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crack_van2011-10-22 02:57 pm
beatrice_otter) wrote in crack_van2011-10-22 02:57 pm
Entry tags:
Ground Rules by JJPOR
Fandom: DOCTOR WHO, TORCHWOOD
Pairing: The Brigadier
Length: 3554 words
Author on LJ:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jjpor, jjpor
Author Website: Teaspoon, fanfic tag
Why this must be read:
“The Doctor?” The Brigadier thought about that for a moment. “He’s the Queen’s sworn enemy as well?”
In a fictional universe as long-running and large as the Whoniverse, it's inevitable that there will be continuity issues. Torchwood's very existence caused one, because its existence begged the question: if there has been a secret-and-powerful alien-fighting organization since 1879 whose primary mandate is capturing the Doctor, what the heck is the Doctor doing running around with UNIT in the 1970's and 80's as a scientific consultant? Either Torchwood didn't know about the Third Doctor's time marooned on Earth (in the UK) with UNIT, or something prevented them from carrying out their mandate. JJPOR answers that with this wonderful short fic.
Of course it was the Brigadier, being a BAMF as always and pwning Torchwood.
The well-dressed man crossed to a bench while the man in the windcheater stopped for a moment to look at the ducks. He took a half-eaten sandwich out of his pocket and started to break bits off it; the ducks gathered round. The well-dressed man scratched his ear, adjusting the flesh-coloured earphone that he wore.
“Greyhound Seven to Trap One,” came the clipped, military voice. “Greyhound Seven to Trap One. We have eyeball; repeat, we have eyeball. Grey Man sighted; E.T.A. in five minutes. Over.”
No doubt, they had their watchers and waiters around as well, and they would never spot them until it was too late; the well-dressed man glanced around, not really trying to spot them. It could have been the Italian-looking man selling ice-creams from a barrow further down the path, or the three young punks with the ripped denim and the spike hair walking past, or the tweedy, bespectacled lady with the bicycle who gave them a disapproving glance. It probably wasn’t any of the boys on their school holidays, kicking a decrepit football around the grass and pretending to be Kevin Keegan or Dennis Law. The voice crackled in his ear again:
“Greyhound Seven to Trap One; prepare for action; Grey Man is inbound; repeat, Grey Man is inbound. E.T.A. three minutes. Over.”
“Wilco, Greyhound Seven,” he acknowledged. “Trap One to all Greyhounds; code word is Curtain Call. Repeat, Curtain Call.” He knew that theynwould all be springing into readiness, even if they gave no outward sign of doing so. The young long-haired man simply seemed to get himself a firmer, more intimate, grip on the girl in his arms; she didn’t seem to mind. How they’d laugh and rib each over that in the mess tonight. The man in the windcheater dropped the remains of the sandwich in the pond; the ducks started splashing as they fought over it; he partially unzipped his jacket and looked casually up and down the path. The snipers were no doubt working the bolts on their rifles, fingers sliding dangerously close to triggers as they surveyed the scene:
“Greyhound Seven to Trap One; Gray Man is Onstage. Repeat, Onstage.” A car pulled up to the green-painted park gates, a dark blue Jaguar, gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight. The man on the bench watched the back nearside door open as he slipped out the earphone and dropped the wire into his briefcase; he stood and walked briskly but casually towards the car.
“Good luck, sir,” whispered the man in the windcheater as he walked past him.
The man who had emerged from the vehicle passed him halfway; a slim young man in a navy blue suit and polka-dot tie. They glanced at each other as they passed, and he continued to track the other man over his shoulder as they parted. The young man went to sit on the bench he had just vacated, as agreed, and the windcheater man sat down beside him, smiling and saying something as he did so. He was unzipping the front of his jacket a little further; he was showing the young man his gun and telling him not to try any funny business.
He climbed into the backseat of the Jag and pulled the door shut. The man already sitting there immediately pulled a gun on him and pulled open the front of his coat and suit jacket, patting him down. That was only to be expected.
“Now, keep your hands where I can see them,” the gunman ordered.
“Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart,” said the grey-haired man in the front passenger seat as the driver took off around the block. He turned around in the seat to look at his guest: “I think I’m supposed to say something like “at last, we meet again!” or something of the kind, but I don’t think we have ever met, have we?”
“We’ve moved in the same circles,” the Brigadier replied. “Mr. Starke, I presume?”
“Today I am, anyway. Who knows what they’ll be calling me tomorrow?” Starke smiled as if they were old friends; his accent was the sort of smooth, cultured drawl that they only beat into you at the better public schools; nobody was born talking like that. He was of indeterminate age, despite the grey hair; his eyes were like daggers, despite the smile.
“Is this really necessary?” Lethbridge-Stewart indicated the hard-faced young man holding the gun on him. Starke’s smile widened:
“A question I often ask myself, Brigadier. Why can’t we all just get along? If you have something you need to discuss with me, why can’t you just call my secretary and make an appointment? Then, we could discuss this in my club like civilised men, over a brandy and a fine cigar, instead of playing at secret agents in a London park. I often ask myself this, Brigadier; unfortunately the world isn’t like that, is it?”
“Unfortunately not.” He glanced at the gun pointing his way, unimpressed. “Still, it would be nice if he could put it away.”
“Do as the Brigadier asks, Norris,” Starke instructed the young man, with a smirk. “It appears that you’re making him nervous.”
“Oh, not at all, old chap,” the Brigadier replied. “I just thought his arm would get a bit tired eventually. That’s all.” Norris, if that was his name, reluctantly stowed the pistol away inside his jacket.
Ground Rules
Pairing: The Brigadier
Length: 3554 words
Author on LJ:
jjpor, jjporAuthor Website: Teaspoon, fanfic tag
Why this must be read:
“The Doctor?” The Brigadier thought about that for a moment. “He’s the Queen’s sworn enemy as well?”
In a fictional universe as long-running and large as the Whoniverse, it's inevitable that there will be continuity issues. Torchwood's very existence caused one, because its existence begged the question: if there has been a secret-and-powerful alien-fighting organization since 1879 whose primary mandate is capturing the Doctor, what the heck is the Doctor doing running around with UNIT in the 1970's and 80's as a scientific consultant? Either Torchwood didn't know about the Third Doctor's time marooned on Earth (in the UK) with UNIT, or something prevented them from carrying out their mandate. JJPOR answers that with this wonderful short fic.
Of course it was the Brigadier, being a BAMF as always and pwning Torchwood.
The well-dressed man crossed to a bench while the man in the windcheater stopped for a moment to look at the ducks. He took a half-eaten sandwich out of his pocket and started to break bits off it; the ducks gathered round. The well-dressed man scratched his ear, adjusting the flesh-coloured earphone that he wore.
“Greyhound Seven to Trap One,” came the clipped, military voice. “Greyhound Seven to Trap One. We have eyeball; repeat, we have eyeball. Grey Man sighted; E.T.A. in five minutes. Over.”
No doubt, they had their watchers and waiters around as well, and they would never spot them until it was too late; the well-dressed man glanced around, not really trying to spot them. It could have been the Italian-looking man selling ice-creams from a barrow further down the path, or the three young punks with the ripped denim and the spike hair walking past, or the tweedy, bespectacled lady with the bicycle who gave them a disapproving glance. It probably wasn’t any of the boys on their school holidays, kicking a decrepit football around the grass and pretending to be Kevin Keegan or Dennis Law. The voice crackled in his ear again:
“Greyhound Seven to Trap One; prepare for action; Grey Man is inbound; repeat, Grey Man is inbound. E.T.A. three minutes. Over.”
“Wilco, Greyhound Seven,” he acknowledged. “Trap One to all Greyhounds; code word is Curtain Call. Repeat, Curtain Call.” He knew that theynwould all be springing into readiness, even if they gave no outward sign of doing so. The young long-haired man simply seemed to get himself a firmer, more intimate, grip on the girl in his arms; she didn’t seem to mind. How they’d laugh and rib each over that in the mess tonight. The man in the windcheater dropped the remains of the sandwich in the pond; the ducks started splashing as they fought over it; he partially unzipped his jacket and looked casually up and down the path. The snipers were no doubt working the bolts on their rifles, fingers sliding dangerously close to triggers as they surveyed the scene:
“Greyhound Seven to Trap One; Gray Man is Onstage. Repeat, Onstage.” A car pulled up to the green-painted park gates, a dark blue Jaguar, gleaming brilliantly in the sunlight. The man on the bench watched the back nearside door open as he slipped out the earphone and dropped the wire into his briefcase; he stood and walked briskly but casually towards the car.
“Good luck, sir,” whispered the man in the windcheater as he walked past him.
The man who had emerged from the vehicle passed him halfway; a slim young man in a navy blue suit and polka-dot tie. They glanced at each other as they passed, and he continued to track the other man over his shoulder as they parted. The young man went to sit on the bench he had just vacated, as agreed, and the windcheater man sat down beside him, smiling and saying something as he did so. He was unzipping the front of his jacket a little further; he was showing the young man his gun and telling him not to try any funny business.
He climbed into the backseat of the Jag and pulled the door shut. The man already sitting there immediately pulled a gun on him and pulled open the front of his coat and suit jacket, patting him down. That was only to be expected.
“Now, keep your hands where I can see them,” the gunman ordered.
“Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart,” said the grey-haired man in the front passenger seat as the driver took off around the block. He turned around in the seat to look at his guest: “I think I’m supposed to say something like “at last, we meet again!” or something of the kind, but I don’t think we have ever met, have we?”
“We’ve moved in the same circles,” the Brigadier replied. “Mr. Starke, I presume?”
“Today I am, anyway. Who knows what they’ll be calling me tomorrow?” Starke smiled as if they were old friends; his accent was the sort of smooth, cultured drawl that they only beat into you at the better public schools; nobody was born talking like that. He was of indeterminate age, despite the grey hair; his eyes were like daggers, despite the smile.
“Is this really necessary?” Lethbridge-Stewart indicated the hard-faced young man holding the gun on him. Starke’s smile widened:
“A question I often ask myself, Brigadier. Why can’t we all just get along? If you have something you need to discuss with me, why can’t you just call my secretary and make an appointment? Then, we could discuss this in my club like civilised men, over a brandy and a fine cigar, instead of playing at secret agents in a London park. I often ask myself this, Brigadier; unfortunately the world isn’t like that, is it?”
“Unfortunately not.” He glanced at the gun pointing his way, unimpressed. “Still, it would be nice if he could put it away.”
“Do as the Brigadier asks, Norris,” Starke instructed the young man, with a smirk. “It appears that you’re making him nervous.”
“Oh, not at all, old chap,” the Brigadier replied. “I just thought his arm would get a bit tired eventually. That’s all.” Norris, if that was his name, reluctantly stowed the pistol away inside his jacket.
Ground Rules