Prisoner Number 35417 2/?

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TITLE:   Prisoner Number 35417
RATING:  PG-13 - a little bit of violence and bad language; details of a medical exam
CHARACTERS::  Ianto, Jack, Owen
DISCLAIMER:  Not mine; Aunty B's and RTD's
WORDS: ~ 1600
SUMMARY:  A post-cyberwoman fic.  Ianto must face the consequences of his betrayal.

A/N:  This continues Treachery, a fic I posted some months ago.  Many of you asked for a sequel and I was finally able to do a little 'dark' writing.  There will be several more parts but nothing overwhelming.

You may want to review Treachery here:  http://aviv-b.livejournal.com/49816.html

 

Owen arrived at the Hub early the next morning. He had gone out drinking, hoping to pick someone up and drown his sorrows in alcohol and meaningless sex. But as he sat at the bar, he began getting progressively angrier as he reviewed his role in Ianto’s transfer to UNIT.

When the phone call came, Owen retrieved Ianto from the cells and brought him back to Jack’s office. Ianto looked less sure of himself now, not contrite but bewildered and a bit lost. Jack re-handcuffed Ianto’s hands in front of him and the three of them went out onto the plass through the tourist office entrance. A UNIT officer had exited a plain white unmarked van with darkened windows and had presented paperwork for Jack and Owen to sign. Once that was finished he turned toward the van and nodded. Two soldiers in fatigues had jumped out of the van. One grabbed Ianto by the collar while the other one pulled a hood over his head. It took only moments for them to roughly hustle Ianto over to the van. They did nothing to prevent Ianto from knocking his head against the doorway of the van and laughed as he jolted back in surprise. Finally one of the soldiers, pushed Ianto’s head down as another person in the van pulled him in.

Owen had seen Jack’s mask of anger slip when Ianto hit his head on the doorway of the van, but by the time the van had pulled away Jack had suppressed the look of dismay that Owen had glimpsed so briefly.

“Jesus Jack, are you sure you are doing the right thing?”

Jack looked at Owen emotionlessly. “Yes.”

“So, do you need me stay and help with a cover story?”

Owen’s remark seemed to startle Jack out of his indifference.

“What? No, I’ll take care of it. He doesn’t have any relationship with his family or any friends so I can do it easily enough.”

“Well, I’m off then, I need to have a few drinks.”

“Just remember what I told you.”

“Yeah you retconned him and set him up with a new identity.” As Owen began to walk away, a frightening thought occurred to him. “Jack,” he said turning back, “that’s not going to work. There is no way Tosh is going to believe that you retconned him, altered all his records and took him to a new location in less than two days.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed as the truth of Owen’s remarks hit him. “I’ll call Tosh and Gwen and tell them that I don’t want them in the Hub again tomorrow until we complete the cleanup. Tosh can monitor the rift remotely while she and Gwen pack up Ianto’s apartment. You and I can set up the cover story.”

“Jack, I’m no good at that sort of thing….” Owen’s voice trailed out as Jack sneered.

“No you’re not, that’s while you’ll be going over the room where he hid that thing and make sure it’s spotlessly clean.”

Owen opened his mouth to retort but decided that this wouldn’t be the wisest course of action.

“Fine,“ Owen said as he turned to walk away.

“I want you here by 8 AM Owen, hung over or not.”

 “Yeah, whatever.”

 ***

Ianto sat in the van with the hood still over his head. He wasn’t sure why they still had him hooded; after all it was obvious that they were taking him to the large UNIT facility just outside London. He could tell when they got on the M4 and when they left the road again about three and a half hours later. After another hour or so the van finally stopped.

He spoke only once during the trip. “Is it really necessary to keep this hood on…?”

He never got to finish his thought as someone smacked him on the back of the head. The blow wasn’t hard enough to do any real damage but it was painful enough that it jolted him back into the reality of his situation.

“Shut the fuck up,” someone with an Irish accent growled.

Another man laughed. A very upper class voice said, “You’ll have plenty of time to talk once we arrive at our destination, Mr. Jones.” Ianto reckoned it was the UNIT officer, but there was really no way to know.

He was hustled out of the van and inside a building at practically a sprint. Ianto had no idea where they were going. He just kept running, his course altered occasionally by someone dragging him in one direction or another. He could feel the unforgiving concrete under his feet but had no sense of where he was. The only noise was the sound of his breathing along with four, maybe five other sets of footfalls on the floor. The air had a slight antiseptic smell, but other than that, he was running blind. Finally, they stopped.  He heard a door being opened and he was shoved roughly into a new space.

“Ok, he’s all yours, doc,” the cultured voice said.

Ianto could hear the footsteps of people leaving and the door closing behind him.

“Well Mr. Jones, the first thing we need to do is give you a thorough physical.”

Before Ianto could react he felt his clothes being pulled off of him. He instinctively pulled away and winced as he hit his lower back against a table or perhaps a gurney.

Once he was naked, except for the hood, two sets of strong arms lifted him onto the surface of the examination table. The medic proceeded to listen to his heart and lungs, take his blood pressure and test his reflexes. He spoke the whole time, Ianto reckoned it was probably into some type of dictation device.

“Prisoner number 35417. White male, age believed to 23 years old, name recorded as Ianto Siawn Jones. Heart rate is 85 beats a minute and blood pressure is 160 over 100, a bit high, but not unexpected under the circumstances. Lungs sound clear. Medium build. Several scars, the most severe on his left shoulder blade. It is approximately 4 inches long and is typical of a deep laceration. Medical records attribute this to falling debris as patient fled the attack on Torchwood One, London last summer.”

“Additional small scars, most unremarkable with the exception of two deep puncture wounds on his left calf. Dr. Owen Harper of Torchwood 3 notes state that these were from a weevil bite about four months ago.”

He drew several small vials of blood and lifted the hood just enough to swab Ianto’s nose and mouth. “Well so far not so bad,” Ianto thought.

The medic asked Ianto to stand up and walked him over to stand on what he was told was a scale. “Prisoner weighs 160 pounds and stands six foot, one inch tall. His BMI is 21. Dr. Harper’s records state that Mr. Jones has had difficulty sleeping since the Battle of Canary Wharf and often skips meals.”

He was led back to the table and the exam continued as did the doctor’s notes. “Abdominal lymph nodes normal, Testicles descended and normal, no sign of hernias, uncircumcised penis, nothing unusual here.” The doctor paused for a moment.

“I need you to assume the position, Mr. Jones.”

Ianto hesitated momentarily as he was flooded with fear. His limbs seemed paralyzed and he was helpless to move them. 

“Mr. Jones, I’m a doctor, and I’m not trying to hurt you, but I do need to make sure you don’t have anything tucked away anywhere. Do you understand me?” Ianto nodded. “Good just let me get this done and then you’ll be on your way.”

Gripping the table tightly, he felt a cold gloved finger enter him and his legs began to buckle with fear. The doctor droned on, “Anal cavity clean, though a bit pliant indicating prior penetration. Prostate feels normal…turn around please…”

 

The doctor continued to record his notes for a few minutes. “Ok, back on the table please. I’m going to give you a tetanus booster as I don’t see a record of you having had one in the last ten years. Please don’t move; I don’t want the needle to break.”

Ianto nodded. He felt the cool swipe of the alcohol swab and then the prick of a needle. The solution burned.  And then the burn began to spread over his whole body. He felt arms once again holding him place. “They’re killing me,” was the last conscious thought he had.

The doctor removed the hood and continued his dictation noting a small scar over Ianto’s left eyebrow and a large bruise on the right side of the face. “Dr. Harper’s notes indicate that during an altercation two days prior to this exam, prisoner 35417 was physically thrown about ten feet landing on his right side, his face impacting a concrete floor. Prisoner lost consciousness for about 5 minutes but was revived and a subsequent exam did not identify any cranial or nerve damage. Some confusion and verbal outbursts consistent with a concussion were noted.”

He concluded by noting that no psychological testing of the prisoner had been performed, but the prisoner seemed unusually docile and cooperative. Finally he finished his notes and quickly covered Ianto’s prone body with a sheet.

“Well he’s all yours,” he said, turning to the UNIT officer and the two soldiers who had remained in the room.

As Ianto was wheeled out on the gurney, the doctor sighed and took off his gloves. “Poor bastard,” he thought as Ianto’s body disappeared out of view, “you have no idea what’s in store for you.”

Chapter 3 here: http://aviv-b.livejournal.com/83881.html