Title: Spirit Mirror, 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: A cursed mirror sends Owen on a quest for justice… and Gwen stumbles upon a secret.
Author's Note: This, in canon, would be Ghost Machine

           Gwen watched Ianto as he maneuvered the cursor along the satellite view of the road they were driving on. Each little twitch he made was replicated by the delicate antenna on the gizmo he had attached to the passenger-side mirror. Anyone looking at it would think what an odd place to put an antenna. What it was actually doing was tracking energy readings, much like a sensitive would. When Tosh had shown it to her for the first time, the uneasiness must have shown on her face, because the technologist had dragged her to her work station and pointed at her terminal.

            “Can that replace me?”

            “Of course not!”

            “Why not? It can dig up information, correlate data, and draw up a list of possible outcomes…”

            Gwen had thrown up her hands, laughing. “All right, I get it!”

            Truth was, she had always been a bit intimidated by technologists. Oh, she knew how to use a computer, and was even half-way competent at troubleshooting, but people like Tosh and Ianto, who seemed to speak to them in their own language, seemed as far above her understanding as she was to a probationary constable.

            Different skills, Gwen, she told herself firmly. Different, not better or worse.

            “Over there!” Ianto nearly shouted,  pointing at one of the houses before dropping back with a muttered, “damn.”

            “What is it?” Jack asked.

            “The house is full of energy, all right, but it’s residual. There’s a stronger reading in that direction,” he pointed, “but it has a sense of… dislocation.”

            “Whatever it is, it’s being moved,” Jack said. He studied the small end-of-terrace cottage with its Madame Hermia, Spiritualist purple neon sign on the drawing room window. “All right, this is what we’ll do. You two keep after whatever it is. I’ll check with Madame Hermia.”

            He got out of the SUV and Gwen moved to the driver’s seat. “Where to, Ianto?”

            “Keep straight on.”

            She followed his instructions, doubling back several times until they found themselves hear the city centre. “Ianto, we won’t be able to drive. They’re setting up for the festival over the weekend. Most of the streets are closed… what is it?”

            Ianto had stiffened up like a shorthaired pointer. “There. That guy in the Newport RFC jacket? He has it.”

            She  swung the SUV into the nearest space. They followed the man on foot, trying their best to look like a couple out for a late afternoon stroll. The guy was easy to spot. He looked a bit like a scarecrow, skinny, with an oversized head on a stringy neck and dirty looking hair sticking out in every direction. He was trying to seem as casual as they, but was having far less success; he kept looking around as if the whole of the South Glamorgan constabulary was after him.

            Suddenly he stopped in front of a jeweller’s window, making a show of admiring the display. Gwen saw him pull something out of his pocket and look at it. Whatever it was made him jump around to scan both sides of the street until he was looking straight at them. Then he made a mad bolt in the opposite direction.

            “He’s making for the station!” she shouted as they gave chase. “You’re faster than I am. Get to the other entrance. We’ll bottle him inside.”

            Ianto nodded, not bothering with words as he turned down a side street at top speed. Gwen ran down the station stairs, pushing through the officer managers and investment bankers making their way home. She could see her quarry ahead of her, as trapped by the crowds as he was. Unfortunately, the corridor widened as they reached the second flight of stairs, and he was able to make a break for it. He ran down the steps, pushing people out of the way like ninepins. If he managed to get to the old-fashioned turnstile at the far end of the lobby she would lose him.

            She jumped the last few steps and lunged, grabbing a handful of his jacket. He twisted, smashing his fist into her side. The pain made her bend over, gasping for air, but she kept hold of the jacket. He twisted again in the other direction. She hung on, kicking at his legs blindly. Realizing he couldn’t shake her he pulled his arms from the jacket and ran up the stairs, leaving her with his jacket clutched to her chest.

            “Dammit, dammit,” she tapped her ear piece, “Ianto, where are you?”

            “On the upper concourse headed towards you. I don’t see him.”

            “You won’t. Bastard belted me and ran back up the same way he came in.”

            “I’m still registering the energy readings.”

            “Got his jacket.” She straightened up, wincing at the pain on her side. “I’ll wait for you here, right?”

            “Yeah.”

            She patted down the jacket. There was something in the inner pocket. She pulled the zipper and reached in.

            It was a small lady’s mirror with a silver frame and handle embossed with roses and studded with pearls and small rubies. It looked incredibly expensive; the sort of thing a wealthy woman kept on her dressing table for show. But instead of a pretty floral bouquet, or a lovely lady, the back supported a large ruby carved with the profile of a snake-headed woman. It chilled Gwen’s blood to look at it. She turned the mirror over.

            Where the glass should have been was a flat sheet of polished metal. In the background, small lights seemed to flicker on and off; her eyes were drawn to it and she couldn’t look away. Her lids closed slowly.

            When she opened them she was in an empty station. There were train noises in the background but she couldn’t see a single soul. The lights were dull and yellow, and she could see war posters on the wall. World War Two posters.

            Footsteps that sounded more like pistol shots made her turn towards the gates. A little boy wearing an old fashioned short-trouser suit and a cap walked up from one of the tracks. He was carrying a small suitcase and a twine-wrapped parcel. From the other hand dangled a tattered teddy bear. A large tag had been pinned on his shoulder with the name Tom Erasmus Flanagan written on it in block letters.

            “Hello? Who are you?” She whispered, voice trembling. “Can you hear me?”

            “I want to go home.” She could hear what he was thinking, what he was feeling.  “No one knows who I am here. I’m lost.” He turned away, desolate.

            “Come back.” She almost whimpered. “Come back.”

            “Gwen? Gwen!”

            She snapped back to the present to find Ianto standing in front of her, a slightly panicked look in his eyes. “Are you all right?”

            “No really.” She tried to smile. “I’ve just seen a ghost.”

            “Gwen… you’re a medium. You do that all the time.”

            “I know. It’s just… he wasn’t dead.”