"Here's a simulation of recent Rift activity," said Jack, bringing up a graphic model of the city of Cardiff. He hit the button that released it on time-lapse, showing the course of the last 24 hours. At approximately 3 a.m., a red spike focused cleanly on what Bruce recognized as Mermaid Quay.
"Gwen, can you get the actual numerical read-outs?—maybe you can chart the progress of where this spike in the Rift would have started."
"Time or space coordinates?" asked Gwen, typing furiously.
"Both, preferably," said Jack.
"Here, may I?" asked Bruce. Gwen pushed her rolling chair over to Bruce, who sat down and moved with consummate skill through the computer software.
"So you know Oracle software, do you?" asked Gwen.
"I have something similar," smirked Bruce.
"It's pointing to something in the eastern seaboard of the North America," said Gwen. "Bruce, can we get a print out, please?"
"Of course."
As the laser printer hummed, Jack rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "According to this, two time streams have collided, both targeting a large metropolitan area at two separate times. Approximately 3 a.m. on the lower east side, and about 5 a.m. further north."
"The road out of Arkham Asylum," said Bruce grimly.
"But what metropolitan area?" asked Gwen. "According to my geography, there isn't one in that area on the map."
"You did GCSEs in geography?" asked Jack.
"I did, yes," said Gwen, folding her arms over her chest. Jack reached for his cup of coffee and found it empty. "Ianto!" he yelled.
"Ianto's not here," said Gwen.
"Forgot," said Jack.
"And doesn't that worry you the least bit, Jack? I mean, you don't seem all that concerned—"
"Gwen, I'm going to take Mr. Wayne here on a tour of the Hub. I neglected to give him one when he first arrived, and I think we should show him some of that famous Welsh hospitality."
Gwen looked nonplussed. "Yeah, okay."
Bruce got out of his chair, handing the print outs to Gwen. "Analyze these, would you?" Jack asked her, giving her a wink. "We're starting with the holding cells."
"You were saying that Gotham had its share of savage characters," said Jack, leading Bruce through the dank holding cells in the lower levels of Torchwood, past rows of Perspex prisons.
Bruce looked into one of the cells and brooded. "That's not human."
"Ten points for Mr. Wayne!" Jack grinned as Bruce stared at the half reptilian, half insectoid shape of a spitting, growling Weevil. "We call them Weevils," continued Jack. "They started appearing out of the sewers. Nobody knows how or why. We can't communicate with them—at least, no one's been able to yet." The Weevil focused on Bruce and bared its razor-sharp teeth, then launched itself at the Perspex. "We keep them here—gets them off the street, away from where they could hurt people."
"How many are out there?" asked Bruce. "I heard you say to Gwen that numbers were up."
"We're not sure how they breed," said Jack. "That was a pet project of Owen's, actually." Jack's voice died. "Anyway, I'm just . . . showing you what we're up against."
Bruce looked down and turned away from Jack. "If the Rift has really sent two sets of reality against each other at right angles, which you and your version of Oracle are alleging, is there any way that I can get back to Gotham?" Jack began to speak, but Bruce added, "I want to help you, Jack, and I can only do that up to a certain point as Bruce Wayne." He turned and stood at his full height. "I left most of my costume and gear back in the Cave."
"Not a problem," said Jack. "Let me show you to the armoury."
Gwen had done all the figures and written up a summary neatly in red pen—her police work had taught her how to do things backing procedure, if without a certain flair. She'd had time to make another pot of coffee and shoot paper airplanes across the Hub. Then she'd sat down at the computer screen and typed the name "Bruce Wayne" into the UNIT-sponsored database. Batman. Batman. Batman. These were all the hits the program could come up with? She could have Googled for better results than that. What was going on?
"Find anything?" asked Jack as he and Bruce bounded up the stairs.
"Nothing we didn't already know," sighed Gwen. She handed the results and summary to Jack and Bruce; she watched them carefully. Bruce was tall, handsome, chiselled, muscular—as absurd as it was to think it, she could just imagine a half-mask of black acetate and lycra shading his dark eyes. She rubbed her wedding ring around her finger. What was she thinking?! Batman was nothing more than a comic book hero who flew around a fictional city in tights. This was the real world. Wasn't it?
"Okay, Gwen, good work. But I think it's clear what our next step's gotta be. We've call in an expert," said Jack.
"Torchwood aren't experts?" asked Bruce critically.
"Mickey Smith," said Jack. "Likes to call me Captain of the Innuendo Squad."
"I just can't see why," said Bruce.
"Hey!" snapped Jack, as he used his computer monitor to dial up Mickey. He had just gotten the voice inbox for an Orange Answerphone—typical Mickey!—when Gwen's own mobile rang.
"Hello, darling," she said. "Yes, yes, I'm up. Are you okay?"
Bruce turned to Jack. Jack mouthed the word "husband" and looked pointedly at the ring on Gwen's finger.
"What are you talking about, Rhys? Hang on." She turned to look at Jack and Bruce and connected her phone with a port into her computer. Then she hit "speakerphone."
"Gwen, are you there?" came the distinctly Welsh voice of Rhys.
"Yes, my lovely, what were you saying?"
"I said, have you seen the news yet? It was the first thing I heard. My mobile going off like a firecracker."
"I thought you said this had something to do with Torchwood."
"Her husband knows about the top-secret government organization?" asked Bruce. Jack shrugged and gave him a pained look.
"Switch on the TV, Gwen, I assume that office of yours has got one." On cue, Jack picked up the remote and down glided a plasma screen with BBC Breakfast being interrupted by breaking regional news. "They told me not to even bother going out in the lorry today," said Rhys' disembodied voice. "They say a semi just materialized on the M4 in the early hours of the morning."
". . . witnesses from a National Express coach en route to London Gatwick airport insist they were seconds from death as the American-made lorry appeared in its lane."
Bruce's eyes narrowed on the fun-fair motif decorating the outside of the semi, seen from aerial footage swarmed by rubber-necking traffic and camera crews.
"I thought here's something for them down at Torchwood: disappearing and reappearing lorries!" cried Rhys with a combination of awe and humor.
"Thank you, Rhys," said Gwen weakly.
The reporter continued, "No driver was found, and witnesses say three unidentified individuals leapt out of the back of the vehicle just before the coach braked." There was some shaky footage, obviously taken from a camera phone, of three men running into the greenery on the hard shoulder of the west-bound M4. "Seen here, the now-missing suspects appear to be wearing fancy dress. This man—" The picture zeroed in on a heavily-pixelated man in brown pinstripe "—is colloquially known as the Doctor . . ."
"Oh no," said Jack and Bruce at the same time.
