The next thing I remembered was slowly waking up. "OK, so not dead then. That's a plus" I thought to myself, as I mentally shook off the fog of unconsciousness. The first thing I became aware of was a tight pain across my chest. I willed my eyes open with some effort and stared downwards at myself. There was an inch round hole burned into my shirt, and the skin beneath was charred yet tender. As the rest of my senses returned I detected the faint aroma of burnt flesh, like the morning after the Devil's barbeque night. OK, so Captain Leather must be armed with an stun gun, information I filed away for future use. I tried to massage my aching chest, but my arms were fixed in place behind my back. From the cold feel of metal around my wrists, I figured I must be handcuffed in place. So, my next question: where was I, anyway? Metaphorically speaking, I was in deep trouble of course, but what about physically?
It was certainly a different place than the Tech Specs display room. My senses were still numbed, but I forced myself to look up and observe my surroundings. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the bright light streaming through the window ahead of me, so I looked to the sides first. I was in a small, old fashioned office. The walls were decorated with wood panelling and bookshelves filled with old and dusty tomes. A couple of frames hung around the office, displaying certificates and awards, but I couldn't make out the text. Seated either side of me and similarly bound were Ash and Dave. Neither had awoken yet, but I could tell they were at least alive by the slow rise and fall of their breathing.
Once my eyes had acclimated, I looked ahead once more. There was an impressive and ornate mahogany desk before me, with an equally impressive and ornate man sat behind it. His hair was silvered but perfectly maintained and his face clean shaven. His skin was lightly wrinkled, but in a mature and dignified way. He appeared experienced as opposed to decrepit. I was reminded of an Irish George Clooney, suave and distinguished, but beneath the surface there was a steely edge. His eyes were sharp and watchful like a hawk, and he had a similarly deadly aura about him. Standing behind him, and acting as bodyguard, was Pimp Popeye.
"So glad you're awake. I was afraid if it took much longer I'd miss my five o'clock." said the suave man, with a voice of honeyed silk, and just the hint if a Cork accent. I lined up a witty retort, but I was still groggy and it sounded more like
"Grrrble fthh ennnnh"
"Come now, no need for such coarse language." The man replied, overflowing with charisma. He was the opposite to Devlin, and despite my situation I still found myself gripped to his words.
"I brought you lot here for a little chat."
"You could have tried calling first. Sending your goon doesn't exactly make for a good first impression." I said, having finally found my tongue.
"His methods are always a little... direct... but really I had no choice to do this any other way. Time is of the essence." He continued. "Devlin will be launching his little toys in just a few hours, and I really can't afford to have you running about, interfering." His lips curled into an arrogant sneer. To a man like him, we were just particularly large and irritating pests.
"You don't know what you're dealing with!" I exclaimed desperately. "His product isn't what you think. I doubt you'll believe me, but he's using..." I began to plead.
"Alien technology?" He finished for me. He took advantage of my stunned silence to elaborate. " This is what I mean by interference. You think you have everything all worked out, then you blunder in and get caught. Of course he's using alien tech, I've been monitoring him for months, ever since he first appeared in the industry with a miraculous product and seemingly without a past! "
It was a lot to take in, especially with a head full of plastic and a possible concussion. I usually expect to be the one explaining extraterrestrial events, so I was already way outside my comfort zone. That combination is probably why my questions weren't more nuanced, in retrospect.
"So, you actually believe in aliens?" I asked.
Yes, of course." He sighed, looking at me with contempt. "I've been dealing with their kind for decades, on and off. Every so often some bunch of interlopers beam down here and try to cause trouble. Until they meet me, that is. Silurians, Sontarans, Mandrils, Bandrils, the Nestene... I've seen so many, and you know what they all have in common?"
"They're not local?" I asked, sarcastically.
"No. Bloody no, alright!" He burst out in anger before composing himself with a tug of his lapels. This was obviously something of a sensitive subject of his. "All of these alien visitors, they don't care about us. They use us, exploit us for their own gain."
"Because no human has ever exploited another, of course." I said, as my own temper began to rise. "Or is that why you deal with these aliens? Buy their technology or their expertise, in exchange for what? Minerals, safe passage, a few 'workers' who won't be missed?"
He slammed his fist upon the table, exhaling furiously, before speaking in a terrifyingly quiet whisper.
"Do not claim to know me, do not presume my motivations or my actions. When I say I 'deal' with extraterrestrial scum, I mean it in the biblical sense."
"Ah, I get it. You don't trade, or bargain. You murder. And I suppose it's a happy coincidence that whatever technological marvels these aliens had end up in your possession?"
"I'd hardly call it murder. They're not human. You'd be a fool to say the beef on your plate came from a murdered cow. I'm an exterminator of rodents, that's all. Taking whatever secrets they leave behind is merely my payment."
So that's the kind of man who had me chained to a chair. Someone who had no qualms about murdering other sentient beings, for the sake of profit. Now, I'm no stranger to taking lives, I'll admit. I'd killed countless Vakarians already, and if you keep reading my tales, you'll find them stained with blood. It's not my place to judge of course, but I like to think that whenever I've been forced to kill, alien or otherwise, that it was the only way to save others, or to end some nefarious scheme. Even the most heinous of villains who died by my hand still eat away at me from my memories. Even now, all of the deaths I've caused weigh on my mind. To me, killing was never a default, I always sought a peaceful resolution first, before escalating the situation.
"You're disgusting." I replied, not quite holding back my rage.
"Really? Can you really be so naive? That's the problem with the youth, you know. There can be no half measures. Not with aliens. Are you aware that there are some species of aliens on this planet right now, walking around in human guises?! Perception filters, glamours, shimmers, I've seen so many ways they have devised to look like us. To hide amongst us."
"And?" I asked bluntly. "Are they spying on us, reporting back to their masters on our habits? Are they the vanguard of an invasion force, like a Trojan horse? Are they causing trouble?" I said with scorn.
"Does it matter?" He replied, with equal scorn.
"Well, I've met more than a few who are living here, hiding because they wanted to escape their homeworlds. Some are trapped here without the means to leave, and others simply have no homeworld to return to." I urged.
"Hmm. As I said, you are naive indeed. If they are genuine, there are enough habitable planets without significantly developed life they could occupy, rather than crowding up our planet, our economy, our life. Those who are here don't conform to societal norms, and they disregard our culture in favour of whatever moon nonsense they brought with them." At this point, I was biting my tongue at his use of the term 'moon nonsense'. He continued "We don't have the room or the resources for ourselves, let alone a bunch of intergalactic hangers on. And a great many who come here mean us harm. So yes, protecting this planet is my calling. So leave well enough alone and let the adults get on with the important work here."
I stared at him, aghast. I shouldn't have been surprised, after all, plenty of humanity voices similar concerns about other humans. Was it really so surprising to hear the same rhetoric turned outwards at other species? Humanity as a whole has always excelled at creating arbitrary differences after all. Deep down, I sensed that there was a good man before me, but his vision had been blinkered by decades of cynicism and hatred. He had narrowed his mindset, almost to the point of inventing a fictional skew of reality, as a coping mechanism and a way of justifying his anger. Anger feeds cynicism, which itself creates anger. It's a cycle I've seen over and over, one which I'm just as guilty of to be truthful.
Maybe, if I'd argued more that day, if I'd made the right points and deconstructed his reasoning point by point, it might have made a difference. It might have caused things to turn out differently. Yet I didn't try, because I felt it was an argument I couldn't win. The first thing cynical blindness does is dampen your ability to see yourself in the negative. Confirmation bias and echo chambers make you feel like you're unassailably right, and anyone who disagrees is wrong. Then again, the kind of person who uses such terms is themselves almost guaranteed to use them to reinforce their own blinkered view. That day cynicism got the better of me too. I didn't try and debate, I just let him share his opinion then moved swiftly away, hoping he and his ilk would be lost to irrelevance. That was my real mistake. I'd forgotten this was the age of Trump, and social grace was no longer a given.
Instead, I replied to my captor that he should just let us go. "Obviously you're the professional here, so you're right. Let us go and you can go about stopping Devlin. Though, don't think we can be pressured into giving up so easily. You could threaten us with death or dismemberment if we interfere again, but it would be hollow. Even you're not powerful enough to make three young adults vanish so suddenly. Especially when one of us is wearing a camera."
"What!" He exclaimed, shooting upright. He turned to his henchman, grabbed him and yelled "Frank! You told me you searched them."
"I did boss!" Replied the man formerly known as Pimp Popeye. "There was nothing else in his pockets."
"Ah" I said. "That's because it's in my eye. Recording contact lens. Torchwood standard equipment for the past few years, after the doppelganger fiasco of 2012. Transmitting directly to our servers, and will be posted online in the event of the death of any Torchwood 4 operative."
"It must be a ruse boss." Frank said, unconvincingly.
"Scan the room for outgoing transmissions then. Surely with all your salvage, you have that ability." I said, feigning triumph. I hoped that the latent communication wave from my Nestene skullcap would be enough to fool them both.
"Damn it!" Cried my captor, after turning to his laptop. "The signal locator is detecting a faint trace, of something. Don't think you've won, little man." He seethed, as he glared at me again. "You and your friends are free to leave, for now. But if I ever find out this is a trick, if I ever get my hands on that supposed footage, if I ever get some dirt on you... you and your little play mates won't be able to hide from my reckoning. Understand?"
"Crystal." I said, staring him down in a battle of wills. I needed him to believe me, because I certainly wasn't actually wearing a camera. After a long silence, he appeared to cave, stepping away from me and saying to Frank with a wave "Send him to sleep, return him his artifacts, and release the three of them. Quickly, please. We have more pressing matters to attend."
Frank swaggered towards me, clearly relishing the chance to knock me out twice in one day. This time, thanks to my restraints, I was at his mercy, so he took his time, savouring every second. His smile was a level of smug attained only by someone immensely and exceedingly proud of their own joke. "Lights out!" He said, stumbling only slightly on the last syllable with an involuntary giggle. My last thought as I slipped back into blankness was "Thank heavens for small mercies."
