Everything Changed
4:25 in the afternoon. Harold sighed, looking up from the pocket watch and out onto the small Vermont farm. Wilhelm returned to the porch from inside the house, and hailed Harold to the farm house. Harold rolled his eyes, but closed his pocket watch and returned it to his vest.
He stepped out of the Plymouth Tucson, its black paint shining in the sunlight. His wool great coat picked up the breeze, allowing its cooling wind to fill his sweat-stained shirt. He brushed off the fedora he held in his hand before placing it on his head. Walking up to the porch, he caught his first glimpse at the older couple inside, the woman making her way through the old screen door.
Harold ignored Wilhelm and went straight to the old woman.
"Ma'am," he said, tipping his hat, "Lieutenant Harold Norman, Torchwood."
"It's still hard," the woman interrupted, traces of crying still in her voice, "I've already spoken to so many police… but I'll try to answer your questions and what you wish."
"Ma'am, we're not the police," Harold said, "And… I am sorry but I don't much care for her."
Wilhelm shuttered, and the eyes of the old woman seemed to deepen.
"All I want from you," Harold continued, "Is to know where the eye witness is. I need to talk with him."
"You have to be such a raincloud?" asked Wilhelm, turning the vehicle into another farm's driveway, "For Christ's sake, Norman."
"No offense, Sergeant," spat Harold, "But this case hardly has any hope."
"But you can't give them any? Wow, this has really got to you."
"Look, she's gone. There is no way we're going to find her. We haven't found the others."
"Doesn't mean they weren't lost. Don't turn into one of them, man," said Wilhelm, "Once this place takes your heart… that's how we lost all of our meaning."
"What does that crap even mean, man," said Harold.
"Look," Wilhelm put the truck in park and faced Harold, "Our mission was one of protection and salvage and… archival. Now the Big Bosses are declaring an all-out war on some… blue rectangle. I mean… how much farther can we go? It's this cold, machine powered hate that's keeping the war going."
"The war ended years ago," snuffed Harold.
"How can you say that? Washington keeps demanding weapons. The Soviets begin shutting us out. How about the homeland? Order 502? What are you seeing?"
"Life. What are you on about?"
"Hitler and Tojo may have fallen, but the war for liberty and freedom grows stronger," Wilhelm noticed a man emerging from the house, shotgun in hand, "It comes time you got to stop and think… what have we become? And in… forty years or so how will our actions affect Torchwood in the future?"
"Wilhelm… you worry me," said Harold, opening the door, "You keep talking like that… come on. Let's catch this bastard."
After calming down the eye witness, the man took them inside and sat them down. Both Wilhelm and Harold ignored the offer of coffee, but asked to see the site. Ten minutes later, Harold found himself in the woods behind the man's house. The man aimed his shotgun out ahead of him, towards an area of bushes and a dead tree.
"That's the spot," stuttered the man, looking around him at the forest, "That's where it happened."
"Talk us through it," said Wilhelm, scanning the area with a device he drew from his pocket.
"Well, as I told the police… I… I was out here, hunting. In season, mind you. I got permits. But I was… I was sittin' back there a ways, some, when I heard the little girl. Gigglin' and skipping along."
"Not scared? Jarred? All alone out here," questioned Harold, "She was just… skipping."
"Not alo-" started the man, but he stopped, "Not alone... there was someone with her."
"Really…" Harold didn't put any surprise behind his question.
"And I got up… and saw them. And… And… She screamed. And then they were gone." The man stopped, beginning to sweat, "Look, I fired a shot at him. You can see it there, in the tree."
"You just let them get away?" question Wilhelm.
"Look, I didn't do anything," said the man.
"Describe him," demanded Harold, looking directly at the man.
"I… couldn't really see," stuttered the man, "Maybe… he… had a suit."
"You can, and you will describe him," ordered Harold, gauging the man's shifting eyes and the sweat pouring from his face, "Look, we are not the police. If there is anyone you can tell…"
The man whipped his face, looking between the two agents for a moment.
"Who are you," asked the man, "Why would you believe me more then anyone else? It's… it's crazy, alright?"
"Because we specialize in crazy," said Wilhelm, holding up the device he was scanning with.
"We… deal with things like this," said Harold, his eye brows raising, "We're Torchwood, and I have a special interest in this case."
The man sighed, looking around before staring at his shotgun.
"The… man… took her," he started, "But I don't know how. He was… a big man. But he… wasn't big, you know?"
"Tall," helped Harold.
"Gangly, and tall… yes," said the man, "The girl was smiling, and laughin'. Then… then I gasped. He was just so… inhuman. The girl became so scared. She screamed. And he… he grabbed her. His arms… his legs. They were so… long."
"I got nothing, Norman," Wilhelm said, "But that's just the thing. This spot here… absolutely nothing. Not even anything normal. Just… a dead space."
"That's where he stood!" cried the man, pointing once more with his shotgun, "I raised my gun, and called out to him. The little girl… she… she reached out to me. She cried. She called for her parents."
"You shot the man," stated Wilhelm.
"First," said the man, tears in his eyes, "He reared up… he… he had more… more. And she… cried out for death. I mean, she was a little girl. What would make her say, no, plead such things?"
"Jesus, you shot her?" asked Wilhelm.
"I tried," he said, "But it… moved in the way. Then came at me. He… attacked me. I awoke… an hour later. I think."
"Describe him," Harold demanded, "What did he have?"
"A… suit," said the man, "He had… long limbs. He had… many… limbs."
"And his face?" cried Harold, taking a step forward, "Come on, man. Was it him? What face did he have?"
"He…" started the man, seeming to look past Harold, "His face was… oh my God."
The man's face turned white so fast that Harold was taken by surprise. When the man raised his shotgun again, the double barrels moving towards Harold's head, Harold reached out and swatted the barrels away, reaching for his own gun.
"No!" cried the man, "It's him! I don't believe it, it's him!"
Harold turned, his heart going cold. He pulled his revolver from its holster. Aiming down the sights he scanned the trees. He ignored the man's shotgun doing a sweep, his wails of fear now filling the forest. Wilhelm tried to hold the scanner aloft while grasping at his revolver, stuck inside its holster.
Harold scanned the forest, his revolver jumping from tree to tree. He scanned the treetops. Followed a gust of wind along the forest floor. Almost pulled his trigger on a fallen log. Again, almost on a falling stick. The reds and oranges of evening played tricks on their eyes. Shadows stretched from the trees.
There it was. A flash. A Glint. A red tie. Harold's eyes seemed to narrow on the tree. The raced the gun's sights to the location. A suited figured, ducking behind a tree.
"THERE" yelled Harold, firing a round toward the tree.
The round disappeared into the bark of the tree, the wood fragments exploding in a cloud behind it. Wilhelm and the man both jerked to the tree, the man now beginning to shiver.
"Oh my God… I'm not crazy… You saw it too?" cried the man.
"Quiet!" Yelled Harold, "Where the fuck is he?"
He scanned the area. The tree was still, the woods was quiet.
"Lieutenant Norman… What did you see?" asked Wilhelm, "There's nothing on the scanner."
"How can there be nothing," said Harold, "I saw it. Alright? I know I did!"
"Bullets don't harm him… I shot him twice! He's coming back for us…" the man began to ball, pacing slightly behind the two agents, "Oh, lord! Why me? Why have you forsaken me?"
Harold's eye caught it again. He looked towards where he had seen it. A movement out of the corner of his eye. There he was. Roughly eight feet up the tree. Red tie being blown by the wind. Clear, pressed black suit. Appearing to stair at the group. From this distance Harold could not make out the face, besides he appeared pale.
The man began to wail, aiming his shotgun into the trees where Harold saw the figure.
"Wait, no!" cried Harold.
The gunshot seemed to deafen Harold as both barrels flared, ripping apart the forest ahead. As if knowing, the figure dipped behind the tree once more, the bullets doing nothing.
"Stop!" yelled Harold, running off in the direction of the figure, "Torchwood! Halt!"
"Lieutenant… NO!" cried Wilhelm behind Harold as he dashed into the forest.
Harold could feel his breath beginning to catch, so he had to calm his mind. He began controlling his breathing, like he learned in France. Running through the woods, his eyes looking for him.
The well dressed figure ducked back behind a tree further ahead of him.
He raised his pistol and fired a shot.
"STOP!" he yelled, "Torchwood! I will catch up to you!"
He leapt over a log. A few steps later he plowed through a few thorn bushes. There it was again, ducking behind another tree. A Shadow seemed to glide past overhead, rushing ahead of him. His revolver turned, allowing him to fire again. And again. He kept running.
He didn't know how long he had been running, but he tripped, falling face first into a clearing. Looking up, he could see a shed… then a house. He was in the backyard of the eye witness. Looking around, he saw the back screen door slam. It was hiding in the house.
"STOP!" yelled Harold, scrambling to his feet once more and running towards the house, "TORCHWOOD! I will fire upon you!"
He nearly crashed right through the screen door to get into the house. He blinked profusely. The evening lighting cast shadows everywhere. No candle was lit, no electric lights were on. Darkness. Darkness his eyes had not yet adjusted to.
He moved his revolver around in the house. Looking. Blinking.
A pot fell in the kitchen. Without thinking, Harold turned and fired a shot through the door, embedding it into the electric refrigerator. Through the flash of the pistol… he saw him. Quick glimpse. Standing above the couch in the living room. Head bent against the ceiling. Legs long. Arms… so many… arms.
Harold spun around, his heart stopping. Cocking back his revolver. Nothing… No figure. Room empty.
The front door clicked shut. Harold's eyes widened. He couldn't let this get away! He rushed for the door, yanking open the fading wooden door. Behind him he could hear Wilhelm stammer through the back door.
"Harold, please… no!"
Harold pushed passed the screen door, rushing out to the porch. He was blinded by light, a shine of light. He raised his pistol. Blue lights flashed across the scene. Green lights also joined in.
"Freeze! Torchwood!" he yelled.
"No, you freeze!" cried a voice amplified by a megaphone, "We're Torchwood!"
"Don't move, CIA" cried another voice.
Harold's eyes had to blink some more, and he took in the scene around him. Four or five cars filled the road and yard of the house. On the road, police cars had blocked off the area, officers with rifles and shotguns running back and forth. A lot of people, officers and agents alike, filled the yard. Taking cover and aiming rifles and shotguns at Harold.
Some of the vehicles were pure black, like Harold's Plymouth Tucson. Only the ones from Torchwood had green siren lights, while the CIA's were unmarked.
"Drop your weapon, Lieutenant." Said the loud voice.
Harold looked to his left and right, looking for the figure. Gone. The man was gone. No suit, no tie. No face. He looked around once more, he couldn't see anything.
Behind him Wilhelm walked out of the house, his pistol holstered and his hands up.
"We'll say again," said the familiar voice, "This is Captain Damian Yelric. Lieutenant Harold Norman and Sergeant David Wilhelm: Drop your weapons. Please…"
"Did you see him?" asked Harold, looking down at his revolver, "You must have, Captain."
"Harold… please. Listen to me," said the Captain, "Drop… your weapon!"
Harold saw he had fired every last bullet. All six. He looked to Wilhelm, who retrieved his gun and threw it off the porch onto the lawn. Harold looked back into the house, before letting his go. It clattered on the porch before rolling down the steps and resting on the lawn.
Harold entered a daze like state. Some CIA grunts hand cuffed them, slamming them face first into the grass. Harold could hear some people arguing, before his fellow Torchwood agents picked him up, brushed him off, and escorted him to one of the vehicles. He doesn't remember seeing Captain Yelric.
In the back of the car, he looked back at the house. The eye witness cried softly by a window. A full grown man. The Torchwood agents ignored irate CIA grunts as the went about scanning and taking photos. Wilhelm was cuffed, but was off to the side of the house. He was being questioned and grilled by CIA and Torchwood agents.
No one else saw it. A faceless figure. Standing… maybe… three feet away. Just over the eye witnesses shoulder. Starring… knowing. Harold's eyes narrowed on it. He could feel its gaze. Then… it seemed to meld with the darkness, taking steps back into the house.
"Case: NOV 7-200832. Lieutenant Harold Norman, Torchwood Agent since 1943," read out Captain Yelric, "Write this down perfectly, alright? This is for the records."
Harold looked around the room. He was in the main HQ. Torchwood: Boston. It was a nice, open room. He stood in chains, down to some prison pants and a white undershirt. Captain Yelric stood not far away, reading from an envelope. Corporal Smith typed on a Torchwood Typewriter. Instead of inked keys, lasers and light lit up the paper, scanning in the record of the trial.
Standing around the room were probably the most powerful men in the world. Director Smith from the CIA stood with his goons in the corner, admiring the head quarters of Torchwood. Director J. Edger Hoover sat on a panel in front of Harold. The FBI ignored the urge to marvel at the stuff around them, and they just shuffled through papers. These two forces were only the smallest portion, however.
Torchwood Motherland was here. They consisted of Torchwoods One, Two, and Three. From Three, Cardiff, sat head Director William Walpole and his associates; a man in his late twenties with a large, military overcoat (quite possibly a Captain, thought Harold) and a scrawny woman with a monocle. From Two, Glasgow, were Director Ailean (Alan) Buchanan and his Irish assistant, Meredith McFeal (renown for her research in mood and pheromone altering alien technology). And From Torchwood One, London, were Administrator Laurie Burbank, Admiral William Holst, and Chief Liaison Captain Arnold Burbank (Laurie's Husband).
This was big, Harold knew. You don't get the most powerful team of people on the planet in the same room together unless it was important. Captain Yelric was nervous, he could tell. Leader of Torchwood Nine, and the entire world pressing down on his shoulders.
"Lieutenant, you have been with us for nearly Seven years," started Yelric, "And now it all comes to an end. I am sorry to say that I made a mistake with you."
"Let's keep this professional," cut in Mrs. Burbank.
"For Christ sake, woman, have a heart," barked Yelric, who adjusted his tie and continued, "Your efforts in the war were rewarded with active duty as a Torchwood Lieutenant, son. You understand, however, why this must be done?"
"Because you think I am crazy," said Harold, his fists clenching.
"No! Your work on Der Ritter has little to do with this," cut Yelric, "It's your manor. Conspiring, insubordination, free lance work! Damnit, man, you give me no choice. Your actions have put Torchwood at risk every single day! Der Ritter? New York's Pig-Men? How about that Canadian Dalek?"
"All successful, sir," said Harold.
"MOST successful, and barely still," said Yelric.
"Complete disregard for the American people," added Director Hoover, "The countless amount of damage done. What about these innocent lives lost?"
"And national security!" Smith yelled out, "What if those goddamn reds found out about this!"
"Gentlemen, please," Mrs. Burbank hushed them, "That discussion is for another time."
"You have a disregard for Torchwood chain of command," continued Yelric, "Unregistered missions, misuse of alien technology, and ignorant disregard of Torchwood interrogation procedure."
"Your actions have affected your… partner?" asked Burbank, the Torchwood board looking confused, "Americans… you and your ranks."
"I don't understand," asked Harold.
"Sergeant Wilhelm will be under evaluation next," Yelric said, starring down at his boots, "I'm sorry. His actions were his own."
"He followed my orders half the time," said Harold, his heart starting to race, "It's my fault! Add his sentence to mine. Let me take it, he's a good agent!"
"He's a follower," said Yelric, "But he's a good man. His actions were his own. He will be tried. So, in closing: Insubordination, high treason to the United States of America, your controversial work on Der Ritter, conspiracy to contain an unknown entity of terrestrial or alien origin without permission of superiors on Torchwood ground."
Yelric stopped, sighing. He turned away from Harold, closing the envelope in his hand.
"How do you plead?" asked Yelric.
"Please, you have to believe me, I saw him again," said Harold, "Der Ritter is real, you understand? I saw him, people… saw him. More will go missing if you don't take me seriously!"
"Damnit, man! He's not real!" yelled Yelric, throwing the envelope at Harold.
As papers filled the air and began to flutter to the floor, Burbank sighed, taking off her glasses. There was a shuffling in the room.
"Lieutenant Norman," said Director Walpole, "You have been diagnosed with PTSD, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."
Harold looked at him, his eyes going cold.
"Der Ritter… is a myth, mate," continued Walpole, "During your time in the war you witnessed… much. Your experiences there and then with Torchwood have driven them to an obsession in one outlet you can handle. This… man. This… Der Ritter."
"No," said Harold, pushing against his restraints, "NO! I saw him… he is real."
"No, Lieutenant," Walpole whispered, the entire room going quiet, "There's no readings, no physical evidence, no rift activity. You're after the boogie man. He doesn't exist!"
"We have enough stuff to worry about then rouge agents, Mr. Norman," said Burbank, "Ones I wish to get to the bottom of, right away! What do you plead, Harold Norman."
"No guilty!" Harold spat through his teeth.
"Irrelevant," said Burbank, "Cardiff, how say you?"
Walpole sighed, "Guilty."
"Glasgow."
"Guilty."
"Boston."
Yelric closed his eyes, walking away from Harold and towards the table of executives.
"We find him… Guilty," said Yelric.
"London finds you Guilty!" Burbank said.
"And we must agree," Director Smith said.
"Irrelevant!" barked Burbank, "Mr. Harold Norman, you are now dishonorably discharged from Torchwood!"
Harold was surprised that he felt his heart dropped. His entire life… gone. He looked around. He suddenly didn't care about being right.
"You are stripped of rank," Burbank continued, "You will be incarcerated at your place of origin. Cryogenic sleep. You will forever be held until a proper use or punishment can be found in the future. You will be unmarked… un named. A Prisoner."
"As per Torchwood Protocol," she continued, "Rest in knowledge that you will be forgotten. Records, possessions, licenses, certificates. You will be erased from record. You will be only a memory, and soon even that will be sponged. You will have no birth date, no war record, and your Torchwood records will be added to the pile of agents whose fate you now join!"
"No," Harold cried, pulling against the straps that held him, "My family… my neighbors!"
"Your girlfriend and Bastard son will be dealt with," Burbank continued, "And… their fate will be yours. Harold Norman, you no longer exist! Prisoner Ninety-Nine, Ninety… Nine? Really? Prisoner Ninety-Nine, Ninety-Nine, Nine; you are hereby sentenced to cryo! Take him away!"
Harold struggled as four large agents came forward, lying back the board he was strapped to and turning it into a stretcher and they began wheeling him out of the room. Harold looked back, seeing the group now meeting up, Director Smith and Director Hoover enter an argument with Burbank and Buchanan.
There he was, out of the corner of Harold's eye. The figure. Standing back, by the door. By the elevator door. Just… looking.
Another's head jerked that way. Harold turned to look, that man… that Captain from Torchwood Three. He jerked his head, looking at the elevator. The figured ducked away, and Harold wondered if he had seen it.
The man turned his head, looking at Harold, and their eyes met. Then he knew. As Harold was wheeled out of the room he thought he saw the Captain asking the woman and Walpole to follow him by the elevator.
But he didn't care anymore. Forgot all about it. The men wheeled him down the corridor, and put him to sleep with anesthetic. He awoke some time later at the holding facilities; some few blocks away from the headquarters, where the long-term storage was and the cryogenics facilities. He was already laying in a Cryo tube, getting hooked up to the life support systems.
"I was in cryo once," said the masked guard next to him.
"Fuck you," murmured Harold.
"No, really," said the guard, "Everyone expects it to be cold. But this… this is gonna burn!"
Just like that, the work was done. The tube door shut, and it got chilly. The glass frosted over, and his body felt like it was set on fire.
The door flew open in the cryo tube, and Harold gasped as he vaulted from the tube. He hit the cement hard, but he didn't mind as he frantically patted at his burning body.
Harold let out a cry, wriggling on the ground. The burning didn't seem to stop. A constant burning. He coughed and begun to shiver as the burn turned into an unbearable chill. His throat felt so dry. He could almost feel it cracking as his cries died down.
A figure was over him in seconds, pouring a liquid into his mouth. At first he tried to pull back, coughed up the liquid, but thirst took over and he reached out for the capsule and began to swallow in between his gasped for air.
"Woah, woah," cried the figured, who now tried to reclaim the capsule, "If I knew you were going to be this high-maintenance I would have left you in there."
Harold stayed on the floor, listening as is muffled hearing began to return. He was aware of an awkward silence, and the footsteps as the man paced around him.
"Alright, I can see you're gonna need some help," said the voice, a man's voice, "Look, I want to warn you. This isn't any funny business. You might feel a slight twinge."
A needle was plunged into Harold's buttocks, the first time he actually realized he was naked on the floor. Before he could yell out in pain he felt his eyelids slam shut and his body felt heavier then lead.
As quickly as he couldn't move, he was in full control of his body. He opened his eyes. He was in some sort of medical room, an examination light above him, but turned off. He quickly sat up, looking around. He was dressed now, in what appeared to be old, moth tattered prison pants and a shirt. His nose scrunched at the feeling of it, and he looked around the room. Cobwebs and dust seem to litter the whole place, including the lines that were in his arm. They appeared to be some sort of medical IVs. He was about to stand when a figure entered the room. He was a tall, late twenties male with raggedy hair. He wore a blue button down shirt with suspenders and a holster strapped to his hip. He also had a large grey overcoat on, looked military esque.
"Y-you…" muttered Harold, trying to point, "I know you."
"Give yourself some time," said the man, "Your memory could be a little foggy. Although you'll be a lot better once you're rehydrated."
"Where am I…" asked Harold.
He brushed some dust off the bed in which he had been lying, and scrunched his nose at the resulting cloud of dust.
"When are you more like it," said the man, "You are right where we left you. You are in Torchwood Nine's Cryogenic Facility and Internal Prison."
"They sure let the place go," said Harold.
"Indeed, more true then you know," said the man, "The date is November 8th."
"Wow, an entire day," said Harold.
"The year is two thousand and nine," said the man.
"Jesus…" Harold murmured, "Have I been out of it."
"Exactly, that's why I'm here. My name is Captain Jack Harkness," said the man, "Do you remember who you are?"
"I… I believe I was Harold Norman."
"Was? Still are. Prisoner 99,999, or Ninety-Nine, Ninety-Nine, Nine, was forgotten years ago."
"How come?" asked Harold, "Why bring me back?"
"It's a long story, Harold. Can I call you Harold? Maybe you go by Harry?"
"Don't you even think about it."
"Well, I have to get you in some more normal clothes and get you back to the hub for debriefing," Jack said, ducking out of the room before returning with a pile of clothes, "I don't want to worry you, but a lot has changed. I figured waking up in semi-normal clothes for you would be ok but that's all they had here. While you recovered I went shopping."
"Good, feels like I climbed out of a coffin," said Harold, taking off the awkward white shirt and casting it aside.
"Well, you sort of have," said Jack, smiling, "We might as well consider you the world's fifth zombie, eh?"
"A what? Zombie?" asked Harold.
"Christ… yes we got a lot to go over. Back at the hub, anyway."
"You European, right?" asked Harold.
"Yes, Whales."
"Thought so. It's called a Headquarters, or HQ," said Harold, "That 'hub' stuff gives you away."
"Well, it's alright. Let's go."
On the surface, Harold felt really out of place. The jeans he was wearing didn't fit perfectly and the stupid new shirt he was given itched.
"Once we get back to the 'HQ' we can located your personal possessions in the vault. You are the guys with the vault, right?" Asked Jack, walking on ahead through the new streets of Boston.
"Yeah," stuttered Harold, looking around, "I think…"
Boston looked different. The cars were louder and looked smaller. The trucks looked somehow bigger. Harold scoffed at a group of scantily class women who passed him, and marveled at how suits and coats seemed to have been replaced with jeans and tee-shirts.
"As I said, a lot has changed," said Jack, "And even more changes are coming. The United States has become… faster."
"Speaking of faster… where are the others?" asked Harold, "Why are we walking? Where's the cars?"
"As I said," continued Jack, "This is much faster. Traffic and all."
Harold followed Jack through the streets of Boston, which seemed oddly different to Harold. Moving screens and brand new billboards decorated large, multi-leveled buildings that seemed to have been built on top of the large sky-scrapers Harold remembered.
They rounded a corner, and Faneuil Hall could be seen down some steps and across a street. Harold smiled, recognizing the building.
"Have I ever mentioned how much respect I have for you guys," mentioned Jack, smiling, "Out of everyone, you guys put your HQ smack in the middle of a marketplace! A busy one too."
"Pain in the ass during peak hours," said Harold as Jack hit a button next to a traffic light.
"One thing an old friend taught me," Jack said when the walk light turned, "Sometimes the best way to hide from the public is to be in plain sight, right in the crowd."
"Good idea, but doesn't always work," Harold laughed as they made their way around the hall.
"We once moved an entire shipment of Ciberman corpses through the Macy's Day Parade once to get them to the rendezvous point," said Jack, smiling, "On TV and everything. Who asked questions?"
"Nobody," asked Harold, laughing.
"Didn't even have to flash a badge. They let us just… drive on in," continued Jack, laughing at the memory, "Me and Rick just got out of the back and stood on top for security. Smiled and waved the whole way, right to the rendezvous."
"You're a weird one, Captain," said Harold, smiling, "Here we are… home."
Quincy Market. Full of life today as the last day Harold had walked it. Tourists and workers and men in suits all running about inside the small marketplace. Harold was surprised to see how much had changed and, right next to it, what always seemed to stay the same. Butchers and Bakers and Farmer's were now replaced by restaurants, though. Pizza marts, Japanese restaurants, candy stores, a Pub, and even the fruit stand was replaced by some sort of coffee thing. Jack seemed uninterested, though.
Jack smiled and even greeted several of the tourists and people he passed. Many looked at him in a strange sort of confusion, but a few foreigners smiled and greeted him right back, him returning their greetings in their own native tongue. Harold wanted to smile, but couldn't shake an odd mistrust. Who was this strange man. Jack Harkness… from one of the Motherland Torchwoods? How did he remember him?
Jack entered the middle area. A grand, open ceiling showed beautiful architecture that Harold remembered. Many of the adverts and decorations hadn't changed at all. Jack began scrambling up a winding staircase to the second level, and Harold followed. Up here people were doing like the ones below. The entire area had been transformed into a common room type places. Tables and Benches and chairs littered the area with businessmen having meetings over lunch, families trying to control screaming children as they ran around, students trying to read from a textbook, and even a lone man taking pictures of all the mishap.
Jack said nothing as they walked to a small corridor, and turned beside it where the old Torchwood ladder used to be. Harold's heart stopped, though.
Instead of a brick wall, there was a door. Looked like an elevator door. Jack noticed his recoil and smiled.
"You alright?" he asked.
"What happened to the wall?" asked Harold, "They just… put in an elevator and took away our secrecy?"
"Well… sometime after you were frozen, years actually, they figured putting in an elevator would aid the handicapped and what have you," answered Jack, pulling hard on a brick beside the elevator, which slid aside, "What was left of Torchwood Nine at the time decided to fund it. Put in an elevator. The next day it was in full use. Covers the entrance a little better, though.
The brick slid aside, showing a small keypad. Jack typed in some numbers and struggled to close the brick again. He made some joke about having to fix that before the elevator came on and opened. Inside was just a normal elevator, empty.
"That pad insures it will be empty and no one else can call it to stop while we are on our way down," said jack, stepping in with Harold right behind.
A few women tried to get on too but Jack held out his hand and flashed a leather wallet with ID inside, "Sorry, ladies, you'll have to get the next one."
He hit a button marked 'Door Close' and the door shut out the women. He then pulled back the control panel where a thumbprint scanner was hidden. After pushing his thumb to it, the Elevator began to move, and it plunged into the depths.
"This'll be better then climbing down a ladder everyday," joked Harold,
"Maybe, but where's the fun in that?" asked Jack, smiling, "No awkward encounters when you try to go up and someone else tries to head down and you have to wiggle around, some awkward glances are shared."
"Never happened to me," stated Harold.
"Well, you obviously are not up many ladders, then," said Jack, before smiling, "Not recently, anyway."
The elevator descended for some time before it hit the lower level. It opened out into a small room with a bench, and then a large door was ahead of them. They got out of the elevator and it closed, heading back up immediately.
"Here we are," said Jack, walking forward.
Harold rushed forward, grabbing Jack's arm, "Wait, wait, wait. What if it all changed? How will they all react to me? I mean… I was exiled and all. I just-"
"I don't think you'll have to worry about that," said Jack, laughing a bit.
"But what if… they're… weird and future-y."
"As I said… you won't have to worry about that."
Jack through open the door, walking through into the HQ. Harold took a breath then followed him inside.
"You guys need a bigger door," said Jack, "You know what you need? A big vault door. We have a big vault door."
Harold looked around the old HQ. Empty. Very empty. All around the HQ dust and cobwebs gathered. Some strange screens were set up where old desks used to be. Cabinets and lockers now gave way to these window-like screens and a few sofas.
Then there was the spot. It was yesterday… for Harold. He had been there. Starring towards where he stood. Judged. Now a series of large window-like screens covered that space. The spot where the panel of 'judges' had sat now held theater-like chairs. Off to where Jack walked off to was the area where the doorway used to hold the vaults. Now Jack walked up to a panel beside a fenced off area, the vaults now sealed off and filled with what looked like a giant metal pulley system.
After the terminal turned on, Harold could see that it didn't have dials and gauges but one large screen. Jack began typing things on a typewriter like pad on it and numbers and letter flashed on the screen like lightning.
"Where… where is everyone?" asked Harold.
"Umm… Gone," said Jack, "They're gone."
"Gone," said Harold, almost as a question, "For a few years it looks like."
"About right," said Jack, looking around, "Maybe longer. Wouldn't be surprised."
"How come?" asked Harold.
Suddenly the pulley system began to move, and Jack smiled, standing aside. After maybe a minute of nothing a conveyer belt below the pulley system turned on and began spinning. The pulley brought a large box up, the size of a suitcase, and dropped it onto the conveyer built. By the time it reached the end the whole contraption began to die down and slowly shut off.
Jack picked up the case and smiled, the showed it to Harold.
"I knew they wouldn't dump it, just in case," said Jack, "Here, you remember where the bathrooms were?"
"Yeah, over there I think," said Harold, taking the case from Jack.
"Well they were demolished to make room for a larger Armory. Americans…" chuckled Jack, "The new ones are that way. Locker Rooms. Go get changed into something you are more comfortable with and then head over here for debriefing, alright? I'll see what I can do about some lights and power."
"Wait, what is this?" asked Harold, looking it over.
It looked old, but the suitcase also was a newer brand, one Harold didn't recognize. On the top it had branded on it the letters 'HN' and the numbers '99-99-9'.
"It's a lie," said Jack, "Proof that you weren't entirely erased. Your last known possessions, maybe some paperwork on your case, and what you were wearing the time of incarceration. I'm sure they still fit. So go on, now."
Harold looked up at Jack, who turned away and walked towards the other side of the HQ while Harold turned and headed for the locker room.
Harold shut the door behind him, looking around at the lockers and the benches inside. He sat the suitcase down and struggled getting the latches to open. He heard the sound of air escaping, or entering. He realized it must have been air tight inside the case. He opened it.
Inside he found just as Jack promised. His slacks, undershirt, tan button down, tie, blazer, vest, and even his brown wool great coat all somehow fit inside and he laid them out around him and eagerly stripped himself of the strange tight jeans and weird shirt he was wearing. Two pairs of socks were also in there; at first he thought was a courtesy but then he found a vanilla envelope. It was empty, besides to give a name: one H Norman, and to connect him with prisoner 99-99-9. It also stated all that could be recovered from his personal possessions were inside. Dated 1967.
Harold shook his head, sighing. He looked around the case. A few pennies, an old note, a key on a chain, and a photograph. Harold picked up the picture, and his eyes began to water. It was the picture he always kept in the car. His Girlfriend, Dianna. She smiled and looked down at their newborn child. He had starred at it for a long time. Harold dressed himself, looking at the picture. They would be dead by now, or his child would be very old.
He picked up the old note, starting to grey with time. He opened it up, and saw it was a letter.
Dear Lieutenant Harold Norman,
It's me. Sergeant Wilhelm.
Harold gasped, nearly dropping the paper. He tried to smooth it out across his knee so he could read it better, but the shorthand looked to have been written in a rush.
Dear Lieutenant Harold Norman,
It's me. Sergeant Wilhelm. Well… Deputy Director Wilhelm. I was a Captain for a little bit but the FBI and all. Look, it has been quite a while since we last spoke. I shall be quick. I shall be Director Wilhelm soon. At the end of this year. I've been stream-lining a lot of new orders. Like the new vault, and the new way we catalogue the dead. That's how you, or someone aiding you, will be able to find this.
Look, Norman. I am leaving a few things for you. One is the key to my safe. In there might be a variety of cash, desk notes, some treasures, and photo albums, depending on when you get this. But the important thing is THE CASE is in there. Now, look, I know we were onto something with it but… you need to let that go, Harold. A lot has changed and I need you at your top game again. You can't let it consume you, consume your family. So please… I beg you not to open it.
Also I need to warn you. I am leaving signs, hard to follow… encrypted messages. You are a good man. You are trustworthy. A lot of bad things are happening here. I don't know if you will ever get this, but if Torchwood is to survive you have got to help them. We're being run over, taken apart. Those from the past seek to destroy us. The Government doesn't trust us anymore. They've begun to dismantle us. The Motherlands… they are not helpful either.
Harold, in the top of this case is the only thing you can trust, and you probably do not have one yet. Make sure you know who your enemy is… I may be long gone when you get this.
Good Luck.
Harold's heart jumped. Those from the past? Captain Harkness… he thought it through. That's it. That coat… military. He remembered it. Too Military for normal Torchwood Motherlanders. He was there.
Harold turned over the note, where he found printed 'Where we had our first and last coffee'. Harold smiled, then looked at the back of the case. The case didn't seem to have anything, no way into it again, so secret compartments. After trying for a minute, Harold sighed.
"Why on earth didn't you make it clear how to get in this thing," murmured Harold, looking at the note, "And why did you want me to remember 'The Captain's Diner'?"
Harold heard a click, then the inside of the case fell open, and out popped a revolver, and some bullet shells. Harold picked it up and examined it, then smiled. Wilhelm didn't believe in guns… could you believe that? Harold never went anywhere without his old revolver. Including Normandy. Nearly drowned due to the extra weight of steel and ammo.
Harold's smile faded when he heard Jack yell something back to him. He opened the cylinders and began to load it. Whatever happened here, that man knew it, and he didn't belong.
Vest, shoes, Gun. Harold stood, and packed away the rest of the stuff back into the suitcase. He zipped it up, and grabbed the overcoat.
"He's not the only one that can hide in a coat," said Harold, swiftly putting on the old, brown wool overcoat.
Something tumbled out of the folds onto the floor. Harold bent over and picked up a fedora, his old fedora. Inside was an older paper note that read "This was in the car," and then there was a smaller packed that fell out. Inside this one was some car keys wrapped in a note that read, "And now the car is in your hat".
Harold pocketed the notes, and put on his hat. The last thing he grabbed was the pistol. He pocketed in after putting the safety off. Then he walked from the room, leaving the case behind.
Walking out into the HQ, Harold saw Jack at one of the desks, typing on a keyboard. A few of the screens were on and Jack was starting to smile.
"Alright, lookin' good," said Jack, who leapt up from the chair and walked over to Harold, looking him up and down, "Well, looking good! I like the whole forties Noire feel. Takes me back a ways."
"Does it now," Harold said, "How far back exactly?"
Jack froze. Eyeing Harold, he put his hands up and began walking towards him.
"Hey, Harold," he said, almost at a murmur, "What's with the hostility? What did you see in there?"
"You," Harold pointed at Jack, "I remember you. I… saw you. You were there. That day. Yesterday… my last day!"
"Ok, Harold," said Jack, smiling, "I think I have some explaining to do."
"How did you get here?" asked Harold, his voice darkening, "You look as young as the day I saw you. You couldn't be more then… a week older. You were frozen."
"Now, Harold, I'm complicated," Jack took another few steps closer, "What's wrong? What did you see?"
"Where is everyone," said Harold, "Don't you lie."
"I don't know what you are talking about," said Jack, almost laughing, "There's a lot of history to cover, Harold. Now… calm down. What's in your pocket?"
Jack made a grab for Harold's hand, which he dodged and pulled out the revolver. Harold slammed the butt of it into Jack's face, making him fly back. Harold cocked back the hammer and took a stand, facing Jack.
"Alright, 'Captain Jack'," yelled Harold, "If that is your real name. What did you do? Why were you cryoed? How'd you get out?"
"Christ, Norman!" cried Jack, recovering from the blow, "You are making a huge mistake. I wasn't cryoed."
"Bull shit! Look at you. 2009? You better start talking."
"Look, I am warning you," said Jack, "I am going to explain everything!"
"Those from the past, that's what he said," said Harold, "You and I both are from the past. Both of us! And I'm not the one awakening random strangers!"
Jack pulled a revolver, pointing it at Harold, "Now, Smith and Wesson? Meet Webley."
Jack stared at Harold, and Harold back at Jack. There was a pause, neither shooting.
"Now, Harold," said Jack, "I can explain everything but you need to-"
Harold pulled the trigger, a single shot right in his head. Jack jerked back, before slumping over. Blood spilt across the floor and panel. Harold let out his breath and sighed, before looking around.
He seemed to be alone still, so he walked past the Captain's dead body and headed towards the desk.
"They always talk too much," said Harold, smiling, "They never think I'll do it. We're Torchwood. We shall always do it."
He looked at the screen, and down at the keyboard. A small bar was filling up the screen, and he looked at it in confusion. When it reached the other side of the screen, a window popped up prompting: "Would You Like to launch T.I.F.A.N.I.?" and a "Y/N" was below it.
Harold looked down at the keyboard in front of him and murmured "Tiffani… yes?". He hit the 'Y' key and the entire Headquarters seemed to sputter to life.
All the nearby screens flashed on, words scrolling across them. The lights flickered on, engines could be heard from deep below the base. Harold hung on, wondering what he had just done. Then a face appeared above him. It was a blue face of a woman, and he yelped, jumping back for a second.
"The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence is now online," came a booming, English voice of a female, "Now scanning personnel. Please state your name."
"Uh…" stuttered Harold, looking over the great face, "Harold Norman."
"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks," said the voice.
"Uhh… Lieutenant Harold Norman?"
"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks."
"What? Torchwood Agent Lieutenant Harold Norman. Badge Number: 32785?"
"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks."
"Maybe I don't exist, then," said Harold, laughing, "I don't exist. What are you used for?"
"No personnel by that name exist in our data-banks."
"Are you joking?" asked Harold, almost laughing at his luck, "Ok… uh… Captain Jack Harkness?"
"Biomass and Voice Identification not a match for one: Captain Harkness of Torchwood. Intruder Detected."
"Wait, no!" said Harold, his heart beating, "Oh, no! This is not good. Uhh… Director David Wilhelm!"
"Biomass and Voice Identification not a match for one: Director David Wilhelm of Torchwood. Intruder Detected."
"Ugh!" Harold got a little antsy, he began to pace, "uhh… Prisoner Ninety-Nine, Ninety-Nine, Nine!"
There was a pause, and the machine waited. Harold's heart almost jumped. Then, the face turned to him and the screen ran alight with letters and numbers. Then everything went dark and the lights dimmed.
"Pass code recognized," stated the voice, "Director David Wilhelm, Torchwood order C76-1. New user: Lieutenant Harold Norman. Bioscan commencing."
A flash of blue light captured Harold and ran through him, causing him to jump, then it disappeared.
"Welcome to Torchwood, New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman," said the voice, "You may now use the Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence and have access to the Headquarter of Torchwood Nine. How may I assist you?"
"Uhh… I don't know," said Harold, "I don't understand. What are… you."
"Question," stated the voice, "Answer: I am The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence, also designated Tiffani. I am the interface that connects this facility, originally Torchwood One: London."
"Torchwood One?" asked Harold, "So you connect us with London? I don't understand your purpose."
"Question. Answer: My purpose is to constantly maintain and upkeep many of Torchwood One's systems and routines to insure maximum efficiency of operations. I am a computer program of alien origin."
"So… Torchwood One's systems… so why are you here?" asked Harold.
"Question. Answer: After Torchwood One's destruction in 2007, The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence needed to locate a new home. Torchwood Two: Inadequate Servers. Torchwood Three: No Interface Intelligence System Detected. Torchwood Four: Unknown. Torchwood Five: Disbanded. Torchwood Six: Disbanded. Torchwood Seven: Disbanded. Torchwood Eight: Unknown. Torchwood Nine: Adequate Servers. Torchwood Nine was chosen for instillation. Full download was complete before Torchwood One's generators shut down."
"I don't understand any of this," asked Harold, "What do you mean destroyed? What happened?"
"Question. Answer: Torchwood One was destroyed during the Torchwood Nine designated event: Battle of Canary Warf. The Primary Objective, codenamed: 'The Doctor', was present, and assisted in the stopping of a Cyberman invasion and Dalek attack. After the attack, the Doctor Dismantled Torchwood One."
"What about Torchwood Nine?"
"Question. Answer: Torchwood: America was designated a failure by Torchwood One in March of 1960. With the United States of America getting too involved with their operations, and the loss of focus by Torchwood: America teams, Torchwood Nine and Torchwood Ten were ordered for immediate shutdown. Torchwood Nine survive many more years under American supervision and minimal contact with Torchwood One. Torchwood Nine has been inactive since early 2000."
"Alright," said Harold, "But where do I come in?"
"Question. Answer: Invalid Question. New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman was created by order of Director David Wilhelm before his resignation."
"What order?" asked Harold, "Show me."
"Command. Initializing."
The face disappeared, and the screens began to flicker before the one closest to Harold lit up, showing what looked to be paper files and pictures of himself. An older man's voice could be heard over the speakers.
"Torchwood Order C76-One," said the man's voice, "By order of the late Director David Wilhelm, I, Director Tom Rynom, hereby create into our system the user of Harold Norman, for the day he is re-commissioned. I wish to note that there are no known files or records on anyone relevant to this name, nor why Director Wilhelm was so adamant on its secrecy."
"Don't exist," murmured Harold, looking over the records.
All that was on a screen seemed to be a picture of his standing at the terminal, looking up at the face, and the files states the transcript of the man's order as well as documentation by Wilhelm about the secrecy of this user.
"Uhh… person… thing," said Harold.
"Error. Please refer to me as The Technical Interface for Facility/Armory/Network Intelligence or by the user defined shortcut: Tiffani."
"Fine, boss," said Harold, "Tiffani, show me all records pertaining to Lieutenant Harold Norman."
"Command. Initializing," Said Tiffani, and the screen flashed, but showed the same documents and picture as before, "Only relevant match: New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman. Joined: November Eighth-"
"No, no! This isn't it," said Harold, "Damnit! How about records pertaining to Diana Roebuck. Or her son, Allan Roebuck or Allan Norman?"
"Command. Initializing. Diana Roebuck: Files encrypted. Name not found. Status: Diseased."
Harold closed his eyes. He may not fully understand what Tiffani was going on about, but diseased meant the same in any situation.
"Allan Roebuck: Name not found. Allan Norman: Files Encrypted. Name identified- encrypted. Status: Confidential."
Harold's eyes opened, his heart jumping, "He could still be alive? Tiffani, what do you mean by filed encrypted?"
"Question. Answer: The files have been locked away deep inside the data banks. You do not have the clearance to access these files."
"But he's my son," Harold slammed his fist on the desk, "They are MY family, damnit."
"User: New User: Lieutenant Harold Norman does not have clearance for these files."
Harold turned around, his eyes searing with heat. He wanted to yell and scream. He could feel it welling up inside him. His lungs felt like they were going to explode. His heart racing and yet feeling so still.
"You knew the cost," came a voice from behind him.
Harold turned around, reaching for the revolver in his pocket, but finding only lint. He looked at the table where he left it. Jack sat on the table, lifting the revolver and smiling slightly.
"How," started Harold, now his heart truly stopping, "But I... didn't miss."
"Complicated," said Jack, examining the revolver, "Not Post World War Two. So… how on earth did you get a gun?"
Harold swallowed, gaping at Jack's forehead. The blood had been wiped away, and no hole seemed to be present in the smooth skin.
"It was… in the case," said Harold.
"That's against regulations, long term storage of fire arms in containers like that," sighed Jack, smiling, "Americans. Thanks for not plugging the suit though. Or the coat. Hard to find these in my size."
Jack laughed a little before pocketing the revolver, and securing his own revolver in his holster.
"That was pretty ballsy, firing like that."
"You wanted to talk, you weren't going to shoot," said Harold, "Also, your safety was still on."
"Interesting," said Jack, rolling his eyes, "So, now we got a ton to talk about. Let's start with enemies from the past, hmm?"
"You first," said Harold, "This damn lady is no help at all. What happened here? What has happened since 1950?"
"Wow," said Jack, smiling, "A lot of that you'll have to do on your own. I mean, where do I start? Cold war? Space? Women's Rights? First Contact? Well… official first contact."
"How about us?" asked Harold.
"Let's start fresh," said Jack, patting Harold on the shoulder and ushering him aside.
"And after that, Rynom accepted the end and for the first time in two decades Torchwood Nine was shut down," Jack sipped from a coffee cup, "Solidifying the American Government in control of all alien, supernatural, and… paranormal activities in North America, South America, and… thanks to your incessant need to control everything, the world."
"And… they just left everything here?" asked Harold.
"Yeah, kinda," answered Jack, "As I said before, back in the early sixties all of Torchwood's American branches were being heavily weeded out. The grand Torchwood One-esque operation you are used to here was quickly… dismembered. Between Torchwood One's cleanup and the U.S. Takeover Torchwood Nine was more of a nuisance report. In fact, what you'll be taking over should be looked upon as more-"
"Wait a minute, what do you mean?" asked Harold.
"Whah?"
"Taking over? What is this?"
"Well… Harry," said Jack, "I… I'm kind of putting you in charge."
"What?" Harold stood up, his eyes looking over the unfamiliar HQ, "Why? What purpose would I have for it? Who are you to put me in charge?"
"Me? How about I'm currently the only official Torchwood executive on the planet," Jack laughed, sipping from the coffee cup again, "I've only been apart of it for a few decades, right?"
"A few…" said Harold, eyeing him, "How long exactly?"
"Long enough," said Jack, crossing his arms and sitting back on the couch, "I've seen leaders come and go, but the Institute's reputation has changed for the worse. When I rebuilt Three, and then One fell, I knew it was up to me to insure it becomes a force of good. Arming the human race. Preparing them for the future."
"Isn't that what One already did?"
"Torchwood became more centered on arming the human race," said Jack, "And then it became arming themselves. Torchwood became a government all on its own. Their obsession with the prime objective was unhealthy. It became about the weapons."
"Isn't that what we're about?" asked Harold, "Isn't that all that is out there?"
"No!" barked Jack, surprising Harold, "There's just… so much more! You people… I want to throw the American card but I see it everywhere."
"So why don't you run it," Harold said, leaning against a desk, "Why un-thaw a convicted traitor. Bring him into the future."
"Because you saw it," said Jack, "You saw the corruption and you were able to fight out against it."
"That doesn't sound like me," said Harold, "Sounds more like Wilhelm."
"Who you think thawed him out?" asked Jack, smiling.
Harold shook his head, "You didn't…"
"Had his sentence reduced, he did the rest himself," Jack smiled, "You know, under him the Archives grew by 237%. That's amazing. His information was pivotal in expanding our own archives in Cardiff. In his time he also ordered more holding of alien prisoners instead of instant eradication. True, he also began retrials of the Torchwood Sex offenders, rapists, murders, and traitors. Dumping countless bodies in undisclosed locations after torture and death… driving the local law enforcement crazy, haha."
"But not me," said Harold, then he turned to Jack, "Why me?"
"I don't know," said Jack, "All I know is I… need help. And when I came looking for it, your name came up."
"I got put away for an obsession."
"Small charge, you got put away for constant disregard of your piers and countless write ups for insubordination and conspiring."
"I was the Lieutenant! I got Wilhelm put away as well. I was never trained for this stuff."
"Your rank was just a stupid game played by post War American Torchwood," said Jack, "He followed you because you were a leader. And he became a great leader as well. This isn't about them, though, this is about you. This is now."
"If you're so great why do you need me?" asked Harold, "I don't understand!"
"Harold, everything is changing," said Jack, "Twenty-First Century is when it all changes. We are not ready. The world is not ready. So, I'm going to need to find some allies."
"You… don't trust the United States?"
"I don't trust any government," said Jack, but a smile spread across his face, "The only one I trust less then the good U.S. is North Korea and they're not really a threat."
"So you need a mole on the inside…" Harold rubbed his chin.
"No," said Jack, then he smiled and put on a ridiculous southern accent, "I'm lookin' fer some law in the Wild west out yonder!"
"Cute."
"You see, Torchwood America was always about trusting that things on this side were being handled. Problem is, we lost control. You Americans believed in sharing secrets with your Government, working along side them. Soon, you were under their control and were biased," Jack got up and walked to the coffee maker, "You see, I want to re-establish you in control of Boston. However, it is time you demonstrated some restraint and play by my own rules."
"I see," said Harold, crossing his arms, "Like a pet?"
"Like a partner," corrected Jack, "Torchwood was always supposed to be separate. Aside the government, beyond the police, separate from all nation; Torchwood is a world-wide, no, a species wide organization for the benefit of the human race. At first we were the only ones with definite knowledge of alien life, then we were the experts on alien encounters. One day, we may well be just… a name."
"But still in control," smiled Harold.
"You really trust one government or any one man with the power over forty Big Boys and a planetary destruction device as well as the power to teleport anywhere they wish through time?"
"Jesus, we have that?"
"It comes and goes," said Jack, "It's… different. Anyway, it's things like this. I don't think humanity will ever deserve it. Torchwood will then… hide, house, dismantle… whatever you wish to say. Keep these weapons away from the public."
"So why me in charge, then?" asked Harold, "I don't even fit into this world of… computlies and television."
"Uhm, computers."
"Why not promote someone from Three? Your team, whom you trust."
"Because my team has… suffered recently," said Jack, his eyes going distant, "I'm unsure how well I'll be able to… function."
"Ah, small team?"
"Something like that," said Jack, snapping out of his daze and smiling, "Couldn't do the job without 'em. Anyway, that's why I need you, Harold. I came looking and your name came up."
Harold sighed, staring down at the floor.
"So?" said Jack, "You going to dive head first into this? A new world? A new team? A brand new adventure."
Harold looked up, shaking his head, "What if I can't? What if I'm… bad at it. What if I can't control a team? What if I can't adapt to all this… H.G. Wells future crap?"
"You will do fine," said Jack, smiling, "And I'm only an ocean away."
"Only?"
"Did I mention? I could be here in a day, maybe more," said Jack, "Maybe even less if it's really important."
"Not helping my future crap case, Captain."
"So, what do you say… Lieutenant," said Jack, smiling, "You want to take this under your own wing? Will you accept this?"
Harold leaned back, thinking, before looking around. What would happen to him if he said no? Back in the freezer? A bullet from his own gun? Then his heart froze. What if nothing happened. What if he was released back into the world. This strange, car and computerized world. First contact already happened? So what is going to happen to him? He had no where else. Even before his incarceration he had been out of the real world since the war. And… the war. Before the war.
Harold nodded, turning to Jack and sighing, "So, where do we begin? Do I do this alone or am I going to need to rebuild this thing."
"Let's get your team," said Jack, smiling.
"So, what. I put up a flier? Hire out a radio station."
"Craigslist might work better, but I doubt it," said Jack, "Lucky for you, I might know somebody…"