Hey, look; another story!

I really shouldn't be starting another story, seeing as I can't keep on top of reasonable updates...

But I was very proud of this one-shot. It's the longest piece of fiction that I've ever written. After several days of turmoil, this 5,000-worded-beauty poured itself out of my mind as I listened to the Portal 2 remix "You Monster", with a fan-video made by the talented Youtuber GamerFollower. I swear, that remix is great for inspiration. It's also one of the few songs that doesn't distract me from doing schoolwork, which is a great bonus.

Anyhoo, onto the story! This is my first-ever Portal-fic, so any constructive criticism is welcomed.

God bless and have a great day (or night)!

ThePro-LifeCatholic

Disclaimer: I don't own Doctor Who, nor do I own Portal. I own the random UNIT peoples. I don't own any exploding citrus, either, but that has nothing to do with the story you're about to read. :D

As someone who could live forever (practically), it wasn't uncommon for Jack Harkness to meet the same people off and on throughout the years. On one hand, it was kind of nice, being able to see a familiar face every now and then. It made immortality a bit easier to bear, and the creeping pace of the centuries didn't seem quite so long and slow. However, there was always the possibility that the face he saw wouldn't know him, or vice versa. So many times he had passed by a good friend, only to find that the cheery welcome he longed to see was replaced by the blank stare of a stranger when they looked at him.

And they said that ignorance was bliss.

A crackle of energy pulsed around him as his feet touched ground on a cement sidewalk in the middle of a large city. Jack spun himself in a full circle, taking note of the towering skyscrapers, with their tinted windows and flaking paint. He shook off the wave of dizziness and staggered to the nearest wall. Time-jumping always left that initial feeling of disorientation, no matter how many times one did it. The fact that his Time Vortex Manipulator was more of a piece of decorative junk than anything else at the moment probably had something to do with the uncomfortable journey…

Jack reeled to the side, clutching the corner of a building. He stooped forward and swallowed hard, trying to force down the vomit that he could feel squeezing its way up his throat. Scrunching into a small ball, he slid to the ground and wrapped his arms around his stomach, waiting for the nausea to pass. He scrambled to his feet again, however, when the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears.

Of all the life forms he could have named within a space of three seconds, a past companion of the Doctor was pretty far down the list. A companion that he had met personally was the farthest option from his mind. So it was quite a shock to the befuddled captain when Martha Jones came into his range of sight. She was dressed in jeans and a baggy sweater, with the hood partially pulled up. Strands of black hair fell in her face, which was angled at the ground beneath her feet. Her arms were crossed and she kept glancing at her surroundings, clearly on-edge and alert for…something that was probably not good.

For a moment, Jack considered waving and/or letting out a friendly whoop. But a flash of reason smashed his friendly thoughts to smithereens, tearing him back to the harsh reality.

She might not know who you are.

His smile faded, and Jack let his arms fall limply to his sides. He watched her as she made her way slowly towards him, then spun sharply on her heel and backtracked the way she had come. The hollow thunk-thunk of her black boots was the only sound, and it soon faded into emptiness. Jack Harkness leaned back against the hard surface of the wall, closing his eyes and blocking out the world around him. Deep within, he could feel that all-familiar blackness forming deep in his chest, rising to his face like a cloud of smoke. Almost immediately, he countered the cloud with a stab of disgust and self-shame. Was he giving into loneliness? Was he so desperate that he'd actually contemplate tearing apart reality for the sake of having someone to talk to?

He shoved the cloud down, letting it settle in his stomach like a stone. It couldn't hurt anyone but himself if he left it there. Then with a shake – as if that would somehow dispel his tainted thoughts – he pushed himself away from the wall. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he took a moment to really look at where he had ended up. A faded street sign attached to a leaning telephone post gave him no enlightenment as to his location. With a loud sigh, he kicked a piece of rubble and began tramping forward. Might as well figure out where he was and do some exploring while he was passing through.

"Jack?"

He whipped his head around, eyes frantically scanning the crumbling buildings. In a moment, his gun was in one hand, fingers resting lightly on the trigger. Then wariness gave way to immense relief when the source of the voice emerged from an alley-way to his left.

"Jack!" Martha called, waving her arms over her head. She was smiling, dark irises sparking with unconcealed pleasure. The hood slipped down her back, leaving her strands of braided hair to fly out behind her as she rushed towards him.

Relief melted within the captain, completely overwhelmed by a wave of joy. Even the black cloud dissipated; he could almost physically feel it shriveling up into nothingness. In the short space of time it took to close the distance between them, the two friends were right in front of each other. Martha didn't need any prompting from Captain Harkness; as soon as he was within range, she threw her arms around him. Jack, on the other hand, stood still, letting the warmth of the embrace course through his body, driving back the choking years of solitude. Finally, Martha wiggled herself out of his arms and stood back. That large smile was still plastered to her face, and Jack realized that the corners of his mouth were twitching upward unintentionally.

"Hey, Martha," he said, finding his voice suddenly. "How've things been?"

Martha shrugged. "Oh, you know. Working at UNIT., protecting the Earth, same-old."

Jack threw his head back and laughed. Oh, how good that felt. How long had it been? "Sounds like you've been busy."

Martha smiled again, ducking her head down. "Just doing what needs to be done," she half-muttered.

"So what brings you to such a…scenic location?" Jack prodded, curiosity overcoming the initial feelings of joy and comfort. "Not exactly the ideal vacation hotspot, if you ask me."

When Martha raised her head again, looking up at Jack, he knew that he had hit a damaged nerve. Any happiness that had been on her face had been wiped away. She crossed her arms over her chest, fighting off an invisible gust of cold air.

"A failed mission," she admitted. Each word was bitter, hollow. "I made a mistake, and I don't know how to fix it."

Jack moved closer to the UNIT doctor, sliding his arm around her shoulders. She rested her head against him, listening to his heartbeat.

"What happened?" he asked kindly, softly. Martha's body trembled under his touch, and he couldn't help but marvel at her display of weakness. Out of all the companions he had ever had the privilege of traveling with, Martha Jones had been the unbreakable one. Never phased, never cracking.

"I had a team of agents with me," Martha began, forcing her trembling lips to form coherent phrases, "We were investigating some strange readings around his area."

"In the buildings?" Jack wanted to know. He scanned the empty windows, suddenly suspicious of their deserted appearance.

"No." Martha shook her head, pushing herself away from the captain. "From under the ground."

Jack stared down at the cement beneath his feet.

"Anyway," Martha continued, "Like I already said, Mickey and I were sent here with a group of seven other UNIT agents to locate the origins of the readings. We were getting ready to wrap up and head back the other day – we had collected some samples of the readings and wanted to get them analyzed – when Agent Forde had an idea." She sighed shakily, drawing herself to full height. Jack took full account of their immediate surroundings during the momentary lull.

"He suggested that we use the I.T.A. to find out what was going on under the surface," Martha explained.

"I.T.A.?" Jack asked. "Never heard about it before."

"Instantaneous Transportation Apparatus," Martha elaborated. "It's a teleportation device that UNIT's been working on for a while now."

Ah, another project, then. Jack nodded silently. One of these days, he mused, UNIT was going to step over the line. They kept pushing their limits, and it wouldn't be too long before some catastrophic event wiped the organization off of the face of reality forever. Just like Torchwood. He grimaced at the sound of that name, despite the fact that he had been working on re-establishing that very same organization. It took him a second to realize that Martha had stopped talking, and was examining his expression, head tilted slightly to the side.

"Sorry," he apologized, "I was just thinking about some things. So, the I.T.A.?"

"Agent Forde volunteered to use the I.T.A. to go underground and see if there was anything worth looking for."

"What," Jack joked, one eyebrow arching, "Like, some underground facility?"

Martha didn't laugh. She looked him directly in the eyes, and something about her stony expression subdued the time traveler immediately.

"Exactly," she answered. The one word dropped into the conversation like a weight, shattering their friendly talk.

"He went down there," she continued, each word frigid and ringing empty from her lips, "Without the permission of either Mickey or me. He managed to obtain footage of some 'underground facility' as you put it." She laughed. It was short and ugly. "At least, we got ten seconds of footage."

Silence stretched between the two. Jack was certain he knew where the story was going, but dreaded actually hearing it. If he could, he would've paused this moment, allowing the ending to go undiscovered indefinitely. Or even better, he would have ended their interaction with the hug at the beginning and left. But to abandon her now, when she was so close to breaking down completely…that would be nothing short of cruel.

"What happened to him?"

"We don't know." Martha snapped her mouth shut. Obviously, the story had reached its conclusion. Jack could easily fill in the details from there.

"But you didn't leave," he said. "You stayed here, because you're thinking about going after him, where ever he is."

Martha nodded. "I'm responsible for every agent on this team, and I'm not leaving without first trying to get him to safety."

"But how are you going to get to him?" It wasn't like Martha to go charging into a haphazard plan without thought or preparation. "Doesn't he have the I.T.A., or whatever it's called?"

In response to Jack's question, Martha reached into the pocket of her jacket. She pulled out a small device, shaped like a half-circle. Several lights blinked on its surface.

"There are two I.T.A.'s," she explained. "Granted, the only two in existence, but that's good enough for me." She turned it over in her hands, sliding a finger along its shiny, smooth rim. "If it can get me to Agent Forde, then that's really all that matters."

Jack was quiet, a retort weighing uncomfortably on the tip of his tongue. He could understand Martha's position; time and again, he'd been in a situation where someone under his care needed help. But to go rushing in like this, without much of a plan – not to mention an almost certainty of extreme danger and/or death – didn't sit well with him. He needed to make her see this, somehow.

"But you don't even know where he is!" Jack pointed out. "Only ten seconds of footage; do you know where he went, or where he could be now? What if it was just his camera, and it stopped functioning? He could be anywhere. Have you been down to that…where ever Agent Forde happens to be right now?" He paused for breath.

Martha didn't respond. She flipped the I.T.A. over in her hands, a sliver of doubt flashing across her face.

"The I.T.A. is equipped with a tracking device," she finally said. Her voice was small and tentative, as if it were a fact she'd rather not reveal. "It's weak, but Mickey's been able to monitor it."

Jack sighed, deflated. Time for a new approach.

"If it's that weak, then it could cut out at any time. Assuming you made it down there alright, and managed to survive longer than ten seconds, what if you suddenly lose the signal?"

Again, Jack noted the look of wavering uncertainty that passed over Martha. She bit her lip, staring blankly down at the device cradled in shaking palms. As Jack examined the device, a dull glimmer caught his eyes, grabbing his attention and bringing home the sacrifice that Martha Jones was willing to make.

Almost of its own accord, Jack's arm shot out to Martha, and he took her left hand in his own. Gently turning it over, her thin fingers splayed across his palm, he stared at the small cluster of diamonds. They winked up at him from their fixed place on a band of tarnished gold.

"What about him?" Jack questioned in a barely-whisper. Martha blinked down at the ring, as if really seeing it for the first time. Then she pulled her hand away, but in a slow, deliberate movement. Not hurried or angered, as he would have thought.

"Mickey," she said finally. She turned the ring several times, looking up and off into the patch of sky just beyond Jack's head.

"Mickey the Idiot?" Jack whistled softy, one eyebrow rising to almost to his hairline. "Now what'd he do to deserve you?"

Martha giggled, overcome with a crashing wave of fondness and love. "I have no idea."

Jack didn't laugh. His expression schooled itself back into an almost-glare, only his eyes portraying the amount of concern and something quite similar to fear that shoved against the stony hardness.

"He and I agreed…" she gulped. "We agreed that this was the best course of action." The words squeezed out of her throat, hanging heavily in the air between them.

Jack looked down at the ring. It blinked in the sunlight, seeming to return his gaze. Then, like the beam of golden sunshine gleaming on the diamonds, he was illumined by the metaphorical glow of an amazing idea. So sudden did it come to him, and so brightly did it shine, that he grinned unintentionally.

"What?" Martha inquired snappishly. She was still caught up in the throes of the desperate situation, and the bleak responsibility that lay before her. Jack, on the other hand, felt the weight of dark despondence lift off his chest, and he could've laughed if it weren't for his friend's distressed state.

"Send me," he said quickly, tripping over his words in a rush to get them out fast enough. "I'll go down there and get Agent Forde. What's the worst that could happen to me? Death?" He chuckled.

Martha pondered the offer. To be honest, she was taken aback by the selfless gesture, and wasn't quite sure how to respond.

"It's my responsibility," she began.

"Listen," Jack cut her off, "I want to do it. I thought I was just passing through; turns out, I come here exactly when you needed me most. The Doctor's not around to do it, but he would've offered the same thing. And you probably would've accepted his help." He shrugged, trying to show Martha that he wasn't offended by the comparison. "Please let me help you."

Martha stood still for a moment longer, uncomfortably twisting the device in her hands.

"Please," Jack repeated, his voice dropping to a whisper.

"Fine." Martha nodded her head slowly. Jack slumped forward slightly, relief flooding through him.

"Alright, then," he said quietly. "Show me where I need to be."

"Here's where Agent Forde was last," Martha said, pointing to the patch of earth beneath her feet. "At least, this is his last above-ground location."

Jack stepped forward, positioning himself directly where Martha had been standing. Stalks of wheat tickled his fingers, swaying lazily to-and-fro on all sides for miles around. A clear blue sky, dotted with white puffs of cloud, curved overhead in an endless arc.

"Here," Martha handed over the I.T.A. Jack took it; it was warm to the touch.

"Remember," Martha continued, "There's only two of those right now. So if you lose that one, you're gonna have to compensate for it."

"Nice to know you care so much for my well-being," Jack teased. Martha sighed and shook her head. Then she sobered.

"Be careful," she said. "Come back."

"When don't I?" Jack laughed. Maybe, if he smiled and joked, it would make it easier for Martha…even if he ended up not coming back. He saluted smartly, then pressed down on the activation button before he could change his mind.

The teleportation process itself was…impossible for Jack Harkness to describe. The first sensation that he experienced, in the space of a second or less, was that of being torn apart. Deconstruction, down to the molecular level, ripped him to shreds. This was followed by a blank space of nothingness, then a blur of light and colors. His feet made contact with something hard, and suddenly he had all of his joints again. Blurred blobs arranged themselves into solid, three-dimensional shapes that made up his new surroundings. Although it seemed as if several years had passed, Jack guessed that the teleport had taken no longer than several seconds.

He rocked shakily, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. A glaring white light pressed itself onto his eyes whichever way he turned. It took the captain much longer than it should have to come to the conclusion that his sight wasn't impaired; rather, he was enclosed in a white-walled chamber.

It was small, square, and completely pristine. Not a spot could be seen on the white panels that surrounded him. From an invisible source, artificial lighting provided the harsh flare that had nearly blinded Jack when he had first opened his eyes. His sense of smell kicked in suddenly, bringing to his attention a malodorous scent that knocked him back. The air was stagnant with the smell; something that reminded him of cleaning supplies, except ten times stronger.

Jack shook his head and gave himself a quick pat-down. It seemed that all of his organs had ended up in the right place, and he had all of his limbs. Then he started forward, cautiously, taking note of everything around him. Lights still working, strong acidic smell hanging in the air, spotless wall panels…Jack had the sneaking suspicion that this place – whatever it was – wasn't necessarily in disuse.

Remember what you came here for.

"Agent Forde," Jack muttered. He dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the I.T.A. It had survived the teleport, and it still seemed to be in working condition.

"Forde!" he yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. There was no response, except for a small noise that Jack hadn't heard before: a wet, splashing sound. Following his ears, Jack wandered to the edge of the floor – also a blinding white in color – and came to a halt as the panels stopped abruptly. It gave way to a murky, brown-and-green liquid that hissed and swirled slowly. The fumes that rose from it were overpowering, and Jack's throat burned as he took in the toxic scent.

Alright; so the water (if it even was that) was probably deadly. Best to stay away from that.

Now that he had a better idea of his environment, Captain Harkness contemplated his next course of action. Obviously, he had to find an exit. That next part wasn't hard; Jack had noticed a round door with a stick figure on it shortly after he had entered the room. But the thick, slow-moving liquid stretched out before him, blocking off his platform from the door. Only a few white panels dotted the distance between him and freedom, suspended in the air above the toxic fumes.

Jack stepped back, calculating the distance from the end of the floor to the nearest floating platform. His back brushed against the wall. Tensing up, Jack took a moment of preparation before dashing forward. His boots thunked loudly against the tile, his dark blue coat flapped out behind him like a cape. The dark, acidic broth rushed towards him as he got closer to the edge of the low-lying platform. At the last possible moment, Jack leaped forward. His feet left the ground, and he was soaring through the air. He inhaled the strong scent that rose up to him from below. Stretching his hands out and throwing his legs forward, Jack willed himself to go on, even as he felt himself beginning to fall.

*THUNK*

He rolled onto the surface of the platform and slid to a stop. Out of breath, Jack lay against the panel, letting his shallow gasps even out. Blood pounded in his skull, and his heart beat too quickly in his chest. Slowly, deliberately, Jack pulled himself up into a sitting position, ignoring the stabbing pains of protest coming from his arms and legs. Beyond him, the next stepping-stone beckoned tantalizingly. He stood up, estimating the distance to be at least five feet. Five feet of deadly floor space.

"Right, then," he muttered, rubbing his hands together. Going back was pointless, stalling was stupid. Jack slid backward until he was teetering on the edge of the raised white podium. For a moment, he envisioned a skinny figure by his side, wielding a small, blue device. In his mind's eye, Jack could picture the man perfectly, lanky legs spread out as he covered the distance between the panels in a single bound, an excited cry escaping his lips and reflecting the almost-manic joy that sparked in a pair of protuberant, chocolate-brown eyes.

"What the heck?" he asked the empty air. Cracking a grin, Jack rushed forward. In a in a few long strides, he had reached the end of the platform.

"ALLONS-Y!" he screamed, flinging himself forward. For a single, glorious moment, he was suspended in space. There was nothing lifting him up, and he had left gravity behind him. He leaned forward, willing momentum to carry him to the panels. Closer…closer…

Then physics seemed to take notice of the time traveler. The fleeting moment was gone. There was the rush of air, yanking at his clothes and tearing the breath from his partly open mouth. He twisted in the air, his elongated form folding in on itself. His back was to the ground, but he could smell rather than see the liquid rushing up to catch his falling, fragile body.

It was indeed thicker than it looked, because the splash when he made contact with the watery substance was pathetic at best. He didn't bother to thrash; the shock of free-falling was still fresh, and he was having enough trouble wrapping his mind around the fact that he could no longer hear, see, or breathe. Then an explosion of pain shot through him, forcing every other emotion and thought from his head.

Jack was no stranger to the occasional morbid thought. Everyone had them, every now and again. One idea that Jack had contemplated more than once was how it might feel to be eaten alive. He had read about cannibals in history books when he was nothing more than a boy attending a local Boeshane school. Animals like piranhas and Venus' Flytrap fascinated him. What did the victim experience during the process of being killed, piece by piece, while still remaining partially alive throughout the whole, horrible ordeal? Needless to say, Jack had never thought that he would get to answer the question via personal experience. And his imaginings had been quite shallow compared to the real thing.

He was dissolving into the liquid. It bubbled over his head, fully submerging him in a brown fog. Thought, sight, smell, and all other senses were irrevelant, miniscule, even; there was only mind-numbing, all-consuming pain. Toxic waste poured into his eye sockets, his ears. It seeped through tightly-shut lips, forced its way into every opening it could find on his too-vulnerable body. His clothes were melting off of his skin, exposing it to a burning sensation worse than fire. His paralyzed limbs were curled against his stomach. Black specks swam into his line of vision, pushing back the red haze. Scorching throbs of agonizing discomfort settled into a buzz in the background, and a tiny part of his mind that seemed unaffected by the insanity of pain noted that he was probably dying. The acidic overdose was far too much for his physical form to handle, and his body was reacting in the only way it knew how.

Slowly, Jack allowed himself to relax, stretching out his arms and legs and letting them hang in the brown liquid. With a wave of emotion akin to relief, he embraced the oncoming blackness, the nothingness, to provide some respite from the scorching burn that licked at his skin and gnawed at his insides.

Unfortunately, for one such as Jack Harkness, not even death could offer deliverance.

The next thing he knew, his eyes were open again. Life was thrust back into his body, and he was involuntarily gasping for air that wouldn't come. Toxic water flowed easily into his mouth, setting his throat aflame. This time, though, he didn't hang limply. He flailed desperately against the weight of his aqueous prison, churning the brown liquid in an attempt to get his head above water. Froth sloshed around his body as he came up suddenly. Florescent lights gleamed down at him from the ceiling, and he could see their glare on the white tiles in front of him. Shoving the pain to the back of his mind, Jack struck out for the panels. His strokes were erratic; spasms shook his arms and legs, making movement nearly impossible. And the pain continued to push up and never stop and never stop and never stop…

It must've been years later when his corroded hands brushed against the rough edge of the panels. Frigid fingers scrabbled for a handhold, clamping awkwardly in a half-hearted grip. Streams of toxic liquid ran off his skin, forming a large puddle that stained the completely-white floor. The water sucked hungrily at his heavy clothes, pulling him down. In a final burst of frenzied strength, Jack ground his teeth together and heaved upward. The pool of acidic liquid relented at last, releasing its hold on him and splashing back into the basin. He dragged himself forward a few inches before falling face-down on the tile. The thin sheet of toxic water dug into his cheek and palms of his hands. His skin was cracked and dry; it was as if the liquid had leeched all of the moisture out of his body. He was scorched, burning both inside and out. Acid was nibbling on his skin, working its way inward. Smarting eyes couldn't see anything except a bright light that faded in and out. As he passed from consciousness and into black oblivion again, the small, sane part of his mind realized that he couldn't make out a heartbeat. Maybe he was really dead this time, he wondered. He was slightly surprised that he didn't feel scared or unnerved by this possibility. Then again, it didn't really matter now, did it?

When he woke up again, he couldn't tell if he was really awake. All he knew was that he was still hurting, and he couldn't move; but he felt awful, and he needed to shift his position, even if just a little bit.

It was too dark. There was no blinding light, no white glare on white panels. He was somewhere new, or maybe nowhere at all.

Maybe he was dead. Was this what "the other side" looked like?

But why did it still have to hurt? The pain was still there, he was still on fire, and he was being chewed to bits while still being alive. Make the pain stop. Make the pain stop. Just make it…oh, please.

*Why are you still alive?*

Was that him? His own musings on his hopeless situation? He couldn't really tell.

*You should be dead. You shouldn't have survived that.*

His stomach churned. Nausea was building up, shoving bile up his throat and into his mouth.

*How are you still alive?*

Jack lurched forward, regurgitating toxic liquid – mixed with whatever meal he had last – onto his clothes and legs. The bitter flavor of acid filled his mouth, charring his tongue and leaving a lingering lemony aftertaste. Inky clouds blurred his already-hazy sight, and his head fell back. It thunked painfully as it came into contact with a hard surface.

Darkness slipped into his field of vision, and he could have sighed as the pain began to ebb and wither into the background. Before blackness claimed him a final time, he was dimly aware of a soft yellow glow hanging above his head. He lost himself in the beam of cold light as it swung back and forth, matching the erratic pulse of his wildly beating heart.

Whew! 5,000 words you guys. This is the longest one-shot I have ever written. This was done over the course of about a week. Kudos to those who read to the end. You can get a cake, or something along those lines..

By the by, I listened to a Portal remix while typing this. It's called "You Monster", and it can be found on Youtube. I like it a lot, and it's completely clean and all that jazz.

The next chapter will be coming...eventually. Hey, as long as I make it past chapter three, I'll consider that an advantage over Valve. XD

For those reading this who might be interested, I have a couple other Doctor-Who-ficlets that are currently being written (don't let the long waits between chapters phase you too much; I'm actually working on getting those stories done!).

I'm probably going to be posting some Portal one-shots relatively soon as well, so feel free to check out my account!