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brigadiertardis Ghost in the machine
Dec. 27th, 2009 03:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
quitehomoeroticTorchwood didn't keep hours. Torchwood couldn't keep hours. Not with the sort of work they did. Alien invaders didn't really respect when people might like to have a nice night in in front of the telly, or sleep in late in the morning. They didn't care if you wanted to start at nine and finish at five.
But sometimes, Jack just had to accept that even his staff needed lives of their own. Admittedly, of course, that would often be when Gwen picked up her bag and declared she was going home, without giving Jack option either way. But accept it he did. He knew people needed time to themselves, and times away from the underground confines of the Hub. And so some nights he'd end up there alone, an old record player on echoing out a cracked recording of Gracie Fields and a self made (infinitely worse than Ianto's) cup of coffee in hand.
This was one of those nights.
He sat in his office, listening to the sound of the music as he jotted down notes on paperwork he'd left waiting for weeks. To his side a computer ran a regular nightly scan for any activity in the area. Nothing, just the way he liked it. Cardiff safe.
Nothing strange (which was almost strange in and of itself), nothing out of the ordinary or abnormal. Nothing that was until a little alarm started sounding.
He ought to have known things would never run smoothly.
Pushing aside his papers he leant forward and prodded keys on the keyboard. Strange, he thought, the reading wasn't something he recognised. Some sort of transmission. It seemed to be harnessing the rift, but how? He keyed a little more and then the screen flickered, putting him on edge.
Something wasn't right.
But sometimes, Jack just had to accept that even his staff needed lives of their own. Admittedly, of course, that would often be when Gwen picked up her bag and declared she was going home, without giving Jack option either way. But accept it he did. He knew people needed time to themselves, and times away from the underground confines of the Hub. And so some nights he'd end up there alone, an old record player on echoing out a cracked recording of Gracie Fields and a self made (infinitely worse than Ianto's) cup of coffee in hand.
This was one of those nights.
He sat in his office, listening to the sound of the music as he jotted down notes on paperwork he'd left waiting for weeks. To his side a computer ran a regular nightly scan for any activity in the area. Nothing, just the way he liked it. Cardiff safe.
Nothing strange (which was almost strange in and of itself), nothing out of the ordinary or abnormal. Nothing that was until a little alarm started sounding.
He ought to have known things would never run smoothly.
Pushing aside his papers he leant forward and prodded keys on the keyboard. Strange, he thought, the reading wasn't something he recognised. Some sort of transmission. It seemed to be harnessing the rift, but how? He keyed a little more and then the screen flickered, putting him on edge.
Something wasn't right.
