Well, that's less than encouraging. Both the fact that he's given up on escape plans and the fact that it's been a few days since he has.

"At the moment I'd settle for 'composing a scathing critical essay,' but I get the feeling that's not on the menu either," she says. She pulls herself up on the pipe she's cuffed to, holding on with her cuffed hand and putting her other hand to her head. Well, she's got one hand free, that counts for something. Some range of mobility. Not enough to really do anything, but some. "Fucker took my bag," she mutters. "Granted, I can see why he might not want to leave me access to mace and a taser, but the whole 'pen is mightier than the sword' thing is more metaphorical than tactical, and does he think I'm going to beat him over the head with the sketchpad, or what?" She tests the pipe, which is unfortunately firmly bolted into the wall. "I'm going to go out on a limb and say that Torchwood is aware of this. I'm going to go out on another limb and say that our charming being as he is, Jack is somehow or other out of the picture." She winces. "And I'm not going to poke at that too hard right now, despite the fact that I have a ream of questions for you folks, because I'm already up a tree doing the splits and trying to untangle that little knot requires a lot more coordination than I have right now. Aaaaaand– I'm sitting back down."

Which she does. Because it was that or fall over.