We are Torchwood. We Kick Alien Ass, Blow Shit Up and Other Awesome Stuff.

[RastaaaRuby]

Lol, NaNoWriMo.
Rough and unedited so far.
Tell me what ya think. ;D

One – And You Wonder Why I’m no Good at Science.

The beat up old bus rattled down the street, its engine whining complaints. The paint on the sides was faded and peeling in some places. A few windows were cracked and the door was missing a pane of glass; the hole was covered by a sheet of thin plastic cut from a grocery bag, and held on with masking tape.
The interior wasn’t any better. The lino on the floor was peeling, seats were missing vital parts and someone had sprayed their tag – accompanied by a picture of a large male genital - down the walkway. The tag was quite new – only a few days old. It had been amusing to a few of the school students – actually, it had been amusing to every student that took the school bus.
Verne, one of the bus’s few occupants glanced at the painting in question, and rolled her eyes before returning her attentions to the window on her left. The suburbs they were driving through weren’t much too look at, but it was better than looking at the rest of the bus. Verne sat by herself, as per usual. The kids from her neighbourhood that went to her school hated her, and the kids who went to the private school up the way feared her, and the rest of the kids that went to her school.
It was as though the bus had an invisible line drawn down the middle. On one side, a mass of grey and white that was Jackson College, and on the other, the green and black that represented St. Mary’s Catholic. Verne herself wore the white and grey of Jackson.
She lent her head back, her headphone wires cool against her throat. This was how she spent every bus ride – plugged into her battered iPod knock off, called a pPod.
The bus pulled into the front of Jackson, creaking to a halt. The door lurched open and all the Jackson students piled out, some grinning menacingly at the St. Maryians, who flinched and averted their gaze, their hands clutching expensive bags and phones, as though they expected them to be torn from their grasps at any given moment.
Verne personally thought they were being stupid – Jackson wasn’t as bad as everyone made it out to be. It was actually a pretty good school. Verne laughed to herself as she climbed off the bus, slinging her back pack off one shoulder as she stalked into the school grounds, slapping hands with a few guys as she went.
Though she’d only been at that school for a little more than three weeks, and only been in the country for a month, she’d already gained the respect of quite a few students. It could’ve been because she didn’t take shit from nobody, or because she was a complete smart arise. But it was probably because she’d given some smart-mouthed guy a black eye on her first day of school, and she didn’t get busted for it.
Verne didn’t really know, nor did she really care. She was happy that stupid idiots now left her alone.
“Oi Michael, you seen Eddie?” Verne asked a relatively good looking dark skinned guy, who had a shaven head and a tattoo on his neck. Michael shrugged.
“I think she went that way,” He replied, jerking his thumb over his broad shoulder.
“Shot bro,” Verne retorted, slapping his hand before walking in the direction he had just gestured. Some people were still confused by the way Verne talked – the slang she used wasn’t used here – it was Kiwi, not British.
“No worries,” Michael responded. Verne walked away, her head down and her hands rammed deep into the pockets of her grey school shorts. Her thick bangs fell in her eyes, scarlet against her dark skin. Her long hair was naturally black, but she had dyed it a bright, unnatural red the previous night.
“Hey Ed,” Verne called to a girl leaning against the side of the school building. Ed was your typical ‘I think I’m tough shit’ chick – huge earrings, puffer jacket and a mouthful of chewing gum.
“Aaay Verne. Nice hair,” Verne greeted, bumping her cheek against Verne’s in a form of greeting. Verne grinned.
“Thanks, I was bored with black, y’know?” Verne fingered a loose strand of her flaming hair absentmindedly.
“Thank God it’s Friday,” Ed muttered, offering Verne a stick of gum from her bag. Verne took the stick as she nodded, a bell ringing.
“Amen to that. C’mon, we got science.” Verne sighed, brushing her bangs out of her eyes.
“And that stupid cow Bagley,” Ed added, pulling a face as they walked into the crowded school building. Verne ducked a rugby ball that some guy had thrown. “Watch it!” She shouted, scowling at the culprit, her bottle green eyes flickering dangerously. The guy rolled his eyes and flipped her off.
“Whatever,” He muttered but didn’t push it – both Verne and Ed had pretty bad reps.
They slammed into science, stalking to the back bench and sitting themselves at it. Verne promptly kicked her feet up onto the bench and crossed her slim arms over her chest, while Eddie pulled out her phone and began texting madly.
Verne tipped her head back, staring at the pock marked tiles that made up the ceiling of the second story science class room.
The door swung open and several students entered, shouting and laughing, shoving each other. Once bounced a football, the black and white patterned sphere hitting the cool grey lino with a dull, repeated thump. Verne’s eyes slid to watch him for a moment before returning to their previous task of counting the holes on the ceiling tiles.
The little black dots were set in a certain pattern, as rigid and disciplined as an army. A few holes were filled with pencils and pens – the signs of an incredibly bored class.
The door opened and closed several times, until the whole class was assembled in the brightly lit class room. All except for their squat teacher.
“Where the hell is Bagley?” Eddie muttered, several minutes after the second warning bell had rung. The rest of the class had begun asking the same question, though most didn’t seem to care.
“I dunno,” Verne muttered. She pulled her legs off the table, brushing her thick fringe with her fingers. Eddie blew a large, green bubble and popped it by sucking the bubble back into her mouth.
“That’s disgusting,” Verne reprimanded, drawing looks from the people near her. “What you looking at, kid?” She growled.
“I ain’t a kid,” One of them retorted in a mutter. “I’m probably older than you!”
Verne rolled her eyes. “Not likely,” She said under her breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear.
As Verne spoke, the door swung open, hitting the wall with a loud crash. The sound caused several snoozing students to jump horribly as Ms. Bagley stalked in.
Ms. Bagley was thin and middle-aged; with shortly cut grey hair and watery grey blue eyes, which stared out from deep folds of skin. She was short, less than five foot four. She always wore pearls and seemed to think she was better than everyone else. She never said it, of course, but the expression on her face screamed her assumed superiority.
“Stupid bitch,” Eddie muttered, as the elder woman ordered books out and phones away. Eddie reluctantly tucked her phone back into her pocket and tossed a tattered exercise book onto the black plastic bench top.
Verne already had her slightly less dog eared book out, and flicked lazily through the pages to a fresh one. She tapped her fingers against the page, staring at her science teacher.
There was something different about Bagley, Verne decided. She wasn’t sure what it was, but there was something going on. She voiced her observations to Ed, who responded as elegantly as she normally did.

She’s bitchier than normal.” Eddie sad smoothly, writing the date at the top of her page. “She’s probably PMSing.”
Verne laughed softly. “Dude, she’s like ninety. She didn’t get her pension money, more like.”
Eddie laughed too. “Touché Vernie, touché.”
“You girls at the back! Stop the nattering and start copying these notes down!” Ms. Bagley called, turning her watery stare to Verne and Eddie. “I’m talking to you, Edna Stewart!”
“Yes ma’am,” Eddie muttered mockingly, though her pen did begin to wend its way across the page, scribbling down the notes that were projected onto the white board. Verne followed suit, muttering curses under her breath. This mutinous muttering caught the attentions of Bagley, though she obviously didn’t know what they meant, as Verne was swearing in Italian.
“What did you say, Ms. Verne?” Bagley exclaimed, narrowing her eyes at the scarlet haired girl.
“Didn’t say nothing, testa di merda.” Verne retorted shortly, her electric green eyes flashing up to meet water grey ones.
“You did not say anything?” Bagley repeated, her voice as calm as she could manage.
“Yeah, that’s right. Didn’t say nothing.” Verne smirked slightly, and a few students – the ones who knew the meanings of a large percentage of the Italian words Verne used – sniggered loudly. Bagley’s eyes narrowed further, giving the impression that she had a bad and very serious squint. Verne began to write again, though a few students had decided that they’d like to continue Verne’s attempts at smart arsery.
Several sharp phrases and a few good one liners later, and Ms. Bagley looked about ready to snap. Two pink spots had appeared high on her withered cheeks, and several deep creases formed on her already lined forehead. Her heavily plucked eyebrows had all but joined together, and her lips had been pressed into a thin line.
“I would appreciate it if you children would work in silence, and keep your oh so witty comment to yourselves!” Bagley half shouted, anger quivering in her voice.
The noise level picked up as she spoke, and Bagley’s hands clenched into liver spotted fists. A muscle in her jaw leapt, and her slim shoulders shook, apparently with rage. She began to shake violently as the class laughed and shouted, throwing bits of paper and ignoring their shuddering teacher completely.
Verne, on the other hand, was staring at Bagley with an expression of horror on her tanned face. “Oh no… Oh no. Shit shit shit!” She breathed, her emerald eyes wide, her long lashes brushing against her skin. Her head jerked to Eddie, who was also staring at the old woman.
“What the hell…?” Eddie gasped.
“Get out!” Verne ordered, leaping to her feet and grabbing Eddie, pulling her up by the arm. “Get out now! Run!”
Members of the class had now turned the attentions to their shivering teacher, their expressions ranging from amused to mildly fearful. As they watched, Victoria Helga Marie Bagley’s mouth slowly opened, and she let out a shuddering shriek. It was horribly long and loud, the sound quite inhuman.
“Everyone!” Verne shouted over the shrieks of the woman. “Get the hell out! Run! Now!”
They didn’t have to be told twice. People leapt up and tore out o the classroom, screaming and knocking over desks and chairs as they went, scattering pens and papers onto the grey lino.
Ms. Bagley, meanwhile, had stooped over, her hands resting on the bench in front of her. She arched her back, the blades of her spine protruding unnaturally through the lilac of her knitted turtle neck. The band of pearls around her neck broke, the white orbs scattering against the floor and bench.
From her spine came an ominous cracking sound – something shivered down her back, as though trying to escape. Bagley’s mouth opened in a silent scream to reveal rows upon rows of razor sharp teeth, like a million needles shining against the darkness of her throat.
She gave a high pitched, keening shriek and doubled up, ducking down behind the desk top, the thick base of the table hiding her from view.
A second later, the large bench exploded across the room. Verne threw herself to the floor, and felt her hair ruffle as the bench soared over head, narrowly missing her flame topped head. It crashed into the back wall then slammed into the floor, the base cracking in the process.
“Holy shit!” Verne gasped, crawling to take cover behind an up ended desk. She heard a growl, and steeling herself, peeked around the edge of the chipped black plastic top.
Where there had once been her science teacher now stood – for lack of a better word – a monster. A creature of children’s nightmares. Green skinned, hunched backed. It stood at roughly seven feet in height, with over long arms and slender, claw tipped fingers that nearly brushed the floor. Its long tail swayed back and forth, heavily decorated with white, dangerous looking spikes.
Its legs were heavily muscled, bent like a dog’s back legs. Its head was near the same size as that of a horse, perhaps a little larger. Its eyes were snake – like slits, with glowing read irises and black diamonds for pupils. The rest of its head was elongated and reptilian, dinosaur – like, even.
Its wide mouth stretched open to reveal rows of dangerously glinting needle sharp teeth, thick ropes of saliva hanging from them. The way the creature’s mouth curved, it was almost as if it were smiling vindictively. It let out a growl, and its nostrils flared, scenting the air.
After a moment of deliberation, the creature lumbered towards the door – it had obviously decided that the students bunched in the corridors would be easier snack to get than the girl crouched behind the broken desk. Verne too had realized this; she leapt out from behind the up turned desk that had been her shelter, and hurled a large textbook at the slow moving monster. The book, titled Level Four Chemistry by Alexander A. G. Malcolm hit the back of the creature’s head with a pronounced THUD.
Its tail lashed and it whirled around, snarling viciously. “What do you think you’re doing, stupid girl!?” The thing asked, speaking in Bagley’s most disapproving tone.
“Pressing your buttons,” Verne answered smoothly, grinning at the creature as she hefted another book. In one flowing motion, she snapped her arm back then forced it forwards, and the book was flung from her long fingered hand. This time, though, Bagley’s impersonator was prepared for an attack. The spiked tail lashed out in a sweeping motion, brushing the book aside though it was merely a fly. Bagley’s laugh rang out before the creature spoke again. “You foolish girl,” It announced, a dark kind of pleasure filling its voice. “Your misplaced attempt at heroism is only going to get you killed!”
Verne smiled grimly. “I wasn’t expecting any less, Ms. Bagley.”
The creature laughed again, and darted forward, its sudden speed surprising for a figure of its large and ungainly stature.
Verne dived to the side, and narrowly avoided getting slashed by the foot long claws that raked the air she had previously occupied only a second before. Verne rolled and jumped to her feet, grabbing the nearest chair and hurling at the monster’s turned back. It struck hard, bouncing off and hitting the wall. The creature spun and its tail lashed out, clipping Verne in the side. The force of the blow caused Verne to do an ungraceful kind of spin and crash into a table.
“Ah fuck!” She spluttered, pulling herself to her feet again, one hand clasping her side.
“I’m going to enjoy killing you, human.” The creature intoned, its long blood red tongue flicking out to stroke a few of its teeth.
“Bring it on, buttmunch. I take down fuckers like you all the damn time.” Verne retorted, scowling. Her fingers curled around a now detached leg of a table, and Verne grinned. She swung it back, then forward into the creature’s face. It obviously hadn’t been expecting that – it had done nothing to protect itself. A large cut opened itself above the creature’s left eye and began to drip an acid yellow substance, which Verne presumed to be its blood.
Verne did not have time to admire her handiwork, however – she was already hitting the creature about the head once more, blows flying thick and fast. After several long moments, the imposter seemed to come to its senses – it began to fight back.
Once more its tail writhed, and this time it caught Verne squarely in the stomach, tearing her school shirt as it knocked the wind from her, and sent her flying. She connected painfully with a wall, and slid down it, coming to sit on the floor, thoroughly dazed and bleeding.
The creature advanced, cackling, its hooked hands scraping the lino. Verne’s eyes slid shut just as she heard another crash and several sets of footsteps. A few seconds later, several loud bangs filled the air, signaling gun fire being let off. After the sound stopped bouncing around the room, a distinctly American – and obviously masculine voice said, “That wasn’t as hard as I expected it to be.”
Verne heard the sounds of a gun being reloaded, before some else spoke. This too was a man, and by the sound of it, a Welsh native. His broad vowels rang out, strangely calming in the current situation Verne found herself in. “What the hell is that, Jack?”
“That, Ianto, is a very good question.”

[RastaaaRuby]

Well I'mma post another chapter. >.>

Two – The Captain, the Doctor, an Ex-Cop, a Computer Genius and a Tea Boy. What a Team.

Verne’s eyes flickered open, and she was greeted by quite a sight. Five figures were now spreading out from the door, which swung slowly shut. Four were holding hand guns, and one had some kind of pocket computer clasped in her hands.
The closest man was tall and dressed in a light blue button up shirt, black trousers, braces and an old Royal Air Force great coat, coloured dark navy blue – which fit his broad shoulders nicely, flattering his trim figure. He had slightly messed black hair – spiky enough to be stylish, yet tidy enough to be professional. He was obviously in his late thirties, early forties be he had aged very well. He had the chiseled features of a well paid movie star and the bluest eyes Verne had ever seen. Bright as the sky in the middle of summer, piercing electric blue. He was obviously one of those ‘attractive older man’ types, and seemed quite aware of it, though not arrogant about it. Though he was absorbed in his surroundings, he exuded a casual kind of confidence that only came of being rather good looking – or thinking you were.
Verne coughed and spat out a hunk of dry wall. The coat wearing man jumped, his gun arm swinging to point directly at the flame haired girl. The gun was not the modern glock that was carried by the others, who seemed to be members of what appeared to be a team – it was an old Webley Mark IV revolver, the barrel carrying the scars of many battles, and the grip worn smooth by a lifetime of use. Verne recognized the make instantly – she’d learned to shoot a modern handgun on one of those, from a boyfriend who’d been in the army.
“Hi,” Verne murmured sheepishly, raising her hand to flex her fingers in greeting. The man next to the RAF coat trained his glock on Verne, his eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching. He looked to be in his mid twenties with sandy brown hair parted with a mathematician’s eye, a pale complexion and stormy grey eyes. He wasn’t as striking as the other man, but he was still attractive in his own way.
He was dressed to perfection – his suit was impeccable: charcoal grey trousers and blazer, crimson shirt that matched his complexion extremely well, and a tie with matching waistcoat in black. He gave off a strong whiff of control freak – or, if not control freak, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder organizer. His expression was serious, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed.
The rest of the company consisted of two dark haired women and a thin man.
The man looked to be in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and grey eyes. He wore a thick leather jacket and a pair of dark, straight leg jeans over his thin frame in an obvious attempt to look bigger and tougher without lifting weights, shaving his head or getting a few tattoos. His mouth was cruel, and his face gave off the idea that he was older than he actually was, or that’d he’d seen things that shouldn’t be seen.
Verne’s eyes slid to one of the women. She was of obvious Asian descent, and looked to be about the same age as the leather clad man – possibly a little younger, though it was hard to tell with his pre-naturally aged face. The Asian woman was very pretty, in a reserved kind of way. Quietly glowing, but not drawing a huge amount of attention to herself – understated. She held a kind of pocket computer in her small, delicate hands, her head stooped to read the screen, her poker straight bangs falling in her eyes. Her long hair trailed straight and shining black over the shoulders of her purple coat.
The other woman was a doe eyed, freckle faced beauty, with a large gap in her top front teeth. Her hair was similar to that of the Asian woman’s – long and black, straight with thick bangs across the forehead. She was dressed in a black leather jacket and a pair of figure hugging jeans. One her feet, Verne noted incredulously, was a pair of high heeled, knee length leather boots.
This one was definitely a cop – though her choice of foot wear seemed to speak otherwise! – Verne decided. Or perhaps an ex cop. Either way, she gave off a strong whiff of PC Plod.
All of Verne’s observations took less than seven seconds to complete.
“Jack?” The doe eyed woman said, glancing towards the RAF coat wearer, who was still staring hard at Verne, his Webley trained on her.
“Jack?” The obviously Welsh woman repeated, turning her eyes briefly to him, as though expecting chocolate brown to meet electric blue. It didn’t happen, and her eyes slid back to the creature this Jack had previously shot.
“Mm?” Jack retorted, glancing at her for a split second before looking back to Verne. His aim never wavered, not even as he breathed. Verne had to admire that – she knew what a good gunman looked like, and the blue eyed man screamed ‘I learnt how to use a gun before I learnt how to walk’.
“What?” He added, his American accent apparent, though he only spoke one word. The welsh woman’s eyes widened slightly, fixed on the corpse.
“It’s not staying dead, Jack.”

[RastaaaRuby]

Screw you guys. >.>

I'mma post another chapter, anywho.

Three – Oh Sweet Baby Jesus.

“Whadda ya mean, it’s not stay dead?” Jack replied sharply as he turned, his intent to look at the creature the Welsh woman was talking about. He did not, however, manage to turn far enough. The scaly rope that was the creature’s tail caught him squarely in the middle, the spikes ripping into his chest as he was sent flying. All happened in a space of a second and a half, and ended with a loud thump as Jack hit the wall, and slid to the floor. He lay quite still, bleeding profusely.
The Welsh man, who Verne supposed to be Ianto, flinched and started towards Jack’s crumpled figure, his eyes widening at the sight of the man lying in a pile of school books. Verne, who was sitting only a few metres from the unconscious man, scrabbled to her knees and crawled over to him in a flash.
The American was still breathing, though it sounded labored, his breath bubbling in his chest, as though his throat was coated in blood. It was a possibility. He had a large wound in his forehead, and blood was dripping down his face. His eyes were closed, hiding the brilliant blue under pale lids. His face had drained of colour – most of it was draining out the gash in his forehead. He was very good looking, even when he was mortally wounded. Not Verne’s cup of tea – but still, she knew what she was looking at.
Verne’s slim fingers reached for the weapon in Jack’s hand – she needed to arm herself. She wasn’t gonna keep it, but she would feel safer with a gun in her hand.
She snatched up the Webley, gripping it tightly in her left hand. The smooth wooden handle was like silk beneath her fingers – marble smooth and still a little warm, from the hand that had previously held it.
She could feel several indents, the ghosts of Jack’s broad fingers. She tucked it into the waistband of her knee-length school shorts and dragged Jack to the side, behind the safety of a toppled over cupboard which lay on its side, papers and books spilling out of the open doors. She let go of his arms, and lay him gently onto the floor once more. She crouched beside him, pulling the Webley Mark IV out of her waistband and hefting it in her left hand as the suited Welsh man started towards them again. Thankfully, the alien had been distracted by the leather jacket and the Asian woman, so it didn’t notice the suited man running across the class room.
Verne grabbed him by the elbow and tugged him down so he was bent double, hidden from view by the open cupboard. “Get down!” She hissed, as a chair flew over head, flying through the space that the Welsh man had previously occupied. “Jesus, I thought you were Special Forces,” Verne muttered, as the man kneeled, dirtying his charcoal trousers.
The man ignored her, and instead hissed “Jack!” And crawled to the prone American figure.
“He’s still breathing,” Verne informed him matter-of-factly, before the Welsh man could even check his pulse. She peered sheepishly around the edge of the fallen cupboard. The two women had taken cover behind one fallen desk, and the man in the leather jacket was crouched behind another.
The ex cop was muttering frantically to the Asian woman, who had now pulled a glock from her waist, and was gripping it loosely in her right hand, the left still holding the pocket computer. She was reading out something from the screen, her lips move quickly. Verne strained her ears to hear what she was saying.
“…I’m getting traces of Rift activity… But here…in London? This can’t be right.” She murmured, her brow furrowing, delicate eyebrows all but conjoining.
“It bloody well must be, Tosh!” The Welsh woman retorted, resetting her grip on her glock, obviously steeling herself, biding her time before launching her attack. While this was all happening, the creature had been pulling itself to its feet. It grunted and growled, and its tail lashed out to send another chair flying. It hit a window, smashing it and sending fragments of glass cascading into the room, showering the trio of Jack, Verne and the Welsh man.
Verne flinched and covered her head with her hands, ducking down to further protect herself. The suited man crouched over Jack to prevent glass from falling in his face and the large gashes that had been opened in his chest. The baby blue cotton of the American’s shirt had been ripped, and was now stained a dirty red by the blood seeping from his wounds.
Verne raised her head again once the glass stopped bouncing off her back and hefted the Webley in her hand once more. She shifted her weight slightly, and caught the eye of the Welsh woman. She clicked back the hammer of Jack’s Mark IV and took a deep calming breath, jerking her head at the monster. The woman nodded stiffly, and mouthed a quick countdown.
Three… two…. ONE!
Verne exploded from behind the shelf, swinging her arm to aim the gun at the creature before pulling the trigger of the Webley once… twice… three times. The leather clad ex WPC did the same, firing her glock with the cool confidence and unflinching gaze of someone who did this for a living.
The next thirty seconds were deafening as Verne and the cop emptied their weapons, the gun shots reverberating around the around the room as the creature jerked, the bullets cutting through its body. The bullet wounds began to ooze bright, acidic yellow blood.
The tail of the creature lashed angrily as it howled in pain, nearly hitting Verne as she dove behind the shelf again, nearly knocking over the Welsh suit.
“Shit, sorry mate,” Verne apologized, as though she hadn’t just shot – and enraged further – an alien creature. She spoke casually enough to have been on a public bus, and bumped the arm of the person sitting next to her. “That thing must be at least eight feet long!” She gasped, referring to the creature’s long tail. She glanced at the suit, who hadn’t even looked at her, or acknowledged her apology.
“You alright, mate?” Verne questioned, jumping slightly as a chair was flung past them. The suit turned, his eyebrows raised, an incredulous expression on his pale face.
“Do I look bloody alright to you?” He hissed, flinching as yet another chair was hurled across the room, followed by two text books and a desk leg. Verne considered his question for half a second, and then replied.
“You look pretty bloody well alright to me,” Verne retorted haughtily. “Can’t say the same for your American mate, though,” Verne gestured to Jack, lying prone beside the Welsh man as gun fire rang out again. Verne raised her head over the edge of the table for a brief second, to observe the goings on.
This time, the creature’s assailant was the other man, the one with the old face and the leather jacket. His pale face was contorted as he fired, his cruel lips twisted as he pulled the trigger, the bullets hitting the roaring monster with sickening thumps.
Verne ducked back down, looking at the sandy haired suit, who was looking over at Jack again. “Will he be alright?” She asked, pulling the Welsh man’s gun from his belt as she spoke, and laying the Webley back in reach of the American. She also filched a couple of cartridges, slipping them into her pockets as the man replied.
“Who, Jack? Yeah, he’ll be fine.” The man replied distractedly, glancing over his shoulder at the alien, who was now sending furniture crashing about the room, half blinded by pain and rage. He didn’t even notice Verne sliding the glock from its holster on his hip. His eyes had slipped from the scaly green creature back to Jack. As Verne looked at him again, she was sure she caught a flicker in his storm grey eyes that went far beyond the normal worry for a friend. More like the worry for a lover, which Verne suspected they were – why else would this Welsh man have reacted so strongly to his comrade’s injury?
“That’s good,” Verne said loudly, to be heard of the enraged screams of the alien. She offered a hand – there was never a time when it wasn’t nice to be polite. “I’m Verne, pleased to meet you..?”
The suited man raised a brow, looking at her as though he though her extremely stupid. But all the same, he took her long fingered hand and shook it briefly. “Ianto. Ianto Jones.” He replied softly, dipping his head before returning his steady gaze to Jack.
“Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Ianto Jones.” Verne replied smoothly, tightening her fingers around the handle of the glock. “If you’ll excuse me for just a moment –,” Verne added, then stood, turning and stepping to the left, removing herself from the safety of the cupboard. Her left arm swung up, pointing the glock unwaveringly at the creature. Its back was to her – it was thoroughly engaged in the leather jacket wearing man, who had taken cover in a corner, his back to the wall as he fended it off with a large piece of wood that had previously been a table leg. His gun had been knocked from his hands, and lay between the creature’s feet, just out of reach.
The creature strained to reach him, but it was too wide to fit into the corner. It was a good plan, Verne admired. A very good one. The creature roared with rage and tried to rake the man with its yellowing claws, but it couldn’t reach into the corner. Its blood spattered at the ferocious movements, spraying over the leather jacket, who began to howl in pain.
“Ahhh, Holy fucking Jesus!” He shouted as smoke from his clothes and skin. The alien’s blood seemed to be acidic, and was burning him.
“That’s a bitch,” Verne muttered, as the Asian woman, Tosh, screamed for the leather jacket.
“Owen!” She exclaimed, her pretty face stretched in horror. Verne glanced briefly at the woman, her arm staying steadily pointed in the alien’s direction. Verne looked back to the creature she was pointing her borrowed gun at. She took a deep breath, and squeezed the trigger. One. Two. Three bullets exploded from the barrel, and cut into the creature’s body. The alien jerked and then lumbered around, growling and hissing its anger and pain.
It seemed to have lost the ability to voice its hurt and rage in words – the concentration it took to speak was too hard to muster, and too hard to sustain. Its red eyes locked onto Verne, and gave another hiss of rage.
“Hey, you ugly mother fucker, come to daddy.” Verne said, gesturing with her free hand, her two middle fingers bending in a ‘come forward’ gesture, a grim smile plastered on her tanned face.
Owen scrabbled to his knees and grabbed his glock from between the monster’s feet, wincing and gasping. He crawled to the table Tosh was sheltering behind, and slumped down next to her, breathing heavily.
The creature ignored him completely, its reptilian eyes now focused on the flame haired girl who was facing it so defiantly, so confidently. It growled loudly as it advanced on Verne. Its tail was no longer the prehensile rope it once was – it could no longer move it, as it had obviously been broken. Mid way down the seven foot long tail, was a large bend. The tail curved unnaturally, almost at a ninety degree angle, a corner.
Verne didn’t know how or when it had been broken, but nor did she really care. She was just glad that she no longer had to worry about it – the creature possessed one less weapon it could use on her and the others she had barely met. Verne grinned vindictively at it, and squeezed the trigger several times in rapid succession – more bangs echoed and more holes were torn in the body of the creature, who howled again, nearly falling. The sound of the creature’s howl made the hair on the back of Verne’s neck stand up, and gave her goose bumps up and down her arms. Verne ignored the strange sensation, and tugged a fresh cartridge from her pocket – one of the ones she had swiped from Ianto when she’d borrowed his glock.
She reloaded it as fast as she could, then let off another few shots. This time, however, her gun was not the only one firing. Owen had raised his burnt arms off the floor and was firing, his expression one of mixed pain and anger. Tosh was beside him, firing too, her pretty face now calm, almost serene in its expression. The ex cop was shooting well, her practiced motions smooth.
But what surprised Verne the mist was the fact that Jack, who had appeared to be mortally wounded just a few minutes ago, was now on his feet - though a little unsteady – and was firing his Webley, his handsome face serious. His shirt was ragged and blood stained, and a trail of red ran down his face and neck. The wounds on his chest were still bloodied, but they seemed less… serious than they were before. They were smaller, that was for sure. Fresh, shiny new skin had appeared around the edges of the wound, red and raw but healthy all the same. The bleeding had stopped completely, the torn muscles knitting themselves back together.
With the wound on his head, the transformation was even more obvious – though there was still blood on his face, there was no sign of the wound it had escaped from, except for a freshly healed scar – a thin line of crusted blood, just beneath his dark hairline.
Jack stepped forward to stand beside Verne as he finished firing. They were about a metre and a half apart as Verne stopped firing too, staring at Jack. Quickly, before he noticed her gaze, she turned her sea green eyes back to the creature, who was slumped bleeding against the wall.
The rest of the group stopped shooting also, Owen slipping to his knees, breathing heavily. The creature gave a growl, lurching up, one clawed hand raised. It seemed to be concentrating – its eyes closed, and its nostrils flared, as though it was taking a calming breath before continuing. With one long nail, it slowly traced a circle in the air, leaving a path that glowed a bright greenish blue.
“What the hell…?” Verne heard Owen gasp, but no one answered his question. Everyone stood or kneeled, watching the creature’s actions. The circled glowed brightly, the centre still see through, but shimmering lightly, like a pool of water in the sun shine. The monster gave a grunt and struggled fully to its feet, growling. After a few moments of dumb struck silence, the group seemed to come to their senses again. They raised their weapons as once and fired. The creature ignored the restart of their attack – instead, it took a few steps forward, and stepped into the circle. Though Verne could see through the circle, she did not see where the alien disappeared to. It was simply as if it had vanished into thin air. As soon as the creature disappeared, so too did the circle.
Slowly the gunfire ceased, as the team stared at the place where the alien had vanished. They stood in silence for a few moments, before the Welsh woman spoke out.
“Well… What the ruddy hell was that?”

[Sponsored content]