Title:  A Very Private War (1/7)

Author:  Emma

Characters: John Hart, Torchwood Three team

Rating: R

Disclaimer: Oh, please. If I owned them, would I let some of those idiots write the scripts? And if I were making any money off them, would I be where they could find me?

Spoilers: None. This takes place in my Homecoming AU

Summary: John Hart is pulled back in time to fight a war he does not remember…

            The man who called himself John Hart sat high above the beach, back propped against the massive sandstone walls of the castle, and watched the people below enjoy the simple pleasures of life. An elderly couple walking hand in hand, his free hand reaching to tuck an errant silver-white curl behind her ear; three boys romping in the freezing surf, stomping the wet sand and laughing to see their footprints disappear as the water seeped back in; a man walking half a dozen dogs, all of a different size and breed; a girl barely out of her teens sitting on a rock, pencil moving rapidly over the dazzling white page of a sketchpad.

            John liked to watch humans going about the every day business of living. There had been a time when they had amused or irritated him, and he had felt nothing for them except derision and contempt. Now, after spending two years traveling around the world observing them at their best and worst, he had acquired a certain admiration for their persistence and their capacity to survive, not to mention their impulsive acts of reckless heroism. He had seen so much of it during the battle with the Daleks and their damned reality bomb. No wonder Jack had fallen in love with them in spite of all the horrors he had seen.

            He could pass for one of them now. The obstreperous uniform was gone. In its place he wore jeans, an Arran jumper, and sensible trainers. He even wore a long coat like Jack’s, but for a much more practical reason: sewn into the lining were flexible leather scabbards for his sword and knives. He had gotten the idea from a television show about immortal humans who fought each other for a prize none of them had ever seen, an idea he held in horrified fascination. He had had a tailor in Palermo make him one to specs; the old man, who made clothes for all the top Mafiosi in Sicily, had a long and successful history of keeping questions to himself.

            So now he was John Hart, Londoner in his late thirties, supposedly living off a small inheritance that allowed him to travel in comfort if not luxury. He had even earned his keep by working as a bonded courier, something that amused him as just a year or so before he would have been the guy trying to steal whatever the courier was transporting. He hadn’t completely lost his bad habits, or his talent for making enemies, but he had managed to keep them under control. He had come to understand Jack better than he had ever done, and had lost all his illusions about working himself back into Jack’s good graces.

            It was time to go home.

            Except that there was no home to go back to. His planet had been all but destroyed in one of those stupid wars that flared from time to time in the outlying sectors of settled space. The Time Agency was gone; there was all likelihood that he had a price on his head, and there were always folks happy to try to collect. And he had made some very nasty personal enemies during his days as a freelancer. For them it would be both business and pleasure to go hunting for him.

            Rather than make an immediate decision – procrastination being an art form he was very fond of – he made his way back to the British islands and to the small seaside village he had fallen in love with early in his travels. Bamburgh reminded him of home, with its small grouping of houses in the shadow of the enormous castle and the cold, windy beach winter-lashed by a pewter sea. He had been here for several weeks, every day postponing his decision for another twenty-four hours.

            He was so deep into thought that he didn’t notice the commotion on the beach until the screaming started. He looked up. Three metal spheres floated a few feet above the sand. They looked like miniature escape pods, with an upper, larger part supported by a lower part that was divided from the top by a circle of running lights. More lights outlined what seemed to be sections of the top part. Blades protruded from the bottom half at regular intervals, whirring so fast that they sounded like a swarm of angry wasps, blood splashing from them like little rain drops.

            The spheres seemed to be chasing the people on the beach, almost as if they were playing a game. From time to time one would sweep in and take a slice out of someone’s body. The young artist and the old couple lay either dead or dying on the sand. There were long trails of blood seeping out to sea, and the foam had turned an ugly pink.

            John sprinted down the dune, finding rock outcroppings where he could and riding the slip where he couldn’t. He unsheathed his sword as he went; it and the knives were the only weapons he had on him, and if the day had been sunny he wouldn’t have had even that.

            “Getting careless in my old age,” he muttered as he hit the beach running. “It’s going to get me killed one of these days.”

            Two of the spheres were chasing a dog, chopping bits and pieces out of him as he ran howling along the surf.

            “Hey! You ugly balls of pus! Over here!”

            The spheres seemed delighted to have a new playmate. They rose high in the air then plunged towards him, blades extended and whirling. John waited until the last minute then ducked as he swept the sword in a wide arc. Several of the blades fell to the sand. John could swear he heard a spoiled-brat whine coming from one of the spheres.

            Suddenly he felt a familiar tug. He turned to see a Rift opening starting to form behind him. The spheres plunged through it at high speed and he was caught in the undertow. He flipped over, trying to right himself so he would come out of it on his feet.

            He almost made it. As the Rift opening collapsed he tumbled down onto hard stone. He shoulder-rolled and ended up on his knees. The first thing he saw was the tall column of the Millennium Centre fountain. The second was that the sky was full of spheres using some sort of energy device to mow down people as they ran. There were bodies everywhere.

            “Run! Move!”

            The voice behind him made his pulse leap in superstitious terror. He whirled around to find himself face to face with the woman whose body he had helped put inside a drawer in the Hub’s mortuary.

            “Come on, come on!” Toshiko Sato said, grabbing his hand and pulling him along, “We have to get out of here.”