First Person (entry type): Dear diary: 1. My birthday is a cosmic joke. 2. My job sucks. 3. The woman I love left me in an aeroplane in order to go somewhere new. Without me. Even though that's not how the stupid damned rift works.
These journal type things, they're more Ianto's thing, aren't they? But I get the idea behind it. I know that writing down your thoughts and emotions is supposed to help you organize yourself. Some shit like that. I don't need to organize anything; I don't need to explore my feelings or work out how I'm going to deal with them. I don't need to make sense of it all. I just need to go out, get sloppy drunk, and... Hell.
Think I'll complete my night by staying in, eating a pint of ice cream and watching Sixteen Candles, or something. After all, I'm already acting like enough of a woman. Might as well go full tilt.
Third Person: The man on the autopsy table had, quite literally, gotten the raw end of the deal here. The Weevil that had attacked him, had shredded his face and torn at his throat, was currently being housed in the cells in the lower levels of Torchwood, Jack watching it as if divining some kind of meaning from its sorry existence; meanwhile, this poor sod was stone dead and stuck with only Owen for company. Very raw end, if he said so himself.
It wasn't fair, really, Owen thought as he went through the motions of the autopsy, partly for the sake of the report but mostly for practice. This guy, marked "Mitchell Baker" on the report, hadn't done anything really wrong. He'd been piss drunk, that was clear from the toxicology reports, had an outbreak of herpes and his wallet was mostly empty, but none of that meant he deserved to get mauled by a Weevil. Christ, half of his nights out ended up with two of those three things happening to him, and he was pretty sure he deserved the mauling more than any Baker.
It was even less fair, he lamented, that they hadn't kept up with the Weevil when they'd been tracking it, because if they had, maybe Mr. Baker here wouldn't be quite so dead. It was a distinct possibility, one that must've shown on his face because Jack had taken one look at him and said, "This is just something that happens." Like he should get over it. Easy for Jack to say. But, it was true, he guessed. Nothing to be done. Win some, lose some. Some of them, you caught the Weevil before it did any damage; sometimes you didn't. Sometimes, you'd catch the alien tumor before it killed its host; sometimes you didn't.
Owen wondered at how nonchalant he was being, and then realized that he'd done the entire autopsy without even paying attention. He was getting too used to dealing with the sometimes you didn't part of this job, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.
Owen Harper [3/3]
Dear diary:
1. My birthday is a cosmic joke.
2. My job sucks.
3. The woman I love left me in an aeroplane in order to go somewhere new. Without me. Even though that's not how the stupid damned rift works.
These journal type things, they're more Ianto's thing, aren't they? But I get the idea behind it. I know that writing down your thoughts and emotions is supposed to help you organize yourself. Some shit like that. I don't need to organize anything; I don't need to explore my feelings or work out how I'm going to deal with them. I don't need to make sense of it all. I just need to go out, get sloppy drunk, and... Hell.
Think I'll complete my night by staying in, eating a pint of ice cream and watching Sixteen Candles, or something. After all, I'm already acting like enough of a woman. Might as well go full tilt.
Third Person:
The man on the autopsy table had, quite literally, gotten the raw end of the deal here. The Weevil that had attacked him, had shredded his face and torn at his throat, was currently being housed in the cells in the lower levels of Torchwood, Jack watching it as if divining some kind of meaning from its sorry existence; meanwhile, this poor sod was stone dead and stuck with only Owen for company. Very raw end, if he said so himself.
It wasn't fair, really, Owen thought as he went through the motions of the autopsy, partly for the sake of the report but mostly for practice. This guy, marked "Mitchell Baker" on the report, hadn't done anything really wrong. He'd been piss drunk, that was clear from the toxicology reports, had an outbreak of herpes and his wallet was mostly empty, but none of that meant he deserved to get mauled by a Weevil. Christ, half of his nights out ended up with two of those three things happening to him, and he was pretty sure he deserved the mauling more than any Baker.
It was even less fair, he lamented, that they hadn't kept up with the Weevil when they'd been tracking it, because if they had, maybe Mr. Baker here wouldn't be quite so dead. It was a distinct possibility, one that must've shown on his face because Jack had taken one look at him and said, "This is just something that happens." Like he should get over it. Easy for Jack to say. But, it was true, he guessed. Nothing to be done. Win some, lose some. Some of them, you caught the Weevil before it did any damage; sometimes you didn't. Sometimes, you'd catch the alien tumor before it killed its host; sometimes you didn't.
Owen wondered at how nonchalant he was being, and then realized that he'd done the entire autopsy without even paying attention. He was getting too used to dealing with the sometimes you didn't part of this job, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.