A turbulent Rift storm had dropped yet another problem in Torchwood’s laps — a small and battered blue alien had been dumped unceremoniously in a field outside Cardiff.
“My name is…” It made an unpronounceable sound. “I believe the literal translation in your language would be ‘fortunate female’.”
“Fortunate?” The team stared at the mangled remains of the small being’s spacecraft.
She sighed heavily. “I suspect my progenitors were being ironic when they named me so. Fortune tends not to favour me.”
“At least you survived the crash,” said Gwen brightly.
“But now I am stuck here with no way home.”