Chapter Text
"Evan, have you heard?"
Debbie Connor's auburn curls bounced with excitement as she ran into the Espress Lane, a gust of rain-soaked spring air following her through the door. Ianto gave his boss a smart salute, enjoying the cool breeze until it was overtaken by the espresso machine's steam wand.
"Have I heard what?" It had been more than two years since he'd fled Cardiff, eighteen months since the House of the Dead nightmare, and his life in Toronto had become downright routine. Ianto had settled so comfortably into life as Evan Hughes that he instinctively answered to the name. Although he still kept an eye out for anything suspicious, he'd also relaxed his security standards. His blinds were open more often than not. He'd reduced scans of his flat to a biweekly process, in part because it was an excess of paranoia, and in part because the batteries on the old Torchwood gear were running low. They weren't the sort of thing you nipped out to the megamart to replace.
He finished steaming the milk for a latte and faced Debbie, who was now staring at him impatiently from the entrance to the break room.
"It's a miracle!"
He gave it careful consideration before replying. "Danceable if a bit formulaic. Definitely not one of Culture Club's best."
She laughed, coming around the stainless steel counter as she pulled her hair up into a clip. "It's been all over the news. Something's happened. For the last 24 hours, no one has died."
"Well, it is Toronto. Not exactly a wretched hive of scum and villainy." He grabbed a cup from the stack and popped a sleeve over its middle.
"No, I mean no one. Nowhere on the planet. Really nowhere, too." She waved her travel mug around perilously as she topped her refill with nutmeg. "Not like that thing with the kids chanting."
Midway through pouring the milk, Ianto stopped breathing as his skin was bathed with gooseflesh.
"Evan?"
He swallowed hard, trying to loosen the knot of muscle threatening to strangle him. "That's... unusual."
"No kidding." She snatched the remote from under the counter and shut off the house music. Mounted on one of the rusty red painted walls at the other side of the shop was a television, and she switched it from a dance competition to a news broadcast. Some talking head was opining on a subject called "Miracle Day."
Scientists are baffled but recommending caution. Because we do not know the cause, we cannot be certain how long it...
The man waiting for the latte gaped at the screen, "It's for real? I thought the guy next to me on the bus was practising for a play or something."
Debbie nodded enthusiastically, turning up the volume. The lady curled up in the worn plaid easy chair put down her book and turned her attention to the television.
Something didn't feel right to him, but Ianto tore himself away so he could finish the drink without getting burnt. Of course it didn't feel right, but strange things happened all the time that had nothing to do with aliens or rifts in time and space. "How about one of our blueberry muffins to go with your coffee, sir?" He pasted on a smile as he handed over the cup. "Nothing to lose now, right?"
His mind raced as he bagged not just one but two muffins. It's not your job to care. That's what Torchwood is for. Well, UNIT if it's global, but we'll be... they will be working it, too. And that's if it's even true, not an overreaction to a statistical anomaly. "There you go. Would you like anything else?" He chatted amiably with the man as he rang him out, though he could have been speaking Russian for all Ianto actually paid attention to the conversation.
"So, Debbie," Ianto asked as he pushed the cash drawer closed. He waited for the sound of the bells clanging on the exit door before continuing. "You mentioned the kids chanting. How'd people take it here?"
"Oh, God, it was so creepy," she replied. She wasn't looking at him, too focused on polishing the refrigerator case, but she shivered for dramatic effect. "I have to admit, it's the best-organised flash mob ever."
"A flash mob?"
This prompted her to stop, and she peered around the stainless steel unit, face contorted in comic bewilderment. "You were living in a cave back then, admit it. Hand me the steel polish." The doorbells rang and a silver-haired lady in a pink tracksuit hobbled in on too-high heels.
"Afternoon, Mrs. Nash!" he shouted, then, in a lower voice as he handed Debbie the can, "I told you, I was in hospital from the accident when all that happened." He stepped behind the register. "The usual skinny cappuccino to keep that gorgeous figure?"
Debbie bowed her head and smirked, rubbing at the glob of baby formula an enthusiastic two year old had lobbed onto it shortly after he'd opened the shop. A few minutes later, they had the place to themselves again, more or less. The man in far corner of the sitting area had returned to his texting, and the woman at the other side was busy flipping through an outdated copy of Vogue. Ianto idly began wiping the steam off his lenses with a bar mop as Debbie perched on the counter across from him.
"So you really don't know?" she asked, heels impatiently tapping at the shelf beneath her.
"I was rather distracted at the time." And angry. Mostly angry.
"Well, the day after it stopped, some French teenagers admitted planning it." She scooted backwards, getting comfortable while he leaned against the opposite counter. "They found evidence on YouTube of practice runs in a few cities. Facebook posts setting the times. Even SMS messages turned up once the phone companies agreed to release the data."
Thorough. He pretended to be shocked. "But I thought it affected the entire world?"
"Not really, but they..." She nodded at the newscaster. "...Always think if it's not happening in the First World, it's not happening at all. Once people got past the panic, they realised that in the Third World, especially really remote areas, it hadn't been happening."
"Less media access," he agreed. And lots of tyrants to scare their people into denying anything was wrong in their perfect little dictatorships. "Whoa."
"No kidding. But you know what really scared me about it?"
"What's that?" he asked, leaning in.
She lowered her voice. "How governments reacted. Some knees got seriously jerked out of joint."
"Like?"
"Kids in the UK were being rounded up for vaccinations. Evidently, chanting in unison is caused by a virus." She made air quotes around the last word, heels still tapping an annoyed rhythm on the counter's frame. "Lots of cities cut off local water supplies, claiming they were contaminated with hallucinogens. Religious groups got investigated. Coaches and teachers were questioned."
He remembered that part all too well. It was more difficult than usual to keep the anger from returning while he played dumb, but he soldiered on. "Sounds like they were grasping at straws."
"They were, and I get that, but what I don't get is why people bought into it. You'd think there would have been massive protests, at least more than those groups who protest just because it's Tuesday."
Realising he'd towelled his glasses dry four times over, he slipped them back in place and turned his attention to his neck, rubbing out the tension building there. "People naturally gravitate towards any reasonable solution to chaos." Debbie shrugged agreement, clearly not pleased even if she accepted a truth he'd relied on so often back in Cardiff. "So, what of the kids who admitted organising it?"
"I don't know. I heard they were going to get some sort of punishment for inducing mass hysteria, but―"
"―It sort of just disappeared from the radar once they'd come forward?"
"Yeah."
Possibly relocated with new identities. More likely dead so they can never expose the cover-up. An extended blink was the only outward sign of how disgusted he felt. "And now, no one's dying."
"Bit tougher to arrange through social media, that." She stared at the television for a moment then turned back to him. "Do you think it's a miracle miracle?"
Ianto considered his words carefully. They'd talked about a lot on the job―Debbie didn't tolerate silence for long―but politics and religion had stayed on the sidelines where they belonged. He had a feeling that wasn't going to be true much longer. "I don't believe in miracles, but I don't know what else to call it just yet." The singularity? Is this when everything changes?
Biologists and zoologists have confirmed that initial tests on major animal species show normal life functions. The situation appears to be isolated to humans. For more on the subject, we take you to...
"It's huge, though, if it's true."
"Much bigger than us," he agreed. It was the sort of thing that would have had them all in the Hub no matter what the hour, furiously checking and cross-checking, trawling the media, setting all of their sensors to the broadest scans possible. Gwen would be frowning, Jack dissembling...
The urge to do something, anything, was almost overwhelming, but so was the urge to protect himself. Ianto pushed away from the counter, spying a stack of magazines that needed straightened. "I think we should focus on what we do best, saving the world one cup at a time."
"Yeah," Debbie replied with a bitter laugh before brightening. In fact, I'll bet immortal people need even more coffee, what with all that living."
That's an understatement. "Then we'd best get brewing before funeral homes catch on and convert to Starbucks franchises."
Debbie's optimism was the only thing that kept Ianto focused on work for the rest of his shift. Every time he allowed himself to ponder the ramifications, Are the affected people like Jack? Or Owen?, he'd hear Debbie working with a customer, chatting about this supposed immortality like it was nothing more significant than a new fashion trend. And that was the right attitude to have. For the first time since Torchwood had opened his eyes, he was back on the sidelines. He had to react and adapt; he could not control.
Yet, after his shift ended, he found himself sitting on an empty planter outside one of Toronto's cybercafes. All those months of flawless self-discipline, not even the slightest peek into what he'd left behind, and a single day's news had him considering throwing it all away. But he had to know. What was the story in Cardiff? How had they explained the explosion in the Plass? How was Rhiannon coping with the fallout?
Of more immediate importance, was Gwen okay? She, of all people, knew just how bad not dying really was, no matter how shiny it looked on the surface. Unless something horrible had happened with her pregnancy, she'd be losing her mind at the idea of her child facing anything like Jack's curse. No doubt she'd have Torchwood all over it, because, of equally little doubt, she'd have rebuilt something. She was too stubborn to let them bully her into submission. If she hadn't been able to take the reins officially after UNIT finished the clean-up, then she'd have set up something underground.
So, really, what harm would it do to reassure himself about the situation? With a little time spent in a few reliable conspiracy forums, he could have answers without even attempting to access Mainframe or the remote copies of the Torchwood apps. He could use his spare identity's credit card to pay for the use of the computer, and he should be able to find something open source to mop up most of his trail. What little trace he'd leave behind would be overwhelmed by this thing they were calling Miracle Day.
But as traffic hummed and honked behind him, he didn't move from his seat on the edge of the concrete planter. Instead, he picked idly at a dead petunia, watching as people came and went. Children. So many children. Most of them the right age to have been controlled by the 456. None of them aware that the man they were passing had died in a desperate bid to keep their government from shipping them off to a bunch of alien stoners.
When the lights in the shop finally went out, he tossed his cup of cold coffee into the bin and walked away.
**
"This Miracle thing sucks." Ianto found it less disturbing that Eric had started using the same title case emphasis as the news readers than the fact that his co-worker was holding his Nintendo DS in such a way that it seemed like the black box had sprouted blonde dreadlocks.
"And this," Debbie said, pressing down on Eric's arm, "is a work meeting."
"I'm on my own time!" he grumbled even as he snapped the case closed and slapped the unit on the scratched veneer surface of the table they were sharing.
"No, you're on the clock."
"Yeah, but this isn't my regular shift, so it may as well be."
Debbie's head sagged into her hands, gripping her skull like she was trying to hold her brain in. Normally, she was excellent at dealing with Eric's lack of social graces, but her neighbourhood had been one of the toughest hit by the upswing in vandalism post-Miracle, and she'd not been getting much sleep.
"It's not likely to encourage customers to linger over a scone," Ianto agreed, nodding to the empty sitting area. Not that anyone would be there at the moment, since the shop was closed, but the point was made nonetheless. Three employees was practically a crowd.
"God, I know," Debbie sighed. "Like we need anything else to cut into sales."
"Yeah, um, speaking of needing, I need more hours."
Debbie glared at Eric. "Weren't you the one just complaining about this meeting for which you are getting paid?"
"I had to make a special trip for this. A half hour barely covers bus fare."
Sometimes Eric really reminded Ianto of Owen. Other than the fact he was younger, blonder, and far less brilliant. And alive.
"The hand sanitizer dispensers should boost their confidence," Ianto interjected with a shrug.
"Right-o, Evan. In fact, Debinator, I bet we could seriously increase sales if we closed the shop up in a bubble. 'Espress Lane: not incubating the apocalypse, try our new sterile roast!'"
Ianto snorted even as Debbie gave a begrudging smile. "Okay, so, the police department is increasing patrols. In some neighbourhoods. Not mine, but..." she grumbled under her breath, "but we want to take care of them. Owners said if an officer comes in, plain old coffee is free. We can give them a 50% discount on anything else."
"We could replace our aprons with hazmat suits!"
"I have a question," Ianto jumped in again, trying to help Debbie keep things on track.
"Yes?" she asked gratefully.
"Have the owners suggested an official 'Espress Lane' viewpoint on the Miracle for when we discuss it with customers?"
"I think people are smart enough to know when something is our own opinion," Eric said.
"But what we say represents the store, so it's probably best to say things that aren't likely to upset the customers… or the people who pay us," Ianto replied.
"Good one, Evan, I'll ask."
Eric made butt kissing noises at him, but Ianto just leaned over and mock-whispered, "We should see if they can have our logo put on the hazmat suits."
"Awesome!"
"Boys!" They both snapped to attention. "Ideas for increasing business?" Eric raised his arm, waving it vigorously.
"Yes, Hermione?"
"Open the shop up to gaming groups."
"You can't do that on campus? In the dorms or empty classrooms?"
"No one's got rooms that are big enough, and the university has given up most of the extra space for people researching the Miracle. With this many Smiths slithering around, I'm starting to think I should've taken the red pill."
"Sadly, I know exactly what he means for once. Do you?" Debbie asked Ianto, and he nodded. He did have a vague idea. He hadn't had a chance to see the films, but the references had been plentiful when he was scanning the results of Toshiko's hacker trackers. "I've seen you play, Eric. You're not exactly quiet."
"That's console gaming. This is old school. Boards, dice, miniatures. One night a week."
"Trial run. Wednesdays after seven because we're totally deserted. I expect massive amounts of java will be sold."
"The spice shall flow."
"What?" they asked in unison.
"Philistines." Eric laughed at them.
"Evan, you're still running the highest count in positive customer comment cards." Ianto nodded. "And Eric, you still have the most negative cards." Eric punched the air. "However, you've also got the best sales per shift, and your drawer is always exact. You'll last another week on the island."
"I live to serve."
Ianto snorted.
"So, are we done?"
She checked her notes. "Yup. We're done. Go raid a dungeon."
"Actually, I'm volunteering over at the hospital. Though I guess that's kind of a dungeon."
"You're what?"
"My roomie's a premed, and things are really jumping over there. He hooked me up to help out."
"Seriously. You?"
"I have a soft side." At their shared look of shock, he added, "Fine. Their server guy was in a wreck, should be dead but isn't. He's also not exactly conscious. So they promoted their best desktop guy to his job, but he needs hands, and anyone who knows the difference between a register and a registry has been scooped up to work with the medical panels. So, even though I'm not done with school, they're going to let me grope and fondle the network!" He waggled his fingers with an evil grin. "Excellent resume fodder. Hasta mañana."
Debbie locked the door behind Eric, setting the roller shades so they would be blocking the sun in the morning. "Thanks for staying late. Since Jenny left for grad school, I feel like we've been taking advantage of you."
"So you've mentioned," Ianto replied with an amused smirk. He dragged the mop and bucket out of the storage closet and restarted the closing chores they'd interrupted for the after-hours team meeting.
"I know, I know, it's not my fault they wouldn't let us replace her, but I still feel like it's unfair how many hours you're working."
He shrugged, squeezing a healthy amount of cleaner into the bucket. "You can always give more hours to Eric. I hear he wants them." Pulling out the spigot, he cranked the tap open and began the slow filling process.
Debbie snorted a laugh, but it faded into a sigh. "What good are these?" she asked, holding up a pair of plastic frames that normally lived on the counter in front of the jars of display beans. They were certificates from Time Out and Toronto Life, proudly declaring Espress Lane had been voted best coffee. "We bust our butts to put out a good product. It's way better than Timmy's or Starbucks, but they have lines out the door, and we're barely staying afloat."
"We're not as close to the campus, and they have more buying―"
"--more buying power. I know. Rhetorical." She rubbed her eyes. "So what's your opinion on the Miracle? Give me a sponge. Think it's permanent?"
He put a scrub sponge on the counter, then he bent down to swish the suds in the bucket. "Permanent is impossible." Except when it's not.
"If you'd asked me that last week, I'd've said temporary was impossible. No one's died for five days. Five days!"
"There's bound to be a reasonable explanation." Or at least a reasonable cover story.
"Immortality, though, isn't that amazing?"
"I doubt it's all it's cracked up to be."
"Okay, maybe if you take the whole solitary immortal angle, like the emo vampire thing, but what if everyone's immortal? Then you wouldn't be watching the people you love die while you lived on."
He paused as the old ache returned to his gut. His instincts were still scratching on the doors, trying to get out. They wanted to do something: investigate, learn… FIX. Instead, all he did was mumble, "Planet's going to get pretty full," as he reached over to turn off the water.
Debbie stopped, stared at the counter then back at him again, as the weight of the comment settled on both of them. "Look at places like Japan, though. They make do with very little land."
"And North America is practically empty outside the major cities."
"A lot of that land is farmland. If people move into it that means less food."
He rolled the bucket out to the far corner near the door, then began mopping, his work sloppier than usual in his haste to distract himself. "We've developed much more efficient growing methods. Fewer farmers feed more people with less land, and a lot of crops are grown for non-food purposes. If they stopped making ethanol from corn, for instance, we could feed more off the same amount of land."
"More farmers, then?"
"Well, for a start, though I imagine that wouldn't solve the long run. But it doesn't matter, because this cannot be permanent." He shoved the mop around like he was trying to interrogate it.
"Why?"
"If it was evolutionary, then it would have happened slowly. This seems like it happened overnight. Something triggered it." Like aliens, or advanced tech in the wrong hands. I'm only surprised it didn't happen at Christmas.
"So what happened? What caused it?"
"I couldn't even begin to speculate." If Torchwood couldn't solve one man's impossible immortality, it was going to take thousands of minds focused 100% to sort it for an entire planet. His opinion was even more inconsequential than the horrible job he was doing mopping the floor. He dunked the mop and wrung it out, starting in a new spot.
"It seems strange, though, doesn't it? Knowing if something happens to you, you won't die? I'll make the deposit tonight. I've got to stop on the way home anyhow." The vacuum's whir was a welcome relief from her rapid-fire questions, but, as usual, she was quick and efficient cleaning the rugs in the sitting area. He was only just beginning to mop behind the counter as she looped up the cord. "What if this had happened before your accident? Think you'd have come back to Toronto?"
"Hard to say, really. I like facts, not hypotheses."
Ianto was startled to feel her hand on his shoulder in a firm, friendly pat. It was the first time he'd been touched that way since he'd fled Cardiff. Not a restrained, professional handshake. Not a mostly-anonymous fuck. Human. Familiar. And for a moment, he allowed himself to lean into it, to feel it, then just as quickly he turned to wring out the mop a last time.
Debbie continued as if she hadn't noticed. "Well, I'm glad you did come here. I don't know what Espress Lane would do without you."
"Drown Eric in a vat of hazelnut syrup?"