The harvest festival was in an uproar when Torchwood arrived. Fruit and vegetables bouncing between pews like rubber balls, tins rolling down the aisle, loaves of bread stacking themselves like building blocks.
The entire congregation was sprawled haphazardly about, laughing their heads off, and the vicar had a black eye from being hit in the face by a wayward bunch of celery.
The cause of the chaos sat blinking innocently beside the font.
Harmless. A Rigolian party favour.
Ianto switched it off; everything stopped moving except the giggling congregation.
“Chemical spill causes hallucinations?”
“They believe it every year.”