2008-02-17: The Road To Damascus

Starring:

Jack_icon.gif McAlister_icon.gif

Summary: Choosing a path is sometimes as simple as waiting for a sunrise.

February 17, 2008:

The Road to Damascus


The Den of Iniquity, Brooklyn:

It's been documented that Irish people are not overfond of talking to electrical contraptions. It rankles. They aren't alive, and when they talk back they tend to be presumptuous about it. This could explain Jack's gruff tone when he leaves a message for his favorite DJ.

"Ali. S'Jack. I know you're still on the air, but I wanted to let you know that I heard what you said. Let me buy you a drink? I'll be at the Den if you're interested."

In the last few months, the pub has become more living area than workspace for him. He still keeps his clothes piled out of sight in the office, but the main room is untidy in a way it's never been before. Chairs have been left where they were knocked over last, half-full bottles and glasses are set out on many of the tables, and there's a dusty, long-forgotten game of pool that's starting to collect cobwebs.

The man himself doesn't look any better. One good eye, his nose sliced in half laterally, and bruised scraped on most of his exposed skin. He's wearing a white t-shirt that no longer stretches at the shoulder seams; he's lost far, far too much weight. The shakes and sweats started today, too. The vomiting.

Mmmm, detox.

Ali's shift is not one conducive to things like 'a social life'. Eleven-to-six - but the last two hours isn't on the air, and with ratings up? You can get away with telling your boss you gotta /go/. And bolting.

Once. At least.

That means it's /late/ by the time Ali manages to get to the Den, out of breath from running the last few blocks from the nearest bus stop. Gulping air, she fumbles with a key she's not used in months.

So it is that the first indication anybody inside might get that they're getting a visitor is the scraping of a key in the lock, the jiggling that comes with getting it /just right/ so the darned thing turns like it's supposed to - and the overeager, distinctive alto that comes in as the door opens, "Jack?"

"Ali," the pub owner greets her warmly. As warmly as he's able, anyway. He smiles lopsidedly around his bandaged nose and patched eye as he waves the young lady in. "C'mere. Have a sip an' a sit-down. It's been too long."

There are glasses set out, but they're empty. For once in his life, Jack isn't drinking.

"Screw a d.. holy /crap/, Jack - do you ever dust?" Her nose wrinkles - it's the room she takes in first. But that's a momentary distraction, the DJ focusing on the man as she crosses (quickly) that direction - "God. Jack - what the hell happened to you?" Not that it stops her from doing her best to get close, to follow that utterly human necessity of poking at other people's wounds. It's followed rather closely with, honestly, a sudden, fierce, if awkwardly angled hug.

That is, unless he thinks about escaping.

Jack endures the prodding with a good-natured wince, despite his miserable considition. If nothing else, it's proof that the soft spot he's always had for Ali remains intact. When she swoops in for a hug, he wraps one arm around her and shifts her over to his less injured side. Though he's a little awkward, he squeezes her just as tightly as she hugs him. "It's good to see you, too," he jokes, momentarily skimming the issue of his condition. "I liked your show tonight."

She lingers for a moment, then pulls back - those eyes search his - and then she grins, lopsided and warm. "Thanks. A lot. I dunno why I didn't think of looking for you there before, you know? I just - there was this guy I ran into in Central Park, and we talked, and - I figured I'd give it another try.And what the hell happened to you, and why the hell are you dieting?"

"Whoa. Slow down, kiddo," Jack's smile fades as he extracts himself from Ali and gestures to a stool. "Life has been… hectic, to say the least. Things are changing in this city. Maybe the whole world, I dunno." One long-fingered hand scrubs wearily over his face and through his hair, carefully avoiding the worst of his injuries in the process. "I have the Brothers Petrelli to thank for most of my condition. That and the choices I made."

Ali moves - reluctantly - to the barstool. ".. brothers Petrelli. The Senator and that Peter guy?" She frowns - but that's more confusion than anything. "Great. Now this Peter's hurting you, too?"

Ever seen a ferret snarl? Cute one second, bared teeth and 'go for the throat' the next. And that's the kind of snarl the DJ offers, abruptly - bared teeth and everything.

Don't. Mess. With a girl from Jersey.

"I wonder how fast he can learn to fly?" If only she knew. "Where's Trina?" The snarl fades that fast, to be replaced with a crazy kind of worry.

"She's… safe." That's pretty much all Jack can say, and it's obvious that it hurts him. "And amazing. Our apartment was destroyed when Peter and I got into it. She's staying at a hotel under a fake ID I set up."

When he glances over at Ali, he looks tired and beaten in a way he never has before. Utterly defeated. "This is too much fight, even for me," he admits. "Something has to give, else folk like you and me get lost in the fold." There's an audible grinding noise as he grits he teeth and speaks through them. "Somebody has to look after the people, damnit."

Ali gives him the oddest look - and the fight drains out of her. Forgotten, for now. "oh, Jack - " She tries out a lopsided smile. It fits, and she keeps it.

"What's going on? /What/ fight? I come back into town and - I got friends losing their minds, people getting attacked.." She reaches up to run fingers through her hair. "Why?"

Jack cuts the air with a brisk, unhappy wave of his hand. He's about to elaborate on the gesture when a tremor overtakes him. It starts as a few small twitches, but quickly evolves into a full-bodied shiver that leaves him clutching at his chest for something like warmth or comfort. Still gasping, head still bowed, he speaks. "People are losing there minds. There's folk out there who're trying to use people who're special like us. There's these companies, Primatech and Pinehearst… I don't even know where to start."

A single drop of sweat trails wanly down Jack's injured nose and splashes off the bar as he glances up at Ali. "Whatever they want, I doubt it's for the greater good. The conflict is breaking people. Nathan's crazy now. Peter. Shit, even me. Yeah… welcome home, baby."

Ali's eyes grow sad, worried - she's already up, heading for the bar, looking for some semblance of a clean bar towel. ".. I can't .." Something about her firms. She sets her jaw, finds one that's good enough. Starts back. "Okay. So we start with you."

Oddly. She takes a breath. And starts /talking./

"You know what scares me, Jack? Getting used. Scares me more than anything. You ever meet George?" She goes on, not expecting an answer, snagging one of those dusty glasses of whiskey as she moves for the Irishman. "He's .. really sweet. A really, really nice guy. I like him - a lot. But I saw him in Central Park, and you know he asked me if I could.. fix somebody for him. Just before that? Jane Forrest looked at me and asked me to get some chick I don't know to answer questions for her. Back a long time ago? Elle told me about a bunch of people who put people like us in cells when we don't do what they want - when we're not. Good. You know? Fitting whatever plan that is." She dips the rag in whiskey - kneeling, setting the glass aside.

Ali reaches up, going to dab at that cut, to use the dry bit to wipe away sweat. Worried. "The wierd part? A little girl looked at me the other day and, not even knowing anything about me, told me about a life I could actually /help/. Wouldn't that be great? Just.. you know. Helping people."

Surprisingly, Jack doesn't fight her. He doesn't have much fight left in him. Angled toward her now, he fixes his one good eye on both of hers and nods solemnly. "You're right, and it's not my bullets or bonehead tactics that'll change the world. For Christ's sake, we just need to get people to listen." There's frustration in his tone. This moral enemy is one that he can't grapple and slam into the pavement. It's the one time he can't just slay the opposition and make it disappear.

Deep breath. Deep, deep breath. Jack's shivering slowly starts to dissipate. "You're right," he repeats. "And damnit, so was that little girl."

"Maybe. Maybe not." Ali works away, ".. but. But. I don't know what happened to you. I do know that two days after walking out of Grand Central I've got a dozen people asking me for stuff - not 'hey, Ali', how was California', or 'hey, where you been' - nope. It's 'hey, do this thing to this person, huh?" She offers him a wry smile.

"You've kinda been in the middle of it. I dunno /what's/ going on - I just … Jack. I'd do anything for ya. But. Uh. What the hell are you doing? Why am I sitting in a derelict bar that looks like the delta-chi house after spring break?"

"… and why do you look like hell, and why isn't Trina here - and why am I comin' back to people talking about bad things instead of somethin' cool like a wedding?"

The Irishman perks up at the last part. "I asked her, y'know. The crazy bird said yes." He smiles shyly for a moment, but the meatier matter they're discussing isn't a mirthful one. The expression slides off his face as he continues. "I don't really know what's going on either, kid. I've been so wrapped up in my own issues…" Now he's dodging something. He's not even doing a good job of it. Whatever the issue is, he skirts it and continues. "I did things. At first I was just trying to protect people, but I ended up more lost than ever." More deep breaths. "We can figure it out, though. You and me, we could work together to try and find some answers."

"I'm willing." Ali sits back on her heels - watching him. She remains blunt - "You're the best man I know, Jack. You saved my life. And yeah, I mean that - no reason at all to do it. In the middle of everything falling apart - even after you figure out I used the /crap/ out of ya, you… still. Well." She looks down, then back up again.

"Whatever you did, I don't care. I know who you are - and I'm never gonna ask you. Whatever happened? It's over. now. If ya want it to be. Finished. St. Aluicius - 'a man invents himself anew in God each sunrise'." Abruptly, she grins. "So - who are ya gonna be when the sun comes up? You got about an hour to figure it out."

"I think today I'll be a shepherd," Jack counters, the smile coming back to his face. "I like that. Tending the flock, y'know? People should look after one another." Slowly, the smile stretches into a shadow of his familiar, crooked grin. Though it's well-intentioned, the expression looks a little ghastly on his gaunt face. "B'sides, somebody has to scare off the wolves when they come 'round."

"Works." Ali holds out a hand to him, with a grin. "You got a hotplate in this place? You look like you're about to start shuffling around and askin' for brains." She adds. "And then, you're going to sit there while I clean - because, Christ - you're a pig."

A snort of laughter creeps out of Jack. Likely, it's the first time he's laughed in days. "Missed you, kid," he mutters affectionately as he watches her bustle about.

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