Disoriented Cosmos {A Torchwood Story} [COMPLETED]

15. Boom Goes The Dynamite

Okay, I'm panicking. I can't deactivate the glowing thing inside the fallen star I found, and it's been at least a month, and I still haven't done it, and I'm worried.

Not wanting Suzie to know and scold me, I whisper to Tosh and she looks up from her desk and comes over to the space I've been working on for the star. Thankfully nobody else can see it unless they come right up to it.

"What's happened?" she asks, and I rake both hands through my hair, leaving it sticking up like a mad scientist.
"I don't know - it's been glowing ominously for like a month, and I forgot to tell anyone about it because I thought I could deactivate it by myself, but obviously I can't, and now I've left it too late cuz it keeps glowing brighter."
"Have you been able to examine some of it?" I nod, and she asks me to show her. From the pile of paper and blueprints I've drawn up I pull out the examinations I've done of it, which details so far that it seems to be some sort of communications device for a communication that's more visual than auditory. Or perhaps more sensual - it's been vibrating the more it's been glowing, which in usual terms isn't a good sign.

Either way, it looks like whatever's inside it have been building up more over time, suggesting that it's still in use by whomever built and used it, and also that it might release that tension at some unknown point in some form that may or may not be dangerous.

And I don't like the idea of uncertainty being in my hands.

"Okay, I think we know enough about it to force it to release that tension in a controlled environment," Toshiko concludes, forever being the level-headed bestie I know and love. She takes off her glasses that she used to examine the star, which probably isn't a star now we've thought about it, probably whatever a star is made of built into something else, and finds a thick sheet that we cover it with and carry to the shooting range together. It's such a heavy weight that us trying to lift it sets it at such an odd angle that I nearly bend backwards and my phone and fob watch almost fall from my pocket.

On the way there we pass the operating room, where Owen is just taking off some gloves after examining this body of a recently dead man Suzie found in the bay. He watches after us and raises his arched eyebrows, but ultimately says nothing.

So far, for the last few weeks Owen has been living in my flat and worked in the same space as me, events have been... uninspiring. We've settled into a less-than-optimal routine: I wake up before him in time to see the sun rise, he wakes up hours later and shakes his head in sarcastic wonderment as to how I wake up so early, we set off to work together with only small talk being done; we barely talk during work unless needed to, then walk back home with small talk before we arrive at my flat and I start making food as he has a quick microwave dinner then takes off with a spare flat key to go drown his sorrows with clubs, alcohol, pussy, dick, or all four. I don't see him by the time he gets home, which is just as well, because he likely has someone on his arm the entire time.
Our primary emotions conveyed to each other are irritation, awkwardness, and exasperation. Which, in my opinion, is just the way I like it. If he's not going to care for himself, why should I care for him?

Anyway, Owen doesn't say anything as Tosh and I carry the fallen star downstairs, lock the doors of the shooting range, then dump it in the middle of the warehouse room.
"I'll get the explosives; you set up the room," I say, and she nods and gets to work as I fetch and carry the explosives.
God, I hope this works.

We arrange the various sticks and low level bombs strategically around the object, all the while me dancing around worrying.
"What time is it?" I ask, looking toward the door in case our boss suddenly calls a meeting or bursts through the door.
"You have a pocketwatch; check."
"Tosh, you know it's never worked," I say nervously, and as I put the last stick in place we walk to the very back of the warehouse room and gather up all the switches.

I hold half the switches; Tosh holds the others. We look at each other, nod, and count down: "Five, four, three, two, one!"

A noise loud enough for the whole of Cardiff echoes throughout the room, and as the bombs go off we're hit by a massive phwumph of heat and smoke, leaving us with almost cartoon-like smoky faces and shocked hair.

Okay, we might have gone a tiny bit overboard with the explosives.

Later on, me and Owen walk to my flat with our usual small talk, but oddly enough, every so often I catch him opening his mouth then shutting it again like he's about to say something then thinks better of it, then he continues our boring pointless small talk. It makes me wonder what he wants to say.

Our small talk is always stuff like what did Jack want you for or whose turn is it to buy milk, and that sort of conversation usually fizzles out as soon as we get inside the flat and he goes off to get ready for a night out and I begin cooking, but this time when we get in the flat Owen doesn't go off to my room that's still his. Instead, he watches me go to the cupboards to pull out the ingredients for this traditional Japanese dish Tosh taught me. I can sense him staring at me, this sort of curious energy about him.

Before I can turn around to ask him what it is, he asks me, "What was that thing you made Toshiko help you carry down somewhere?"
I almost choke on the water I've poured myself, and turn around to lean on the counter facing him. "What?"

"That thing - you've been working on it for a while, I remember, cuz you've been at the same table since I got here and apparently you're the worker that works anywhere, according to Jack. And then you just cart it off somewhere with Toshiko. What was it?"

I blink. I've never seen him be so astute. I don't really wanna tell him what it is; I feel like he'll judge me for miscalculating the communications star thingie. But looking at him, I can tell this is actually the first thing I've done that he's been genuinely interested in that isn't purely corpses. Perhaps I should... get to know my coworker and flatmate? Can't hurt, I guess.

I move my hands to my pockets where my pocketwatch and comm is, and explain, "Well, before you joined Torchwood, I found this star kinda thing, and I've spent the last month trying to figure it out, and I think I've done okay-ish with it. Turns out that it's not actually a star, it's just made out of around about the same materials as a star would have - well, the ones we know about..."

I keep talking about the object me and my friend blew up today, all the while Owen actually staying in one place paying attention. To me. He doesn't try to stop me, or go into the bedroom to get ready for his outing. This is the first proper conversation we've had since the first time we met.
And after I finish the conversation about the star thing, I cautiously ask about the body he'd been examining today, and surprisingly he answers. He even goes to the kettle and pours two mugs of coffee for us halfway through, and we sit on the stools of the kitchen bar and talk for ages. Hours, even. We have a good old chinwag about work, our interests, a tiny surface level smidge about our childhoods (well, his childhood seeing as I don't remember mine). It's interesting finding out stuff about him.

"How comes you don't remember your childhood then?" he asks me. "Bump on the head? Did Torchwood memory wipe you too?"
"They didn't actually, although Jack certainly tried in vain to when I first met him," I chuckle. "But truthfully, I have no clue why I don't remember my childhood. My first memory is of waking up in a drugring, and whenever I try to think of before then, it's just blank. Like my brain didn't work before then." As I say it, I let myself feel sad: it's really unfortunate that I've barely lived, and if I did I can't even remember it; all I know is a drugring and Torchwood. Not much of a normal life, is it?

I look up from the dregs of my tea to find Owen's eyebrows pinched in shock and his mouth hanging slightly open.
I reach out and gently close it. "I'm guessing Jack didn't tell you much about me, then."

As we settle into talking further about small things, even though it's got to be past midnight by now, I think that maybe there's hope in Owen Harper after all.