3

Let the game begin

The whole situation would have been a lot better if they were simply giant mouse traps. That, Owen could have handled. Smaller, annoying, and a lot less painful. Or destructive. It was bad enough waking up in the dark, with a chain around his ankle, and no explanation for any of it. Hell, Owen would have preferred to be locked in someone's basement, surrounded by leather sex toys with the prospect of being a bondage slave. Naughty, sadistic business he could stand.

But clicking on a tiny flashlight to discover he was surrounded by bear traps . . . ridiculous. Most lounged in place, rusted and gaping; a few had what looked to be dried blood crusted around the teeth, and one had the mostly decayed body of a rat, so long dead it no longer stank. At another near the farthest left wall, a skeletal foot lay clamped between closed jaws that had pierced through the bone. There was a small bit of forlorn skin dangling between the steel points, shriveled and stiff. Not far from that trap, the bone remains of someone, male judging from the length of the femurs and the set of the hips, stretched themselves out in a way that screamed this person had attempted to crawl away after parting with their foot. So desperate for life, he had been willing to escape sans foot. Poor bloke probably went mad and didn't even think of the consequences of getting his foot snapped off.

Owen liked his foot where it was, attached and useful. It looked, however, as if he would have to risk that to escape.

A silver cassette player, brilliant in its contrast with the rust-eaten pipe it sat under, grabbed his immediate attention. He reached for it, popping the deck open to see if any tape presented itself. There was none, so Owen sat against the wall, muttering to himself and making another sweep of the room with the Maglite. No tape could be seen, no clues whatsoever as to the whereabouts of the plastic square that would undoubtedly tell him why the hell he was chained in a dark room, surrounded by bear traps.

He sighed and set the light down on one of his outstretched legs, passing his hand over his face. As he dropped his hand to the floor, it brushed against the pocket of his jeans; he felt something under the material he had not noticed before. His first supposition of it being the tape was confirmed, and he rolled his eyes as he slid the piece of old technology into the small handheld player.

"This is bollocks," he muttered under his breath, but pressed play.

The tape crackled for a moment. Owen turned up the volume and held it at shoulder level with the speaker directed towards his ear.

"Hello Owen. You are, by now, undoubtedly wondering where you are. You may be in the room where you will die, or you may leave this room behind and continue on to whatever end awaits you."

A short pause and a wheezy breath.

"The key to your restraint is taped to the bottom of the pipe to which you are chained. Once you have freed yourself, you must find the key to the door. That key lies beneath one of the bear traps you see before you."

Another pause, this time with no breathy sound.

"Your pitiful life is not the only thing at risk, Owen Harper. Live or die, make your choice."

"Let the game begin."

The tape clicked off.

Owen looked at the player as if it had just told him the business between his legs was fake, and that he was, in fact, a middle-aged woman. He shook his head, but flopped onto his stomach and trained the flashlight on the pipe he had previously leaned against. He slowly ran his hand along the underside, rust flaking off onto his palm. When he found the key he rolled his eyes, muttering to himself that there was no way it would fit the lock, one of the team would come in any minute and tell him it was all just a huge joke, and he'd get out with a few scathing glares and a week's worth of ignoring them all. He stuck the key in the lock that held the shackle clamped around his ankle, and was surprised by how easily it slid in. Turning it popped the silver padlock open, Owen ended its job of connecting the two halves of the shackle, and the metal restraint clanged to the floor.

He didn't particularly like his options.

Owen sighed again, the annoyance ebbing away and leaving a feeling of discomfort laced with pinpricks of fear. The task set before him started to seem more real the longer he passed the Maglite over each bear trap. He knew the only way to find the key would be to set them off, but he had nothing aside from his own limbs to do that with.

He turned his back to the pack of steel traps and slowly ran the small light along the pipes, seeing if any appeared to be weak enough to pull off; he stood and jerked at a few. One came lose. Despite its small size, it rested in his hands with a weight that seemed more comforting than that of a handgun.

Owen would wish he had one of those by the time he reached the door.

Wet pavement was the prevalent smell that morning. Flat, grey, clouds coated the sky, and what little light managed to breach the collected moisture turned the asphalt a dull onyx color. It was Thursday, barely nine a.m. Only a few people flecked the streets, raincoats pulled tight around cold necks, hats drawn over eyes stung by the frigid air. Today was not a day favoring the walking citizen of Cardiff. Even the birds seemed encouraged to stay in their nests, the bitter air having chased them there overnight. The day, quiet, cold, motionless, awaited something.

Toshiko walked from her car to the entrance of Torchwood in much the same fashion: coat drawn tight across her chest, laptop bag slung over one shoulder as she bustled towards the warmth the Hub promised.

When she stepped inside the front "office," however, Ianto was not there. Thinking he must be down below, she stepped into the lift and absently tapped her foot. Jack seemed to have a personal grudge against music in the elevator, and so she was left to wait out the short ride in silence.

Stainless-steel lift doors opened, the massively thick bank vault-like door rolled open, prison bar-esque double-doors swung out, and Toshiko's jaw dropped.

The Hub was beyond a mess. Someone had ransacked it: all the computers either lay on the floor or were smashed; the glass around the conference room, shattered. Strewn about the floor, it reflected the few lights that remained unbroken in countless snippets of diamond shine. Papers, torn and whole alike, dappled the pile of glass. The one promising thing was that no corpses lay about the wreckage.

But that didn't mean they couldn't be elsewhere.

Tosh slowly backed out of the decimated Hub, slipping her com device around her ear. As the lift carried her back to the main office, she started calling each of the Torchwood team. By the third voicemail concern scratched at her stomach, and apprehension began to sink in.

She almost stepped out the door when something on the desk caught her attention. A manila envelope that had not been there when she first entered. Handling it cautiously, she gave it a cursory inspection. The only writing on it was Toshiko in steady, thick lettering. Confusion added to her apprehensive state as she opened the heavy envelope and shook the contents onto the desk. A handheld tape player and a miniature cassette landed on a stack of take-out food receipts. Both looked oddly intrusive. Neither were things Torchwood ever used.

Seeing nothing else to do with them, Toshiko fitted the tape into the player and pressed the button that would bring her rather unfortunate news.

"Hello Toshiko. I want to play a game."

The light shone closer, and a smile twitched into brief existence on her lips. She must have started walking faster, because Jack's grip on her shoulder tightened.

"It's just light, Gwen."

Gwen nodded, instantly regretting it when Jack hissed. She had forgotten his head rested where her shoulder joined her neck.

"Sorry," she said in a small voice.

"I'm fairly sure we've established that by now."

"Right. Sorry."

Jack gave a breathless chuckle and hid his eyes in Gwen's neck as they neared the light.

As soon as Gwen crossed between black and light, Jack stopped walking.

"Jack, are you alri..." The words died, however, when she saw the mess of Jack's torso.

"Oh my God, Jack!"

"It's nothing." He smiled wanly at her and detached himself from her side, leaning against the wall. The side of his head that she could see was swollen, his right eye so puffy he could not open it. A trail of blood laced down his neck from his ear. Hair matted with blood. For a horrifying second Gwen could have sworn she saw a piece of skull, but when she examined it closer discovered it to be merely a trick of the light.

She reached out to touch his head, then retracted her hand before it made it halfway. Her eyes had fallen to the wounds along Jack's bared ribcage.

Gwen was agape, trying to comprehend what she saw. A dry chuckle from Jack snapped her out of contemplation.

"What the bloody hell happened?!"

Jack shook his head. "You really don't want to know." After he said that, he pushed off from the wall and attempted to take a few steps on his own. He nearly succeeded, but his body swayed so severely he would have toppled into the opposite wall had Gwen not been there to catch him. However, he needed much less of her support than he had previously.

Gwen watched him intently with concern, eyes straying to the blood-caked, pinkish gouges, glance lingering near his waist until she reminded herself to keep looking forward. Jack didn't seem to notice. He seemed quite focused on staying upright, which he was getting better at as they walked. Gradually, Gwen supported less and less of his weight. She hoped he'd be well enough to walk on his own soon, because their proximity and his lack of clothes made for an . . . uncomfortable situation.

Gwen shook herself as she realized her eyes had drifted southward once more. Jack grinned and kept his focus on walking.

If only . . .