Torchwood: Least Dangerous Game

Torchwood: Least Dangerous Game

A Tale from the Worlds of Torchwood

Starring Samuel Barnett and Kate Mulgrew

* * * 

 "Have you ever read the Short Story, The Most Dangerous Game?" Norton Folgate asked, disinterestedly. He threw the card into the pile.

Six of hearts. 

"No." She responded, doing the same. 

Three of spades. 

"Really? Well, you'd like it." he replied. "Very gutsy little story. Read it in my English class. It stuck with me." 

 Eight of clubs. 

"You see, it's all about this sort of fellow, Rainsford, and he goes to this island," He continued, "There's this madman there - a big Russian sort of chap, Zaroff. And our dashing hero is invited to his house for dinner."

King of hearts. 

"Zaroff, he's a hunter that has grown bored of hunting. He's killed wolves, and tigers, and lions, and hunted the dodo to extinction or something or other. No kind of game shows him any challenge. So he's got to hunt something that does. Restless man, you know what it's like." 

Ace of clubs. 

"He decides to hunt our dashing hero. The most dangerous game of all, is man. Long story short, Rainsford kills him, with guile and planning, and they live happily ever after. Except for Zaroff, of course. I like the story because when I was young, all of those heroes you'd read about in those mags at the popsicle stand- they were all so macho, and muscley, and venomous. Willing to kill at a moments notice. Dangerous on the outside, but... tut, tut, tut, if they only ever met someone clever like our dashing hero -"

Two of diamonds. 

The woman laughed. "You're really expecting me to believe you're the dashing hero? You're Rainsford?" 

"Wits and guile will triumph blade and bullet, every time." Norton winked. 

She still laughed. She was going to kill him soon.

"To the most dangerous game then." She said, raising a glass. 

"To the most dangerous game..." Norton agreed. 

He passed her the cards. 

My Ordeal With Norton Folgate began with a series of coincidences. We in the most deadly businesses - yes, those businesses - those rare few with hands in everything in the shadows of these cities that is offhanded and criminal - We are informed quite regularly to not trust coincidences. If there are too many coincidences in your life, one should remove them. Violently, if necessary. An operative these days is to put effort in making sure no such coincidences persist. They're naughty things, coincidences. They try and convince you that they're real. 

My Name is Frances Harper. I've got a bottle at my hip, and a holster on the other. Beyond that, I have no care for stereotypes. 

Soho is a seedy place these days, one I am not immediately in the habit of visiting. It is a land of entertainment, a thing I have little care for (I am most always entertained by my work) and sex, a thing that I find rather revulsive. Murder is far more enjoyable, and usually less messy. If one wishes to be professional about it, of course. I will admit there is some raw primal nature in murder that perhaps is analogous to sex, and at times, I do enjoy the visceral part of killing... but I digress. Murder is much less sticky, and so it is preferable. 

So, as you may perhaps be able to tell from my longwinded tangents - oh, if I have one talent outside my work, it is no doubt my inability to get to the point - I have no love lost for Soho, London. It is a decrepit yet flamboyant place that I cannot as easily conceal myself in as I can elsewhere, for I am neither decrepit or flamboyant. Thus, it was, shall we say, inevitable that I would come to Soho for work. I was instructed as such by my invisible commanders. I have never met them, and I am quite pleased I haven't. 

One never gets along with co-workers in this job. 

 The light on the street is dull, and yellowed, the lamps light overlapping into that famed London fog...colored by both the light of the lamps and the multitude of unsubtle neon signs promoting various activities of inestimable nature. This is not my scene - immediately, a middle-aged woman in a trenchcoat draws the attention of passersby - a young lad wolf-whistles, and propositions me: "Oi, Grandma!!" I dare not say more of what he said. It would be inappropriate. He will die later, if I have the free time. I hope I do. 

I was under the impression at the time that Norton Folgate was an ordinary man - he looks rather squeamish, like a hairless mouse - and I had presumed he was an accountant. I kill a lot of accountants. I did know where he frequented, so I was not directionless on the Soho streets. Nonetheless, I was not looking forward to it. 

The venue was drab - it must be, for Norton's tastes are currently considered criminal by the government. I have no issue with men sleeping with men. I am, however, repulsed by the smell and condition of the establishment - I suppose these secretive off the record clubs cannot hire cleaners. I can hear the target yelling obscenities of pleasure from the following room. He is doubtless in the middle of the act. I shall wait outside. I do not want to stay here and I am here to kill him, not ruin his evening. 

* * * 

I now have taken the gun out of my purse. I adore guns. The simplicity of them, pure function personified. Perhaps an ancient man would view them as magical as I do - a little notch is all that prevents a trigger from being pulled, the ending of a life - majesty distilled. There is a special brand silencer that a superior of mine has developed. The gun fires completely silently, unlike every other silencer that has ever been devised...it is perhaps a sign of the existence of a God. 

Norton Folgate has exited the building. 

The coincidences are about to start. 

There is a rotund man down the road that is named the Vicar. He is not a Vicar, and He has no other name, as far as I am aware. His pelt would make a nice rug - he has so much flesh for it too. 

Norton speaks with him, for but a moment, and turns, walking off down the street - perhaps to his apartment. Getting Norton alone would be a coup. 

As I approach silently, alarm bells toll in the distance. A Roar like the hammer of a 38 to the back of my skull. 

And then there's a stampede.

* * *

Queen of Diamonds. 

Norton grins smugly. He's enjoying this a little too much. "Do you have any real clue how to play cards, Femme Fatale?" He asks. 

King of Spades.

He was constructing a little castle of cards. She kicked it over. He made a gasp of pretend astonishment. "Oh, how dare you!" 

"I don't play games with my victims." She replies. "I prefer to be efficient."

"Oh, poppycock, darling!" Norton gestures broadly. "If you weren't at the very least interested in who I am, what I do - we wouldn't be here hiding in my boudoir! It's not efficiency you want at the moment, it's company. Company with a stranger. I'd say it would be almost romantic if you weren't all..." He gestured effetely. "...lady bits." He finished, unsure of what to say for a moment.

She didn't say anything in reply.

"You know, you sociopaths are all the same." He smirked. "No matter what, you want attention." 

"What I want is for the animal stampede outside to stop so I can kill you." 

"Promises, Promises!" He laughed. "Come on. What's your name?" 

"Frances Harper." She said, not missing a beat.

"Ooh, no hesitation. Is that your real name, Madame Harper?" He mocked. 

"Not my given one. But I think everyone should choose their name. A name is the reflection of oneself. It's personal. Being given it random based on what mummy and daddy want from you never really fit for me. Do you have a cigar?"

Norton passed her one. "I can't stand them personally, but my gentlemen friends love them." He added. 

She lit it. The light gleamed off her face, illuminating the dim room. Norton gagged a bit. 

"So, achem, if the name is the personal reflection of the self, then what does Frances Harper mean? All jagged edges? Hard consonants?" He chuckled. 

"It's more accurate than your name." She laughed. "Norton Folgate? I mean, are you kidding me? That's a street."

Norton's tone dropped a bit. She had it a chord. Interesting. She didn't think the man had depth to him. 

"I was left on the street when I was young. Left on a street. The Nurses that found me didn't know my name, so they marked Norton Folgate on the form. It stuck." He said. "I found my parents later in life. Turns out that they didn't give me a name to begin with, before dumping me. I have a brother, you know. His name is Gerald, he works in Parliament." He smiled, sadly. "You know how it is."

"I do," she said softly, gazing out the window at the animals rioting in the streets below. 

They sat in silence for a moment - snow beginning to sprinkle down onto the street outside. 

* * *

Questions fall with the snow. It's been hours - maybe two I've been in here with the ballerina. What's been causing this? The stampede of animals on the street below keeps running - we'd only barely gotten in here with our lives. Stuck here. Alone. It's not a good look. Who is this Norton sap? He's not the accountant I thought he was, simply by his manner. Maybe he's in Theater. . A performance could have rubbed a mob guy the wrong way. Hell, HE could have rubbed a mob guy  the wrong way, based off the fact he still smells like sex and beer. I wanted this evening to be quick and short, and then I could spend it relaxing with my hip flask. The animals are still running, most amount of them I've ever seen. I'm not even convinced they're all even from the Zoo anymore. Questions fall with the snow, and although the night's only half gone I'm sorry I've asked them. 

* * *

"It's odd. Animals all break free of the London Zoo at the same time, and stampede all the way down to Soho - how far is that?" 

"Around half an hour.. even by cab. Mm." Norton paused.

"Something's wrong." Frances said.

"Perhaps something Torchwood." He stood up. 

She reached into her pocket and took out the gun. She levied it towards him. "What's Torchwood?" She hissed. 

"Ooh. Bugger." Norton spat. 

* * *

The Animals ran, never stopping through the streets. Against all odds, always more, always moving, a gelatanous blob of feral strength, Racing. I felt it in my bones - felt the earth shake with every tremble of their feet against the London cobble. I don't like this. I want to be able to explain this. 

Shooting Squeamish Accountants is part of the job. Shooting Norton Folgate is part of the job. But he knows what's going on, or at least is a damn good liar. Well, he is. He's the smartest foppish idiot I've met in the job yet, and I do look forward to the bullet going through his skull.

Contrary to popular belief, I always prefer getting to know the target. My peers tend to believe that this leads to compassion, to a willingness to spare the enemy. They reveal themselves as weaker-willed by doing so. 

I'll find out what Norton Folgate knows, and then I'll crack the sap's head onto the pavement. 

A Large Feral Cat rushes me. I introduce it to a friend who's close to my heart. Just a little to the left, to be specific. Investing in an ammo belt was one of my best moves. I thank past me as I pump the wildcat filled with lead. 

The street was chaotic. Norton had somehow managed it to the other end, unscathed. I'm pretty sure the few bruises on him were from his lover. 

"Coeeeee!!" He calls. God, he's obnoxious. I run after him, reaching the other side of the road. The Animals mostly avoid me after I shoot a few more down. 

"Golly, Don't tell the Zoo you did that." Norton jokes. 

"We both know wherever these animals are coming from, it's not a Zoo." I scowl. 

He nods, and leads me to the door on the opposite end of the street. Why, I wonder? 

"After you," he mocks. 

I oblige. I'm wearing a hidden jacket of mesh on my backside anyway. 

No one's going to stab me in the back.

I learned that when I was young. 

* * *

"You know the most dangerous game, Frances Harper?" Norton asked from behind her as they walked down the dimly lit hallway into this …strange building. 

"The Most Dangerous Game is Man," She said. "You told me." 

"The Most Dangerous Game is Zaroff and Rainsford. Not one of them. Zaroff isn't dumb. He's smart. He's smart enough to realize that the most dangerous game he can possibly hope to catch is someone as smart as he is with enough time to plan. But together, together Zaroff and Rainsford would be enough force to catch anyone else who ever came onto that island. They could destroy eachother - and yes, they would destroy eachother - or they can come together and accomplish something more."

"Zaroff is a psychopath. They can't ever work with anyone." Frances laughed. 

"Rainsford may be a dashing hero, but he's not innocent. It takes a special man to kill someone and sleep softly in their bed without a care." Norton replied. "If ever the twain should meet-" 

"What are you trying to ask me?" 

He flicked a switch on the wall, and the room was illuminated. "Welcome to Torchwood." The room was white, and sleek. Guns hung on the wall. Enormous. Hidden inside a fake little façade of a building was a cavern - electric lights hung down from the ceiling - electric lights! It was astonishing. 

"You're a Government Agent."

"Outside the Government. Look out the window, will you?" She cautiously approached it. Outside she saw the animals running, and Norton reached out and flicked a switch. 

They stopped. 

"Holograms, if you want the scientific word for it," Norton remarked. "Not that it will mean much to you, mind." 

"I always taught myself to not trust coincidences. You wanted me in that room. You wanted to talk to me." Frances narrowed her eyes. “And you… you caused the biggest diversion you could to do so.”

"Right on! Of course I did!" Norton snorted. "Card Games with an Assassin - best job interview EVER!" 

"Job interview?"

"Well, I assume you want the job? It's not like anyone turns it down. Torchwood is outside the government, beyond the police," he said excitedly, "we protect the earth on the behalf of the human race. You are exactly what I need by my side, Frances Harper. You're my Zaroff. Psychopathic Hunter, yes, but familiar to me, and not dumb either." Norton was practically jumping up and down. "So what do you say?" 

* * *

I watch the idiot as he bounds up and down. I smile, politely. And I nod, as he starts cheering, and he boings up and down like a children's toy bought from a cheap pushcart. I reach into my trenchcoat - smiling. Friendly. "Oh, yes." I say. "How could I turn you down? This is simply wonderful - it's exactly what I'd hoped for..."  And Norton squeals happily, just a bit. He reaches out to hug me, and I accept. He leans in, nice and close.

My hand's still in my trenchcoat. And I fire the gun hidden within it. 

He keels. 

And now I'm really smiling. Genuinely. It's the best thing in the world - seeing him shattered like that. His pretty little red Blood pouring onto the floor and leaking into the grates. 

"Thank you," I whisper.

No way I was going to betray everything I earned for him.  

And I turn to leave. 

And I'm still smiling. 

Goodbye, Norton Folgate. 

And I place the Ace of Spades onto his Chest before I go. 

* * *

Rigsby is sitting at a bar. He sips a beer morosely. 

It's not been a good evening for him.

He's in mourning. Most days he’s in Mourning for some reason or another, but tonight, more so. 

Life can be hard as an agent of Torchwood. 

He signals the barkeep for another round. 

He obliges, but says that he'll be cutting him off shortly. This isn’t the sort of establishment Rigsby usually features in. He usually doesn’t drink himself dead anywhere, especially not a place as grim as this. He places the glass down. 

A man walks into the bar, and he sits down next to him. 

"How'd it go?" Rigsby asks, gruffly. 

Norton replies. "Oh, exceedingly well." He squeezes a bit of blood out of his suitcoat. 

"I take it we have a new recruit then."

"Oh, no. Absolutely not." Norton smirks. "But I'm alive."

"Well, that's at moderately disappointing, but I suppose I'll learn to live with it," He chides him. 

"No, don't you see?" Norton laughs. "I'm alive." 

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"The best assassin in the world had a gun straight at me. I was hugging her." 

"Ooh, you rascal." Rigsby muttered. 

"Yeah. Gun straight at me, right? Best assassin in the world?" He smirks. "She misses." 

"Oh." Rigsby said, realizing. 

"Oh."

"She likes me." 

* * *

I finger the deck of cards as I roll down the street in a stolen Sedan. It's a nice car, and I like nice things, so it's been a successful evening. I still have the pack of cigarettes Norton handed me at the apartment. I place one in my mouth and light it, as I drive on to my next target in London. 

To the Most Dangerous Game, Mr. Folgate. 

To The Most Dangerous Game. 

This Story (Hypothetically) Starred

Kate Mulgrew as Frances Harper

Samuel Barnett as Norton Folgate

and Featuring 

Liam Hourican as Rigsby