"Mickey? Hello?" Gwen pokes her head into the room, and prowls around the newly assembled displays, pausing to study a clear panel studded with specs of light on a grid of golden lines. As she watches, the lights shift minutely, or maybe the lines move slightly. A pale dot of light blinks to life as she watches and a moment later another fades away. She looks to the label for explanation: 'Map taken from Slitheen escape pod, 2006'. Beneath it, a laundry list in Lois' neat writing of questions: Is it a map? To where? Of what? How does it stay lit without a power source? What do the colors represent? Why does it move? An unexpected flash of satisfaction and pride: she had chosen very well with Lois Habiba. Gwen continues on, moving past the neat shelves and heaps of material, any apparent organization scheme far beyond her understanding. It is good that it's no longer any trouble of hers. Behind a screen of ceiling-high boxes comes the hiss of a blowtorch, and she peers behind the boxes to see Mickey, swathed in protective gear, wielding a jet of blue fire precisely over a jumble of metal. "Mickey!"

He sets down the torch and yanks the faceguard up, sweat pouring down his face. "You don't have to shout."

Ignoring his reproachful expression, Gwen approaches the bench, trying to make sense of the contraption before her. "What's this?"

"I don't know yet." He sounds unwarrantedly cheerful about his ignorance. "It looks like a power cell for that cannon I told you about last month."

"How do you repair a power cell with a welding torch?" She ignores his dubious look.

"Well, it appears that the magnifier was jostled out of alignment, and since I don't know the original position, I'm grafting it to a hinge which has to be welded to the frame in such a way that it can be freely adjusted without having to open the casing again. Beyond that: there are several connectors that have been stripped out or corroded, which I'm jerry-rigging with copper wire, pending further tests, and replacing the source container for the energy source which I had to take out to repair…" He grins at her glazed look.

Gwen makes a face at his description. "How can you make discovering the uses for amazing new technology so… boring?" She throws up her hands with exaggerated exasperation.

"You're bored with my brilliance? I'm wounded. Truly, deeply, wounded. So wounded, in fact, that I will enlist my lovely assistant to help me with my current troubles instead of boring you with them!"

That reminds her of the original reason she had slogged all the way down here in the first place. "Tell me, please?"

"What will you do if I say no?"

The look she gives him is downright evil. "You know, I was thinking Lois could do us a lot of good if she had a little more training as a lab assistant…"

Mickey looks like he just swallowed something cold and slimy. "You play a hard game, I'll give you that." A smile spreads across his face, "come on, I'll show you." He lifts up the edge of the tarp that forms a wall of his workspace, gesturing for Gwen to enter.

She ducks under the cover, emerging in a small room, walls constructed of high stacked boxes.

"I wanted to check with you if it would be all right for me to rebuild one of the artefacts for Martha's use." He looks slightly sheepish. "It's her birthday next week, and I know there can't be any meaningful transfer of ownership for Torchwood property, but I think it would mean a lot to her anyway."

"Wouldn't be much of a gift if she can't take it out of the base, or use it without my permission. And you know there couldn't be any personalization on it; no 'Happy Birthday Martha' or any of sort of thing. It would have to stay in its original form. And I'm not saying yes. What is it?"

He crosses to a rather innocuous looking box, gently lifting out a small white ceramic artefact, almost resembling a miniature cannon. "I'm ok with that. Really. It's this or another piece of jewelry she'll coo over and then never wear, or something equally daft. Just… try it out for a minute."

She takes the object tentatively, trying to fit her hands around the cool glossy curves. It doesn't feel like any pistol she's held before.

Mickey can't contain a chuckle. "No. Hold it against your hip. Higher. Left hand goes under that front bit, on the dial."

She adjusts her hands, and finds her right hand can rest comfortably on a lever on the outside edge. "What is it?"

"I think it's a levitator cannon." He checks the dials under her fingers briefly, and finding them satisfactory, gives her the go ahead to shoot. "The left-hand dial controls the strength of the beam."

The dial clicks once, and a shimmer of golden light lands on the crate that had housed this thing. It trembles, and as she tilts the muzzle back, rises slowly. "Oh. Wow." Grinning madly, she tilts the cannon to the right, watching wide eyed as the crate follows her movement, its paper lining fluttering to the floor. She clicks off the dial, and grins widely as the crate clatters to the floor. "What else can it do?"

He shrugs. "As far as I know, just pick something up and move it somewhere else. You could probably destroy something by lifting it to a great height and cutting off the beam so it will break when it hits the floor, but I don't really know. Martha could probably figure out more possibilities." He grins, "She's good at that."

"It's intriguing, anyway. Could you lift a person with this?"

"I haven't tried yet."

Gwen passes him the artefact. "Go ahead. Try, but not too high."

Mickey gives her an incredulous look. "You know, anything could happen. You could be dosed with radiation. Maybe even turn green." He shakes his head at her casual dismissal of his concerns, "Right. It's on your head, then," and flicks on the beam.

For a moment nothing happens. A slight feeling of vertigo. She takes a step; there's a slight resistance to returning her foot to the ground but nothing obvious. "Can you raise the strength?" She waits, watching the tip of the cannon rise, as her feet gently drift away from the floor. "It's working!" She bobs a few inches above the floor, twisting experimentally and managing a languid flip that leaves her rotating gently. "All right, this is making me feel funny. Put me down."

He sets her down with palpable relief. "So, can I give it to her?"

Gwen takes a moment to regain the sense of her own body, resting against the pleasantly solid floor. "How about this: add a dedication in the file description along with your alterations. Something like: 'In Honor of Martha Jones-Smith for her dedicated service and whatever else. I'll give special allowance so she can keep it with her on premises, and have some control over its experiments that she can carry out within reason."

"That's great, Gwen. Thanks."

Gwen is jogging back up the steps to find Lois when the alarm for rift activity goes off. She fumbles her earpiece into place, only to receive static. Cursing the poor receptivity of electronics underground, she increases her pace, bursting through the doors to find Martha bent over Lois' shoulder, fixated on the display. "What have we got?"

"Something just crashed through the roof of one of the abandoned steel mills down by the docks." Lois announces. "We've got footage from some bloke's cellphone of the impact; little black thing, just cut straight through the roof."

"Anything on the bio-scan?" A negative, "Then tell the police to stay on alert. I'll let you know if we need their assistance. Let's get going, Martha." The two women kit up hurriedly, the process nearly automatic after all the practice they had. "What can you tell us about the building?"

A pause while Lois looks up the records, "Looks like it started as a ship yard back in the 1700s. It operated, building navy ships, for about 150 years, then was bought out and converted to a steel mill. It went out of business in the 50s, was empty for about thirty years. A real estate agency bought it from the town in the mid-eighties, and its switched hands a bunch of times for different projects but mostly has just been lying empty, boarded up."

"Thanks, Lois. Let us know if anything comes up." In unbelievably short order they're seated in the SUV, heading toward the destination. Gwen relaxes against the back of her seat and watches civilians scurry about their business from behind the tinted windows. Once arrived, they quickly divide the preliminary duties of sealing the building and dissuading the small crowd of videographers from sticking around. Tying yellow 'Do Not Cross' ribbons over the black plastic seals, Gwen's inclined to think she has the easier job this time. Listening to Martha's unrelentingly breakup of the young observers, it sounds like the medic is about to lose her temper with a few of the more curious ones.

The crowd eventually catches on to Martha's mood and scatter. She adjusts the strap of the field kit hanging across her body and joins Gwen as she finishes checking the seal over the only entrance not already bricked over. "Right then. Any updates, Lois?"

"Nope, I'll let you know right away if that changes."

They pull out their flashlights and step through the split in the seals; Gwen presses the flap back into place behind them and takes position abreast of Martha. The interior is not as dark as she had expected; the hole in the ceiling cuts through the gloom to reveal a pale expanse of grey sky. It is not nearly enough to fully illuminate the gloomy interior of the building; and she's glad they have their flashlights, even in the middle of the day.

They pass rusted-out machines, their original purpose or shape lost to oxidation; saw horses buckling with damp rot from years of disrepair and neglect; buckets that sat in one place for so long they had fused with the concrete floor; and after several paces, she's able to pick out a large grey lump embedded in the floor, still steaming slightly from its journey through their atmosphere. "Lois, we found the artefact. We're approaching it now."

Before she can move forward, Martha halts her with a gesture. "Can you hear that?"

Gwen strains her senses. No… Maybe. There. A soft scratching sound coming from somewhere in front of them. Right next to the source of their interest. Catching Martha's eye, she nods, and turns toward the sound. Three careful strides and she can hear it clearly all around her. Scurrying, pattering, clicking. She can see the texture and patterning on the dark grey surface of their mystery object: delicate and papery, slightly conical. It reminds her of a wasp's nest that had grown under the eaves of her parents' house when she was a child.

"Don't move!" The shout rings through the cavernous space and Martha slowly, carefully makes her way to join Gwen, playing her flashlight carefully around her feet with each step. "You almost stepped on something."

Her eyes widen as she looks down, unable to see anything around her feet at all. "Where is it?" It takes a mammoth effort not to screech and flail around as a slight change in the light shines on several bundles of spindly legs clambering around her boots. As she watches, they move in a flurry of activity around her boot laces, the clicking replaced by a musical chime. Out of the darkness come a few more, joining the one perched on the toe of her boot, before climbing up the leg of her jeans. "Martha…"

The doctor watches one of the things crawl along her hip, busying itself with the buckle on her belt. "Oi! Stop it." She plucks it away from the frayed ends of leather, bringing it up to eye level. "What are you called, little guy?"

A soprano whisper floats from all corners of the room. "Stilken… stilken."

"Stilken, eh?" This close, she can make out the tiny glittering body nestled in the midst of twelve silvery spindly legs. "I am a Human called Martha. This planet is Earth. What are you all doing here, then?"

"Accident… accident. Thrown off course in a storm. Ship damaged badly… badly. Will leave when repaired."

As Gwen watches the curious spectacle of Martha conversing naturally with the chitters and chimes of the aliens, she feels a tickle of cold metal legs on her hand. She studies the small spidery thing exploring her fingers curiously; it's surprisingly beautiful. As she watches the little critter finds the wedding and engagement bands on her finger and in a moment has consumed both decorations, stopping only when it is left with the diamond, which it rolls around her palm with obvious puzzlement. "Oh no…" Any misery she might have felt is melted in the wonder of watching the spider gleam a faint shimmering gold color. "Mind your ring."

Martha heeds the advice, setting the Stilken on her shoulder to leave her hands free to strip off her jewelry, which she then stows in a section of her field kit. "Could you please stop eating the metal on us?"

An anxious chiming of many soft voices, "So very sorry… sorry. Did not realize they were important. Need metal to heal… to fix… what's broken. Will be gone soon… soon."

"They'll be leaving soon. I don't think they're dangerous."

Gwen nods slowly, watching several more clamber to her hand to examine the jewel. "Would one or two want to stay here with us? Some sort of diplomatic exchange, learn a bit about each other."

Martha passes the query on, "Would a few of you want to stay behind and learn more about our Earth? We'd take care of you."

The sound changes from a symphony to asynchronous babbling, then stills. A reedy weak voice, speaking alone, answers, "We thank you for your offer most generous. But we must stay together, whatever the cost. We would be so incomplete without each other. So sad. We are happy so happy to have met you, kind Human Martha of Earth. We will remember you in our webs and our songs. Maybe someday we find you again."

As though on cue, the Stilken stream back from all corners of the building into their ship. The ones remaining on the two women chatter together, before scurrying off. Gwen smiles gently at the golden alien in her hand. "Thank you for visiting. Goodbye." She whispers, carefully setting it down, fingers closing over the diamond left behind. As she watches, the hive-ship fills out: holes filling, surface smoothing. For a moment she thinks she can see a thread of gold glitter, but it fades from sight after a moment. A soft hum grows to an bone rumbling growl, and the hive lifts itself back into the sky, blotting out the light from the hole in the roof and then is gone.

Martha watches the patch of sky a moment longer before replacing her jewelry. "Sorry about your ring. I know what it meant to you."

Gwen gives the sky a last look, and rubs the back of her neck. "I think it's okay. It's nice to think of some part of my life, my memories, traveling somewhere out in space." It's as close to space as she'll ever get. Her hand feels light, naked.

Martha gives the other woman a long look, and then shrugs it off. If Gwen is lying it will come out sooner or later. "Lois? We're done here. No, no clean up. It was… nice. I'll tell you about it when we get back." She smiles at her companion, "Let's go home."

Gwen nods, and after a quick examination of the area where the spaceship had landed, collects a few residual samples, and stands, rubbing rust smears on her jeans. "How were you able to talk to them?"

"Just something I picked up in my travels."

She snorts inelegantly. "So you just happened to have met them before and mastered the language in passing? How convenient for us."

Martha wrinkles her nose, "It was a happy accident. When I traveled with the Doctor." The finality of her tone shuts the subject for further questioning. For now.

Gwen pulls her collar up against the sudden rainstorm as she runs from her car into the café where she had agreed to meet Samson. Blinking water off her eyelashes, she carefully shakes her jacket over the mat, and looks around for the man she had arranged to meet.

He waves at her from a booth in the corner, "Bit damp outside?"

"Tell you what," she reclines against the seat, "Why don't you go outside and check? I'll wait here."

He laughs at that, "I might be drier if I took a dunk in the ocean," then gestures good naturedly at a waiting cup across from his seat, still wafting steam. "I took the liberty of ordering for you."

She sniffs the cup curiously then takes a drink. "You know me too well." The burning hot coffee-milk mixture warms her all the way through. "Sorry I'm late. Work got busy this morning."

"Was it exciting? Lasers? Aliens? Running for your very life?" He's still smiling smugly when he finishes a long drink of his coffee.

"That's very droll, now, but as it happens it was quite pleasant." She lets the promise of a good story hang until after she's ordered refills. "Cute little metal spiders came out of a spaceship that crashed this morning. They had these adorable voices, sounded a bit like bells. They ate just about all the exposed metal Martha and I were carrying: eyelets, zippers, belt buckles, even my wedding ring. Then they just… left." Her gushing tone drops to reverence. "It was amazing. You get so used to everything that comes here trying to kill you; you just forget that not everything has to be fought." She takes a small baggie from her pocket, sliding it across the table to her companion. "They left me the diamond; I'm trying to figure out what to do with it."

Samson picks up the gem in its container curiously, letting it dangle between thumb and forefinger, light winking off its facets. "I would have liked to see that." He rolls the stone around its container a moment, and passes it back to Gwen. "You could always have it set in a necklace or something. Or maybe your husband would want the rings remade. What does he think?"

Her hands clench around the packet involuntarily, but she can do this. This is what she's been working towards with Martha. She's strong enough to admit the truth now. Taking a deep breath, she meets his gaze squarely, "My husband died, Sam."

He pauses, cup halfway to his mouth, staring at her blankly. Her eyes are wide, defiant, daring him to say anything, offer any comfort. He sets the mug down carefully, leaning forward slightly. "How long ago?"

"Eighteen months." Gwen works her shoulders, trying to relax the muscles frozen with sudden tension. Had it been that long? Almost two years.

Part of him wants to raise a fuss over this; why would she hide something like that from him this long? Calm down, think rationally. Surely this wasn't something she was willfully hiding. She could have lied about it easily enough instead of stating it forthright. That she has the strength and trust to let him know at all should be encouraging. "How are you getting by?"

"As well as can be expected." She fidgets with a paper napkin, unfolding and refolding it compulsively. She felt stupid to have brought it up. What had she been thinking? Good job ruining the mood. "It's not something I talk about if I can help it."

He reaches out, covering her hand with his much larger one. "Then I won't ask." He lets a moment pass, "So if it was such an easy little visit from sky spiders why were you late?"

She squeezes his hand lightly, glad of the distraction. "Writing the reports is always a bit of a mess when we find new types of aliens, especially since we couldn't bring one back to the lab to study. We had a bunch of residue tests to set up as well, and those are… tedious."

"Your gift for understatement is remarkable." His grin is dazzling, "I spent one summer in America trying to learn the basic laboratory procedures for UNIT's favored bio-chemistry methodology. It was a bloody nightmare. I'd rather build turrets while being shot at. Stop laughing, I mean that." He mock scowls at her giggling.

When she regains enough control to breathe properly, she asks: "Why'd you join UNIT?"

He shrugs, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. "Coincidence. I was an army boy for Her Majesty for five years, and then I suppose someone recommended me to a higher up. Lady in a red beret came up to me my first night of shore leave here, told me paperwork for my transfer had gone through and I was to show up at their headquarters tomorrow morning. So much for shore leave, eh?" He chuckles, then continues, "Maybe I could have chosen not to go, but good boy that I am, I went." He gives her a curious look, "Why? How'd you end up at Torchwood?"

"Coincidence." She smiles at him, glibly. "Do you ever think about joining a different organization?"

"Why? Are you offering me a job?" He waggles a blond eyebrow at her.

"Maybe I would, if I knew you'd take it." She smooths a strand of hair behind her ear, giving as good as she gets. "I find myself in need of big strong men who can chase after aliens and save silly operatives who pick fights with things bigger than they are." A sly smile, "I hear you're quite the expert."

Samson's expression slowly clears of levity. "You're serious, aren't you? I'm honored by the implication of the offer, but I don't think I'm your man for this. Don't argue just yet: hear me out first." He heaves a sigh, shaking his head briskly. "Don't think this reflects badly on your organization, or even on you. You're a lovely woman, and I believe you're a terrific leader. Your team is brilliant, bold, and stark raving mad. I couldn't go haring after some unknown with just one bloke beside me; even Superman had the entire Justice League helping. I like being an engineer who can hold a rifle in an emergency; I'm too old to pick up three new specialties at the drop of a hat." He releases her hand, lacing his fingers together and studying them intently. "And… I need the UNIT access to worldwide alien medical tech."

"Why? What's wrong?" Unthinking, she responds to the shame in his voice, reaching across the table, offering any comfort he might accept.

He makes a manly effort to keep the sorrow out of his voice, the tears from forming in his eyes. "My wife. She is… she was a UNIT special agent. During a mission at Roswell Three… something happened. Half the team died. The other half were found frozen." He struggles to find the words. "There's no medical definition for what state she's in. She can't breathe, her heart doesn't beat… but they tell me she still has exceptionally high brain activity." He meets her gaze squarely, "I don't know if she's aware, or unconscious, or alive or dead. I've been following the progress of the team assigned to find a cure, if there is one, though after five years it feels hard to believe that such a thing exists. But they got a new lead a few days ago, and I've been granted permission to accompany them; we're leaving for China in the morning to investigate." He squeezes her hand reassuringly, "But thanks. For everything. I'll see you when we get back." Lips press briefly against her cheek, warm and smelling of coffee, and he's gone.

She starts to stand then thinks better of it and sits back down slowly, watching the door swing shut behind him. There is nothing to accomplish by trying to chase after him. He has his own priorities and a proper friend would be able to respect that. That doesn't mean she has to be thrilled to bits about his exit though. It feels too odd to sit here at this café without company: too empty, too lonely. She drains the dregs of her coffee hurriedly, stuffs the reckoning under her empty cup, and zipping her jacket, trudges back into the drizzly twilight.