Title: Day One, Part One 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: Gwen’s first day at work is… not the usual thing
Author's Note: AU like nobody's business!

Author’s Note: Yes, it’s a female bishop. There is strong circumstantial evidence that at least two women, Bridget of Kildare and Beoferlic of Northumbria were ordained bishops in the fifth century in the Irish Celtic Church. There were women who ruled over “joint monasteries,” and women who were dalaighs (advocates in the courts), and women who were royal advisors. It wasn’t until the Celtic rites were abandoned in favor of the Roman that women lost their positions in Celtic cultures.

Author’s Note: The cockatrice, or basilisk, is a common “monster” and heraldic symbol; the revenant part of the legend is all mine.

            “So what’s with the clothes?”

            The Torchwood Three team, minus their boss, were sitting around the conference room table gorging on the best Chinese Gwen had ever had. She made a mental note to ask Ianto for the name of the takeaway place; Rhys loved Chinese but the place near their flat was utter rubbish.

            She had spent the morning doing the things one did on the first day of work: filing out forms, touring the place, learning to use the computer systems. Captain Harkness – except everyone called him Jack – had said hello on his way out, looking like the poster boy for the Royal Air Force circa 1939.

            “It’s his monthly appointment with the Bishop.” Ianto explained. “Mother Katherine likes the look.”

            The news that she would have to meet once a month with the Bishop of Cardiff for a spiritual consultation upset her less than she would have expected. The Abbess Katherine was known to be a powerful sensitive and a friend and champion of non-Christians.

            “But he always wears the coat, doesn’t he?”

            “It could just be the gay thing,” Owen quipped.

            Gwen wasn’t sure she liked doctor Owen Harper. “What do you mean?”

            “Owen thinks he’s gay,” Toshiko said. “I don’t.”

            “And I don’t care,” Ianto said with a shrug.

            “But… but…”  Gwen sputtered. “He can’t be!”

            “Gossiping about the boss again, children?” Jack bounced in, carrying a box from which emanated the most wonderful smell. “Dessert is courtesy of the episcopal kitchen.”

            Ianto stood up. “I’ll get started with the coffee.”

            “Good. The Bishop drinks only herbal tea, bless her, and I’ve been…”  Jack broke off the conversation and tapped his earpiece. “Yes, Andy.” He listened for a few minutes. “Idiot. On our way.”

            “Sorry, kids,” he said. “The gateau will have to wait. The police has just received a call from a Mrs. Grace Astley who lives on Allenbank, right next to Saint Peter at the Gates Cemetery. It seems her son Bryan found some eggs in the woods and decided to hatch them for his science project. She wondered if someone could tell her what bird lays yellow-green eggs with gold spots that glow in the dark.”

            “Shit!” Owen jumped up. “I’ll get my kit.”

            “Tosh, Ianto, research. Ianto, keep an eye on the Rift just in case it’s not an isolated incident. Gwen, with me.”

            She trotted after him. “Jack, what’s wrong? What are those eggs?”

            “Cockatrice.”

            “I thought they were a myth.” At his raised eyebrow, she blushed. “All right, point taken. But I’ve never heard of any in Wales.”

            “They’re native to Eastern Europe and some parts of the Mediterranean. The eggs either came through the Rift or some idiot on his Grand Tour brought them back.”

            She scrambled into the passenger seat of the SUV. Owen was already in the back seat, sorting through a suitcase-sized medical bag. “Are they as bad as it says in the books?”

            “Worse.” Owen said, holding on as Jack gunned the SUV. “Even their breath is poisonous. Thank god, when they are first hatched they don’t have wings and legs yet, so they’re easier to catch. The problem is the cemetery.”

            “Why?”

            “St. Peter is a Roman Catholic Cemetery. They have a section outside the wall for murderers and suicides and others that did not receive last rites.” Jack said, as he threw the SUV into a turn that made Gwen blanch. “If a cockatrice passes over the corpse of a person who died in anger or despair there’s a good chance the corpse will become a revenant.”

            “Great Mother.”

            “Yes. Keep Her in mind, we might need Her to intercede later.”

            He pulled into Allenbank. There were four police cars parked in front of one of the three story Victorians that lined the street. Jack parked the SUV and jumped out. Gwen and Owen followed. Gwen wondered what her former police comrades thought of seeing her behind the much disliked and feared Captain Jack Harkness. She took a deep breath to steady herself.

            As she reached the gate leading to the back garden, Eric Kenyon materialized out of the crowd. “And where do you think you’re going?” She tried to shoulder past him but he pushed her back. “I don’t think so. I say who comes and goes on this site.”

            “I think you will find,” Jack’s icy tones had them both whipping around, “that I say who comes and goes on this site. And if you keep trying to swing your minuscule dick at my people you’ll find I can say who comes and goes in the police department too. Come on, Gwen.”

            She followed him, but not before noticing a few smothered grins. Kenyon was not well regarded by his fellow officers.

            The garden was a pretentious formal affair too elaborate for the plain, honest Victorian, but it was beautifully in bloom, and Gwen gave an appreciative glance to the cascade of  Cecile Brunner climbing roses mantling the wall. Near the back gate, several policemen, including Andy, were grouped around a tearful woman and a young man with the pugnacious scowl universal to all teenagers. One of the policemen was cradling a leashed weasel in his arms. Slightly beyond them, under a beautiful old plane tree, Owen, gloved and masked, was kneeling over a small nest holding five eggs.

            “Gwen!” He shouted. “Get yourself gloves and a mask from the bag. I’m going to need some help.”

            She rushed forward and did as he instructed.

            “Get me the small scalpel from the upper tray.” He barked, not looking at her. “Most of them are infertile, but I want to look at the one at the bottom here.”

            She retrieved the scalpel and was moving towards him when she felt someone kick her in the back of the ankle, hard enough to send her tumbling forward, blade aimed directly at the Doctor. She twisted out of the way, but couldn’t keep her balance. She came down right over the nest. The scalpel sliced right through one of the eggs.

            “Dammit!” She felt Owen pull her out of the way. “Everyone, move! Out!”

            There was a scramble as everyone ran from the hissing little snake that emerged from the egg. To Gwen’s country eyes it resembled a grass snake, except that the spots and bars along the side were gold, instead of black, and its head was crowned by a tall fleshy ridge. It moved fast as lightning, slithering under the back gate and out towards the cemetery wall.

            “Set the weasel!” Jack bellowed, running after it as it ran past him. “Owen, take the whole nest and take it back to the Hub. Gwen, move!”

            She chased after him, as did Andy and the constable holding the weasel’s leash. The little animal ran, hissing and screeching like a banshee, and they followed. The grass was thigh-high around the tumbledown stones, and the weasel moved so fast that they lost track of it several times, but each time the noises it made put them back on the trail. Suddenly they saw it ahead, crouched near the cemetery wall, hissing furiously at the cockatrice as it coiled on the top of a gravestone. Jack unholstered his Webley and shot almost without aiming. The little snake exploded in several pieces.

            “Andy.”

            “We’ll handle clean-up.”

            “Have Kenyon do it. He owes us for tripping Gwen.” He looked down at the grave. “Thomas Crowne. Died 1682. Well, I don’t suppose the dust will rise and walk.”

            They walked back towards the house. Behind them, the little weasel  nosed about the grass, hunting for what was left of its enemy. Its searching uncovered another stone, set flush on the ground  slightly behind and below the mound that marked Thomas Crowne’s resting place.

            Carys Weston. Beloved Child..