PARABOLICAL GRAFFITI

It's better now. The constant drumming. My poor Master. Nobody understood how alone it made him. Now he's not alone. He has me. He needs me. My Master was right. I just needed time to adjust. It's a nice rhythm...reminiscent of Ravel's Boléro. Really quite soothing if I don't dwell on it too much. Something in the background too keep it from getting too quiet.

It's hard to remember what life was like before my Master. I think it's better that way. I'm where I'm supposed to be now. I'm where I'm needed.

( Owen )

Does anyone else know wormhole physics? I've got a few holes in my current working theory to fill in, and I don't think half thought through and very vaguely explained science fiction is going to help much.

Harold Saxon has Ianto held captive.

Ianto sent me an address that he was going to, but it's hard to say whether they're still there.

We're going to have to construct some sort of plan of attack. That means NOT just charging in there blindly, Jack. And we're going to need as many people as possible since I'm not sure exactly what breed of insanity we're dealing with. Everyone meet at [address of Tosh & Owen's hotel].

Tosh, see if his mobile is on and if you can triangulate a position for him to see if the information he sent the first time through is still good. (The message is on my mobile, left hand jacket pocket.)

Suzie, you're our weapons expert. Wind up anything and everything you can find.

Gwen. I know you just got here, and this is probably the last thing you need to deal with right now, but I need to you do what you do best. Canvas the neighborhoods near the address that Ianto sent to see if anyone has seen either him or Saxon.

And Jack, wherever you are, you'd better get your arse down here because I don't want you pulling some sort of fancy boy heroics.

Anyone else that can see this, if you're willing to act as a partner to any of our agents, you can find us at the address above.

Good evening my faithful minions,

I do hope you're all having a splendid one, because what I'm about to tell you may just put a teeny-tiny damper on it. So, gather 'round, kiddies, I've got something exciting for you all- and, no, Doctor, it is in fact not a brain. Ready? Then here goes:

It's small, but it plays a big part.
It's useless, but its dear to your hearts.
It helps you, but you never help it.
It cries, but it screams when its hit.

I'm going to give you three tries, Torchwood. Only three. 1, 2, 3. And if you don't guess what "it" is within those three little, yet gracious ticks- you will lose "it" forever. Do I make myself clear? For-ever.

Hint: Head check, anyone?

Oh! And do be quick about it, "it"'s getting a bit antsy.

What the bloody hell is this supposed to be!? One minute I'm at work, and the next I'm here?

Jack, if this is some sort of sick joke, I am not laughing.

This isn't what I expected.

If you did this again, Jack, I'm going to strangle you. Multiple times.

Toto, I don't think we're in Cardiff anymore.

Not that it matters because this is brilliant! The rains is freezing, the wind isn't helping one ruddy bit, and I'd really like to know where the goddamn sun has buggered off to at 3 in the afternoon, but I don't think I've ever been so happy to be miserable in my whole life.

Yes. Life. Because, ladies and gentleman, Dr. Owen Harper is alive!

Living-breathing-eating-drinking-fucking alive!

Tosh? Ianto? Gwen? Jack? Hell, I'd be happy to see Rhys right now!

God. I'm dying (without any irony!) for a curry. Anyone know where there's an Indian takeout around here? Wherever here is.

( Cut for Torchwood Spoilers )