Daughter of Torchwood

Blowfish

For the first few months of Starla's official weekend visits, the Captain and the Father in Jack Harkness were at constant war. He was thrilled to have her there, filling the Hub with a youthful energy it had lacked for decades, but his protective streak was a mile wide and reinforced with steel.

The boundary was absolute. While the Hub became her second home, a place where she did her homework at Tosh's station, helped Ianto catalogue Victorian-era artefacts, or sat on the swivel chairs spinning until she was dizzy, the field was strictly off-limits. Whenever the alarm blared its low, discordant wail, Jack's hand would invariably land on her shoulder, steering her toward the sofa.

"Stay here, Star. Keep Ianto company," he'd say. It was a command dressed up as a suggestion, his blue eyes losing their playfulness and turning into the hard flint of a commander. For most of that spring, Torchwood work was something she watched on a grainy monitor, a distant world of running, shouting, and gunfire that she was only allowed to witness through a digital lens.

That changed during the Easter holidays. The air in Cardiff was crisp, smelling of salt and damp pavement, and the Rift was in a particularly foul mood. On a Tuesday afternoon, the monitors at Tosh's station lit up like a Christmas tree. A localised energy spike was tearing through a derelict warehouse district near the docks.

"Blowfish," Tosh announced, her fingers flying over the keys, "And he's intercepted a shipment of high-end tech. He's armed, Jack."

Starla didn't wait to be told to stay behind this time. Bored of the sidelines and possessing her father's signature stubborn streak, she slipped out of the Hub through the Tourist Information Shop before the team even reached the paving-stone lift. As the black SUV idled in the alleyway, she scrambled into the cavernous boot, burying herself under a heavy, oil-stained equipment tarp. She held her breath, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird, as she heard the heavy clatter of boots and the slamming of four car doors.

The journey was a blur of nausea and adrenaline. She tumbled around in the back as Jack took the corners on two wheels, listening to the muffled briefing through the seat cushions. Owen was complaining about the smell of the creature; Suzie was checking the charge on her pulse pistol.

When the SUV finally screeched to a halt, Starla waited. She heard the doors fly open and the team's footsteps fade toward the rusted corrugated metal of the warehouse. Only when the silence of the docks returned did she crawl out from under the tarp, her hands shaking as she hopped out of the boot and crouched by the rear tyre.

She shouldn't be here. Her mum would kill her. Her dad would probably ground her until the 51st century. But then, the silence was shattered.

The sharp, rhythmic crack-crack of a handgun echoed from inside the building, followed by a sickening crash of falling metal. Then came a cry, sharp and pained, that sounded far too much like Tosh.

"Jack! Watch out!" Suzie's scream was cut short by a heavy, meaty thud.

Starla didn't think. She didn't weigh the risks; she simply ran towards the warehouse.

She burst through the side door, her eyes struggling to adjust to the dim, dusty light of the warehouse. The scene was a chaotic tableau of Torchwood's failure. Toshiko and Suzie were slumped against a stack of crates, Tosh clutching a bleeding arm and Suzie out cold. Jack was pinned under a fallen steel gantry, his face pale and eyes dazed as he struggled to shove the massive weight off his chest.

In the centre of the floor, the creature stood, a garish, humanoid Blowfish dressed in a tailored, blood-spattered tuxedo, looking like a nightmare from a high-stakes casino. It had Owen pinned to the concrete, one webbed hand wrapped around the doctor's throat while the other pressed a silver pistol into his temple.