Title: Everything Changes, Part Three of Four

Author: Emma

Characters: Canonical Torchwood Three members… sort of.

Rating: Some chapters definitely not safe for work.

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?

Summary: Constable Gwen Cooper is drawn into the dark world of the Queen’s Magicians.

Author’s Note: I have been bitten by a radioactive plot bunny that threatened to disintegrate my cells if I didn’t do this. No. I don’t know if I will do all the episodes, though it would be fun. We’ll see.

Author's Note: This is a retelling of the Torchwood episodes in a world in which there are no aliens and magic and the supernatural are very real. For all of you history nerds, the Synod of Whitby went the other way and the majority of the northern English, Scots, Welsh, and Irish are Celtic Christians.

Author’s Note: I like to thank RTD for the inspiration (/snark)

            Rhys dropped his fork. “Torchwood?!”

            “I know, I know!” Gwen pushed a shrimp around on her plate as she tried to make sense of the day’s events. “Mam would have ten kinds of fit if she knew. But Rhys, it’s… I’m tired of making tea and taking statements from mugging victims. It’s been four years, and I’ve watched people who started on the job after me get preferential treatment because they genuflect to the right altar.” She shrugged. “I thought I could make a difference, Rhys, but… maybe I can’t.”

            “Ummm. Are you going to finish that?” When she shook her head, he got up and started clearing the table. “I stopped at François and picked up a few of those little apple tarts you like some much. Be right back.”

            Gwen watched him as he sorted things out in the kitchen. Sometimes she wondered how she had gotten so lucky. She had met Rhys on their first day at Uni, when he had stopped to ask her for directions. When she told him she was new to Cardiff, he had grinned merrily at her and said then let’s go be lost together. They had been together ever since. He was kind, and funny, and she could talk to him about anything under the sun. Her family loved the idea that she had found herself a nice boy from her own background. And he was one hell of a ride in bed.

            It scared her how much she could take him for granted sometimes.

            He waltzed back to the table carrying a tray with the pastries and a towel folded over his arm like a French waiter. “Mamzelle,” he said, in an atrocious accent, “here we have ze greatest dezzert ever concocted by our kitchen.”

            She giggled and pulled him down by the shirt-front until she could snog him silly. “Merci, Monsieur.”

            Rhys put one of the tarts in front of her and bit into his own with gusto. Gwen toyed with hers as she had with dinner. “Gwennie, is anything wrong?”

            “Yeah. My head! I should be able to make a decision, but I can’t. What would you do, Rhys?”

            He looked levelly at her. “I would run in the other direction as fast as I could. But I’m not you. You’ve always had a hankering for the sharp shiny things.” He raised his hand to stem the flow of words from her. “No, just listen. I’m not slagging you off. You use that hankering to help people and that’s a great thing. Just remember that Torchwood may not be exactly on our side.”

            “I know. I’ll look into it, do a little research. It might help me make a decision.”

            “Good.” He stood up and offered her his hand. “Would Mamzelle care for a coffee? A dance? Her marigolds so she can do the dishes?”

            “Oh, you!” She pushed him towards the door. “Off you go. Don’t let Banana Boat get too pissed, ok? Last time we had to have the sofa cleaned.”

            She did the dishes and then settled in front of her laptop. Googling Torchwood returned something like twelve thousand hits. The official Government websites listed it but there was no information other than the usual boilerplate.  A lot of the websites were by conspiracy theorists on the far side of crazy, and some were so far past crazy that they rounded about and bit their own tails.

            After wading through a lot of muck, she found one that seemed interesting. Someone had spent a lot of time collecting information on Torchwood. They had gotten their hands on historical photos and documents going back fifty or sixty years. There wasn’t much commentary of the lunatic kind; just names and dates. She scanned through several screens until she found a photograph titled Torchwood Cardiff, 1924. It showed a six people standing in front of the Pierhead Building. They had their arms around each other, and they were grinning. One of them was Captain Jack Harkness, looking exactly as he had when she had seen him in the morning, except for the clothes.

            And that should have been completely impossible. There were some glamours that allowed people to present the appearance of youth, but they were easily detectable by Sensitives, and she hadn’t felt anything when he held her. Even more easily detectable would have been some sort of demonic presence; Captain Harkness may have been darker than most, but he was human.

            Set that aside for now, she told herself. He wanted her to find him. Now, most people assumed Torchwood worked out of some anonymous building in one of the big industrial parks, or perhaps from one of the gigantic Victorian places with their acres of land and their security fences. But in the picture the whole team was outside, coatless and hatless. In the twenties, men and woman customarily wore coats and hats outside, especially if they were going out to lunch or dinner, but the women were not even carrying purses. The informality of the pose gave the impression that they had just stepped out of the office for a smoke.

            The problem was that most of the older buildings in the area had been destroyed, either during the Blitz or more recently, during the building of the Millennium Centre. Still, they could have remained near by, in one of the new places in East Bute or Pierhead. A bit of reconnoitering was indicated. She printed the photo, logged off the laptop, and set out for the bay.

            It wasn’t yet high season for tourists, so she was able to find a parking space reasonably near to the Plas. The sun had set and it was a cool night. She walked briskly along until she was outside the Pierhead Building, its red brick looking slightly out of place between the great modernities of the Millennium Centre and the National Assembly. She moved in a big circle until she found the façade behind the group and then turned around.

            She was facing the fountain at the Plas.

            Well, she thought with disgust, that was a complete cockup. She had walked around for an hour, freezing cold, and had ended up looking at empty air. She wanted a cup of coffee and a sit down so she could think. As she crossed the Plas towards the cafes, she passed two pizza delivery guys.

            “Look,” one was saying to the other, “these Torchwood guys drag you out at all hours but they tip really well…”

            “Oi!” She chased after them, pulling her police card and shoving it right under their noses. “You’re delivering to Torchwood?”

            “Yeah.” The first guy said. “Is there a problem?”

            “No, no! It’s just that I’ve got a mate who works there and I’m supposed to meet him. I’ve been wandering around here for fifteen minutes and can’t find the place.”

            “I’ve never been there myself,” the delivery guy said. “I usually deliver to the tourist office over there and the guy there pays me.”

            “All right, how about if I pay you and take the pizza?  I’d like to take the mickey out of my friend for being such a right berk about the directions.”

            “All right,” he said dubiously, “but if they get upset…”

            She pulled out a twenty and handed it over in exchange for the pizza. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll tell them it was my idea.”

            The tourist office was a dinky little place lit only by a bare bulb. There was nobody behind the counter. As she looked around, a section of the opposite wall swung open to reveal a corridor. She walked through and the door swung shut behind her. It gave her a rather trapped feeling, so she hurried towards the big round door standing open at the other end.

            Beyond that door there was a huge space. The center area was arranged as an office, with desks and work tables crowded with computer equipment. People were working, and either had not seen her or chose to ignore her. A flight of stairs led into what had to be an office and another to a slightly higher area where she could see several rooms. Other doors and archways led to spaces lower down. But it was the fountain with its metal column that amazed her the most; it must be the base for the one above in the Plas. She followed it up with her eyes, and got yet another shock as a large… thing… flew out of somewhere high up and circled it, cawing.

            “What in the name of Brid is that?”

            “That is a juvenile specimen of draco cambrensis, the common Welsh dragon. Extinct for at least a thousand years.” Captain Harkness came down the stairs, coat and jacket off, sleeves rolled up. “Well done, Gwen Cooper. So, do you want a job?”