I haven't been writing for a while, so I've decided to put up a little taster of a RP I did with a friend. Warnings for torture...yes, mainly for torture.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Broken Perspective pt 3
Some people would call Jack Harkness a broken man - and they'd be right. Isn't it wonderful? Captain Jack Harkness, constant of the universe, and he's in pieces on the floor. My floor. I'd laugh if it weren't so pitiful - no wait, I'm laughing anyway, it's hilarious! Humans weren't made to live for very long, and the Captain has been alive much longer than he should. Not a patch on Timelords of course, but nothing is. So the Captain has been stretched and prodded and died and loved and had them die...over and over again...and just between you and me? He was already broken when he came to me, too many friends in the ground and too many lies on his tongue. Oh yes, Jack's broken. I made sure of it.
Broken Perspective pt 2
Some people would call Jack Harkness a broken man - but I couldn't tell you if they're right. I probably should, right? I'm Jack's...something...so I should know? But I don't. No matter how much I think I know him, there's always something left, something that is so at odds with everything else I know, and I'm back where I started again. I've only barely scratched the surface, and however much he protests that's all there is, I know there's something deeper there - if only I could reach it. If you want to know if Jack's broken, you'll have to ask him. Good luck getting a straight answer.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Play Me Dear
This one is for @TLorie. It's uhm...a bit graphic, so not for the faint-hearted. Or those opposed to slash.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Reminiscence
I remember Earth-That-Was.
I remember its shining cities, glass towers like desperate fingers stretching for the sky.
I remember its powerful planes, white gulls made of cold metal soaring high over earth and water alike.
I remember its monuments, inspirations of engineering and emotion that were meant to last into the annals of eternity.
I remember its natural wonders, wrought by no hand of man but the pure creation and intricate workings of the Earth itself, masterpieces of Mother Nature.
I remember how beautiful it was.
I remember its shining cities, glass towers like desperate fingers stretching for the sky.
I remember its powerful planes, white gulls made of cold metal soaring high over earth and water alike.
I remember its monuments, inspirations of engineering and emotion that were meant to last into the annals of eternity.
I remember its natural wonders, wrought by no hand of man but the pure creation and intricate workings of the Earth itself, masterpieces of Mother Nature.
I remember how beautiful it was.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
One Step Closer
"No Inspector, I really don't want you coming any closer," drawled that infuriatingly nasal voice the three of them - Lestrade, Sherlock and John - had all grown to hate: Moriarty. He was lounging in the doorway to the bank vault, gold glimmering ignored around a restrained John within. Sherlock was poised with Lestrade and his men at the top of the stairs, the red dots of their sights playing over Moriarty's face and chest - but the consulting criminal was completely unconcerned.
"I've got what I came for," Moriarty continued. "You know what that is, don't you Sherlock?"
"The original deeds of Parliament," Sherlock said quietly, eyes riveted on John, checking that he was unhurt. Apart from a bump on the head he seemed alright, but hunched over like he was it was difficult to tell whether anything else was amiss.
"Oh very good, you did do your homework," Moriarty clapped twice, mockingly. "Your lapdog seems surprised. Didn't you tell him?"
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped, refocussing on Moriarty. "We've foiled your little game. Now hand over the deeds and I might be able to persuade the Sergeant to keep her overenthusiastic hands to herself."
"Tempting, but allow me to make a counter offer," Moriarty pouted, eyes burning with what could have been insanity or genius. "You let me walk out that door with the deeds - or your little pet gets himself blown to pieces. Stand up Doctor Watson, let the nice Inspector see what you're packing."
John glared at Moriarty, then flinched when the small man's hand twitched. The involuntary movement incensed Sherlock and his lips thinned with his displeasure as John obediently - if reluctantly - levered himself to his feet against the gold. Once again his jacket had been laden with explosives and detonators, enough to decimate the vault and blow back into the corridor. Donovan whistled.
"Aren't you making a little oversight here?" Lestrade drawled, seeing the explosive power present. "You set him off, you're caught in it too."
"The corner between doorframe and wall create enough of a shelter that he will be largely unharmed by the blast," Sherlock quickly dismissed the Inspector's brief frisson of hope, eyes fixed on Moriarty. "You know we can't just let you walk away with those deeds."
"Oh I think you can," Moriarty smirked. "After all, you are the great Sherlock Holmes. You can do anything with big brother looking out for you."
A sneer twitched around the corners of Sherlock's lips at the mention of Mycroft but he made no further reaction, studying Moriarty. After several long minutes he straightened and nodded.
"Alright."
"What, Sherlock, you can't -" Lestrade protested, but was cut short by Sherlock. His terse "Shut up" quieted the Inspector, more out of surprise that Sherlock practically swore than anything else.
"Good dog," Moriarty told Lestrade patronisingly. Donovan took a step forward in defence of her boss but was halted by Moriarty's hand holding a trigger. "Sherlock's pet dog has his own little bitch. How sickeningly adorable. Back in place, little girl."
Lestrade reached forward and pulled Donovan back into line, looking at Moriarty for a long moment. Then he straightened.
"Sorry John," Lestrade said softly, then quickly, "Fire!"
But there was already fire blooming in the vault, a shock wave sweeping toward them as it bent around the slim suited shape of Moriarty in the corner, and the inaudible shout of denial from Sherlock. The group on the stairs were tossed back, ears ringing and vision blurred from the force of the explosion.
In the aftermath, as the group of toy soldiers staggered to their feet and questions were shouted at each other, only Sherlock noticed that Moriarty never came up the stairs, and wondered.
"I've got what I came for," Moriarty continued. "You know what that is, don't you Sherlock?"
"The original deeds of Parliament," Sherlock said quietly, eyes riveted on John, checking that he was unhurt. Apart from a bump on the head he seemed alright, but hunched over like he was it was difficult to tell whether anything else was amiss.
"Oh very good, you did do your homework," Moriarty clapped twice, mockingly. "Your lapdog seems surprised. Didn't you tell him?"
"It doesn't matter," Sherlock snapped, refocussing on Moriarty. "We've foiled your little game. Now hand over the deeds and I might be able to persuade the Sergeant to keep her overenthusiastic hands to herself."
"Tempting, but allow me to make a counter offer," Moriarty pouted, eyes burning with what could have been insanity or genius. "You let me walk out that door with the deeds - or your little pet gets himself blown to pieces. Stand up Doctor Watson, let the nice Inspector see what you're packing."
John glared at Moriarty, then flinched when the small man's hand twitched. The involuntary movement incensed Sherlock and his lips thinned with his displeasure as John obediently - if reluctantly - levered himself to his feet against the gold. Once again his jacket had been laden with explosives and detonators, enough to decimate the vault and blow back into the corridor. Donovan whistled.
"Aren't you making a little oversight here?" Lestrade drawled, seeing the explosive power present. "You set him off, you're caught in it too."
"The corner between doorframe and wall create enough of a shelter that he will be largely unharmed by the blast," Sherlock quickly dismissed the Inspector's brief frisson of hope, eyes fixed on Moriarty. "You know we can't just let you walk away with those deeds."
"Oh I think you can," Moriarty smirked. "After all, you are the great Sherlock Holmes. You can do anything with big brother looking out for you."
A sneer twitched around the corners of Sherlock's lips at the mention of Mycroft but he made no further reaction, studying Moriarty. After several long minutes he straightened and nodded.
"Alright."
"What, Sherlock, you can't -" Lestrade protested, but was cut short by Sherlock. His terse "Shut up" quieted the Inspector, more out of surprise that Sherlock practically swore than anything else.
"Good dog," Moriarty told Lestrade patronisingly. Donovan took a step forward in defence of her boss but was halted by Moriarty's hand holding a trigger. "Sherlock's pet dog has his own little bitch. How sickeningly adorable. Back in place, little girl."
Lestrade reached forward and pulled Donovan back into line, looking at Moriarty for a long moment. Then he straightened.
"Sorry John," Lestrade said softly, then quickly, "Fire!"
But there was already fire blooming in the vault, a shock wave sweeping toward them as it bent around the slim suited shape of Moriarty in the corner, and the inaudible shout of denial from Sherlock. The group on the stairs were tossed back, ears ringing and vision blurred from the force of the explosion.
In the aftermath, as the group of toy soldiers staggered to their feet and questions were shouted at each other, only Sherlock noticed that Moriarty never came up the stairs, and wondered.
Comments
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Monday, November 15, 2010
Brand New Day
This appeared as a moral dilemma
Cause at first it was weird though I swore to eliminate
The worst of the plague that devoured humanity
It's true, I was vague on the how so how can it be
That you have shown me the light
It was a chaotic few days, when Jim Moriarty played his great game to draw us in. We didn't even know who he was that first time he came to see us, to get a closer look at Sherlock and get his measure. He was just a face and a name, blundering across our path with yet another crush on Sherlock - who of course thought nothing of it. Strange how such an egotistical man can be so cavalier about the awestruck looks of women and men alike, dazzled by his towering intellect and eyes that see everything. Strange how he demands no public recognition for his feats of deduction, preferring to remain in obscurity save for his website, yet expects everyone to instantly bow to his superior intellect at every turn.
Yes he's arrogant, but he can usually back up his claims (which arguably makes his arrogance all the more grating). So, when Sherlock failed to deliver on his claim that he could catch Moriarty...well. I think we all lost faith a bit there. It became obvious - to me at least - that different methods to Sherlock's would be necessary to stop Moriarty. His deductive reasoning would provide the direction, but the solution...
I've been a soldier all my life, and a doctor too. There are times when decisions have to be made in an instant. There are times when you have to consider the greater good. There are times when one must be sacrificed for the rest to live. I've made those decisions under pressure, under fire, and killed friends.
This time there was no pressure of time, no imminent danger, and it isn't my friend I'm planning to kill. Cold calculated reason, carefully cultivated through my association with both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, has been my guide in this decision.
Jim Moriarty must die.
Cause at first it was weird though I swore to eliminate
The worst of the plague that devoured humanity
It's true, I was vague on the how so how can it be
That you have shown me the light
It was a chaotic few days, when Jim Moriarty played his great game to draw us in. We didn't even know who he was that first time he came to see us, to get a closer look at Sherlock and get his measure. He was just a face and a name, blundering across our path with yet another crush on Sherlock - who of course thought nothing of it. Strange how such an egotistical man can be so cavalier about the awestruck looks of women and men alike, dazzled by his towering intellect and eyes that see everything. Strange how he demands no public recognition for his feats of deduction, preferring to remain in obscurity save for his website, yet expects everyone to instantly bow to his superior intellect at every turn.
Yes he's arrogant, but he can usually back up his claims (which arguably makes his arrogance all the more grating). So, when Sherlock failed to deliver on his claim that he could catch Moriarty...well. I think we all lost faith a bit there. It became obvious - to me at least - that different methods to Sherlock's would be necessary to stop Moriarty. His deductive reasoning would provide the direction, but the solution...
I've been a soldier all my life, and a doctor too. There are times when decisions have to be made in an instant. There are times when you have to consider the greater good. There are times when one must be sacrificed for the rest to live. I've made those decisions under pressure, under fire, and killed friends.
This time there was no pressure of time, no imminent danger, and it isn't my friend I'm planning to kill. Cold calculated reason, carefully cultivated through my association with both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, has been my guide in this decision.
Jim Moriarty must die.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Broken Perspective pt 1
Some people would call Jack Harkness a broken man - but I know better. I've seen him grow from a disillusioned conman into a defender of Earth, through trials most people couldn't imagine. He's survived, and thrived, and built an institution which will protect the human race until it is ready to protect itself. As much as I disapprove of their methods at times, saving the Earth...who can argue with that? Well, the Master. And the Sontarans. Maybe the Nestine... Daleks... Cybermen... Sycorax... Raknoss... Ice Warriors... Okay so a lot of people would argue about that, but it's not like it's their planet is it? Oh, well, no, it's not mine either technically, but I like to think of myself as a sort of honorary Earthling...Earthman? Earthian? What is the correct term for someone from Earth who isn't human anyway? No, never mind, not the point. What was the point again? Oh yes! Jack. No, Jack isn't a broken man, of course not. Why would you even suggest it?
Duty to the Dead pt 2
Jack stared at the piece of paper on his desk, luxury stationery soaking up the blue ink of his signature. His eyes felt like burned holes in his skull, exhausted from too much to do and not enough people to do it any more. There hadn't been enough people for a while now, not really, it was a tight ship when Tosh and Owen were still alive, and since Gray...
He swallowed, that ancient hurt as fresh as the day he had let go of his brother's hand and let him be taken by Them. (Could it be called ancient when it hadn't happened yet in linear time? By subjective time it was nearly two centuries ago, but it technically wouldn't happen for over three thousand years...) He couldn't think of him, not now - there was no time to sort out the Hub with Torchwood overseeing the return of the children, no time to see if anything had survived the explosion. Or the scavenging done after.
Time. He had hoped for more time, even with the job they had. Even with the Doctor and the Daleks and the Weevils and all the other shit they dealt with and defeated and saved the Earth again and again and again... But he'd forgotten, in those final days, that the rules were different for everyone else. He'd forgotten that Ianto was mortal like everyone else, fragile like everyone else; forgotten that Ianto Jones, for all his efficiency and capability was only human. So he'd taken him into the heart of the enemy's camp, spoken proud words in a reckless bluff, and it had taken Ianto Jones away from him - just like that.
His eyes had found the sheet of paper again, rereading that first sentence over and over again. Regret to inform you, Ianto Jones is dead. And with him the last of Captain Jack Harkness's ties to Earth.
Jack's eyes burned in their sockets, but he didn't shed a tear. Captain Jack Harkness wasn't human enough to cry.
He swallowed, that ancient hurt as fresh as the day he had let go of his brother's hand and let him be taken by Them. (Could it be called ancient when it hadn't happened yet in linear time? By subjective time it was nearly two centuries ago, but it technically wouldn't happen for over three thousand years...) He couldn't think of him, not now - there was no time to sort out the Hub with Torchwood overseeing the return of the children, no time to see if anything had survived the explosion. Or the scavenging done after.
Time. He had hoped for more time, even with the job they had. Even with the Doctor and the Daleks and the Weevils and all the other shit they dealt with and defeated and saved the Earth again and again and again... But he'd forgotten, in those final days, that the rules were different for everyone else. He'd forgotten that Ianto was mortal like everyone else, fragile like everyone else; forgotten that Ianto Jones, for all his efficiency and capability was only human. So he'd taken him into the heart of the enemy's camp, spoken proud words in a reckless bluff, and it had taken Ianto Jones away from him - just like that.
His eyes had found the sheet of paper again, rereading that first sentence over and over again. Regret to inform you, Ianto Jones is dead. And with him the last of Captain Jack Harkness's ties to Earth.
Jack's eyes burned in their sockets, but he didn't shed a tear. Captain Jack Harkness wasn't human enough to cry.
Duty to the Dead pt 1
Dear Mr & Mrs Davies,
I regret to have to inform you that your brother, Ianto Jones, died during the recent incident with the alien lifeform known as the '456'. He was present at the confrontation in Thames House, and perished in the retaliation of the '456' which resulted in the deaths of all Thames House's occupants.
Although Ianto was not permitted to talk about his work, I want you to know that he was a highly valued and trusted member of my team, and his loss is a great blow to us all. He has saved us more times than anyone could ever know, and the world will never be the same without him. I know that my life has been the richer for knowing him, and that I will never find another man his equal.
Unfortunately due to the continued sensitive nature of our work, many of his possessions cannot be released. Either myself or my second in command Gwen Cooper will be in touch regarding the handover of what items can be disbursed. In the wake of this incident, I offer you and your family our assistance with anything you might require. Please don't hesitate to call on us. It's the least we can do.
Yours sincerely,
Capt Jack Harkness
Torchwood
I regret to have to inform you that your brother, Ianto Jones, died during the recent incident with the alien lifeform known as the '456'. He was present at the confrontation in Thames House, and perished in the retaliation of the '456' which resulted in the deaths of all Thames House's occupants.
Although Ianto was not permitted to talk about his work, I want you to know that he was a highly valued and trusted member of my team, and his loss is a great blow to us all. He has saved us more times than anyone could ever know, and the world will never be the same without him. I know that my life has been the richer for knowing him, and that I will never find another man his equal.
Unfortunately due to the continued sensitive nature of our work, many of his possessions cannot be released. Either myself or my second in command Gwen Cooper will be in touch regarding the handover of what items can be disbursed. In the wake of this incident, I offer you and your family our assistance with anything you might require. Please don't hesitate to call on us. It's the least we can do.
Yours sincerely,
Capt Jack Harkness
Torchwood
What Have You Done
It wasn’t love at first sight, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous; there’s no such thing – what people mistake for love is in fact lust, a chemical reaction to strong emotion or attractiveness. No, the first time I saw him it was in fact loathing. How could something like him exist? It wasn’t right, it violated all the carefully studied laws of the universe I had grown up (grown old?) learning. In all of time and space, nothing is fixed. Everything can be changed...it’s just that some things shouldn’t be. Lynchpins of the universe, turning points that affect the flow of time – and I can see them all. It’s like a map inside my head, the ever-changing landscape of the fourth dimension, and it’s what makes me a Timelord. Beyond the technology, beyond the physiology, beyond the mystique, this is what makes us gods: that we can perceive time as lesser races perceive space.
And he was solid, immovable, immutable. A fact. It made me sick.
I wanted him to be mine.
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