Torchwood Part One

What follows is a taster. I started writing a Torchwood piece I think at some point in 2008, but never did any more with it. This is literally copy and pasted. Haven't edited it at all. Hope it's half decent now.

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It was raining that night near The Bay. In fact it was raining so heavily that night it fully qualified to be classed as chucking it down. That being said, when was it ever not chucking it down these days? Through the rain the slap of running feet on sodden tarmac could just about be heard. Not the steady solid splash of a dedicated jogger out for one last lap of The Bay before turning in for the night, but the erratic panicked irregular thud of a flat footed person in terror. As they ran, their arms were flung wide, as if they did not care where their limbs went. The clothes he wore were not only drenched but were wet to the point of slowing him down. He ripped at his jacket, clawed at the tie around his throat, still ran. He ran down by the harbour, up past the parliament building, along outside the Millennium Centre, then doubling back, he seemed to trip and land face down in a puddle right at the foot of Roald Dahl Plaas. With a summoning up of energy that to a man in his state was nothing short of extraordinary, he began to pound on the paving stone right beneath him. He was pounding so hard, his hands began to bruise. They began to graze. They began to bleed, and soon after, the bones began to break. Finally, with a last cry into the dismal night, he stopped. He just lay there and sobbed. His blood ran from his broken hands, down into the cracks in the pavement, down the step he was on, and stopped at a pair of large leather boots. These boots were filled by a tall man looking completely nonchalant despite the heavens spilling all they could onto him and from the shining of his immaculate teeth you could tell he was American. The man still lay there bleeding and sobbing at his feet.
“Hey there!” The tall man called over the sound of rain. “You know you're letting the side down? Grown man crying and all of that”. He nudged the man with his foot. No response. “Aww, come on! You're not even trying anymore!”
The man on the floor, slowly looked up. With a great effort, he spoke, his Welsh accent struggling to be heard, “This isn't enough for you? This isn't worth your time? My very life is not enough for you?”
“Not really,” he replied, almost bored by it all. “Not when you moan about it.”
“Well...” He paused to pull himself up onto his knees. “How would you have me talk about it?”
“I'd have you thanking me for the valuable experience, the training, and I don't know, for giving you the time of day in the first place.”
“Never going to happen!”
The tall man looked down at his coat and made a half hearted attempt to brush away some of the rain soaking it. “Over your dead body, and all of that?” he asked the bleeding man, who had by now managed to stand up almost defying the man in front of him.
“Damn straight!” A definitely defiant scowl crossed his features. He paused for a moment before continuing. “If this is how you treat all the fools that decide to work for you then I'm not at all surprised at your high turnover!”
“Trying to be businesslike in the face of adversity? Now you're beginning to impress.”
“Well, I'm glad one of us is impressed.”