Jack ran his fingers over the machine again.
If he couldn't sleep because of his damn thoughts, nightmares that tore each part of his memory apart and put it back into hazardous places that stung, surely travelling into the past, or even the future couldn't hurt that much?
He was intrigued by this machine, never having attempted to use it himself. He knew that both Gwen and Owen had suffered horrible nightmares, horrible memories by this machine but somehow, he thought, he could be better than that, discover just why the shadows, the ghosts, manifested in such a way.
"Human emotion," he muttered to himself, "is the most intriguing thing of all."
And he should know. Each night Jack sits, picking apart each bit of his memory and trying to figure out a way, any way, that this curse of living forever could be lifted.
Oh, sure, some days it was a great advantage.
Suzie would've killed both him and Gwen if he hadn't stopped her, and that terrible beast from the rift would still be wandering around, destroying everything and he would've never caught up with the doctor.
Some days though, he just wished he could be normal.
It was strange, that he had not already aged much, having lived for so long already. But live and let live...
"The Ghost Machine", he thought aloud.
Never had they actually decided on a name for it but to Jack, that would be what it always was.
He took a deep breath and stood up, in the centre of the torchwood hub, alone, he glanced up at the ceiling, the flickering lights and poised himself.
"Ready or not?" he muttered in his American twang.
Not. He decided – instead walking into the autopsy room.
Here, here he could cope with.