TW Casefiles: Brand Loyalty (9)

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."

TW Casefiles: Brand Loyalty (8)

In the second it took me to subtly wipe his greasy sheen from my palm, Devlin had already turned his attention towards Ashley. This time there was no handshake, instead a triple cheek-kiss followed by an uncomfortably extended embrace. My eyes found Ash's, and we shared in a moment of revulsion at Devlin's disgusting display. Meanwhile, Dave wore an expression of annoyance: apparently unworthy of even a clammy handshake from the tech giant.
"My dear, you are absolutely ravishing." Devlin cooed, and I swear he licked his lips as he did so. Ash visibly shuddered, repugnant, but Devlin seemed not to notice. If anything, the slight curl of his lip indicated he misread her motion as a sign of quivering affection.

"Mr. Devlin sir, we were hoping to ask you a few questions..." I began to say, desperately attempting to steer his focus away from the unwilling object of his advances. I'd met men like him before, in the pubs and clubs, cretins who see women as little more than a slab of meat displayed in a butcher's window. A prize for the plundering. I'd even received a black eye or two from stepping between such a dick and the woman he was intimidating. With Devlin, my efforts were wasted though. He barely registered my comments, busy as he was staring at Ash, mentally tracing the curves of her face.

I may not state it often enough, but Ash is a damn fine person, one of the strongest, composed and intelligent I've ever met. While she was dealing with a leering, lecherous lickspittle and Dave and I were failing to free her from him, she was busy thinking of the mission. Her eyes flicked towards me, for a split second, before darting downwards. Her meaning was apparent: "While Devlin is preoccupied, get his bloody security pass so we can escape and explore, preferably as far from his greedy fingers as possible". I nodded back, acknowledging her instruction as she imperceptibly held back an urge to retch. Devlin was spouting some inane French poetry, butchering it with a 'seductive' accent that sounded akin to a diesel engine chewing marmalade.

Dexterity and sleight of hand are far from my forte, but I can be surreptitious on occasion. Dave can attest to it, the amount of times I've stolen pens from literally under his nose during lectures. Once, I even managed to pluck the glasses from his face without him realising. Of course, vodka was involved, and... but I digress. Summoning my inner Derren Brown, I positioned myself behind Devlin and gently reached for his belt, and the crocodile clip which affixed the pass to it. I needn't have worried, he was so lost in his advances I doubt he'd have felt an actual crocodile rummaging near his crotch. With a careful motion I pulled the tag free, holding it up momentarily in Ash's eyeline before depositing it discreetly into my breast pocket.

Seconds later, Ash seemed to lose her footing, stumbling on her stilettos. A convincing act, during which she made sure to splash the contents of her champagne flute onto herself.
"Oh dear! Whoops, clumsy me! How unfortunate. Well, I'd better go clean myself up." She exclaimed in one hurried breath, attempting to push past Devlin. He held out an arm, blocking her path.
"Nonsense, nonsense. Allow me to assist. Feel free to use my suite; you can take a shower, get out of those damp and sticky clothes, I'm sure my assistant can find something more comfortable for you to slip into." His words, laced with sinister intent, made my skin crawl. I could only imagine what Ashley was feeling.

"Mr. Devlin, sir? Ah. There you are." A flat and monotonous female voice called from across the room. Following the voice to its source, I saw a hard edged woman in formal dress and holding a tablet, obviously a secretary or PR guru of some kind. She strode briskly towards Devlin, all but ignoring us.
"Sir, the photographers are waiting outside. We're behind schedule as it is."
As she spoke, she adjusted her glasses, re-positioning them on the bridge of her nose. That's when I realised. She was wearing an advanced version of the Tech-Specs. Like me, she was a potential puppet of the Nestene Consciousness.
Devlin mused on her statement before reluctantly conceding to her.
"The public awaits me, unfortunately. But do hang around. I'd like to see more of you tonight." He said, kissing the back of Ash's hand before turning to follow his assistant out of the hall. As he left, the focus of the room turned outwards, towards the array of paparazzi outside. Ash shook like a wet dog, vainly trying to rid herself of Devlin's creep. After a few calming breaths, she turned to Dave and I, and said: "Can we please get out of here?"
Together, we slipped away from the crowd into the secured product display room, with the help of Devlin's pass.

The exhibition room contained twenty or so cubicles, divided by partitions plastered in DevlinTech logos. Each cubicle contained a desk, a pair of Tech Specs, and a user guide, along with gift bags containing other promotional sundries. On the far side of the room was a small stage, with a laptop set up atop a lectern. Presumably, this is where Devlin would talk through the demonstrations.

"Where should we start?" Dave asked as he looked around the room.

"Call me naive, but I was kind of hoping to see a smoking gun or something here..." Ash replied. "This is literally just a product launch."

"Don't give up before even trying." I chided, as I strode to the lectern. "If anything here contains incriminating evidence, it's Devlin's personal laptop."

"It'll probably just be full of fetish crap, the creepy bastard." Dave laughed.

"Besides" I continued, as I bent down towards the laptop screen, "We saw Pimp Popeye slink in here when we first arrived at the party. If he's nosing around, then surely there's something worth hiding in here." Pimp Popeye was the name we'd given to the strange character we first glimpsed while hunting Weevils by the docks. So named for his grizzled Aran fisherman getup, supplemented with a battered leather duster hemmed with leopard print trim.

"Oh yeah!" Ash exclaimed. "After dealing with Devlin, I'd forgotten about the Sleazy Seaman." Ash was concerned, and so was I. We were both beginning to wonder where he had vanished to.

"Never call him that again." Dave said, feigning disgust.
"Listen to your pal." Came a sudden voice from behind us. I whirled around in time to see a leather clad figure emerge from behind one of the partitions. I considered rushing him, but froze as my eyes landed on the gun he was pointing in our direction.

"Name calling isn't very nice." He said, smirking, before pulling his trigger three times.

TW Casefiles: Brand Loyalty (7)

I slept fitfully that night, anxiously fretting about the task that lay ahead of us. What rest I managed to grab was marred with strange dreams, of nebulous images of monsters, oozing through my mind like... like melted plastic really. I felt myself wander down claustrophobic hallways while the walls ebbed and flowed, the surfaces bubbling and deforming due to some unknown source of heat. My footsteps grew ever more laboured, as the melting floor clung to my shoes. Each step drew forth sticky tendrils of liquefying plastic, each step requiring more effort than the previous. No matter how much I struggled, I sank ever deeper into the synthetic soup around me. I realised I was no longer in a corridor, but struggling to float in a vast industrial cauldron. Superheated plastic clung to my skin, burning with a heat the likes of which I'd never known before. Eventually, just as I'd resigned myself to my fate, I awoke with a start. I was still delirious, experiencing that moment where the body is awake before the mind, and the line between sleep and awareness is blurred. I tried to move, but found myself sticking to the bed. I flailed in panic, still convinced I was drowning in plastic, until my mind caught up with my body. During the night, I'd managed to tangle myself quite securely within my sheets. I wondered to myself whether I simply had an overactive subconscious, or if my nightmares were tied to the Auton framework linked to my brain. Neither option was particularly encouraging. Knowing that further sleep was inadvisable, if not impossible, I started to prepare for the gala reception.

"I'm not built for a monkey suit." Dave complained, as we strode towards the buffet table.
"Stop fidgeting." I hissed back at him. "You look so uncomfortable, we're supposed to be incognito, remember?"
"But I am uncomfortable." He whispered back.
"Man of your size is better built for a gorilla suit, anyway." Ash quipped, from ahead of us. Dave's brow furrowed slightly, and he asked:
"Was that an insult or a compliment?"
"Take it however you like." Ashley laughed, as we reached the table. I glanced around at the other guests gathered around the function room. A rough count suggested a little under a hundred people, not including the waiting staff, all dressed in finely tailored tuxedos and elegant gowns. A few of the faces I recognized as well known politicians and media figures. Most were unknown to me, presumably journalists or bloggers some kind. I considered our own clothing, feeling suddenly out of place. Dave and I both wore slightly ill-fitting suits we'd rented the night before. Compared to the other invitees, we looked like sacks of potatoes stuffed into pillowcases. Only Ash managed to look at home in these surroundings, in her surprisingly stylish Debs dress. Even if she remained a bit shaky on her heels. The only other time I recall her having to wear such impractical footwear was Tony's Christmas party and even then she lost them at the first available opportunity.

"So, why did we come towards the  buffet table, exactly? Not that I'm complaining" Dave asked, his words muffled by copious amounts of mini-quiche stuffed into his face.
"First rule of investigation" I began, wiping a piece of partially chewed pastry from my cheek. "There are two places that every guest visits at a party. The toilets, and the food. I figured this was the more appealing option."
"Who makes these rules?" Ash asked with mock exasperation. "What about the bar? Or the waiters with those little platter trays?"I thought about her question for a moment, crafting a suitably adequate and insightful answer.
"Shut up."

Like a subatomic particle, I became aware of Devlin's arrival indirectly, by the effect it had on the crowd. Suddenly, people had thronged the entrance, as cameras flashed and clicked rapidly. Even some of the more dignified dignitaries crept towards the eager mob, in sensing an important photo opportunity. Ash turned to me and cocked her head slightly towards the door. I shook my head in response, there was no point in forcing a confrontation, not in front of everyone at least. While we waited for a sense of normality to reemerge, I scanned the room again for something, anything of interest. My eyes narrowed. At the far side of the room, was a large glass door adjacent to an electronic lock. It was hard to make out details at my distance, but I could see a number of cubicle style booths, each branded with the DevlinTech logo.

"Hey Ash, what's the deal with that room?" I asked, indicating with a nod.
"Not sure, if I'm honest. But I did overhear a few people mention early access demos on our way in."
"Hmm... working prototypes then? Might be worth a gander."
"Doesn't matter. No way were getting in there without causing a scene." Dave interjected. I smiled a wry smile, and said:
"You'd be surprised at my ingenuity."
"No really." He continued. "We're not getting in there. Look at gramps over there... can't even walk near the damn thing without being escorted away by security."

I looked back at the door to see what Dave was referring too, and nearly dropped my complementary Champagne in the process. Indeed, a man, in his late sixties I'd reckon, was having a slightly headed conversation with a steward. I wondered how he'd even gained entrance in the first place, given his attire. His long, greasy, grey-and-nicotine-stained hair was kept at bay by a gaudy baseball cap. An unlit cigar hung precariously from his unkempt lower lip as he argued. He wore a knee-length black leather jacket, whose cuffs and lapel were rimmed with leopard print. He looked like a sort of pimp-Popeye, but that wasn't the oddest thing about him. No, that would the fact I knew I'd seen him before, that night Ash and I tracked down a Weevil in the docks. This man had shot the creature before my eyes, then attempted to do the same to me before he escaped. I wondered what to do, who was more important, Devlin or this character? Were they in league or at odds? While lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice another male figure approach me. Suddenly, I had a hand thrust into mine, clasp mine roughly, and shake vigorously. The kind of overly dramatic shake only exhibited by men who read a "Guide to Success" and thought it was a method of asserting dominance. In practice, it asserted assholery.
"Hello there!" Boomed a voice from somewhere above the handshake. "You must be the students... So glad to give back to the community that made me the man I am today."
My eyes drifted up to the face looking down at me. I got the impression he was doing it figuratively as well as literally. His hand finally slipped from mine, and I couldn't help but imagine it as some kind of hagfish, retreating into a river. The palm of my hand felt genuinely slimy, like it was coated in an oily sheen. I'd heard of oily salesmen before, but I'd never fully grasped the expression until this moment.

J&L: The Final Problem

Somewhen in Victorian London, two aged adventurers, two intrepid investigators of infernal incidences find themselves in the jaws of a treacherous trap.

HGJ: "Well, this is another fine mess we've gotten ourselves into, isn't it? The pair of us perilously penned in by sadistically sharpened spikes. Oh, I feel as if the walls are closing in!"

PGL: "I'm afraid to say that's not just claustrophobia talking, old chap. They are literally shrinking."

HGJ: "Corks!"

PGL: "And furthermore, judging by the sanguinary stains, we're not the first helpless captives to have ended up in this contraption."

HGJ: "Trust that crooked cove to have one final trick up his dastardly sleeve. We do have bad luck when it comes to magicians it seems."

PGL: "Really Henry, it's a wonder you still employ such practitioners, given your track record."

HGJ: "Because preeminent prestidigitation packs in the punters more than anything else. Even including the added cost of repairs following the odd "rogue" act. Perhaps we could discuss professional details when we're not in mortal peril?"

PGL: "Ah. I was afraid you'd ask that. You see, all of the controls for this room are above us, through the hatch we fell through."

HGJ: "Which is tauntingly out of reach."

PGL: "Exactly. And there's nothing of any substance lying around this room either. I can't see anything we could use to brace between the advancing walls, or anything that could jam the mechanisms."

HGJ: "So that's it then? Nothing to do except sing 'God save our gracious Queen' as we wait for our demise?"

PGL: "I'm sorry old friend. It's the end of the road. I just can't see a way out of this one. At least we managed to stop that fiend though. One last victory for us, before the end."

HGJ: "A meager consolation, I'm afraid. I'd prefer dying of old age and too much good living than dying a Hero's death. If I'm honest."

PGL: "How about dying side by side with a dear friend"

HGJ: "Now that, I can drink to."

Jago reaches into his breast pocket, revealing a monogrammed hip flask.

HGJ: "A little something I carry around in case of emergencies. May as well have a drop, I have a feeling I'll be going teetotal in the near future. What do you say to sharing one last drink, George?"

PGL: "It would be an honour, and a privilege, Henry. Everything has its time, unfortunately. Mortality is the curse, or the blessing of our universe, it seems."

HGJ: "Mortality, a blessing?"

PGL: "Circle of life, in a way. The old must give way to the new, if Darwin and his survival of the fittest is to be believed. Besides, what's the point in living forever if you can't stay young? I'm not the man I used to be after all. I'm old, I creak, I'm seized. Happens to us all, as entropy ticks onward. My best days are behind me. Maybe it's best to leave before I can witness my worst."

HGJ: "There's something about mortal peril that really makes one reminisce, isn't there?"

PGL: "We've been through so much together, it's true. You and I, not to mention Ellie, Quick, Miss Leela and the Doctor. I often think back to that foggy night, nearly 30 years ago now."

HGJ: "That night when we shared the cramped confines of a dumb waiter? When the brave and bold HGJ first crossed paths with the intelligent and irreplaceable Professor Litefoot? Our first case, defeating the despicable and depraved degenerate, Magnus Greel."

PGL: "The very night. It was the first of many adventures we'd come to share in, not to mention the dawning of the dearest friendship I've yet known. I often dwell on those moments, in the dead of night, and I bless my lucky stars that I met such a wonderful man as yourself to call a friend."

HGJ: "The honour is all mine. Befriending such a magnanimously magnificent man as your peerless self was a turning point in my life, no doubt. I cherish our investigations, but not as much as I cherish our friendship."

PGL: We sure had our moments, didn't we? The Mahogany Murderers... The Scorchies..."

HGJ: "Egyptian gods, malevolent monsters, corrupted Colonels... we've seen it all. But..."

PGL: "You wish we could have seen more, all the same?"

HGJ: "Is it selfish to think that? Despite  the sheer number of complex conundrums and exciting escapades we've ventured into, I feel we should have had more..."

PGL: "It's not selfish, it's human. Everybody has regrets at the end, because it's always the ending that is regretted. Bit we had our time, and we made the best use of it that we could. Every moment was lived to its fullest extent. Whether through joy or sorrow, we pushed on, saw the most amazing vistas, experienced the most wonderful events."

HGJ: "Not many people can claim to have stood on multiple worlds. Or travelled through time."

PGL: "In the end, we are what we leave behind. And you and I? We've left behind some amazing stories. We've saved Queen and Country countless times, we're leaving behind a future, Henry. The world can continue on without us, because of us. If you catch my meaning."

HGJ: "Well said, George. Well said. We are all just stories in the end. As the Bard said, life is but a stage, with us as mere characters. Vibrant yet hollow, eternal yet fleeting. While the play may end and the curtain must fall, each character lives on in the retelling, in the hearts of the audience. The only tangible effect a life has is how it impacts other people. You George, brought joy to those who knew you, fear to those who stood for evil and even your work brought a sort of relief to the relatives of the deceased."

PGL: "While you Jago, have brought untold mirth to London with your theatrical trade, as you would say."

HGJ:."Thanks George. Look! It's nearly time... I can feel the spikes pressing into my suit. There's only so long I can suck in my stomach for."

PGL: "Goodbye old friend! It's been..."

...

...

...

HGJ: "What's taking so long? We hadn't got all day you know!"

PGL: "You realize you're shouting at a wall..."

HGJ: "It's too darn slow. I can't handle this suspense."

E: "Sorry Mr. J! Be with you in a jiffy! This machine is harder than it looks.

HGJ&PGL: "Ellie?!"

Ellie: "Of course it's me! Sorry if you're disappointed, but the Inspector is busy dealing with the Tower Guards who tried to stop us entering. Cor, imagine how hard it must have been for him to operate within such a secure place..."

PGL: "How did you find us?"

Ellie: "Easy. Just followed you both from the Red Tavern. If you both survive, I hope it'll teach you to not invite me on your little adventures."

HGJ: "How much of our conversation did you overhear?"

Ellie: "Enough to know the gist. Y'know, it's fun to listen to mortals discuss death when you're technically a vampire."

TW Casefiles: Brand Loyalty (6)

By the time I'd come to my senses, or at least what I'd hoped were my own senses and not those of some alien hive mind, it was early evening. We had little more than 24 hours before the launch of Tech Specs, an event that had drawn international crowds into the city of Cork. Well-off gadget geeks and lovers of innovation were gathered to queue for the chance to get their hands on this latest piece of hardware. Nobody really knew what to expect from the technology which promised so much, but this mystery only added to the appeal. But even the most cynical of minds wouldn't have guessed the true purpose of the glasses: a delivery system for living plastic, and an instrument of mind control. Time was running out, and we knew whatever we decided to do, we'd have to act urgently.

"OK people, any ideas on how to proceed here?" I asked Dave and Ashley, as we paced around the Hub.

"If Devlin is working with the Nestene, then we need to confront him. No more traipsing around blindfolded." Dave said, forcefully.

"We have to delay the launch of the glasses first. No point blundering into a trap, getting captured or worse, all the while Devlin gains an army." Ash retorted.

"So we take him out before he has a chance to take control of everyone. End it before it begins!" exclaimed Dave.

I raised a hand to my temple as another pang of pain stung me. Dissension in the ranks would just add to my headache, so I stepped into the tiff.

"Settle down, both of you." I said, through gritted teeth. Suppressing my pain, I continued. "Whichever we prioritise, we still need a way into Devlin's base of operations. Which would be a tough enough ask in normal circumstances. Breaking into the very public headquarters of a tech giant on the day of a flagship product launch is nobody's idea of subtle."

"There must be something we can do though. Nothing's impossible. Not for us." Ash smiled a frankly infectious smile of dangerous optimism. Having someone like her by my side made me feel like anything could indeed happen.

"Actually, I do have a suggestion." Dave announced, turning towards the computer and opening a browser tab. "There's a gala event in the Metropole tomorrow morning, a sort of pre-launch party for journalists and 'figures of influence'. It'd get us close to Devlin, if nothing else."

"It's a start." I said, thoughtfully. "Good work Dave. We might even be able to confront him. Best way to take down villains like him is to give them enough rope. Use their own powers against them, if possible. At worst, we could just ask him politely to stop."

"If we could even find out exactly what he wants to use his brainwashed army for, it'd be something." Sue agreed. "Now, how do we get invited?"

I've always been a bit of a "given an inch" kind of guy, to be honest. Given a problem with multiple solutions, I'd struggle. But given the smallest start, any clue at all, and the way forward would just click. I had a talent for improvisation, at least, as long as I had a running start, so to speak.
"I already have an idea about that, actually." I said, taking over the keyboard. "It's an event for the press, so let's be press."

"It's still a fairly exclusive event. We can't pose for a major outlet as they'll all be there anyway, while 'Parish Tech News' won't get in the door." Dave warned.

"Parish Tech News?" asked Ash, smirking.

"Or whatever name Arven cones up with." Dave explained, sheepishly.

"Thankfully we don't have to rely on your naming conventions." I replied. "Dave's right. Most small outlets won't be invited, but a local, tech savvy man like Devlin? He's bound to have a soft spot when it comes to a request from his former Alma Mater's newspaper."

"That's your plan? Pretend to be from the UCC Express?" Ash asked, incredulously.

"Not at all. We ARE from the Express. Dave's going to have to write an article when we get back."

"Why me?" sighed Dave.

"It's your brainchild. Besides, even if he doesn't go for the local angle, Devlin won't underestimate the PR boost he'll get from young geeks and tech nerds."

After a bit of light forgery and mild fraud, we'd submitted our request to the office of Mr. Devlin. Surprisingly, we heard back within the hour. Even more surprising, he'd taken the bait. We had an in, and the game was on! All that was left now was waiting for the morning. We left the Hub together before going our separate ways for the night. Dave left first to head across town, while Ash and I lived in the same direction. We walked in silence, both of us lost in our own thoughts, trying to piece together the events of the day. Eventually, I broke the silence, asking:

"Ash, can I be trusted?"

She stopped and turned to me, looking concerned. She feigned ignorance, but I could see the truth in her eyes.
"What do you mean?" She asked, almost innocently.

"You know what I mean. The living plastic in my skull. What if Devlin is watching everything through my eyes? What if he controls me during the gala? What if he makes me hurt you, or Dave? Maybe I should just stay behind. Sit this one out, so I don't put anyone in jeopardy?" The questions and doubts that I'd been mulling over all evening came tumbling out all at once. All my fears burst forth, a deluge of doubts, that Ash weathered resolutely. When I paused for a much needed breath, she hushed me, held my shoulders and spoke tenderly.

"Arven. Don't worry. You're the one who introduced me to this life, to all of this. Even compromised, there's still nobody I'd rather have beside me when facing down extraterrestrial evildoers. And I promise you, if Devlin tries anything with you, I'll force him to relinquish control. I guarantee it."

I looked into her warm, determined eyes, and couldn't help but feel buoyed by her optimism, though even that sight was tinged by sadness. I didn't deserve to be friends with someone so stubbornly decent, much less share a relationship with her. She seemed so convinced of our heroism, I vowed there and then I would never let her down.
"Thanks Ash. I needed that. It's just, when something's gets into your mind, you start doubting yourself. You know?"

"Sweetie, I don't need alien brainwashing to know what that's like."  For a moment, her eyes drifted to the side, tinged with grief, before Ash returned to her usual self. "Now cone on, let's get home. Bit day tomorrow." Hand in hand, we continued onwards into the night.

TW Casefiles: Brand Loyalty (5)

The pain was almost unbearable, forcing me to my knees as my legs gave way under the strain. My fingers, bent into claws by muscle spasms, tore ineffectually at the sides of my head as I tried in desperation to remove the source of my agony. I felt it spread inwards, starting as a sharp piercing, burrowing sensation, before spreading out, tendril like, both across and deeper into my head. The pain travelled like spilled ink, pouring into the recesses of my brain, filling the gaps within my skull, dominating my every thought until my very consciousness was sidelined and I no longer thought. I was simply pain, nothing else. The last thing I remembered before passing out was Ash, reaching out towards the Tech Specs, trying to remove them from my face. The pain didn't stop as she pulled the glasses from away from me, then I was overwhelmed by my torment.

The next thing I remembered was softness. Touch was the first sense to return, and I felt myself suspended as if I were lying on a cotton cloud. Slowly, experimentally, I opened my eyes, half expecting to see a vision of pearly gates and angelic hosts. As my bleary eyes adjusted to to the light, my surroundings slowly swam into focus. I was lying on a bed, in what seemed like the medical examination room of the Hub. Across the room, two blurry figures were hunched over a computer screen in apparent concentration. I let out a feeble groan as I tried to sit upright. As I flumped unsuccessfully backwards, the two figures turned around sharply and rushed to my side.

"Ash. . . What.... Dave?" I uttered, semi coherently.

"Don't move." Ash replied, laced with concern. "We don't know what exactly happened yet, so you have to be careful."

"I'm just glad you're awake. You've been comatose for a good seven hours lad." Dave added.

"Don't worry about me." I said, with an unconvincing air of defiance. "I've felt worse after a night on the lash." I tried to sit up again but my determination was betrayed by my stiff and unresponsive limbs. Instead I flashed a smug grin, as if lying there was what I had intended all along. "Yep, a good fry and a black coffee. That's what I need."

"This is why you never win at poker." Ash murmured to herself, before explaining further. "We've taken a few scans of your head, along with a biopsy or two, and... well... there's no easy way of putting this..."

"Your head is filled with plastic." Dave added, bluntly. "Seems those specs injected you with a dose of malleable, fluid plastic. It's weird stuff, acts almost like it's alive."

"It's formed a latticework around your brain, but we don't know why, or what it means for you."

"And, there's no chance of removing it, I suppose?" I asked, hopefully.

"Well, yes and no." Dave replied. "We can't destroy the plastic without risking your brain... but the plastic is bio-degradable. Should dissolve in about three days."

"Assuming it hasn't killed you by then." Ash added, sternly. I could tell she blamed me for recklessly trying on the glasses, and herself for not stopping me. I thought of saying something, of explaining myself, but it wasn't the time. So I kept quiet, for now. Instead, I posed a question.

"So, have you run a check in the archives for living plastic?"

"Of course. We're not helpless without you." Ash responded. "Best and only concrete match is a race called the Autons. Living plastic soldiers, controlled via hive mind by a creature called a Nestene Consciousness. They've tried to invade Earth a few times, usually by taking control of plastic objects, devices and shop mannequins."

"There's no real evidence of them injecting people with plastic before, but it's not unreasonable to assume it's an attempt at mind control of some form." Dave added.

I thought about my situation for a moment before replying. Was it possible that the Nestene could control me via this lattice? If not, then what else was its purpose. And if it could, then would I be compelled to aid in its conquest? How could my friends trust me in the battle to come? How could I trust my own thoughts? Would I even know if my thoughts were not my own?

Unaware of my internal grief, Ash continued with her uncovered information.
"Last reported Auton incursion was only a few years ago. UNIT defeated a potential invasion threatening the UK. Something centred around a new tech start-up supplying 3D printers to offices around the UK, which began to mass produce plastic warriors."

"And guess the name of said company?" Dave continued, giddily. "DevlinTech."

"What, the same as our local Tech Specs guy?" I asked incredulously. "That's not a coincidence. Not possible."

"Exactly. Best guess, some part of the Nestene survived, and is trying again, here instead. Posing as an Irish tech genius." Ash added.

"And the specs, this plastic? It's to turn humanity into soldiers loyal to the Nestene." I finished, finally getting what my teammates had worked out while I'd be asleep. The Tech Specs were to launch in Cork in just 36 hours. We had a daunting task ahead, and little idea if how to proceed. And I was likely a saboteur controlled remotely by our enemy. So, business as usual, I suppose.

TW Casefiles: Brand Loyalty (4)

The air filtered throughout the autopsy examination room was chilly, and laced with the stale tang of recirculated air. Before me on the gurney lay the body of the murdered Weevil, looking almost peaceful cloaked in the veil of death. I pulled on a pair of rubber gloves with an echoing snap, the sound uncomfortably loud against the hushed silence that tends to follow corpses in repose. We were all new to the game back then and still retained a certain subconscious attitude towards death. Murder, autopsy, eventually all this would become second nature to us, we would grow to see corpses as part of the job. Like fleshy vessels of information, rather than ex living creatures. Frankly this sounds more callous than I intended. Merely, we had not yet grown accustomed to witnessing death, we had yet to lose our innocence, I suppose.

"I'm sorry about this." I whispered to the corpse, as I picked up one of the alien scanners Torchwood has repurposed into a medical tool. I ran it over the gunshot wound on the Weevil's chest, as the screen began to pulse and bleep. Interpreting the display, I realized that the bullet was still inside the wound. With a grimace and  a sigh, I picked up a surgical pliers and probed the chest hole gingerly, half trying to look away as I dug deeper into the mangled flesh. I tried to imagine myself playing a game of some kind, trying to distract from the disgusting nature of my actions. I was always a dab hand at Operation as a child. My attempts were foiled by my brain, which at this point was practically screaming:
"Oh Jesus! Your hand is in an alien. Literally inside. Was that a lung? Does it have lungs? Of course it does, it can breathe, and anyway, YOU ARE TOUCHING THE LUNG! You're poking around in a wound and there's bits of bone everywhere. You know, this has the consistency of raw mince..."

I raised the back of my gloved wrist to my mouth as I fought to control a gag reflex, which was mostly successful. Swallowing my failure (mostly figurative, partially literal) I returned to probing the gunshot wound. Eventually, I located a small metal object and managed to free it from its meat prison.

"Here's where it gets interesting." I mused aloud to myself. The bullet was a cube, not a pointed cylinder like you'd expect. Which was odd. Bullets are so shaped to help them pierce flesh, while allowing the rifling of a gun barrel to impart a spin for added stability on the trajectory. How does a cube make sense, I wondered? It's not aerodynamic, not efficient, and harder to aim. Yet, the severity of the wound suggested it had traveled faster than the typical speed of a bullet from such a rifle.

I continued examining the Weevil, but found nothing else of interest on the body. People have done all sorts of things with Weevils in the past. Torchwood records mention fight clubs, drug testing, freak-shows, even sex trafficking. (That last one was supposedly defanged. But it was added to the database by Jack. I still don't know if that makes it more likely to be a wind up or the truth). However, the body showed no signs of recent trauma, nor any form of tag or tracer. It seemed a perfectly ordinary specimen, who happened to forage in the wrong place at the wrong time. If anything about a Weevil can be said to be ordinary, of course.

Once I had finished in the autopsy room, and cleaned myself up, I returned to the central section of the Hub where Ash was busy running several searches on the computer bank. She looked up from her dual monitors as I entered, and prepared to make some wry comment. Before she could however, she must have seen something in my eyes, and instead a soft, warm expression blossomed on her face.

"How are you coping?" She asked, gently.

"About as well as I can, given what I've been doing. It's still hard to come to terms with some aspects of the job." I sighed, as I embraced her. After a tender moment, Ash pushed herself away to arms length lightly.

"You mean like squelching around in an alien's innards?"

"Hey, at least I didn't vomit. Mostly." I said with quickly deflating bravado.

"Well, next time you can do the tedious computer stuff, and I'll get my hands dirty." Ash replied.

"No, it's fine, really. I'll get used to it."

"Don't lie to me, Arven. Not again. We're here to support each other, so if you need to talk, I'm here. Always."

She gave me a quick kiss, before continuing.

"So what did you find out from the Weevil?"

"Not much. Except, she was killed by a bizarre cube shaped bullet."

I handed the (cleaned) bullet to her, and waited for her to examine it.

"Hmm." She pondered. "This makes sense. You see, I've been researching the modifications on the man's rifle. It's hard to be sure from only the visuals, but I think it was a rail-gun."

"A-ha!" I exclaimed. A rail-gun would explain the shape of the bullet, after all. Angled projectiles would better tear the flesh of a target, and rail-guns can fire any shape of ammunition depending on design. It's a device which uses intense magnetic fields to rapidly impart kinetic energy upon an object. The projectile is accelerated rapidly along rails by electromagnetic energy, creating a gun that doesn't use any kind of explosive charge. I knew that certain militaries were trialing such weapons for use on naval carriers, but I'd never heard of a handheld version. Except for the ones in our databases of course.

"If it is, then it's alien tech. That's not good." I said, concerned.

"At least only one of them was armed. Suggests they're operating on limited resources." Ash added.

"But why a Weevil? We know they were ordered to kill the alien, so they weren't there to steal the Tech Specs."

"Maybe, they're employed by DevlinTech? Keep the stock safe from intruders? I did think that the Tech Specs seemed a little too good to be true. What if they're powered by salvaged alien technology?"

I considered Ash's point for a while. It was certainly plausible. I reached into my pocket and withdrew a pair of the glasses I'd borrowed from the warehouse.

"Well, we could always find out." I said, smirking. Ash looked like she wasn't sure whether to slap me or kiss me. Instead she remained silent. I felt like she was silently willing me not to do something. But now I was curious.

"Let's see if they live up to the hype." I smiled, as I placed them on my face.

"Oh no." Ash said to herself. I gave a cry of pain, as a sharp ringing echoed inside my head, and I felt as if something was drilling into my brain via my ears.