Chapter 4 - Jack of All Trades
Cardiff, Wales, 2015

Panic. Rage. An animalistic roar, of fear and confusion. Sweat glistened on an alien chest far from home.
The Hork-Bajir struck. Wrist blades scything, tail thrashing. Legs kicking.
The animalistic roar drowned out the screams. Echoed in the cold night air. Cardiff wasn't asleep. It was being woken up.

Jack skidded, catching his balance, and ran, arms pumping at sharp, military angles, legs pumping in rhythm, practised, disciplined, hurried.
The alien spun. Tail scattered a heavy metal bin, tipping the contents out into the road. It lashed out, blindly, unused to the Earth street lights, the unnatural orange glow that gave the city its warm hue.
Captain Jack Harkness jumped the bins as the Hork-Bajir started to run. Sprinting its irregular loping gait. A small know of drunken revellers scattered, screaming. Jack jumped them as well.
He was losing it. The Hork-Bajir's stride was far bigger than his. It could move. He watched as it crouched, coiling the spring-like muscles in its legs. It sprang, talon-like claws fastening onto a lamp-post and swinging itself up. Another death-defying leap and it was on the rooftops.
Jack swore.

He tapped the comm on his earpiece. "It's on the rooftops."
The answer came back, tinny and more than slightly angry.
Jack grinned as he heard it. He tapped the comm and the voice went dead.
He started walking. Turned into a side-alley. Past screaming bystanders. He slapped a camera phone from a youth's hand. Kept walking. They would have to ret-con the water-supply tomorrow. And trawl through the internet. The dull side of aline-hunting.
Then again, Ianto would...he swore and shook his head. Forget Ianto. Focus.

A flash of leathery, matt-brown skin flew overhead, bridging the gap between the rooftops with one unnatural stride. Jack grabbed a drainpipe and started to climb. Hand over hand, greatcoat flying out behind him, billowing in the city breeze.
he swung over the top with a sigh. Looked at his hands. One was cut open, bleeding freely. He must have snagged it somewhere in the climb. Damn. He closed his eyes and focused.
He was losing his grip on pain. Forgetting what it was to be mortal...he opened his eyes. Wiped the blood away. His hand was perfect, unblemished. He looked up.
The tail caught him in the face, throwing him backwards. He felt the air rushing past his ruptured face, before slamming down into the hard rock of the rooftop again. He rose, groaning.
Neck broken. He snapped it back. Grimaced as his face sewed itself back, as sinews twisted and melded together again. Perhaps he hadn't forgotten pain as much as he thought he had.
He laughed, straightening.

The Hork-Bajir was in mid-air, hurtling towards him in a perfectly calculated jump. Razor-sharp talons flashing in the Cardiff night, all arched and curved towards Jack.
He pulled the combat revolver from his greatcoat. Levelled it and fired.
The bullet wouldn't bring the Hork-Bajir down. For a tree-dwelling leaf-eater with the mental capacity of a five-year-old, it could take serious damage. Jack knew that. It had been engineered that way.
The bullet caught the Hork-Bajir in the neck and snapped its head back. It gurgled, crashing into Jack, talons extended. He took the leg blades through his stomach, felt the wrist blades sink into his chest, puncturing lungs. Felt the head snap down again, horns and beak stabbing into his face, tearing open freshly healed flesh.

He fell backwards, lifeless. The Hork-Bajir went down with him.
A black shirt billowed in the breeze, tie flying back as another figure mounted the rooftop. Swearing, it flopped over the edge, sprawling on the hard rock.
It rose, unsteadily, red-faced, pulling a revolver from behind its back. It levelled, fired, and swore again.

The Hork-Bajir rolled, a spray of thick alien blood showering the new figure.
"Bloody Hell."
There was a hiss as a cigar went out. The figure brushed it against its trouser leg and relit it, doubling over, gasping for air.

Jack inhaled, suddenly, jerking upright. The figure jumped.
"Bloody Hell!"
"Every time, huh?" Jack winked. He felt his chest and winced. Holes were filling themselves out. He stretched and reached fingers in, helping snap a rib back into place. He brought his fingers out as the muscles began to regrow around the rib, and skin rippled over, smoothing out the wounds. He looked at the blood on his fingers for a moment, and then licked them clean.
The finger swore again.
Jack grinned. "Blood loss. Can't refill myself quite fast enough. Doesn't hurt to help the process."
The figure jabbed its revolver at the lifeless Hork-Bajir.
"What do we do with bloody ET the Ripper here?"
Jack looked over at the body. He shrugged. "Remove it. Make sure no-one ever knows it was here. Do what we always do."

The figure nodded. It made sense. He looked back to Jack.
"You getting up? Come on, you Yank pansy."
Jack laughed, pushing himself up. He shook his head. An eye-socket refilled, jelly reforming and shaping itself. A pupil blotted itself into being, as an iris bloomed around it. Eyelids closed over it as they grew, first red muscles and then smooth skin. Eyelashes sprouted, curving slightly at the ends. Jack reached a hand up to feel it, and nodded.

"Back to the Hub, Gene," he grinned.
Gene Hunt swore. "I bloody hate the 10s."
Jack laughed. "I couldn't agree more. Just wait until the 30s. Then things really kick off."
Gene shook his head, muttering. They reached the rooftop edge and swung themselves over.

Just another night's work. Torchwood were doing their job.

Just another night's work.