RP for endlessdrums 'A year on the Valiant.'
It was cold when Jack woke up. There was no blood on his chest, no wound other than a deep pain in his chest. That Lazer screwdriver had been the weapon, and it was a sharp pain, second only to that of the Dalek's extermination. The death had faded but the sting remained.
It had taken him a while to reorientate himself, to recognise the room around him as a section of the underside of the Valiant. He felt the metal around his wrists before he saw it, so cold it seemed damp against his skin. The corners of the shackles were sharp and bit harshly into his skin. But then, he didn't suppose they were built to be comfortable.
He tugged on the chains a little, to test their strength, but they were secured fast to the wall. He'd been put here to stay.
It was amusing at this stage. He didn't intend to be kept. Not when the Doctor might need his help. If he ever had motivation then that was it. He wouldn't let him down, not now.
He had expected that someone would come, that they might try and get information out of him (information that he of course wouldn't give), but nobody did. Nobody came that day and nobody came the day after. The only way he knew night or day was an LCD clock in the corner of the room. No light reached him, everything seemed to fade into one.
It became his focus though, that clock. Because someone would come, that much he knew, and when they did, he'd have something to say.
It had taken him a while to reorientate himself, to recognise the room around him as a section of the underside of the Valiant. He felt the metal around his wrists before he saw it, so cold it seemed damp against his skin. The corners of the shackles were sharp and bit harshly into his skin. But then, he didn't suppose they were built to be comfortable.
He tugged on the chains a little, to test their strength, but they were secured fast to the wall. He'd been put here to stay.
It was amusing at this stage. He didn't intend to be kept. Not when the Doctor might need his help. If he ever had motivation then that was it. He wouldn't let him down, not now.
He had expected that someone would come, that they might try and get information out of him (information that he of course wouldn't give), but nobody did. Nobody came that day and nobody came the day after. The only way he knew night or day was an LCD clock in the corner of the room. No light reached him, everything seemed to fade into one.
It became his focus though, that clock. Because someone would come, that much he knew, and when they did, he'd have something to say.