All That's Left

A Captain Screams

I shrieked, forcing myself not to beg for him to stop, because he would never, never stop until he had everything he wanted. And I had learned in the past month, the last four weeks, the past 31 days – the past 744.1 hours, 44646.5 minutes, 2678795 seconds – he would never be able to get what he wanted. There was nothing I could do to ever make him stop. I swallowed what little I could of my tears, nausea barely able to be contained in my chest as I fixed my gaze at the steel, radiating wall across from me, rather than on the owner of the voice that now taunted me.

"Jacky, Jacky, Jacky." The Master laughed, reaching up to touch me again. I ground my teeth, locking my features in a perfect mask of loathing. My muscles froze, disgust bleeding through my every pore and seam as he grinned, his fingers sliding over my face. Then, he paused, the smile falling from his features. He glared, curling his fingers into enraged claws and dragging his nails across my skin. I hardly winced when his fingernails slit through my skin, leaving a bloody line across the side of my face.

"I don't know why I don't just kill you." He growled, now angered at my rejection of him. I swallowed, my eyes lingering on a blood stain just below my eye level. My blood stain, actually. "You're no more useful to me alive than you are dead."

"Because I'm more fun when I'm alive so I can shriek." I muttered, finally allowing my sore eyes to rest on him. The Master backed away a few feet, smirking like he had just learned exactly what kept humanity fighting him. My heart pounded, as he reached into his pocket, withdrawing the one device that anyone could grow to hate. His version of the one thing that drove me insane about the Doctor, but at the same time – the same agonizing, horrifying time – made me love him.

"You're right." The Master grinned, changing the settings I knew I would learn. I blinked, rolling my shoulders as he leveled the weapon with my chained torso. "So scream. Jack, SCREAM, like your little precious Doctor can hear you."

I shuddered, feeling another of my bones melt within my skin. So, reluctantly – thankfully, desperately – I screamed, hearing the voices of everyone who had ever looked at me as a miracle ring through my head.

Captain Jack Harkness screamed.


Ianto moaned, grimacing as he pressed his shoulders back into the stiff, bumping surface of the truck bed. It had been a hard month. First the bogus call-out to China right after Jack disappeared, and then the Toclophane – damn, the four of them were lucky to be alive still.

"Ianto." Gwen whispered to him, gently brushing his hair back from his face. Immediately, his hand shot up, catching her wrist and pulling it away from his face. There was still an open wound of abandonment left in him from where Jack had used to live. She sighed, lowering her hand down to her side. "We're here."

Ianto snapped upright, his eyes wide. He didn't speak, only standing – amazingly steadily for the fact that the Jeep they had been riding in for the past fourteen hours hadn't bothered to stop at the city limits. He leaned out of the back, allowing himself a small smile as his eyes gulped in the sights before him. After over three weeks of secretive, hesitant travel, they were back in Cardiff. Ianto sighed. They were finally home.


In the middle of some barren street in central Utah, the air quivered, then snapped back into place. In the exact center of where the disturbance had been a moment before now stood a figure. The stranger smiled, allowing their eyes to meander along the barren sidewalks. Heavy, black combat boots stepped briskly forward, hardly making any sound in the sleeping town. A smear of dried, flaking red glimmered slightly in the night, and any watching would have no doubt it was blood. Thick, black denim wrapped around the newcomers legs, rustling softly as they turned in their place, arms open to the sky. Two unequal chains dangled around the torn legs of their jeans, clearly an attempt to hide how abnormally thin their figure was for the surprising amount of muscle which barely managed to cling to their bones. They rolled their shoulders, now staring intently up at the moon above them.

Abused denim hung from the person's shoulders, clearly masculine and still inhumanly thin. His vest swayed open in the breeze, revealing the rest of his upper body as he spread his arms out to either side of him. Deep, blood red fabric encased the man's entire torso, hiding any scars that might be visible from wrist to collarbone. And there were a lot of them. A set of ancient dog tags dangled from around his throat, clinking together with a simple cross charm, and one other object. A single 44 caliber bullet swayed alongside the identification cards, an even more obvious clue to his identity than the name on the metal plates. Anyone watching the young man in the street might think him mad, or in the midst of some pagan ritual. But they would be immediately proven wrong as he began to laugh.

The midnight rays glinted through his hair, and he grinned, running his fingers through the uneven filaments. He shook his head, allowing half his face to be covered by the thin, raven strands. And yet, with his unearthly, glowing crimson eyes, he continued to gaze up at the silvery sphere in the sky.

'I made it.' The young man thought, paying no attention to the rest of the world. Then, he laughed out loud, a dark, discordant sound – like an instrument that hadn't had reason to be tuned for years before a big performance.

"Damn it, I actually made it." The man sighed, glancing lustily once more at the moon. He smirked, his hands finding their way to his hips. His fingers brushed over the object at his waist, transforming his delight into a grimace. He reluctantly pulled out the sidearm, checking that it had survived the journey. And such a long journey it had been, to get him to this point – to give him this much excitement. Now he had a job to do. The first thing he had been charged with was to find him, and the next was to drag him back. He didn't intend to fail. HE couldn't fail – only humans failed at such a simple task.

His simple, beaten solid black rucksack hung loosely from one shoulder, as he passed an alley in his silent strides. Wide eyes, a young woman watched as he passed, praying not even to breathe. Suddenly, her hold on the garbage can in front of her slipped, resulting in the quietest of sounds. Immediately, the stranger spun around, his sidearm leveled with her eyes. He had no time to spend with curious townspeople. He had one mission, and his patience was being worn away by the girl, huddled in a corner of one of the town's alleys. He ground his teeth, his humanity getting the better of him. Grudgingly, he offered the terrified creature his hand, and yanking her to her trembling feet. As she gazed up into his unnatural eyes, his strangely ageless face, he could hear her young heart pounding. He sighed. It had been a long six months.