![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Nov. 27th, 2014 05:48 pmFor someone looking to be alone for a while, the disappearance of most of the residents of the city would seem like a bit of a godsend. But truthfully, Owen never feels more alone than when he's in a crowd of strangers, and the quiet of the city a week and a half ago had done nothing but leave Owen with thoughts he'd been trying to drown out.
It isn't that he's surprised that Tosh is gone. He's seen enough people come and go between Cardiff, the island and Darrow that he's come to expect it, these days. There's no telling how long someone's going to be around, before the whims of the dimension or some other inconsequential bollocks. It happens, and there's not a thing any of them can do about it.
Owen's already had it out with this city over the past few weeks. He's shouted, he's thrown things, he's spent an entire afternoon trying to understand Tosh's security system so he can revoke security codes. Newt's, Faye's, even Tosh's. If she ever turns up again, it won't be the same. That much, he's almost certain of.
Funny, what you can count on and what you can't in this dimension, isn't it?
He's spent much of the day in his flat with a bottle of scotch, and only leaves it when the bottle's gone empty, his vision not quite blurred as much as he'd like. A few years ago, and this would be about the time he'd find a bar and a woman to bring home, but instead, just the bottle will do.
Owen's stumbling back home with a new bottle now, intent on not speaking to another person for another few weeks if he can manage it, when he passes an alley-- it's always the fucking alleys, isn't it?-- and a man, surrounded by a pool of what looks like blood.
Owen's got his own problems, his own bollocks to deal with, but he doesn't have to think before he's rushing in, dropping his bottle to shatter in its bag on the asphalt as he goes to check that the man's alive. It's... more blood than it looked like from further away. The man's throat's been torn out in a way that's more familiar to Owen than it ought to be, and there's steam rising from the wound, warmth from a rapidly cooling body meeting the cold air of the night.
He checks anyway, the man's pulse in his wrist, for signs of breath.
It's too late.
"Shit," Owen swears. It's not the sort of thing he blames himself for anymore, but he still can't help but think what might've happened if he'd been a few minutes earlier. The man hasn't been dead long, by the looks of him, whatever creature's torn his throat out probably isn't too long gone. But he wouldn't have had his gun on him so what good would that have done?
He's trying to work out what to do next, whether to call the police or head back to The Station and call the police from there— he'll have to work out how to check CCTV for himself, how to go in and delete the saved recordings, that used to be Tosh's job— when he notices a glint of metal just at the end of the alley. It's out of place, polished, like it's been set there purposely.
There's no way Owen wouldn't recognize it, the box. It's the one they locked it away in before Suzie came back, before Jack had to destroy the glove to save Gwen's life. It shouldn't be here, and yet, there it is, as if it belongs there.
None of them belong there. Darrow shouldn't fucking exist in the first place.
It's a stupid idea, Owen knows, but he's already coming to his feet before he thinks not to, walking over to the box, where he finds the key on top. He opens it, lifts the metal glove out. It's the right one, which is probably for the best considering what happened when Jack used the left. He shouldn't be doing this in the first place, but it's a plus that Death isn't going to claw its way to Darrow.
But maybe it won't work on him at all. Last time, it didn't. Jack, Suzie and Gwen could manage it, but he never got so much as a twinge. Maybe this time... maybe this time, it'll be different. Maybe he's an idiot. Both are possibilities.
Owen's kneeling over the body, pulling the metal glove over one hand, and he doesn't hear approaching footsteps.
Christ, this was a bad idea.
It isn't that he's surprised that Tosh is gone. He's seen enough people come and go between Cardiff, the island and Darrow that he's come to expect it, these days. There's no telling how long someone's going to be around, before the whims of the dimension or some other inconsequential bollocks. It happens, and there's not a thing any of them can do about it.
Owen's already had it out with this city over the past few weeks. He's shouted, he's thrown things, he's spent an entire afternoon trying to understand Tosh's security system so he can revoke security codes. Newt's, Faye's, even Tosh's. If she ever turns up again, it won't be the same. That much, he's almost certain of.
Funny, what you can count on and what you can't in this dimension, isn't it?
He's spent much of the day in his flat with a bottle of scotch, and only leaves it when the bottle's gone empty, his vision not quite blurred as much as he'd like. A few years ago, and this would be about the time he'd find a bar and a woman to bring home, but instead, just the bottle will do.
Owen's stumbling back home with a new bottle now, intent on not speaking to another person for another few weeks if he can manage it, when he passes an alley-- it's always the fucking alleys, isn't it?-- and a man, surrounded by a pool of what looks like blood.
Owen's got his own problems, his own bollocks to deal with, but he doesn't have to think before he's rushing in, dropping his bottle to shatter in its bag on the asphalt as he goes to check that the man's alive. It's... more blood than it looked like from further away. The man's throat's been torn out in a way that's more familiar to Owen than it ought to be, and there's steam rising from the wound, warmth from a rapidly cooling body meeting the cold air of the night.
He checks anyway, the man's pulse in his wrist, for signs of breath.
It's too late.
"Shit," Owen swears. It's not the sort of thing he blames himself for anymore, but he still can't help but think what might've happened if he'd been a few minutes earlier. The man hasn't been dead long, by the looks of him, whatever creature's torn his throat out probably isn't too long gone. But he wouldn't have had his gun on him so what good would that have done?
He's trying to work out what to do next, whether to call the police or head back to The Station and call the police from there— he'll have to work out how to check CCTV for himself, how to go in and delete the saved recordings, that used to be Tosh's job— when he notices a glint of metal just at the end of the alley. It's out of place, polished, like it's been set there purposely.
There's no way Owen wouldn't recognize it, the box. It's the one they locked it away in before Suzie came back, before Jack had to destroy the glove to save Gwen's life. It shouldn't be here, and yet, there it is, as if it belongs there.
None of them belong there. Darrow shouldn't fucking exist in the first place.
It's a stupid idea, Owen knows, but he's already coming to his feet before he thinks not to, walking over to the box, where he finds the key on top. He opens it, lifts the metal glove out. It's the right one, which is probably for the best considering what happened when Jack used the left. He shouldn't be doing this in the first place, but it's a plus that Death isn't going to claw its way to Darrow.
But maybe it won't work on him at all. Last time, it didn't. Jack, Suzie and Gwen could manage it, but he never got so much as a twinge. Maybe this time... maybe this time, it'll be different. Maybe he's an idiot. Both are possibilities.
Owen's kneeling over the body, pulling the metal glove over one hand, and he doesn't hear approaching footsteps.
Christ, this was a bad idea.
