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“Why,” Owen Harper began, trying to somehow contort his own body into an even smaller shape underneath his umbrella, which was offering scant protection from the elements; his coat was already soggy, and he wondered how long he had before it was entirely sodden. Maybe he should consider it an experiment. “Does it rain so bloody much in Cardiff?”
Gwen and Ianto exchanged looks from beneath their own umbrellas. Owen wasn’t entirely sure why Ianto’s seemed to be entirely unaffected by the howling gale they were stood in, but then he wouldn’t put it past him to have engineered some kind of super-umbrella that was immune to wind; he certainly looked irritatingly dry, suit and all, his hair only slightly ruffled by the wind. Gwen’s own offering was a much smaller umbrella adorned with small multi-coloured polka dots, and while it was holding up admirably against the storm, she did look rather damp, although not especially bothered by that fact.
“It’s Wales,” Ianto said, as though that explained everything. Perhaps it did. “It rains.”
“Aren’t you from London?” Gwen noted with a smirk. “I’m pretty sure it also rains in London.”
“It doesn’t rain like this,” Owen shuddered, his soggy jeans sticking to his legs. “This is like the end of the world, and I’d know, because I was there for that and all.”
“It didn’t rain at that particular end of the world,” Ianto pointed out. “So maybe this is actually more of a post-apocalyptic thing. Or maybe it’s just the Welsh weather.”
“Oi,” Owen called to Jack, who was crouched in the middle of the back garden they were stood in, examining the small crater and damaged alien ship that had brought them out in the middle of a storm. Owen had never experienced a hurricane, but he wondered if it was anything like this; perhaps he’d end up in Oz if he wasn’t careful. Or was that a tornado? Whatever. Fucking extreme weather events. He wasn’t designed for this; he didn’t have a fancy military coat like Jack to keep himself dry, he wasn’t a local and therefore inured to the Welsh weather like Gwen and Ianto, and he wasn’t sufficiently interested in anything to be able to ignore the downpour like Tosh, who was crouched beside Jack with a large, waterproof torch. Sensibly, she’d forsaken her glasses.
Jack looked up at him with a frown. “What?”
“You’ve been about a bit. Is this apocalyptic weather, or post-apocalyptic?”
“It’s just Wales,” Jack told him with a grin. “The actual rapture involved a lot more fire. Or at least the one I went to did, although that might just have been a theme night. I was a little worse for drink at the time.”
“Why,” Owen asked him with considerable bitterness. “Did you decide to pick the Torchwood outpost with the shittest weather?”
“It could’ve been worse,” Jack pointed out, then adopted a broad Scottish accent: “We could be in bonnie Glasgow, aye.”
“He’s got a point,” Gwen reasoned. “Then it’d be midges or snow.”
“When have you been to Scotland?”
“Duke of Edinburgh.”
“You did Duke of Edinburgh?” he asked her with genuine astonishment, and she smirked.
“Yeah. Where else did you think I’d got my killer tent-pitching skills?”
“I dunno. Scouts? Dib, dib, dib and all that.”
“Would you rather be wet, frozen, or being eaten by insects?”
“None of the above,” he scowled. “I’d rather be at home, in the warm, with a nice cold beer and a chicken jalfrezi.”
Ianto let out a muted groan of longing. “Don’t mention Indian, I’m starving.”
“Yeah, someone dragged us out before dinner,” Gwen chipped in, shooting Jack an accusatory look, which he ignored in favour of pressing a button on the side of the downed spacecraft; it had no discernible effect, much to Owen’s chagrin. At least if the bloody thing blew up, they could go home. “And it’s crap being in a secret organisation, you know? If this was the police, we’d have chatted up the homeowners and we’d have a cuppa and some biscuits by now. They might even let us use their lounge as a base so we weren’t getting soaked.”
“No one’s stopping you waggling your tits at them,” Owen told her sweetly, and she punched him in the upper arm. “Ow.”
“Or you could try being charming?” she suggested. “Or maybe…”
“Oh, for goodness sake, I’ll do it,” Ianto rolled his eyes, smoothing back his damp hair and hiking a winning smile onto his face. “We’re only going to Retcon them anyway. Although I draw the line at drinking Nescafe, for the record.”
Before any of them could say another word, he strode across the garden in the direction of the patio doors to the house, and Owen spotted one of the teenagers who resided there scurry backwards from them with a furtive expression. He couldn’t blame them for being nosy, he supposed; it wasn’t every day that an alien spaceship crashed into your back garden, albeit a really, really tiny one. Ianto knocked on the glad, which was slid open by the nervous-looking teen; inaudible words were exchanged, then he folded his umbrella, shot them a triumphant smile, and disappeared inside.
“Why is it so tiny?” Owen asked Jack after several minutes, who had now succeeded in cracking open the craft. “Is it for really tiny aliens?”
“I think it’s an escape pod,” Tosh told him, using a handheld scanner – which he fervently hoped was waterproof – to scan the internal wiring. “Perhaps for a child, or an animal.”
“Lifeboats for babies and dogs,” Owen wrinkled his nose. “Well, space lifeboats. Space lifeboats, for space babies and space dogs.”
“Where’s the baby or dog?” Gwen asked, but Tosh shook her head.
“The life support systems haven’t been activated,” she explained. “It might have been launched in error, or just not used. The only thing inside is this.” She pointed to a small, smooth sphere, which to Owen looked very much like a crystal ball. Amazingly, it hadn’t shattered on impact, but perhaps it was made of diamond, in which case he wondered whether they could use it to fund some much-needed repairs to the Hub.
“What the hell is that?” he asked, unable to keep the hope out of his tone. “Looks… sparkly.”
“No idea,” Jack admitted, reaching for it, and as his hand connected with the orb, it blazed a radiant shade of yellow, and the rain stopped. A moment later, the clouds parted, the wind dropped, and an honest-to-god ray of sunshine shone down over the garden, and Owen’s mouth dropped open.
“Fuck off,” he said in amazement. “Fuck off, have we got a weather-controlling crystal ball?”
“Now, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Jack cautioned, as Ianto stepped out of the patio doors with a tray of mugs and a confused expression. “It might be a coincidence.”
“Coincidence, my left bollock. We’ve got a weather-controlling crystal ball.”
“Have we?” Ianto said with bright interest, setting the tray down on a sodden piece of garden furniture; a plate of biscuits was nestled between the five mugs. “Excellent, although slightly typical. I’d just perfected my storm umbrella.”
“Your what?” Owen asked. “Never mind. How did you get biscuits?”
“I’m a very charming man.”
“Did you flirt with the lady of the house?”
“I might have done.”
The sky clouded over again for an instant, and everyone turned to look at Jack, who flushed a deep shade of maroon.
“What?” he asked with determined casualness. “It’s… it needs testing, alright? We’ll have tea and biscuits, clear up, Retcon the homeowners, and then we’ll go back to the Hub-”
“Thank god,” Gwen muttered. “I can’t feel my feet.”
“-and order pizza and have a think about how we can test it.”
“Pass the parcel,” Owen suggested.
“What?” Tosh frowned at him.
“Pass the parcel. We pass it around and each think about a different weather event.”
“That could be interesting,” Ianto concurred. “Maybe we shouldn’t do it in Cardiff though. People might notice.”
“We live in the UK, mate,” Owen pointed out. “You can experience five different types of weather before lunch, Alice in Wonderland style.”
“Wasn’t it six impossible things before breakfast?” Tosh pointed out. “Anyway, Ianto’s got a point. I think the people of Cardiff might be a little horrified by snow in September.”
“I’m a little horrified by the fact I’m wet through to my underpants in sodding September. They can suck it up.”
The Brecon Beacons were chosen as a testing ground. Owen had no say in this, although he had argued ferociously against the decision by virtue of the fact that the last time any of them had ventured into the Beacons, they’d been kidnapped by cannibals. Jack had blustered something about an arsenal, and not the kind that Owen tended to watch on Match of the Day, and then something about sheep, and that was that, apparently. Torchwood were now using sheep as guinea pigs, which Owen supposed was fractionally better than using the people of Cardiff as guinea pigs, much as they might be accustomed to it.
“Don’t sheep get pissed off by all the rain?” Owen asked, as the team set up in the corner of a field. “I mean, it can’t be nice standing there all wet, can it?”
“They’re used to it,” Gwen pointed out. “They’re Welsh sheep.”
“That’s a bit stereotypical. And what if they get immigrant sheep?”
“It’s the UK,” Ianto told him. “It rains.”
“How do people shag sheep in the rain?”
“Now who’s being stereotypical?” Jack told him, retrieving the orb from its protective box and looking around at them eagerly. “Who wants to go first?”
“I will,” Owen volunteered brightly, but Jack grimaced and handed it to Ianto instead, in a display of blatant favouritism that Owen might have considered reporting had Torchwood had a decent HR department, rather than just Jack himself.
The orb and the sky above them turned a strange shade of grey, and fog seemed to materialise out of nowhere. Within seconds, the team could no longer see the ovine inhabitants of the field, and Owen shivered, wondering if this was how horror movies generally began. The fog thickened, and he lost sight of the other members of the team.
“Well,” Jack’s voice emanated from somewhere to his left. “That’s interesting.”
“This is fucking creepy,” Owen complained. “What if the sheep get confused and murderous?”
“Don’t say that,” Gwen complained. “I don’t want to think about ravenous sheep.”
“Ianto, pass to Gwen.”
A moment later, the fog dissipated; the team inched closer together as though on an unspoken signal, and Owen realised that Gwen was now holding the sphere. Owen shivered as it began to snow, tiny flakes that eddied around them as though they were in a snow globe, and even he had to admit that it was rather scenic, albeit spoiled by the sheep still chomping away at the grass as though this were a totally normal occurrence. To be fair, maybe Gwen and Ianto were right; the weather in Wales did tend to be rather changeable.
“Very nice,” Jack said approvingly, and Tosh noted something down on her PDA. “Tosh?”
Tosh appeared surprised when the orb was handed to her, but within seconds it had begun to pour with rain. Owen let out a horrified yelp and half-sprinted towards Ianto, who had magicked up an umbrella from seemingly nowhere and put it up in one smooth movement.
“Fuck sake,” Owen muttered, pressed against Ianto’s side. “I hate bloody rain.”
“Well, it’s your turn next,” Ianto reasoned. “Do something fun.”
“Can’t be much worse than this.”
“Famous last words.”
“Cheers,” he rolled his eyes, and Tosh strode through the drizzle to hand him the orb. Owen immediately thought of sunny climates; of holidays abroad and the warmth of the sun, and a second later the clouds parted and they were bathed in a glorious yellow glow. The soil of the field began to steam gently, and Owen stepped out from underneath the umbrella, running a hand through his hair and beaming. “Much better.”
“Great work,” Jack beamed, flapping his greatcoat in a bid to dry the fabric out. “My turn?”
“If you make it rain again…” Owen cautioned, considering scooting back towards Ianto. “I swear to god…”
“I won’t,” Jack rolled his eyes, then held up his hand in a salute. “Scout’s honour.”
Owen handed the orb to his boss with a sense of apprehension; almost at once, the clouds rematerialised, but there was no rain; instead, a tremendous clap of thunder rolled across the valley, and then lightning crackled across the field. Owen yelped and dived for… well, any kind of cover, he supposed, but he needn’t have worried, because almost at once the sky returned to an empty, plain grey, entirely absent of any particular weather.
“What the fuck…” he muttered, straightening up and checking his jeans for mud before looking around. Jack was sprawled in the centre of the field, his skin blackened and his hair standing on end, and near the fence was a sheep in a similar state.
The team collectively rolled their eyes and strode towards Jack, gathering around him and checking their watches.
“Typical,” Gwen said, nudging him with her foot. “Conjures up lightning, and manages to get struck by it.”
“Not to mention the barbecued sheep,” Owen pointed out. “That might be an issue, unless it’s similarly gifted, but I don’t think I want immortal sheep.”
“Immortal sheep might be interesting,” Tosh reasoned. “Especially from an economic perspective-”
“His hair looks ridiculous,” Ianto shook his head fondly. “I don’t think lightning styling is going to catch on.”
Jack took a deep breath and sat bolt upright, wiping his hands across his face before flattening down his hair. He let out a small whoop of laughter as he looked around at them all, then reached for the orb, which had fallen at his feet. “Well, that was invigorating,” he grinned fleetingly. “But I’m thinking this might be one for the Archives.”
“I agree,” Ianto noted, as the sky cleared and the sun shone down on the five of them. “I don’t think it’s fair on the local sheep, for a start.”
“Maybe we only use it for special occasions,” Jack suggested thoughtfully. “You know…”
“Rugby matches,” Gwen proposed.
“Night callouts,” Ianto chipped in.
“Careful scientific research,” Tosh said with desperation.
“Proper summer weather,” Owen pleaded.
“I’ll have to think about it,” Jack promised.
The team were sat on a bench beside the Bay, soaking up the unseasonal March sun. Each of them was wearing a bright pink sash adorned with the words Team Bride, and Gwen was wearing an honest-to-god glittery pink cowboy hat.
“This,” Owen said appreciatively, enjoying the feeling of the sun on his now perpetually cold skin. “This is the kind of thing the weather orb is for.”
“Making sure I don’t get wet on my work hen do,” Gwen beamed, already slightly the worse for drink. “Exactly.”
“And making it rain on Andy,” Owen noted. “But yeah, mainly this.”