All Jack sees these days are ghosts; the Hub is full of them, lurking in the shadows, and there are a lot of shadows. He can hear their voices, their laughter, their insults, and every phantom sound cuts him right down to the bone, like the sharpest of the knives Alice and Emily used to derive so much pleasure from.
They’re here too, or course, among the oldest of the ghosts that haunt this place. All of Torchwood’s dead walk the tunnels and caverns that make up the underground base. Their bodies are still here as well, stowed away neatly in the drawers of the morgue, row upon row of them, tier upon tier. Now another set have joined them.
He doesn’t understand why Alex did it, most likely he never will. It’s not like he can ask the other man to explain his actions; he tried that at the time, just before Alex shot himself in the head, but he didn’t get an answer he could understand. Something about a locket and a vision; well, Jack has tried the locket himself and seen nothing.
Five more people have joined the ranks of Torchwood’s deceased. Five people who should still be living their lives and protecting Cardiff. Jack blames himself; if he’d been here, maybe he could have prevented the massacre, locked Alex up until the man came to his senses. If he ever did.
So now here he is, the only living soul in the place, surrounded by the ghosts of people he knew, people who were his colleagues, even friends. They mock him. They are dead who should have lived and he… He must live because death can’t hold him. The irony isn’t lost on him.
How many more will live and work and die here while he just goes on and on forever? Jack pours himself another drink, closes his eyes and listens to the voices of Torchwood’s ghosts. For now, they’re the only company he has.