Hundred Theme Challenge, using Doctor Who and Torchwood. Suppose that makes this a cross over of the two genres, but as far as I'm concerned they're in the same Canon. Neither belong to me. Please read and review!

gun[guhn] noun, verb, gunned, gun·ning.

–noun

1.

a weapon consisting of a metal tube, with mechanical attachments, from which projectiles are shot by the force of an explosive; a piece of ordnance.

2.

any portable firearm, as a rifle, shotgun, or revolver.

3.

a long-barreled cannon having a relatively flat trajectory.

Used for hunting, war, murder, suicide. Used to theaten pain or death on people, or their loved ones. Used to imply power to weak desperate scared little people who shouldn't have weapons so readily available. Used to end lives. Good lives, lives full of potential. I don't like guns. I never have and I never will. I nightmare about them. About the weight in my hand, the blood on my face. About what I did, during the war. Not fighting the Daleks, I can never regret that. I knew I had to lock all of Galifrey out of space and time. I don't regret that, either. It was the only thing to do. I knew it would let them live their final second for all eternity though. And I knew my children were in pain.

I couldn't let that happen, I couldn't let them suffer forever that way. I loved them too dearly, my sons, my only family. I have never told anyone this, it hurts to think about, it makes the guilt rise in my stomach and clog my throat. I shot them. I lined them up and hugged them and cried and I shot them to kill them to end things before the lock, before the end of the only world my boys had ever known. I wasn't intending to really get out of there alive. If I'd known. I maybe could have- no. That's not the way to think about things. It's too late for that. The Tardis kidnapped me, not I her. She said as much herself.

Perhaps the worst of it is that I have to smile. For my companions, for the planets I protect in penance for my sins. Hiding the misery behind forced smiles and laughs, a false happiness that sometimes for instances, mere moments, is real. But not right now. Not for these words. Not as I stare at the centurion holding the woman I know will grow up to shoot me. But I make the words leave my lips anyway. Because he deserves them.

"Yeah. Happy Father's day, Roricus."

And I don't.