Luke Smith is missing, abducted by aliens for an unknown purpose. before the Season 1 finale of Torchwood, and between the Doctor Who episodes . Ms. Smith raised her eyebrows, and then broke into a huge smile.
Table of contents
- Echo Vol. 2, Chapter 2
- Bless The Broken Road - mansikka - Supernatural [Archive of Our Own]
- Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
The cannibal paused when he reached the body. His mouth widened in a frenzied spasm, then darted forward and plunged into a mess of innards. His deformed jaw began working in awkward bites. Unable to contain himself, Leat voiced a series of cloying, sensuous moans. His eyes drooped halfway closed as he lost himself in ecstasy. The killer turned his head so that his red-coated cheek plopped wetly onto the corpse.
He stared curiously up at Atriya. Either because of his injuries, or because he was stupid with gluttony. Atriya leaned in, pressing down and grinding with his heel. Atriya drew his guns. Not just for obvious reasons—they offended him on a deeper, inexplicably personal level. Atriya holstered his left pistol, and gripped his other at a skyward angle. He ejected the clip, grabbed it, then clamped his drawn pistol between his left elbow and ribs so he could hold it in place. His thumb ran twice over the rectangular ammo at the top of the clip, dispensing two unfolded rounds into his right hand.
He held the rounds between his fingers, snapped the clip back into place, and stowed his weapon. A tacky layer of gore held the bullets in place. It changed nothing—the Crusader still felt a deep, abiding iniquity. Are you still on mission?
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But in this instance, the meaning was clear: Are you going to do your job, or should we kill you now? A feeling of lightness ran through his head. It was chased by a flash of hilarity. Might as well fuck with this Retrieval dickhead. The team leader knew it as well. There was a long pause. No noise except for the careful rub of soles against the concrete road.
The warehouse appeared up ahead, delineating the boundary between the Wastes and Scape The separation was easy to see: A decrepit apartment complex stood opposite the warehouse. Atriya made his way to the apartment, walking to a door that faced Waste-side, careful to keep a low profile. Ten men filtered to his end of the street, stringing out into a single-file line so they could follow his lead.
The Crusader stopped at the entrance. The team caught up; three stacked behind him while the others pointed their weapons outboard and provided security.
Echo Vol. 2, Chapter 2
Atriya checked the building with his heat overlay. He holstered his left gun, freeing a hand so he could use tactical sign language. To get around this problem, linkups were fitted with a burst emitter that could bathe their surroundings in a flood of spectra. Atriya scanned the apartment, this time with x-ray. Atriya pointed at his eyes with the index and middle finger of his free hand, then shook his head. The gesture was repeated and sent back by each man in their stack.
Clement stepped out from the line, holding a pistol tight by his ribs. Reaching slowly with his free hand, he gently— gently— tested the knob. Clement pulled and the door swung wide. The team flowed behind him, then out to the sides as they systematically cleared the room. It always paid to be vigilant and methodical. Clement and three Specialists settled in, picking windows as observation posts. The rest of them—Atriya, Linke, the team leader, and the four marksmen—huddled together in the middle of the room.
They nodded back and began treading up the staircase, rifles at the ready, sniper systems hanging off their backs. The Retrieval commander addressed Atriya: You and your gunner make the approach. Do a gun run or two. The Specialist shuffled to a window. Linke followed, but not before giving Atriya an insolent smirk.
Fuck off, Atriya thought. He looked down at his guns. Pull the trigger until it goes click. He made his way over to Clement, who was now watching the warehouse through a scape-facing window. Atriya examined their target, flipping rapidly through his overlays. The building was enormous; maybe a few square miles in area. Base floor with a second floor comprised of landings and catwalks. Multiple fortifications all throughout. Maybe thirty to forty people split between each level.
No visible sentries outside the building. Both Crusaders were cautiously relaxed. They were thinking the same thing: Between the eleven of them, it would be easy pickings. Not until it was done and over with, anyways. Standard procedure dictated that Crew operators do their pre-assault comms using hand signals, one gun out for security.
Due to Atriya being a climber, he was the logical choice to hit the upper level. To ensure clarity, the exchange was broken into pieces, each piece separated by verification from his following gunner. A second later he raised a finger. His head turned down and to the right.
Something had occurred to him. Clement met his eyes and signaled: How long should he wait before he breached the lower floor? Atriya thought for a bit, then responded: Go in after the first shot. They went through the entire plan one more time, just to make sure they were both in sync. Once they gave each other the final okay, they rose to their feet. Atriya opened the door and the two slipped into the street, scurrying along building contours and sticking close to shadow-darkened walls. Their hunched posture made them look vaguely inhuman, reminiscent of a fairy tale creature—a troll or a goblin—while their skittering gait imbued them with an insectile aspect.
Retrieval covered them as they got situated. Atriya holstered his pistols and got ready to climb. He needed to cover about thirty feet. The Crusader began pulling himself up. He looked shadowy and insubstantial as he swung and arced, using ledges and handholds to boost himself skyward.
Free climbing was second nature to him, and his ascent took less than a minute. He finished his climb and perched on a ledge. He was crouched right at the edge of an expansive second-story window, one large enough to double as a hangar bay entrance. He unholstered his right gun for security, leaving his other hand free so he could manipulate a breaching package—an explosive tool designed to create a point of access. The concrete around him abruptly lightened. He glanced up and saw a shifting bank of clouds. A gap had opened in their midst, allowing the light from Ascension to burn its way down.
His adrenaline spiked in hot flashes across his neck and back, but his anxiety was quickly replaced by a flash of gratitude: The hood smothering his head—combined with the visor concealing his eyes—made his mirrored self appear featureless, like a human embodiment of nothing. A long, crosswise crack bisected his face, infusing it with a discordant, funhouse look. His window-pane counterpart resembled a black-clad bogeyman. He rose to a half-crouch and reached into a matte-black utility belt clipped around his waist.
His partially gloved fingers dug out a small, nondescript metal cylinder from a compartment near his right hip. The cylinder was about an inch in diameter and the length of a human hand.
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On one of its ends there were two buttons. Luke Smith is selected as a candidate for an elite school. All seems well until he doesn't return home one day. Sarah Jane, frantic with the loss of her son, calls on her last hope for help—Torchwood.
Bless The Broken Road - mansikka - Supernatural [Archive of Our Own]
Crossover with all series in the Doctor Who universe. All belong to the BBC. Luke Smith stared blankly at the whiteboard, finding the lesson beyond bordering insulting his intelligence and blatantly beating it to a pulp. His head throbbed and he did everything in his power to remain alert and attentive despite the Battle of Boredom waging in his body far stronger and more painful than being electrocuted by a Dalek he had heard about them from his mum after finding a picture of in the attic and had immediately bombarded her with questions.
He nearly fell out of his seat as the professor interrupted his internal chant of the Period Table and its properties. The silence in the room thundered in Luke's ears. It is a very competitive, highly elite university prepatory school. My mum keeps tellin' me that if I even get selected by mistake, she'll never make me clean my room again!
The bell rang, signaling the end of English, and the students pushed past each other out the door. Smith, a word, please. He removed his glasses and gestured to Luke to take a seat. And, to be quite frank, I don't really care. Provided, however," he hastily added, adjusting himself in his stiff chair that was a bit too small for his large frame. On the front, handwritten in a fancy script was Luke's name above the name and address of his school. It makes me proud to be your English professor, even though you're bored.
Professor Gaines carried on as though uninterrupted, waving the envelope in front of him. Whatever you may have heard of Chelsea Hall, it doesn't matter.
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I'm telling you this, Mr. Smith, so that you will make the right decision and for the right reasons. Luke's really smart an' all, an' we right these aliens, an' what if Chelsea Hall is some alien front or somethin', yeah? Like with the Kudlak? Chelsea Hall is hardly ever in the news; you only even hear 'bout them from word of mouth.
Musings and books from a grunty overthinker
If it were really run by aliens, don't you think we'd have heard 'bout weird experiments or children missing? He pulled the envelope Professor Gaines had given him out of his pocket, smoothing it as he handed it to his mother. Smith raised her eyebrows, and then broke into a huge smile.