![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Entry tags:
"Whatever Happened to Andy?"
Title: "Whatever Happened to Andy?"
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: N/A
Rating: R-ish for violence, language.
Warning: Character death, spoilers for Doctor Who 3x11-3x13.
Notes/Summary: When the sky rips open and the world begins to end, Andy Davidson does his duty. Written for an RPG, but it stuck with me enough I wanted to share it a little more broadly.
8:02 AM.
He's out on the beat when it happens. It's not the scar that rips across the sky that he notices first. It's the way traffic goes to shit in a heartbeat and people go screaming out of their cars. Historic moment or not, most of Cardiff has jobs to go to, after all. His job is making sure they get there.
He's radioed in for more information, but all the channels have just gone mad. There's screaming over dispatch, but none of it makes any sense.
And then the first of those metal things glances off his windscreen, leaving a spiderweb of glass. He flinches back, covering his face, but it's gone as quick as it came. He's only just caught his breath and undone his safety belt when it comes back.
This time, it's brought friends. Two laughing, brutal little friends.
"Go away!" he shouts as they bash up against his car. "Just go away! Leave me alone!"
"Come play with us, little man. Come and let us make you pretty. Pretty red ribbons. Pretty red blood..."
He takes the car onto the side of the road, but they're fast and angry and swarming his vehicle. Five, ten, maybe more start tearing at the metal of his uniform car. The windscreen finally shatters, and for a terrifying moment they're on him, their knives whirring and promising more than death.
"This one's a policeman!"
"Look at him cry and squirm away!"
"All that pretty white skin!"
It's sheer luck that he fumbles out through the passenger door and falls hard into the dirt. He slides roughly down a hill and away from the little monsters.
Later on, he discovers why they don't follow. It wasn't his evasion. It's that they'd already finished off 10% of the population.
# # #
The station is a shambles when he finally makes it back. He's traveled on foot, trying to avoid the metal spheres that seem to be everywhere.
The lino is sticky with the blood of too many bodies. Its like a war zone. Thinking about it, he supposes it probably was. Worse, it's obvious which side won. There are no shiny metal balls in the wreckage. Only Tyson and Davies, Williams and Snyder, Yvonne and that new bloke whose name he hasn't learned yet.
He tries to phone Gwen, but the mobile system is down. He tries a land line, but no one answers at her flat, or even at the emergency number at her work.
Andy does the only rational thing he can think of. He locks himself in a cupboard and cries.
# # #
Five days in and Cardiff is burning. Some of it is the little metal bastards, but mostly it's people. The end of the world does strange things to the human psyche. While most folks huddle together, cry out for help, or seek comfort, a handful of folks go wrong. Really, really wrong. Plus, it's not like the police are really around to help out. Not anymore.
Andy straps on his tactical vest and glances at himself in his bedroom mirror. He knows he won't last. He's not some sort of secret agent. He's just some plod. Still, there's people in his building. Just helpless people, trying to survive. He'll protect them to his dying breath.
# # #
It's a kid that gets him killed, in the end. She's snuck out past curfew, sitting out on the kerb, when one of the little metal bastards finds her.
"Pretty hair, pretty skin. Out too late, let's do her in!" the Toclafane giggles as it spins around her.
"Yeah, about that," he calls out to it, cricket bat in hand.
"Bad boy. Bad, bad," it sings at him, flitting to and fro in his direction. "The Mister Master won't approve."
"Fuck your master," Andy spits, and charges in, bashing at the metal ball. The little girl, bless her, runs like hell.
It recovers and whirls around at him, faster than he can track. It's blades are whirring and its lights are red, and he knows in his gut that things are going out of his control.
He takes a second swipe and misses, and the Toclafane is on him, nipping at his flesh, tearing at his skin.
"Naughty mouth, tear it out!"
He's choking on blood when he finally falls. He lands on his back and stares at the sky. He's suddenly cold.
Good job, Andy, he thinks when his vision starts going dark. You did a good job.
Disclaimer: Being a bloke who likes to slash pretty men doesn't make me RTD, I don't work for the BBC, and as much as I might like to, I don't own Jack or Ianto or any part of Torchwood. I do, however, order pizza under that name on principle.
Pairings: N/A
Rating: R-ish for violence, language.
Warning: Character death, spoilers for Doctor Who 3x11-3x13.
Notes/Summary: When the sky rips open and the world begins to end, Andy Davidson does his duty. Written for an RPG, but it stuck with me enough I wanted to share it a little more broadly.
8:02 AM.
He's out on the beat when it happens. It's not the scar that rips across the sky that he notices first. It's the way traffic goes to shit in a heartbeat and people go screaming out of their cars. Historic moment or not, most of Cardiff has jobs to go to, after all. His job is making sure they get there.
He's radioed in for more information, but all the channels have just gone mad. There's screaming over dispatch, but none of it makes any sense.
And then the first of those metal things glances off his windscreen, leaving a spiderweb of glass. He flinches back, covering his face, but it's gone as quick as it came. He's only just caught his breath and undone his safety belt when it comes back.
This time, it's brought friends. Two laughing, brutal little friends.
"Go away!" he shouts as they bash up against his car. "Just go away! Leave me alone!"
"Come play with us, little man. Come and let us make you pretty. Pretty red ribbons. Pretty red blood..."
He takes the car onto the side of the road, but they're fast and angry and swarming his vehicle. Five, ten, maybe more start tearing at the metal of his uniform car. The windscreen finally shatters, and for a terrifying moment they're on him, their knives whirring and promising more than death.
"This one's a policeman!"
"Look at him cry and squirm away!"
"All that pretty white skin!"
It's sheer luck that he fumbles out through the passenger door and falls hard into the dirt. He slides roughly down a hill and away from the little monsters.
Later on, he discovers why they don't follow. It wasn't his evasion. It's that they'd already finished off 10% of the population.
The station is a shambles when he finally makes it back. He's traveled on foot, trying to avoid the metal spheres that seem to be everywhere.
The lino is sticky with the blood of too many bodies. Its like a war zone. Thinking about it, he supposes it probably was. Worse, it's obvious which side won. There are no shiny metal balls in the wreckage. Only Tyson and Davies, Williams and Snyder, Yvonne and that new bloke whose name he hasn't learned yet.
He tries to phone Gwen, but the mobile system is down. He tries a land line, but no one answers at her flat, or even at the emergency number at her work.
Andy does the only rational thing he can think of. He locks himself in a cupboard and cries.
Five days in and Cardiff is burning. Some of it is the little metal bastards, but mostly it's people. The end of the world does strange things to the human psyche. While most folks huddle together, cry out for help, or seek comfort, a handful of folks go wrong. Really, really wrong. Plus, it's not like the police are really around to help out. Not anymore.
Andy straps on his tactical vest and glances at himself in his bedroom mirror. He knows he won't last. He's not some sort of secret agent. He's just some plod. Still, there's people in his building. Just helpless people, trying to survive. He'll protect them to his dying breath.
It's a kid that gets him killed, in the end. She's snuck out past curfew, sitting out on the kerb, when one of the little metal bastards finds her.
"Pretty hair, pretty skin. Out too late, let's do her in!" the Toclafane giggles as it spins around her.
"Yeah, about that," he calls out to it, cricket bat in hand.
"Bad boy. Bad, bad," it sings at him, flitting to and fro in his direction. "The Mister Master won't approve."
"Fuck your master," Andy spits, and charges in, bashing at the metal ball. The little girl, bless her, runs like hell.
It recovers and whirls around at him, faster than he can track. It's blades are whirring and its lights are red, and he knows in his gut that things are going out of his control.
He takes a second swipe and misses, and the Toclafane is on him, nipping at his flesh, tearing at his skin.
"Naughty mouth, tear it out!"
He's choking on blood when he finally falls. He lands on his back and stares at the sky. He's suddenly cold.
Good job, Andy, he thinks when his vision starts going dark. You did a good job.