Captain Jack Harkness

The island was shaking. The rumble and tremor woke Jack and he sat bolt upright, gasping for air. Volcano Day, and he'd forgotten to set his alarm.

He reached for House, but the man wasn't there. A cold sensation sat like a rock in his gut, and grew even harder when he noticed the cane beside the bed. House wouldn't get far without it. He climbed out of bed and took it with him out the door, looking around for the man. It was preternaturally quiet, all the birds and bugs and jungle creatures having gone silent. Foreboding was in the air and Jack trusted his instincts enough to know that something was wrong.

A cursory check of the hut lead him to believe House hadn't simply disappeared. When people did that, their things disappeared, too. He'd been here long enough to know that.

What day was it? What month was it? This had to be an island thing...last year around this time there had been a tsunami and...

"Oh, fuck me," he exhaled, returning to the interior of the hut. Tossing the cane onto the bed, he opened a trunk and pulled out clothes he rarely wore. The clothes he'd arrived in. Leather trousers, a shirt and a leather vest with useful pockets. He had the holster strapped on with the 9mm at his side and was in the process of cleaning Betsy and making her ready. He needed more people. People with guns.

Jack loaded the clips and made sure the rifle was in perfect working order while he formulated a plan. He was closing down. Growing cold and hard and ready.

And the entire time, he couldn't help but think of Dale, still running the border, looking for Sookie.

Jack found resolve. He'd find House and anyone else and bring them back.