It’s just after dawn and Torchwood are searching the marshes for something the Rift has inconveniently dropped there. They have no real idea what they’re looking for, so they’re all sloshing about in their wellies, stick in one hand, scanner in the other, wishing they had more than two hands each. The reeds are sharp, and keep getting in the way.
They’re startled by a deep booming sound, reverberating through the still air, and Owen nearly drops his scanner trying to draw his gun.
Ianto snorts. “Relax, Owen, it’s just a Bittern.”
Owen glares at the bird. “I knew that.”