captain

@agent-jones​ | send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing

5 Times Jack Saw The Team As Children | Torchwood WIP

SOHO LONDON – 1986 

Jack Harkness elbows his way through the hustle and bustle of the tourist crowd like any true Londoner. He’s not one, but he’s practised enough in the ways of the city that it certainly comes across. 

He tries his best not to kick a child that gets underfoot; escaped from the holdings of their mother in the worst place possible. It’s only when he realises that he’s stepped on the leash attached to the toddler, as his hands suddenly surge forward before this tiny human comes crashing to the ground, that he lets himself smile kindly. He’s frustrated, not an asshole. He hates London, not people. And so, the child is righted carefully, a booted foot moves from the material that once belonged in some poor mothers’ hand, and he nudges them off in the direction of a panic-stricken looking woman among the crowd.

Jack carries on forward, a tight grip on a bulletproof metal case in his left hand, striding across the pavement. The light of the Piccadilly Circus cannot be missed. Illuminated and neon, the artificial hues beam down on the public from every single direction. Jack has watched, over a century, as more and more fixtures were added. More companies adjoining their name to the fluorescent blaze. More tourists attracted to watch them glow. 

It is a little human oddity, Jack thinks, the idea that people flock from far and wide to simply take photos of adverts and bring them home to show their family. Humans have always been a little bit odd and always will be. it’s almost comforting to know that his ancestors from hundreds of years ago were much the same as the ones he grew up with. 

However, as Jack narrowly avoids getting run down by a classic black cab, he also thinks the novelty of this particular place wore off at least forty years ago. 

It wouldn’t be London without a sudden downpour of rain. The heavens seem to open up without warning and droplets don’t fall slowly and increase, but act as though a minor tidal wave were to be attacking the city. It’s different to Cardiff rain. Cardiff rain is cold, matched with winds that buffet your face till your nose is pink and your lips are chapped. It’s the type of rain that makes you turn up your collar and bury your chin within your coat. It’s a semblance of protection but, no matter how hard Cardiffians try, they will always return home soaked to the bone.

@princess-of-the-worlds​ |   send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing

Owen Post Cyberwoman | Torchwood WIP

Owen will never make it as a brain surgeon. 

He hadn’t even really wanted to be one, so it’s not like it’s a big dream down the drain. But as he looks down at Annie, the poor girl who had simply tried to deliver a pizza, lying dead on his autopsy table, he knows. 

She’s riddled with bullet holes; her white shirt slowly tainted crimson as blood leeches through the fabric and spreads like a disease. Shoddy stitching has been unthreaded and both the parietal and frontal bone of the skull removed, allowing Owen access to the brain beneath. Blood stains her face in streaks as her skin grows paler the longer time goes on. Owen had closed her eyes when she’d reached his table. He couldn’t deal with those eyes staring up at him lost and afraid. 

Not even the pizza girl was safe from Torchwood. She used to look at him with so much life. She flirted like tomorrow may never come and Owen indulged it from time to time. A few compliments here and there, a shared wink when others had been up in the office in the same moment. It was innocent; harmless banter. But she’d been sweet and she’d been kind. He knew that from the limited interactions they’d had. 

They’d been careful; he was sure of it. Annie was a regular deliverer of theirs but that shouldn’t matter. Torchwood. Tourism centre. She’d been none the wiser, she would never have been any the wiser. And now her brain sits open to the air on his table and it’s hauntingly similar to his past. 

God, why is it always brains?

He feels sick. 

Owen swallows hard, dropping his scalpel into the metal tray in front of him with echoing clang before he slumps back onto the tall stool behind him. His hands are gloved and disinfected, his elbows resting on his thighs as he keeps them held in front of him, but his head drops and hangs low between his shoulders.

@yavemiel |  send me a 👀 and i’ll post a snippet of art/writing that i never got around to finishing

Midnight Rain | The Old Guard WIP

When there are no lights shining in the countryside and the moon is stifled by clouds, it is a particular kind of moment. 

The darkness becomes long and sprawling; black that melts into shadows as one. The silhouette of the treeline is an illusion to the mind. It’s something your brain knows should be there - it was there in the daylight - but now it is lost to the night. 

Nicky’s eyes sometimes play tricks on him as he stares out into blinding obscurity. Memories play out across it as though the night were a canvas to be painted. Crusaders fight before him; their bright red crosses emblazoned on their chest; their swords glinting in the imaginary moonlight. He can see the rage and the pain on their faces as clearly to this day as he did a thousand years ago. He stares until his eyes itch with dryness but, with one blink, the abyss wipes the slate clean once again. 

He only has to wait moments before the illusions return to their stage. The longer he stares, the longer he forces his eyes open uninterrupted, the more real they become. They take the shape of people whose names he wasn’t even privy to know, but faces are burnt into the deepest crevices of his mind. Human memory is not meant for an immortal, but there are some things that time can’t erase.