2008-02-22: Baptism By Fire

Starring:

Jack_icon.gif Peter_icon.gif

Summary: The long process of change requires a catalyst to take away what had been before.

Date It Happened: February 22, 2008

Baptism By Fire


Weichsel Carcass House

Silence has been Jack's only companion for what seems like a very long time. During detox, seconds can seem like hours. Hours can seem like years. He's long since lost track of how long he's been here. His time has been filled with contemplation, prayer, and study. Copies of the Bible in several languages and formats are spread out on the floor and opened to particular passages in one corner. Nestled between them are hymnals, prayer books, and a single, enormous tome that has 'THE LIFE AND DEATH OF SAINTS AND SAINTLY MEN' embossed in gold on the leather binding.

Presently, Jack is leaning against the bars in another corner of his cage and flipping through a respectable stack of his personal effects. A passport. State ID for Michigan, New Jersey, and New York. Birth certificate and Social Security card. After each one is glanced over or given a brief, trembling touch of his fingertips, it's fed into the growing fire at his feet. One by one, the pieces of Jack Derex are consumed by purging, purifying flame.

"I hope it's not so cold in here that you're resorting to burning books," Peter says as he steps out of the darkness of the room. There's shifting in the chains again as he moves forward, though there'd been no sound to accompany him entering through one of the doors. There might have been a sound moments ago, maybe. The air of the recently closed meat packers would be considered quite cold, and the fire might be necessary.

"I can bring in some heaters if you think you might need them," he adds, looking less rough around the edges. Signs of bruising still stand out on his neck, but only a few marks, as opposed to the whole hand print he sported days ago.

It has been days.

"Mmm?" Jack looks up from his open passport and blinks his eye to clear it. "Oh. Nah, The cold helps keep me focused."

At this point, it looks like he needs all the help he can get. He's still wearing the last few bits of the suit he arrived in. His trousers are mostly intact, but the sleeve has been ripped from his shirt and jacket on one side, leaving one scrawny, tattooed arm exposed. The dirty cloth has been further torn for use as both bandages and bookmarks. He's thinner than ever, standing as little more than a tall skeleton with a thin layer of painted-on flesh to support it.

Used up, dried out, and depleted, he looks nothing like the Jack Derex he's now incinerating. Casually, he adds the passport as fuel for the small blaze.

"If it gets to be too much…" Peter says, but doesn't finish as he gets close enough so they can switch to conversational tones. Kneeling down, he shifts his coat so that it lays on either side of his knees. There's a few heavy things in his pockets, from the soft clunk on the floor.

"I went to talk to Trina. It's a good thing I went when I did, too. She's going to go back to your loft and clean it up, make it more of a home for you when you get back. I also…" He shifts again, reaching into his pocket to pull out a small phone. It flips open, it's fairly cheap looking.

"I got you a phone, in case you wanted to call her. I didn't tell her where you were, but… it might help to hear her voice sometimes. I know it would help me— if I was in your place."

Jack's thin body tenses up visibly at the mention of Trina's name. The thought of talking to her and having to admit all of the things he's done is near unbearable. He just nods and turns his head away. "Thanks," he replies shortly. "You can reach through the bars and leave it on the ground. I'm a bit busy right now."

The cellphone is held onto for the moment, as Peter focuses on all the things the man is doing. Burning things. The more he looks at the paper curling up in the fire the more that it looks like… The man definitely doesn't look healthy, but that's the problem with withdrawl and detox. If he looked good, he would suspect that he'd managed to remember where he lost his drugs… There's a lot of trust when a man who can move things from one place to another is locked in a cage. "Are you burning a passport?" he asks quietly. "What else are you burning, Jack?"

Plop. When a Detroit Public Library card hits the smoldering stack it scatters burning bits of paper and plastic across the floor. "Everything," Jack replies. "Reborn by sunrise, remember? Invented anew in God. He…" he points down at the fire. "…wasn't strong enough for that."

He fishes in the pockets of his filthy clothing for one of the bent-but-unbroken cigarettes that he never seems to be without. After he sticks it between his teeth, he twists his birth certificate into a squib and touches it to the fire. When the improvised torch flares up, Jack leans forward and uses it to light his non-filter.

"We're all weak sometimes…" Peter says softly, moving close enough to stick his hand through the bars and put the phone down in a place where it won't get burned up, or fall out of reach. "But I'm proud of you… for wanting to change. To become stronger. I always respected you for your strength, your… character. Even if you did embarass me with how crude you could be about my girlfriend…" he trails off with a lopsided hint of a smile. It's not full of humor, the sight of a man burning away his identity isn't something to be humored about. "She's waiting for you, you know. When you come out the other side. Elena too. And Nathan. And Cass. And me… All of us."

Whip-fast, Jack's hand snakes out to grab Peter's. He gives it a brief, bone-creaking squeeze before letting go. "Thanks," he whispers, fixing his eye on Peter's face with a fierce, feverish intensity.

Then he lets go and pulls yet another ID out of his pocket. This one is a mint-fresh New York driver's license. It has Jack's picture and his vital statistics on it, but not his name. Not his old one, anyway. Instead it reads 'David Sydney Carthage.'

He presses the chit of plastic against the bars so Peter can see it. "They won't be waiting for me, though," he continues. "They'll be waiting for David Carthage."

The grab takes him by surprise, but Peter meets his eyes for a moment before he's let go and can pull back. "Your welcome," he says simply, something he's repeated more than a few times in the past few days. It makes him feel good, happy that he could do something. It shows in his dark eyes as he settles back to look at the newly minted ID.

"David Carthage?" There's a rather long pause after he asks it, as if he's tempted to ask more specifics on it, or maybe… "You don't have to change your name to change yourself… You do know that, right?" David. He's not sure how long it will take him to think of him as anything other than Jack, Elena's nuncle, and Shepherd of the Saints from the future.

"Where's the name from?"

Jack pulls the ID back and glances down at it. Thoughtfully, he drags the pad of his thumb over its surface. It's amazing what one can do from inside a cell when one can send items two ways.

"They're the names of Saints that I've read about," he explains, answering the question. "Admirable men. Examples to aspire to. Carthage the Elder is my favorite." Though he's only been here a short time, Jack has read the story more than enough times to recite it from memory. "Carthage was condemned in his youth for sins of the flesh. After serving his penance and being reinstated to the priesthood, he founded a monastery called Druim Fertain. It was a place where all men of all creeds were invited to share knowledge and live in peace."

"I admit I never knew much about Saints," Peter says, looking away for a moment. The mention of 'Saints' brings up a different picture in his mind. Thanks to the place, thanks to the man sitting in a cage in front of him. He listened to the story, though, tilting his head with curiousity and sincerity. He settles down into a more comfortable sitting position. "You have many years ahead of you," he says, glancing at the man, whom is even harder to think of as younger than him now than it had been before. The skinnyness made him look older, the detox process has added years to his face.

"It's a good name." There's a pause before he asks in a whispered voice, "Was Jack your real name?"

Jack shakes his head and lowers his gaze to fix on the floor. "Nope," he admits. "Never had a real name. Just a number. That's a story all by itself, though."

When he waves to dismiss the issue, he looks more tired than anything else. "I've been more people and done more bad things than I care to think of, Peter. I don't wanna do it anymore. I just want my own name and my own life, and I want to do it right this time."

"And I thought I had problems with my father," Peter says softly, looking down at some bruising on his knuckles from where he punched the man in the face not too very long ago. He'd forgotten how much it hurt to punch someone like that, but he'll remember now. Thanks to his father.

Looking back up through the cage, he nods at the man's words, knowing some of what he's done, hints of something in his eye. A longing. A desire to say something that may take away some of the burden. Instead… "When this is all over— when you step out of the fire… I look forward to meeting you, David Carthage."

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