Ianto Jones woke up with a start. He had fallen asleep at the public entrance to Torchwood underneath the harbour at Roald Dahl Plas, an unassuming and quiet mock-office selling old-fashioned postcards of Cardiff and offering the infrequent visitor weak tea. Wiping the drool off his jacket, Ianto checked his watch. It was 3:30 in the afternoon. He looked around him. Had the Doctor and Batman already taken the Scarecrow and the Joker back through the Rift to Gotham? He moved to pick up the phone to call Jack, but caught himself and burst out laughing. Batman?!
Still, it had been an extraordinary dream, he thought, as the left the public entrance to find something a bit stronger to drink. He'd imagined it in such detail, and it was as if he'd been all the characters—Jack meeting Bruce in the Batcave, the Doctor in ignorance of his Arkham cellmates, Martha nearly getting her throat cut, all those Weevils on the attack . . .
Maybe he'd be able to turn it into a saucy roleplay for the next time he and Jack used the stopwatch . . . As Ianto tottered through the Torchwood wine cellar—not many people knew it existed—he was required to pass the holding cells. So he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard scratching and hissing coming from inside one of the cells. He'd dropped and smashed the tea tray he'd been carrying; the sugar bowl burst and left shiny white all over the floor, the milk ran down the drain.
Horrified, Ianto peered into the cell where the racket was coming from. Inside, a woman dressed in black leather was angrily running the claw-like nails of her costume across the Perspex walls. Her face was half-hidden by a set of cat-eyed goggles. "Catwoman?!"
"Where the hell am I?" she hissed. "You can't keep me here, I demand to see my lawyer! I've got friends in high and low places, and if I don't get an explanation right now, I'm going to tear this glass to kingdom come!"
Roll Torchwood Credits
THE END (?)