Torchwood: Dragon Age Episode One "The End of Days"

Chapter 1: Flotsam & Jetsam

CONTENT:

Rating: Mature

Flavor: Action/Adventure/Comedy/Drama

Language: bad

Violence: yes

Nudity: no

Sex: no

Other: adult "situations" and humor

Number of Gratuitous Jack Deaths: 1/1

Author's Notes:

Not familiar with Torchwood and/or Dragon Age? See my profile for links to the Hitchhikers' Guides to get you up to speed.

The madness begins at the start of "End of Days," and messes things up by injecting some Dragon Age elves into the plot.

Totally unrelated Booyahs to the band Flotsam & Jetsam. No Place For Disgrace!

Flotsam & Jetsam

===#===

A streak of hellish purple light ripped across the blackened sky. With a roar like an archdemon's, it spat two figures out onto the road. They landed in an awkward heap, blinked once, then pushed off from each other and rolled to their feet. Twin blades out in a flash, they stood back to back, looking wildly about for attackers.

Powerful magelights blinded them. There was a cacophony of blaring trumpets, high-pitched screeches and inhuman squeals, and what sounded like a lower Kirkwall drunk yelling, "Ge' owt a tha road, ya bluidy loons!"

"This way!"

The two darted instinctively towards a dark alley, counting on the protection of the shadows for safety.

"What was that?" Gwen barely had time to register the sound of unearthly thunder and disrupted traffic before the Rift Activity alarm started beeping. Jack had already slammed on the brakes and hauled the SUV into a dangerous illegal turn down a side street. Gwen pressed her hands and knees against the dashboard to keep from being thrown about in her seat. With only one hand on the steering wheel and only half his attention on the road, Jack flipped open his wrist strap and fiddled with the controls. Of course he just couldn't leave the driving to someone who had her hands free. Gwen braced against the dash as they cut across the boulevard and wove through traffic.

"Two anomalies," Jack reported. "They don't look too big; should be easy to handle."

"Oh sure," the Welshwoman griped as she reached in the back and began reloading the big gun. "Like those small dinosaurs in Jurassic Park that spit acid in your face. Oh, or those wee little baby aliens in Galaxy Quest. 'Do you guys even watch the show?'" she quoted. "'Any minute now, they're going to turn mean and vicious!'"

Jack spared her a glance, his brow quirked. "You've been watching too much science fiction."

Gwen sighed. "Not lately."

Jack slowed the car and turned into an alley. He checked his readout again. "Okay, Sigourney Weaver, they're around this corner." He eased the SUV to a stop and gestured to a fire escape. "Give me cover."

"What are you going to do?" Gwen asked in concern. Something stupid, no doubt.

"I'm just going to try talking to them."

"Oh, that worked real well with the Viking." She flicked her head, indicating the hairy pile in the back that looked, sounded, and smelled like a drunken bear.

"Maybe I'll get lucky."

Gwen hoisted the gun, got out of the car, and headed for the ladder. Jack gave her some time to get into position, then slowly moved the vehicle around the corner.

===#===

Bannon pressed his back against a good solid wall and flicked hair out of his eyes. He cursed Zevran's fondness for long hair, because it was always getting in his eyes and his mouth - in his food. It's a wonder he didn't cough up hairballs. Meanwhile, another part of his mind was racing, trying to make sense of this place where they'd landed, spy any landmarks, tag any and all possible threats, and figure a way out of this mess. Why had the Veil torn right there? It was an ordinary stretch of road they'd traveled hundreds of times. Could it have been a trap?

"Where are we?" Heightened adrenaline emphasized the Antivan's breathy accent.

"The Blackened City?" Bannon ventured hesitantly. He looked at the narrow sliver of sky between these two tall buildings. It was dark, rimmed with a faint halo, and starless.

"I don't think so," Zevran said. "There are too many lights, no?"

Just then, another swath of white light cut across them. The elves drew back further into the shadows, behind heaps of refuse. Something big in the mouth of the alley was growling low. Bannon only needed a quick flick of his eyes to communicate with Zevran. The assassin melted away to circle the target. Bannon, as usual, would be the bait.

===#===

Jack put the SUV in park and checked his gun. This one only held one round at a time, and he hoped he wouldn't need it. He stepped out of the car and walked forward, next to the wall of light from the headlamps. He scanned the end of the alley, but didn't see anyone - not that he blamed them for hiding.

"Hello?" he called out. "Can you understand me? I'm not going to hurt you." He took a few careful steps forward, keeping the gun down in the folds of his coat.

"Who are you?"

Jack's ears perked up. Thank God, they spoke English. "My name is Captain Jack Harkness. I'm with Torchwood; we're here to help you."

"Why?"

"You've fallen through a Rift in the space-time continuum."

"Like a tear in the Veil?"

"I don't know what 'the Veil' is," Jack said; "but it sounds about right." He couldn't believe his luck! Someone rational, who could grasp these concepts and be reasonable about it. What a relief.

The figure stepped hesitantly out from behind a dumpster. He wasn't very tall; he looked about 17 or so. He appeared to be armed - there were what looked like sword hilts sticking up behind his shoulders - but he made no threatening moves. Slowly, he came a bit closer.

Jack relaxed his stance. "The Rift exits out here in Cardiff," he explained. "Torchwood is responsible for... well, whatever washes up here."

The boy came closer, watching him with disconcerting intensity. "Did you do this?"

"You mean, cause the Rift that brought you here? No." Well, maybe technically they were responsible for the current Rift upheaval, but now wasn't the time for getting into complicated details. "If you'll just come w-"

"Jack, behind you!"

Gwen's airgun barked, and Jack whirled to see the second figure drop bonelessly to the pavement. Quickly, he turned back - but the first guy had closed the distance between them in a blink and shoved a knife into Jack's gut. Jack's arm jerked up, and he fired point-blank into his attacker's chest. The kid collapsed backwards with a shocked grunt of pain.

"Shit..." Jack grimaced and sank to his knees, clutching his stomach, trying to pinch off the flow of blood. And God, intestinal fluid? It burned.

He heard Gwen's running footsteps come up behind him. "Jack! I'm so sorry." She skidded to a halt and put a hand on his shoulder. She flicked hair out of her face. "He had a knife, I thought... Are you all right?"

He looked down at the blood pouring over his hand, soaking the bottom of his shirt, dripping over his belt to spread over his trousers. He used his free hand to pull his coat away from the mess. "Aw, fuck!" He grimaced in pain.

"What is it?"

"He sliced my coat!" Jack frowned at the three-inch slit in his vintage World War II pea coat. It could be sewn, but it would leave ugly stitches. Unless Ianto knew a miraculous way of mending it.

"Oh!" sighed Gwen dramatically, straightening up. "Never mind all the blood, then! Shall I fetch you a tailor?" Her ire was accenting the Welsh brogue. At least she stopped worrying about him. Though she knew his secret, it was quite another thing to see him hurt and bleeding.

"I'm fine," he growled. "Get their weapons. I'll help you get them in the back in a second." It would take that long for the wound to close and stop bleeding. He didn't want to have to explain a lot of blood everywhere. While he waited, he glanced at the brown-haired young man lying a few feet away. I don't envy the headache you'll have when you wake up, he thought uncharitably.

Gwen efficiently disarmed the young men, searching them for hidden weapons. She came up with quite a few blades. Jack got up and helped her load their limp bodies in next to the Viking. The weevil tranq would have them all out like lights for several more hours. He leaned on the tailgate when they were done, surprised to find himself panting from such a small effort.

"Are you all right?" Gwen asked.

And that burning sensation hadn't gone away. Jack looked down through the hole in his shirt. The wound was an angry red line, now. "I think I've been poisoned." Clammy sweat broke out over him. Gwen's eyes went wide in renewed fear. "Get me in the van," Jack said, his own voice sounding fuzzy in his ears. His vision shrank to a pinpoint as the world receded into blackness.

===#===

Jack slumped to the ground in a heap, despite Gwen's grab for his arm. "Oh, don't you dare!" She tugged at him, but he didn't budge. He wheezed a horrible death-rattle for a few seconds, then he stopped. He was dead.

Gwen swore underbreath. There was no use panicking. Get him in the van. "Right." She sat back on her heels. "And how am I supposed to do that, you great lummox?"

Of course, he had to collapse as far away from the passenger door as possible. The logical thing would be to just grab him by the ankles and drag him over. He was dead, after all, and wouldn't feel any discomfort. But Gwen couldn't stomach the thought of scraping him across the dirty pavement, littered with bits of gravel and broken glass. She briefly considered a fireman's carry, then decided she didn't want to throw her back out.

So she wrapped her arms around his chest and hauled him bodily around. She leaned back against the side of the SUV with him propped against her legs and opened the door with one hand. So much for the easy part.

The thing about a dead body wasn't so much that it was a dead weight. A sack of potatoes was dead weight, but at least it was a regular shape. A dead body had so many awkward limbs sticking out, that insisted on bending one way and not the right way. Its center of balance wasn't centered, and tended to shift. No matter how much of which part Gwen shoved up into the seat, the center of gravity seemed to be on the part that made it fall back out.

Swearing and muttering imprecations, Gwen finally got fed up and clambered over his back to get inside the vehicle. Then she turned around and grabbed his arms and hauled back like a rower, dragging him up over the passenger seat. Before he could slither back out, she grabbed for his upper arms and pulled again, bracing her knees against the seat. One more haul ought to do it...

Naturally, he picked the worst possible moment to 'wake up.' His head was pressed to her stomach, so when he gasped a heavy breath, he practically inhaled the bottom of her shirt. He gagged and coughed, and the convulsive motion caused Gwen to lose her balance and fall down between the seats. Her butt dropped down and she was wedged in a V, her hands and feet flailing for purchase but unable to find any.

Jack was caught between her knees, his head pinned under her breasts. He twitched a bit, trying to look around. "Uh...," came his muffled voice. "This is unusual. Do I want to know what you were doing with my corpse?"

His left hand roamed upward, trying to probe whatever it was resting on his head. Gwen slapped at it. "Jack!" she growled, teeth clenched. "You have exactly to the count of three to Get. Off. Me. Or you are a dead man. Again!"

He didn't move. "Well, I've just been dead and woken up in a strange position," he mumbled into her pants. "Any precipitous movement might make things worse."

"One..."

"I could hurt someone, you know. I'm not even sure where all my - hello! I think I've found my right hand."

"Two...!"

"Okay, okay!" He managed to push himself up gingerly on his arms and pry himself halfway out of her lap. He raised his head and came nose-to-cleavage with her. "Uh...," he started.

She didn't bother waiting for any snarky comments, she just shoved at his face and started wriggling out from under him.

"Ow!"

"Get off!"

"I'm trying!"

Jack somehow managed not to grope her, which was lucky for him. She managed not to accidentally boot him in the groin. Panting, faces flushed, they finally got untangled. Gwen pulled her dark hair out of her eyes. He grinned like a schoolboy and she glared daggers at him.

She swung into the driver's seat.

"Hey, I-"

"No, you're not driving," she snapped. "You've been dead ten minutes." She longed to reach down and yank the seat forward with the bar, but it was one of those annoying electronic seat adjusters. She held the little button down furiously while the motor smoothly and slowly edged the seat up.

"But I'm fine now," Jack insisted. He grinned again. "In fact, I feel rather invigorated!"

She shot him another scathing glare.

"I suppose this is somehow all my fault."

"Yes! Now sit down and close the door."

Jack sighed and complied.

===#===

They really needed a better way to transport bodies from the van to the Vault. Jack and Ianto finished dragging the two young guys into an empty cell and deposited them on the slab bench. They both took a moment to arrange the limp bodies a bit more comfortably, and Jack studied their outfits. Leather and metal, they were clearly some form of armor.

"I don't recognize the period of this style," Ianto said, also looking it over. "Could they be misplaced LARPers?"

"No, their weapons were real enough. Look at this." Jack touched the cheek of the blond one, turning his head. Damn, he was fine-looking. Jack tried to focus. He pulled his eyes away from the flowing tattoos and took the pointed ear tip between his finger and thumb. He tugged it gently to see if it was real. It was. "Does yours have pointed ears?"

Ianto brushed back long strands of chestnut hair. "Yes. So they're aliens? Vulcans, perhaps."

"You've been watching too much science fiction."

"Not lately," Ianto said sadly.

Jack pressed a thumb to his chin in thought. The young, strong body sprawled before him was so relaxed so... inviting. That smooth bronze skin, that long flaxen hair... He looked at the other - luxurious hair, dark eyelashes against paler skin, amazing cheekbones... Was it getting warm in here? "I don't want you or any of the others talking to them," he said, shaking himself. "They might be fae." He turned to go, the quicker the better. Fae glamour was a sticky trap.

"Is that blood on you?" Ianto asked sharply.

"Yes, but it's not mine," Jack lied smoothly. He continued at a brisk pace before the sharp-eyed Welshman noticed the slices on this clothing. "Come on, the next one's a Viking."

===#===

With a groan, Zevran peeled his eyes open. He was in some dank, dark, hard place - dungeon - and he had the worst hangover. He sat up on the hard slab, rubbing his head, noting the lightness of his weapon harness that meant his weapons were gone. Bannon lay next to him. Zevran could see at a glance that his partner was alive, so he focused on their prison.

It was smooth stone of a dark colour. Dim illumination came from overhead, casting an eerily steady pool of light on the floor. There was some sort of recessed door at one end of the cell, but the other end caught the assassin's attention, for the entire thing was made of glass. Oh, this will be easy, he thought. Or... hideously difficult and dangerous. Zevran didn't trust things that were just handed to him. Beyond the glass was a dark corridor, barely different from the cell they were in.

He stood and turned to Bannon, tried to rouse him. Bannon groaned. It took some prodding and pulling from the assassin, but they finally got him sitting up. The thief put a hand to his solar plexus. "Andraste's Tits," he gritted. "I feel like I've been punched in the stomach."

"What happened?" Zevran asked. "I remember hearing someone yell, then..." He shrugged.

"I knifed that guy, but..." Bannon shook his head. "He had some kind of weapon. I didn't get a good look at it. Some kind of crossbow, I think. He shot me." Gingerly, he probed the leather armor on his chest, but it was undamaged. Or nearly. Peering more closely revealed a tiny puncture.

"Needle," Zevran informed him. "They drugged us."

"No point asking why, I guess. Just glad they didn't kill us."

Zevran grinned. "It is because I am very lucky, no? And you're with me!" He straightened and pulled his partner to his feet. "They took our weapons," the assassin said. "Though I am sure you still have your picks. However, I think I can handle our breakout on my own." He flashed a smile and waved at the glass wall.

"Come on, Zev," the thief said skeptically. "You know it's got to be a trap."

Barely daunted, the Antivan stepped to the window-wall. He put his fingertips lightly against it; it was a tad warmer than he'd expected. He leaned close, trying to peer up and down the corridor. He couldn't see into the cells on either side (that he assumed were there), nor any sign of life in the dark hall. "Hello?" he called out cheerily. "I am about to escape!" How convenient the glass was punctuated by these rows of round holes in it. Not only did they permit sound to carry, but they no doubt compromised the glass' strength. "I say," he called out after a moment; "does anybody care?"

His sharp ears caught some faint grumbling and growling from the right end of the hall.

Bannon also had his pointed ears cocked. "Dogs?"

Zevran shrugged. "No, they would be much louder. It sounds like people in other cells, no?"

Apparently, the thief didn't know either, because he just shrugged back. His lack of concern about guard dogs encouraged Zevran. Bannon was afr- er, he didn't like dogs. If he really thought there were dogs out there, he'd be much more worried.

With a cocky grin, Zevran stepped back from the glass, raised one foot and gave it a swift, hard kick. Instead of the musical tones of shattering glass, the wall gave out a dull thump. Zevran hopped back, cursing a string of hot Antivan invectives, grabbing his throbbing foot. He hopped on one leg in a complete circle while Bannon watched. At least the thief didn't say anything.

Gingerly, Zevran put his sore foot down. Nothing broken. He eyed the glass wall evilly. Then he shot a quick glance at his partner. The two elves didn't need any further communication. As one, they charged across the cell and rammed shoulder-first into the glass. This produced a doubly-loud WHAM, then two thumps as the elves bounced off the wall and onto the floor. An assortment of groans followed.

"Shit," said Bannon, now clutching his sore shoulder.

"Well," Zevran said in mock brightness; "at least my head doesn't hurt so much now." Bannon only rolled his eyes and gave him a look. "Ah, right. So perhaps the thief should take the lead in formulating our escape plan, no?"

===#===

The sad fact was, the cell was locked down tight. It was built tight. Hell, it barely had a drain in the floor as its only concession to a latrine. If you even tried sticking your hand down in it, you'd get stuck. Mages must have built this cell.

Finally, weary, sore, and disheartened, the two elves caught an hour or two of fitful sleep.

===#===

Ianto rolled the trolley into the first hall of the Vault. The lights were just coming up for the day cycle in the Hub. The weevils were huddled at the back of their cell. They were sewer-dwellers; they ate offal. Ianto uncovered their tray of slop and slid it in through the slot. They hissed at him, curved fangs gleaming with spittle.

He moved on to the Viking. The rest of the inmates were getting rice. It was cheap and easy to make in bulk, plus he was pretty sure everyone could digest it. The same couldn't be said for pizza with sausage and peppers. When Ianto put the food and water through the slot, the Viking pounced with a roar. Screaming Nordic imprecations, the huge hairy man flung the bowl at the transparent barrier, spattering it with rice. He hurled himself after it, slamming his meaty fists and chest against the barrier, spittle flying from his gap-toothed mouth.

Ianto couldn't help but flinch, even though he knew the industrial grade plastic could probably stop a charging rhino. It wouldn't do to take the invective personally. Anyone would be upset at being displaced in time and space and kept confined. They had no way to communicate with the 'guests' to make things easier, either.

The two in the next cell were also awake. They bent to retrieve their food and water. "Thank you," said the dark-haired one.

"You're welcome," Ianto replied automatically. His eyes caught those of the young man. He had very soulful dark eyes. Ianto quickly tore his gaze away.

"What's your name?" the prisoner asked amicably.

"I'm really not supposed to talk to you," Ianto said, fiddling with the trays for the samurai.

"Why not?"

Ianto hesitated. Jack had given specific instructions, but if they were fae, wouldn't it be just as dangerous to insult them? "In case you try to use fae glamour on me."

The both of them made a disparaging noise. "We're not fae," the dark-haired one said with a sour note.

"We're elves," the blond one chimed in. He had a Mediterranean accent. "Plain, ordinary city elves."

Ianto didn't think the fae would lie about that. Still, what did he know about real fae, anyway? Only that they were hideously dangerous. He pushed the cart onward. "You'll have to excuse me."

"Hey," the dark-haired elf called after him. "That captain guy said you were going to help us. This isn't helping!"

"I'll forward your inquiry to him," Ianto said. It was all he could do.

===#===

Bannon growled, "Lying shems." He turned and sat on the floor across from Zevran, who was carefully poking through one of the bowls.

The Antivan offered no comment, he just took a few grains of rice into his mouth, rolled them around thoughtfully on his tongue. He shrugged and swallowed. "There's nothing in it." He handed his bowl to Bannon, and the Denerim elf traded his back. Paranoid as they were, they'd never trust that what was true of one bowl would hold the same for the other.

Bannon ate his, frowning speculatively at the little white spoon. It looked like porcelain, but felt like polished wood. Very brittle.

"So," Zevran said, switching to his native Antivan tongue, in case they were overheard; "with these new tools, how long do you think it will take for you to break us out of here?"

Bannon shook his head. He replied in the same language. "I don't think these will help." He turned the thin utensil over in his fingers. "I wouldn't mind some salt on this." He resumed eating.

Zevran chuckled. "Such the arl you are," he teased. "What a fine nobleman's palate you have acquired."

"Shut up," Bannon growled in a friendly manner. In the same spirit, he kicked Zevran in the leg.

The Antivan moved slightly, partly deflecting the blow. "What do you think they want with us?" he asked in a more serious tone.

"Who knows? Probably the same old crap: they need slaves."

"So, all we have to do is bide our time until they set us to work." Zevran tipped his head and gave his partner a sly smile. "Whatever shall we do to occupy ourselves while we wait?"

Bannon shook his head, not returning the smile or the sentiment.

Zevran huffed. "Well, why not?"

"I don't know, just..." Bannon frowned at the glass wall. "This thing makes me feel like I'm being watched. It's like a huge window."

"There is no one out there to see," the assassin scoffed.

"I'm sorry." Bannon couldn't explain it, but something was very wrong.

===#===

Jack was in his office, staring at the CCTV screen monitoring the Vault. The cell of the two elves took up the main screen.

"They want to talk to you," Ianto reported to his boss.

Jack turned his head sharply as if startled. His hand made a motion towards the monitor switches, aborted as he folded his arms.

"I don't think they're fae." Ianto continued. "They say they're elves."

"I thought I gave specific orders not to talk to them."

"I didn't talk to them," Ianto said levelly. "That didn't stop them from talking to me."

Jack pinched the bridge of his nose. He moved forward precipitously and snapped off the monitors. "I don't have time to deal with them right now."

"They seem reasonable," Ianto pointed out. He understood the necessity of keeping non-indigenents out of harm's way, but it seemed a pity if it weren't strictly necessary.

Jack scooped a remote off his desk and pointed it at another screen, turning on the international news channel, muted. Ianto's eyes followed, then widened. "Is that... the Taj Mahal?"

"Yeah," said Jack. "This has gone way beyond Cardiff. I already had UNIT on my ass this morning asking what the hell is going on and if we're responsible." He put the remote down and picked up his mobile. "Get Tosh and Owen in here. I'll call Gwen." He punched the speed-dial.

Ianto took his own phone and moved away a bit to call Owen.

"I'm sorry if I woke you," he heard Jack say on the other line. The acerbity was barely contained, making it quite clear he wasn't the least bit sorry of he'd interrupted Gwen and Rhys while they were still abed. "Turn on your television."

Ianto turned away as Owen picked up.

===X===

End Notes:

Jack: "Maybe I'll get lucky."

-Always hopeful, that one. :X

.

Jack: I don't envy the headache you'll have when you wake up.

-I didn't really mean him to quote The Princess Bride there.