Gary Russell - The Twilight Streets

Toshiko had insisted that would change. Gwen had tried to reason with him, saying she was his friend, but this was what the world needed.

In one last desperate move, Ianto had told them about the Light and the Dark. That he believed they were controlling his old friends.

And Toshiko had destroyed the future.

She’d destroyed the Hub.

A new Torchwood Institute had been constructed in the heart of Cardiff, at the very heart of the Rift – a massive office complex where the Castle had once stood, history demolished in days.

Then they moved the Rift Manipulator there, the whole water tower and Jack, encased in his glass prison. Lock, stock and barrel. The Hub was firestormed, destroying everything else, so no one else could ever access the past.The basements, the Morgue, the Vaults, over a century of information was lost for ever. Because this was a new Torchwood, burning brightly on the pyre of the old.

And Ianto had run, because he knew there was no way he’d survive the madness.

The last thing he’d seen as he left the Hub was light. Flickering lights in the air, dancing with one another. Or fighting. Black Light and White Light.

For weeks, Ianto had plotted and planned. The only way to put things right was to become everything he hated. He had to think like the enemy, act like the enemy. Ianto Jones had to become like Tosh and Owen. Like the light creatures from the Rift that possessed them.

He had to kill his old friends and bring down the Torchwood Empire.

It had taken them less than a year to take over the world. It would take less than two minutes to bring it crashing down.

Rhys Williams had phoned him. Gwen was in hospital. That had been Rhys’s one condition. He’d made the plans Cardiff Council had, puppet authority that it now was, available to Ianto. He’d revealed the police routines, what was and wasn’t protected. He’d known how to get about the city without being seen that day. And Ianto had taken the information and agreed that nothing would happen to Gwen or their baby boy. Hoping it was a promise he could keep.

Now he watched as Toshiko finished her address to the crowds, Owen at her side. He watched as they turned and entered the new Torchwood building.

Armed to the teeth, Ianto burst in after them.

For Ianto, it all happened in some kind of weird slow motion. The moment he saw the water tower there in the atrium, the glass panel in the floor beneath it, he dashed forward for one last look at Jack.

His Jack.

Trapped in perpetual agony, unwillingly destroying the world he’d spent so many years protecting. Loving. And turning down the chance to go home again, just to come back and help Earth.

He fired his pistol as soon as he saw Jack’s body, screaming in anger, only dimly aware that he’d taken Owen out.

He didn’t truly feel the pain as dozens of bullets ripped him apart, all his conscious mind was thinking of was how to get to Jack.

That somehow, in dying, Ianto could wake Jack up.

And Jack would stop the light creatures.

The last thing Ianto saw was his own blood obscuring the glass, hiding Jack’s beautiful face from him.

And it was over.

In Bute Street, unnoticed by any of the passers-by, the clown paint seemed almost to move by itself on Ianto’s face, dissipating into sparkles of light, which coalesced into a small starburst and shot off into the crowds.

And Ianto Jones staggered, grasping a lamp-post for support, and remembered the dream. He felt his torso, still in one piece.

Jack.

His love for Jack had brought him back, and now he had to find him. He had to find Jack.

Because he understood what was going on now, the struggle that was taking place in Cardiff. In Tretarri.

Revenge for the Future.

The room was dark, so dark. There was a table with a red chintz tablecloth on it. A teapot and two cups with saucers. A plate, some crustless sandwiches and two tiny cakes, iced, with chocolate sprinkles on top. The windows were covered by a heavy olive drape. In one corner was a leather armchair, and a table next to that.

A box on the table.

On the wall, photographs of Cardiff through the years.

‘What do you want?’

Bilis Manger smiled, and pointed to the tea. ‘A companion? To discuss life, the universe and the imminent destruction of this planet. Thanks to you.’

Bilis threw Idris Hopper’s envelope across to him.

‘One of your lesser minions delivered this to you last night. I intercepted it, but it’s all nonsense.’

Jack tore open the envelope. It was a sheaf of papers, marked, ‘TRANSLATION OF JACK’S (or whoever’s) DIARY’. Typed beneath that, Jack read, ‘Done extremely under protest by Idris Hopper who, God forbid he might actually have a life of his own, is actually bored by this. Oh, and Jack, you owe me £12.62 for lemon juice.’

Jack smiled and sifted through the translation. But it was just a series of notes about Victorian Cardiff, circa 1871.

‘There’s a note,’ Bilis waved towards the envelope as he poured tea. ‘Nice boy, by the way. One of your conquests? Looked the type. Thin. Breakable. Desperate for love and attention. Needing a father figure.’ He passed the tea to Jack. ‘Bit like your Ianto Jones, really.’

Jack ignored Bilis and shoved his hand into the envelope, tugging out the sticky Post-It that had got caught on the inside: ‘ Jack, mae’r boi’n siarad trwy’i din ac mae popeth fi’n ysgrifennu yma’n rwtsh llwyr. Mae’r dyddiadur dal gen i .’

Jack pulled a face. His Welsh was rusty. ‘Can you translate this? You know, being a man of the world?’

Bilis shrugged. ‘As I told the lovely Mr Hopper last night, languages are not my speciality.’ But he frowned. ‘I assumed you’d be able to understand it though.’

Jack looked at the notes again, and then at Bilis. ‘I get the gist. Thank you. For, you know, passing this on.’

‘I don’t like you, Captain, and I’m fairly sure you don’t like me. But we are drawn together and, strange as it may seem, we are on the same side.’

‘Really?’

‘Oh yes, indeed.’ Bilis sipped his tea. ‘What do you know about consequences?’

‘Lots. You?’

Bilis smiled. ‘Yes. Many years ago, two demon beasts fought for control of the Rift. Pwccm versus Abaddon. You are, of course, familiar with the latter.’

Jack just sniffed at the tea.

Bilis laughed. ‘It’s not poisoned, Jack. Really, how dull do you think I am?’

‘What have you done with my team?’

‘Honestly? Nothing. I needed to put them in a transient state, so they could dream the future.’

Jack stood up. ‘I’m hearing words, Bilis. Sounds and nonsense. I’m not hearing explanations.’

Bilis sipped his tea again. ‘You have lived for a long time, Jack. And by my reckoning, you will for a long time yet. You may even outdo me, who knows. I can’t predict my own future, none of us can. But what I can do is see the possibilities. It’s my gift. Or curse – that depends on one’s point of view.’

‘And you needed them why?’

‘Because you are the future I’m concerned about Jack – and I can’t read you. There, I’ve said it. You are a barrier to me, as Tretarri was to you until I was ready to let you in. Which today I did.’

Jack pointed outside. ‘Why the party?’

‘There’s always a price to pay for freedom. I need to know how far you’ll go to protect these ridiculous people and their corrupt world.’

‘What is going on?’

‘Consequences. Abaddon had a task, a significant place in the structure of things.’

‘He destroyed lives.’

‘He did that no more consciously than you and I breathe the air. It’s what he did. He is… he was perfection. A purity so immaculate, so delicate because your evil was his good. He did what he did to survive. And, to protect.’ Bilis poured more tea. ‘What you fail to grasp, Jack Harkness, is the consequences of your actions. The people of this era, this time, they irradiate their crops with insecticides, because the tiny creatures they hate destroy their crops. When they destroy the insects, the things the insects feed on then live, flourish and grow stronger. With no natural predators, they mutate.’