Torchwood: The Hard Call

  

Torchwood Darker Days: The Hard Call

* * *

2008

"Alright. So you're going to love this." He said, grin like a madman. Or at least like one's impression of a madman.

The Prime Minister rolled his eyes. Madmen weren't so obvious. He would know. 

"The new plan, Mister Prime Minister - isn't that funny, that rhymes, doesn't it? Mister Prime Minister - have you ever tried saying Mister Prime Minister five times fast?"

The Prime Minister, in fact, had not. 

"Come on. Say it with me." 

Should he placate him? He decided to, for now. Because it was funny. Just a little funny. Not funny ha-ha, he wasn't going to roll over laughing, but it was funny enough, so he said it with him. Just to make him happy. Politics was about making people just happy enough like that. And stabbing people in the back too, but that was beside the point. 

The Prime Minister was subtly annoyed. Not least because he wasn’t a very popular Prime Minister. A little small man who was running things for a short time because Harold Saxon had suddenly left office. He was a footnote, and he knew it. And wasn’t that disappointing? He thought it was. He liked the job. He wanted this sort of career forever and ever. Hopefully he could win the next election cycle. And the man in front of him was being incredibly annoying, so he promised himself to give him five more minutes before he shooed the bugger out. Maybe less. But the man in front of him - Todd, he thought he was called, well, he went on. 

"Well. Achem. Well, yes, the plan is that we have an abnormal amount of plastic in the earth's oceans currently. It's gotten into our food supply, you know, the microplastic. It's everywhere. Everyone who eats anything has a little bit of it in them - the fish who eat the plastic get eaten by bigger fish who get killed by hunters, but if they don't get killed by hunters, they'll probably get killed by something else that gets killed by hunters and then it's all everywhere, you see. And it's rubbish. It's bullshit. It's in our soil. It's in our hamburgers. Someday, soon, honestly, really soon, there will be so much of it that our very food itself will become irreparably harmful. It's in every single bit of the planet, it's bullshit. Say it with me, Mister Prime Minister. Say that it's bullshit." 

'Mister' Prime Minister had had about enough at this point. Politics was about making people happy, not environmentalists. He didn't give a fuck about environmentalists. So he huffed a bit, and his finger hovered over the button to dismiss the man that was hidden under his desk. He didn't click it yet though, because then the man said something that was actually rather interesting. 

"What if we could get rid of all of it? For free? Just, no more plastic. Suddenly, just like that. Bam. No more fish in the ocean being killed by those fucking six pack beer plastic things that you see in stores that I'm not even sure of the name of. All free. Yeah! I know, it sounds completely utterly mad, you're probably looking at me right now, all like, 'Todd, what the hell are you smoking, it's probably some of the good shit,' but no, I am not, um, high right now, I am high on possibility. It's true, you see. Do you get it? It's true. Let me show you." Todd laughed on.

And his skin turned purple. Bright Purple, fluorescent, like an alien on Star Trek. Except it was proper, see. The Prime Minister knew it was real immediately. In all the CGI, and makeup, and all of that sort of stuff, those aliens you see on TV, they are smooth and glossy, and they look fake. This man's face - this man's new face - was littered with the tiny imperfections and dimples of a real person. When he spoke, the creases moved naturally and everything, it was uncanny because of how not uncanny it was. He had no doubt that he was face to face with someone from another world.

"You see, I'm, um, I'm the Messenger. I come from an alien species called the Koriflae Imperium. I've taken control of this man, to um, speak with you. Because, well, we can't really breathe on your planet. So sorry about that. I hope this isn't impersonal. And this is the deal, this is the, um, deal, I'm offering you. The Government kills a man." He said. 

The Prime Minister glowered at him. "Are you having me on?"

"Okay, yes, I know it sounds bad, but it's not an innocent man, no, he's not a very good man, and, well, then, you see, the deal is that we take all of your plastic - your issue with the plastic is that it can't be incinerated, you just get tinier plastic, well, we take all the plastic out of it all with a precise energy beam. No more microplastic in the soil. We just want you, to just, kill someone. That's all. Just for us. Someone who was very naughty. Someone who deserves it. And someone, who, well, quite frankly, doesn't matter." He paused. “So. Come On Then. What Are You Gonna Do?”

"Torchwood. Yes. Well. We need Torchwood." The Prime Minister admitted. 

"To kill this person?" His Cabinet Secretary asked. 

"Well, I don't bloody know," The Prime Minister snapped. "To - To find out about the Koriflae Imperium! To do what's right!" He growled, his voice ragged and tired with age. He hadn't killed anyone since the war. He wasn't going to do it himself again. Getting a position in politics meant you got to delegate.

"And if, well, Torchwood decides that this random man has to die, for the betterment of mankind, then what do we do?" 

The Minister thought for a moment. "Well, we disavow them of course." He huffed. 

"And how can we look the public in the eye again after this?" She asked. He could tell that she was concerned. Golly, she was green to this. 

"We'll just have to fucking cover it up then, I don't know! It's for the greater good of everyone else on this planet, isn't it?! Like, what choice do we have?!"

"You don't really think that aliens are just going to fix climate change out of nowhere over the death of one man, do you? None of this makes sense. Why would they do that?" 

The Prime Minister admitted he didn't know. I mean, that was the thing, right? Wasn't it? That he didn't know. He didn't know if the aliens could even do what they were promising. He sighed. He was so tired. He rubbed his temples, and swore again before pouring himself another drink out of the bottle. It burnt his sore throat. His Secretary asked meekly if she could have a quick sip too. He passed her the bottle. 

She sighed. "Look, I - I don't know. It's like one of those morality games or something. I'm, I'm just suspicious."

"Well, what would you do?" The Minister asked. "Seriously. Imagine the Government's yours for a moment. What do you do?"

She sighed. "Probably kill the man and feel very bad afterwards." 

The Prime Minister nodded. "The saddest part is we have to pretend it's a difficult decision."

* * *

"His name is Henry Morrison, and he's 37." Jack said, placing his picture on the whiteboard in the briefing room. "He works in a Department Store in Bristol." He paused, even losing composure slightly for a moment. "He's got a wife and two kids." 

There was a murmuring of horror around the table.

"Jesus," grumbled Owen. "And it's our job to decide whether to off the bugger?" 

Jack remained stoic. "It's our job to exhaust every other possibility." 

"They can't really expect us to do this," Tosh muttered. "They really can't." 

"Torchwood gets these jobs from time to time, jobs that no one else wants. Jobs that no one else can do. You all signed up for this." Jack said with authority. "And it's better that it's us than someone else." 

Gwen sat there, still. "I want to meet him." 

"You want to make this harder?" Owen hissed. 

"I want to meet him." She repeated. "We need to know if he's really that bad. I want to meet him."

"I get it, I get it, you want to meet him!" Owen rolled his eyes and slumped back into his chair. Sometimes he didn't understand Gwen Cooper. The woman had a heart to her, and she worked at Torchwood. It was like a paradox or something. 

"Seriously, Jack. I want this assignment. This is just, this is just, he's a man, Jack! An ordinary man, and if - if it's up to us to judge him, then, well, I want to do it fairly!" 

Jack sighed. He didn't know what to say, and that was something that was rare, because he loved to talk, loved to remove tension with a raised eyebrow and a flirtation or a joke, but something about today was hard. And he wasn't sure whether to put it on Gwen. Whether she wanted to do it to prove herself, or because she wanted in her own way to keep us right, or for a different reason. Whether she wanted to do it at all, but there was a silent determination in her. But she was looking at him, and she was pleading, for some reason, always the defender of the little guy, and although it probably wasn't going to be good for her, he couldn't help but realize that he wasn't going to say no. "You can make the hard call?" He asked. "You want this?" 

"Yes." She said. "I can make the hard call." 

* * *

Henry Morrison was getting milk. That's the thing about life, every once in a while you have to get milk. The pantry is full, you have everything you should probably need to make something or other, even those breadcrumbs that the store never stocks for some reason and you're getting ready to start cooking, and whoops! No Milk. It slips the mind. He felt a little embarrassed for some reason, going to the store and only getting Milk, walking up to the register with just some milk. Like you're saying, "look at me, I'm the fuck-up that keeps forgetting Milk!" I mean, the people definitely didn't care and he should just tell himself that, and the nice blonde at the register probably didn't even, well, register, the fact that it was just milk he'd forgotten the last time. The most important thing. 

In this sense of mental confusion, he had decided to take a few other things off the shelf, so it looked like he wasn't just buying milk, but he wasn't sure what to get, so he just took a few things up to the counter, which he grabbed without really looking and happened to be feminine hygiene products. Which he didn't notice until the front register. 

The awkwardness nearly killed him. 

The Blonde Girl didn't raise an eyebrow. 

Perhaps that made it worse.

Grabbing a shopping bag from the register, and walking out into the parking lot with the milk and five boxes of tampons, he swore to himself as he nearly tripped on the curb walking out of the building. 

Mission Success. He fumbled for his flip-phone and wrenched it out of his pocket, tapping numbers frantically. "Hey, lovie!" He said into the receiver. "I got the milk." 

Funny. They weren't picking up. He strolled back to the car, making a vow to never come to this store again. 

* * *

Henry Morrison unlocked the door to his apartment. Or he tried to for five whole minutes to get the key in with one hand while carrying the...groceries. 

He stepped into the house, and got down on the couch, collapsing on it. He felt like trash. Damn it, he probably was. Couldn't he just do the normal things like getting the groceries without making a fool of himself? He went over to the stove to start cooking, but he had sort of started the whole thing earlier but without the milk so now the nice macaroni with the breadcrumbs was stale and harder than before. He attempted to remedy this by messing with the boiling water, which was now at a low simmer, and  honestly he didn't know what he had done wrong, he had done everything according to the little bit on the box, but no, he'd absolutely bashed it. 

He called for Mary, but she wasn't there. Probably asleep in the back room. 

The kids definitely weren't awake, it was past their bedtime, so here he was, alone, trying to cook. He hoped the little ones had at least something for dinner, they deserved that, at least. If only he wasn’t such a damn screw up. 

The room was cold, and he was tired, and the macaroni was shit. 

Another Tuesday.

* * *

Work was a thing, that well, in Henry’s opinion, was a bit mad. I mean, technically it felt strange to him that you had to work for the privilege to survive, and yet sometimes the work wasn’t enough to survive. It was a good job though. Lots of advancement opportunities, and the like. He didn’t love the job - the company always said that if you love your job it won’t feel like work and so you should do that, but he wasn’t sure if that was propaganda or not, if he was the only person in the world who didn’t love things when he was ordered to. 

He was what the company called “a valued worker,” but he didn’t feel valued. But he liked the place. 

No, he didn’t love it, we went over that, but he liked it. The people were friendly enough. People gave him space to turn in his assignments at the right time. He, well, he liked it well enough to do well. He tried his best to do well. Because you had to, didn’t you? 

This morning, there was a woman at his desk. Dulled pink sweater, it was, perhaps even white at one point and accidentally was put in with the reds in the wash. 

She was talking enthusiastically to Cheryl from Accounting. He had never learned her last name. She was just Cheryl from Accounting. He wondered if he was just Henry from Accounting to her too. I mean, they sat next to each other every day. He dismissed it, paying attention to the pink woman. She had really dark hair, black, and long, and it was pretty, but also kind of ragged. He didn’t know what to say to her. 

“Desk,” He said, like an idiot.

“I’m sorry?” 

“Oh. I, mean, you’re, well, at my desk.” He said. “It’s my desk,” He said again, clarifying. “Not that you can’t have it if you like, I mean, there are plenty of desks and I’m not necessarily bonded to any of them with my life and blood, but, well, currently, it is my desk.”

“Oh. Yes. Well, you may have your desk.” The woman said amiably, adjusting her glasses, and getting up. “Sorry. I’m new.” 

“Nice to, um, meet you.” Shit. Um. God, why could he only talk about desks? Get a grip.

“Gwen. Gwen Cooper.” She said, extending her hand. 

He took it, with some hesitancy. Not because she wasn’t nice, but because he didn’t like shaking hands.

“Nice to meet you, Gwen.” He said. “Thanks for the desk,” He added, mentally cursing himself. 

“Nice to meet you too, Mister…” 

“Menry Horrison. AH! Henry Morrison.” He should really take one of those “people” classes. Learn how to stop being so incompetent. But she took it in stride, and even giggled a little. “Nice to meet you, Mister Morrison.” 

“Call me Henry,” he said. “Everyone, is, um, first names in the office.” 

“Alright, Henry.” She smiled. 

*  * *

Gwen was nice. Really nice, no good at accounting, but really nice. It was funny that he was teaching her, and she had a better rank than him already for some reason, but was so clueless, and so he explained the spreadsheets, and why a decimal with three places is much much worse than a decimal with two, and you should really program your calculator to round these things, there’s a little button right there. 

And he got why she had gotten the job after a while, because, well, she was a little clueless, but she was the opposite of all of his problems. Confident. Understood People. Kind, even when it was hard to be. 

He loved that he had a friend, really. 

He had a friend for the first time in years. 

And it was nice, wasn’t it? 

He really could recommend this sort of thing.

* * *

Gwen and her husband Rhys came over for dinner on Saturday, and for once, he didn’t screw up the damn macaroni. 

“Hello!!” He smiled, opening the door, and he really was happy to see them. 

And Rhys smiled too, and nodded, and patted him on the back in an overly familiar manner, like they knew each other for ages, and they came inside, and Mary poured the good wine into their good glasses, which they never used. 

And they were happy. 

It was nice.

 

* * *

They talked about normal things at Dinner, and drank normal drink, and ate normal food, and talked about Strictly and the Recession and all those normal things. Gwen really couldn’t get into it, although she tried. 

It was hard to look a man in the eye and tell them about the problems you have at the laundromat, knowing you’re going to have to kill them sooner or later. This job should have been Owen’s...he would have done it perfectly - no. There’s a reason why it isn’t Owen, he would have capped the poor man in the leg first thing and been done with it. They had to be certain about what kind of person he was. 

Did it matter, though? Did it matter what kind of person he was if everyone on the planet was going to benefit from his absence? 

Of course it mattered, because he didn’t deserve it. But that was the thing, no one deserved to die, in her mind. No one properly deserved to be murdered, that was the thing. Now and then it just happens.

It couldn’t happen to him, she liked him too much, but it had to happen, right, but no, it couldn’t, the Koriflae fellows, they had to be evil, evil people. 

Oh, bugger, why’d she have to bring Rhys? Poor Rhys, he was loving it. He was best mates with these guys already. She didn’t want to hurt him. Lovely, lovely, Rhys, the best man she’s ever known, why does he have to be here? Why did she have to bring him?

Well. It was done. And the Dinner was lovely. And she felt sick. 

* * *

Gwen walked into the hub early the following day. 

And she flipped the table over. Kicked the fucking thing straight to hell. Slammed her coffee mug into shards on the wall. Punched through the glass until her hands bled from all the shards. And she swore. 

God damn it. 

God damn it all. 

The door opened, and Jack was behind her. She expected him to say something snarky or a double entendre at her expense but he stood there in silence. He knew what was happening. He didn’t need to say anything. 

She didn’t either. She got a broom out of the cupboard and began to mop the shards up. 

Owen walked in. “Ooh. Geez. What the bloody hell happened in here?” 

“Weevil got loose.” Jack said. “We handled it.” 

“Blimey,” Owen muttered, and nothing else was said. 

* * *

The hours passed slowly. That’s how hours passed. Sixty Slow Seconds In Every Minute. Sixty Slower Minutes in Every Slower Slower Hour. Useless. Gwen thought. Whether Time was the Useless thing or she was cursing herself on her lack of, well, anything, she didn’t know. A watched pot never boils, but she didn’t know what to do other than watch her metaphorical pot-clock and see the seconds toil on, as she deliberated on what she needed to do. 

“What can we do? Really?” Gwen asked. 

Jack sighed. “Once in a while there are hard calls.” And he didn’t say anything else. 

“So we’re decided?” Gwen spat. “Is that it? We just have to kill someone, for Queen and Country?! Bloody Hell, Jack! God, that’s the thing!” She wrung her hair. “I agree with you. I agree we’ve got to do it. But I hate that we’ve got to do it. I hate - that that man, out there - has to die for a reason that he’s not even aware of! Has to die without even the dignity of him even knowing what’s happening! At least in fucking wars there are rules, there are laws! Don’t kill the innocent, be a bloody human for Christ’s Sake!”  She collapsed back into her chair. “Oh, god, Jack, I don’t know if I can do it.” 

“You don’t have to kill him yourself.” Jack said, eventually. 

And Gwen couldn’t say why, but she felt like that was worse. That she was the one who decided he had to go and couldn’t bring herself to do it herself. Oh, hell. 

“How can you even look at us?” She asked him. “How can you look at Humanity and think that it’s all going to be worthwhile in the end?” 

“I don’t know if it’s going to be.” Jack admitted, sighing. “But I like to think of myself as an optimist.” 

* * * 

It was early. Unspeakably so. The sun was beginning to show it’s tip over the horizon, and the whole world looked as faint as an old sepia photograph. Henry Morrison was making himself a cup of coffee. It was time to go to work. He left early so not to wake the little ones, and besides, if he left early, he could get back sooner and have a few precious minutes with them later in the day, where, well, he could look in their eyes and remind himself what he was doing it all for. 

The doorbell rang.

Odd. 

He went to the door. And it was the nice girl from the office, Gwen, right? She looked different. She wasn’t in the tatty pink sweater, she was dark, and angry looking. Leather Jacket, and Harsh Bright Red shirt. 

He opened the door. It was rather cold. 

“I’m not who you think I am.” She said, “And I’ve got to tell you. Please. Before it all goes to shit. I just want five minutes.” 

And he, well, was confused. But he let her in. Because it was just five minutes. 

They sat down. 

And she told him.

* * *

“Wow.” He said, eventually. And he nodded. “Alright.” He said. “I mean. I well, I see the point. The benefit of humanity. I - I would have a death that meant something. Could I have a day to prepare, please? One day. All I ask.” 

And she felt mad. “A day?! I don’t think you understand, Henry! The government wants to kill you? Why aren’t you mad? Hell, I’m mad! You have kids! You have a wife, you have so, so, so much to live for!” And she felt everything that he should be feeling, and she wanted him to feel it too, because that would make the whole thing better, just a tiny bit better, if they at least had that. 

But he solemnly nodded. “And that’s why I ask for the day. To say goodbye.” 

And she cried. Of course he could have the day, but couldn’t he be at the very least a bit more mad about it, talk about how unfair it was some more? 

But he understood. Oh, fuck, why did he have to understand? She hated this. This was rubbish. 

“Here are the pills,” She said. “Drink them when it’s time to go.” And she was crying. 

He took the pill jar. “Thank you.” He said.

* * * 

He was gone. 

She swore. Shit, they’d done it. He was gone. They’d killed a man. They’d done it nicely, with empathy and kindness and all that, but he was still dead, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that the thing? The only thing that mattered in the end? 

His wife took it particularly badly. She really loved him. She threw a fit, just like Gwen had, and the cutlery was in the wall, and the plates were all cracked, and the table and she even broke the Steinway. 

They dosed the water with retcon. Because that was nicer. Instead of a widow, she was just a single mum. 

God. Was that worse? 

* * * 

“It’s done.” The voice on the phone said to the Prime Minister. Well. That was that. It was done. Humanity would prosper. It was good, he told himself. It had to be good for humanity that that man died. And thanks to the retcon too, no one would miss him. What he would do to have Torchwood’s ingenuity on the day to day. He rang Todd. Or the Koriflae or whatever he was. 

Todd entered, grinning. Todd always grinned too much. Was probably because he was an alien who didn’t get that things weren’t always happy. Or because he was an idiot. 

The Prime Minister sighed. “It’s been done, Todd.” 

Todd nodded. “Um, sorry, what?” 

“The man. The man is dead, Todd. The man you asked me to kill.” 

“Oh. Him.” Todd was difficult to place. A little fluttery.

“Yes, Him. The “No Good Blighter” you told me about happened to be a perfectly ordinary man. He was not very naughty. I don’t appreciate being lied to.” 

Todd agreed. 

 “But we’ve done it.” The Minister continued. “For the good of the Country, anyway. We have done what you have asked.” 

And Todd, rather pleased with himself, replied. “It was a test.” He said. 

“What?” The Minister asked, fiercely. 

“I - I don’t know how to say this, really. Um, well, you see, it’s a test. A test of character, a moral test, a moral conundrum of how much you value it all. Things like, well, life. Family. Innocence. As opposed to the compulsion of opportunity, and greed. The Koriflae Imperium have met thousands of aliens over the years. And we bring them the problems. And we see if they are ready for our technology. Or if they’re not much more than savages.” 

“SAVAGES?” The Prime Minister roared.

“Yes.” Todd said, airily. “You have proved my point! You see. You must see. You have so little value for basic nicety, everyone had already decided on what was the best option before they had even met the man. You are savages. You have killed for a gain you did not know was real. You have killed for opportunity, and today an innocent man has died, and you can still justify it to yourself even now. If I did the same thing again, right this moment, you would still choose to kill the man for the needs of the many.” 

“The Needs of the Many outweigh the Needs of the Few. That is simply how it is.” The Minister snarled. 

“Life isn’t a trolley problem, Mister Prime Minister. The Needs of the Many do not invalidate what is right. You can not argue about the action of a morality merely based on it’s result. You failed.” Todd said, dispassionately. “I shall have to bid you good day.” 

And he disappeared in a flash of light. 

The Prime Minister collapsed onto his seat. No. 

No, it - it couldn’t - 

It was his fault. 

It was all his fault. 

Damn it all. 

He placed his head in his hands, and for the first time since he was a babe, he whimpered. 

Because for once, the world being less cynical than he thought - well - for once, even that was a bad thing. 

He paged his secretary with a button on his desk. 

His Secretary entered. “Minister?” She asked. 

“I wish to tender my resignation,” The Prime Minister said, dejectedly.

She nodded. 

* * * 

“Elections next week.” Ianto said, carrying a copy of the Cardiff Newspaper as they stepped through the door to the hub. 

“Ooh, which piece of shit is running against which piece of shit this time?” Owen asked. 

“Brian Green’s running unopposed.” Tosh said. 

“Soon we’ll be running out of Ministers,” Ianto joked, although it wasn’t very funny. 

Jack was standing by the meeting room, fidgeting through a pile of papers. “Where’s Gwen?” 

* * *

Gwen and Rhys were alone, but no one else remembered Henry Morrison, so they had a full house. 

“Just you?” The Priest asked. 

“Just us.” Rhys said. And Gwen stood there, still. The Coffin began to be lowered. 

And Gwen stood there. Time seemed to rush by, and none of it really mattered. He was still dead because of her, wasn’t he? And she couldn’t even hear the Priest going on, going on and on, hadn’t she ever noticed how much talking there was in a funeral? And it was just him too, it wasn’t like it was ninety people. She couldn’t hear it. It just glossed over her. One word at a time, moving on and on without end. And then -

“We therefore commit his body to it’s final resting place. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

She remembered what he said - that he would have the comfort of dying, having a death that would mean something.  

And when she realized that after all, it didn't, For the first time since he died, Gwen began to cry.