My mind has been all over the place lately. I've got oneshots on the horizon, and more in store for "Detour," and possibly a new epic Ten/Martha story after that... whew. Please excuse my fanfiction schizophrenia.
This story is short and weird, and messes with canon a bit! The implications for what happens next will surely cause a change of events in the twenty-first century, and I think it's fun to speculate WHAT Jack's next course of action is, and how the end of Season 3 would have gone, had this story been true.
It's also interesting to think that that whole scene at the end WAS BROADCAST to the whole world, live as the Prime Minister went insane...
As always, please review. I'll love you for it.
Radio Drama
Drunk, covered in goo, in the dark. Not a bad night under most circumstances; under these, he could think of things he'd rather be doing. He'd just destroyed the last living members of the Glazier Org Clan, and their eggs. Fifty-first century files on these beings said that they were moldable, prone to change and rehabilitation and had, in certain parts of the universe, made excellent, loyal guard pets. But here at the dawn of the twentieth, his orders had been for total destruction, and a proper, secret burial.
Of course, he could have done it without getting hammered, but where was the fun in that? It made for a nice tidy excuse. I've been given a hideous task, and I don't know if I'll be able to live with myself. Better have a drink. Or eight.
Well, thank God the Glazier Orgs had clear blood. He really liked this suit. He voiced that opinion out loud and laughed like a lout.
He wrapped the two alien bodies and the splatters of eggshell and viscous fluid in a canvas tarp and threw them in a wooden wagon that he'd borrowed. (Well, not so much borrowed as fellated the owner in exchange for it, but whatever – why split hairs, eh?) He hitched up the Torchwood-issue horse, crawled in and dragged himself and his cargo out to a heath, perhaps 2 miles from Cardiff's current city centre.
He knew it would be at least fifty years before anyone dug a foundation here. By then, the alien bones would have decomposed. No fuss, no muss.
He looked at the shovel in the cart, daunted. Tired and drunk were not the best states of being for digging a grave at three o'clock in the morning in 1905… not that the time period nor the hour mattered. He didn't fancy this work in any sort of manner. He wished he'd been able to convince the owner of the cart to come along and help, but that undoubtedly would have cost him a bit more time…
So he planted a torch in the dirt and dug. Eight feet ought to do it. Good and deep, where the nastiest worms could get them.
But after three feet, he hit a snag. The shovel came into contact with something hard and it made a noise that he hadn't heard in a good long while. The sound of metal against plastic. He spat an expletive in surprise, then swooned a bit in his swirly stupor.
Jack dug around the thing he'd hit, and finally resorted to scooping out chunks of the soil with his hands. What emerged was a red box, perhaps twelve inches cubed.
He regarded it closely. Plastic existed in 1905, but only the cellulose-based sort, which decomposed easily. This box was in perfect condition, as though it was buried yesterday, but the heath over it had looked absolutely undisturbed. Jack took the torch and brought it close to the box. Due to its incendiary qualities and chemical treatment to reduce its flammability, cellulose plastic would either burst into a flame that would knock him on his ass, or it would turn black first, then slowly ignite.
He didn't fully think through what he would do if either of those things happened.
But neither did, the box only began to melt. He pulled the torch away. Nothing like this was supposed to be invented for at least another couple years, probably longer. Torchwood had acquired many things that mankind shouldn't have, but plastics was not in that category.
But he wasn't stupid enough to try and open it here – besides, it was summer and the sun would be up soon. He dug just enough to squeeze the bodies into the hole, covered it over shoddily, then split on the horse, leaving the cart behind. If the owner wanted it back, he could get it himself.
And so, on a dank little cot in a dank little room, in a danker little boarding house where Captain Jack lay his head (and sometimes other people's), he opened the box.
Inside was a small radio – the kind that receives the news and dramas and music, not the kind used for two-way communication. It was burgundy plastic, and was about the size of a lapdog. Now he knew for sure this time that it shouldn't exist yet. He let out a low-grade whistle and turned the thing over. The label on the bottom said, "Magpie, 1954." This must have been one of the first transistors put out when Magpie's nephew took over the company after the mysterious death of his uncle.
Forty-nine years from now. What the hell?
Jack reverently placed it on the cinderblock that served as his nightstand. He switched it on.
"From Dallas, Texas, a flash, apparently official. President Kennedy died at one p.m. Central Standard Time, two o'clock, Eastern Standard Time, some thirty-eight minutes ago."
"Walter Cronkite?" He switched it off, put his hands up at his sides and backed away slowly. "Whooooa."
He turned and looked round the room, as though to check that no-one was watching, and as he did, the world began to spin. He was piss drunk still, and it was 1905 – who knew what was in the gin? Good night's sleep ought to clear this thing right up. He lay on the dank little cot in the dank little room, killed the candlelight and went to sleep as the sun peeked in through the dingy yellow curtains.
Like clockwork, the daylight dockworker upstairs stumbled out of bed maybe two hours after Jack Harkness had gone to sleep. He stumbled across the wood floor as always, banged about with the coffee percolator, burned himself as usual, then left the building. Jack reckoned this was his cue to get up.
And there it was, still sitting on the cinderblock. Well, at least it doesn't move on its own.
Cautiously, he switched it on again.
A cheeky Northerner's voice came through. "Well, I suppose the things I said were accurate but out of context, you know."
A stuffy Londoner. "Put it in context."
The Northerner. "Well, I can't, it was a long time ago. I just didn't mean what everybody thinks I meant! I'm not anti-Christ or anti-religion, or anti-God, you know."
A high-strung American voice came through next. "Mr. Lennon, they are suggesting that since you did say it so long ago and since so much has been made of it now, it was all a stunt to raise flagging popularity."
"Holy shit!" Jack shouted. He was somewhat more sober now, and fairly certain that this wasn't an hallucination. A broadcast from 1966 when John Lennon was stirring the media by comparing the Beatles to Jesus, it really was coming through this radio!
He changed the channel.
"Good evening, I'm speaking to you live, just outside the Olympic village in Munich, West Germany. At this moment, eight or nine athletes from the Israeli team are being held prisoner."
Jack cackled and switched channels.
"Luke Skywalker and Han Solo rescued the Princess, destroyed the Death Star, but their story didn't end there!"
"1980!" Cackle, switch.
"Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!"
"I, Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela do solemnly swear to be faithful to the Republic of South Africa…"
"We have unconfirmed reports this morning that a plane has crashed into one of the towers…"
"The world changed forever today when an unidentified flying object came down in central London, destroying Big Ben before crashing into the Thames."
Jack laughed again at this one, and turned it off. Shades of an old friend. Stick around long enough and he'd always appear somewhere. Jack hoped, anyway.
He gestured frustratedly toward the infernal device and said, "But where is he when you need him?" There was only one man he knew who could make sense of this, but their next meeting was still at least ninety-five years away. Who knew what other craziness was in store between now and then?
What else was out there in the historical ether to transmit into his room?
When he switched it on again, he received only a pulse, like a heart-rate monitor, only in a different pattern. Four beats in quick succession: bum-bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum, bum-bum-bum-bum… over and over again. Jack's brow furrowed.
And then without changing the channel, a voice came through. A woman. Highbrow Brit. "I think Mr. Saxon is exactly what this country needs. He's a very fine man. And he's handsome, too."
This bit of history was new to Captain Jack. Who the hell was Mr. Saxon? Or would he be someday?
The broadcast changed again on its own. A man spoke now.
"Britain, Britain, Britain, what extraordinary times we've had. Just a few years ago, this world was so small, and then they came. Out of the unknown, falling from the skies. You've seen it happen! Big Ben destroyed. A spaceship over London. All those ghosts and metal men, the Christmas Star that came to kill. Time and time again, and the government told you nothing. Well, not me. Not Harold Saxon. Because my purpose here today is to tell you this: Citizens of Great Britain, I have been contacted. A message for humanity from beyond the stars."
And then a child's voice seemed to take over. "People of the Earth! We come in peace. We bring you great gifts. We bring technology and wisdom and protection, and all we ask in return is your friendship."
Then Harold Saxon's voice came back. "Oh, sweet. And this species has identified itself. They're called the Toclafane. And tomorrow morning, they will appear. Not in secret, but to all of you. Diplomatic relations with a new species will begin. Tomorrow, we take our place in the universe! Every man, woman and child, every teacher, chemist and lorry driver and farmer and, oh, I don't know, every…" there was a pregnant pause here, which caused Jack to lean in closer. "…medical student."
Jack wondered after the pause. What was the significance there? He was clearly speaking to a medical student, but how was all of this significant enough to warrant being included in a range of broadcasts such as those he had heard? So important, yet he, with all his knowledge of the next several millennia, had no idea what it was about.
He didn't even know the time period. All he could tell was that it was sometime after 11 September, 2001.
Another female newscaster came through. "…and there is a third suspect who identifies himself only as The Captain. They are known to be armed and extremely dangerous."
"What?" Jack shouted. He calmed quickly, afraid of missing the next segment.
Then an American newscaster. "The President is said to be furious that Great Britain has taken unilateral action…"
The British woman again. "And as the eyes of the world turn towards Great Britain, sources indicate that Air Force One has landed on British soil tonight… it's been announced that Harold Saxon has invited President Winters to take the address."
American. "It's three in the morning on the Eastern Seaboard, and President Winters has been chosen to lead the world into a new age."
An official-sounding American male. "My fellow Americans, patriots, people of the world, I stand before you today as an ambassador for humanity, a role I will undertake with the utmost solemnity… for as long as man has looked to the stars, he has wondered what mysteries they hold. Now we know we are not alone in the universe… and I ask you now, the human race, to join with me in welcoming our friends. I give you the Toclafane."
Some strange swooshing sounds came through then, and Jack assumed that some alien life-form had just appeared before the President.
"My name is Arthur Coleman Winters, President of the United States of America, and Designated Representative of the United Nations. I welcome you to planet Earth and its associated moon."
A myriad of younger voices, presumably the aliens, then launched into an absurd dialogue with the President.
"You're not the Master. We like the Mister Master. We don't like you."
"I can be master if you so wish. I will accept mastery over you, if that is God's will."
"Man is stupid. Master is our friend. Where's my Master, pretty please?"
And then the coup de grâce, the fatal blow. Just as Jack was asking aloud to the empty room, "Who the hell is the Master?" Harold Saxon's voice rang out.
"Oh all right then, it's me! Ta-da! Sorry, I have this effect, people just get obsessed. Is it the smile? Is it the aftershave? Is it the capacity to laugh at myself? I don't know, it's crazy!"
The President. "Saxon, what the hell are you talking about?"
"I'm taking control, Uncle Sam. Starting with you. Kill him."
The President's terrified scream cut across the air, and the sound of a laser, then mayhem, followed.
"Whoa!" Jack said. "No freakin' way!" He was caught up in the saga, the drama of finding out about Saxon and the Master, the President and what will transpire with the Toclafane. Was this future history, or was it a soap opera?
Well, clearly, this Saxon is a dude to look out for.
"Now then, peoples of the Earth, please attend carefully," Saxon growled angrily. Then, he got distracted. "Stop him! We meet at last, Doctor!"
Jack gasped. "Oh my God," he whispered crisply. "Oh my God," he repeated.
A man whose voice he didn't recognise screamed out, "Stop this, stop it now!"
"As if a perception filter is going to work on me! And look. It's the girlie and the freak, although I'm not sure which one's which."A second laser blast sounded, and Saxon said, "Laser screwdriver – who'd have sonic? And the good thing is, he's not dead for long. I get to kill him again!"
As if he'd been punched in the gut, Jack's mouth dropped open and he winced.
The unidentified man panted, "Master, just calm down. Just look at what you're doing – just stop! If you could see yourself!"
That must be the Doctor's voice – a bit higher and less northern than last he'd heard it, but the tenor was still there. Care and desperation, desire, passion, goodwill.
The girlie and the freak – one of them must be Jack himself (who else could be "killed again?"), and he presumed the other must be Rose.
A strange sense of both hope and dread came over him. He was going to be with the Doctor again, but there was a rough road ahead. Really, really rough.
The Kennedy assassination, the Beatles, the Munich Massacre… all of that was part of history. This radio was a collection of true broadcasts from the latter half of the twentieth century, and into the twenty-first. The other historical pieces led credence to the bit at the end with the Master, and judging by the fact that all of the Master's different pieces played on the same frequency, someone had complied it, like a montage.
The broadcast continued, and the Master gloated over his plan, but Jack quit listening.
It was a warning. Harold Saxon.
A red box in the middle of a Welsh heath, out of its time, playing some of the most famous broadcasts in Earth's history? Who else?
Look harder, Jack. You can't wait until the century turns again.
Jack turned off the radio and chuckled to himself. "The twenty-first century is when everything changes. I'll be ready, Doctor."