Bloody Torchwood

Verne’s eyes flickered open, and she was greeted by quite a sight. Five figures were now spreading out from the door, which swung slowly shut. Four were holding hand guns, and one had some kind of pocket computer clasped in her hands.
The closest man was tall and dressed in a light blue button up shirt, black trousers, braces and an old Royal Air Force great coat, coloured dark navy blue – which fit his broad shoulders nicely, flattering his trim figure. He had slightly messed black hair – spiky enough to be stylish, yet tidy enough to be professional. He was obviously in his late thirties, early forties be he had aged very well. He had the chiseled features of a well paid movie star and the bluest eyes Verne had ever seen. Bright as the sky in the middle of summer, piercing electric blue. He was obviously one of those ‘attractive older man’ types, and seemed quite aware of it, though not arrogant about it. Though he was absorbed in his surroundings, he exuded a casual kind of confidence that only came of being rather good looking – or thinking you were.
Verne coughed and spat out a hunk of dry wall. The coat wearing man jumped, his gun arm swinging to point directly at the flame haired girl. The gun was not the modern glock that was carried by the others, who seemed to be members of some kind of team – it was an old Webley Mark IV revolver, the barrel carrying the scars of many battles, and the grip worn smooth by a lifetime of use. Verne recognized the make instantly – she’d learned to shoot a modern handgun on one of those, from a boyfriend who’d been in the airforce.
“Hi,” Verne murmured sheepishly, raising her hand to flex her fingers in greeting. The man next to the RAF coat trained his glock on Verne, his eyes narrowing and his jaw clenching. He looked to be in his mid twenties with sandy brown hair parted with an artist’s eye, a pale complexion and stormy grey eyes. He wasn’t as striking as the other man, but he was still attractive in his own way.
He was dressed to perfection – his suit was impeccable: charcoal grey trousers and blazer, crimson shirt that matched his complexion extremely well, and a tie with matching waistcoat in black. He gave off a strong whiff of control freak – or, if not control freak, OCD sufferer. His expression was serious, his brow furrowed and his lips pursed.
The rest of the company consisted of two dark haired women and a thin man.
The man looked to be in his late twenties, with dark brown hair and grey eyes. He wore a thick leather jacket and a pair of dark, straight leg jeans over his thin frame in an obvious attempt to look bigger and tougher without lifting weights, shaving his head or getting a few tattoos. His mouth was cruel, and his face gave off the idea that he was older than he actually was, or that’d he’d seen things that shouldn’t be seen.
Verne’s eyes slid to one of the women. She was of obvious Asian descent, and looked to be about the same age as the leather clad man – possibly a little younger, though it was hard to tell with his pre-naturally aged face. The Asian woman was very pretty, in a reserved kind of way. Quietly glowing, but not drawing a huge amount of attention to herself – understated. She held a kind of pocket computer in her small, delicate hands, her head stooped to read the screen, her poker straight bangs falling in her eyes. Her short hair hung straight and shining black to the shoulders of her purple coat.
The other woman was a doe eyed, freckle faced beauty, with a large gap in her top front teeth. Her hair was similar to that of the Asian woman’s – long and black, straight with thick bangs across the forehead. She was dressed in a black leather jacket and a pair of figure hugging jeans. One her feet, Verne noted incredulously, was a pair of high heeled, knee length leather boots.
This one was definitely a cop – though her choice of foot wear seemed to speak otherwise! – Verne decided. Or perhaps an ex-cop. Either way, she gave off a strong whiff of PC Plod.
All of Verne’s observations took less than seven seconds to complete.
“Jack?” The doe eyed woman said, glancing towards the RAF coat wearer, who was still staring hard at Verne, his Webley trained on her.
“Jack?” The obviously Welsh woman repeated, turning her eyes briefly to him, as though expecting chocolate brown to meet electric blue. It didn’t happen, and her eyes slid back to the creature this Jack had previously shot.
“Mm?” Jack retorted, glancing at her for a split second before looking back to Verne. His aim never wavered, not even as he breathed. Verne had to admire that – she knew what a good gunman looked like, and the blue eyed man's stance screamed ‘I learnt how to use a gun before I learnt how to walk’.
“What?” He added, his American accent apparent, though he only spoke one word. The Welsh woman’s eyes widened slightly, fixed on the corpse.
“It’s not staying dead, Jack.”