys cleared his throat. “I think that I’ll go read a story to Anwen for a bit. Glad you’re up, Daisy.”

Daisy smiled. “Thanks again.”

Rhys nodded, and, scooping up Anwen, left the kitchen. Gwen fondly watched them leave, before standing and taking the salt cellar in hand. She sprinkled the powder in a circle around the table, and then sat down.

“You know, don’t you, Phil?”

“I have a theory.” Phil set aside the paper, and helped himself to seconds. “The story you told us, Gwen… it wasn’t a lie, was it? Just not the whole truth.”

Gwen nodded.

“You did sell your daughter’s tears. Rhys did leave you. What you omitted was that you got them back.”

“How did you know?”

“‘Twice-Sworn One’. I couldn’t understand why the guardians in the Caves would call you that. Then it hit me. The only way that anyone gets out of a deal with the warlock of Bleecker Street is to strike another one.” Coulson drummed his fingers. “Gwen… what did he make you do?”

“I went into the Halls of the Howling,” said Gwen, “to bring back something that he wanted.” Tea slopped on to the saucers as she poured it out. “I’d rather not say any more than that.”

“That released Anwen? Rhys forgave you?”

“More or less. I’m not sure that what I did can really be forgiven, even if it was to save the world. Do I love him and her? More than anything. Do they love me? I think so. I hope so. Does Rhys stay partly because he’s afraid of what I become without him? Almost certainly.” Gwen’s fingers creased the table-cloth. “There has to be someone to guard the monsters.”

“You have a lonely job, Gwen.”

“That’s not me. That’s Rhys.”

Silence descended for a while. At last, Coulson tentatively asked, “Gwen?”

“Yes, Phil?”

“Would you show me what the Medmenham artefact really looks like?”

Gwen frowned. “You were there, Phil. There was no artefact.”

“Yeah. I remember. Lost secrets; betrayal; something moving in the dark. And, in the end, it was all for nothing.” Coulson took a swig of tea. “It’s a very Torchwood story.”

“It is.”

“Maybe just a little too<\/i> Torchwood.”

Gwen eyed him warily. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Temporal Grace, Gwen? Seriously? Even the Time Lords couldn’t get it to work outside their ships. Some people say that it was never really more than a clever lie. No – you knew what was in that room. You used it to disable Ward’s gun.”

“How could I have done that? You saw me only a couple of minutes later, Phil. I didn’t take anything from that room.”

“That was a problem, until I thought about what we know of Asgardian magic. Their speciality is illusions. I bet that Odin could make Mjölnir look like a walking-stick, if that took his fancy. And then I remembered that, in the SUV, on the way there, you were very eager to let me and Daisy know that you were wearing a necklace.” Coulson set down his cup. “When you left the central chamber with me, that pendant was in your pocket. The Medmenham 0-8-4 was around your neck.” He leaned forward. “So, Gwen, what does it really look like?”

Gwen heaved a deep sigh, and tapped the aquamarine pendant where it lay against her throat. The simple silver thread kindled, ramified. The aquamarine dissolved into a stillicide of gems. Daisy caught her breath.

“The old stories call this ‘Brisingamen’,” said Gwen, threading the jewels between her fingers. “Peinforte thought that Loki must have stashed it here on Midgard, back when he was exploring the soft points between the Nine Realms, long ago. The line that Asgard ever got the real one back was just smarmy Skaldic spin. Allfather alone knows exactly what it can do, but Peinforte wrote that it could disguise itself, and unmake simple charms at the wearer’s whim.” Gwen smiled. “Because Asgard is notoriously hazy about the difference between technology and magic, ‘simple charms’ includes ‘firearms’. I was hoping to use it to break Ward’s hold on you all, as well, but cyber-dust was too advanced for a pleb like me to counterspell.” Gwen tapped the necklace again. The image of the aquamarine pendant was restored. “Hence the resort to chin music instead.”

“That would have come in handy against the snipers,” said Daisy.

“Sorry about that. Peinforte warned that using the counterspell app outside a warded area would light you up in the Heimdallsight like a Christmas tree. I didn’t think that a double-parked rainbow bussing in a cadre of disgruntled Space Vikings was likely to improve the situation. Bear that in mind,” Gwen slipped the pendant from around her neck, and put it on the table, “when you’re looking after it.”

Coulson raised his eyebrows. “You’re giving Brisingamen to us?”

“I like my Rhys’ jewellery a lot more, anyway.” Gwen took the original pendant from her pocket, and fastened it back around her neck. “It’s not as though I’d be able to stop you taking it. I have quick fists, unreliable magitech, and a way with people. S.H.I.E.L.D. has quinjets, kung-fu, and bespoke earthquakes. Ward made a fair point, you know. I’m not really much to write home about without my secrets and my tricks. And the Caves are compromised, now. I’d have to work out somewhere else to stash it.” Gwen smiled again. “You’re still the smartest man in the room, Phil Coulson. And you’re a shoo-in for Sir Bedivere. The man who always does the right thing with the tech – eventually.”

“First made and latest left of all the knights<\/i>,” Coulson said, smiling faintly. “I’m not that ancient, Gwen.”

“We had some good times in the old days, though, didn’t we? When we lifted the Dolorous Font from the Court of Miracles.”

“Yes. We did.”

There was a knock at the door.

That’ll be the pick-up.” Coulson stood, and slipped Brisingamen into his pocket. “I’ll fetch May.” Gwen rose and pulled him into a hug. “Look after yourself, Gwen. Remember that you have friends, as well as angles.”

“Keep safe, Phil.” She looked over his shoulder at Daisy. “You take care of him, you hear? Or you’ll answer to me.”

“I am actually, legitimately, a little scared of that,” said Daisy. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye. And give my very best to May. I know that she doesn’t like goodbyes.”

Gwen watched as another from S.H.I.E.L.D.’s apparently infinite supply of black SUVS (they really did just have to rub it in) carried Coulson, May, and Daisy out of her drive. Her ’phone rang; she snapped it open.

“Rex? REX?! Bloody hell, it’s good to hear your voice. How long have you been… um… up? Please tell me that you haven’t psychologically scarred another trauma team.” The SUV turned out into the lane. “What? Oh, I’ve just been catching up with some old friends. Good people; you’d like them. Of course, this is you we’re talking about, so maybe not. Listen: Jack found out some more while he was chasing a lead at Knowhere.”

The SUV purred out of sight.

“He says, ‘Four in play; two to go.’”


Epilogue.<\/u>

For a long time, after her return, there was no movement in the room. Below, blood and chalk lazily commingled. Above, the Anomaly Rue mulled the candlelight.

The candle-flames bobbed as a door opened, closed. Footfalls sounded across the room. A shadow fell across the woman lying in the pentagram. A gloved hand reached out for what was cradled in her arms.

“No,” said Gwen. She looked up at the tall figure standing above her, and hugged her burden closer to her chest. “Not yet. First, we seal the deal.”

“Very well.”

“Do you forgive all lien and obligation on my child?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear this by Agamotto, by Hoggoth, and by Oshtur?”

“I do.”

“Do you swear this by the Book, by the Orb, by the Eye…” Gwen’s body was wracked by gasps; more blood joined the chalk. She gritted her teeth. “ …by the Eye, and by the office that you hold?”

“You have done your homework this time, haven’t you? I do.”

“Then it’s yours.” Gwen relaxed her grip upon what she was holding. Gloved hands took custody of it, and removed it to a desk. Gwen drew a few shuddering breaths, slammed a hand against the floorboards, and forced herself to sit upright.

“You have questions, I think.”

“Yes.” Gwen moistened her cracked lips. “But not if their answers mean another deal.”

“How prudent. But do not distress yourself on that score. Consider the answers a tip, in acknowledgment of services well-rendered.”

“OK. William Blake. One of your mob, was he?”

“Oh yes. An adept of the highest order. We shared a tailor. Why do you ask?”

“There’s an old joke about ‘Jerusalem’. The right answer to everything in the first verse is ‘No’. The right answer to everything in the second is ‘Fetch it yourself’. You’re supposed to be the Mast…” Gwen winced, and composed herself again. “… You’re supposed to be the Master of the Mystic Arts. You wanted what I brought you. So my first question is ‘Why didn’t you fetch it yourself?’”

“Because They would have seen me coming. They were amply defended against the likes of me. Abjurations. Counterspells. The whole apotropaic jamboree. A mundane Welshwoman with a certain low cunning and a gift for knives wasn’t exactly something They expected.”

“I see.” Gwen rested her arms on her knees. “Question two. You never really cared about Anwen’s tears, did you?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“Then why didn’t you just ask me to run this errand when I came the first time, looking for a way to bury the Miracle?”

“Because you wouldn’t have won<\/i>, then. You were insufficiently motivated.”

“‘Insufficiently motivated’,” Gwen repeated. “The world was at stake.”

“The world so often is. People tell me glibly that they’d do ‘anything’. It’s usually true. But most people have to work up to ‘anything’ by slow degrees, like an athlete leaning into a stretch. It’s the same for you, Gwen. You never think that far ahead. You’d sell your child to save the world; and then you’d burn Creation to save your child.”

“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?”

“I’m in good company. Torchwood churns Hells like credit cards, always one desperate deal ahead of damnation. But thank you, Gwen.” He gestured towards the blackened book on the desk. “The Darkhold will be invaluable, in the trials to come.”

“Trials to come?”

“Rest here for a while, Gwen Cooper. Recover your strength. When you leave, do convey my best regards to Captain Harkness. We all have a stake in what he’s chasing.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. The Tesseract and the Mind Gem are already on the board. The others will surely follow. Two in play; four to go. It will bode ill for Captain Harkness, and for us all,” Strange rose, and walked towards the door, “if anyone else works out who the Time Gem is.”

FINIS


<\/a><\/xml:namespace><\/xml:namespace><\/xml:namespace>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:34200","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/34200.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=34200"}}],"title":"Fic: Dreams to Sell (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Torchwood, PG-13) (1\/2)","published":"2016-01-16T20:54:31Z","updated":"2016-08-15T20:52:08Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: Dreams to Sell (Part One - Prologue and Chapters 1-4).
Author: Prochytes.
Fandoms: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Torchwood
Rating: PG-13. Angst, dark themes, and violence.
Characters\/Pairing: Gwen Cooper (Torchwood<\/i>); Phil Coulson, Daisy Johnson, Melinda May, Grant Ward ( Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.<\/i>).
Disclaimer: Marvel and the Beeb own the goodies.
Summary: Long ago, an 0-8-4 was cached in the Home Counties. Several parties are interested in securing it. The custodian is very Welsh, and not constrained by a strict regard for the truth. But it’s always possible to make a deal.
Word Count: 12206.
A\/N: Spoilers for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> to 2x22 “S.O.S.” and Torchwood<\/i> to 4x11: “The Blood Line”. Title and chapter-headings are from “Dream-Pedlary”, by Thomas Lovell Beddoes. Coulson at one point quotes Tennyson, “The Passing of Arthur” 2.





Prologue.<\/u>

The candle was almost spent when she returned.

The room presented an oppressive aspect, even to the long-departed day. Now, it hugged its opulence close in the candlelight. The wan glow gathered the Chesterfield sofa, the Lalique chairs, into conclave around the empty pentagram chalked upon the floor, and the crabbed Enochian script that surrounded it.

Then, the pentagram was no longer empty.

The air was slashed by a thin, sharp whine, as though of a small animal in unrelenting pain. This is the scream of sundered shadow, of a realm that cringes at its violation. The candle guttered once, twice. It composed itself again in stillness. The shriek of shadow ceased. The only sound that remained to trouble the candlelight was the rasping breath of the woman in the pentagram.

She lay on her side, with her knees close to her chest. Her clothes, scarlet under sable, grasped at the wounds upon her arms, her flanks, her thighs. Blood crept forth to incarnadine the chalk. Her hands were fixed upon the burden that she held against her breasts. Her eyes, unblinking, were fixed on nothing.

Time passed. Outside, car alarms berated the Manhattan night. No one listened.



1. A Cottage Lone and Still.<\/u>

The Pembrokeshire coast, where moments of calm have to be filched from the wind and rain, presents certain obstacles to drying laundry. The white blouses, passive on the washing-line only five minutes before, shivered now at the intimations of a gale.

The woman in the garden looked at the fidgety garments, frowned, and reached into her basket for more pegs. The pegs of the Twenty-First Century were squat, unlovely things, whorled like a motorway junction, or a half-arsed sigil. She missed the wooden crocodile ones of the Eighties. We all become unwilling time-travellers, if we live long enough.

One of the sheets, flapping more urgently as the gale approached, betrayed a blemish. Must remember to dab some Vanish on that. The sea-gulls were acting up more than usual.

Gwen Cooper pursed her lips and reached into a different basket. She fished out a somewhat threadbare pair of scarlet knickers, which she affixed with deliberation beside the blouses. Then, with a single swift movement, she pulled the pegs off the flapping sheet, stepping aside as the wind carried it past her body, and used the momentum from the step to plant a backwards kick on the short biped with (now) a face-full of sheet that had been creeping up behind her.

Gwen felt the kick connect, and heard a gasp. She dove for the gun in the big laundry basket by the bushes (closer than the back-up piece strapped below the picnic table, the back-up back-up piece beneath a loose tile on the path, or the rifle inside the tree), not looking back to admire her handiwork. Anything that could circumvent the perimeter safeguards needed putting down quickly. Gwen ran feverishly through the Rogues’ Gallery in her head. It was about the size of Tate Modern, and, like Tate Modern, many of its exhibits were oddly shaped. At least the sheet and the surprise attack had bought her some tim…

Her opponent’s kick landed just as Gwen grasped the gun, which skittered away across the parquet in consequence. Jesus, that was fast - faster than me (Androgum<\/del>, Sontaran<\/del>). But not much faster, or I’d already be dead (Raston Warrior Robot<\/del>, Weeping Angel<\/del>).

Gwen snarled and turned, hurling a hopeful hook into the space where her assailant should have been. A dark blur ducked beneath her swing, and delivered an upper-cut to her chin in return. Gwen staggered backwards. Fast and strong (form-locked Skrull<\/del>). But I’m still… conscious (keep it together, Gwen love; don’t pass out). So not that<\/i> strong (Asgardian<\/del>, Kree<\/del>). In fact, none of the output, when you got down to it, had been outside peak human parameters, which meant that Gwen’s opponent could easily be….

Oh.

Oh. Shit.

Gwen took a breath and focussed, knowing what she would see in front of her: a wiry, middle-aged woman in a black form-fitting outfit. She sighed.

“Hello, May.”

Melinda May looked impassive, which could hardly have been a stretch. She stood still in what Gwen recognized as one of her favourite guard stances, economical, but ready to unleash grief from a thousand angles. She did not speak. Never much of a talker, May, even before... well. Gwen sighed again, and ploughed on:

“So…. that ‘from the ashes’ routine I’ve been hearing whispers about was bollocks, then? All snakes in the end, even the little spider, even you. And now you’re cleaning house, hitting everywhere at once. Is Kate Stewart sitting in her Tower with an arrow through her eye, May? Did they send Natasha after the kids in Ealing? Everybody knows what happened to Drakov’s daughter. Like they used to say in the old days: ‘The Black Widow speaks fourteen languages, and can’t say “unacceptable targets” in any of them.’”

Silence. May was strong for her size; Gwen’s chin was a convincing witness to that. She was ungodly fast. But she didn’t have a lot of mass to play with. May liked surprise attacks, or capitalizing on an opponent’s opening move. Can’t afford to give her that.

“My gun’s over there.” Gwen nodded in the direction of the parquet. “I doubt that you’ve brought one of your own. You always did prefer to take other people’s. If you’re planning to kill me, May, you’ll have to do most of the work with your hands. Like in Bahrain.”

Oh yes. Make her angry. Gwen desperately blocked and feinted as the blizzard of punches and kicks swept in. Tactical bloody genius, that’s me.

Gwen landed some solid blows, but the balance of trade was not in her favour. The world began to stutter and jump, like an old home movie. Won’t win the fight like this. She can pummel me from any direction she likes. Can’t take much more…

Gwen spat out blood, and hissed: “My location. There came a Wind like a Bugle.<\/i>”

The bubble of purple force that sprang up around them unsighted May enough for Gwen to unload a hard right cross on her cheek. May stumbled back against the enveloping purple, but did not fall. She eyed the porphyry curtain, and, to Gwen’s surprise, spoke.

“Force-field containment. Vocal trigger.”

“Yes. You’re too slippery to catch by yourself, alas.”

“I thought that I knew all your Torchwood tricks.”

“Oh, like Walkers Crisps, we are. Try to throw in a new flavour every now and again so that things stay fresh.” Keep her talking. I have more to gain from the respite than she does. “I hope that a good American appreciates the reference; I needed to look it up. Bit of a Torchwood tradition. We had an operative who liked contingency plans and Dickinson.”

“Friend of Harkness?”

“He killed her twice. I suppose you could consider that a mark of affection.”

“You made this a cage fight.” May was still scrutinizing the bubble. “Took my manoeuvrability out of the equation. Clever.”

“I thought so,” said Gwen, and readied her guard as May moved in. A bruising ninety seconds later, she reeled back as far as she could, gasping.

“Clever,” May resumed, “but not enough. We’ve done this before, Gwen. Remember Paris? It’ll take a while. You’ll get some good shots in.” She wiped blood from her split lip. “But you’ll lose.”

Gwen winced and wearily raised her fists once more. “Let’s see if I can improve on my high score.”

“No need.” May lowered her hands and, in the most unnerving development that Gwen had experienced in at least six months, smiled a brief, wintry smile. “I’ve seen what I needed to see.”

“What? Oh bloody hell….” Gwen’s shoulders slumped. “This wasn’t a hit at all, was it?”

May smiled again. It did not get any less disconcerting the second time.

“This was one of your sodding security tests.” Gwen rolled her eyes. “Did I pass, then?”

“There was a time when you would have made me forty metres out instead of twenty. You’re still paranoid and conceited. You still hit like a hick,” May examined the red on her fingers, “although the hick’s in a truck. But you’re still devious, and still Torchwood.”

“There are easier ways to find that sort of thing out than trying to kick someone’s arse, you know.”

“‘Trying.’ You’re sweet.”

“I shouldn’t have brought up Bahrain. That was uncalled for.”

“You used the resources at your disposal. You always do. It didn’t work. You can’t get inside my head, Gwen. That’s why you can’t beat me.”

“If this isn’t a hit, then what do you want?”

“The Director would like to consult with you on a matter of mutual interest.”

“He would, would he? Well, you can tell Fury from me to stick it right up his…”

“The Director said, ‘Once she starts swearing, tell her this. “Fay ce que voudras”.’”

Gwen stopped short. “He said that, did he? Exactly that?”

“He did.”

“Take me to him.”

“I will. Once you drop this force-field. If you can<\/i> drop this force-field. As I recall, Torchwood doesn’t have a great track-record of understanding its own tech.”

Gwen scowled. “How much can come and much can go, and yet abide the World.<\/i>”

The bubble disappeared.

“Ain’t that the truth,” said May.


2. The Crier Rang the Bell.<\/u>

“Ooh…. Let’s go mad. I’ll have the triple-cooked chips as well. You only live once, eh?”

“Right you are, Yvonne.” The burly man in a t-shirt repossessed the laminated menus. “How are you keeping?”

“Not so bad, Ron. The firm’s got me gadding up and down the length of the country as usual, though.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

“That’s right. How’s your youngest? Did she get the grades for Newcastle?”

Ron beamed. “Starts in September.”

“Fantastic! I’m thrilled for her. But where are my manners? These are my friends, Grace and Bob Andrews.”

Ron smiled at the handsome, middle-aged couple sitting next to Yvonne. Bob was wearing a nice suit. Grace, for whatever reason, was dressed like Diana Rigg in The Avengers<\/i>.

“They’re accountants from the States,” Yvonne continued. “Eyes met across a spread-sheet – very romantic.”

“Wasn’t it just?” murmured Grace, squeezing Bob’s hand affectionately.

“Grace and I got to know each other at a kick-boxing class. Just had a match, in fact. It was pretty brutal.”

“Ah. I was wondering why you looked so banged-up, Yvonne.”

“You should see us in action, Ron. Proper Charlie’s Angels, aren’t we, Grace?”

Grace smiled winningly in reply.

“Their young cousins are outside, getting a breath of fresh air. Is the order OK?”

“All up here, Yvonne.” Ron tapped his forehead. “Still like a steel trap, after all these years. Shall I bring the dessert menu later?”

“You know me too well, Ron,” said Gwen, as the big man bustled off. “You know me too well.”

“When May told me that you wanted to rendez-vous<\/i> at The Crown<\/i>, Gwen,” Phil Coulson moved his cuffs away from a small mere of suspicious-looking sauce on the table-top, “a tiny, irrational part of me hoped that that was the name of a Torchwood installation, and not a pub.”

“Not just a pub. Best little Beefeater Grill in Buckinghamshire. Don’t tell me you’ve gone all la-di-da since you made Director, Phil. Congratulations on your elevation, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“Although rising up the greasy pole must be small beer after rising from the grave. You and Jack need to knock that off, you know. It’s not a competition.”

“Where is Jack, by the way?”

“Oh, nowhere special. Off-world. Has been for a while. There’s a situation developing that needs our attention.”

“Well, be sure and tell him I said ‘hi’.”

“I will.” Gwen looked at Phil over the rim of her Coke. May’s eyes were still darting across the room. “You knew about my safe house. And you know about ‘Fay ce que voudras’, too. I’m curious as to how you found that out.”

He shrugged. “S.H.I.E.L.D. knows stuff. The ‘E’ used to stand for ‘Espionage’, after all.”

“S.H.I.E.L.D. never had that much hard intel about Torchwood. Toshiko made very sure of that. Tuesday afternoons were slow at the Hub, and she preferred hacking you lot to watching Diagnosis: Murder<\/i> with the rest of us. You and May only know us because you met us.”

Coulson smiled blandly. “Maybe my new team is just that good.”

“Maybe.” Gwen rested her elbows on the table. “Or maybe Fury gave you the Toolbox.”

Coulson’s smile did not change.

“The crown jewels gathered by the king of spies. Jack always suspected that Fury knew more than he was letting on, even to the rest of you. I wouldn’t be surprised if he knew about the Friars of St. Francis, and something about what they hid. If, as you claim, that information has spread any further, you have a problem.”

“We do indeed.”

“And you need my help to secure it, because of the body-print.” Gwen drained what remained of her Coke. “There is, of course, an elephant in the distressingly Seventies-wallpapered room.”

May’s gaze returned from the middle distance to focus on Gwen’s face.

“You lot gutted us, Phil. When the 456 came, S.H.I.E.L.D. descended on the Hub like UNIT and the other vultures. You were all so busy squabbling over our corpse that none of you really seemed to be giving a shit about the alien junkies tithing children.”

“No one knew how to deal with the 456, back then.” Coulson leaned forward to look Gwen in the eyes. “Stark was still a drunken playboy. We didn’t have a Prince of Asgard batting on our team. That didn’t remove the need to secure your Hub. You were three people, Gwen, sitting on half-understood tech that could kill everyone on this planet except your line-manager. It’s blind luck that you weren’t taken out before.”

“You’re probably right. That’s why I forgave UNIT years ago. But UNIT didn’t reverse–engineer the Slitheen badges that Ianto had stashed in Sub-Basement 3 and use them to fry the World Security Council. S.H.I.E.L.D. took our tech and handed it to Nazis. You’ll understand why I have trouble getting past that.”

“I don’t think I’ll ever get past that, Gwen. Neither will May.”

May nodded.

“You were supposed to be the shield, Phil.”

“If it was alien, it was supposed to be yours.” Phil reached across to refill Gwen’s glass of water. “None of us can claim to be what we were meant to be anymore. Doesn’t mean we get to stand down now.”

Gwen sat silent for a moment, and slowly nodded. “OK. I’m in.”

“Thank you.”

“What happened to your hand, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Line of duty. Touched something I shouldn’t have.”

“Sorry to hear it. Is that the rest of your team?”

Coulson followed Gwen’s gaze to the door. “Yes. That’s them.”

“The Babes in the Wood.” Gwen took a slurp of water. “I think that I mean that in several senses.”

“Daisy was the last Agent sworn in before old S.H.I.E.L.D. fell. Grant Ward is a very long and complicated story indeed.”

“I’ll look forward to hearing it.”

Daisy was a startlingly good-looking twenty-something woman with short brown hair. She wore the same kind of cat-suit as May, because female S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives had seemingly forgotten how not to dress like ninjas. Daisy had a wide smile, a firm handshake, and eyes that flickered briefly over Gwen as Coulson made introductions (shoulders, arms, wrists, legs; height, weight, reach, dominant hand) in a way that quashed any doubt that The Cavalry had found herself a squire. Ward looked like the sort of bloke who delivered boxes of chocolates to inaccessible locations. Like May, he seemed to be sweeping the restaurant for bandits among the cruets.

"Gwen is Torchwood," said Coulson, after Ron had dropped off the steaming plates and dessert menus.

"Uh-huh," said Daisy, with an onion ring halfway to her mouth. She ate like someone who hadn't always known where her next meal was coming from. "Cliff Notes on that for the newbie?"

Coulson laid down his fork. "Any agency that lasts long enough radiates its spectrum of unlikely stories. That in the Seventies, or possibly the Eighties, the Chief Scientific Advisor to UNIT was an alien."

"That Steve Rogers wasn't killed at the end of World War Two," Gwen chipped in, chasing peas around her plate, "but frozen solid in a glacier instead. An unholy mix of the King Beneath the Hill and the reason why Mum's gone to Iceland."

"That towards the close of the Nineteenth Century," Coulson continued, "an unavowed agency outside Her Majesty's Government recruited an Enhanced by the name of Jack Harkness, a man who couldn't permanently die. Tall tales," he wiped his mouth with a napkin, "which have a habit of being true."

"This immortal," Daisy looked thoughtful, "where is he now?"

"Nowhere special." Gwen speared her final pea. "Jack recruited me."

"Are you the same? Immortal?"

"I'm just like Jack, now."

"She's lying." Coulson folded his napkin. "You'll get used to that. Torchwood learnt their play-book from their quarry, long ago. Which means that the first rule, and the most important, is this: 'Torchwood lies.'"

"Guilty as charged. But Torchwood does have another immortal." Gwen's hands, for a moment, were very still. "Do you remember the Miracle, Phil?"

"That was a mess. We'll have to look into it some day."

Gwen cleared her throat. "Well, at the end of it, Jack got a little bit contagious. The man in question now has sympathetic immortality. He's... out of the picture at the moment, though." She bent her head back over her steak. "You're stuck with me."

"How did you meet these people, sir?" Ward had barely touched his food.

"May and I would occasionally run into Gwen and Jack and their associates on missions. Sometimes we were all chasing the same thing. That could get pretty wild." Coulson chuckled. "Like in Paris."

"Oh, will you people give it a rest about bloody Paris."

"You're just peeved because you missed the sword-fight."

"May and I were a bit preoccupied beating each other up while locked in a pantry."

"Who won?" asked Daisy.

"Take a wild guess," said May.

"May landed a TKO in about round five. Lucky punch." May raised an eyebrow. "OK - maybe a dozen lucky punches. By the time she dragged me out, it was all over bar the shouting, and Retconning most of the French court."

"Did we mention that there was time-travel?" Coulson smiled fondly. "There was time-travel."

"To this day, I haven't worked out how you persuaded Jack to give up the package to you so easily, Phil."

"A gentleman never tells. Good days. But long gone."

"Yes. Like I said, you're stuck with me. Just me."

"Just you?" Coulson's brow furrowed. "May told me that she found you alone in your garden, Gwen. She also said that, since she took in your 'phone and guns..."

"Bloody ridiculous precautions. You called me<\/i> paranoid."

"... you haven't tried to contact anyone." Coulson scratched his head. "What about your family, Gwen? What about Rhys?"

"He left me." Gwen's eyes dropped to the dessert menu. "I think that we'd better talk about where we're going."


3. Merry and Sad to Tell.<\/u>

"At about the time of the Civil War - the English one, not yours - there lived an individual named Lady Peinforte. 'Lady', to my mind, is pushing it; she was a piece of work. Peinforte was a nasty woman, nowhere near as clever as she thought she was, but with a vein of street-fighter's cunning, and a nose for secrets. She also practised black magic."

"Magic?" Daisy's nose wrinkled. "I thought that was an Asgard thing."

"It is. But there are other ways to do it. The reality cheat-codes of the Carrionites, for example. Or, if you know what you're doing, you can travel else-wise, to the Halls of the Howling, to the Outer Dark. The lurkers there - Fenric, Cyttorak, the Toymaker, the Trinity of Ashes - are more ideas than anything alive. Old books call them the Principalities. They'll trade you power, if you're ready to make a deal." Gwen was silent for a moment. She beckoned across the room. "You could call that ‘magic’."

"So, that was what Peinforte did?" Ward asked, after Ron had trotted off in the direction of the kitchen with Gwen's order of ice-cream. "She made a deal?"

"Yes. It probably consumed her, in the end. She disappeared in 1638. No one's altogether sure what happened. UNIT knows something about that, but they're not talking.

"Anyway, Peinforte, like I said, had a nose for secrets. Among the secrets she ferreted out was a relic of Asgard - stashed away on Earth and abandoned, long ago. After her disappearance, the relic passed through the possession of several interested parties. Then the Friars of St. Francis of Wycombe got their hands on it. That, believe me, was never a good thing.

"The Friars cached the relic with all their other treasures, in the Medmenham Caves. A place of ancient lore and hidden peril, near Henley-on-Thames. That last bit always sounds better in my head.

"Jack and I secured the Caves for Torchwood several years ago. The Friars of St. Francis are long gone. They left some security measures behind, but those didn't cause us any problems. We confiscated..."

"... stole..." Coulson murmured, sotto voce<\/i>.

"... confiscated almost all the trove, but we left the thing of Asgard where it was."

"Why was that?" asked Daisy.

"Asgardian tech can be a bit toffee-nosed. Takes its ball home unless it thinks you're worthy. It's like being judged by your ironing-board. Typically better left unprodded. Jack and I put a body-print lock and some other protections on its chamber, to keep it safe, and buggered off for a curry in Marlow. Madras, as I recall."

"And this weapon of Asgard," Ward had pushed his plate to one side, "what is it?"

"I have no idea. Jack went into the chamber alone. You can't be too careful, on a job like that; I think that he was afraid it would melt my face off. The end of Raiders of the Lost Ark<\/i> is practically a public information film for this line of work. Jack told me afterwards that the room itself had been completely safe. He wouldn't spill about the artefact. You know what a bloody tease he can be, Phil. I quizzed him over the poppadoms, to no avail."

Conversation lapsed while Ron brought out Gwen's sundae, chatted with her about the away form of Wycombe Wanderers, and withdrew.

"Sure I can't tempt any of you to dessert?" Gwen asked, her spoon poised over the ice-cream.

"We're on the clock," said May.

"I eat fast." Gwen wiped her mouth. "And you people could do with stopping to smell the roses."

"It's not our way," said Coulson.

"Maybe it should be. I know the Carter Doctrine..."

"'Remove yourself from the world you want to save.'"

Gwen nodded. "Unhealthy, to my way of thinking. I'm not sure even Peggy Carter herself was really convinced by it. You start to drift away from what matters." She smiled in the direction of the kitchen. "Away from people like Ron."

"Perhaps," Coulson folded his hands, "Yvonne."

Gwen flushed.

"As a matter of interest, who does Ron think you are?"

"Yvonne Pallister, from Swansea. Thirty-eight next October; worries about her cellulite. Travels around the country demonstrating software to archivists. Married to Brian; two daughters, Becky and Rhiannon. Becks is having trouble getting over Zayn's departure from One Direction." Gwen stabbed at the sundae with her spoon. "Point taken."

Coulson nodded.

"What's changed, Phil? I imagine you've had the Toolbox for a while. The Caves aren't going anywhere. What's the new threat?"

"We have compelling intel that the sites of the major 0-8-4s in Southern England have recently been compromised. I'm sanguine about security at the Black Archive..."

Gwen snorted. "I'm not. I could spin you stories about Zygons that would stand your hair on end..."

"... And even my current resources can't tell me where Torchwood is stockpiling most of the items you've plundered or recovered since the 456. Probably not in this country. Possibly not even in this dimension."

Gwen smiled into the remnants of her sundae.

"So, the Medmenham 0-8-4 is one of the most significant left in the wild, Torchwood security precautions notwithstanding. If it's Asgardian, it could be trouble. I'd be easier in my mind if you helped us check it out."

"Fair enough. It isn't too far from here. May's car will be a squeeze for the five of us. I take it that you and the young people here brought an SUV? I really miss swanking around in one of those."

"We did."

"If you're very good," said May, "we'll spray big 'T's on it, to make it more covert."

"I hate you so much," said Gwen.


4. Ghosts to Raise.<\/u>

An SUV was, indeed, waiting in The Crown’s<\/i> concrete forecourt beside May’s car. It was very black and moderately glossy. The Americans gathered for a confab a short distance away from Gwen; even the most seasoned Agents of S.H.I.E L.D. apparently got their Famous Five<\/i> on when it came to deciding who sat where in a convoy. In the end, May and Ward, the latter talking into his ear, peeled off to take the car. Coulson drove Daisy and Gwen in the SUV.

Grotty weather had tailed Gwen from the Welsh coast. Gusts rolled rain against the windscreen of the SUV like a worn-out craps player chasing a seven. Daisy stared out of the window as the less distinguished cuts of Buckinghamshire dampened around them.

“It’s very… green,” she offered, after a while.

“I appreciate the politeness, love, but you needn’t worry.” Gwen rearranged herself in her seat, trying to stop the belt from digging into the bruises from her brawl with May. “I don’t own the country. Jack claims that there’s a clause in our Charter by which Torchwood could take possession, but that requires the entire Royal Family to be abducted by aliens, and it’s more than likely that he was just taking the piss.” She glanced at the hand that Daisy was resting next to her. “You’ve barked your knuckles on something.”

Daisy frowned, and stretched out her fingers. “So I have. Wonder how that happened?”

“I’ll give it a dab. I’ve got some wipes. Hold it out.” Gwen laid her hand on Daisy’s wrist as she rummaged in a pocket.

“You said in The Crown<\/i> that you knew two immortals. Where’s the other one?”

“Hors de combat<\/i>, at the moment. He took a blow to the back of the head from a blunt implement.”

“A blackjack?”

“A helicarrier. Rex was in your Triskelion when it went down. He’d become suspicious about S.H.I.E.L.D. policy in the run-up to Project Insight and snuck in for a gander. That’s what we get for trying to clean up your shit.”

Daisy coloured, and tensed her hand. Gwen winced. “Sorry. That was bitchy, and undeserved. I just don’t like to think of him, down there in the dark, staying dead because of all the tons of concrete above him. He’ll be back, eventually. They’re clearing the site. On Earth, Rex is just as unkillable now as Jack. Once someone rolls away the right stone, he’ll step forth like an Aldi Jesus. But until then… it gets to me, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault, Daisy.” Gwen finished her ministrations with the wipes. “Definitely not your fault. How long had you been a full Agent when old S.H.I.E.L.D. fell?”

“About six hours.”

“And what about Mr. Ward?”

“Grant Ward is a very long and complicated story indeed.”

“I’m sure.”

Daisy reached out to touch Gwen’s hand again as she began to pack the wipes away. “You still wear your wedding ring.”

“It’s a prop. Yvonne Pallister is happily married, remember. Most of my covers are.”

Daisy cocked her head on one side. “Is that the only reason?”

Gwen looked into the young American’s quizzical face, and sighed. “No. It’s not. Otherwise I wouldn’t hang on to this, as well.” She pulled at a silver chain around her neck, and fished out a small, polished piece of aquamarine at its nadir.

“That’s pretty,” said Daisy.

“Isn’t it just?” Gwen dangled the chain between her fingers. “Rhys bought it for me in Blackpool. God alone knows where. It’s pound-shops there as far as the eye can see, these days, if you’re close to the seafront. He gave this to me on the big broad spot in front of the Tower, where you walk over the words of limp jokes and the names of comics everyone’s forgotten, and the wind hits you like a double of good Scotch. I felt like I could die right there, knowing it was the end to a life in which I’d been that happy.” Gwen bit her lip, and slipped the aquamarine back under her top. “Dying at the time you should is a knack that Torchwood never really had.”

She leaned forward and tapped Coulson on the shoulder. “We turn off here.”

The SUV eventually drew up in a clearing, amid a grove of evergreen trees. To the north, the land rose sharply. A passage-way, barred by a metal gate, delved into the base of the hill. Carved above the passage-way was the legend FAY CE QUE VOUDRAS. Gwen got out, and eyed it thoughtfully.

“It’s quiet,” said Coulson, as he came to stand beside her, locking the SUV after Daisy had followed suit. “I thought that the Medmenham Caves were a tourist attraction.”

“The fake ones are.” Gwen continued to scan the door. “Those are miles away. The Friars of St. Francis were pretty clever. They knew that dark rumours would start to swirl around them. So they cultivated a reputation for more pedestrian sins – essentially, for lots and lots of sex – and made people think that the dirty went down somewhere else. Hid their business with ablative smut. Torchwood could have taken lessons.”

“The Friars of St. Francis don’t sound like they were all that godly,” said Daisy.

“That was just their name for themselves.” Gwen scratched her head. “Most people prefer to call them the Hellfire Club. I’m a little concerned about the quality of your intel, Phil. This place really doesn’t look as though it’s been disturbed since the last time I was here.”

Coulson frowned. “How does Torchwood guarantee the site’s security?”

“It’s private land, for a start. This is one case where Torchwood really does own the place. No one for miles around has any reason to come. The front door isn’t a full body-print, but it’s still secured by biometrics.” Gwen pushed her thumb against a spot on the gate, and brought her eye down to meet a beam of light that shone out just above it in response. There was a click; the gate swung open. “See?”

Coulson’s lips tightened. “We still need to check it out.”

“Agreed.” Gwen looked around. “Did you bring lights, Mr. Ward?”

Ward tossed her a torch. “Standard S.H.I.E.L.D. issue.”

“Good man.” Gwen trained the torch on the opening. “Follow me.”

Small chambers, in succession, yielded up their vacancy to the lamplight. Daisy shivered.

“You said that the Friars left their own security precautions behind. Should we be worried about those?”

“Hmm? Oh – Jack and I got all the way to the centre last time, with no problems. I really don’t think that you need to fret.”

Hello, Twice-Sworn One<\/i>, said a voice from the dark.

Gwen swallowed. “Of course, I have been wrong before.”

<\/a><\/xml:namespace><\/xml:namespace>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:33968","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/33968.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=33968"}}],"title":"Fic: True Colours (The Flash, PG-13)","published":"2015-12-08T23:06:45Z","updated":"2015-12-11T14:57:58Z","category":{"@attributes":{"term":"flash"}},"content":"Title: True Colours.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: The Flash (2014).
Rating: PG-13. Angst.
Characters\/Pairing: Doctor Light\/Linda Park.
Disclaimer: Both these Earths are the property of DC. Not for profit.
Summary: What prism would you need to crack perfect Linda Park, and spill out all her bright, betraying colours?
Word Count: 508.
A\/N: Spoilers for The Flash<\/i> to 2x06: “Enter Zoom”. Written for consci_fan_mo in 2015.



Coast City is a noisy town, losing a raucous argument with the sea. In the ramshackle houses by the bay, the boom of the surf can swallow voices whole. Which would be a problem, if Light were here to talk.

Linda Park already gleams with sweat. Light’s hands move across Linda’s body, applying a safe-cracker’s minute, prescriptive grace. Linda shudders, fists clenched and eyes squeezed shut. She does not speak, and certainly does not swear. Linda Park – for all that studied machismo, and all those expeditions up the Scoville Scale – is a good girl. A good girl does not cuss, even when fucked until her brains leak out by her errant double from another Earth.

Linda Park, impregnable in her good girl virtue, whiter than white. But no one knows better than Doctor Light how easy it is to split a spectrum. What prism would you need to crack perfect Linda Park, and spill out all her bright, betraying colours?

A touch of the green-eyed monster – that would be nice. Iris is braver than you; hotter than you; twice the reporter you’ll ever be. Who was the one you needed to fight me off? No wonder The Flash wants to fuck her more than you.<\/i> (Yes: Light knows that little secret. It’s amazing how much dirt you can pick up when you’re transparent.) Light is fairly sure that Linda believes that Iris is the better version of herself, which is pretty fucking ironic from Light’s perspective.

And that, in turn, would make Linda Park see red. Maybe even throw a punch. They could go at it old-school, Starling City style. God, that would feel good. School the Earth-One bitch for her presumption, for being the one who gets to live in the candid, undoctored light, with printer ink on her hands instead of blood…

Light cannot see, and her powers are not to blame. Cool fingers touch her face, to wipe away the blinding tears. Linda is looking steadily at her now, not with forgiveness, exactly (there is, to be sure, so much to forgive between them), but with understanding.

She is not a good girl, after all. She is a good woman, who knows, Light realizes, what they share. Because what Linda Park has in common with Doctor Ligh…– no, no need for that, there had never, really, been any need for that – what Linda Park has in common with Linda Park, who lied and stole and ran down Seventh Street naked because she could and wore a silly costume and killed a man, is fear.

He has all the time in the world, and can cram it into the clown car of a second. She will take longer to die, when he snaps her neck, than he will take to stroll across from Central City and do it.

Linda Park shivers, as Linda Park strokes her hair, and holds her close. They close their ears against the sound of the surf, which could so easily mask a sonic boom, and their eyes against the moment of seeing blue.

FINIS<\/a><\/xml:namespace><\/xml:namespace><\/xml:namespace><\/xml:namespace>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:33664","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/33664.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=33664"}}],"title":"Fic: The Tailed Lodger (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Sherlock, PG-13)","published":"2015-10-16T08:21:34Z","updated":"2015-10-16T08:21:34Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"sherlock"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}}],"content":"Title: The Tailed Lodger.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Sherlock.
Rating: PG-13. Angst and violence.
Characters\/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes (Sherlock<\/i>); Melinda May (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D<\/i>).
Disclaimer: Not mine, any of it.
Summary: In Rome, a fallen detective crosses paths with a fallen secret agent. There follows a hunt for a king, and a whispered tiger.
Word Count: 5163.
A\/N: Spoilers for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> to 1x09 \u201cRepairs\u201d and Sherlock<\/i> to 3x01 \u201cThe Empty Hearse\u201d. This takes place between S2 and S3 of Sherlock<\/i>, but a long time pre-series for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> (thanks to the elasticity of Marvel Time). Deeply indebted, of course, to the Conan Doyle story \u201cThe Adventure of the Veiled Lodger\u201d; there are also spoilers for \u201cThe Adventure of Silver Blaze\u201d .




1. Roman Holiday.<\/u>

The stone seraphs of the Tiber know a good fence. They stand on Ponte Sant\u2019Angelo, in brazen possession of stolen goods. The lance, the sponge, the crown of thorns \u2013 all are present and correct in their marble grasp, flogged to them cheap, no doubt, by a bloke in a pub who swore blind that the swag had fallen off the back of a crucifixion. Cradled in their arms is every collectible from Calvary that wasn\u2019t nailed down. And the nails, as well.

For all the patent celestial larceny of the bridge, the adjoining area, around the base of Castel Sant\u2019Angelo, is the spot for anyone who wishes to study mankind, or to buy pseudonymous leather goods. To and fro the tourists trot, trailing clouds of glory and malfeasance (stock-broker; stamp-collector; adulterer<\/i>). A fit place, then, for a dead detective to keep in practice (journalist; loft-conversion; three dogs<\/i>), while contemplating the problem of The Sahara King, and the whispered Tiger (engineer; paint-baller; expectant mother<\/i>).

Beyond a doubt, there was a certain urgency to the problem (temp; gluten allergy; unemployed brother<\/i>). That, the exiguous data had made plain (??????<\/i>). Which rendered it all the more imperative that\u2026

Stop. Scroll back.

??????<\/i>

Hmmm.

??????<\/i>

A small woman of Asian ancestry, in early middle age, was walking quickly towards Via della Concilazione. She wore a trouser-suit and sensible shoes. Everything about her was punctiliously unremarkable. While he watched, she stopped for a moment, as if undecided. But then she resumed her swift course, and soon the crowds of the pious and the laden, Vatican-bound, hid from view the dullest woman he had ever seen with clothes on.

This left him with a choice to make. On the one hand, The Sahara King was a matter of international importance, on which the fate of continents blah blah blah. On the other, that vision of immaculate tedium was easily the most interesting thing he had seen in months. It wasn\u2019t even a choice, really. And flexitime was a signal advantage of any afterlife.

He loped in the direction where he had last spotted her.

***

He caught sight of her again as she was turning into Via della Traspontina. She headed north through Borgo, into Prati. Once there, she walked along Via Cola di Rienzo, before turning into a courtyard that opened onto that street. From the courtyard, he saw her climb the stairs to a door on the first floor. There she disappeared from sight, into what the signs around the courtyard made it clear was a rented apartment.

After an hour and a half, she came out again, enforcing a brief sojourn, on his part, behind a quantity of convenient verdure until she passed. He watched her re-emerge onto Via Cola di Rienzo, and vanish into a nearby late-opening department store. Time spent by the average consumer in a given visit to a department store is substantially in excess of that for a newsagent\u2019s or a chemist\u2019s. More than enough of a window, then, for a spot of house-breaking.

The front door was boring, and did not long detain him. The ingenuousness or parsimony of Roman landlords balked, apparently, at much investment in locks. He opened the door.

The seconds that followed were crowded and bothersome.

\u201cPhnnnghh,\u201d he said authoritatively, \u201cmnethempffh.\u201d The gravitas of this pronouncement was, in his view, a minor triumph, given the current challenges to elocution.

\u201cWhy are you tailing me?\u201d

\u201cFnear.\u201d

She sighed, and relented a little of the pressure from her left hand which was holding his face against the door. The pressure from her right, which was pinning his arm behind his back, showed no conspicuous inclination to follow suit. \u201cSpeak.\u201d

\u201cThank you.\u201d He cleared his throat. \u201cI should really have seen that coming. Into the department store and out again after, let\u2019s say, a count of a hundred, then parkour to this apartment\u2019s exterior balcony. Fair number of passers-by on Via Cola di Rienzo, even this late in the day, so you were taking a calculated risk of being seen, but, as you\u2019ve just demonstrated,\u201d he probed a tooth with his tongue to make sure that she hadn\u2019t punched it loose, \u201cyou enjoy considerable resources of agility and speed. I don\u2019t imagine that you found it much of a challenge to evade detection.\u201d

\u201cI should give you lessons, clearly.\u201d Her right hand shivered the promise of dislocation into his elbow. He was impressed. Controlled hyper-extension, like a good souffl\u00e9, demands a gossamer touch. \u201cAnswer the question.\u201d

\u201cI saw you outside Castel Sant\u2019Angelo. You were dull. Abundantly so. Extravagantly so.\u201d

There was a calculated stillness at his back. \u201cI\u2019m no one special.\u201d

\u201cWrong. You\u2019re no one. That\u2019s special. It\u2019s impossible to look that dull without putting work into it. You\u2019d filed the serial numbers off your soul. Which, to a man like me, suggests the question: what\u2019s behind that veil of mediocrity that you\u2019re scared of letting anybody see?\u201d

Continued stillness.

\u201cOf course, your decision to ambush me was a godsend\u2026\u201d

\u201cYeah.\u201d Even with the slackened pressure, the texture of the door was rough against his face. \"You\u2019ve got me exactly where you want me.\u201d

\u201c\u2026 because every weapon gives itself away in use. A gun. A knife. A shield.\u201d

Just the faintest, eloquent quiver in her grip. \u201cA shield\u2019s not a weapon.\u201d

\u201cDepends who\u2019s throwing it. How many different martial arts did you break out in our brawl just now? Six?\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s a scary world. And everyone needs a hobby.\u201d

\u201cA scary world makes people carry mace, or socks filled with coins. Six martial arts means that it\u2019s the world that should be scared.\u201d

A pause. \u201cYou know nothing about me.\u201d

\u201cDon\u2019t I? A spy, patently. You could scarcely be otherwise, with that knack for boredom punctuated by violence. But if you were on assignment, you\u2019d be planting tells rather than uprooting them. That\u2019s not a spy who\u2019s working. That\u2019s a spy who\u2019s hiding<\/i>.\u201d

Most people cannot maintain a consistent grip for any extended period, especially when they are distracted by a monologue. His interlocutor was not most people. His arm remained in a grip like steel, or one of those exotic alloys that had been seeping out of Wakanda lately on which he had once been tempted to write a blog post. He took a breath, and continued:

\u201cYou\u2019ve dropped off the grid. I\u2019d conjecture that that\u2019s the result of the botched mission about eight months ago in which you sustained the gun-shot wound to your leg. It\u2019s healed up well \u2013 congratulations on that \u2013 but the slight residual damage is more obvious when you\u2019re kicking than when you\u2019re walking. The failure of that mission, I would hypothesize, led to the self-medication with whisky, which, if you don\u2019t mind my saying, or even if you do, frankly, is getting just a little out of control. You still have enough self-respect to dispose of the empties, but the splatter patterns on the carpet are quite suggestive: three on the right side of the bed, two on the left, and four by the table. I\u2019d point them out to you, but, for some reason, I\u2019m having a bit of trouble moving my head at the moment.

\u201cSo, yes, drunk hiding burnt-out spy, I do know just a little bit about you now. If you\u2019re planning to kill me because of that, I think it only fair to warn you that I\u2019m dead already.\u201d

A steep moment of silence. Then, all the pressure on his head and arm was gone. He began to turn from the door in an unthreatening manner; realized that \u201cthreatening\u201d wasn\u2019t exactly within his ambit of possibility right now; and therefore completed the turn with expedition.

She was watching him with dark appraising eyes. John (indulging that displeasing turn towards astronomical imagery which his blogger had sometimes affected just to be annoying ever since that business with the Van Buren supernova and the fake Vermeer) might have said that she looked like Mercury. She was small; she was remote; and he had had exactly zero success in landing anything useful on her.

Almost a minute passed before she spoke again.

\u201cYou\u2019re from London,\u201d she said. \u201cYou could have picked up your Western boxing moves anywhere. But, these days, they only teach that lame-assed florid Jiu-Jitsu variant\u2026\u201d

\u201cActually, Baritsu has a long and disting\u2026.\u201d

\u201c\u2026 in London.\u201d Another contemplative silence. \u201cYou noticed every detail of this room, while I was kicking your ass. Word is that there have only ever been two men on Earth with a brain like that, and the Ice Man doesn\u2019t often travel.\u201d

\u201cCertainly not. In this climate, there\u2019d be nothing left but a carrot and a puddle.\u201d

\u201cAnd so the field narrows to one.\u201d She looked him up and down again. \u201cYou\u2019re a long way from Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.\u201d

2. The Lady, or the Tiger?<\/u>

\u201cThey say you threw yourself off a hospital roof in London,\u201d she continued.

\u201c\u2018They\u2019 say a lot of things.\u201d

\u201cThey say you did it because you were a fraud.\u201d

Her eyes were searching out whether that had stung. He shrugged. \u201cRinse; repeat.\u201d

\u201cMy agency followed the chatter about you. You were a dick.\u201d

\u201cDetective, actually. The world\u2019s only consulting detective.\u201d

\u201cThat as well.\u201d She sat down on the bed. \u201cWhy are you in Rome, Sherlock Holmes? Besides the opportunities for casual stalking and having your butt handed to you.\u201d

\u201cThe Sahara King.\u201d

She raised an eyebrow. \u201cExplain.\u201d

\u201cCome now, Agent Boring. After all this unaccustomed honesty on my part, I think that I\u2019ve earned some reciprocal illumination.\u201d He stretched. \u201cWhat do they call you?\u201d

Her eyes flickered. \u201cMy name is Melinda May.\u201d

\u201cIndeed? My friend John would already be half in love with you by now: cheek-bones; shorter than him; and alliteration. You\u2019re probably not familiar with his blog. The Seventh Smudge. The Solitary Psychopath <\/i>. The man can scarcely see an initial phoneme without trying to clone it.\u201d

\u201cHmm. I\u2019ve known you for less than five minutes. The idea of your having a friend already gives me trouble.\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s atypical that you punched me in the face before I started talking. That usually happens the other way around.\u201d

\u201cI don\u2019t doubt it. Who is The Sahara King?\u201d

\u201cThere\u2019s the genius and the wonder of the thing. No one knows.\u201d

\u201cNot even you?\u201d

\u201cNot even I, though I am closer than any has ever been. May I sit without risking retribution?\u201d

\u201cKnock yourself out.\u201d

\u201cThank you.\u201d He lounged back in the room\u2019s sole, threadbare chair. \u201cI had an enemy: the late Jim Moriarty, of pathological celebrity. He masqueraded as a TV moron. I imagine that your agency knows now that that was not so?\u201d

She nodded.

\u201cMoriarty\u2019s criminal empire was one of unexampled cunning and extent. I\u2019ve spent the last year travelling the world to roll it up. It rested upon extortion, robbery, data theft\u2026 every exquisite shade in the spectrum of human delinquency. But, as I have discovered, when Moriarty needed what I suppose those in your line of work might be inclined to call \u2018wet-work\u2019 done, he usually called upon The Sahara King.\u201d

\u201cAn assassin?\u201d

\u201cThe<\/i> assassin. One entirely unknown to any intelligence service. The Sahara King only did work for Moriarty, and so, in comparison to such creatures as The Golem, was always a ghost. The files of Moriarty\u2019s lesser minions \u2013 most of which are now in my possession \u2013 refer to this operative only by that title. No name; no picture; no physical description. Unseen until he pounces, and then evident only to his victim.\u201d

\u201cBut the kills.\u201d Her tone was still flat, unengaged. He wondered when last anything had been able to carve a peak or a valley from that voice. \u201cThere will have been scene-of-crime reports. And bodies.\u201d

\u201cTrue. But The King\u2019s artisanal wet-work was tailored to a secretive demographic. By my count, at least eight killings in the most elevated diplomatic and society circles across three continents can be laid at The King\u2019s door in the last half a decade. All were most effectually concealed. Students of criminology will recall the unexplained \u2018withdrawal\u2019 from public life of Jean Dupont, the French Ambassador in Transia, three years since, or the \u2018disappearance\u2019 of James Phillimore in\u2026\u201d

\u201cAre there pictures?\u201d

He scowled for a moment, but decided to change tack. \u201cOne or two. I\u2019m reaching into my coat. I\u2019m telling you that as a courtesy. You probably couldn\u2019t kill me before I removed the envelope. \u201d

\u201cIs that a challenge?\u201d

He took a dog-eared envelope from his inside pocket, and spread photographs and print-outs on the coffee-table. \u201cTheir quality leaves much to be desired.\u201d

She picked up a print in which the field was occupied almost wholly by the image of a forearm on a carpet. Four bruises purpled on its pallid bulk. \u201cI can see that.\u201d

\u201cThe desultory reportage of the crimes did furnish one further clue.\u201d

\u201cWhich was\u2026?\u201d

\u201cA word. The penultimate victim was an Irishwoman, Mary Sykes.\u201d

\u201cThe politician?\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s the one. Did you know her?\u201d

\u201cWe met once or twice.\u201d She put down the photograph, and picked up a print-out. \u201cSykes was tough. Ex-military. If she was killed, she wouldn\u2019t have gone down easy.\u201d

\u201cShe didn\u2019t. That crime was only a qualified success for The Sahara King. As far as I have been able to gather via\u2026 unorthodox diplomatic channels, Sykes was discovered, beaten to the point of death, in a room that appeared to have been wrecked in an extended brawl. Before she died of her injuries in the ambulance, she managed to get out a single word. \u2018Tiger.\u2019\u201d

\u201c\u2018Tiger.\u2019 That\u2019s all you had to go on?\u201d

\u201cNot quite. While the evidence as to the crimes themselves was nugatory, I did have the files that I had liberated from Moriarty\u2019s network. From those, I pieced together that The Sahara King, between jobs, is resident in Rome. As you can see from those sheets, I even know the approximate lay-out of The King\u2019s own base, and details of its security dispositions. What I don\u2019t know \u2013 yet \u2013 is how to find it in a city of 2.9 million people that isn\u2019t London.\u201d

\u201cI see. Sounds like you have a problem.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m sure that the application of my considerable intellect will sort it out.\u201d

\u201cReally? I\u2019m not.\u201d Melinda May walked into the other room, and returned holding a half-empty bottle of cheap whisky. She sat again on the bed, and took a swig from the bottle. \u201cI knew a man a lot like you once, in New York. He was a surgeon. I met him through my\u2026 Well, it doesn\u2019t matter how I met him. Brilliant, they told me. Certainly as arrogant as all hell. He lost his motor skills in a car accident. The last time I saw him, he was a drunk. That\u2019s what comes from being a saviour who can\u2019t save. \u201c

She took another swig from the bottle. \u201cGood luck with your hunt, Sherlock Holmes. Now walk out of this room, and keep on walking. Tell anyone that you saw me here, and that\u2019ll be the last thing you ever say.\u201d

\u201cRight.\u201d He levered himself to his feet. \u201cSince we\u2019ve reached the \u2018empty threats\u2019 stage of the evening, it\u2019s probably time for me to be on my way. I\u2019ll just\u2026\u201d

His legs chose this particularly irritating moment to buckle beneath him.

Even outside combat, and at least two stiff doubles of whisky down, her speed was unnerving. Within a sliver of a second, she was across the room and supporting his weight. She decanted him back into the chair, and resumed her former scrutiny.

\u201cHow long since you last ate?\u201d she asked.

\u201cUm\u2026. Fairly sure that that was the day before yesterday.\u201d

\u201cOr slept beneath a roof?\u201d

\u201cToday\u2019s Thursday, isn\u2019t it? Then that would be\u2026 er\u2026. June.\u201d

She sighed. \u201cThere\u2019s food.\u201d She pointed at bread and cuts of salami, stacked on a shelf, which he had already recognized as coming from the delicatessen further down Via Cola di Rienzo. \u201cThere\u2019s drink.\u201d She gestured at the whisky. \u201cYou can sleep here overnight. Be on your way in the morning.\u201d

\u201cThank you. I\u2019m sure you\u2019ll agree that, in light of my longer spine, and my recent deprivations, it makes sense that I should have the bed.\u201d

In the event, the floor was perfectly comfortable.

***

He opened his eyes in the morning, and the following facts trooped in:

(1) The window was open.

(2) Melinda May was no longer in the apartment.

(3) The envelope containing his photos and print-outs was not visible.

There was no especial virtue in keeping his eyes open for what came next, so he shut them again.

He was galled that she had been able to leave without waking him. (Melinda May was quieter awake than asleep. The thought seemed to him significant, in a way that he had yet to determine. He set it aside for further consideration.) Once, only Mycroft had ever oppressed him with a sense of stint to his abilities. Jim Moriarty had changed that. Clamped a scold\u2019s bridle around his head, reminding all the world what he couldn\u2019t do.

The metaphor conveyed no advantage; he forgot it. May\u2019s behaviour was another matter. It opened up excellent opportunities to hunt a tiger and find a King.

And where better to seek a King, than in a Palace?

He forsook, this time, the vaulted chambers of his mnemonic menagerie: the red leech; the trained cormorant; the murderous race-horse; the remarkable worm. The Lion\u2019s Mane waved forlorn to an empty hall. Onward, now, to other rooms, where the reek of dung and the tang of sea-salt gave way to chalk and leather and sweat and the kind of claret that you want to tap but you certainly wouldn\u2019t want to drink. He didn\u2019t find much there. But he found enough.

Behind his eye-lids, he unfurled and scrutinized the plans of the only property that met the revised criteria. Indeed. Not so very challenging, after al\u2026

Wait. That made no sense.

He ran the scenario again. And again. And again. Every permutation returned the same result.

He hissed. Again. I need to think\u2026<\/i>

The problem with a mind palace is that not even the most vigilant landlord can altogether escape the occasional cowboy decorator. Before he was on top of it, profitless memories skittered across the bright imagined stone. You machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want. On your own.<\/i>

Irrelevant and distracting. He needed to focus.

Unless\u2026.

Melinda May had spoken in her sleep. Her mutterings had been loud, and an impediment to the somnolence of others, and generally rather tedious and repetitive. But John would have wanted to know what she had said. Sherlock\u2019s grasp of the Chinese dialects was far from perfect, being derived largely from sixteen hours with a mildewed copy of Jin Ping Mei<\/i> while hiding in a loft from the Butcher of Beijing. But he could make a reasonable stab at what May had been sharing with the Roman night: Murder. Murder. You cruel beast. You monster.<\/i>

And there was the answer. He had modelled the problem with the wrong victory condition; that was all. His eyes snapped open; he clambered to his feet.

Time to solve the crime. And save the life.

3. The Time of the Angels.<\/u>

The edges of objects chafed against each other in her field of vision, and her ears were ringing. At least the concussion blurred the pain from the cracked rib. Swings and roundabouts.

Footsteps in the corridor outside heralded the end-game. She braced herself against the wall that was supporting her weight; her finger twitched on the stolen smartphone. Just a little longer\u2026

Light from the open door knifed her eyes. For a moment, all that she could see there was an aureole of dark curls. Then the image resolved, into a tall pale man holding a whisky bottle. She sighed, and took her finger off the \u2019phone.

\u201cBuon giorno<\/i>, Agent May,\u201d Sherlock Holmes stepped across the threshold. He held up the whisky. \u201cI brought breakfast. Although,\u201d he scrutinized the bottle for a moment, \u201cyou might want to give it a wipe for hair and blood deposits first. I had to improvise when I overtook the reinforcements on my way in.\u201d

\u201cHow did you find this place?\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m very, very good.\u201d

\u201cLast night, you didn\u2019t know where it was. And you can\u2019t have found out anything new this morning.\u201d

\u201cBut I did. I found out that you<\/i> had worked out where it was. That, in itself, was a fresh datum.\u201d

\u201cMaybe I\u2019m just smarter than you.\u201d

\u201cPlease. Let\u2019s try to keep this within the boundaries of rational conjecture.\u201d He sat down beside her, echoing her posture, with his back propped against the wall. \u201cYou had no more data about the case itself than I did. I know for a fact that The Sahara King was unknown to the soi-disant<\/i> \u2018intelligence\u2019 community. The obvious question, then, was this: what additional expertise were you able to bring to bear? What do you know better than I?\u201d

\u201cHow long have you got? I could make a list.\u201d

\u201cJohn made a list. John did a blog-post, actually: Sherlock Holmes \u2013 His Limits<\/i>. It was offensively popular. But in this case I had no need for lengthy speculation, because last night made the principal arena in which you surpass me painfully clear. And I do mean \u2018painfully\u2019.

\u201cFighting styles sing to you. They are your personal friends, as the positive integers were to Ramanujan, as the soils of London are to me. You saw in the photos what Mary Sykes saw before she died. You saw the Tiger.

\u201cWhat is a \u2018tiger\u2019? It can be so many things. That\u2019s the problem; it\u2019s hard to narrow it down. The largest cat species, Panthera tigris<\/i>. A poem by William Blake, quoted to death by every bargain-basement psychopath afflicted by delusions of literary merit. But also something else. May I see your right arm?\u201d

She held it out, wordlessly. Between her wrist and elbow, four bruises were already constellating beneath the skin.

\u201cWhen I saw the photo of that wound on Phillimore, I dismissed it as an epiphenomenon of the murder. Plenty of killers end up grabbing at their victims, one way or another. But I was wrong, wasn\u2019t I? It\u2019s not an accident of the struggle\u2026\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s a signature move.\u201d Melinda May withdrew her forearm. \u201cIn Classic Tiger Kung Fu. You hold your fingers curled like claws, so that it\u2019s easier to grab your opponent\u2019s arm.\u201d

\u201cIndeed. As you know, more than a hundred buildings in this city filled my original criteria for the base. Far too many for me to search within any reasonable time-frame. But only one of those was contiguous with a dojo that taught Classic Tiger Kung Fu. Only one of them housed The Sahara King. I take it that she\u2019s the one over there?\u201d

\u201cShe is.\u201d

He rose, and walked over to the recumbent form of a woman in her early thirties. He stood, and breathed in the data: 1.72 m. ; 67.5 kg.; muscular development on the arms, shoulders, and legs consistent with a professional martial artist. The visible extent of her present injuries made him thankful that Melinda May could set to \u201cstun\u201d. \u201cWho is she?\u201d

\u201cHer name is Cecilia Rossi.\u201d May had not moved from the wall. \u201cHer grandfather was Libyan, I think.\u201d

\u201cI see. Hence \u2018The Sahara King\u2019.\u201d

\u201cI knew that she was a world-class fighter. I didn\u2019t know that she was an assassin. But there was always talk.\u201d

\u201cThere often is. Dark rumours gather, even around the careful ones. I see that she\u2019s still breathing.\u201d

\u201cJust about. She was good \u2013 very good. I couldn\u2019t afford to go easy. She\u2019ll need medical attention to pull through.\u201d

\u201cLet\u2019s not hurry.\u201d He turned on his heel. \u201cI imagine that you walked in here and told her that you knew her secret? Challenged her one-on-one?\u201d

\u201cShe almost beat me. But not quite.\u201d May shifted her shoulders. \u201cWinning\u2019s a habit I find hard to break.\u201d

\u201cYes. Forgetfulness of that possibility was the mistake that almost undid all my deductions.\u201d

Her eyes were wary. \u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d

\u201cI knew where you were heading as soon as I woke up. But your strategy seemed to confound all rational calculation. You might reasonably have fancied your chances against The Sahara King. But you knew from my files that any attempt to compromise the demesne of Moriarty\u2019s lieutenant would automatically trigger the deployment of reinforcements. As soon as you walked into this room, the clock was ticking.

\u201cThe mechanism could not be evaded. You\u2019re on the outs with your agency, so you wouldn\u2019t have had back-up of your own. How could you best an assassin very nearly the equal of yourself and not be so weakened by the encounter that the reinforcements would be too much for you? I ran seventeen possible scenarios. In not one of them did you survive. It was\u2026 infuriating. Until I saw what John would have seen in a moment.

\u201cI couldn\u2019t find the exit strategy because there wasn\u2019t one. I\u2019d become so wrapped up in analysing what Melinda May could do that I\u2019d forgotten to consider what she couldn\u2019t.\u201d

Her gaze had not wavered. \u201cGo on.\u201d

\u201cYou can\u2019t allow yourself to perish without a cause. And, no matter how far you\u2019ve sunk, you just can\u2019t make yourself throw a fight. Those two rules were tearing you apart. The Sahara King handed you the perfect opportunity: to do one last piece of good; to fight as hard as you could; and then to die. The local police are summoned \u2013 I imagine that that\u2019s the number you were about to dial as I came in? \u2013 and they arrive just in time to find a pair of desperate flunkies trying to clean the scene; one unconscious master criminal; a wealth of material evidence pointing to the solution of a dozen crimes; and a dead, nameless woman in a trouser-suit.

\u201cMelinda May\u2019s solution to the Final Problem. I must commend you on the elegance of your helpmate.\u201d

\u201cAnd it would have worked,\u201d she held up her hand for the whisky, which he passed down, \u201cif Sherlock Holmes didn\u2019t have to be a hero.\u201d

He frowned. \u201cThere\u2019s no such thing.\u201d

\u201cMy best friend believes in heroes.\u201d She swallowed a slug of whisky, and closed her eyes. \u201cI\u2019ve told him often that it\u2019s an old-fashioned notion.\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s a moronic notion. I hope that your agency doesn\u2019t let him out without a carer.\u201d He watched as she set the bottle down beside her. \u201cMight I venture an observation, Melinda May?\u201d

\u201cDo I have a choice?\u201d

\u201cNot really, no.\u201d

\u201cThen be my guest.\u201d

\u201cA woman of your manifest resources wouldn\u2019t have any trouble engineering a situation like this again. Beowulf can always find the necessary dragon. But I think that the world is both a safer and a less boring place with you in it, and that that is a paradox not lightly to be set aside. I think that you should go back to your moronic friend who believes in heroes, because you\u2019re the closest thing to one he will ever see.

\u201cYour life is not your own, Melinda May. Keep your hands off it.\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s not your call to make.\u201d

\u201cI know.\u201d He sat down once more beside her. \u201cYou never answered my first question.\u201d

\u201cI told you that my name was Melinda May.\u201d

\u201cYes. But the question I asked was: \u2018What do they call you?\u2019\u201d

A long pause. \u201cThey call me The Cavalry.\u201d

\u201cI see.\u201d He picked up the whisky. \u201cThe business in London, that you mentioned. I\u2026 I made a mistake. I underestimated madness. Didn\u2019t see its face until too late. I still won, of course. Like you, I\u2019m a creature of habit. But my mistake meant that the associated costs of that victory were\u2026 greater than I would have wished. And so we are immured alike in our contrasting reputations. The dead fraud, and the live Cavalry.\u201d He looked again at the bottle. \u201cPerhaps we should just jack it all in and become super-villains.\u201d

She snorted. \u201cYou don\u2019t have the right stuff for that gig. You\u2019d need an island-base, a super-weapon, and a stupid hat.\u201d

\u201cI do, as it happens, own a stupid hat. But it\u2019s in London, and, technically, it\u2019s part of my estate. Being dead isn\u2019t all sunshine and roses.\u201d He sighed. \u201cWell, pair of pathological winners that we are, I suppose that we\u2019d better make a start of gift-wrapping this crime-scene for the local constabulary.\u201d

\u201cI suppose we better had.\u201d

***

They met again at Castel Sant\u2019Angelo, eight days later. She wore the familiar trouser-suit, though a certain circumspection in her movements betrayed the strapped ribs beneath. There was a tablet tucked under her elbow.

\u201cBack behind the shield again, I see,\u201d he said.

\u201cExtraction is in three hours. After that, disciplinary, and probably paper-work. A lot of paper-work.\u201d

\u201cI don\u2019t doubt it.\u201d Far below, the Tiber was an emerald serpent, prodigal with gleams. \u201cWill you be looking for another dragon?\u201d

She was still for a moment before she answered. \u201cMaybe. But not today. What\u2019s next for you?\u201d

\u201cThe files that we looted from Signora Rossi\u2019s hard-drive were most illuminating. I must hurry to an appointment in Belgrade. With Baron Maupertuis.\u201d

\u201cMaupertuis. He\u2019s on several watch-lists.\u201d She glanced sideways at his face. \u201cWhat\u2019s the exit strategy?\u201d

\u201cHmm? Oh, no doubt something will occur to me. I am, after all, remarkably clever. It\u2019s possible that I\u2019ve already mentioned that.\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s slipped out once or twice.\u201d She removed the tablet from under her elbow, and waked it with a tap. \u201cI have something to show you. Your brother gave his permission.\u201d

Melinda May\u2019s dextrous fingers shepherded the photos across the screen. Background detail told him that they had been taken in the course of the last week. A young woman wrapped in a white lab-coat, eating an M&S sandwich at the entrance to St. Bart\u2019s, and using the carton to catch the snowing crumbs. A man with silvering brown hair, elbows on the table at a press-conference . An old-age pensioner, lips pursed, weighing the gambit of discounted meats at the delicatessen counter in a Waitrose.

A short man, in a cardigan, on the Central Line, looking at a Metro<\/i> without reading it.

\u201cYour life is not your own, Sherlock Holmes.\u201d Melinda May put the tablet back beneath her arm. \u201cKeep your hands off it.\u201d

He cleared his throat. \u201cThank you.\u201d

She nodded. He stepped back, as a crocodile of determined Belgians marched between them. When the procession was over, she was gone. He counted seven easy ways to effect that vanish; the current state of her ribs cut the total down to three. As a professional courtesy, he left it at that.

He walked the perimeter, thinking about the Serbian. Above, Michael the Archangel drew his sword against the indifferent blue.

FINIS<\/a>"}]}

FINIS<\/p><\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:38093","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/38093.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=38093"}}],"title":"Fic: Five Ill-Considered Crimes in New York City (MCU, PG-13)","published":"2018-01-07T20:08:34Z","updated":"2018-01-07T20:10:41Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"jessica jones"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"doctor strange"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"luke cage"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"mcu"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"iron fist"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"defenders"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"daredevil"}}],"content":"Title: Five Ill-Considered Crimes in New York City.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Marvel Cinematic Universe.
Rating: PG-13. Dark themes, mind rape, and swearing.
Characters\/Pairing: Turk Barrett, Colleen Wing, Luke Cage, Matt Murdock, Kilgrave, Claire Temple, Doctor Strange.
Disclaimer: All of the tickled dragons here belong to Marvel.
Summary: Joey is, perhaps, the least successful career criminal in New York City. In his defence, the town isn\u2019t quite the same as when he started.
Word Count: 2178.
A\/N: Small spoilers for Jessica Jones<\/i> to 1x02 and Doctor Strange<\/i>.



1. Out of Hours.<\/u>.

\u201cIt was a solid plan,\u201d said Joey, as he tried to hail the waitress. He was still having a bit of trouble lifting his arm above the shoulder, but the hospital had assured him that full mobility would probably return in the long run. \u201cSolid.\u201d

Turk nodded sympathetically.

\u201cJump the owner of a cash-in-hand business just after closing- up. As plans go, it\u2019s one of the standards. Simple. Pristine.\u201d Joey had heard someone use that word of a successful job in a movie once. He wasn\u2019t one hundred per cent sure what it meant, but it sounded cool. \u201cPristine.<\/i>\u201d

\u201cSo, why you look like shit, man?\u201d Turk beckoned to the waitress, who trotted over. \u201cTwo burgers with the works, sweetheart, to match my friend here\u2019s face.\u201d

\u201cYou should have seen the other guy.\u201d

Turk beamed. \u201cThat\u2019s my boy. Gave as good as you got, huh?\u201d

\u201cWell\u2026. no,\u201d Joey admitted. \u201cShe beat the ever-loving crap out of me. But the chick was fine<\/i> to look at. I\u2019d go so far as to say \u2018smoking\u2019.\u201d

\u201cYou\u2019re telling me a hot chick left you with a face like that? Where the hell was this, again?\u201d

\u201cLike I said, outside where she worked. In Chinatown. Her, um, dojo.\u201d

Turk\u2019s eyes narrowed above his mouthful of burger. He swallowed. \u201cSo, when you said, \u2018I jumped someone outside their place of work\u2019, what you meant<\/i> was: \u2018I jumped Bruce Leanne outside her badass-factory\u2019?\u201d

\u201cEr. Kinda?\u201d

Turk sighed. \u201cJoey, I love you like a brother. But your Threat Assessment game\u2026 it isn\u2019t strong.\u201d

2. Out of the Park.<\/u>

\u201cIt\u2019s OK,\u201d said Joey. \u201cThe cast comes off tomorrow.\u201d

\u201cAt least they had the decency to break your other<\/i> arm.\u201d Turk pushed a beer across the table. \u201cYour rematch with Miss Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon<\/i> didn\u2019t go so well, huh?\u201d

\u201cWhat? No \u2013 that\u2019s yesterday\u2019s news. I\u2019m refining my m. o..\u201d Joey wondered whether it would do his rep irreparable damage to ask for a straw. Getting the bottle to his lips was a bit of a performance at the moment. \u201cFrom now on, Joey\u2019s all about the bar jobs.\u201d

\u201cUh-huh.\u201d Turk gestured at the plaster. \u201cSo, which barkeep gave you that<\/i> on the house?\u201d

\u201cThe one at that place where Ringo drinks. Dude with a name like a wrestler.\u201d

Turk whistled. \u201cThat bald motherfucker who\u2019s, like, eight feet tall? Jeez, Joey. When you double down, you double down.\u201d

\u201cMy daddy told me that they\u2019re all the same height once you lay them out.\u201d

\u201cYour daddy, rest his soul, was a stand-up guy, one of the best I ever knew.\u201d Turk took a swig from his bottle. \u201cHe asked me always to look out for you, and I surely have. But your daddy was also the ditziest son-of-a-bitch who ever put on a balaclava and forgot to take off the \u201cHello \u2013 my name is \u2018Jimmy\u2019\u201d badge from his legit job when he did it.\u201d

\u201cThat was ONE TIME.\u201d

\u201cYeah, right,\u201d said Turk. \u201cHow did the wheels come off this caper, then?\u201d

Joey sagged. \u201cThe mark was locking up the bar at the end of the night. The plan was to knock him out cold with a two-by-four and steal the takings.\u201d

\u201cSounds solid.\u201d

\u201cUh-huh.\u201d Joey winced. \u201cShame the two-by-four wasn\u2019t. Damned thing broke in half across his head.\u201d

\u201cThe industrial decline of this once-great nation in a nutshell,\u201d said Turk sagely.

\u201cThen it was mano e mano<\/i>.\u201d Joey paused. \u201cWell, actually just mano<\/i>. Dude tossed me over a wall. With one hand.\u201d

\u201cYou want to get that concussion seen to, boy. Ain\u2019t no motherfucker can punt a grown man over a wall with just one hand.\u201d

\u201cYou want me to call the motherfucker back for a demo?\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ll pass on that.\u201d Turk exhaled thoughtfully. \u201cJoey, don\u2019t take this the wrong way, but\u2026 have you ever considered whether you\u2019re really cut out for The Life?\u201d

\u201cYou shitting me, Turk?\u201d

\u201cThing is, man, you got skills. You\u2019re book-smart. There are other ways of living your life. That\u2019s all I\u2019m saying.\u201d

Joey snorted. \u201cCounting holes in Blackburn, Lancashire?\u201d

\u201cHuh?\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s from a song. The Beatles, \u2018A Day in the Life\u2019. Last track on Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band<\/i> - released 26 May, 1967.\u201d

\u201cSee? You own dumb-assed shit like that. You\u2019re just\u2026 not very good at being a criminal.\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s all I\u2019ve ever known. All I\u2019ve ever wanted to be.\u201d

Turk raised his hands in defeat. \u201cJust thought I\u2019d float it. Like I promised your daddy, I got your back. Always.\u201d

\u201cDoes that mean you\u2019re picking up the tab tonight?\u201d

\u201cIt does not.\u201d

3. Out of Sight.<\/u>

So then \u2013 lawyers. Who doesn\u2019t love a good joke about lawyers?

In the Thirteenth Century (as Joey had discovered from one of those books that Turk twitted him for reading), Yves H\u00e9lory, a pious Breton lawyer, noticed that the legal profession had no patron saint. He asked the Pope to furnish it with one. The Pontiff told Yves to go into a chapel, walk blindfolded around it while saying a certain number of Hail Marys, reach out for an image, and take that image\u2019s subject for his patron. When Yves opened his eyes, he discovered that he was standing beside a depiction of St. Michael, and touching a picture of Satan, squashed beneath the archangel\u2019s foot.

That\u2019s the slippery thing about the dark. Sometimes you\u2019ll reach for a lawyer, and grab the Devil.

Joey did not feel proud of himself for going after a blind dude. But he had only just recovered from his last two outings. He felt that he was owed some low-hanging fruit. And everybody knew that lawyers (he had tailed the guy from the offices of a law firm, though admittedly a rather tatty one) made good money.

He had been just about to grab the dude by the shoulder and make his play. There was a blur of movement, as though the mark had thrown a stone (which made no sense at all \u2013 the dude was, after all, blind), and a crack of glass. The alley was plunged into darkness, through which the lawyer must have staggered off someplace. Joey was left in the alley with\u2026 something else.

The something hit a little harder than Kung-Fu Lady, a lot softer than the mountainous barkeep (this had been happening so much to Joey recently that he had started to develop a Mohs Scale of ass-kicking), but much more systematically than either. Joey could barely drag himself to hospital when it was done.

His wounds were tended by an ethereally lovely nurse, who looked as though she hadn\u2019t slept since a Bush was President. Her hands were firm and gentle; her knees were shaking. Joey realized, with a clarity that somehow hit harder even than the big guy, that she was trembling with the effort of staying on her feet. He stared at her furrowed brow, through the haze of meds, and thought: every self-destructive piece of shit like me digs that furrow deeper.<\/i>

Later, at the bar, he tried to chase the thought away with beer, alone. Turk had cried off, saying that business had suddenly got\u2026 demanding. Joey considered asking, but decided against it. Turk could be real tetchy, when work wasn\u2019t going well.

4. Out of Mind.<\/u>

\u201cHand over your wallet,\u201d Joey said, as he brandished his new piece. \u201cDo it now.\u201d

\u201cMmmm,\u201d the thin man in the fancy suit rocked back on his heels. He smiled a lazy smile. A chill settled on Joey\u2019s spine, as he recognized that fathomless calm in the face of what should have been a threat which he had been seeing so often lately. The plughole down which all the reason and order in Joey\u2019s world had drained away. \u201cI\u2019m thinking\u2026 no. Give me your gun, and then stand still<\/i>.\u201d

Joey held out the gun to the thin man, who inspected the piece. Joey stood still. In his chest, the silent scream \u2013 that would grow to be deafening, and never loud enough \u2013 began to build.

\u201cNot loaded,\u201d the thin man said, as he tossed the gun over one shoulder. \u201cTypical. All mouth and no trousers, as we used to say back in Blighty. Now, I could make you a killer\u2026 er\u2026 What\u2019s your name?<\/i>\u201d

The question-mark in that voice tore at Joey\u2019s tongue like a fishhook ruining a trout\u2019s mouth. \u201cJoey. Joey W\u2026\u201d

The thin man held up a hand. \u201cFirst name\u2019s fine. I\u2019m not one to stand on ceremony. As I said, Joey, I could make you a killer. All it takes is a single word. But I don\u2019t need a killer; I need a shopper. Someone to fetch presents for my special girl. We\u2019re both men of the world.\u201d He rubbed the lapel on Joey\u2019s threadbare jacket between his fingers. \u201cA well set-up young man like you knows where I\u2019m coming from.\u201d

Joey stole.

He stole rings and pendants, tiaras, brooches, and bracelets. He stole dresses off the rack with exacting care (the \u201cspecial girl\u201d seemed to be a tall and slender woman \u2013 the thin man was insistent that they had to fit just right) and candy off children, because the thin man thought that that was funny. He stole until his vision blurred and his fingers bled.

The thin man took two or three items from what Joey stole, and dropped all the others on the sidewalk. He told Joey to stand in a corner, and walked away. Joey stood in the corner. He soiled himself twice before he discovered, twelve hours later, that he could leave it.

5. Out of the Kitchen.<\/u>

\u201cNice pad you\u2019ve got here,\u201d said Joey, squinting a little.

\u201cThe Sanctum is generally agreed to be quite nice. That probably explains why idiots try to burgle it.\u201d

\u201cAh. Yeah. Sorry about that, man. I\u2019m not apologizing just because I\u2019m stuck in this glowy spotlight thing. Although I won\u2019t pretend that that isn\u2019t a factor.\u201d

\u201cYour candour is noted.\u201d

\u201cWhat is<\/i> this glowy spotlight thing, if you don\u2019t mind my asking?\u201d

\u201cThe Light of Agamotto, First Master, is upon you. Side-effects may include: giddiness; slight nausea; the clarification to the subject of his own intent. And his head exploding.\u201d

\u201cRight.\u201d

\u201cWe\u2019re fairly sure that that last one got ironed out in the Fifth Century beta-testing.\u201d

\u201cGood to know.\u201d Joey swallowed. \u201cI\u2019m aware that I\u2019m not in any position to make demands. But I can\u2019t seem to leave this light. You should know that I have issues about mind-control.\u201d

\u201cSo do I. The Light merely clarifies intent. You\u2019re not leaving it because, at some level, you\u2019re not yet ready to do so.\u201d

\u201cNo disrespect, but why wouldn\u2019t I want to run like hell from the House on Haunted Hill?\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s what I\u2019m interested in finding out, Joey.\u201d

Joey frowned. \u201cHow do you know my name? Does this thing let you read my mind?\u201d

\u201cNo. Your name\u2019s written on the tag that\u2019s sticking out from the neck of your jacket.\u201d

\u201cShit.\u201d

\u201cYou have the same family name as a friend of mine.\u201d The tall man in the cape floated closer. \u201cWhy did you try to rob my Sanctum, Joey?\u201d

Joey moistened his lips. \u201cOne last job. Something big to set me up, before I got out. I just can\u2019t do this anymore.\u201d

\u201cWhy not?\u201d

\u201cSome bad shit has happened to me lately.\u201d Joey paused. He remembered the tired face of the ER nurse, and sighed. \u201cNo \u2013 that\u2019s not it. At least, not all of it. I can\u2019t stop thinking about what my<\/i> stupid shit does to other people.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m afraid you\u2019ve contracted empathy, Joey,\u201d the tall man said. He sounded sad. \u201cThere isn\u2019t a cure, although I still wake up most mornings wishing that there were.\u201d

\u201cI will let you down; I will make you hurt,<\/i>\u201d Joey said morosely.

\u201cGreat song. Familiar to most people, of course, from the Johnny Cash album, released on November 5, 2002.\u201d

\u201cAlthough they forget that the original is Nine Inch Nails, released on April 17, 1995.\u201d

\u201cThey do.\u201d The tall man smiled. \u201cYou have hidden depths, Joey.\u201d

\u201cThey don\u2019t feel so hidden when I\u2019m standing here. But I think that I can probably move now.\u201d

\u201cI think you probably can.\u201d

\u201cI can\u2019t help noticing,\u201d said Joey, as he stepped, blinking, out of the light, \u201cthat your pad, though fine, could do with some TLC.\u201d

\u201cJust the detritus from a run-in with a little sorcerous death-cult. I haven\u2019t gotten around to sweeping up.\u201d

\u201cCould you possibly use an extra pair of hands around the place? I\u2019m on the market.\u201d

\u201cAre you suggesting that the Master of the Mystic Arts needs a manservant?\u201d

Joey snorted. \u201cWhat is this, 1963? I\u2019m suggesting that the Master of the Mystic Arts needs a roadie.\u201d

\u201cHmm.\u201d

\u201cAnd let\u2019s face it: a dude who can fly \u2013 which is way cool, by the way \u2013 could use a man who\u2019s got his ear to the ground. And not just because that man\u2019s been decked by a ninja babe, or a massive motherfucker with immunity to planks.\u201d

\u201cThere may be something in that.\u201d The tall man stroked his chin. \u201cSalary to be determined?\u201d

\u201cCool. Is there dental?\u201d

\u201cThere will undoubtedly be teeth.\u201d

\u201cWhere do I sign?\u201d asked Joey Wong.

FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:37830","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/37830.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=37830"}}],"title":"Fic: The Last Supper (Doctor Who\/Torchwood, PG-13)","published":"2017-12-17T15:59:44Z","updated":"2017-12-17T19:16:49Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"doctor who"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"torchwood"}}],"content":"Title: The Last Supper.

Author: Prochytes.

Fandom: Doctor Who\/Torchwood.

Rating: PG-13. Dark themes, references to character death, and violence.

Characters\/Pairing: Bill Potts (DW<\/i>), Gwen Cooper (TW<\/i>).

Disclaimer: Not mine at all, any of it.

Summary: Missy was not the only one to consider the other way of stopping the Monks.

Word Count: 3804.

A\/N: Spoilers for DW<\/i> \u201cThe Lie of the Land\u201d and TW<\/i> to 4x11 \u201cThe Blood Line\u201d.








As Bill hurried back from the off-licence to avoid the curfew, she found a new five pound note amongst her change.



Bill didn\u2019t like it. She knew, intellectually, that mottling up at the colour of money was an old person thing. Bill - whose second-best pair of jeans was still forced out into bas relief by a stray doubloon lodged in the back pocket - should be better placed than most to keep some perspective.



But perspective was unavailing. Colour, in any event, was not the problem. Bill objected to the texture. The old money had crinkled, like things you trust \u2013 crows\u2019 feet around smiling eyes, or oven-ready chips. The new fivers snapped, like those flimsy IDs from your teens, in which an unhealthy proportion of your self-regard had been invested.



The obverse of the new fiver still showed Her Madge in solitary state. No retinue, yet, of inked monachal shades. They weren\u2019t in a hurry, and the Royal Mint wasn\u2019t going anywhere. Bottles nudged brusquely at Bill\u2019s knees through their thin plastic. She had been drinking more than was sensible, these last few weeks.



The novelty of the notes would fade, in time. Sooner or later, your fingers start to forget.



***



The woman at the front door, who interrupted the first of the evening\u2019s stiff doubles, had an ID, and it wasn\u2019t flimsy. The plastic pulled lightly at Bill\u2019s skin as she handled it. June Walters \u2013 University Security Services. The woman\u2019s face scowled back at Bill from the laminated surface, stunned and sullen, as is the way with passport photos.



\u201cBit late for a house-call,\u201d said Bill.


\u201cYou\u2019re telling me.\u201d The visitor, unlike her photo, wore an easy smile. \u201cStudents living out are only sure to be at home just before curfew. This is the VC\u2019s own directive; no expense spared. I\u2019m coining it in overtime.\u201d


\u201cThe VC? Seriously?\u201d The Vice-Chancellor of St. Luke\u2019s, in Bill\u2019s limited experience of him, tended to see students as mobile motes in the middle distance, sometimes regrettably visible from the deck of his yacht. The world had been understudying dystopia long before the Monks thrust it blinking into the limelight. \u201cDoesn\u2019t sound like his style, to be honest.\u201d


\u201cHis Nibs got his knickers in a twist about press coverage a few months back. Something about a cowboy landlord on Cardinal Road renting out a house that nearly collapsed on student tenants? Not exactly what you want to read over your toast and marmalade in the Times Higher<\/i>. We\u2019ve been tasked to check that all the living-out accommodation\u2019s in good nick.\u201d


\u201cI didn\u2019t think that I was registered as a student.\u201d


\u201cSomeone\u2019s<\/i> registered you, love. Friends in high places?\u201d


\u201cThe highest.\u201d Another broadcast was scheduled for tonight. Bill wanted to be outside at least another three goes of Bell\u2019s when she faced it. \u201cHow long is this likely to take?\u201d


\u201cTwenty minutes, tops. I need to be home before\u2026.\u201d


\u201cYes. Before.\u201d Bill withdrew from the threshold. \u201cDo you fancy some tea? I\u2019m trying out a quick-boil kettle.\u201d


\u201cOooh, you temptress.\u201d June Walters stepped across the threshold, hefting a big black duffle-bag. \u201cMilk; one sugar.\u201d


Bill busied herself at the kettle. Her visitor scrutinized the fuse box, and poked the grouting. She snaked past Bill to wring a listless tattoo from the drawers and cupboards of the kitchen. By the time Bill deposited a steaming cup in front of her, she had come to rest on a chair beside the table, duffle-bag at her side. She tasted the tea, and smiled approvingly.


\u201cYou make a good cuppa, love. Not afraid to brew it strong. None of that wafting the bag in the vague direction of the china.\u201d


\u201cThanks.\u201d Bill sat down on the other side of the table. \u201cSo\u2026\u201d she groped for topics of conversation, \u201c... what does it involve, your job? I\u2019ve always wondered.\u201d


\u201cHmm.\u201d The visitor massaged her forehead for a moment before answering. \u201cHave you ever heard the old joke? \u2018Everyone complains about the weather, but nobody ever does anything about it\u2019?\u201d


\u201cYeah. It\u2019s not a very good joke, to be honest.\u201d Bill stopped, and reddened. New Personal Best on the brick-dropping there, Potts. Thirty seconds into the polite chit-chat, and you\u2019ve told the nice lady from the Uni that she isn\u2019t funny.


\u201cYou\u2019re right. It\u2019s not.\u201d The visitor\u2019s eyes stayed on Bill\u2019s blush, unperturbed. \u201cThere was a programme on daytime telly, when I was a little girl. The bloke who did the weather used to prance about on an inflatable map of the UK in the Albert Dock. The Scousers would raise a cheer when he vaulted the Irish Sea, Finn MacCool in reasonably-priced knitwear.\u201d


\u201cSounds\u2026 fun?\u201d Bill felt very tired. The conversation was veering, like those knackered trolleys down the Tesco, mulish against Bill\u2019s slight impulsive weight, and oh, the avoidable toil of heaving it back on course, of all the quotidian crap that Armageddon might at least have been expected to expunge. June\u2019s companionable slouch had usurped an impressive swathe of floor space with her legs. Bill, who could have used the toilet right now, felt a little pinned. \u201cGreat, er, gimmick.\u201d


\u201cIt was shit,\u201d June Walters said, genially. \u201cWe were easily pleased, at the arse-end of the Eighties. They did the jumper for kiddy-fiddling in the end. He\u2019s probably pissing blood right now, in prison.\u201d She sipped daintily at her tea. \u201cThat was later. I\u2019m more interested in the map. What it would be like to blunder across the landscape and feel the whole world shiver at your thoughtless step. Imagine how horrible that would be.\u201d She set down the cup, with no betraying chink against the saucer. \u201cOf course, you don\u2019t have to imagine, do you, Bill?\u201d


Bill looked at the slouch that barred the doorway, the unopened bag. She swallowed. \u201cYou\u2019re not from University Security. Tell me who you are, and get the fuck out of my home. First one\u2019s optional; second isn\u2019t.\u201d


\u201cMy name is Gwen. You can think of me as the weather-girl. I\u2019m the one you call to do something about it.\u201d The erstwhile June Walters sighed. \u201cThank you for making me tea, Bill. You confirmed my dreadful suspicion that you\u2019re nice. That will make it easier to kill you. But I\u2019ll feel even worse after I have.\u201d


Her face looked troubled, now, and pensive, and continued to do so even after Bill threw her cup at it.


The cup did not connect. Bill had not imagined that it would. As suddenly-Gwen swayed in her chair to avoid the missile, Bill dived for the opening thereby disclosed on her other flank. Bill\u2019s finger-tips were almost on the doorframe when those long legs lashed out to enmesh her own. Bill stumbled, cannoning into the wall. Her adversary pushed the other cup to leave a fastidious margin between it and the lip of the table. She stood, wrinkled her nose at the slow sepia drench of the wall behind her, and blocked the doorway.


Bill balled her fists. The Doctor was big on the futility of violence. Bill, observing that this routine usually came just before he decked a Regency bell-end, had scheduled some introductory kickboxing classes as essential study skills just after her curriculum expanded to encompass things that ate you. She\u2019d made only a little pugilistic headway, to be honest. Right now, though, a little headway was all she needed. Just force the bitch to take a backward step.


Gwen did not budge. A slip or a block awaited every one of the blows that Bill artlessly hurled at this freckled woman with tired eyes, whose body was air and iron to her aching arms. As Bill began to flag, Gwen sent two neat hard punches into her midriff; another into her face when she folded up. Bill slumped against the wainscot, and gasped for breath.


\u201cFirst lesson of your last night, Bill.\u201d Her victor, for some reason, was the one who sounded weary, defeated. \u201cYou can\u2019t take me. It\u2019s natural that you should try; I\u2019m glad you did. You\u2019ve got some speed and talent going there, but I was beating up blokes in pubs before you were ordering anything stiffer than a shandy. You can\u2019t take me.\u201d


\u201cListen.\u201d Bill blearily blinked the world back into focus. The first frail streaks of tea had touched the lino. \u201cWhatever they may have told you, it\u2019s a lie. The Monks weren\u2019t always here. They\u2019re not our friends.\u201d


\u201cI know that, Bill.\u201d


Bill frowned. \u201cWhat?\u201d


\u201cThe Monks brought their ministry to this fucked-up little world five months, thirteen days, and about ten hours ago. That\u2019s when they parked their Osiran wannabe tech in Turmezistan.\u201d


\u201cHow\u2026 how can you remember?\u201d Even now, Bill could feel their<\/i> cuckoo history preening itself, sharp-beaked, inside her head. \u201cI can barely manage that. And I was there.\u201d


\u201cMy brain reacts oddly to mnemotropics. I\u2019m not immune, not by a long chalk, but memory tricks tend to lose their grip on me, or else they have to try too hard, and steal too much. There\u2019s a drug called Retcon, for example. It should have scrubbed my recall clean, once, but it didn\u2019t. I\u2019m what I am now because Retcon couldn\u2019t quite strip me of that first wet day in Cardiff when I saw a dead man rise. Well, bounce, anyway.\u201d Gwen followed Bill\u2019s gaze. \u201cWork surfaces are hogging your attention, Bill.\u201d


\u201cPeril makes me house-proud.\u201d


\u201cMaybe. Or maybe you\u2019re just thinking about your cutlery drawer. In case you\u2019re wondering, none of your seven knives is really sharp enough for wetwork, except maybe that little one that\u2019s worn its soul to a sliver on a thousand spuds.\u201d


Bill\u2019s head dropped. \u201cThat\u2019s why you were going through my cupboards.\u201d


\u201cYes. Slaughter doesn\u2019t love a slattern.\u201d


\u201cI suppose that people like you are more into katanas.\u201d


Gwen wrinkled her nose again. \u201cI think that you watch a bit too much telly. A katana\u2019s just a Gillette with pushy parents. And you try getting one on the luggage rack of a Virgin train. Really not worth the effort.\u201d


\u201cWhen you\u2019re going to kill someone.\u201d


\u201cWhen you\u2019re going to to kill someone.\u201d


\u201cI see.\u201d Bill raised her head to look Gwen in the eye once more. \u201cWas there really a June Walters in University Security, before you laminated your face over hers?\u201d


\u201cYes. Nice lady - fond of her G&T. I didn\u2019t fancy the chances of her picks on The X Factor<\/i>.\u201d


\u201cWhat did you do to her?\u201d


\u201cI lifted her card.\u201d Gwen hoisted the duffle-bag onto the table, began to undo its straps. \u201cShe\u2019ll find it in her letter-box tomorrow. I\u2019ve given you no reason to believe me on this, Bill, but going into someone\u2019s home, drinking her tea, and murdering her isn\u2019t usually Plan A.\u201d


\u201cI hope that\u2019s true.\u201d Clever, pale fingers at work upon the straps. \u201cWhat happens now, then? What\u2019s the programme? Sorry for the noob question. It\u2019s my first death.\u201d


\u201cWe eat the pizza.\u201d


\u201cPizza?\u201d


\u201cPizza. What did you think was in the duffle-bag?\u201d


***


The lid flipped, with that ungainly, dramatic swing from one horizontal to another that always made Bill think of school protractors. The savour rose.


\u201cI\u2019m not hungry,\u201d said Bill.


\u201cYes, you are. You\u2019re always hungry. Bacon sarnies, pork pies, cod and double chips. So much for that bollocks about millennials and avocado toast. It\u2019s a mystery to me where you put it all, frankly. I\u2019ve seen more meat on a butcher\u2019s pencil, as my old dad used to say.\u201d


\u201cYou\u2019ve been stalking me.\u201d


\u201cOf course. Murder is like any other social engagement, Bill. It goes more smoothly if you put the work in first.\u201d


\u201cI never saw you.\u201d


\u201cThat\u2019s the mark of a proper weather-girl. The shit ones, with the make-up and the cleavage, who end up doing panto in dispirited seaside towns? You look at them. The ones who know their trade? You look where they point.\u201d Gwen pushed the box in Bill\u2019s direction. \u201cTuck in.\u201d


Bill did not move. \u201cYou say that you\u2019re here to kill me. The bloke who sold you that poison-pill there gold-plated it.\u201d


Gwen sighed and tore off a slice of pizza. Bill had to admire her technique: the grip firm at the crisp border of the disc, gentling as the tear travelled up-country to the moister inlands at the centre. Gwen took a bite, and swallowed.


\u201cSee?\u201d


Bill frowned. Against all logic, her mouth was watering. \u201cMy assassin brings me my last supper? That\u2019s just sick.\u201d


\u201cEveryone has a last supper.\u201d Gwen was already at work on another piece. \u201cYoghurt that tastes like hand-gel, in a nursing home. A ham and cheese toastie from that Greggs across the road from the office where the drivers always forget they\u2019re meant to be doing twenty. A slap-up meal in a swanky restaurant, with James and John arguing over who ordered the posh bread, and Judas swearing blind that he must have left his wallet in the cab. Everyone has a last supper, Bill. You just know it when you see it.\u201d


Bill was still unmoving. \u201cI get that. Ever since I started my\u2026 extra-mural studies, I\u2019ve thought about how it would all end. But I never expected my death to look like you.\u201d


\u201cAnd how does your death look, then?\u201d


\u201cTired. Sad. Afraid.\u201d Bill cocked her head on one side. \u201cYou\u2019re afraid, aren\u2019t you?\u201d Gwen flushed and bit her lip. \u201cWhat\u2019s scaring you? We\u2019ve already seen that I can\u2019t beat you. Is it the Monks?\u201d


\u201cYour supper\u2019s getting cold, Bill. Eat. Please.\u201d


Bill reached for a slice.


The pizza, it turned out, was pretty good.


***


\u201cI must say, Bill,\u201d Gwen resumed, once the pizza was down to a hemi-circle, \u201cthat, after an understandably impetuous start, you\u2019re taking this more calmly than I expected.\u201d


Bill shrugged. \u201cI know how this film goes. If we fight again, you\u2019ll win again. The only point in repeating a scene like that is to break up the talky character bits. If I\u2019m going to survive tonight, I have to outsmart you, or make you see that what you\u2019re doing is wrong. Establish empathy.\u201d


\u201cLike I said, Bill, you probably watched a bit too much telly.\u201d


\u201cMaybe.\u201d Bill rested her chin on her hands. \u201cYou loved your dad. Enough to remember his bizarre old-school sayings, anyway.\u201d


\u201cI did.\u201d


\u201cI never knew mine. But I\u2019ve got friends I care about, and they care about me. Yes - this is a naked attempt to make you see me as a person. I hope it\u2019s working.\u201d


\u201cI already see you as a person, Bill,\u201d said Gwen. \u201cIt\u2019s not enough. The man who brought me in killed his own grandson. I\u2019ve ended the lives of more people than you\u2019ve ever known with a single bullet. One of those people was my old dad. I don\u2019t like killing, Bill. But, with enough incentive, I can do it.\u201c


Bill\u2019s knuckles tightened. \u201cWell, I hope that I was at least worth a fat fee.\u201d


\u201cYou think I\u2019m doing this for money? Jesus Christ. You don\u2019t know, do you? You honestly don\u2019t know.\u201d


\u201cDon\u2019t know what?\u201d


\u201cThe Monks\u2019 dominion is routed through your living brain. Your love pawned our world; your death redeems it. I\u2019m not here to help the Monks, Bill. I\u2019m here to finish them. \u201d


\u201cYou\u2019re lying.\u201d


\u201cYes. Because that\u2019s exactly the sort of lie you\u2019d bother to try on someone just before you killed her.\u201d


\u201cI would have known. The Doc\u2026 my friend would have told me.\u201d


\u201cYour friend? I\u2019ve seen the news. Your\u2026 friend looks very seriously off his game. Unless he\u2019s given up on us at last. I always suspected that he might, in the end, and I honestly don\u2019t think that I could blame him. But, even if he hasn\u2019t, Bill, is he always completely straight with you?\u201d


\u201cAlways.\u201d


\u201cThen you\u2019ll be able to say what\u2019s in his vault.\u201d Gwen inspected Bill\u2019s expression, and nodded. \u201cNo? I thought not. The thing he keeps caged down there once deleted a quarter of the universe. Let\u2019s hope it was the dodgy quarter - dragging down Zoopla values in the Horsehead Nebula. Still, I wouldn\u2019t put too much faith in your candid friend and his arbitrary compassion.\u201d


Bill\u2019s fingers tightened once more. \u201cI do. He has a plan. He always does. Maybe, if he was the one who span me your line about my love, then I\u2019d believe him. Maybe I\u2019d put my head on the chopping-block myself. But he didn\u2019t. You did. What earthly reason do I have to trust you? I don\u2019t know much, Gwen<\/i>, but I do know chips: where were you, when they were down in Turmezistan?\u201d Bill bared her teeth as Gwen bowed her head. \u201cThere you go. Last time I checked, no one died and made you boss.\u201d


\u201cNo.\u201d Gwen\u2019s voice was quiet as she fiddled with the pizza box, pulling the cardboard rim down with those clever fingers and watching its languid rise back to the perpendicular. \u201cThey made him boss instead.\u201d She looked up again. \u201cGoing well, isn\u2019t it?\u201d


***


Two slices left.


\u201cWill it hurt?\u201d


\u201cAs little as I can manage. I can't promise painless. I\u2019m not that level of technician. But it\u2019ll be quick. Unless you\u2019d rather go out fighting. I\u2019ll even let you tool up first with your sharp little spud knife, if you want it.\u201d


\u201cWould that give me a chance?\u201d


\u201cWe both know it wouldn\u2019t.\u201d


\u201cYeah. You\u2019re good at what you do. I suppose that\u2019s something.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019m not good at what I do, Bill. You\u2019re right about Turkmezistan. If I were good, the Monks would already be history - which is an irony all of its own, given their m. o.. I wouldn\u2019t have to be here to murder you.\u201d


\u201cWhat do you think will happen after that? After you...\u201d


\u201cThe spell will break. I and my robust associates will show the Monks the door. That shouldn\u2019t be hard. They\u2019re a dying race, according to the man who brought me in and told me about their tricks. Barely remember how their own tech works, or so he says. And then, when they\u2019re gone... judgment. That, to answer your earlier question, is what I\u2019m afraid of.\u201d


\u201cYou plan to give yourself up, for killing me?\u201d


\u201cOh yes. I\u2019ll have murdered a good woman who only wanted to help her friend. There\u2019s no justice if I get to walk away from that.\u201d


\u201cYou\u2019re afraid of the police?\u201d


Gwen snorted. \u201cHardly. I was Heddlu<\/i> once myself, in another life. It\u2019ll hurt that they\u2019ll be ashamed of me. But I\u2019m not afraid of them. I\u2019m afraid of him.\u201d


\u201cYou don\u2019t mean\u2026. Seriously? You\u2019re afraid of the Doctor? I\u2019m not sure why I\u2019m reassuring my own hitwoman, but I\u2019ve seen him lose it. He\u2019s great; he works miracles like they\u2019re nothing; but he\u2019s not scary.\u201d


\u201cYou\u2019ve seen him annoyed, Bill. You\u2019ve seen him irked. He keeps the claws sheathed when the kids are at the circus. You haven\u2019t seen the fury of the Time Lord.\u201d Gwen\u2019s hand shook as she reached across the table. One more slice. \u201cI have a friend. Her name is Martha. She\u2019s gorgeous. You know how everyone has that one mate so beautiful that you could swear the needle of the world jumps its groove when she walks in?\u201d


Bill thought about the breathless curve of Felicity\u2019s throat, arched to laugh in the back bar of The Crown<\/i> as they drank away the memory of Cardinal Road. \u201cYeah. I know.\u201d


\u201cMartha\u2019s like that. The eyes, the smile, the cheek-bones, the physique. She\u2019s perfect. Martha hasn\u2019t been able to look at that perfection in seven years. She was one of your predecessors, you see. Your friend trapped someone who hurt her behind the mirrors. All the mirrors.\u201d


Bill shuddered. \u201cDoes Martha know that you\u2019re here tonight?\u201d


\u201cNo. She wouldn\u2019t approve. And she could stop me.\u201d


\u201cIs she single?\u201d


Gwen smiled. \u201cYou have a one-track mind, Bill.\u201d


\u201cHumour me. I\u2019m almost out of track.\u201d


***


Bill took custody of the final slice. The complete field of cardboard lay disclosed between her and Gwen. Megiddo, dark with grease. \u201cOne more question, if you\u2019re willing.\u201d


Gwen shrugged. \u201cGo ahead.\u201d


\u201cYour Martha, she ran with the Doctor, like me? They saved the day together?\u201d


\u201cThey saved many days together, so she tells me. A whole crowded calendar of salvation.\u201d


\u201cWas it always him?\u201d


\u201cI\u2019m sorry?\u201d


\u201cThe day-saving. Was it always him? From what you\u2019ve said of Martha, she doesn\u2019t sound like the sort of girl to sit back and watch him work. Would the world still be here if Martha wasn\u2019t?\u201d


Gwen\u2019s eyes were watchful. \u201cYou\u2019re not Martha.\u201d


\u201cI\u2019ve parlayed with nanites and dated spaceships. You have no idea what I am.\u201d Bill chewed the last fragment of pizza, swallowed, and sat back. \u201cHe\u2019ll save the world. It\u2019s what he does. But if he doesn\u2019t, I will. I\u2019ll save it for good pizza and bad whisky and awkward, drunken snogs down The Crown<\/i> because you unexpectedly didn\u2019t become a sideboard. For dads we killed and mums we never knew. And for a woman who\u2019d walk into damnation with her eyes open, but bring her victim a last supper before she did it. You can stop me, Gwen. But we both know that he\u2019s got an eye for talent, and that you shouldn\u2019t.\u201d


Bill tried not to watch Gwen\u2019s fingers, splayed out on the table beside the empty box. You never see the punch that kills you.<\/i> Silence lengthened.


\u201cYou\u2019re wrong.\u201d Gwen said, eventually. \u201cI don\u2019t know that you can beat the Monks. I\u2019m eighty percent sure that you\u2019ll fail, if I let you try.\u201d She bit her lip. \u201cBut I can\u2019t kill a good woman on eighty percent. Sorry for what I\u2019ve put you through tonight, Bill Potts. You\u2019ve won.\u201d


Bill held her gaze. \u201cThank you. This isn\u2019t really a win, though, is it? More of a reprieve. Iocane powder.\u201d


\u201cWhat do you mean?\u201d


\u201cThere\u2019s a memory drug. Retcon, you called it. One for which you\u2019ve developed a massive tolerance. How much of that did I just eat?\u201d


\u201cEnough. It\u2019s also rather soporific. That\u2019ll give me the chance to tidy up here, before I leave. Wipe your surfaces - they\u2019re strangers to Domestos. Splash some Bell\u2019s around; make you think that you fell over after a binge, when you wake up tomorrow. Not exactly inspired, but it\u2019ll do.\u201d Gwen nodded. \u201cYou were right after all, Bill. He\u2019s got an eye for talent. Maybe the Monks have<\/i> bitten off more than they can chew with you. I\u2019ll be interested to see whether that\u2019s the case.\u201d


Bill grasped the table. The room had begun to spin. \u201cAnd if they haven\u2019t?\u201d


Gwen sighed, and began to pack the box into her bag. \u201cThen that was the last time you\u2019ll see me coming.\u201d


FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:37383","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/37383.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=37383"}}],"title":"Fic: Because I Could Not Stop for Death (Sherlock\/Elementary\/The Sandman, PG)","published":"2017-06-29T18:01:10Z","updated":"2017-06-29T18:02:05Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"elementary"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"sherlock"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"drabble"}}],"content":"Title: Because I Could Not Stop for Death.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Sherlock\/Elementary\/The Sandman.
Rating: PG.
Characters\/Pairing: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Joan Watson, Clyde the Tortoise, Death of the Endless.
Disclaimer: Not mine at all, any of it.
Summary: She kindly stopped for me.
Word Count: 100 (drabble).
A\/N: No serious spoilers. Originally posted on AO3 in 2017.




You are surprised to see me,\u201d he said.



\u201cYes.\u201d Light shivered in her ankh.



\u201cYou expected me in Samarra.\u201d



\u201cNo.\u201d



He frowned. \u201cWhat?\u201d



\u201cWould you like to feed your tortoise?\u201d



\u201cI do not own that tortoise.\u201d



\u201cReally?\u201d She smiled. \u201cAchilles cannot catch him.\u201d



\u201cI do not follow.\u201d



\u201cWell, you are quite high.\u201d



\u201cExplain.\u201d



\u201cYou are my brother\u2019s creature. I was surprised at seeing you at all.\u201d She rose. Watson approached, a cane in his hand and a frown on her lovely face. \u201cGive my best to the Doctor. I do not expect to see them, either.\u201d



The tortoise inched forward.



FINIS


<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:37302","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/37302.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=37302"}}],"title":"Fic: The Diamond of the Day (Doctor Who\/Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., PG-13)","published":"2017-06-29T08:37:01Z","updated":"2017-06-29T11:20:31Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"doctor who"}}],"content":"Title: The Diamond of the Day.
Author: Prochytes.
Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Doctor Who.
Rating: PG-13. Angst and dark themes.
Characters\/Pairing: The Twelfth Doctor (DW<\/i>); Melinda May, AIDA (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.<\/i>).
Disclaimer: Marvel and the BBC share the recursive angst.
Summary: Another mountain. Another bird.
Word Count: 2738.
A\/N: Spoilers for DW<\/i> to \u201cHell Bent\u201d and Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.<\/i> to 4x11 \u201cWake Up\u201d, from which some of the dialogue is taken. Very small spoilers for Class<\/i> 1x01: \u201cFor Tonight We Might Die\u201d. The title is from a poem by Edwin Muir. Originally posted on AO3 in 2017.



\u201cYou put this in my head.\u201d

\u201cDr. Radcliffe knew the best way to keep you busy was to give you something to fight.\u201d

\u201cSomething like you.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d AIDA lifts an eyebrow. \u201cBut this is the program\u2019s end. We\u2019re coding more but we can\u2019t keep up with you. You keep getting through it faster. I\u2019ll wipe your memory and send you through again.\u201d

\u201cYou wipe my memory, but I get better, every time.\u201d

\u201cYes. Memory traces.\u201d

\u201cSo I\u2019m beating it. And I\u2019ll get out, eventually. Beat you.\u201d

\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d

The jar shatters. AIDA says, \u201cOh dear, not again.\u201d This could be her one shot at escape.

***

\u201cYou put this in my head.\u201d

\u201cDr. Radcliffe knew the best way to keep you busy was to give you something to fight.\u201d

\u201cSomething like you.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d AIDA lifts an eyebrow. \u201cBut this is the program\u2019s end. We\u2019re coding more but we can\u2019t keep up with you. You keep getting through it faster. I\u2019ll wipe your memory and send you through again.\u201d

\u201cYou wipe my memory, but I get better, every time.\u201d

\u201cYes. Memory traces.\u201d

\u201cSo I\u2019m beating it. And I\u2019ll get out, eventually. Beat you.\u201d

\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d

The jar shatters. AIDA says, \u201cOh dear, not again.\u201d This could be her one shot at escape.

***

\u201cYou put this in my head.\u201d

\u201cDr. Radcliffe knew the best way to keep you busy was to give you something to fight.\u201d

\u201cSomething like you.\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d AIDA lifts an eyebrow. \u201cBut this is the program\u2019s end. We\u2019re coding more but we can\u2019t keep up with you. You keep getting through it faster. I\u2019ll wipe your memory and send you through again.\u201d

\u201cYou wipe my memory, but I get better, every time.\u201d

\u201cYes. Memory traces.\u201d

\u201cSo I\u2019m beating it. And I\u2019ll get out, eventually. Beat you.\u201d Her eyes flicker to the corner of the room. \u201cAnd whoever else you\u2019ve brought to enjoy the show.\u201d

She had hoped to elicit some clue from her gaoler. But all she receives as an answer is: \u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d As so many times before, the ladder squirms beneath her fingers; it grows scales.

The jar shatters. AIDA says, \u201cOh dear, not again.\u201d And May (this could be her one shot at escape) forgets the old man who stared at her from the corner.

***

AIDA falls from the balcony, like the nightly curtain on a melodrama that has run too long. May\u2019s eyes widen as her enemy dissolves into the code.

\u201cOh no\u2026\u201d

\u201cHello, Agent May,\u201d says AIDA.

May turns. Her brow furrows. \u201cYou. Again.\u201d

(\u201cCongratulations,\u201d says AIDA, unregarded. \u201cYou got further this time than your previous attempts at this course.\u201d)

\u201cYou remember. Good.\u201d The old man walks out of the room to join May on the balcony. The false light of the painted sun discloses a mop of grey hair, an angry slash of eyebrows. \u201cI\u2019d ask whether you come here often. But I think that I already know the answer to that.\u201d

(\u201cWe call it \u2018The Framework\u2019 . Your journey to escape Dr. Radcliffe\u2019s lab; our fight; all of this is a simulation. I assure you: you\u2019re safe. We\u2019ve moved you to another location.\u201d)

\u201cYou\u2019re chattier than the first time,\u201d she says. Most likely, he\u2019s a simulation. Another dragon that Radcliffe has summoned for her to slay. (\u201cDr. Radcliffe knew the best way to keep you busy was to give you something to fight.\u201d) But at least he\u2019s someone talking who isn\u2019t AIDA.

\u201cI was diagnosing.\u201d He rests his arms on the balcony rail; looks out at the limits of the world.

\u201cAnd what did you diagnose?\u201d

(\u201cYes. But this is the program\u2019s end. We\u2019re coding more but we can\u2019t keep up with you.\u201d)

\u201cStop me if you\u2019ve heard this one before.\u201d He squints into the sun; fishes in a pocket; pulls out a pair of shades. \u201cThere\u2019s this woman. She\u2019s like a rat, scurrying through a maze. But she forgets the maze, so in another way she\u2019s a goldfish. The important thing about this woman is that she\u2019s scary. Makes sense.\u201d He dons the shades. \u201cI\u2019d be scared of a rat that was a goldfish.\u201d

(\u201cYou keep getting through it faster. I\u2019ll wipe your memory and send you through again.\u201d)

\u201cHow do you know this woman\u2019s scary?\u201d she asks.

\u201cI\u2019ve seen the prisons they build for scary people.\u201d He turns the shades towards her. \u201cFrom inside.\u201d

(\u201cYes. Memory traces.\u201d)

May meets the blank, black gaze; tries not to think of the man she taught that trick. \u201cWho are you?\u201d

\u201cTime\u2019s up for now.\u201d He stretches. \u201cSee you on the other side.\u201d

(\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d)

The jar shatters. AIDA says, \u201cOh dear, not again.\u201d This could be her one shot at escape.

***

The \u201cOh no\u2026\u201d is barely past her lips when he resumes:

\u201cI\u2019m The Doctor. I\u2019m a Time Lord. I'm from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. I have two hearts, three brain-stems, and a respiratory bypass system. I walk in Eternity. And now I\u2019m the light in a scary woman\u2019s fridge.\u201d

Focus on the essentials. \u201cYou\u2019re not imprisoned in The Framework?\u201d

\u201cIt seems that I\u2019ve been landed a season ticket. From what I\u2019ve seen, when you rediscover the nature of your prison, my consciousness is pulled in to join you. When you\u2019re restored to factory settings, I\u2019m released. Rinse; repeat.\u201d

\u201cThen where\u2019s your body?\u201d

\u201cRight now, the Cerulean Tundra on Cholcis Prime. It\u2019s about ninety-three seconds away from becoming an entr\u00e9e. The Hostess with the Mostess in there\u2026\u201d

(\u201cI assure you: you\u2019re safe. We\u2019ve moved you to another location.\u201d)

\u201c\u2026 had better stay on schedule.\u201d

\u201cAIDA can\u2019t see you, can she?\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s her name? How very Byronic. No \u2013 she can\u2019t see me. But what\u2019s more interesting than that?\u201d

Ten moves ahead, and loving it. So much like Coulson. May bites down on the irritation. She listens to the placid voice inside the room.

(\u201cYes. But this is the program\u2019s end.\u201d)

\u201cAIDA can\u2019t really see me, either, can she? Not anymore. She hasn\u2019t noticed that I\u2019m talking to you. She\u2019s responding to verbal cues that I\u2019ve stopped giving.\u201d

\u201cScary and smart. I like it.\u201d He lifts a finger. \u201cConjecture: the subroutine that brings me into the program whenever you\u2019re aware of it also cloaks our conversation from your captors. A simulation running within the simulation. AIDA thinks you\u2019re currently mouthing off, and about to charge her. That\u2019s as much as is viable before she gets suspicious.\u201d

\u201cClever.\u201d

\u201cVery. Brilliant, and audacious, and maybe encumbered with a bug or two that should have been picked up in beta-testing. I know exactly who\u2019s responsible for that subroutine. But I don\u2019t know why. To understand the pick, I need to learn a bit more about the lock.\u201d

(\u201cYes. Memory traces.\u201d)

The Doctor sighs. \u201cTune in, for the next thrilling instalment. Same time; same channel.\u201d

(\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d)

***

\u201cOh no\u2026\u201d

\u201cQuite.\u201d The Doctor bustles onto the balcony, scans the view. \u201cData \u2013 must have data. Terrain and interior d\u00e9cor say Earth, North America, first quarter of the Twenty-First Century.\u201d

\u201cYou could just ask me.\u201d

He shrugs. \u201cAnd you could lie. Besides, needless grandstanding is part of my process.\u201d

She rolls her eyes.

(\u201cHello, Agent May.\u201d)

\u201cYour virtual friend in there keeps calling you \u2018Agent\u2019. UNIT? No \u2013 you\u2019re entirely too much ninja for the United Nations to handle. Torchwood? Hah. If Jack Harkness could only see that look on your face\u2026\u201d

\u201cI\u2019m S.H.I.E.L.D.,\u201d May says.

\u201cSounds like a prophylactic, or a tyre tread. Anyway,\u201d he waves a dismissive hand, \u201cthis set-up makes no sense. Terran tech of your era couldn\u2019t build The Framework. It\u2019s a tame period, give or take the odd powered suit and robot plague\u2026\u201d

She watches his reverie, as it lengthens. Inside the room, AIDA\u2019s impassive monologue counts down: the Lauds, Prime, Terce of revealed deceit. His frown clears.

\u201cUnless\u2026 Oh! I have got old and slow.\u201d

AIDA should never have caught that kick, drugs or not. The Melinda May of twenty years ago would be free, now, and saving her friends. \u201cJoin the club.\u201d

\u201cThis is text-book. And I know which one.\u201d He kneads his forehead. \u201cSome of you idiots must have been listening to the Darkhold.\u201d

May steps closer. \u201cYou know about the Darkhold?\u201d

\u201cI should do. After all, I wrote it.\u201d

(\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d)

***

\u201cOh no\u2026\u201d

His voice from behind her: \u201cA common, but not unreasonable reaction.\u201d

May wheels again to face him. \u201cYou can\u2019t have written that book. It\u2019s as old as dirt.\u201d

\u201cTime Lord, remember? Clue\u2019s in the name. But you\u2019re right \u2013 mostly. Travelling back to the Time of Chaos is forbidden, and the Corrupter was ancient when Gallifrey was young.\u201d

\u201cThe Corrupter? That\u2019s its name?\u201d

\u201cOne of its names. \u2018Darkhold\u2019 will do. We kept it in the Time Vaults, with the rest of the Omega Arsenal. The second most ruinous thing there ever was.\u201d

May raises an eyebrow. \u201cJust Number Two?\u201d

He searches her face, and smiles. \u201cAgent Scary is miffed that she was bested by what turns out to be only History\u2019s pen<\/i>ultimate weapon. You really are my kind of woman.\u201d

She does not blink. \u201cA penultimate weapon that you used.\u201d

He stops smiling. \u201cYes. I went through a.... questionable phase, back when I was young and Merlin. I developed a bit of a yen for doomsday weapons. Playing the spoons, too, but mostly doomsday weapons.\u201d

(\u201cDr. Radcliffe knew the best way to keep you busy was to give you something to fight.\u201d)

\u201cWe all made decisions we\u2019re not proud of in the Eighties, Agent Scary. You probably had shoulder-pads like pouldrons and power hair. But using the Darkhold was one of my blackest sins. So, afterwards, I felt the obligation to make amends.\u201d

She eyes him narrowly. \u201cYou re<\/i>wrote the Darkhold.\u201d

\u201cBarely. Doodled in the margin; added some jokes. Seriously, I put in one about a nun and a flamingo that you wouldn\u2019t\u2026\u201d He looks at her expression, and stops for a moment. \u201cLong story short: I hacked the OS. Corrupted the Corrupter. Almost killed myself in the process, but so<\/i> worth it. Now, sometimes, when a new patsy gets reading, and the Darkhold kicks off its inevitable dreary apocalypse, my hidden subroutine activates. A spell designed to save a single soul amidst all the slaughter. One shining footnote, in the Book of Sins.\u201d

\u201cThat\u2019s what\u2019s bringing you here?\u201d

\u201cThat, I think, is what\u2019s bringing me here.\u201d

May snorts. \u201cWelcome to Hell. The water\u2019s lovely.\u201d

(\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d)

***

\u201cYou were really Merlin?\u201d she asks.

\u201cOccupational hazard.\u201d The Doctor sits cross-legged upon the balcony. He stopped prowling the room several iterations ago. \u201cThe beard itches like nobody\u2019s business. Think of it as playing office Santa.\u201d

(\u201cWe call it the Framework.\u201d)

\u201cSeriously. There was an Arthur?\u201d

\u201cYes.\u201d

\u201cExcalibur?\u201d

\u201cMore-or-less. My Errol Flynn phase was over a long time before that.\u201d

\u201cCamelot?\u201d

\u201cSeveral.\u201d

\u201cNimue?\u201d

The Doctor\u2019s head snaps up. \u201cWhat?\u201d

\u201cThere\u2019s a girl, isn\u2019t there?\u201d She watches his face closely. \u201cIn the story. Beautiful, headstrong, clever. Merlin\u2019s apprentice, but he teaches her too much. He finds himself entombed in a crystal cave.\u201d

\u201cI\u2026\u201d He lowers his head. \u201cThere may have been. But that was later. I\u2026 I forget the details. Mentoring\u2026 it\u2019s another occupational hazard. You wouldn\u2019t know.\u201d

\u201dI\u2019m sorry, May. You\u2019re not welcome here.\u201d<\/i> \u201cMaybe I\u2019d surprise you.\u201d

\u201cMaybe.\u201d He glares back into the room. \u201cThe sink in there offends me.\u201d

\u201cDoctor\u2026\u201d

\u201cI hate taps. It\u2019s cruel to keep hoses in captivity.\u201d

\u201c\u2026I\u2019m a big girl.\u201d

He squints up at her. \u201cFairly sure you\u2019re not. They tell me that I\u2019m hazy about human specs in this regeneration, but I\u2019ll take a lot of convincing that you\u2019re not a short-arse. A well-muscled ninja short-arse, but a short-arse.\u201d

She lets him talk himself out into silence. So<\/i> much like Coulson. \u201cI\u2019m a big girl. I can take the truth.\u201d She watches as he bites his lip and looks away. \u201cYou know you can\u2019t save me.\u201d

\u201cThere\u2019s no tech I can use.\u201d He stares off into space. \u201cMy screwdriver doesn\u2019t make the trip with me; these aren\u2019t my funky shades. I could cook up something clever with the virtual tech you told me about in the virtual lab downstairs, but I always respawn in this room, and there\u2019s never time to get there before you reset. I can\u2019t talk to AIDA, so I can\u2019t negotiate with her, or trick her into revealing something that she shouldn\u2019t. And when I\u2019m back out there in the world, and my TARDIS, I can\u2019t narrow down the signal to its source because of the Darkhold\u2019s encryption, so rescuing your body is out of the question.\u201d

\u201cIt\u2019s not your fault.\u201d

\u201cYes \u2013 it is. The subroutine doesn\u2019t activate unless it determines beyond doubt that a lost soul can be saved. I\u2019m missing something.\u201d His shoulders slump. \u201cBut I\u2019ve no idea what it is. And that is really quite embarrassing. Saving people is what I do.\u201d

\u201cIs it? Still?\u201d

The Doctor stiffens. \u201cWhat do you mean by that?\u201d

(\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d)

***

\u201cOh n- \u201d

He is already grabbing her shoulder to wheel her around. Strong \u2013 a lot stronger than he looks. But he\u2019s still lucky that May doesn\u2019t tip his skinny ass over the rails to follow AIDA.

\u201cWhat did you mean by that?\u201d he repeats.

She looks steadily up at him. \u201cThe Cerulean Tundra on Cholcis Prime. About to become lunch.\u201d

\u201cHmmm. You have an excellent memory, Agent Scary, when it\u2019s on. I did scramble back to my TARDIS, though, while you were running the maze.\u201d

\u201cI\u2019ve never heard of Cholcis Prime. But the \u2018Cerulean Tundra\u2019 doesn\u2019t sound like the spot for someone who\u2019s saving.\u201d

The Doctor opens his mouth, and shuts it again.

\u201cSounds to me like the spot for someone who\u2019s drifting<\/i>.\u201d He flushes as she continues: \u201cI call bullshit when I hear it. It\u2019s part of my process.\u201d

\u201cYou don\u2019t understand.\u201d His voice, formerly so resonant, is now all but inaudible. \u201cYou couldn\u2019t.\u201d

\u201cTry me.\u201d

\u201cI was trapped, for a time beyond imagination. Living, dying, forgetting, living again\u2026 an endless cycle. I was trapped until I punched through the diamond walls of my crystal cave with these bare hands.\u201d He holds them up; folds one in the other when they begin to shake. \u201cAnd I endured all that for the sake of a woman I can\u2019t remember. I was\u2026\u201d

\u201cBeaten? Humiliated? Broken?\u201d May feels, on her skin, the bright, counterfeit air that is her prison. Transparent, but harder than any adamant. The diamond of the day. \u201cKnowing, in the few repeating seconds you\u2019re yourself, that if you\u2019d been less slow and stupid you\u2019d be free, and protecting your friends from the bastards who put you here? It\u2019s a small club, Doctor, but you\u2019re not the only member. And I\u2019ll tell you this: if I beat this \u2013 when<\/i> I beat this \u2013 I\u2019ll step back out into that unimagined world and go on doing what I\u2019ve always done. Because, if Camelot is forgotten, Merlin can always make a new one.\u201d

The Doctor stares at her for a moment; cocks his head on one side. His mouth hangs open. Finally, he smiles. \u201cI\u2019m guessing that those are the most words you\u2019ve strung together in twenty years, Agent Scary. It\u2019s a good look on you, and a speech I very much needed to hear.\u201d He pokes his head back into the room. \u201cDriver?\u201d

(\u201cYes. Memory traces.\u201d)

\u201cCould we take a short-cut? There\u2019s a place I have to be.\u201d

(\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d)

***

\u201cWhere are you going, back out there in the world?\u201d May asks.

\u201cTo the planet Rhodia. I\u2019ve received a distress-call \u2013 they\u2019ve fallen to the Shadow Kin.\u201d The Doctor\u2019s expression darkens. \u201cI can\u2019t save them all.\u201d

\u201cBut you can save some.\u201d

\u201cI can, and I will.\u201d He smiles again. \u201cThank you, Agent May.\u201d

\u201cThis will be your last appearance in The Framework, won\u2019t it?\u201d

\u201cAh. You worked it out.\u201d

\u201cFaster than you, old man. The subroutine didn\u2019t bring you here for you to save me. It brought you here for me to save you.\u201d

\u201cAnd so you did.\u201d He pauses at the door. \u201cWhen we meet again, Agent May, be sure to tell me how you won.\u201d

\u201cCount on it.\u201d May turns back to AIDA, as he leaves. She squares her shoulders.

\u201cIn three, two, one\u2026\u201d

The jar shatters. AIDA says, \u201cOh dear, not again.\u201d

This could be her one shot at escape.

FINIS
<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:37043","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/37043.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=37043"}}],"title":"Fic: A Bunch of Fives (Iron Fist\/Various, PG-13)","published":"2017-03-27T10:26:26Z","updated":"2017-03-28T13:54:06Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"preacher"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"elementary"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"iron fist"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"sense8"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}}],"content":"Title: A Bunch of Fives.

Author: Prochytes.

Fandoms: Iron Fist\/Sense8\/Elementary\/Preacher (TV)\/Doctor Strange (2016)\/Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D..

Rating: PG-13. Violence.

Characters\/Pairing: Colleen Wing; Sun Bak; Joan Watson; Tulip O'Hare; Stephen Strange; Melinda May.

Disclaimer: Not mine, any of it.

Summary: Five people who have sparred with Colleen Wing, none of whom is Danny Rand.

Word Count: 500 (five drabbles).

A\/N: Small spoilers for Doctor Strange<\/i> and Sense8<\/i> to 1x03 \u201cSmart Money is on the Skinny Bitch\u201d.



1. Sun Bak.<\/u>


Of all the night visitors, Sun fights most like Colleen herself. Her technique was polished in the dojo, then bloodied under guttering neon to the crowd\u2019s roar.

Sun is Gifted. Sight beyond sight is as New York as thin-crust pizza these days, but Sun has something more. Sometimes, foreign idioms invade their shared vocabulary of strikes and blocks and holds: a Continental haymaker, maybe, or restraint moves that reek of cop. This always throws Colleen off her rhythm, which must be the point.

Colleen grits her teeth and reengages, putting on a show for the crowd that is not there.


2. Joan Watson.<\/u>


One day, at Grand Central Terminal, Colleen dislodged the left canine of Sherlock Holmes. By a causal chain she does not interrogate, he therefore sends his partner to her for training. Like Holmes, Joan is basically a boxer. Colleen takes the bout to the floor as soon as possible.

Also like Holmes, Joan notices too much. Her gaze darts, even as they search for holds (scuff-marks on the threshold, bloodstain in the far corner, window still unrepaired<\/i>). It pierces the guard on Colleen\u2019s secrets; it pins her down.

Colleen never wins that fight, no matter how often Joan taps out.


3. Tulip O'Hare.<\/u>



Tulip does not stand on ceremony, or on much else. It\u2019s snarling groundwork thirty seconds after she stomps through the door. Tulip fights like a rube - a rube on meth. Colleen needs all her craft to keep that speed and savagery at bay.

Tulip is seemingly indifferent to fatigue, to pain, to the costs of her erratic guard, to purpling skin, to eyes forced shut by the swell of encroaching flesh. The meat holds no terrors for Tulip O\u2019Hare. If she fears (hollow gaze on the obsequious shadows of their grapple), she fears the spirit.

Colleen can relate.


4. Stephen Strange.<\/u>


There is a man with shaking hands. He did not train in the USA. His moves are (how shall we say?) reminiscent of others amongst Colleen\u2019s acquaintance.

The world creases, a little, at his passing, if one has eyes to see, like silk at the touch of rain. The Iron Fist unclenched, perhaps, to shape the world, and not to smite it.

He is fast, with an enviable reach, and enough of a bastard to make that work for him; most vulnerable to counter-attack when he has just been clever. Pride is his sin.

He is not alone in that.


5. Melinda May.<\/u>


The woman in black comes rarely. This is just as well; she does not believe in quarter. Colleen wears the white for this particular contest. Hokey symbolism is her life now.

Colleen stakes what she has of youth and strength and speed and hope. Sometimes, it is enough; often, not. The woman in black goes some way beyond knowing every trick in the book. She is the blank void of the endpapers.

Colleen fights on. She tries not to think that this is her future: a mind worn down by unrelenting marvels, until all that remains is edge. Always, on.



FINIS<\/a>"},{"id":"urn:lj:livejournal.com:atom1:prochytes:36808","link":[{"@attributes":{"rel":"alternate","type":"text\/html","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/36808.html"}},{"@attributes":{"rel":"self","type":"text\/xml","href":"https:\/\/prochytes.livejournal.com\/data\/atom\/?itemid=36808"}}],"title":"Fic: Duel and Duality (Arrow\/Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D., PG-13) (2\/2)","published":"2017-03-04T20:35:14Z","updated":"2017-03-04T20:36:15Z","category":[{"@attributes":{"term":"crossover"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"agents of shield"}},{"@attributes":{"term":"arrow"}}],"content":"Title: Duel and Duality. (Chapter 3 and Epilogue)

Author: Prochytes.

Fandom: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.\/Arrow.

Rating: PG-13. Angst, dark themes, and violence.

Characters\/Pairing: Daisy Johnson, Leo Fitz, Melinda May, Jemma Simmons (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D.<\/i>); Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Thea Queen, Felicity Smoak (Arrow<\/i>).

Disclaimer: Marvel and the Distinguished Competition share the goodies.

Summary: The world’s greatest assassin is on the prowl in Star City. A young woman has appeared in the Glades who isn't from a remotely familiar Earth. Oliver and company must face these challenges domestic and inter-dimensional, if everyone is to get out of this alive.

Word Count: 8534.

A\/N: Spoilers for Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D <\/i> to 4x04: “Let Me Stand Next to Your Fire” and Arrow<\/i> to 4x13 “Sins of the Father”.<\/xml:namespace>



3. The Word in the Whirlwind.<\/u>