A Boston Detective in a
Welsh Alien-Defense Agency
Matt Seely liked to think he was prepared for anything. And hey, who didn't like to think that about themselves? No one wants to admit that, when faced with a brand new and slightly scary situation, they will freak out and shut down in an attempt to process it, because that's the normal human response. And another thing about being a normal human being was that every normal human wanted to extraordinary, better than the rest.
He was sitting in the middle of court – he'd already testified, but he wanted to see the verdict get passed and this guy get put in jail (he considered it to be revenge for being stuck in the morgue elevator with a rotting shark corpse; it was, somewhat indirectly, this guy's fault). Matt was just sitting there, on that bench, not drawing any attention to himself at all (he knew a number of people would have been shocked by that, but he'd grown up under the edict of 'seen, but not heard' – he knew how to be quiet). And then, suddenly, he wasn't sitting there. Or standing there. Or there at all.
(There was no sound, or flash of light, and Matt didn't exactly have any plans for later, so Matt Seely's disappearance went unnoticed until the next day, when he failed to show for roll call. Many irate messages were left in his voicemail, but when there was no response twenty-four hours later, and he still hadn't been seen, the annoyance turned to panic and a number of detectives were sent to investigate. One of those detectives, Woody Hoyt, also later got reprimanded for punching one of the FBI agents assigned to the case after some evidence was uncovered that Seely might have been taken to a different state. But that isn't our story.)
Thankfully, the whatever-it-was happened in the middle of one of Matt's blinks, so he wasn't subjected to an instant visual change. Instead, there was a moment where he felt his mind go BLIP, and then he opened his eyes – and blinked a number of times in quick succession. "Uh." He'd gone from sitting in a dusty, creaky Boston courtroom, to sitting in a particularly odd looking morgue (he knew it was a morgue because he spent more time in morgues than was healthy for any person – any living person, anyway; he wasn't as bad as Woody, yet, but he knew it was just a matter of time). And he went from sitting on a wooden bench to sitting on... an autopsy table. "I'm not dead!" Matt shouted, jumping up and pointing accusingly at the only other figure in the room. Said figure, in a white lab coat, jumped about a foot into the air and whirled around, mouth gaping open. "Also," Matt said, regaining some of his equilibrium, "You're gonna swallow flies if you keep that up."
The figure – well, guy, actually, probably in about his mid-twenties with spiky brown hair and a wide mouth – slammed his lips together quickly, and then smacked a button next to him. "Jack, we've got a little situation down here," he said, voice not nearly shaken enough for Matt's likes. After all, Matt figured, everybody else involved in this should be at i least /i as shaken up as he was. And also...
"Hey! I'm not little!" he snapped, ignoring the fact that he was, yes, actually pouting now. The lab coat man didn't get a chance to respond, though, as while he started to open his big mouth, there was a clatter from above (seriously, the slightly hysterical part of Matt's mind said, this was a completely bizarre morgue), and a broad figure (his mind, hysterical Matt said, needed to install a thesaurus so he could come up with a term other than 'figure') appeared in what seemed to be straight-from-the-Second-World-War clothing.
"Jack! This guy just appeared out of nowhere, without setting off any of the Rift monitoring devices!" It was hard to tell if lab coat guy – and Matt could now see that the front of his lab coat was covered in various buttons, which amused the hysterical parts of himself – was freaked out, or just annoyed, but it sounded more like annoyed. Well, Matt thought, wasn't like he wanted to be here either! He stuck his tongue out at what he was assuming was a doctor.
World War II reject frowned, and then addressed doctor lab coat. "That's... pretty much impossible. Who, and/or what, is he?"
Hysterical was taking over control of Matt. "Hey, I'm right here, Mr. World War Reject!" he snapped, waving his arm around. "You could ask me, you know!" He plastered a fake smile on his face and stuck out his hand. "Hi, I'm Detective Matt Seely, Boston PD, it's a pleasure to meet you." Again, he had been raised with manners. Just because he ignored them ninety-nine percent of the time didn't mean he had forgotten how to utilize them sarcastically.
Lab coat didn't even bother to hide his snickering, despite the half-frown, half-smirk, raised-eyebrow of the guy that, Matt was pretty sure, was his boss. He crossed over to where Matt was standing, still next to the autopsy table, and shook his hand. "Doctor Owen Harper, the pleasure's all yours." This was followed up by what Matt believed to be a leer. Boy, he hoped he didn't look that stupid all the times he'd leered at people. "Welcome to Torchwood."