[ooc: sorry for the delay, RL snatched me up unexpectedly.]
This was not the most friendly room Jack had ever woken up in. It was reminiscent of some hospital rooms he had died in visited back in the middle of the last century. Nothing like a momentary trip down memory lane to make you realize how unlike the place you fell asleep in your current surroundings were. "I don't think I had a binge last night," he murmured to himself as he sat up.
And - COLD! The open-back gown did nothing to shield his delicates from the chilly steel table. Not a way anyone wants to wake up. Maybe Owen was having a go. If he was, this was so not funny.
The floor was just as cool on his bare feet. If this was Owen, he must have done something in particular to piss him off this much. Or - a dreaded thought crept into his head - the old ways of Torchwood had returned and the wanted to continue their quest to see what made him tick.
The speculation could go on for hours, but he decided to cut it short and check out the locker by the only door.
It was a substantial relief to discover his clothes: underwear (briefs, if you must know), socks, undershirt, blue military dress shirt, grey slacks with grey suspenders, a pair of worn brown boots, and last but not least his beloved RAF greatcoat. Atop them was a note which left a bad taste for sure.
Now angry, he pushed on the door and, thankfully, it opened. Just outside, he discovered a young woman who seemed just out of sorts as he was. "Hey."