[Introduction] Ain't found a way to kill me yet...
The moment his central nervous system kicks back online is the moment the pain started, just a moment before his consciousness came back. No matter how many times he's died, some part of him never gets used to it, and that part of him is what starts to scream in pain. But the part of him that can't help thinking, 'Here we go again', notes that, in recent years, the way he's been dying have gotten more and more creative. Small explosives in his gut: high marks for stealth to whomever did this, no marks for aesthetics.
He screams himself hoarse, stopping when the pain subsists, and that happens only when his skin finishes healing. He takes in his surroundings: a cell of some kind, plain cement walls, a light in a metal cage overhead. He's lying on a metal table, his wrists chained to a ringbolt in the wall. Hardly the first time he's been detained by persons unknown. He jerks at the chains, trying to find a weak link.
"Come on! who's the genius behind the camera?" he yells up at the ceiling, noting the security camera on the wall. "C'mon, come out and take your bows! Show yourselves! Face me like a man!"
A hatch opens in the ceiling, revealing a woman in a leather jacket standing there, looking down at him, as an elephant might look at a mosquito. "I'm not a man," she replies, flatly.
"Who are you?" he rasps. "What's all this about?" Clearly she had to know something about the bomb that someone had slipped into him after they'd killed him and Patanjali in the hospital: likely she was the one who'd done the dishonors.
"Apparently you can't die, so it would be foolish to tell you anything," she replies, still with that detached air, as if she might be reading off a washing list. "But I will say this: if I can't kill you, then I can contain you."
She steps away and the muzzle of some kind of metallic pipe moves into view. He struggles against the shackles, expecting anything. A hatch opens on the end of the pipe, releasing a stream of thick grey liquid that poured over him.
Cement, he realizes, and the part of him that can't get used to those creative ways he's getting killed starts to scream again, causing his mouth to fill with the cold, acidic liquid.
Then, everything goes black again...
The nothingness of unconsciousness lifts and he forces himself to cough rather than gasp before shaking his head to get the cement out of his eyes. He blinks, looking around him and sitting up. He's lying on the decking of what appears to be a porch. He's still covered in a slurry of wet cement and his hands are still manacled. Well, he's looked worse than this, and it'll give the first person who comes along an interesting view.
"Hey, someone got a hosepipe handy?" he calls out. "'Cause cement isn't exactly a good body-wrap."
Name: Captain Jack Harkness
Fandom: Doctor Who/Torchwood
Media: TV series
Typist: matrixrefugee
Other relevant info: So, there's a guy wearing nothing but wet cement and a pair of manacles on the porch: a medical type for the greeter would be interesting but isn't completely mandatory.
The first commenter acts as a welcoming committee. All following interactions are deemed later in the day, when the character is settled.