Title: Twisted Mind

Author: Erin Giles

Characters/Pairings: Jack/Ianto, Gwen/Rhys, Martha, PC Andy, OC's

Warnings: Character Death, Gory Violence

Rating: R

Word Count: 24,000

Beta: pinkfairy727

Art: geckoholic

Summary: Our thoughts are what drive us; good thoughts, bad thoughts, end of the world type thoughts. But what happens when you suddenly have thoughts inside your head that aren't your own? Jack and Ianto retrieve an artefact one night that is seemingly harmless, but seemingly harmless soon turns into violent mood swings, exploding heads and the disappearance of half of Cardiff's criminals. But what does this have to do with Ianto Jones, and just what is he building?

A/N: I tried to make this as much like a Torchwood novel as possible just to stop myself from writing another epic hurt/comfort fic (not that I have anything against that). I think it worked. Also thanks to all my cheerleaders – you know who you guys are, and thanks to my flatmate who helped greatly with the concept of the alien. And last, but by far the least, thanks to Sam who as always puts up with my shoddy spelling/sentence structure and provided a much need biological insight.

PROLOGUE

"First thoughts are not always the best."

Vittorio Alfieri

Gracie Jones' father was going to kill her if he caught her sneaking back into the house at five past one in the morning. And not just in the metaphorical sense - Gracie was pretty sure that if her father caught her he would string her up outside as a warning to all the other teenagers in the neighbourhood. He was Mr. Jones to everyone, no matter what his or her age or social standing - that was just the sort of man he was.

The Jones family had all gone to bed early the previous evening in order to be wide-awake for visiting Granny Haversham. All of them except Gracie. Daniel Evans had been throwing a party and Robbie Davies had been attending, so she'd just had to go, hadn't she? Besides, she wasn't about to let Polly Thomas get her claws into him while she sipped on blue alcopops and laughed in that high-pitched twitter that barely separated her from farm animals.

Gracie pulled off her red patent heels – the ones that her mother had told her were too sluttish for a seventeen-year-old girl - before starting to climb the gate, tights snagging on splinters as the wind teased at her polka-dot mini-skirt. She was looking forward to her eighteenth birthday just so she didn't have to sneak out the house and avoid the detection of her father, the criticism of her mother and the tattling of her little brother at Monday teatime about what she'd actually been up to over the weekend.

She chucked her shoes and bag onto the kitchen roof as she got a good footing halfway up the gate. That was when next door's dog started barking, probably at her.

"Shut up, Barney!" she hissed over the garden fence, catching the swish of the mongrel's tail as he put his paws up on the fence that separated the gardens. She hoisted herself onto the top of the gate, hoping the dog didn't wake anyone up. From her perch, she could see all the gardens down the row; number 47 had squeezed a trampoline into the small patch of grass at the back so that nothing else fitted. Barney started yapping more persistently as she tried to shush him again. The dog, however, was now the least of her worries.

Suddenly there was a bright flash followed by a loud bang that scared Gracie into losing her footing. She screamed as she tumbled head over arse, hitting the wheelie bin on the way down - something that would no doubt manifest as an epic bruise come morning. She swore, loudly now since there was no point in keeping quiet because Barney was barking louder than ever and the kitchen light had just flicked on.

When she brought herself, struggling, to her feet her father was peering out the window at her, an angry look on his face. It didn't really matter what she said or did now, she'd just signed her own death warrant, and so she gave him a hesitant smile in return. His expression soon changed to one of shock though as he stared past Gracie into the nine-foot by six-foot piece of land they called the garden. Gracie slowly turned round, gravel digging into her feet through her ruined tights.

Next to the whirly-gig there was something smoking in the ground. A blue glow rose from it that was hitting several washing lines, catching the underside of leaves that had had a hole burnt through them.

Gracie's eyes were close to popping out of her head as she approached the small crater, ignoring the sounds of her father unlocking the backdoor followed by his angry yells. The grass soaked through her tights to her feet, making them colder, but the nearer she got to the crater the warmer and dryer the grass got until she found it singed slightly. She bent down in the grass to get a closer look.

Then Gracie Jones had a thought.