Daughter of Torchwood

Owen Harper

Martha pulled back the clinical white sheet, revealing Owen's body on the Hub's autopsy table. He looked small, cleaned up, and unnervingly still. Martha reached up to adjust the overhead microphone, her voice professional but strained, "The time is 21:30. This is Doctor Martha Jones."

Up on the walkway, Gwen, Tosh, Starla, and Ianto stood in a line, looking down at the colleague they had laughed with only hours before.

"Autopsy on Owen Harper," Martha continued, her words echoing in the tiled room, "Caucasian, age 27. Torchwood Officer 565. Time of death witnessed at approximately 20:30. Autopsy begins."

Martha snapped on a surgical mask. The sound of her picking up the large post-mortem knife clattered through the silence. Ianto squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head away. Martha took a breath and brought the blade down toward Owen's chest.

"Stop!"

Jack sprinted into the lab, his coat flapping behind him, "Nobody touches him until I get back! Is that clear?" He didn't wait for an answer, turning on his heel and racing back out of the Hub. Martha stood frozen, the knife still hovering inches from Owen's skin.

Nearly an hour passed in a heavy, suffocating silence. The team drifted to the sofas and workstations, none of them able to find words. When the cog door finally ground open again, Jack charged back in, clutching a weathered metal box. He went straight into his office.

Starla was the first to follow him, the rest of the team trailing behind, "Dad? What is that? What have you got?"

Jack set the box on his desk and flipped the latches. He reached inside and drew out a metal glove, a mirror image of the Resurrection Glove they had destroyed, but crafted for a left hand.

"Oh, my God," Tosh gasped, pressing a hand to her mouth.

"You can't use it," Gwen said, her voice rising in panic, "Not after what happened with Suzie. Jack, put it back."

"I'm using the glove," Jack stated, his jaw set in a line that brooked no argument, "I'm bringing him back."

He pushed past them, heading for the autopsy bay. The team scrambled after him.

"Are you really doing this?" Gwen tried again, blocking his path, "The gloves are dangerous. At best, it gives us two minutes. At worst... Jack, we don't know what it takes in return!"

"It's not up for discussion," Jack snapped, his fingers flying across the controls of his vortex manipulator, slaving the glove's energy to his own bio-signature.

"I thought the glove didn't work for you," Ianto pointed out, his voice low.

"Different glove, different circumstances," Jack muttered. He looked at Owen's pale face, "This time, it has to work for me. I'm not giving it a choice. If you've got anything to say to him, do it now. This is your only chance."

Jack slid the heavy metal gauntlet onto his left hand. The room went cold. He reached out and cradled Owen's head in the gloved palm, closing his eyes and tilting his head back. He looked less like a leader and more like a man trying to pull a soul back from a cliff edge.

Electricity began to crackle, blue sparks dancing between the metal fingers and Owen's skin, "Owen... It's Jack. Can you hear me?"

Jack's eyes flew open, burning with intensity, "Owen! Hear my voice! Catch hold of it! Let it draw you out! Pull yourself out of the dark!"

Ianto stared at the heart monitor, "I'm not getting anything. No vital signs."

"Owen, it's me! Jack!"