Chapter Text
Susan clutches her coat around her as she steps out of the door. December in Cardiff. It's bitterly cold, there's a mist rolling off the sea, and the chill's nipping at her ears and nose. At least she's got a decent coat and her gloves don't have any holes in them; Mother had insisted on keeping coupons back for coats for all of them, since you always appreciate a good coat when you need it. Her children could have told her that, having been in far colder climes than she would ever experience if she's lucky, but then they had fur on their side back then. Sadly fur's a little hard to get your hands on these days unless you're rich, and it would've been a bit difficult to persuade the Professor and his housekeeper that they'd like to take a fur coat each with them when they left his house, just in case they encountered below freezing temperatures and snow drifts. There's no snow here, at least not yet. Just rain and wind straight off the sea, smelling of the docks.
The streets are dark, but at least there's street lights and the blackout's been over for several months, the faint glow of lamps through curtains almost cheery compared to a few months ago. It stopped raining about half an hour ago, the streets still slick with it. Susan takes in a deep breath of cold air, tucks her scarf in and fumbles for the keys so she can lock up the office. Last one in, finishing up work that had run over, specifically those bloody forms that they insisted had to be produced. She doubts anyone ever does anything with them but file them away, just another box to tick, but each one is at least twenty minutes' work with all its cross-referencing and they pile up. So that leaves her in a cold office on her own when she could be tucked up listening to the wireless with a mug of Bovril. Still, at least they trust her with the keys, which is more than you could say for the other girls, so she can actually get the work done and out of the way. Sensible Susan, with her knack for getting things done.
She locks the door, adjusts her bag on her shoulder and sets off down the street in the direction of her digs. Some other night she might be inclined to go in search of some dancing and a drink, but for now that Bovril is sounding really tempting. Maybe even borrow Flora's record player and her collection of classical discs. Leave the dancing 'til Friday. it's a long step down from her former life, but it could be worse. Electricity has its upsides at the very least, and her digs weren't bombed out like some.
She's less than halfway home when the sound of running feet behind her makes her pause and step closer to the wall, instinctively. Too many instincts, but these particular ones stand her in good stead most of the time. Three - no, two men. One being chased by the other one, breathing unsteadily, and... the breathing and gait are all wrong. Not human, the tread's too light. The other one is, and very fit at that, his gait regular and strong, like he's used to running across wet cobbles. The sound of them gets closer, into this street, and Susan relaxes her poise enough, just to give off the impression that she's nothing to be concerned about, no threat, and certainly not worth hiding behind or using as a bargaining tool. They clatter past her, the dim light giving her enough to see that the chasee has a fin on his head and wet-looking skin. Giving chase is a tall man in RAF gear, coat flapping out behind him. Another set of steps starts up, far behind. not as fit, then, but no way to tell whose ally he might be, since by the noise, he's a good hundred yards back.
They don't even glance at her, let alone harass her, veering off into an alley ahead of her, so she keeps walking. She's not gone five yards when she hears the sound of a scuffle and an abrupt thump and crash, that of a body hitting several bins, and then the floor. Susan would deny quickening her pace, but there's not really much point. She defends her actions to herself later that either she wanted to get out of there quickly or make sure there wasn't anyone injured. The little voice that sounds horribly like her younger siblings - raises an eyebrow and tells her to keep telling herself that.
In the alley, the man in the RAF uniform stiffens, clearly hit by something that's *not* a blow - some sort of projectile - and crumples on the floor at her feet, the gun that was in his hand dropping as his fingers spasm and landing in a puddle with a splash. Down but not out, and given the wisps of steam, still breathing. Crouched against the wall is a man ... with a fish head. well, that explains the fin. He spots her, and hisses. "What do you want, pet? Want some of this like your friend here? You don't look like the cavalry, now do you?" The fin on the back of his head flares, and Susan narrows her eyes. Clearly as high as a kite, but still a threat. The body at her feet is testament to that.
She crouches down and picks up the gun, cocking it. "I'm afraid I'm not the cavalry. Sorry to disappoint you."
"Well, then you're just unfortunate." He hisses, lunging at her, webbed fingers out and grasping. Susan squeezes the trigger, and watches as he's brought up short, collapsing to the floor with one less eye. She winces at her shoddy aim. One day she'll get around to properly practising with guns, she hasn't learnt to compensate for the recoil. Sadly she's never had the time to do more than pick up someone else's, let alone fire it. All she's been able to do is make judgements based on observation, as any marksman might of foreign weapons.
The other man finally catches up with them, his footsteps getting nearer the alley, and the rest of the world, which narrowed for a moment, floods back in. Susan turns slightly to catch his body language. He's panting badly, definitely out of shape, skidding to a halt in the mouth of the alley, a mere couple of feet from Susan, holding on to the wall. He takes in the situation very quickly and straightens, brushing himself down. Well played, she'll give him that.
"See you got it, then." He pauses, glancing at Susan. "Hello, miss, just pest control. Don't know where he got the mask, was making a dreadful nuisance of himself down the pub, so he was. All taken care of now."
Susan raises an eyebrow very slightly. "Really." She puts the gun in her pocket, and bends down to roll the airman at her feet over, careful not to let her skirt touch the puddles, checking his pulse and breathing, both of which are steady, if not a little fast. There's a very faint tremor in his limbs, so... nerve toxin. Partial paralysis, but it should wear off soon. She prods at his face to check how much he's faking. No recoil, and very few are that good an actor. Susan grasps his chin, turning his face to the light if nothing else, he's got a film star's classic bone structure and jaw. Crisp should get the best reaction, and forestall any questions from his friend. "Some sort of nerve poison, since you're still awake. Blink twice for yes, you're not fooling anyone." The airman blinks, reflexively. "Good." Susan straightens, brushing the creases from her skirt and acknowledges his colleague, tilting her head slightly. "Do remember to clean up after yourselves, gentlemen. Good night." With that, she walks past him.
When she's a few yards out of the alley, she hears the less fit, not paralysed one ask "Friend of yours?" Susan smiles to herself. She really is looking forward to curling up with that Bovril.
----
Two days later, Mrs Jones comes in looking disapproving. Jean leans over and whispers "I wonder what it is this time. Do you think someone moved her filing a fraction of an inch?"
Mrs Jones casts a beady eye over the admin staff of Customs House, all dedicated to typing and filing forms and seeing to all the paperwork generated by Customs and Excise in Cardiff and the surrounding area. And gossip, of course. And tea. If you're Georgie and Annie, you also have a dedication to the film star of the week, and stacks of film magazines. Eventually she stops on Susan.
Susan looks up and assumes a helpful expression. "Was there something, Mrs Jones?"
"There are two men in the front office to see you. Apparently you were a witness to a robbery two nights ago and they want to know if you saw something." She purses her lips. "One of them's in an RAF uniform, so what business he's on I have no idea."
"Perhaps they forgot to demob him." Marjorie says dryly. "As for daylight robbery, I thought that was our exclusive purview."
"*Daylight* robbery, Marjorie." Bina says, checking her cuticles. "You know perfectly well that if it takes place at night, we're not necessarily involved up to our necks. Which generates even more paperwork."
"Well, in that case I'll leave you to it." Susan says, getting up and straightening her skirt.
In the front office, the two men standing around are definitely the men Susan saw two nights ago. The jawline on the airman is certainly distinctive. In the dim light coming through the windows, it turns her first assessment in that dark alley was correct. He's been blessed with classic film star looks, and he's got the look of one who knows it. The man accompanying him looks like an accountant shoved away from his desk, a stoop to his demeanour that looks as though he's about to try and hide behind a pillar and set of figures. Susan has nothing against accountants and those who earn their living by making sure books balance, they're exceedingly useful for ferreting out details. She just finds it odd to find one in law enforcement. As this one apparently is. Still, the fact that they gave a flimsy excuse to Mrs Jones is not exactly reassuring. Or perhaps is more reassuring that they took the effort to track someone down who'd witnessed something out of the ordinary; it indicates attention to detail and diligence.
"Miss Susan Pevensie, I take it?" The airman smiles, hand thrust out in greeting. Very carefully calculated to be reassuring yet commanding, if she's not mistaken. And Susan is never mistaken. And he's American, which raises all kinds of questions. Specifically, why he's still here. "Group Captain Jack Harkness. we'd like to ask you some questions about the robbery you witnessed the other night."
Susan smiles, slightly. Tentatively, you might even say. She shakes Captain Harkness's hand. Lots of gun calluses. More like a soldier's hand than an airman who spends his time flying planes, or office bound as he would be now the war's over. "I'd be happy to help. I'm not sure what I saw." She pauses, widening her eyes slightly. "I'm impressed you managed to track me down, though. It was rather dark."
Captain Harkness. smiles again. Reassuring and friendly. "You made an impression, and not so many girls are as pretty as you."
Behind them, Mrs. Jones sniffs. "I have work to be seeing to. Miss Pevensie, will you be all right here with the gentlemen?"
"Quite all right, Mrs. Jones." Susan says, smiling bravely.
Mrs Jones nods sharply, sniffs again and leaves. The second the door closes, captain Harkness tilts his head, expression changing to interested. Interested with an edge of calculation. Still friendly, but not so genial and meet the parents polite. "So what did you do with the gun, Miss Pevensie? I'm rather attached to that piece."
Susan smiles back. Not so tentative now. "What makes you think I have it?"
"Well, you were the last one holding it. And it's not turned up in any bins or at the police station. No-one's stupid enough to throw away a decent gun." Harkness. replies.
"I might know where it is." Susan concedes, then tilts her chin slightly. "How long did it take to recover from the nerve toxin?"
"An hour or so." Captain Harkness replies. "Why, were you concerned?"
"Long-term paralysis is rather nasty, in my experience." Susan concedes. She changes her expression to bright but interested. "Dare I ask what the fellow you were chasing had done?"
Captain Harkness smiles again, only this time with teeth. "Oh, disturbing the peace, that kind of thing. I'm sure there's some landlords who could tell you all about it. Dare I ask where you learnt to shoot like that? All the records we've dug up on you indicate absolutely no training; you were a typist during the war."
Susan smiles again. "I didn't compensate for the recoil, so my shot was off. I'm out of practice."
The accountant, he who is definitely not in the shape he needs to be if he's going to be chasing after beings spoiling for a fight, stares. "Your shot was off? Miss, you got him in the eye."
"As I said." Susan replies, keeping her expression genial. "Off."
"Can you describe what you saw?" The accountant type continues while Captain Harkness adjusts his watch, flipping back the cover.
"Some sort of being, presumably amphibious by heritage, given the general appearance and webbed fingers. He felled Captain Harkness here and then I shot him. That was all." Susan says.
"Not a man in a mask." Captain Harkness states.
"Given the way it moved, no. I'm fairly certain even the most sophisticated mask could not operate like that. Or move his head fin." Susan points out mildly. "Why, do you require glasses?"
"No, my vision is as perfect as my teeth. Which are pretty good if I say so myself." Captain Harkness says, flashing them. His teeth are so white and shiny that they probably required their own blackout drapes during the war. "It was dark, miss, how are you so sure?"
"I have very good eyesight and night vision. probably better than you do, Captain Harkness." Susan replies.
"Well, to make that shot you'd definitely have to." The accountant observes. "However, miss, we need you to come and answer some questions at the department and to take your statement."
"Might I ask what department it is where one of your agents appears to be still enlisted in the RAF and you're chasing drunken people through the streets late at night?" Susan asks politely. "I'd have thought that was more the purview of the police."
"We're a special task force." Captain Harkness says.
"Special." Susan says, raising an eyebrow.
"The normal police aren't quite equipped to deal with some situations, so a special task force was created." Harkness shrugs. "We're based down by the docks, and we've been known to work in some of the same areas as Customs and Excise. But we do need to take your statement."
Susan folds her arms. "That's all very well, gentlemen, but you could be anyone. All I've seen is two men who failed to apprehend a man."
The accountant and Harkness produce badges. "Sorry, miss, I should've thought." The accountant now identified as Davies says sheepishly.
---
Davies and Captain Harkness escort Susan through the docks to a small office on the edge of the water.
"Gentlemen, this is not inspiring me with confidence, I have to say." Susan remarks, eyeing the shabby door with old advertisements plastered on it, nearly obscuring the metal name plate. She's seen shabbier in the name of secretive organisations - and just plain government organisations, at that, and she's certain her brother Edmund in his current career and prior role has definitely seen worse, but this is up there in the 'determined not to be noticed' stakes.
Harkness flashes one of his matinee idol grins. "Honey, just wait 'til you see what's inside." He turns the handle, pushing it open and a little bell tinkles. He holds it open for her, and Susan steps through cautiously, peering into the gloomy interior, Davies and Harkness following close behind.
Inside, it's a small reception, and someone steps through from the back. it's a young woman with an oil smear on one cheek and in overalls, hair up in a scarf. She looks as though she's stepped out of a garage, fresh from repairing an engine. The spanner and greasy cloth sticking out from a pocket really do complete the picture. "How can I help?" She pauses. "Oh, hello, Jack. Stephen. Go on through, there's nothing waiting to jump out at you."
Harkness flashes another of his grins. "Thanks, Myra." He pauses, pulling out a bag of boiled sweets from an inside pocket. "Oh, I found these under my chair when I left earlier - are they yours?"
Myra snatches them from him. "You bloody bastard, Harkness, I thought I'd mislaid them. Couldn't you just have left them on the table?"
"If I'd left them on the table, they'd have found their way straight into Gibson's desk, and you know that just as well as I do." Harkness says, tucking his hands back in his own coat pockets.
Myra wrinkles her nose. "Damn you for being right. Just go on through, will you?"
Susan raises an eyebrow. "You're a little different from the usual receptionist one sees."
The young woman shrugs. "The usual receptionist is off sick, so you're stuck with me." She reaches into a breast pocket and pulls out a nail file and leans against the desk, beginning work on her nails and giving every sign that she's ignoring them.
Davies sighs in a slightly pained fashion and murmurs "I find myself constantly apologising for her. Are you sure we can't get a full-time receptionist?"
Harkness grins. "Ask head office. I'm sure they'd be glad to go through the hiring procedures and paperwork for it."
Davies just sighs again, crossing to the back of the office and opening the door there. He gestures for Susan to go through. "If you'd like to follow us, Miss Pevensie. we'll explain everything when we get into the main offices."
The door leads to a modern-looking lift, which takes what seems quite a while to reach their destination. "Is this office at the bottom of the bay?" Susan enquires.
"No, just a few floors down." Harkness says. The lift opens into a small area with a very heavily fortified door in front of them, and a pad with numbers on it to one side. Jack keys in a sequence, and the door swings open slowly. Susan steps through, and blinks slightly. She's in a very, very large room, with doors running off to other rooms. She can't see the roof, the ceiling's so high. It's draped in wires and cords running off to giant machines that hum and whir and tick, paper printing out of what looks like an industrial sized telegraph machine. "We have a slightly different set up to other investigative agencies, I'll admit."
"So I see." Susan says dryly. She's faced down more impressive delegations than this room, and she's certainly not going to gape. No matter how amazing the machines are, and the fact that she's certainly never seen the like. It looks like something out of one of those pulp magazines, the ones illustrating Asimov.
Davies gestures to a corner of the room that seems to have been directly transported from the Bakerloo line, if 'Torchwood' was ever a stop, according to the word picked out in tiling on the wall. "If you'd care to walk this way, Miss Pevensie, we can talk and perhaps get you a cup of tea?"
Susan follows him up the couple of extra steps and looks around the rather dank ex-tube tunnel that this end of the complex appears to be. "Was there ever a train that came through here?" She asks.
A middle-aged man who's been shuffling through a set of files on a desk replies without looking up. "Not that I've ever found to verify. I think the case was rather that plans were made, drawn up, and then when it came to constructing the base, no-one ever got around to removing that section and it got built. I find it rather reassuring to know that bureaucracy is as inefficient in secret bases as it is elsewhere. As it is, it's a boon as it's wipe-clean, unlike the rest of this place outside the medical station."
Harkness makes an amused noise. "Powell, did you even look to see who we'd brought in?"
"Aside from the multitude of cameras we have set up to monitor the entrances? Not really, no." Powell says. "Besides, I hardly think a question about a folly of construction is going to bring the place crashing down around our ears as part of a grand villain's master plan to flood Wales and bring back Owain Glyndwr. Considering the only difference is in the tiling and the rather large sign."
Harkness shakes his head. "I think you read too many science fiction magazines. Grand villain's master plan? Really?"
"Far more interesting than the reality. Or at least they have more style." Powell says, marking something off on the file. He still hasn't bothered to look up. "One day strange things will take place in far more attractive surroundings."
"Where do you want, the Brecon Beacons? I think the sheep and ponies might end up nibbling whatever it is to death." Jack says, pulling off his coat and hat and putting them on a coat-rack in the corner by a shabby sofa that looks as though it's not only seen better days, it's seen better decades. The biscuit crumbs down its sides have probably bred and formed better biscuits they've been there so long.
"Mystical and fantastical things should by all rights take place in caves. Picturesque caves." Powell says. "Or castles."
"We see quite enough caves, as far as I'm concerned." Jack says. "It's not my fault you're the archivist and don't join us for those expeditions. Besides, I think the tellers of those tales forget the fact that most caves are extremely damp and cold, and the same goes for castles. Castles when they were up and running were ankle deep in rushes, were covered in tapestries in a desperate attempt to keep the heat in, incredibly smoky when there was a fire going in the grate and mostly stank of animals."
Powell snorts. "How you're so sure about this is beyond me."
"Lots and lots of research, Powell." Harkness replies.
"He's right about the rushes and tapestries, I'll give him that." Susan adds. "Though ventilation was mostly a matter of castles built before chimneys were invented. As for the animal smell, if you changed the rushes regularly, that wasn't a problem. it's like keeping any home clean." she cranes her head, looking up into the cavernous heights of the place. She wonders how deep they have to be under the docks, where the basements don't reach them. "And you're one to talk about caves. The only difference between this place and most caves is a lack of moss and animals and hermits lurking at the back of them. She pauses. "Well, and the distinct lack of machinery."
"You know caves?" Harkness asks, giving her an assessing look again. She's just proved to be more interesting, which is a way to catch his interest. Davies still seems content to stay in the background, which ordinarily would mean Susan would concentrate on him, but Harkness does, against all her instincts, actually seem to be the one in charge. For once big and brash is the one to watch. Which is interesting. It's not often people use the brash personality as the smokescreen in her experience. Normally, the brash person is the one whose opinion of themselves is so large that they couldn't conceive of a smokescreen, so you focus on the quiet one as the one who you have to watch. Not that she'll not check on Davies, but still.
"I prefer not to for any length of time. They tend to be just as hard to keep warm as castles, with more of a damp problem. and even less ventilation." Susan says.
"But it seems you do know castles." Powell points out.
"I could." She concedes. No matter what they think, she's hardly going to reveal anything she doesn't have to. she sighs. "I really did have high hopes for normality."
"Hey, normal is overrated." Jack grins. "And you, miss, could never be mistaken for normal."
Powell puts his files down and comes round the table. "So who are you, lovely? You look far too nice to be hanging around with the likes of Captain Harkness."
Harkness, reminded that she's there, turns. "Powell, this is Susan Pevensie. Welcome to the Torchwood Institute, miss Pevensie. the bit of the service no-one really likes to admit exists. we keep an eye on all the things that go bump in the dark and stop them spilling over. you've met Powell, our archivist, and Myra Hughes, our mechanic and part time receptionist. we've a doctor somewhere around here, name of McAdam, and our boss is currently off in meetings."
"And you asked me here why, precisely?" Susan asks, raising an eyebrow. Behind her, Davies coughs, holding out a mug of tea, milk bottle in one hand. "Thank you, Mr Davies. No milk, thank you.” She takes the mug, blowing on the tea to cool it down a little. She's not removing her hat and coat just yet.
Harkness smiles again, folding his arms, fixing her with a serious look. "Because, miss Pevensie, there are a great many things that go bump in the night and we need people to help us stay on top of the situation. It's difficult to recruit as it's not precisely something we can advertise in the classifieds. And along you come, who doesn't blink an eye at seeing what looks like a man with a fish head, identifies him as such in the very dim light of a dark alley, diagnoses paralysis rather than death, and calmly shoots someone when he tries to attack her and walks away. The fact that you stopped rather than running away in the first place was impressive. The fact that you clearly have experience with the supernatural and strange is definitely a point in your favour. Then third, there was the fact of you making a shot in the dark and claiming to Davies that you were in fact out of practice, which points to a wealth of experience picked up somewhere. Besides the fact that I'd like my gun back, this raises definite questions like 'would this sort of person be bored out of their mind as a typist in Customs and Excise?' I'm inclined to think so. Would you agree, miss Pevensie?"
Susan keeps her face impassive. Bored out of her mind and feeling like her brain and skills are wasting away is putting it mildly. it's all right for Peter and Edmund, they've found professions that suit them, and Lucy's devoted to nursing enough that she's happy doing that, but Susan... her parents seem to believe she should be focussed on being decorative and finding a husband now the war's over. Which goes to show how little idea they really have. Susan is stifled, and trained for better things. It's only her extremely well cultivated instincts and manners that stop her going mad. "It all depends. What kind of salary would you be offering?" She asks.
"Mercenary." Myra says approvingly. "I'm beginning to warm to her."
"A very, very good one." Harkness states. "We're well funded since there’s an inherent amount of danger involved in the job, and the Institute believes in remuneration for the interesting circumstances we tend to recruit people from. So what do you say, miss Pevensie. Fancy a job at Torchwood?"
"I feel I could be persuaded." She raises an eyebrow. "Would you require references?"
"Telling us where you gained our skills and experience might be a start." Davies says from behind his own cuppa. "We couldn't find anything."
"Oh, places." Susan says, sipping her tea. "When would you like me to give notice?"
"Today." Harkness says, smiling in a manner that reminds her very slightly of a shark. The brain and experience ticking in there is getting more and more interesting. "Turn up for work tomorrow at 9am sharp. And miss Pevensie, I would really like my gun returned."
Susan smiles. "I'll let you know if I know where it is when I get my contract."
When she finishes her tea, Susan walks back to the Customs and Excise House, letting herself in. It's barely been a couple of hours. Nearly lunch time, and she bets Georgie and Sian are discussing where to get food already. They'll spend their lunch excitedly discussing which of the latest pictures to go see tonight. It's a relatively pleasant way to spend the time, since it just washes over her and the films they agree on tend to be quite entertaining for the most part.
When she steps in, everyone perks up immediately. Mrs Jones gets there first. "So were you able to help them with their enquiries?" She asks, then sniffs. "You were gone rather a long time."
"A little less than an hour and a half, by my watch." Susan says calmly. "And yes, I did."
"And?"
"I'm giving in my notice." Susan replies.
"What?" asks Tilly. "Are you having to bunk it or something?"
"Don't be silly, Tilly." Susan says. "They just noticed my skills fit a position going there and it pays rather better than here."
"What kind of position?" Mrs Jones sniffs.
"I'm not at liberty to say." Susan says. "It seems to mostly involve being calm under pressure."
"Well, you've certainly got that in spades." Tilly says. "When do you start?"
---
At ten to nine, Susan is standing outside the dockside door when Myra turns up. She says cheerfully. "I had ten to one on you doing a bunk when you came to your senses."
"Trust me, there is exceedingly little in life that could shock me." Susan says as Myra lets them in. "Besides, I'd already given my notice in."
"well, we'll see." Myra says. She picks up the mail, sorting through it. She holds one up, squinting at it. "I swear, whoever's sending postcards here is quite insane."
"Wrong address?" Susan asks.
"I don't think so. Quite specific, actually." Myra says, passing it over as she sorts through the rest of the mail. "I mean, I could understand if it was meant for someone in the London office or the one up in Scotland, but they're definitely addressing it to here."
Susan flips it over to read the address. 'Dear all, hope you're fine. Having a lovely time here. John Smith.' The address reads Torchwood Institute, The little office by the water, The Docks, Butetown, Cardiff. She flips it over. It's a plain postcard, with a pencil and ink sketch on it of some building. "Perhaps it's addressed to someone who used to work here?"
Myra shakes her head. "Jack says they've been sent here for as long as he's worked here, and Gwyn says there's hundreds of them in a cabinet in the archives, all sorted by date, all in the same style, going back to the turn of the century. The handwriting changes, and the picture's always new. He thinks they're sent as part of some sort of bequest. Or an ongoing joke by the Masons or something."
"Gwyn?" Susan asks.
"Sorry, love. Gwyn Powell. Our archivist. I tend to call everyone by their first names, you soon do." She says, pressing something under the counter, then pushing the door open.
Susan examines the door. There doesn't seem to be any sign of a lock, and she'd presumed it had been unlocked yesterday when she went through it. "Couldn't anyone get in?"
"We've got some clever devices here in Torchwood." Myra grins. "I get to work with all kinds of things you wouldn't believe. There is a lock on the door, it's you. The door is keyed to let only a specific list of people open the door, you'll get added to the list soon enough."
"How do you do that, some sort of magic?" Susan asks.
"Oh, she wants to know how things work." Myra grins. "I'm going to like you."
"Simply curious." Susan shrugs.
"Curious is just the first path on a slippery slope, my nan always said." Myra says. "No, you put your hand in a machine we've got downstairs and this light runs over you, and takes some sort of reading. Jack says there's a type of genetic code that's unique to everyone, like fingerprints, in all your cells, and what it's reading is that."
First on the agenda in Susan's training is guns. Captain Harkness, who insists on being called Jack, opens a door down one of the corridors to the range. "In here, and put on the safety glasses on the table. We've got a range here and a sparring area for training in other forms of weaponry next door."
The table and wall opposite are covered in guns. All kinds of guns, from pistols to rifles to something... purple. She's really not sure what it could be, but presumes that since it's amongst the guns, it's experimental. Or meant to be used underwater or something similar. "You've got enough in here to equip a decent-sized battalion. Were you expecting to be attacked?" She asks.
"ready for anything, and it's a dangerous job." Harkness replies, shoving his hands in his pockets after putting on a pair of glasses with thick lenses.
On the other wall are a host of other projectile weapons, mostly of the medieval sort. Amongst them bows and crossbows. "You really are ready for anything." She refrains from reaching out and stroking the bows, just for something familiar. She's missed them over the past few years. even a crossbow would be nice. She never looked forward to fights as her siblings did, but you never realise how used to it you get. to the point of being used to having a weapon within reach at all times, and using it regularly.
"Different weapons for different jobs." Harkness points out. He hands her a pair of glasses. "Put these on, and pick up a pistol. you said you were rusty, let's see how much."
Susan puts the glasses on. "What precisely are these for?"
"In case of blow back or anything exploding." Harkness replies. "Best to protect your eyes in an enclosed room. Can't do it in the field, but we can certainly do it in here. The glass is toughened and shatter-proof."
"I suppose that's reassuring." Susan says, picking up a handgun that looks to be a comfortable fit. She examines it, noting that it's loaded. She practised with one during the war, as it only seemed sensible, but hasn't used one since. It's a little disappointing how little skill they take to use, but then it's not as though wielding a knife takes any sort of experience to be deadly with. There's a target hanging up made of paper on the far wall. "I hope there's more ammo."
"Plenty for all of the weapons in here." Jack says. "We like everyone to be proficient in all the guns at the very least, and that takes practice." He folds his arms. "Go ahead, then."
Susan weighs it in her hands, figuring out the balance, turning the safety off, before raising it, adjusting the balance again, then fires, this time remembering to adjust for the recoil as she didn't in the alley. the recoil still gets her, and she misses the target by a good inch or so. She narrows her eyes, breathes in carefully, and adjusts. The second shot just clips it. Third and it's bullseye. Again and again. After the sixth one, she lowers the pistol, putting the safety on and putting it back on the table.
Harkness looks impressed. "Not bad. How often do you practice?"
"Three days ago was the first time I'd picked up a gun since 1944." Susan says. "And as you know, I only shot one three days ago."
"Okay, try another one." Harkness says, gesturing at the table. After the third one, he's got his head on one side and a contemplative look on his face. "Okay, let's see you try one of the rifles."
"I haven't used one of these before." Susan says. "I might not be as good."
"Practice makes perfect, miss Pevensie." Harkness says.
It takes about six shots to get a clean shot with the rifle. Susan frowns, displeased, but then the weight and way it handles is very much like a crossbow. Certainly not made for accuracy unless she was on sniper duty. "I think I'd prefer to be somewhere further off to get a decent shot with this."
Harkness isn't just looking contemplative now. he's got his mouth slightly open, and looking interested. Very interested. "...who trained you?"
"I'm self taught." Susan replies, truthfully. Constant practice after having her first weapon shoved in her hands and told the enemy was on its way and the battle was a few hours away. She wasn't accurate then, and her weapon wasn't designed for accuracy but range, but she learned. because she had to.
She puts the rifle down and goes through a few of the other guns at Harkness' insistence, mid-range and heavier. He rubs his chin, looking down at the table of guns, then looks at the wall of bows and the like that she's been very carefully not looking at, in case she stares for too long. "Okay, how about other weapons? have you got any experience with those?"
Susan shrugs again. "a few." She looks along the wall. "Where's the ammo for these?"
Harkness indicates the cupboard on the wall. "Knock yourself out." Susan nods, and just hopes that everything's of decent quality and been kept correctly, especially the strings. the amount of people who seem to believe you can store a bow strung is unbelievable. Fortunately, the bows are unstrung. She picks a crossbow off the wall first, simply because she wants to ease herself in. These aren't guns, they're the weapons she's used to. She checks the crossbow over, and Harkness raises an eyebrow. "You're a bit more thorough on the checking there."
"There's more possibility of a split hiding in a crossbow than there is in a gun." Susan replies offhandedly. "Most people in this day and age have no idea how to keep them in decent working condition." Once she's finished checking it over, she drops the arrow in, raises it and fires. The trigger mechanism's smooth, and it's a nice piece. Even the twang of the bowstring relaxes her slightly, as she hasn't heard it in so long, and it used to be a near daily sound. She tries a few other stringed weapons, then goes for the bow, frowning. "Do you not have any gloves or arm guards for this?"
Harkness still has a raised eyebrow. It might stay that way at this rate. "Bottom case of that cupboard. Might not fit you, though."
"Anything's better than raw fingers or a bleeding arm from the string." Susan says, crouching down to rummage in it, pulling out what she needs and fitting them on. They're not the most functional, but still, better than nothing. She picks up the composite bow and strings it, testing the draw and relaxing as she does, the tension from typing and office work starting to bleed from her shoulders with the sheer familiarity of it. The smell's not right, it's not yew or ash and they're not using tallow or resin, but still. She picks up an arrow, draws and takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for an instant, then letting go. Opening her eyes, it's just off bullseye. a couple more and she's hitting dead centre. She can't help it now, she's smiling. She unstrings it and picks up the longbow. It's a nice 6 footer by her eye.
Harkness speaks up, a note of caution in his tone. "Careful, that's got a much heavier draw than it looks. You might damage your shoulder."
Susan grins, wide and gleeful. "Oh, I know." She strings it with a bit of effort, given that she's out of practice, but not too much, pulls it a few times to get a feel for it, noting that it's not perfect - after all, it's not her bow - but still. She shifts her feet a bit to get a better stance, lowers it, picks up an arrow, aims, and fires. "One inch off." She murmurs, picking up another arrow, aiming, and getting a bullseye. Two more and she regretfully puts the longbow down, unstringing it, her hand lingering on the wood before moving on to the other weapons.
By now Harkness is looking seriously impressed. And very, very calculating. "is there any kind of ballistics you aren't perfect in after examining it for thirty seconds?" He asks, not a little sarcastically.
Susan shrugs again. "I'm not as good with knives and hand-to-hand as I really should be, but I fully admit that that's due to a lack of dedication."
"Clearly we'll have to work on that." He says dryly, and grins on seeing her fingers brush the longbow again. "You really do like that one, don't you?"
"I've got a certain long-term fondness for it." Susan says, picking it up and stringing it again, this time going for range and speed.
Harkness watches for a few minutes. "Maybe we should let you carry that into the field instead of a gun."
Susan sighs. "Don't be ridiculous, there's no way to conceal it. I thought you said this was a branch of the secret service."
"We're on a slightly separate charter and mandate from them." Harkness says. "Originally signed by Queen Victoria herself."
"I presume that's meant to impress me. I'd like to see the original." Susan says, between arrows, varying her targets.
"It's kept up in the Scotland archives, so it might take a while." Harkness says.
---
Gibson comes back two days later. After going through his messages, Jack raps on his office door. "Dare I ask for your report of the past few days? Did the Rift open again or did you manage to annoy any more policemen?"
"Can't report either, sir." Harkness replies. "It's been relatively quiet, apart from recruiting a new member."
Gibson sips his tea, which has gone mostly cool in the time he's been stuck in here. He'd like an assistant to deal with that kind of thing, but Torchwood doesn't bother with them, and anyone who has a talent for admin tends to get fast-tracked to London or Scotland, if they're not hijacked by the archival section. Which often means they end up in Scotland anyway. "This would be the Pevensie girl you'd been talking about?"
"Correct, sir." Jack says. "She seems to be fitting in well."
"That never bodes well." He puts his mug down. "Dare I ask why you recruited her? Last I heard when I left was that you'd finished dragging up all the research on her in order to ascertain that you could convince her to keep quiet in the name of national security. And get your gun back."
Jack grins. "Slight change of plans when we met her, sir. When someone turns out to be as efficient, poised and strangely knowledgeable as she is, I believe in proactive recruitment. Plus she's fitter than Davies so might be better in the field, since she wouldn't take several minutes to recover after giving chase."
"Strangely knowledgeable? Dare I ask?" Gibson says, taking another sip. In his experience, strangely knowledgeable can often lead to difficulties. Or people like Jack Harkness, one of the best examples nature provides of 'difficult but too useful to get rid of'.
"Remember in my report I stated that she immediately identified Nolan as amphibious, rather than wearing a mask, like most people would? And what looked like working experience of the effect of nerve toxins. When we interviewed her, she immediately ran through reasons why it wasn't a mask. Considering that she only saw him in a dimly-lit alley. That indicates prior knowledge. If you talk to her for a while when she's consciously not around civilians, things slip out. Odd comments and knowledge that I would dearly love to know the context of." Jack pauses. "Oh, and she's possibly one of the best marksmen I've ever seen. Adapts within a few shots to hitting the bullseye with any weapon, stance that of one who's used to making those shots in the field, not a shooting range. And given her reaction to the more low-tech weapons we keep, her preferred weapon is the bow. She's got a far better draw weight than anyone I've seen outside the middle ages for a longbow, and given that we're talking a young woman of seemingly average musculature..." He leans against the door. "Pretty good hand-to-hand fighter, really, really good with a sword and knives, amazing with anything that resembles a projectile, but insists that she's a little rusty and that hand-held weapons aren't in the least bit her speciality. I don't know where she got the experience, there is nothing in the records to indicate how she could get it, but I believe in scooping someone like that up straight away. Plus she's efficient, nice, and could probably cruise straight to the top of the diplomat league given the chance. She was wasting away as a typist, even in Customs and Excise, and you know what calculating bastards they are."
"This is a disturbingly enthusiastic character reference, Jack." Gibson says, though he'll have to see her weapons skills for himself. It's not like Jack to ever exaggerate that kind of thing. sexual escapades, of course, but not anything required for the field. "Wasn't she the one with brothers who'd been marked by their superiors as incredibly dangerous due to their clear experience with controlled violence? It appears to be a family trait, then. Though the proficiency with a longbow is definitely strange."
"She denies it ever being an option to do at school, sir."
Gibson meets the new recruit later that morning. A very lovely young woman, if not a little practised in the art of being politic and excessively polite to the point of bland in the face of authority. Other than that she seems quite normal. "Harkness, are you telling me you recruited someone who appears to pass for a respectable member of society?"
"Miracles do happen." Davies says.
-----
A month into Susan's employment, a craft with a cloaking device is detected on the very advanced radar Torchwood scraped up from somewhere (apparently mostly scavenged, Myra confides, with the look of someone who would volunteer to be first in line with a crowbar and screwdriver). The field crew, including Gibson, goes out to meet it.
As they materialise - in quite an impressive fashion, it's as though they're a radio signal that expands until they spear out of thin air - Jack pulls out his gun, ready for anything. he's seen this kind of technology before, and it doesn't normally bode well for the planet they visit. or at least the population. Blue-skinned, tall beings with all the bearing of ruthless bastards. He's raising it as they step forward, when a voice says in sharp ringing tones "Stand down, captain." It's a voice that's so used to command that every single one of Jack's soldier muscles take over and he finds himself lowering his gun as Susan Pevensie steps forward.
She's relaxed, poised, and giving off such commanding vibes he nearly tries to salute. The aliens speak, and the universal translator takes a few seconds to kick in. Susan waits patiently. "The weapon, we shall take this as-"
Susan smiles graciously. "I am terribly sorry about that. he's our military specialist, and as I'm sure your scans of our planet have shown - I presume you can tap into recent footage - we've just been through rather a nasty war, so he's a little on edge. It's understandable."
"Ah, yes, we had seen in advance. but still, an insult -"
"Surely not. You came with no advance warning, no messages sent; according to the protocol of nations that is rather unbecoming, don't you think? You might have given us a chance to lay on a welcome. Instead, this has all the appearance of a scouting party to test our defences when caught off guard." Susan says. It's a calm, conciliatory tone, with overtones of gentle scolding for impoliteness, not one young woman with just the back up of the guns with them against the scouting party of - the fire-power in the ship overhead alone could take out half of South Wales. Britain's just not ready for this kind of assault, not so soon after the war, a damaged, limping greyed out version of itself. And Susan's talking as though she's the head of a nation that has a giant army just hidden out of sight for politeness.
Two hours later, they're waving off the aliens. With a signed treaty of peace, trade locked in, an embargo, registered notations with the Shadow Proclamation, and the rest of Torchwood left looking a little shell-shocked. Susan simply straightens her scarf and Jack tries to stop looking like a loyal military advisor. "A little warning next time you do that?" Jack asks her. "I might have been able to do something."
"You didn't need to, did you." Susan smiles graciously. "Now, let's go and find a cup of tea. Or possibly a drink. That was rather a lot of talking there. Davies, do you have the accord?"
"Er, yes miss." Davies says, swallowing as he clutches a set of discs and a roll of film.
"Good. Now let's find a pub, they should be open for long enough for us to get a drink." Susan says, marching forward in search of one.
"Do I want to know where the bloody hell that came from?" Gibson asks, looking a bit shaken, as Susan leads the way, everyone else stumbling behind. "I'm not used to having a slip of a girl step in, take control of what could have been a very nasty situation, and... since when do you take orders from a new recruit?"
"When the new recruit knows the tone of voice that comes with being used to command, sir." Jack says ruefully, eyes not leaving Susan. If that wasn't impressive he doesn't know what is. She went from her usual poised, efficient self to something like one of the many rulers he's encountered. That much confidence and expectation that she'd be obeyed. Absolute confidence of those used to commanding armies and having their word as law. The most experience he can find on file for her in a command position is Head Girl. "Some times you have to concede to someone who clearly knows exactly what they're doing. and look on the bright side, we came out on top."
Gibson winces "Jack, she got a non-proliferation agreement, what sounded like exceedingly favourable trade terms, and a penalty clause citing articles of - who were they? You're the one with experience in off-world matters."
"The Shadow Proclamation." Jack says. "Either she picks up things very fast or she's been going through every note she can find on our system. Perhaps she ought to be our advance guard against Torchwood London if she's this good. we could loan her out for the budget rounds."
"I think you recruited a very dangerous young woman, Jack. How does that come from a middle-class family from Finchley?" Gibson asks, shaking his head. "I believe I really do need that drink."