Title: Here We Go Round the Prickly Pear
Author: halfspokenwords
Characters: Ianto, Tosh
Word Count: 3,300
Summary: The Year That Never Was, Torchwood remix.
Warnings: Character death. Spoilers for DW Last of the Time Lords.

***

Ianto looked out over the shipyards of Capetown; they spread on for miles. Nothing like what had been done to Russia, judging by the small threads of news that escaped the continent, but still vast.

Somewhere in there Gwen toiled. He'd seen her once, dirty and thin, kneeling in subjugation-- as all humans could be made to do when the Master willed it. He'd strained to see her face, but was rewarded with dismay when he realised she was joining the other workers in some twisted version of a prayer.

Telepathic control, some reports said. Satellites that broadcast fear. Just in case, he was using every trick Torchwood One had ever taught him. He didn't know if they helped, or if they would ever be enough.

All hail our Lord and Master, he thought loudly, before the moment passed and he forgot.

He shifted the bag that he held over his hip, and checked again to make sure he had his weapon handy. He had to get this to Tosh-- a laptop battery, fully charged, for which he had traded the last of their medical supplies and a particularly fine bottle of whiskey.

When Ianto walked, he walked slowly, head down; he didn't need to be stopped. He was authorised to travel, but only during designated transit hours-- before and after his work shift.

They'd run here, before the licenses, before travel was restricted. Before the gasoline and the diesel had run low, when ships and trains and private jets still packed themselves to the brim with passengers and set out for somewhere, anywhere, in the hopes that new shores would be better. It was an age-old dream, but no longer realised; the Toclafane were everywhere. The Master was everywhere.

It had been three of them at first-- Ianto, Toshiko, and Gwen, after they'd seen Owen slaughtered. A few weeks after ten percent of the Earth's population was murdered, they'd been caught near a human uprising, caught in the crossfire. Ianto screamed for them to hide, to take cover, but not Owen-- he dove in, firing. When it was over, the street was stained with blood and bodies. Bodies in name only; there wasn't enough to bury. That wasn't the first time they'd seen the Toclafane in action, nor was it the last.

"I'll take care of you," he'd said as he cradled Toshiko two days and who knows how many miles from Owen's corpse. Over her shaking shoulders, he held Gwen's red-rimmed eye. "I'll take care of you both."

Within a week, half of Europe was irradiated. From the Carpathians to the Alps to the coast of the North Sea, it was unhabitable. A handful of people got out, but the ones that did had nowhere to go. Most of the UK burned; some of England survived, but not the North, nor anything past the Scottish border.

The large cities were the first to go. New York in ruins; Paris, Rome, Moscow, Hong Kong, Tokyo-- in ruins. London was kept as the base of Harold Saxon-- the Master, as he was now to be known-- and so it remained to oversee the Southern shipyards.

But Cardiff, Cardiff had burned. All of Wales had burned.

They'd stayed as far from the UK as they could; newscasts showed the Master had control of everything. He had the UNIT flagship-- he even had UNIT manpower. When Ianto heard this for the first time, he'd waited in the silence after for Owen's grumbling-- "It would be UNIT who sold us out, and they say we're loose cannons--" until he remembered that Owen was dead.

So they went south, collected intel, listened to the rumours and the stories. Coasts seemed to be best-- useful, less likely to be razed. They thought, futilely, that they might find somewhere to set up base, to fight-- somewhere the Master had overlooked.

And then Gwen was taken. It happened in broad daylight. Their caravan-- by then, they were off the boats and the puddlejumpers and onto trucks-- was stopped by a group of men characterised by pseudo-military garb and very large guns. The Toclafane hovered just behind them, waiting, hoping that someone would resist. A few did. None of them survived.

Ianto held Tosh back and watched Gwen go, ignoring-- by sheer force of will-- her pleas for help. Any move to save her would mean death to all three, and probably to everyone else too. Instead, they followed Gwen's GPS tracker-- in her mobile, which her captors didn't even bother to take; the networks were near-useless these days-- to Capetown. Here they'd stayed ever since, working, catching brief glimpses of the shipyard workers, and trading on the black market for the technology and weapons required to become Torchwood again. They had rooms, grungy but suitable, over a storefront; it was small and cramped, but they did well enough. They kept eachother warm when the weather patterns changed and kept eachother sane when nothing else did.

Ianto made his way to their little flat, what they'd jokingly called "the honeymoon suite" back when they thought humour might get them through. He knocked twice and entered, making considerable noise with his keys in the rusty locks so he wouldn't surprise or be surprised by the barrel of a gun.

"Tosh!" he called, stopping to lock and double-lock the door behind him. "I've got something for you."

Toshiko appeared, limping, from the other room. Her smile was small and not entirely there. She was pale and thin, but not ill. He hoped-- he didn't know what epidemic was in fashion, but he also didn't want to find out. "Food?"

He gave her a withering look. They hadn't eaten in several days, thanks to the group of looters that had attacked Ianto on his supply run the week before. They were lucky they had water. "No."

"Oh." She sagged against the doorframe, wiping sweat from her forehead. "Sorry, wishful thinking."

"No one was selling," Ianto said quietly, after so many months no longer bothering with platitudes and reassurances. "I'll go out in a bit, see what I can find?" He motioned to his bag and then moved into the second room, pausing on his way only to take her arm gently. "I'll even stop at Starbucks on my way back in."

In the next room, they were surrounded by equipment, some working, some not. Some was bought (when currency still meant something out there), some bartered, but most of it was salvaged from the now-defunct Observatory and weather monitoring stations.

"I wish you would." Tosh combed at her ragged hair with her fingers as she dutifully leaned on the workbench beside him. When she laughed, he wished it wasn't so empty. "I could kill for a coffee."

He smiled a wry smile, feeling the twist of the long scar that split his upper lip. "Every once in a while, I'm tempted."

Tosh motioned for him to get on with showing her his latest acquisition; when he pulled out the laptop battery and smiled, she only covered her mouth with one hand. "You found one." And then, taking it from him gingerly, reverantly: "That was quick."

"Ask and ye shall receive."

"Now that I can get this to keep a charge," she said after a moment, looking up from where she was quickly reassembling her computer. "I can keep working on those scans of the shipyards."

"Good idea. Me, I'll head out, see if I can get us something." He glanced out the grimy window and sighed. "Rain. Was starting when I got in. You know, sometimes it's enough to forget we're not in Wales..." They shared a look, because now their looks said more than anything else, and he shrugged. "Sometimes."

Leaving a slightly happier Tosh to her work-- he was thankful he could do that for her, if nothing else-- Ianto set out again. He pulled his jacket close around him, although it did nothing to combat the weather, which was quickly becoming far more formidable.

He was only a few blocks from home when the thunder started, when the air become a heavy wall of water. He was only a few more when he heard someone running not too far behind him and gaining fast.

Ianto took one look and then he was running too; somewhere nearby, another pedestrian did the same. The Toclafane wasn't after either of them, but that had never stopped one before. They were too often known to slaughter entire streets of people because one had chosen to disobey. They were also known to laugh while doing so; they said it made their Master happy.

Suddenly, there was screaming. Screaming and the sound of flesh ripping as the Toclafane tore the runner in pieces. He looked from side to side; there was nowhere to run. There was nowhere. Out of options, Ianto merely stood still and steeled himself, waiting for the inevitable.

It never came. In its place, there was a flash of light through the rain and then nothing. He didn't dare move.

"You--" A quiet, even voice--a man's, accented but in English, shaky with disbelief-- broke the silence.

"Yes?" Ianto answered automatically, far before he realised that he shouldn't have been able to at all.

"You are alive," the voice said from beside him. He turned to see someone who looked as confused as he felt.

"So are you." They were both silent for a long time, their eyes drawn toward the carnage that used to be a man. Ianto didn't see him any longer; he saw only the blades of a conversion chamber, the face of a Cyberman. "So," he managed once he could trust his voice to tremble less than his body. "Why, again, are we still alive?"

"I don't know. But I can tell you that it isn't."

Ianto was about to argue with the pronoun when he realised what was being referenced. He looked from the stranger to the fallen Toclafane, then back to the stranger again. He knew what he felt must be shock, but he could barely register it at all. A Toclafane, dead. The one thing ensured the Master's reign over Earth. Dead. "I..." he started, staring at his companion in bewilderment. "It's dead."

"Said that. But you know, Martha Jones. I bet it was her."

"I doubt it," he answered, equal parts dry and dismissive, as he moved closer to the Toclafane and kneeled to look it over. "There's something inside."

"You know her, yeah? Everyone does. But I've never heard of her killing..." There was a pause and then, as he leaned closer, holding out a hand: "It might not be dead."

"No!" Ianto exclaimed, looking up with wide eyes. "Don't touch it. We can't open it. We can't take it anywhere. It might be traced. It might even explode." He stood up, straightened his clothing, and then moved a few paces away. "I have to go. I have to get back to--"

He broke off as his wrist was grabbed, preventing his movement. "Martha Jones," the man whispered, just before he let go. "Tonight. At the indoor market-hall. I'm going to tell her."

Ianto nodded, but pulled his wrist away and left as quickly as possible. He didn't look back. Food all but forgotten, he went straight home, and this time he was met at the door by Toshiko.

"You're quite the drowned rat," she said with faint amusement, even a very faint almost-smirk. The battery certainly had done wonders for her mood; in any other situation, he'd be overjoyed to see the change.

He cut her off before she could either continue or help him with his jacket."Energy spikes," he gasped, drenched and leaning against the doorframe. "I need you to look for energy spikes, electrical interference, anything. City center."

"Energy spikes?" She moved aside, encouraged him back in. "Sure."

"It's important."

They went in silence, Tosh leading and Ianto following. He waited while she sat and looked to her scanners, while her fingers danced over the keyboard and windows came and went. He paced and tried to ignore the puddle of water that was gathering along his path.

When the screen flickered dramatically, Ianto bit back a curse and hit it. "Damned thing," he murmured apologetically, pulling back as Tosh shot him a look. "All yours."

"Hmm," she answered, falling quiet until her typing became more frenzied. "Found it! Electric activity, and fairly impressive too."

"What?" He turned the monitor closer to him, leaned over her shoulder to read through her readings. "My god," he said finally, quietly and gravely.

"Those are the energy spikes... registered as 58.5 kiloamperes, with a charge of 510 megajoules. Probably--" Tosh broke off and shrugged, her gaze inquisitive. "Lightning?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath and then another. "Yes, lightning."

"Why is it important?"

"I was there," he answered, accent rough. "It brought one of them down. A Toclafane, mid-flight, mid-attack, completely immobilised."

"Ianto..."

"We can fight them." She looked up at him as he spoke, her smile uncertain and uncertainly hopeful. In response, he put his hand on her shoulder and squeezed, though it was only half for her. "Finally, we can fight them."

After a moment of shared silence, Ianto set into motion. He let go and squatted down to reach under the desk. He carefully removed a series of CD-ROMs that had been taped there. "Here," he said as he handed one to Tosh. "Make copies of that data."

"What are you going to do?"

"This is valuable. We have to get it out there. The Toclafane can be stopped."

"There's no one to spread it to. We don't even know who's out there. We don't even know--" She put her head in her hands, then composed herself and looked up apologetically. "Sorry. I'm sorry, Ianto. I'm beginning to think we're the only ones still trying."

"We're not." Ianto was silent for a moment, as if even he did not completely believe. "We can't be." He took a deep breath, and as he exhaled slowly, remembered something. "If no one else, Martha Jones."

"Ianto--" Tosh started. "She's a myth."

"Maybe. She's here. I hadn't thought much of it at the time, but-- she's here, in Capetown. If we could reach her, leave her with a copy of this data..."

"She's a myth," Tosh repeated, even as she did as he asked with the CDs, adding some of their other findings, mostly regarding the shipyards' layout and energy output. "And even if she's not..."

"I know. But that doesn't matter. You've heard the rumours, the reports-- she's crossed continents when we're lucky if we cross political borders. If there's even the slightest chance that it's true..." Ianto leaned against the side of the desk and moved to put one hand on Tosh's cheek, stroking tiredly. "We have to try. This has to be passed on."

"Maybe you're right," she said and made herself smile. "Of course you're right."

By the time she managed to thoroughly convince herself, Ianto had already moved away and was packing small supplies of water into each of their bags. She quickly copied the data onto a few more CDs, and then they set out. Ianto held her hand at first. He didn't need to and she didn't ask, but still he did.

A half mile from their flat, in the opposite direction from the hopefully-dead Toclafane, they heard the tell-tale sounds of a patrol. The sounds were human, those who switched sides somewhere along the way, those who couldn't manage enough resistance to the mind control or who didn't want to (they lived better, the traitors, and had less of a chance of being murdered or of watching their families suffer). That wouldn't matter. The Toclafane didn't generally make any noise unless they were taunting in their childike voices, and if they did that, they were already too close.

Ianto squinted at his watch, though he already knew what he would find. "Damn. It's past our shift curfew. We shouldn't be out." If they were found, they could be detained. If they resisted-- or if the patrolmen or the Toclafane decided they had-- they could be killed on the street. The latter was far more likely, especially with those suspected of association with known resistance cells; and tonight, with Martha Jones around, everyone was suspected.

Tosh stopped, breathing hard, and looked at him. He saw only gravity in her eyes. "We have to split up. We have better chances of getting to the meeting hall if we do." He still stood frozen, disbelieving, and so she leaned in, kissed him softly on the mouth, then whispered, "Go."

"No," he managed, strangled, afraid of what she might do to buy him time, to repay a debt he wasn't about to collect. "You're coming with me."

"You know I can't. I'll just slow you down." Sadly, Tosh patted her leg, badly healed from a wound and then consequent infection. "I'll meet you, if I can. If I can't, I'll hold them back." She let go of his hand and pulled her gun from where she kept it holstered beneath one arm. Again she smiled, dusty and tired and beautiful. "I'd missed this."

"Tosh. Tosh. There is no holding them back; we've both seen what they can do."

"Go, Ianto. It's okay."

He looked her her eyes, searchingly, nearly frantic. A moment passed, and then he came to a conclusion that was unwanted and quiet, nodded, and went.

He ran as quickly as he could, as far as he could. Behind him, there was the faint demand for identification... and then only gunshots. He tripped over his own feet as he stopped to look back, whispering "Tosh?" into the night air. When there was nothing but blackness and rain, he did the only thing he could: he kept going.

Ianto could barely hear over the rhythm of his heart pounding in his ears. But somewhere, distantly, in the back of his mind, he heard the sound of a gun, the sounds of several guns, and as he turned a corner, felt the impact of a bullet hitting him in the back. He stumbled, caught himself against a wall, and forced himself to keep running. Adrenaline would take him as far as he could go, and only then would he accept defeat.

It wasn't much further. He collapsed onto the dusty pavement and whispered a silent apology to the human race.

Before he closed his eyes, he saw a shimmer of movement; it reminded him of something, of something he hadn't seen in over a year. "Wait," he cried out, before repeating himself in Zulu and in Afrikaans. Then, again in panting English to the nothingness: "Wait."

There was no shimmer, no footsteps, no breath-- and then--

"You can see me."

"No." As he squinted, tried to focus, something like the shape of a woman came into focus. But barely. "Yes." Through the pain, his mouth managed a smile. "Perception filter. I think--" He chuckled and it came out dry, choked. A cough. "I'm jealous."

The other person said nothing. The footsteps of the patrol got closer and stopped; they knew they'd got him, so there was no longer any rush.

"You're English. Are you--" He stopped and reconsidered, then restarted. "Take this." He reached into his jacket-- tattered and nothing like the suits he once kept so carefully-- and pulled the CD case out of his inside pocket. "If you're with us, take this somewhere, anywhere. Please. Get it to Martha Jones."

Ianto thought someone's hand might have rested in his for just a moment, but he couldn't be certain. And then the CD was lifted gently away, and he was alone, and everything went black.

***