actual word count : 13,522
place I should be at : 11,667
reason for negligence : plodding along.
word count for today : 2,616


Jack walks into the Torchwood offices and shakes himself a bit. He's soaked to the bone and he's dripping a rather large puddle onto the floor from his coat. It's pissing it down outside, completing the joys of spring weather in England. It's already snowed once and been nearly warm enough to be midsummer within three days of each other - one of his team nearly got frostbite due to being stuck out at all hours in the snow, and two of them managed to get sunburn on the sunny day, and spent the next three days scowling as their noses peeled. It's currently in the middle of the gale and storms section, or as most people know it, April. They're predicting that May will be glorious, of course. It normally is, he just wished it didn't feel the need to be ridiculously unpredictable before then. It's not as bad in the way of weather as some of the places he's been to in his life, but at least those were predictable. At least it misses out on some of the more extreme vagaries of weather on this planet; you're pretty much guaranteed to miss twisters, floods, droughts and ice ages on this island, as long as you avoid certain periods of time; he's not really looking forward to the early twenty-first century, from what his history lessons have told him about the weather in Britain of that period, and he's fairly thankful he landed in Britain at the end of the Victorian mini ice age. However, that doesn't help him in this downpour. He's considered suggesting Torchwood move its headquarters and operations to the south of France at least three times this week.

His brolly is a wreck due to the winds; it lasted about five minutes before being blown inside out so badly that the spine was wrecked and only suitable for the bin - the nearest one being two streets away - so he pulled the brim of his hat down over his eyes and soldiered on, trying to ignore the water trickling down his collar and trying to avoid any passing cars that might spray the puddles over him and drench him any further than he already is. He was so wet after the sixth minute that he didn't even bother stopping in his usual cafe, just desperate to get to work where he might be able to dry off sooner rather than later and not prolong the soaking any longer. By the time he's stumbled into the Torchwood offices, he's so past caring that he's not even afraid of what Mrs. Harman their receptionist will say about puddles on the floor. Normally she's very sharp about such things - puddles are apparently only just above tracking in dirt, and as for alien goo, well, that has a rule. People who might have even the slightest speck of alien goo on them have to go back in the back entrance. And even then they have to stop to take their shoes off. It's common suspicion that if she could get the security system to freeze people for tracking in alien goo, she would.

When he does walks into the reception, she only raises her eyebrow and tuts "Didn't you bring your umbrella, Jack?"

"The umbrella died an ignoble death." He sighs, continuing to the next door without stopping, squelching as he goes, pausing at the door. "So did the paper, I'm afraid."

Once he's into his office and his jacket and hat are hung up to hopefully drip at least half the water that they've soaked up on his way here by the time it's time to go home, he sits down, sighing. Sitting down makes him unpleasantly aware of the way his shoes are squelching. They'll have to come off too, along with the socks. There should be some newspaper around here he can stuff into them.

Once he's padding around in his bare feet and got a coffee from the kitchen into him, Jack decides he's up to checking on the other staff in today.

Most of them are busy doing things like filing and other such projects that will very firmly not lead to any chances of having to venture outside into the rain. Jack leans against the door of the room where Tockley and Jones are, to all appearances concentrating very hard on their paperwork. "Dare I ask what's so fascinating?"

Tockley glances up and shrugs. "Expense reports. We all have to do them, Harkness. Even you."

"Oh, mine are done. I'm just surprised to seeing you doing them several days before they're due." Jack replies. "What's your excuse, Fred?"

"They're very important and I think I should get them in on time for once." Jones says firmly, glancing supposedly surreptitiously at the window, which looks like it's got a wall of water going down it, the type you normally only get when a pipe's burst or the gutter is overflowing. Of course, you can see the glance a mile off. "And it may take a while."

"Well, as long as they get done." Jack says, putting his hands on his pockets and straightening up. He smiles. "Guess if any aliens decide to attack or run amok across Trafalgar Square today, they'll get politely asked to check in with the police, hmm?"

"It's a free country, Jack." Tockley states, holding up a receipt and frowning, checking off the items against a list in front of her with a pencil. "It's their decision if they want to be law-biding and I fully commend them on the impulse and encourage them in further pursuit of such activities."

"Presume Dixon and Williams are down in the labs?"

"Where else?" Tockley asks, amused expression on her face.

"Give you four to one that Peter's train set is out." Jones says, leaning back in his chair.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." Jack replies, before pausing just outside the doorway, not turning around this time. "Though if they offer to let me control the signals, well then, all bets are off."

"You're a cheaply bought man, Harkness." Jones says.

"You know perfectly well Jack isn't cheap, Jones." Tockley replies.

"Indeed. Sometimes I'm very expensive, but mostly I'm free for the taking. But never cheap." Jack says, and heads for the labs. The fact that the kitchen is on the way to the labs and he needs another cup of coffee aren't at all the reason for him taking a while to get to the labs.

He walks into the labs to find the trainset set up, as Jones predicted, and Williams is currently fixing a piece of track, screwdriver at the ready and tip of his tongue poking out of the corner of his mouth in the act of concentration. He does look up on the sound of the Jack coughing slightly, though. "Morning, Jack. Filthy weather we're having, eh?"

"Tell that to the man who isn't wearing any shoes because his are stuffed with newspaper and whose socks are over the radiator." Jack replies dryly.

"You do know the radiator's not likely to be on at the moment, don't you?" Williams queries. "Not unless we get a cold spell again, anyway."

"It's better than draping them over the back of my chair." Jack shrugs. "Are you getting any work done today or repairing your train set?"

"I personally think the train set is a more efficient use of my time." Williams grins.

"Besides, all the stuff we've still got to go through and test requires outdoors testing or extra equipment we'd have to go out in the rain for, and you never know if some of it won't take favourably to torrential downpours. Very fragile stuff, really."

"The fact that we discovered most of it lying about, on crash sites or had passed through a bunch of collectors hands or spent years stowed away in someone's attic that indicates that it could probably survive a bit of rain isn't a risk you're willing to take, then." Jack says.

"Well, precisely. Plus this isn't exactly rain, this is oncoming flood material."

Jack shudders. "Please don't say that." At this rate, the torrential part to the rain is going to take him right back to the trenches. Flooded trenches are not a wonderful thing to experience under any circumstances, especially if you woke up under the surface of one after being shot and falling into it as you were dying. Almost drowning is not a pleasant experience, especially if you've only just resurrected. "I can do without comments like that, really." He pauses. "Where's Dixon?"

"Greg's in the archives, pottering about. He said he was going to brush off the dust and see if there was anything that fell down the back." With that, he starts applying screwdriver to train track again.

Greg takes that moment to come out of the room, slightly dusty, holding the glove that fell through the rift in Cardiff. Jack raises an eyebrow. "Interesting find."

Greg blinks on seeing him. "Well, I thought examining it further wouldn't hurt. We found out that it's made of the same metal as the knife, so it wasn't a coincidence that they fell through together."

"Hmm. Any traces of organic material?"

"Not that we've found." Williams states, not looking up from fixing his piece of track. "And you're a sick man for thinking that whoever had the glove on was holding the knife when his hand got cut off and it fell through like that."

"Hey, I've seen weirder." Jack shrugs. "It's still a possible explanation."

"And it could have just been sitting next to the knife when the rift hiccupped and swallowed them on their side." Williams says, in an all too determined to be reasonable tone of voice. "It's entirely possible that the metal they're both made from is their world's eqivalent of steel and there's nothing all that spooky about it."

Greg's looking at the glove contemplatively. Jack knows that look and has been known to dread it on occasion. "Greg, do I want to know what you're about to do?"

"Oh, nothing much. I'm not going to damage it in any way." Greg replies.

"Greg, if you're thinking of putting it on - you are, of course you are." Jack sighs. "Put it down, you don't know where it's been."

"It can't hurt, we've not been able to find anything on the outside of it, and we did contemplate that the inside had pressure pads or similar." Greg says, then rubs his chin, musing. "We couldn't find any with the probes we used, but maybe it also needs a body heat trigger or a very specific shape of pressure point. About all we know is that it's really cold to the touch."

"I'd really prefer it if you put it down, Greg." Jack says. He can see it coming. 'What could it hurt' is nearly up there with 'interesting' as phrases you learn to be very wary about around Greg Dixon. Peter Williams, his partner in crime and mutual supporter in the noble cause of examining interesting objects and then poking them to see if they explode, at least has a slight sense of self-preservation. Greg has none whatsoever. it'll be the end of him one of these days, and right now he's seriously considering forcibly removing the glove from Greg's grasp and directing him towards the train set, since it's not like the train set's likely to cause the world to end or explode that badly.

He's in the process of walking forward to take it from him when Dixon slips it on, and then hisses slightly. "Greg?" Jack asks cautiously. Williams has looked up from his train set repairs and and is watching the action with some trepidation and large degree of wariness.

"No, it's all right, just colder than I expected." Greg replies, then holds his limb up to the light to squint at it slightly, then bring it back down. "I can't feel any pressure pads, though."

"Well, at least we now know there might not be any." Williams says, putting the screwdriver and piece of track down before pulling out a notebook and scribbling this notation down before tapping his pen against his mouth before positing his own remarks. "Of course, this might mean that they're not raised enough to produce a tactile sensation to us. You might get further when it's absorbed a bit of your body heat."

"True." Greg muses, then bends over the nearest work bench, touching a fly that looks fairly dead with one gloved finger. "Alas, poor Yorick, too soon gone from this world due to over-zealous use of the fly swatter."

"They were annoying me." Williams replies. The sound of buzzing sounds. "And that one's going to follow it all too soon."

"Hmm. Interesting." Greg muses.

Jack and Williams' heads jerk up at that one. "What's interesting?"

"I could have sworn the buzzing came from the one I just touched." Greg says. "And I felt a slight surge up my arm just as it buzzed."

Jack frowns, flipping open his wrist computer, taking readings from the surrounds. "There's some energy been expelled, for certain. Maybe you managed to switch it on? Because I know it was reading as turned off last time." He pauses. "Much as I dread saying this, try it again so I can see if I can get some readings?"

"Touching the fly or what?" Williams asks, scribbling. "Be specific, man."

Jack shrugs. "Whatever it was you did or were thinking about just before and during the surge."

Greg frowns. "Well, I touched the fly, thinking it was a pity it was dead."

"So do it again." Williams urges.

Greg leans over and touches the fly with his gloved finger. Nothing happens. No buzzing, at least. "Nothing. Pity. But I did feel the surge again, but it didn't feel like it connected. Like a phone call that gets cut off before getting to the switchboard."

"Well, it's an interesting metaphor." Jack says, taking readings. "You definitely turned it on again."

"Maybe it works for the intent of the wielder." Williams muses. "We've had a couple of items like that before."

"Possible." Greg replies. "I'm going to try another fly since this one's not feeling awake."

"It's dead, Greg, it doesn't need to feel awake." Williams sighs.

"Some dead bodies I've seen you'd think otherwise." Jack says.

"Those are dead, Harkness. We're not talking men in a coma or half-dead from a bomb." He pauses. "Or people pretending to be dead to see how long they can keep it up until you've done something completely not fit for polite conversation to them. We don't need the distraction during experimentation time."

"You never let me have any fun." Jack comments.

"If you're good I'll let you play with the lights." Williams replies. "Now take the readings while he tries it on another fly."

The next fly does indeed buzz, and the energy reading is stronger. It doesn't work twice on the same fly, they find, and it's for no more than a few seconds of buzzing. When they've exhausted the fly supply and examined Jack's energy readings, Jack shoves his hands in his pockets. "All right, that's enough. Save anything further for another day, I doubt it's going to yield anything more today. Besides, you need lunch."

"In this weather?" Williams queries.

"I was thinking more along the lines of raiding the kitchen." Jack says.

"Sounds good to me." Greg says. "I'll admit it's rather limited in scope at the moment."

"Save it for another rainy day is my advice." Jack shrugs, ushering them out.