Torchwood. Outside the government, beyond the police. And, unfortunately, beyond my ownership, otherwise the third season woulda been a lot longer than five episodes. Just saying...

There were days when the world just royally sucked.

This was one of them.

In fact, this was just the latest in a string of days that sucked so royally, it made the Queen professionally jealous.

And Jack couldn't even enjoy it properly.

"Ouch," he muttered, his joints popping painfully back into place. He studied the ground beneath him. Damn. He hadn't even cracked the sidewalk. What sort of suicide was it when you couldn't even make a lasting impression on the ground you fell on?

Of course, what kind of suicide was it that you walked away from?

A piss-poor one, he cursed, mentally. His hand went to his holster. At least his sidearm had survived the trip south from the rooftop - he might want to try a little Russian roulette later, Jack Harkness-style. The one with only one empty chamber and five bullets.

Why do you keep on trying, eh? He didn't know why he thought these half-hearted measures would work. Hell, being buried alive for millennia hadn't finished him off. A bomb in his gut had barely slowed him down. Concrete had been a nuisance at best.

Though it had been fairly restful - never getting any oxygen tended to speed up the suffocation process, so he spent more and more time in that in-between state, the dead state. Maybe he would try that next.

"...please come down here and get him? That's the third batch this week he's ruined, trying to sneak in. What is he trying to do, play Godfather?"

Gwen's voice on the other end of the line was muffled as it replied, and then the foreman was hanging up the phone and glaring death at Jack. "All right, she's coming to pick you up. And that's the last time, you hear? Next time I catch you sneaking into the pouring moulds, I strangle you myself! Damned crazies..." he muttered under his breath as he turned away. "And mind you stay there this time!"

Jack shook his hand, listening to the clink of the chain. He was cuffed very securely to a desk, which was, in turn, bolted very firmly to the floor. Some past incarnation of himself might have enjoyed this, might have admired the firm backside of the man in the hardhat who had locked him there... but not now.

He could feel the black darkness welling up inside him, under his breastbone, threatening to suffocate him. Ianto... where are you? Why did you have to leave? ...no, can't think about that, can't dwell... Ianto, Ianto, Ianto...!

He banished the thought. Banished it, utterly. What next? The crushing deep? Take a cruise out to the Mariana Trench and jump overboard with a cannon chained to his ankle? Or maybe the Arctic, try freezing to death. There were a lot of ways to die, surely one of them had to take.

"Hey, Jack, and what have we gotten ourselves into now?" The soft Welsh accent of his dearest - his only - friend in the world cut through his contemplations. Gwen. She was starting to show a bit now, new life amidst all this death and horror. Her brown eyes radiated concern as they searched his, looking for God-knew-what. Though Jack thought he knew. Some hope. Some spark. Some sign that maybe, possibly, life might be going on.

Evidently not finding it, she hid her expression as she looked downward, concentrating a bit too hard on the lock. It took her a moment longer than usual to click the key, and he knew that that pause meant she was pulling on her hidden reserves, to deal with her suicidal friend and former boss, who, unfortunately, never managed the job so that she could grieve properly. That pause twisted in his gut. Damn it, Gwen, I never meant for this to hurt you, too... But, damn it, Gwen, why the hell do you have to care?

Her, caring, was a kick in the gut every time he woke up from another failed attempt. Her, caring, was the only thing that could possibly hold him here. Her, caring... hurt him almost as much as Ianto's death.

He hated her for it.

But he let her lead him away from the construction site anyway. It took energy to hate. And right at this moment, he had none to spare.

She took him to her home, to the house she and Rhys shared. Tucked him into the bed in the spare room that was becoming known as "Jack's room," he spent so much time crashed at their place. It wasn't right, really, it wasn't, they should have their own life, apart from him.

But where else did he have to go? Torchwood was gone. He should be starting it back up again, he knew. There was no one trying to kill him anymore, more's the pity, and they'd only destroyed his base because he happened to be standing in it when the bomb had gone off. The Rift was still there, still operational. Trouble was, he just couldn't seem to care. Aliens? They had no bearing on his life anymore. Nothing did.

"Come on, Jack, there's breakfast on the table. Why don't you eat something, yeah? No good starving yourself, then."

Gwen again. Didn't she ever give up?

He rolled over and ignored her, hands knotted in one of Ianto's vests. He could almost, almost imagine that he still smelled his lover in the fine fabric. Almost...

"Hey, Jack, what're you doing lying around, eh? And you always accuse us Welshmen of being negative. Come on, man, get up!"

Rhys. Sweet man, but clueless. Didn't he know the world was over? It kept on moving, but without Ianto in it, what good was it to Jack?

"Jack, you have to move sometime. There's a whole big world out there. Bigger, actually - where else do all of these aliens keep coming from, yeah?"

Aliens. Pfft.

Then again...

It was aliens that had killed Ianto, wasn't it? Aliens that had invaded, aliens that had demanded their children, aliens that had forced him to sacrifice Stephan. He was alienated from his daughter over that. He'd murdered her son. His only grandchild.

Aliens did this. Jack knew he was at fault, too, but the aliens... the real fault lay with them. The four-five-six, or whatever their race was called when they were at home.

Home...

New determination galvanized him into action. With a grunt, Jack stood up, pulling on his greatcoat with his characteristic swirl. He had things to do.

"Jack, we wish you would stay," Gwen pleaded. Rhys, standing just beside her, nodded his assent.

But Jack was determined. "I can't," he told her. "There's a whole big universe out there. This world is too small for me. I have to get out."

"Well, come back sometime, yeah? We'll miss you."

They exchanged a bit more friendly banter, but Jack's nerves were strained, aching to be gone, to be among the stars.

To be on the hunt.

Sure, he'd told them that he was just going sightseeing. They believed him. Why wouldn't they? What better occupation for the man who couldn't die? Gotta distract himself somehow.

He was glad, for once, for Gwen's sweet naivety, so that she couldn't know or even suspect what he was about to do.

And then they hugged and Jack flashed out, the first leg of his journey complete.

Staring out the window of the freighter, Jack brooded. It might take a long time. It might take years, decades even. Maybe longer. But what was time to him? Nothing.

But he would find them, the four-five-six. He would find their home planet.

And then he would torch it. Burn it to ashes and then blow up the rest, so that even the planet itself would be dust.

He laughed bitterly to himself. The twenty-first century is when it all changes, all right. They'd thought they were ready, but when it came down to it, Torchwood had been scrambling just as much as everyone else. Things were destined to change? By God, he was going to be the one to change them. If it made a xenocide of him - a species-killer, the murderer of an entire race - well, so be it.

Jack was through with waiting.