Torchwood Episode 107 Recap: "Greeks Bearing Gifts"

Who you calling a hooker? — Cardiff, 1812. A prostitute named Mary, "like the Virgin," leads her john, a soldier, deep into the woods for a little slap and tickle. What she didn't bargain for were the real slaps, hard and sharp, that he gives her across the chops. But Mary's no street waif trying to get by — she's a seasoned pro. She grins and gives the john a scratch on the face. "I'm not your bloody hound," she says as she spits on the ground. Charming.

Mary takes off into the darkness. The john gives chase because foreplay has many forms. As she's running, Mary sees a bright light through the trees. She turns toward it. By the time the john catches up to her, Mary is standing calmly with her back to him. He draws his ol' timey flintlock pistol and points it at her. "Do whores have prayers?" he asks. Well, let's see. Paris Hilton had a Bible in the pokey, so the answer is yes.

Mary smiles calmly. A shot rings out. Fade to black.

Present day — Torchwood comes barreling into a construction site in their SUV. They jump out and enter a secure area under a tent. Nearby, a woman watches. It's Mary. A thoroughly modern Mary.

Under the tent, Jack is crouched down, looking at a skeleton and a large piece of metal, rusty and mangled and half-buried in the dirt. He begins his pre-investigation muse, a little ritual he enjoys while the others do all the down and dirty work.

Jack: Once, just once, I'd like to walk into one of these tents and find it’s a party. Ya know, with food, drink and people dancing, a girl crying in the corner…
Gwen: Is it alien?
Jack: And how. I'm picking up traces of illmanite, peroxine, and even dark matter.

Jack speaks fluent Sciencegeekese but I don't, so let's just say the death is probably foul play and the grave is contaminated with something old and outerspacey. Owen decides, based on the skull's size, the bones are female and she's dead. Jack jokes, "Thanks, Quincy." Wow. That show is from 1976 and it's American. Jack is well-traveled and really old.

Jack decides, based on the metal contraption's odd shape, it's either a weapon or a big stapler. Tosh guess-timates the age to be 196 years, 11 months — give or take a couple of weeks. Anal much?

Gwen helps Owen up the ladder and teases him he's light as a girl. "I'm not light, I'm wiry," he corrects her, "In fact, girls go mad for it… but I guess I don't need to tell you that." Tosh looks at them suspiciously. Discretion is not one of Owen's strengths.

Back at the Hub, Owen has screwed up Tosh's computer during a little horseplay, or in his case, ponyplay. Tosh is pissed — she was running an alien translation program looking for common binary thread derivations. Whatever you say, nerd.

Owen: That's a bit of a mouthful.
Gwen: [giggling at Owen] Sorry, private joke…er, stupid joke.
Tosh: We're supposed to be professionals! We've got a job to do!
Gwen: She's right. You're right, Tosh. I'm sorry.
Owen: You know what Tosh? Sometimes I think even that stick up your ass has got a stick up its ass.

I thought getting some ass was supposed to make you less of one.