Torchwood: Marathon
by Mirwalker
This story is set between Season One episodes Captain Jack Harkness (1.12) and End of Days (1.13).
Prologue
Cardiff's Roald Dahl Plass was less busy than it first looked.
In several places near the main road, the paving stones that made up the surface of the square were stacked in neat piles as the old damaged tiles were replaced and all the grouting reapplied, section by ramshackle section. Opposite the patchwork of safety-fenced exposed sand underlayer, nearer the waterfront, a series of temporary stalls were in the process of being assembled for the weekend's arts festival. And, at the edge of the plaza, the new addition to the Wales Millennium Centre loomed large in its girdle of advertisement-skinned scaffolding, as the light, storm-whirled breeze flapped the odd tarp and loose ends of the ubiquitous safety tape.(1)
But nothing else stood or moved in the great space, as the late spring chill had kept most people at home or in the shops this evening, and the cool drizzle had convinced further masses not to brave the night.
Into this jumbled and empty silence, a drenched and dirty figure plodded, clutching himself against the wet and cold. His wild hair and ill-fitting clothes were soaked, whether from a long time in the rain, or from a swim in the River Taff, from whose direction he came. Hugging the waterfront railing and watching only his own feet, the bruised and spot-shaven man muttered to himself as he pushed forward, not even noticing he'd entered the Plass until he nearly collided with a flat of tentpoles.
As if waking abruptly, he started at the looming pile and beyond, suddenly noticing the misty glow of the oval's illuminated pillars. His manner changed as quickly, the drowsiness left his face, he laughed aloud and he hurried on into the square. Looking about wildly, he called loudly into the sky, "Jack! Captain Harkness?"
He circled in place, both excited and confused, having apparently reached his destination but not finding it to be as he expected. With growing distress, he continued shouting hoarsely, "Jack! Jack Harkness?" until his eyes finally fell upon a narrow patch of sidewalk with ecstatic recognition. He raced to base of the tall, doubly water-covered tower, and spun upon a paving stone there, still looking about expectantly. One arm tucked tightly against his chest, his other pulled a scrap of fabric from a pocket and held it over his head. He waved it frantically and repeated with his diminishing voice, "Jack Harkness? Captain? Need your help! Hello? Torchwood?"
Rainfall. Flapping tape. An empty plaza, save him.
His energy gone as quickly as it had come, the man plopped down on the curb dejectedly and looked out into the world. His tired eyes leaked raindrops of their own; and he sighed a quiet, desperate, "Cantor? Please. Need you." Seeing and sensing no response, and still clutching the fabric scrap, he finally gave in to the cold and wet, curled up on the pavement and closed his eyes.
Rainfall. Flapping tape. An entirely empty plaza again.
At various points around the Plass, CCTV cameras rotated on their mounts, ignoring the twinkling harbor lights in the background, and instead zoomed in on the otherwise un-notable unconscious man and then the swatch fluttering in his hand. After resting there a moment, all but one camera zoomed out quickly and panned the area for other weather-beaten souls. As they maintained their scans for possible witnesses, a low grinding sound heralded the slow descent of the cement square on which the man lay unmoving, as it sank into the ground and was promptly and seamlessly replaced by a passengerless copy.
On the Plass, the relative malaise continued, undisturbed.
Dripping rainwater, the invisible lift slowly lowered to floor level deep in the Hub, with one stun gun and all eyes focused on it the entire way down.
Under watchful eyes and from an arm's length, the technician quickly scanned the sopping figure, and nodded him 'clear.' The medic stepped over, squatted next to him, and cautiously took a wrist to check for a pulse. Simultaneously removing the fabric swatch, he examined it quickly before handing it over to the constable.
At the contact and sounds, the figure stirred groggily, heavy eyes searching about until they came to rest on a towering, suspendered figure. A tired smile creased his face, as his exhaustion lifted, "Can- Jack, knew t'find you." Satisfied, his eyes closed again under their own weight, as all other eyes turned toward his subject.
Captain Jack Harkness stared inscrutably across his folded arms.
Atop the Pierhead Building, beside the plaza above, but nearer the waterfront, the transmitter dutifully relayed the evening's small excitement.
NOTES
1. The BBC Hoddinott Hall was set to open in early 2009, as the permanent home to the BBC National Orchestra of Wales.
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