Merry Christmas (in the dungeon)!

(Melody as in 'Christmas in Killarney')

Chorus: The holly green, the gavial green
The prettiest picture you've ever seen
It's Christmas in the dungeon
With all of the folks at home!

It's nice, I've heard, to rest your head
When after work you're nearly dead
But Torchwood Two, as we all knew,
Is job becoming your home.

The jelly box is shaking,
The Circle glows with light,
And alientech is falling again
Like shooting stars tonight.

Our hearts are light, our spirits bright,
We'll celebrate our joy tonight
It's Christmas here in Glasgoe
With all of the folks at home!

(Chorus)

We'll decorate the Christmas tree
With what we've found recently
And for failures and victories
We will raise a cup of cheer.

There's stuff to see and traps to flee
And a city to save - obviously,
It's Christmas down in Glasgoe
With all of the folks at home!

(Chorus)

(Insert Eric's amazing electric guitar traditional Irish solo here, I'm sure he could play that)

We'll take whatever we need
All across the fields of snow,
Listening to the Geiger's counter
An' everywhere we go.

How grand it feels to get some thrills
And make the best of your wits and skills,
It's Christmas in the dungeon
With all of the folks at home!

(Chorus)

The holly green, the gavial green,
The prettiest picture you've ever seen,
I'm handing you no bullshit,
No matter where you roam
It's Christmas in the Torchwood hub
- it's Christmas spent at home.


I challenge you, all of you, to sing this!

Anyway, guys. Best wishes for Christmas. Take care, have shitloads of fun, survive the kitsch and warm fuzziness and don't get too lazy. Hope you enjoyed 2011 and let's keep fingers crossed for 2012. We're going to make it ass-kicking, worth living and unforgettable in the best possible way.

A bit awkward.

Hope I will keep my promise.

Meet IX.

The duel

The next few minutes seem like ages of waiting – but, finally, computer gives a high-pitched beep. Files close, one after another. Access denied. The kid swings back, again, laughing joyfully, and almost throws himself at the keyboard.
That’s the poetry of computing languages: breaking passwords, setting up your own, building strongholds of symbols. It’s all in your head, it’s your wit, it’s your mind almost burning in an exhausting chase, it’s intuition outrunning consciousness. Finally, he regains the files and creates new walls around them, allowing himself to nestle down in his chair. For a while, he hesitates, then types two words: “Your move.”
It’s quite difficult to imagine that his opponent is this man, the only survivor. How desperate he has to be if he decided to take care of documents first, instead of helping himself?
‘Let’s see.’ The redhead squints, biting on his lip in anticipation. He already knows he’s been waiting for this duel since he learned to type. It’s a challenge, at last, the final score isn’t determined yet, and the other one could be his equal. His methods are nothing like things the kid has seen, his steps impossible to predict, but that makes the whole competition just better. How great it would be to lose, with such an opponent –
‘Hold on. You want the data’, the nameless kid has to remind himself, grinning as he types lines of commands. But Torchwood archives have become secondary, giving place to adrenaline in his veins. Every “access denied” becomes a pleasant surprise, every destroyed file provokes another grin; not that he would give this all away easily – he strikes back, attacks at some other point, creates new, even more sophisticated passwords and barriers, and it goes for hours. They don’t slow down, not for a minute, the final clash leaving them almost breathless.
It’s well past midnight when the redhead leans back in the chair once again, smiling, this time with a feeling he didn’t know before: relief.
But it’s not over yet. The other one hasn’t given up. This day becomes way better than birthday and Christmas.
“Who are you?”
The kid smirks. He had left little bits of truth here and there when he pretended to be an AI – just like the name. Nine. Could be a program version as well.
“Already told ya.”
The reply comes after a few seconds.
“So, either you’ll go where I tell you or I’ll go where you are.”
Nine almost freezes over the keyboard, unsure what to write back. He should have expected this. Finding his address wouldn’t be difficult for anyone capable of protecting Torchwood files from him, and getting on the run isn’t exactly what he wanted. And if he agrees to come – where would it take him? How would he protect himself without the safe distance provided by the Web? How easy it would be to kill him off?
To hell with it, who cares.
“Where and when?”
The answer is yet another surprise. 4 a.m., on a bridge. The kid stares in disbelief for a few seconds, then finally grabs his jacket and goes out, into Glaswegian mist.
The city seems to be almost lifeless, with no cars on the streets and no pedestrians. There should be a sunrise soon, somewhere beyond the clouds, but they barely let the light through. Drops of rain hang in the air, forming a fog so deep that when Nine sees a silhouette of a man sitting on the barrier, he expects it to be an illusion, his eyes playing a trick on him. But, as he approaches, the blur becomes a clear image. That’s certainly him – Eric Sewell, the kid remembers – the man from the hub. If they ever met on a street, he’d probably pass him without even noticing, but now he sees, no, senses, something extraordinary: a distance he can’t describe properly.
Eric turns his head towards him. One eye blue, another one brownish green.
‘Do you really have nine lives?’, he asks after a short while.
The redhead hesitates. He wouldn’t like to check it.
‘Well, I’ve tried nine times and it worked’, he replies, smiling. It’s just a shadow of his usual challenging grin, but it has to do.
Sewell turns his gaze to the river again, almost as if he forgot about his presence.
‘So… you can either try for the tenth time or come with me.’
The answer is obvious. Nine smiles again, not thinking too much about where it would take him.
‘’Course I’m coming with you.’

Epic badassery.

I sincerely have no idea what is that. What I know is that someone seems to be extremely bored, so I guess The Room needs immediate repainting.

Tea with Retcon, almost a get-together party

We’ve got a new co-worker! And she’s a lot of fun. She managed to steal the evidence I also tried to steal – and that was a good competition, imagine we were both there at the same time, a marvelous yet unstated competition and race against time and each other. She’s a bit uptight too, but, well, who wouldn’t be uptight in her place, bearing in mind Eric’s exquisite communication and poisoning skills. Still, she’s smart enough to sort stuff out. And she’s even got her own lab! (Or rather, she had it. I’m not sure she’ll be going back there. What a pity.) Also, she’s got a problem. And I don’t mean that dull boyfriend of her. A serious problem. As far as I know, she heard about OUR sample of alien shit from some police guy (was it McKennith? McKinnon? Whatever). Who apparently isn’t the person she thought he was. See, police officers who are supposed to get promoted shouldn’t disappear for whole weeks and avoid their co-workers. They also aren’t supposed to get into drugs, and this guy was seriously addicted. Then, no one has been in his flat for, like, little less than a month. I hope he’s not rotting there (though that’s one of my guesses). I’m placing my bets on that someone decided to impersonate that McKennith guy for some reason. This brings new questions: who? For what reason? And on the top of that, we’ve got petrol companies and secret meetings held in the hours of early morning. Also, as far as I can tell, the shining star of organic chemistry that checked out OUR sample had something to do with fuels, too. Can’t wait to see these bits forming a bigger picture together, really!

Quote of the day...

I'd include it here, but then my boss wouldn't leave his room until 2012. And we'd all miss him terribly. He's the only one capable of giving us orders and still being passive-agressive, and blinking in that awkward manner*.
And he's the only one that would come up with such a flawless, catchy phrase and then act weird just because someone else noticed how brilliant and witty it is. Eric, I know we're a bunch of morons (my sheer presence is enough to start a pandemic of moronnosis), but please, don't hide from us. We admire your sense of humour. And your accent, too.

* - I couldn't mock it, though God knows I've tried.

Fanged Awlarsie! ^^

In Humanitas Credo

Now, let me tell you something about the Doctor. The Doctor is like God – he doesn’t exist and he isn’t going to come and save us. We are all alone in the night and there are monsters lurking around. They’ll come and get you quicker, than you’ll be able to say “Cthulhu fhtagn!”. That is the truth, not the blue boxes falling from the sky.
Of course, they say the Doctor is why UNIT was created,. Or Torchwood. Oh, I believe they just need a myth. They need to believe in that mysterious man from the distant future coming to save them, like the other people need to believe in God, granting them happy afterlife. Or in Santa Claus. I don’t believe in each of them.
All this times, when we started our wars, when we killed each other, where was the Doctor? All those abducted people, all those horror aliens brought upon us – where was he then? He didn’t come and he will not, so we shouldn’t wait, we should do something! Because we are able to: we survived in spite of all, to face our enemies and our fears and become stronger.
That’s what I believe in: humanity. We may be a bunch of bastards, but let me tell you: there are things out there worse than us. I’ve seen them, I know them better, than anyone, believe me. And the fact that in spite of that our planet still exists – yes, that is a miracle more stunning, than all the myths we created.

Wielding's laws for beginners - introduction

Let’s make rocket science of 20th century look like primary school basics.
Take causality relation. A causes B, simple as that. We all know it. Now let’s bring it to the next level: A is a piece of alien tech from future, and B is a brand new model of computer. It wouldn’t be half as quick without these little innovations and inspirations its authors got from A, which accidentally had fallen on our dear planet Earth through a time rift or other shit. Future influences past, or, from our prospective, present.
Let’s take another step further. Alien tech A was strongly influenced by a device called C, B’s descendant. C inherited many of the features B got from a familiar piece of alien tech… got it?
Then take a look at another example: I wouldn’t ever think of that if not due to a person who is supposed to be from the past, but actually came to 21st century from some future. Let’s make a brave assumption that it’s me, not the armies of physicists from MIT and Oxford, that is going to create the basics of actual time science. I love that assumption, by the way. But then – that person wouldn’t come here if I didn’t invent the laws I might invent one day, right? There’s a nasty paradox ahead, and we shall get rid of it.
Solution no. 1: someone has re-written history, just that one point, the moment of discovering these laws, and the rest of it has re-arranged itself so that the whole story would make sense. Possible.
Solution no. 2: the moment it happened, two realities emerged. One in which such laws are Wielding’s laws, another in which they’re someone else’s laws, and Wielding is just that poor sod glaring into Torchwood computer screens day by day. And probably a few other realities.
Solution no. 3: both previously thought-up events happened. I’m placing my bets on this one.
So far so good. We’ve got history re-writing and multiplifying itself over and over again. Did I mention that time ain’t linear anymore? Not that my neuron-based ape brain could get a good grip of that idea. Sometimes I think I’m getting close – I manage to stop thinking the human way for an infinitely short while, and I imagine time as a spot, everything happening at once, in a glimpse, in a split second, expanding rapidly far beyond my comprehension. Big Bang? There’s nothing else BUT Big Bang. It’s still happening, and nothing more ever would happen, ‘cause Big Bang is time. Of course, you might also think that this means that somehow, somewhere, you’re dying and you will be dying during the whole eternity. Well, yeah. But it also means your life is eternal. In a way. I don’t know which of these statements is more miserable, after all.
That’s it for my obviously narrow mind, and for yours, possibly, too. But it’s fairly enough to start considering time travel and other shit. Enjoying yourself? Get ready for time-space branching and parallel universes, and I don’t mean the “21st century academic” edition.

Poster

Ready to print :]

Wielding's first law

time * space + humans = shit = const

'nuff said.

the beginning, continued

Somewhere else, a kid with no proper name swings back in his chair, staring at the computer with a very wide grin, slightly predatory and delighted at once, resembling the Cheshire cat. His eyes shine with excitement as he starts to tap on the keyboard. “That was great”, he mutters under his breath, though there’s no one to hear him speaking. “Fuckin’ perfect.” As if he was commenting a movie. He smiles again, this time in a childlike manner, unaware of possible danger. “Whose move, then?”

the beginning

It’s all of sudden when the screens in Torchwood Cardiff hub turn to black, then splashes of white appear and, finally, the senseless mosaic becomes one dim image, bathed in blue. And that image is enough to keep their gazes fixed, breaths held.
“Hello, Captain.”
The voice they hear is not just powerful – there is something else about it that almost forces them to listen. As if it didn’t belong to that thin man, shivering in soaking clothes. He would have been just plain, if not for his bruises, dripping water and the haunting, yet tired look in his double-colored eyes.
"I came here to destroy it all. All that you did, all that you do. As you can see, it's no longer necessary." The dim blue light draws out outlines of what might have been Institute’s fittings and what now is smashed, burnt, cracked and broken beyond recognition, in a nearly impossible way. A landscape of destruction, providing an ominously matching scenery for that man. A proof of his madness – if it’s madness that’s dwelling at the bottom of his irides – perhaps?
"Now you look like you thought I did it after all and I'm crazy enough to deny it, for whatever reason. But, no. I changed my mind, but it was...already too late."
For a moment, he turns away, as if… there are numerous “as ifs”; and it’s not a wise thing to do, trust a madman. But, as for now, there is no fury nor hysteria of any kind, just sadness, more striking than the remains he must be looking at. And so, they believe him, though it doesn’t bring relief. They still lean back instinctively when he looks at the screen again, directly at them. One eye as blue as the surrounding light, another one brownish-green.
"From that moment I take command of Torchwood Two." That’s a statement, clearly not a question. And, surprisingly enough, even Captain is too startled to undermine it. "I will make my own rules, but I won't break any of yours if it's not absolutely necessary.” That tone, strong, but only seemingly confident, makes them lean back again, wary of his madness. “We both know and you know even better than I do what can happen when just one man makes all decisions and has enough knowledge to think that he's able to do that. This time I won't take a chance. I will just take some of the responsibility. I will fix it. Make it work. You can try to stop me, you are very welcome, but as you can see, I'm the only one left here and I still...have the key. I will report you on the progress as soon as I take care of this mess. Whisper out" He looks away again, focusing on something they can’t see. "Who's there?"
Before they get a chance to know the answer, screens turn to velvet black again. The connection has ended, but the silence – fractured only by echoing sounds of dripping water – still keeps ringing in their ears.

Victorian Torchwood

Photo by Diodak, Lublin Old Town, Lost Days photoshoot, May 2011

the greater good

Doing something for the greater good is like feeding the gavial. At first, you give it more fish so that it'll go to sleep and stop causing trouble. But at one point it wakes up, and you have to feed it again. It grows as you feed it, and you still do it to maintain peace and quiet. And you end up with a reptile that's not only hungry but also huge and annoyed, and you've got no fish left, and you don't know what to do.
It's exactly like that.

@fixer wrote:

Twentieth-first century came, everything changed and we were too occupied to even notice. It doesn't matter now, we were not ready anyway. Actually, we're never ready...enough. So we just keep trying.

a guided tour

"So, uh, welcome to Torchwood. Don't you like it? M'kay, I agree, it could be a bit less watery and I really wouldn't mind, but it's great nonetheless. Don't let the bare concrete walls and occasional mould and other shit mislead you. Hear these howls? Actually, these are not the aliens we're supposed to catch (or so the gossip goes). I guess it's just distorted sounds of Glasgow, above us. But whatever. Here is our main workplace, that's why it's even more messy. Here, we eat and discuss stuff, and work, too. There, no, you don't go there, it ain't no visitors' area, it's Eric's territory. To the left is the morgue, but you don't look as if you found it enjoyable. Here... and there... and there too... are piles of alien tech. Whole heaps of stuff that does wonders. Or explodes. Or just lies until it rusts, whatever.

That corridor? To the damned circle. You're sure want to go there? That pile of stones clearly gives me goosebumps. See? We're getting nearer, and you start to feel it, too.

You already know it's something else and otherworldly, but you can't even find the right words to describe it, can you? Like your body knew it all along, instinctively, and this time it's the mind that has to catch up with that nasty shit. I'm not very good at ideological babble, so forgive me, I'd rather let you come a bit closer to the circle.

I bet you already know what I mean. Somehow beneath this water are whole worlds. You're standing on a bank of abyss deeper than anything you could imagine. There's a lot of life down there. A lot of thoughts. Wars, too. Trouble, obviously, when something slips through. But to hell with trouble, this job is worth it.

How can you not love it, seriously?"