Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The white coats watch him through the bars of his cage. They’re waiting, he knows. Waiting for him to move, to try something again. His back still stings from the punishment of his latest escape attempt.

Although ‘escape’ isn’t quite the word he’d use. He’d made it all the way to an inactive turret and shoved his arm inside; trying to access the eco inside of it to blow it up in what ended in yet another failed attempt to kill himself.

Ten lashings for every soldier he’d taken out along the way.

He’d blacked out to the crack of the whip.

He rolls his sore shoulders and rests his head back on his knees. The clinking of the chain draws an eye his way, but he doesn’t do more, so the eyes leave again. 

He hates the chain.

It stretches from beyond the door of his cage to the metal ring on his neck. He feels the ring's sharp talons digging with every movement, every breath, every dry swallow; and he knows what they do. He hates that it never comes off.

A guard stands by the door. There’s always a guard now. Maybe there always was, but he doesn’t remember seeing them before The Cage. Always watching. Rifle raised at any movement he makes. And always, always he prays, this is when the guard pulls the trigger. This is when they slip up and finally let him fall through the veil. The guard doesn’t fire. Never does. Hands always just too far to do so by mistake. He hates them for it.

A door hisses open, and he hates that he flinches at it. A practiced greeting and careful steps bring closer the thing he hates most.

“Good morning, freak.”

He hates that voice. Hates the sing-song smoothness, and everything it promises. Hates the way those solid steps make him curl ever tighter. He especially hates seeing those piercing yellow eyes light up with glee the closer they get.

His fingers twitch at the vain hope to tear that grinning face to shreds. The shackles keep them in place behind him, and the steady throb of his raw fingertips, the only reminder that he can’t.

“Still got some fight in you, eh? Good.” His Handler croons at his half-hearted glare. “We’ll see how you do today. And if you’re good, there might be a treat in it for you.”

He narrows his eyes. He already knows there will be no ‘treat’ because he will never do what this man wants of him. 

Because disobeying will only hasten his end.

He hopes.

The cage door opens with a clatter, the chain already in that rough gloved hand. It’s pulled gently at first with a command, ‘Come.’

He won’t. Even if his legs hadn’t grown dead stiff, pulled so tightly to his chest, he wouldn’t.

His handler groans something that is not a growl and yanks the chain, causing him to tumble forward and out of his cage and onto the floor. There is a hand tangled in his matted locks before his head can hit the ground.

“Let’s see-” The voice no longer singing, he doesn’t know if that’s better, “-if you remember how to kneel. ”

He does remember. Lost count of how often he’s been forced into the position. Body roughly moved by impossibly large hands that care nothing for their bruising grip. And still, he does not move as he’s being told-commanded. Instead, he sits; held up only by the hand in his hair. He wonders briefly if obeying any command would change what he knows is coming.

Probably not.

His handler growls again and yanks him upward. His legs are stiff and shaky, but they find the ground solid enough to support him still. The chain is yanked again, and he is forced to follow. Another chain rattles between his feet. The guard at the door watches, his rifle raised. Aimed at him.

Now! He begs. Shoot me! Kill me now!

The guard does not fire.

They never do.

More guards grab an arm on either side to…’help’ him along. He knows where they’re going. He can see it from the cage. He watches it; and waits between each awful visit. Cursing its very being.

He doesn’t know which he hates most. The Cage, his handler…or the Chair…

The Cage is uncomfortably small. Barely enough room to sit up straight and even less to lay down comfortably, if he ever did. It sits on a low table far away from any wall. Staying too close to the bars just lets any of the white coats grab or jab or poke him whenever they want, and he hates that there’s nowhere to hide from their grabbing…searching hands.

His handler, his jailer, his mortal enemy if ever he had one, is a different kind of awful. While the white coats talk around him, his handler talks at him. Like he’s a mindess animal that can be trained to heel at their command. Like the only motivation he needs to obey is the promise of pain otherwise. Like he hasn’t already seen through all the lies and empty promises of ‘longer breaks’ or ‘extra rations.’ Part of him wonders if the man really, honestly and truly believes he is that stupid.

Probably…

But the Chair…he shudders every step closer. The Chair does not lie. It does not deceive or trick or delay. It promises pain. It delivers pain. Only here are his hands uncuffed; only to be stretched far far too far apart, pinned by metal so rough and ragged he’s surprised his hands are still attached. Three long, sharp, tainted needles hang above in waiting as he’s strapped down. They hum and spin when they’re brought to life and move slowly slowly down until they pierce through his chest.

The rest is agony.

Someone told him once that Dark Eco was chaos incarnate. Unpredictable. Violent. It cannot be contained. It cannot be controlled. And it will alter anything and everything it touches.

With every passing moment, more sludge than Eco, being pumped through those needles and into his body, he believes it. Has believed it. Below the static, he feels it moving. Travelling every which way, forcing his body to move unnaturally in every effort to attack, to flee, to stay, to tear his heart out, if only to be free from the prison of his own skin.

Distantly, he hears the dying cries of some pitiful creature. Part of him hopes it can find rest.

He knows it will not.

It stops all at once. The Eco is released, the needles removed, and all movement from the machine above folds neatly into a smooth metal dome.
“Eco injection cycle complete. Life signs: nominal and unchanged.”

He’s only dimly aware of the machine’s voice announcing the end of this session. He can still feel the Eco within him continue to make him twitch and thrash; all the while, he’s trying and failing to catch his breath. If he can just control his breathing. If he can just keep breathing, his heart will stop racing. If his heart can stop racing, he can channel this new Eco in with the rest of the muck instead of the old and the new fighting to tear through every piece of him. He can do it. He’s done it before. He’s had to. It’s all he can do. He just needs to-

-SNAP-

He jerks back to reality.

-SNAP-

He’s still in the Chair.

-SNAP-

His hands too far away to stop it.

-SNAP-

Fingers already held by the rough gloved hands of his handler.

-SNAP-

As each one is pulled.

-SNAP-

And forced into the jaws of a tool.

-SNAP-

That takes each and every newly grown claw.

-SNAP-

And cuts it down.

-SNAP-

He should be used to it.

-SNAP-

“Make a note: Following exposure, subject continues to regrow altered keratin in the form of claws. Maintained dark colouration.  Length measured at forty millimeters from the knuckle. Required force to trim sits at an average of nine fifteen. Will need to continue using the clipping machine for all future sessions.”

His teeth easily find their way to the tiny grooves he’s worn into the pipe between them. He chews with every interest of trading it instead for the throat of his handler.

“Now then…” the yellow eyes gaze down at him. “Let’s give this another go, shall we? Who knows? If you do well, I might be feeling generous enough to forget about that earlier…performance.”

He only glares at the man that is not a man. No man would hide behind eyes so sharp, grin so crooked, voice so falsely sweet. This man, he’s certain, is no man, but a singing monster that feasts on harm and drinks sorrow. Growing fat on his solitude by its hand.

It’s become a sick routine.

Cage.

Commands.

Chair.

More commands.

Back to the Cage.

Over.

And over.

And over and over and over.

The spell only broken by the rare occasions they decide he needs a hosing, or a shave, or a bag of goop -he only loosely understands is supposed to be food - is attached to the straw in his nose.

The water always cold. The razor always just too careful. The bag never emptied.

At least they’re not making him fight anymore.

He remembers Fighting. Constant. Constant fighting until his lungs were screaming and his limbs refused to move; and still he kept fighting. Kept going on and on and on until even he, in all his stubbornness, gave in to sleep and collapsed.

He misses sleep.

He misses the peace and the quiet that came with it. Misses being able to do so without eyes always watching. Misses the rest, the true rest, that it used to bring. 

He wonders, now and then, if he will ever sleep again.

He’s so tired.

If he sits just right, head on his knees, pulls his legs just close enough to keep warm, and forces his shoulders to relax, he can convince himself to drift away, just a little. ‘Meditation.’ That’s what it’s called, he thinks. Well…he doesn’t think. He just…drifts. Lets himself float somewhere between where he wants to be and where he is.

The only focus is the movement of Eco within him; and shifting it to match his ragged breathing. Eventually, they both settle. And by then, the white coats are back from wherever they go, or the guard changes out, or the Singing Monster brings the Man with the Metal Face to see him.

Metal Face never looks at him, never talks to or at him, never commands him, never stays, never touches the Cage, never does anything but yell and command the white coats and his handler. 

“My lord, the subject is resilient, but I don’t- we’re not certain he’ll survive another examination.”

He hates Metal Face.

“I don’t care if it survives, I want RESULTS! ”

Because it’s only by their will that he was still alive.

“P-perhaps the external mutations are more gradual…”

And it terrifies him. 

“We'll get an abdominal exam scheduled right away.”

He hates the white coats.

They make the guards carry him to the Chair. They have his handler tie him down with all the stiff leather straps that only get used during ‘exams.’ They wait until the straps over his eyes and under his chin are in place before finally, finally, stepping forward and touching him themselves wearing layers upon layers of smooth clean colourful gloves. They hold tools that glow against the sickly green lights. 

Hold them against him. 

Cut him open.

The pain is dulled in the fog of sleeplessness. Maybe he’s finally getting used to it. He doesn’t know how he feels it at all.

Smooth gloved hands split the skin of his chest to reveal something he knows they’re looking for. He knows they put it there, somehow still remembers waking to find it. The little acid nugget in his chest. He knows it used to be much smaller because they talk about how much it’s changed.

The Dark Eco crystal that was once the size of his thumb had grown and merged to his ribcage so completely that they were one in the same.

The white coats are excited. 

One is encouraged to cut through his arm to see just how far it’s expanded. There’s barely more than skin in the way. They get to bone within moments. No more crystals past his chest, but they say his bones are pure black.

Hands are inside him. He feels them against his lungs, touching his heart, grabbing his liver - which is also pure black, but apparently still fine. 

They take their tools. Their sharp, sharp knives… and they cut. 

And they cut. 

And they pull. 

And they grab. 

And they take. 

And they take. 

And they take.

And still they search and poke and pull and find new things they think again to take.

He drifts. Waits. Closes his eyes. Waits longer. Waits for that comfortable darkness to finally take him away. Away. Far far away from the Chair, the white coats, the Cage, the Singing Monster, the Metal Face and all their guards.

He waits for sleep. Waits for death.

And still….

And still…

He’s in the cage when he comes back to himself. Laying curled on his side and somehow taking up the entire bottom of it. He meets the smiling yellow eyes that grin as they and he both realize.

He survived.

He doesn’t know how. There’s a hollowness inside of him where many somethings once were. Somehow. Somehow, they made him live.

The cage is opened. The chain pulled by rough gloved hands.

“Get out, Freak! I want to see you moving.”

He glances at that crooked grin. The command was to move. He will not. He closes his eyes, his only defense.

He’s so tired.

The ring on his neck springs to life. His body moves without his will. Jaw clenched tight around the pipe. Hands contorting in impossible shapes. Every scar and scab on his back and front sings from the inside out.

The monster does not sing, does not smile. They merely grab the chain between his feet and pull him out. He falls to the ground and is left to ride out the spasms until finally, blessedly, they stop. He lays, a puddle of himself, panting.

“I expected better out of you.” His handler almost sounds sad. “To think of all that work and effort just wasted.” A kick to his stomach leaves him dizzy on his back.

He hates being on his back.

“Don’t you worry though-” he shudders. “- I can be rather stubborn, myself.”

The routine continues. 

Metal Face comes. 

Stays. 

Watches.

He’s given commands from them as well, now. Commands that he still refuses. He’s promised new things for obeying: bandages, clothes, bedding. And still he does not. Metal Face yells orders to have him beaten and lessen his rations for each failure.

He spends each terribly short rest in the Cage barely breathing. Savouring the soft, gentle touch of Green Eco on the worst of his wounds.

Healed just enough not to die.

Fed just enough not to starve.

Chained so he cannot run.

And still he prefers the Cage.

There’s something desperate in Metal Face that he recognizes. He remembers being so sure he’d find something he was looking for if he just kept searching. He’s not sure he ever found it. He’s not sure it even mattered. He wonders if the thing Metal face wants so badly will also be forgotten.

He cannot find the will or strength to move, so he doesn’t.

Instead he waits. It’s all he can do.

“Eco injection cycle complete. Life signs: Nominal, and unchanged.”

Metal Face huffs. “Nothing…”

“Increasing the percentage doesn’t seem to affect it at all, my lord.” The monster sings.

“No. We’ve gotten everything but a weapon out of this project.”

“Shall I transfer the-”

“No. We’re done.”

“Sire?” The song wavers.

“I said, we’re done , Commander. We’ve wasted enough resources on this…thing. We’ll move forward with the contingency.”

“Understood. And the subject?”

“Kill it.”

The song returns. 

“I want it out of this building within the hour, do you understand, Commander?”

“As you wish.”

Metal Face leaves.

The white coats leave.

The guard stays. There’s always a guard.

“How disappointing…” Singing, singing, always singing. “Although I have to admit, I’m impressed you’ve survived this long.”

The monster climbs onto the Chair with him, sits in the hollow of his stomach. A gloved hand grabs his chin and turns him to face that crooked grin.

“Oh don’t look at me like that, it's just pathetic.”

He chews the pipe.

“Do try to struggle for me, will you? I want to enjoy this.”

The hands move the metal ring until they can circle his neck. Well…nearly. He never realized how small those hands were. He knew their strength well enough, though. They press into his neck until he cannot breathe and still they squeeze. His own hands pinned far far away on either side twitch and throb from their fresh cuts. 

The command was to struggle. 

He will not.

It’s the hardest thing he’s ever done.

Through his blurring world, he looks to those piercing yellow eyes. They contort in anger, face red with rage. The singing monster is not enjoying this.

Good.

He lets his eyes slip closed and feels himself smile as the world becomes black. He’s getting what he wanted for so so long. 

He’s dying. 

He’s finally dying. 

By the will of Metal Face and the hands of the Singing Monster, he’s going to die.

He’s won.

Distant. Distant feelings, sensations. Shackles unlocked, chains removed. 

Wrapping. Wrapping pinning his hands and feet together. Wrapping his arms up and up and up to his elbows. Feet, up and up and up to his knees.

Words. Commands. Orders. Instructions.

He’s put in a large bag. He’s lifted. He’s moving. He’s falling.

Falling.

Falling.

He falls on something hard and sharp that cuts the bag. He tumbles out of it. Rolls. Falls. Stops.

It’s dark.

It’s different.

He dares to open his eyes.

He’s on his back, he hates being on his back, and he sees countless little lights above him. They’re not eyes. They’re not smiles. They’re not promises. They’re little lights that look more and more to make little shapes as he stares. A bright green light sits among them. It glows softly against the great black.

A green star.

He chokes.

That’s the Precursor Star.

Those lights are other stars.

He remembers stars.

Somewhere…somewhere far away, somewhere he knows he used to be, someone talked to him, taught him about stars. What they were, where they came from. That they were a gift, a message. That each one carried a soul to paint the sky and help to guide the lost and the living home.

Home.

Home was somewhere.

Somewhere…

He forgot Home. He can’t believe he forgot home. Home was important. Somewhere important. Somewhere he needs to go.

He’ll find it.

He’ll find it.

He’ll rest a while…and then he’ll find it.

He’s so tired.

His eyes close.

He waits. Shifts.

Falls.

Falls.

Falls.

He’s so tired.

He doesn’t fight it.

He drifts.

Drifting.

Floating.

Weightless.

Peace.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

Prisoner 712426 - Deceased

Name: Unknown [Jack Personne]

DOB: Unknown [1-1-0325]

Height: 62 IN [158 CM]

Weight: 140 LB [63.5 KG]

Hair: Green/Blonde

Eyes: Blue

Time of Death: 23:53 [26-10-0342]

Daxter couldn’t say how long he’d been staring at the file. Long enough that his eyes stung from keepin’ them open for so long. He’d closed and reopened the document several times to be sure it was the one he was looking for. Checked and double checked all the little notes added up to what he remembered. The incarceration photo matched that dopey, confused expression to a T. Everything from the tiny scar above the right eyebrow to the shape of those ears screamed that the kid in the photo was, in fact, Jak.

Jak. His best friend, his protege, his sidekick.

Except that couldn’t be the same person. Because the guy in this file was dead.

Daxter clicked to the file history. Maybe it was a typo, a mistake. Maybe the KG got lazy, put the wrong guy’s info in. They were good at slacking off!

Updated 05:16 [29-10-0342]

Daxter swallowed.

That was a week ago.

He…Jak can’t be…there’s no way. There’s gotta be some huge mistake, ain’t no way in any way was his best friend-

Footsteps outside the door.

He didn’t have long, but lucky for Daxter, he knew how to close all his open windows with what he’d dubbed ‘the desktop command.’ Truth be told it was just a few keys pressed at once and a pop-up to confirm closing everything, but hey, he felt clever for it.

Certainly saved his ass a time or two.

He pulled the pen-drive and was under the desk by the time whoever had even started putting in their access code to the door. 

There’s cursing on the other side before the guard finally input the right code to get in. Daxter could easily slip under a low table, and then out into the hallway. Poor sap was none the wiser.

There was a camera at the end of the hall that was pointed at the office he’d originally planned on hitting, and another on the far end he'd be walking right into the viewport of if he went too much farther. Daxter leapt across the hall and scrambled up the piping to a gap he might’ve paused at if he were anyone else. It was just barely big enough to fit his head, which meant it could fit the rest of his fuzzy little body.

Normally, he’d be a lot more upset about it, but if the last two years have taught Daxter anything, it’s that he can do a lot more as a two foot tall orange menace than he could ever do when he was human. He still missed a lot of things, granted, underpants being a big one; but he'd never have gotten this far before. Daxter’d made his peace with it. 

Kind of. 

It came in handy.

The small dust vent he came through before was still open, had been for days, so chances were pretty good this was a dead section of the Fortress. Then again, it was pretty high off the ground. No one would really look up there. And if any of the safety audits he’s perused were any indicator, this place shoulda been shut down years ago for all the health violations alone.

Seriously, how did a place this big not have a single up-to-date and working fire extinguisher?

A quiet buzz sounded from his wrist. Daxter pulled up his watch to silence the alarm. One in the morning was a little later than he planned on sticking around for, but checking the timer, he was done with twenty minutes to spare. He’d gotten in, gotten the info he needed, and then some. The last thing he needed to worry about now was getting back out.

“Of course that’s assuming I don’t run into anything between then and now.” Daxter chuckled darkly to himself.

The only thing more appalling than the clear lack of safety compliance is the fact this place was crawling with Metalbugs. In every effort to look the part of a dumb animal, Daxter left most of his stuff outside at his entry point. That way, if he was caught, he could easily get out without anyone being any wiser to his clearly superior intellect; but it also meant that he didn’t have any means of defense in case he encountered anything that clearly intended to-

What was he going to tell Keira?

The thought hit him so suddenly, he stopped mid-way up a ladder.

Dax swallowed again, he hadn’t even considered that.

Keira was tough as nails, he knew, she had to be to survive on her own in this kinda place. But she’d also been working so hard to find both him, Jak, and old log-head all on her own. It was a miracle they even found one another in the first place.

This…this might shatter her.

Daxter shook his head. No. No, it was an anonymous name on file, it was someone who looked an awful lot like his best friend, but there’s no way. There’s no way. Daxter had seen no less than ten people he thought looked like Keira over the last two years, and a few that even looked like Ximon. Doppelgangers. An odd phenomena, but it happened.

That had to be it, just some freaky look-alike.

He already had enough info to syphon through as it was, no point in making it any more complicated right now. Focus, Daxter! There was at least fifty meters worth of pipework still to get through, and no matter how well he’d mapped the place in his head, he did NOT want to spend any longer there than he absolutely had to.

There were only a few sections that intercepted hallways, and lucky for Dax, they weren’t patrolled very often. He was at the final stretch with ten minutes to spare, and the open, relatively smoggy air of Haven proper was refreshing after crawling around gathering dust bunnies all night.

Daxter checked his watch again. If he left now, he’d have to navigate through the late-night return rush from the far-too-many people that worked a late shift in the slums. Alternatively, he could go roof-hopping through richie-rich land by the palace and potentially hear some hot gossip from other night owls.

“Hungry slummers…rich scumbags…choices…” He hummed. “Ah, what the hell. Maybe we’ll get something better than Aunt Margret’s casserole this time.”

Mind made up, Daxter pulled his gear from the loose shingle he placed them under a few hours before. The belt and gloves went on with his usual flair, sans an audience to properly appreciate it, but he paused at the hat.

Confused blue eyes stare back at him through two years and a camera lens. Jak had given Daxter that hat. Years and years ago when they were both still smaller than he was now. It was the first present Dax had gotten in a very long time. Jak had made it for him with his own two little hands. Daxter brushed some of the stitching with his claw. It was old, rough, uncoordinated, and redone every time it tore with more care and more finesse than before. It never fit right once they hit puberty, but he couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it.

He took a deep breath. Looking up through the smog, he sighed.

“Don’t worry, buddy. I’ll find you.” He promised, pretending for all the world it wasn’t just to himself. “Even if it takes the rest of my life, I’ll find you. I’ll bring you home.”

Cap firmly strapped in place, Daxter took a running leap to a busted gutter across the road. It was a jump he’d made a hundred times, and he stuck the landing perfectly, of course. He’d be back, he knew. The Baron was up to something, and Daxter knew it was only a matter of time before Haven saw what. 

Until then, Daxter would disappear into the night. 

Ottsel stealth mode style. 

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

One week ago…

Another explosion. Another racer out. It was a wonder enough of them made it to the final rounds with how often their bikes needed repairs, forget their person. Keira, being the star mechanic she was, didn’t strictly have to compete, but between winning races and winning bets, the former was much healthier for her wallet. That’s what she told herself, anyway.

The wall of silver trophies taunt her like a challenge.

“ooh, look at that handsome fella!”

And then there was the orange menace, himself.

“What do you think, babycakes? It’s my good side!”

Keira rolled her eyes. “Don’t you have work today, Daxter?”

“Aw, you kick’n me out already? I’m hurt, Keira!” Daxter’s mock offense could be seen through the bottom panel she was elbow-deep in. “I’m not needed until later. It’s an overnight fumigation, anyway. Can’t have people there.”

She put down her wrench and reached for the socket set. Stupid rush orders for stupid drivers who couldn’t be bothered to do regular stupid maintenance.

“Although…”

Keira didn’t even have to guess. “You’ll get shut down if you do that.”

“Oh come on!! A little fire ball never hurt anybody! It even leaves a pleasantly sweet afterburn kinda smell. Very homey.”

“Uh-huh..” Keira hummed. Wrong size, she switched for a larger one. Perfect. “And you know what’ll happen if you come back smelling all ‘sweet home afterburny’ right?”

The threat is subtle, but it’s there. It happened only once before, but she knew it left an impression. A long, harsh bath by her hands. In a sink. Daxter had complained the entire time, nearly clawed her arms off for being ‘too rough with the merchandise’ and he avoided the kitchen entirely for a month. Keira was not about to have a repeat of the events, but more to the point, she didn’t want her garage to smell like bug-killer and burnt ottsel fur.

She smirked her victory at Daxter’s groan. “You know, you are no fun anymore!”

“I am plenty of fun!” she called back, “It’s called being an adult, Daxter. One of us has to do it.”

“Oh, like having a regular five-to-nine and eating the cheapest ration bars and paying the ridiculous rent cost for the shittiest garage is being an adult!” His fuzzy orange head slipped into her vision. “How much are you paying for this place again? Twelve-hundred? Fifteen?”

Thirteen twenty-five a month, but that was neither here nor there.

“I’m an adult because I pay taxes and-”

“Which are also ridiculously high, might I add.”

“-Aaand youuuu do not.” Keira easily booped Daxter’s nose to gently shoo him out of the way.

Daxter sputtered and turned away rambling on about something or other. She couldn't hear him over the clatter of her wrench convincing a particular rusty bolt to come loose. A tell-tale sign that the owner hadn’t changed their oil in a long while. When it was finally loose enough to undo the rest by hand, there was hardly a drip. Either the reservoir was dry or the oil was so gunked up she’d have to spend twice as much time breaking it up and flushing it out.

Dumbass is gonna get charged extra for this.

“Incoming.” Dax called.

Keira barely rolled out from under the zoomer to see an orange blur darting off before she heard approaching footsteps. It took a moment to hear over the noise, but she recognized the rhythmic stomping of those boots just about anywhere.

She honestly wasn’t really in the mood to deal with anyone today, Keira reached for a rag and hoped whatever he wanted was quick this time.

“Good afternoon, Commander.”

Erol’s mouth was caught half open with a greeting of his own. He always tried to be the first to say hello and Keira never got over how goofy he looked when she caught him off-guard like that.

“Did you run out of eggs for your radiator?” She asked with a smirk.

He corrected himself in less than a moment to an easy smile. “Eh, no...not this time. I actually finally got that fixed.”

“Oh good!”

Keira looked to her cabinet trying to remember if she had enough engine flush to use or if she might need to borrow some from the proprietor.

“Did you actually get it replaced or just patched?” She asked after a moment.

Erol groaned, stomping closer. “Turns out, damn near half the internal components needed replacing because of how long the leak had been there. Reservoir was damn near split in half! Can you believe it?”

Keira chuckled. “I told you it was only gonna get worse. Ah-ha!”

Finding an unopened container, she turned to see Erol now leaning against her client’s suspended zoomer.

“Yes yes, I’m aware,” he replied, swaying lazily with the chain. “You know I hate it when you’re right.”

Keira grinned.

“Maybe next time, you’ll take care of it right away instead of waiting until your engine chokes out.”

“Or maybe I let you take care of it.” Erol offered. “I’m sure you’d do a much better job than the half-wit I had to deal with.”

“Not a chance.”

“Just think about it, Keira. A garage bigger and better supplied than this dusty old closet. I’d pay you three times as much as any of your normal winnings! Hell, I’ll even let your mysterious little racer stand in for me when I’m on assignment.”

Keira rolled her eyes. “The answer’s still ‘no,’ buddy-boy.” They must’ve had this conversation hundreds of times. “I can’t hit it big if I’m under your shadow.”

“Ugh, but isn’t it so dull at the bottom?”

“What do you mean by that?”

Keira had very specific reasons for never opting to move garages, even when she started making twice as much as she needed to afford it. Erol didn’t need to know why. He never asked, and she was grateful for it.

“I mean isn’t it awful working so hard for so little. Don’t you want your efforts to bear fruit before your very eyes?” Erol waxed. He was smiling, but his eyes were dulled. “Don’t you hate being in the same stuffy hole you started in with nothing to show for it?”

“Aww,” Keira cooed, “Did the big strong Krimson Guard commander have a bad day at work?”

Erol’s expression broke momentarily. She’d hit him right in the gut.

He sighed. “Can’t hide anything from you, can I?”

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Keira asked.

Erol didn’t really talk, so to speak, about what he did inside the city. He’d been outside on various assignments, being gone for months at a time, but the last two years, he’d been in Haven. He never went into the specifics, but Keira knew it was a big and important project to the Baron.

Judging by his groan, it wasn’t going well.

“Come on, big man, spill. What’s gotten you all worked up this time?” Keira prompted. 

Erol huffed. He settled for glaring at one of Keira’s many tool boxes. “Everything was going so well,” he started.

She dropped the drip pan below and tightened the bolt plug just enough to last through the flush. Pulling the dipstick out and setting it to the side for the time being.

“Two years! Two years of my life spent toiling and running this project. We were finally getting results! Actual, viable samples the lab boys would go and have a veritable field day with!”

Keira nodded along, humming to show she was still listening.

“But then, out of nowhere, the project manager calls it off.”

“They didn’t…” Keira baulked.

“They did.” Erol confirmed.

“Why?” Keira asked. “You just said you were getting results!”

“Said it wasn’t the direction they wanted to take the project anymore, so they told us to wrap up and practically throw away everything we’ve been working for!”

“So wait, you just had to get rid of everything?” Keira was appalled. “All your notes, your samples, all that research just gone?!”

The commander rubbed his eyes and groaned.

“So what are they doing now? I thought this was supposed to be ‘the thing to take back the city’ from the Metalheads.”

“Well…” Erol mumbled. “I’m supposed to be transferred overseer privileges to weapons production. There were a few notes I made that they thought were interesting enough to use.”

“Well I guess that isn’t too awful.” Keira thought aloud.

“I suppose.”

“Think about it this way. You remember that little ‘build it yourself’ RC-car you got me a few years back?”

“Yes…I recall your pet rat throwing it into the wall last week and smashing it to pieces.” He replied. “You were very upset.”

“I was upset you wanted to shoot him.”

“I’m certain it was about the car, but do go on.”

Keira rolled her eyes. “Well, even though I ended up having to throw it away, I still learned a lot while building it. And it made me think about the more intricate components of my zomers and how they work together. So in the end, I still got a lot of valuable information from it!”

Erol hummed. His mouth was behind his hand, and he was clearly deep in thought.

Keira finished pouring in the flush and returned the dipstick. She’d let it settle for a minute, at least finish talking to the commander, before turning it over to idle. 

“Wait…” he started. “Is that why you overhauled your entire setup?”

“Yep!” She beamed. “It’s the same chassis, but underneathe, it’s a whole new beast , baby!”

Oh, ugh. Maybe Daxter was starting to rub off on her.

“Wow… I can’t wait to see it on the track.”

“Maybe if we make it to finals this year, you will.” She smirked. “You still owe me for that patch job from your first run.”

“Actually… I was wondering if I could pay you back another way?”

“Answer’s still ‘No,’” Keira said flatly.

“No, no, no. I was thinking more something along these lines.”

He pulled two printed slips from his pocket to show her.

“Tickets?” She asked.

“There’s going to be a stage production for Mother Mayhem in Industrial next weekend,” Erol explained. “I thought that perhaps…you would like to accompany me.”

“…Oh.”

“We could get dinner beforehand, I’ll get anything you like. What do you say?”

“Next weekend?” She glanced away, “I’ll…have to check my calendar. I think I might be busy.”

Erol frowned.

“Keira, you’re always busy.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“This is a chance to get away from your work. Break the monotony of it. Don’t you want to go out and have a little fun?”

Oh. She was not about to have the same argument twice in one day.

“I’m sorry, but some of us actually like our jobs!” Keira defended.

“No, I didn’t- ugh. Forget it! It was dumb of me to invite a killjoy like you to some light entertainment.”

“Well at least you admit it.”

“Promise you’ll at least consider? You work too hard. You deserve a break.”

Keira thought for a moment. A night away from work would be good after going almost non-stop for as long as she has. Then again, any time away from work would usually be spent looking for leads on Jak or her father…neither of which had been very fruitful.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it.” She promised. “Happy?”

“Elated,” Erol smiled.

“Was there anything else you needed right now, or..?”

“Oh! Oh no, don’t mind me. I’ll be on my way. Thank you for your time, as always.” Keira swore he practically sang his way to the garage entrance.

“Good-bye, Commander.” She called as he left.

His own muffled goodbye sounded along with his heavy steps that gradually got farther and farther away.

Finally, finally, Keira was able to turn over the engine. It started up with a sputter, but with the propulsion jet disconnected, it remained stationary. There was a soft scuttling just barely audible, and years of knowing him was the only reason she didn’t startle when Daxter’s tiny little claws started climbing up her body.

His weight sat steady on her shoulders, spread even between them with his tail drooped comfortably down her back.

“You got all that, right?” Keira asked over the engine noise.

“Next weekend is the best day to go data crunching, yeah.” He replied. “Assuming you take him up on the offer.”
Keira groaned. “I’m not going to go watch some stupid musical.”

“Never said you had to. Just don’t know where he’s gonna find someone else to go with him is the problem.”

“Look.” She turned the engine back off and grabbed her socket wrench. “If he wants to spend his time and money ogling some weird modern dancing with even weirder music, that’s his own deal.”

Daxter jumped to the ground with her. He grabbed the oil pan, eyeing the offending bolt while she loosened it.

“I’ve seen exactly two of those things and I gotta tell you, I am not a fan.”

Daxter chuckled. “To be fair, I don’t think you like the harvest dances or Ocean Spring Festival either.”

“I like them fine. I just didn’t like being in them.” She grunted.

“I don’t think anybody did.” Daxter agreed.

The bolt comes loose much easier and a respectable spurt of oil arcs out of it and into the pan.

“One of the higher-ups is going to be changing their passwords next week.” Daxter says conversationally.

“Think it’ll get you into that ‘Dark Warrior’ thing you found?”

“I hope so.”

Silence reigned between them while they watched the oil-fall decrease to a trickle, and then a drip.

“We’ll find him, Dax.” Keira said quietly.

“I know.” Dax muttered. “I know…but…”

“We’ll find him.” She repeated.

Daxter huffed. “Keira, I have been all over that prison. Every hidey-hole and cell I can squeeze into and then some. I’d have found him by now !”

“He has to be somewhere.” She reassured.

Had it really been two years?

Two years since the boys landed in Haven. Two years since they’d been separated. Two years since Daxter had been by himself.

That was something she still had trouble swallowing.

Coming back into contact with him had been…challenging.

Because Jak and Daxter have always been together.

Because there’s nowhere Jak could go that Daxter wouldn’t follow.

Because two years is a long time for anyone to be missing.

Because for Keira, it’d been five.

Five years since landing in Haven; scared and confused and alone. Five years spent working tooth and nail for every scrap she could find. Five years searching. Searching for the boys, for her father, for a way home.

History books only told her so much, and most of them that logged the somewhat vague time before Haven existed only spoke about old legends of their hero named “Mar.” Some great warrior or other that neither Keira or Daxter hadn't ever heard of. Sure, there were statues depicting the man erected all over the city; and they kind of looked like the Warrior from Rock Village, but…Daxter seemed convinced they were for someone else.

For his part, Daxter hadn’t been idle either. He’d managed to smooth-talk his way into an exterminator job that paid him under the table. He used his off-time worming his way across the nether regions of the city to find and sell information, something she was pleasantly surprised to find him capable of.

It had only been a few months since they’d reconnected. They’d both changed so much from the way they used to be.

Daxter had grown quieter, more thoughtful and tact. Sure he still made his usual gross commentary, but his leer didn’t linger like it used to.

Keira can’t speak for herself, but she knows she’s grown harsher; and, according to Daxter, ‘not as fun.’

She can only imagine how Jak must be doing.

“We’ll find him.” She said again.

Daxter looked to meet her eyes with a weak smile of his own. 

“I know.” He said. “I just hope we’re not too late.”

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

“Careful here,” Torn’s rough voice cut through the darkness. “Loose debris.”

Tess nodded. She stepped gingerly over the barbed wire connection piece. Normally, she wouldn’t care, but dangit, she just bought these pants and she wasn’t about to let them get ripped up within the first day!

Torn took the spotlight away and marched onward. It was the middle of the night, and even if they hadn’t gotten any reports of MetalHead activity, that didn’t mean they weren’t there. Being the soldier he was, he constantly checked their surroundings for anything out of place. Tess had a light of her own attached to her sidearm that she kept aloft for her own sweep of their surroundings.

The darkness was expected, being the middle of the night and all.

The quiet was a little eerie, though.

Now, Tess had never been outside of Haven, at least not very far from the walls, but she’s heard stories from people who have. One thing that always stuck out was the warning of silence. If it was so quiet that you couldn’t even hear the bugs and the birds, get out. Chances are whatever was out there was a lot bigger and badder than you, so get out if you can. Hide if you can’t. She swallowed her nerves. Torn was there, neither of them were alone so long as they stayed together, and besides; The most dangerous metalheads that came to Dead Town were no match for either of them.

Totally fine!

Of course, that was ignoring some of the other stories she’d heard about Metalheads that can literally disappear into their surroundings, and oh, let’s not forget ones so huge they could eat a hellcat cruiser in one bite-

“I can hear your brain from here.” Torn muttered. “Focus.”

Tess rolled her eyes. Yeah, focus. Easy for him to say. Torn didn’t have to deal with every puzzle piece with the wonkiest bits imaginable trying to put themselves together in all the wrong places in his brain.

Or maybe he did. She wasn’t a doctor.

“Tess-” The warning came too late

Her boot smashed right into a puddle, splashing muck all over her pants.

“Oh, come on!” She groaned.

“I told you not to wear that.” Torn said flatly.

“You told me to be discreet, sir. And I’ll be happy to inform you that I was!” Tess argued.

He snorted, “‘Was.’”

“Ugh!” She groaned. “I just hope this stuff comes out…”

Torn chuckled at her misery.

Tess settled for sticking her tongue out at him. His responding smirk was reassurance enough.

They return to comfortable silence, periodically sweeping the perimeter.

“Your contact said there was a drop tonight, right?” Tess was the one to fill the air this time. “Did they say what it was?”

“No.” Torn looked mildly annoyed, but his brows were more furrowed. He was concerned.

He continued, “They just said the Baron was throwing something out. Only one cruiser, but no word on what came out of it.”

Tess’ brow furrowed as well. Torn trusted his contact, that would normally be enough to not worry. But his contact was also a member of the Krimzon Guard, which was, while helpful, less than ideal. As far as Baron Praxis was aware, Torn was dead, and the Underground was a leaderless nuisance. All it would take is one word from said contact and their entire operation would be at risk. If their word couldn’t be trusted and they were walking right into a trap, there wouldn’t be many ways out of a skirmish. Only one entrance and exit from Dead Town to the city proper, even utilising the rocky terrain to their advantage, there were only so many points of cover-

“You think any faster, you’ll give me an aneurysm.”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Tess replied.

Man, she could really go for some herbal tea right about now.

“I trust my contact.” Torn scanned their surroundings again. “I just wish they told us where to look, at least.”

“My bet’s on faulty weapons. You?” She tried.

“Knowing the Baron? Probably scraps. Spare parts. Maybe an engine if we’re lucky.” He suggested

“Maybe a pile of maggot-infested rations.” Tess shuddered at the thought.

“Hey, protein.”

Tess was appalled. “Ew! You’d eat maggots? Do you know what those things live off of?”

“It’s protein.”

“Great. Remind me to make you maggot stew for your birthday.”

Torn visually shuddered at that. 

Victory!

Rounding another building, Tess was starting to think the tip hadn’t been earnest. Even if it wasn’t a trap set for them, even if there was a dump from the Fortress, it wouldn’t be worth the effort they were going through to find it. She was about to suggest digging through the rubble for scraps so they at least didn’t return empty-handed when a noise caught both of their attention.

They turned off their lights and stood closer together. Listening.

The noise sounded again, a little ways off by a pile of rubble and trash.

It sounded like the pile was setting, but they remained quiet and waited. A piece must have broken loose, something heavy tumbled through the mounds of broken concrete and rebar and a pale shape all but collapsed at last onto the ground in front of it.

Tess’ eyes widened.

It looked like a person.

Torn’s gruff warning fell deaf to her ears as Tess quickly moved to the fallen figure.

It was, indeed, a person.

A young man, as best as she could tell. He was deathly pale in the moonless night and horrifically thin. Again, she wasn’t a doctor, but she’s pretty sure people both A. have more ribs than that, and B. Aren’t supposed to be able to make out every single vertebrae of their spine.

“What the fuck…?” Torn breathed behind her.

Among the myriad of bruises was a deep dark criss-crossed pattern on his back. That combined with his matted hair, dishevelled beard, and bound limbs. Tess could only imagine what he’d gone through.

“Light.” Tess called over her shoulder.

The spotlight returned, revealing every bump and bruise and badly healed cut. Torn moved the light to where Tess was moving a clump of hair away from his face to check for a pulse.

Whatever awful story the metal bar wedged between his teeth and the clear tube in his nose told, it was nothing compared to the dark numbers tattooed on his neck.

712426

“Those are prisoner numbers.” Torn said quietly.

Tess caught his eye for a moment.

Surprise, concern, questioning.

Was this the drop? Why would the Baron dispose of a prisoner all the way out in Dead Town? Was he the only one? Were there others? Was he even still alive?

“Think it was a hit?” she asked.

There, just then, a flutter of something beneath his clammy skin. She pressed a touch harder and held her breath.

“No one gets out of the fortress…not unless they sell their lives to the Baron, that is.” Torn said.

They both knew about the ‘volunteer’ program. One member from every household. It was either join the guard, or have a loved one sent to prison. Tess hated it.

There!

Again!

A beat.

Her jaw went slack.

Another.

Tess gaped. “He’s still alive.”

Torn went stock still, thankfully keeping the light on her as she pulled out her knife and started cutting at the twine. Seriously, who ties someone up with twine and dumps them in the middle of the night? The man’s arms came loose, and only a little bit of convincing was required to pull the thick tangled mess from his raw wrists. Tess gently rolled him over and freed his legs in much the same fashion. He didn’t so much as twitch as Tess tied her jacket around his bum for what little modesty they could provide.

“Tess… I don’t think we want this thing in the city.” Torn said gruffly.

“He’s still alive.”

“Look at him!” more forceful this time.

“He’s still alive .”

The light moved away. Boots crunched closer before Torn dropped to a crouch next to her.

“And how the fuck are we going to get him back in the city, then? The Baron or a Gang, whoever dropped him here clearly wants him dead, and I do not want that target on us.”

Tess whipped around to return Torn’s angry glare with one of her own and twice as fierce.

“He’s still alive, ” she hissed, “and I am not leaving him behind.”

Torn backed off, if only a little. He looked the man up and down with that scrunch in his nose that meant he was doing some serious thinking that he didn’t want to.

He sighed, returning once again to Tess’ ire. “He probably won’t last more than another day or so,” he says.

She met his gaze steadily.

Another sigh. “But… you’re going to try anyway.”

He knew her so well.

“I’ll contact Shadow, let him know we’re coming back with a patient.”

“Good.” Tess nodded. She bundled up the young man in her arms and was surprised at the weight despite his ghastly figure. 

“Here,” Torn crouched and motioned for her to put their charge on his back. “I’ll carry him, you get the light.”

Tess obliged.

“The fuck is he so heavy?”

“You drop him and I’ll drag you instead.” She threatened.

Whatever happened would have to be a mystery for later. Right now, this person clearly needed help, and if she could do something, she absolutely would. 

Without question. 

Every single time.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

That couch was way more comfortable when she bought it. Cracking her back for what felt like the fifth time that morning, Tess was pretty sure she got ripped off. Of course, she hadn’t really had the pleasure of sleeping on it until recently, so maybe it was always like that.

She looked at her tablet again and sighed. The weather was supposed to be awful again, and the last thing Tess needed was to sweat so badly, she’d soak right through her new pants. So much for the cold spell. And she was actually looking forward to rifling through her boss’ attic tonight.

Well… ‘boss,’ more like ‘employer.’ She’d just recently gotten a supposed waitressing position at the Hip Hog Heaven, and they were already giving her the worst jobs they could. Cleaning and organizing all of Krew’s old junk, “trophies,” he called them, from his glory days was not how she imagined spending the last few weeks. Tess didn’t mind, though. The more time doing menial tasks meant to keep her out of trouble, the more things she got to see that she probably shouldn’t. The more things she found, the better. Even if it didn’t seem important, committing those contact numbers in Krew’s old highschool yearbook might come in handy someday.

She hoped, anyway. Hard to imagine how anyone would want anything to do with that man if they could avoid it.

Focus, Tess. Wake-up routine.

Tess stretched her arms out and above her head, groaning in pleasure as the tension eased in her shoulders. There was a laundry list of things she had to do, laundry included, and there was no point in wasting the day. First things first, though, she had to get dressed and check on her guest.

It was her own apartment, it was her own room, but she knocked as a courtesy. The poor guy had been out cold for over a week now, she doubted he’d be up for anything so soon. Sure enough, he was still lying quietly under the pile of blankets and quilts right where she left him the night before.

“Good morning, sweetie.” She cooed softly. “How are we doing today?”

He didn’t respond, eyes still closed, but his expression was much more relaxed now that he’d finally started gaining some weight.

“Give me just a moment to get ready, okay? And we’ll get you cleaned up and start on your exercises.”

Clean-up, while unpleasant, was necessary. Tess took the task with all the dignity she knew to, changing her patient’s shorts carefully so as not to irritate the awful marks on his stomach, replacing the puppy pad underneath his boney little butt, regardless of weither it was used; and applying new Green-infused salve and wrappings to his wrists and ankles. She noted happily that the deepest cuts were starting to fully seal with fresh, new skin. 

“These are looking much better, don’t you think?” She asked her sleeping charge.

It wouldn’t be long before the worst of his wounds were completely healed, but there was one that still had Tess worried. It was a horrible, dark, twisting wound that sprawled across his entire chest. And in the center of what looked like a ring of track marks was something bright and purple and Tess would swear it glowed now and then. 

‘Dark Eco ,’ she’d been told. As if the sour feeling whenever she got near him wasn’t enough an indicator.

And then there was his neck. The prisoner number tattooed under his right ear was the only lead they had to who he was or what happened to him. Torn was sure one of his friends in the Guard would be able to look into it, but they haven’t found records of anyone , prisoner or otherwise, with the number ‘712426’ on file.

Tess knew it made the former Guard nervous, but they would just have to wait for answers until the poor guy woke up.

She rubbed her hands together to warm them and placed one against her patient’s forehead. He still felt a little warm, but once again, way better than he did a week ago.

Tess removed her hands and stretched again, “Okee, then.”

She grabbed an arm and started gently massaging it as a warm-up, “I know it’s awful, but we gotta keep you nice and limber. Otherwise you’re gonna get the worst cramps when you start walking again!”

Tess kept her conversation pleasant through each stretch, bend, and motor exercise; interjecting every now and then with tangents about her boss or coworkers, playful jabs about her patient like ‘you must be so flexible! Can you do a full split? I’d love to see it!’ or even, ‘I wonder how picky an eater you are. I know a guy who was sooooo hard to cook for, ugh! I swear, he has no taste.”

She couldn’t help smiling at the way his eyebrows twitched like he was listening. It was encouraging.

“Alright, we’re aaallll done!”

She spread a smaller blanket over the sleeping form, gently tucking it around his shoulders before pulling the quilt back up and over.

“Alright then…” She checked the bright pink alarm clock on her nightstand. “I’ve got a few hours before I need to head out, so I’m gonna make lunch and take a quick nap. You holler if you need anything, okay honey?”

Tess didn’t expect a response, again, it was more a courtesy.

“I’ll be right back.”

She prepared her charge’s food first. Meal replacement smoothies were easy enough to make, and the guy wasn’t near ready enough for any solid foods. She always thought the paste ended up way too thick, so she watered it down, even if it ended up being in two syringes.

She put her own instant-meal in the microwave and set it to heat up while she made her way back to the bedroom.

“Lunch time!”

Mealtime, conversely, was a quiet affair. It wasn’t something Tess enjoyed doing any more than she enjoyed redressing his bandages; but it was much the same: a necessary thing.

Tess took the first syringe and maneuvered the tip into his mouth, squeezing out just the tiniest bit. She watched, tense, assessing his swallow reflex. 

It was still too weak for more than just that small taste.

She sighed. That was expected, but Tess still wasn’t happy about it. She had to attach the syringe to the long plastic tube now sticking out of his other nostril. The first had been removed with far too much gunk, and caused a lot of damage inside of his throat and stomach. The healer had been appalled at the dark purple and black phlegm that came out along the way. It took a long time and one of their emergency Green Eco crystals to heal the worst of it, and even then, there was still a long way to go. Tess was hoping he would wake up soon just so they wouldn’t have to keep using the feeding tube.

The empty syringes are announced with far less fanfare, but Tess was sure to remind him she’d be nearby.

She ate, folded some of her aforementioned clean laundry, she napped, an alarm went off to keep her from oversleeping, she made another meal, got ready, and then it was time to go.

“I’ll be back a little later tonight,” she promised. “You be good for me, now! Sleep well.”

Hip Hog Heaven. The brightest lit and most disgusting destination for every criminal lowlife in the city. If the KG weren’t being paid off as often and as handsomely as Tess knew they were, a single raid would net the Baron nearly every single thorn in his side in one fell swoop. Plans to raid KG-owned shops, gang attacks, or underhand deals were discussed openly and without fear of getting caught. At least so long as a cut went to the kingpin that let it all happen.

Krew was as greedy as he was petty, and it never took him long to throw his not-insignificant weight around to anyone who even looked at him funny. He lorded over his domain admiring every trophy he’d never earned and every life firmly trapped under his crusty little fingers.

Tess only took this job as a favour to her cousin. One she’s more and more surprised, every time she sees him, that he hasn’t blown himself up yet. She opened the employee entrance to hear Jinx’s boisterous laugh fill the air.

Still not dead. At least he’s having a good time.

“Hey! New girl!”

Tess turned a bright and cheery smile to the auburn-haired shift manager she has long-since labeled in her head as ‘Grumpy Kari.’

“Hi!” she replied. “I’m not late am I?” 

She knew she wasn’t. Tess made sure she was at least twenty minutes early to leave a good enough impression that she was desperate for a job. It’s done the trick thus far, but the last week has been a break from the usual. Tess needed them not to notice that.

Fortunately, Mrs. Grumpy is content to pop her chewing gum passive aggressively while looking Tess up and down for anything the boss didn’t want coming into his bar. 

Seemingly satisfied, she gave her first of surely many menial tasks of the night. “I need you bussing tables, we got the closing rush in an hour and I need those booths sparkling. When you’re done, I have you on dish duty until your break, Rhuni called in again. You got that?”

Tess forced a smile. “Yes ma’am.”

It was just more busy work. Nothing to get upset about. She’s already found a lot of useful things just sorting through junk. Tonight, she was at least on the floor and in the kitchen. Prime re++al estate for gossip. Deep breaths, Tess. 

“‘Kay, hop to it.” Kari snarled. “Boss is here tonight, we gotta keep up.”

Oh yeah! Totally a chance to work her charm!

Assuming she got the chance.

Tess gave another cheerful confirmation and grabbed an apron to start clearing tables. 

It would take too long to find the dish cart, they probably locked it in the maintenance closet again, so she didn’t bother. Most of the booths were empty, but a lot of them still had dishes and trash left behind. If she had to guess, the veteran staff did that on purpose to keep her out of their hairs longer. Jokes on them, Tess is a master dish-stacker!

She probably spent the better part of an hour walking between the back and the floor with armloads of food-stained dishes as carefully as he could without dropping them. The fry-cook, his name was Rikket, looked shocked with each trip that she managed to get everything onto the counter with only dropping the occasional knife or fork.

The instinctual “Oops! So sorry!” and “Pardon me!” whenever she bumped into another member of the staff was really the only hangup to her night.

At least until Kari interrupted her casual eavesdropping of the barkeep and one of the waitresses about the betting pool for the upcoming Class Three races. The woman ‘cheerfully’ informed her that yet more people had called out, and they needed Tess to work late to fill all the new open slots. Oh, and no, they weren’t able to call anyone else in to cover.

It had already been five hours, it was almost time for her break, and now, once again, she was being forced to do all the crummy jobs. No. No, it was fine. It was fine. Tess was a big girl, she could handle this. It was only another eight hours.

Except for the fact she was only allowed a thirty minute break.

She wanted to scream.

Tess ran to the deserted back alley almost the moment she clocked out, stopping just long enough to swipe some tenderstrips from someone’s discarded leftovers. “Stupid cousin, stupid job, stupid dishes, stupid Kari. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!”

She did scream, then. A frustrated shout that grew into a roar that inspired the neighbouring hounds into a chorus of their own.

“Rough night?”

Tess’ face flushed as she turned to her unexpected audience. Thankfully it was only one person, but still.

“Uhm… Yeah, sorry about that.” She stammered.

“It’s cool,” he replied, “take out whatcha need, I ain’t here to judge.”

Tess nodded. “Thanks”

“Say, I’ve seen you here once or twice, haven’t I?” Said the man.

Tess eyed him warily.

He was covered head to toe in Metalhead skulls, with a waist-guard made of something much thicker than leather, but not as stylish. The canteen attached to his bright yellow belt would have been a dead giveaway for anyone in the know, but she’s not supposed to let on that she knows. Of course, the modified gunstaff next to him was far more indicative of his profession. Few Wastelanders had access to custom firearms, even fewer had Peacemakers.

And Tess had just met the first with a piece so beautifully crafted.

“Tess.” She said curtly.

“Sig.” he replied in kind

She smiled. “Any chance I can bum a smoke?”

“S’long as you got a light, little lady.”

Tess hadn’t smoked since she was a teenager, but she remembered how to fake it. The kind Sig offered were different than she was familiar with. More earthy, semi-sweet. The tobacco didn’t burn quite the same as most of the types sold in Haven. They were also dry as all hell, so clearly Sig wasn’t much of a smoker, himself. He only lit his own to be polite.

She wracked her mind for an ice-breaker. Asking about his gun would make her seem too eager to take it, even if she was interested in the specs. His armour was flashy, but Sig seemed to hold himself to a standard of confidence that didn’t need to be hidden behind layers of chitin and leather.

Sig cleared his throat, “So… care to enlighten a stranger to your plight?”

Or the guy could give her the perfect ‘in’ on a silver platter.

“Oh, that…yeah…” Tess held the cigarette up to her mouth and let it sit there a moment.

Wastelanders were hard people, but valued integrity. At least, most of them did. Playing stupid would get her into a lot more trouble than it’d be worth. She couldn’t spill her guts, but she could offer a kernel of a nugget of truth.

“You know…” she breathed, “when I took this job, I thought maybe I’d finally be able to set my life in the right direction. Steady job with shitty pay and even shittier hours. Maybe finally get a chance to work behind the bar, learn the whole routine with the mixed drinks and stuff!”

Sig chuckled sympathetically. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Please don’t make fun of me.”

“I promise you, I’m not. You’re not the only one that got stiffed on hire.”

“How long have you been working here?” She asked, “I’ve been stuck in the back, so I haven’t really met anyone.”

“Besides Kari?” He smirked.

Tess groaned. “Besides Kari.”

“Been a while, I guess. Here and there, running jobs for the boss man.”

He worked directly with Krew? Wow, Tess, good job! Mental high-five!

“I wouldn’t say it’s anything glamorous, not by a long shot. But…” Sig shrugged, “hey, it pays. You?”

“Only a few months.” Tess confessed. “It’s been hard keeping up with the bills with only two jobs so I thought, ‘hey! Why not add a third?’”

“You’re working three whole jobs? Dang, girl!”

“Anything to stay out of the factories.”

Sig hummed. “Amen to that.”

Tess let herself smile. Staying out of the factories was probably the only reason she hadn’t been picked out by the KG yet. That, and her rapidly expanding list of learned skills.

“You know,” Sig said after a moment, “I still can’t help but feel you look familiar.”

“Oh, you’re probably thinking of my cousin. You know Jinx? He’s how I got this job.”

He raised a brow. “The trigger-happy pyrotechnic?”

“That’s the one.”

“...I am so sorry.”

She laughed. “So am I.”

He chuckled back. “I used to know someone just like that. It can not have been easy dealing with him grow’n up.”

“Well, at least it taught me how to deal with my little patient!”

Her mind screeched to a halt. She got carried away, she wasn’t supposed to say that. Shit! Shit! Shit!

“You got somebody at home, too?”

Think, Tess, think! She’s single, no kids, clearly not interested in flirting. What would a lonely, idiot blonde that lived in the slums have in her home that wasn’t a former prisoner of the most highly guarded fortress in the city? 

Wait. That’s it!

“Yeah…” Tess forced a smile. “I just picked up this adorable little stray cat. Poor thing was starving for some love.”

“And your supper, I’ll bet.”

“Yeah, poor little guy is so skinny. It’s the first time he’s been home alone since I got him. I guess I’m a bit worried is all.”

Sig only hummed.

“The vet says if I keep watch on his weight while I’m feeding him, he can start taking medicine soon.”

“Ah. shame there. Can’t be easy in the slums for a stray. He’s lucky he found you.” Sig nodded.

Tess smiled, more genuine this time. “I just hope he’s strong enough to make it.”

“I’m sure he’ll do fine. He’s got you after all. This little guy have a name?”

Shit, a name. All pets had names. The only thing they had to go off of were the numbers on his neck. He hasn’t made any movement since they’d found him in Dead Town, so she can’t even guess who he was or is or whatever.

“He’s… still pretty scrappy.” She tried. “I think I’ll hold off on giving him a name until he starts expressing himself more.”

She expected the wastelander to laugh, insult her for being too sensitive or maybe suggest a name like ‘Killer’ or ‘Ripjaw’ or some other equally unpleasant and appropriately deadly name. Instead, Sig only nodded sagely while taking another drag.

“For the best, I think.” He said. “Names are a pretty big step. No sense in run’n ahead just yet.”

There was a wistful glassiness to his eyes that Tess was intimately familiar with. There was sadness there, too. The curve of his brow, despite the bionic eye, and a smile so gentle it only just touched his eyes.

“I think you’re right.” Tess said, filing that little expression away for later. 

The bar door opened with a slam to reveal none other than Kari, the witch, herself. Tess had to consciously suppress a groan.

“Hey! New girl. You’re break’s over! Get your ass inside!”

Tess turned back to Sig, “I gotta go. It was nice talking to you.”

“Likewise,” he spared her a wave, “see you around, Sugar Plum.”

She waved back and hurried inside. Kari’s angry eyes pierced only as deep as her plunging v-neck. Tess could feel the slimy judgey glare as she clocked in only three minutes later than her allotted time.

“If you want to flirt, you can do it on your own time.” Kari sneered. “I got glasses that need cleaning, tables that need clearing, and if you think the piss-poor job you did on your last batch is gonna cut it, you got another thing coming.”

“I wasn’t flirting.” Tess mumbled.

“And I’m not about to have a migraine from your attitude. We got late rush coming in twenty minutes, and I want every dish spotless. You got that?”

‘I got your pushup bra size,” Tess muttered under her breath.

“What was that?”

“I gotta clear off the fries!” Nice save. “Grease, oils. Stuff like that.”

Kari popped her gum again. She must have added another strip, because that bitter cassia-spice smell was even stronger.

“Well don’t just stand there, hop to it!”

Kari stormed off with a huff, leaving Tess with her pile of work for the evening. Most of them were already spotless, they just wanted her to do them again.

Stupid Kari. Stupid dishes. Stupid busy work. She rolled up her sleeves and grabbed for the coarse sponge before filling the sink back up with steaming hot water. They hadn’t hidden the soap this time, and the Barkeep Scrub was still there too. She hoped the rest of her shift would go smoothly. Or as smoothly as it could.

Tess glanced to the clock high above the bar’s main door. Only six more hours to go.

She pushed open the door as quietly as she could. If her charge had woken up while she was gone, Tess didn’t want to startle him. It seemed all wishful thinking, though, as her apartment was just the same as when she’d left it. Tess tossed her purse onto the barstool and tiptoed across to her bedroom.

She knocked gently before twisting the knob and opening the door.

“Hey hun, I’m back.” Tess smiled weakly.

Her charge was still sleeping away, the blanket still tucked neatly under his chin.

Tess sighed. That was fine, it was fine. He just wasn’t up yet. She just needed to be patient. In the meantime, he was still her responsibility, and she couldn’t just ignore it because she was tired.

All she needed to do was make the meal paste, give it to him, and then she could go to bed. She stared blankly into the box wondering for a moment why in the world she bought the multi-flavour pack instead of the single flavour ones. Something about variety? If Tess had any patience left to consider the pros and cons of using the untouched redberi packs, because who even likes redberi, she would.

Pack opened, meal mixed, she didn’t even think about watering it down until half of it was already in his feeding tube. Oops. It should be fine, though….probably. She’d fill the second syringe with water and give him that as well. It should help wash out the flavour.

Man, she was tired.

“I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Tess whispered. “Sleep well.”

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

He’s alive.

He’s not sure where. He’s not sure how.

He’s still alive.

Some part of him he doesn’t remember having shatters.

He’d wanted it so badly. Fought so long. Endured so much. Denied every order, every command, every promise, everything! Every moment spent waiting and waiting and hoping for the command that would allow him the deep dreamless sleep he craved, and yet…

And yet he defies even his own will.

Can he even die anymore…?

He wants to laugh. How twisted a joke. Maybe he should have begged to live, and been denied that instead.

It’s too bright for death. That’s how he knows. Way too bright. And he only knew two places that had lights like this: The Chair and the white coat room.

He’d only been in the white coat room once before, when he was still in a cell rather than a cage, but he remembers the cots were soft. Softer than stone, at least. That must be where he is, then, because what he’s laying on is not the hard cold steel of The Chair, and his arms are not spread as far as they can and then some. They aren’t strapped to railings either, though, which is…different.

He’s on his back, he hates being on his back, and his hands are resting just below his stomach, but not at his sides. Moving one experimentally tells him they are not shackled together either. Something is wrapped around them both though. Something warm and cool all at once and thrums with the faint echo of Green Eco.

They’re still healing him? Why?

The Metal Face ordered he die. Why would they defy their leader and heal him? 

His breath catches. 

What else would they do now that he should be dead?

Whatever it could be, he knows he doesn’t want to find out. And the quickest way to convince them to kill him again would be showing he was still alive, right?

Right.

He hopes, anyway.

He opens his eyes.

He blinks, confused.

This is not the white coats’ room.

This is not anywhere he knows. Nowhere in the Fortress was so….pink.

Something moves in the corner of his eye. He turns his head to look.

Blue.

Bright. Blue. Sky.

Brushed with thin, wispy white clouds high high up in the heavens.

He…he must be dead. He thought he wouldn’t ever see the sky and now he’s seen it not once, but twice. He can’t think. This isn’t real, is it? It can’t be! He’s supposed to be dead! Why isn’t he dead?!

Footsteps.

He tears his eyes away from the sky - the sky! - to a panel in the wall that might be a door. It looks different, though. Everything in this place looks weird. The footsteps are soft. Irregular. They stop and start at random. They get closer. They stop.

A knock. A set of knocks.

The metal handle twists, and the door opens to reveal something else new. Something else different.

It looks like a person. But so did the Singing Monster, once. Is this a guard? A new handler?

“Hi, sweetie- oh!” 

Blue. Blue eyes meet his and he withers under that gaze as a round face haloed in bright blond hair morphs into a smile.

“Hey there, sleepyhead!” Their voice is soft and high. “Good morning!”

Confusion hits once again.

Their tone was pleasant. Too pleasant. Too bright and light and cheery. He can’t help but watch thick, strong legs bringing this new threat closer. Close. Close. Too close!

In his mind, he’s far far as far as he can get from this…whatever it is, but his limbs refuse to do more than twitch under the wide panel keeping him in place.

He should have guessed. Betrayed by his own body.

The bright voice sounds again. “You’ve been out of it for a while, It’s good to see you finally awake. How’re you feeling? Are you hungry?”

He barely twitches at the question.

Hunger comes and goes. It didn’t matter if it was so violently present that it made breathing impossible. The Singing Monster didn’t care. The white coats never bother. It’s a stupid question because the answer is meaningless. Hunger isn’t important enough to matter. Never was.

Blue eyes glance to the sky, “Let’s see… Normally I’d start with getting you cleaned up and do a few exercises… but…I think that might wait a little bit longer.” 

Laughter. Bright, short, lively.

“I forgot to make dinner last night, so I’m a little hungry, myself.” The smile returns. No teeth. All eyes. Smiling blue eyes.

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, okay? Think you can wait that long?”

They wait for an answer that he doesn’t give.

The blonde halo bobs like he did, though, and strong strong legs take them away at last.

The door is open.

They left the door open.

It takes everything he has to lift the panel off of himself, he’s impressed to find it isn’t secured. One leg, then the other - they’re not attached by a chain - reach out and down to touch the cold floor.

Now the hard part.

He has to get through the guard, there’s always a guard, and find a weapon. A knife, a gun, a turret, a chair, anything. It doesn’t have to be clean, it just has to be quick. His fingertips are still raw, he knows, the claws aren’t an option. And with the pipe, he can’t even bite.

A hand to steady himself, he rises. Takes a step. He has to kill the guard. That’s step one. Kill the guard, then search for weapons.

One foot in front of the other.

Kill the guard.

His legs are shaking.

Kill himself.

Just a little farther.

Kill the g-why is he on the ground?

He braces an arm and attempts to rise again, but something is keeping him close to the ground.

Is this a new security measure? An invisible chain to keep him trapped in an invisible cage?! How far does it reach? Can he still be pulled around by it? Does it work the same as the metal ring on his neck?

He almost doesn’t hear the footsteps getting closer until hands are on him. 

“Oh! Oh, honey, are you okay? What are you doing trying to walk already? You just woke up!” The bright voice speaking at…no… to him? They can’t be talking to him, that’s not…that’s not normal.

Hands are on him, thin but strong. Pull him off the ground. And set him easily back on the cot and replace the panel.

“If you really want to get up and moving, we can give it a go after we eat. Sound good?” Blue eyes smile. Still smiling. The same smile. 

No anger, no rage, no impatient snarls. 

The command was to wait. He did not. And yet he is not being punished? He had just tried to escape, why aren’t they calling for backup? Is the blonde halo so powerful they don’t need any other help keeping him under control?

The Singing Monster always needs ten or more guards whenever he fights back. If Smiling Blue Eyes didn’t need any… he shudders.

“It’ll be just another minute or so before breakfast is ready. Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll be just outside.”
He watches blond hair leave fully, once again leaving the door open, before it hits him.

They promised food. He defied them, and still they promised food.

What kind of handler is this?

The door is still open. He could still try again. He goes again to lift the panel, but it doesn’t budge. 

Ah.

They must have secured it this time.

He settles. Waits. He’ll have to learn this new handler’s routine before trying again. This one clearly likes to taunt him with chances for escape.

Footsteps.

His new handler returns with two syringes that don't have a needle. They’re filled with some… sandy-looking goop, and look small in those strong hands. They sit next to him on the cot, pulling the panel down tighter.

“Tada!” a tiny cheer, “Told you I’d be back!”

They seem pleased that he hadn’t moved again. That, or they knew he wouldn’t.

“I’m going to give you a little bit by mouth first to see how your swallow reflex is doing. Are you ready?”

By mouth? Is that a joke? Those strong thin hands are already holding his jaw and slipping one of the syringes in…in? But isn’t the pipe in the way? Something is left deep in his mouth as the syringe is removed and a hand pushes his jaw closed.

The Pipe is gone. 

He’s had that metal between his teeth almost as long as he’s been in the Cage. He’d gotten so used to it, he’d half-forgotten it was even there. The pipe… the pipe was gone. He didn’t even notice he’d mindlessly swallowed whatever his new handler had put in his mouth.

“That’s good.” Another small cheer. “You’ll be eating real food here pretty soon.”

He’d swallowed whatever that stuff was. Was it a command? He searches the words he remembers. Testing a reflex…wasn’t a command. Was it? He didn’t think so. Maybe it was. He’d have to pay more attention. This new handler was tricky.

He watches their hands attach a syringe to the tube. 

Ah. So the tube was still there. 

Though… wasn’t it on the other side?

The strangest part, his new handler empties both containers into it.

“I’ll get you something later that should be easier for you to eat.”

A promise.

“Let me get dressed and we’ll get started on your exercises.”

Another promise. 

One that’s fulfilled. For once. 

“Let’s start with your legs first, since you wanna get moving so bad,” they giggle. 

He hates it. 

It sounds light. 

Friendly. 

Threatening.

He’s certain any moment the chain will be yanked and he will be forced to follow to some machine or other new thing. He wonders if they will also make him move until his body gives out again. If this is another command he needs to fail to die faster.

They do nothing of the sort. 

Smiling Blue Eyes sits on the cot with him and grabs one of his legs with those strong thin hands. They start squeezing rhythmically up and down above and below his knee. He expects it to hurt. On his right leg, it does, but he doesn’t remember when it didn’t, so he’s not sure that’s from the hands on their own.

Smiling Blue Eyes talks all the while, too. He can’t tell if they’re commanding him or just filling the silence.

“This is just a quick little massage to relax and ready your muscles before we get started. It’s basically a warmup. When you’re more mobile, I’ll help you with some more full-body stretches. Have you ever done Yoga? I’ve got a mat and some programs on it. I don’t do it super often, but it’s so worth it! You’ll feel sore everywhere and then some but after a good nap you feel like you can take on the world.”

It reminds him of something… something…someone? Fuzzy.

He’s surprised to find he doesn’t hate it.

Once his legs have been pressed to his handler’s satisfaction, they grab his ankles and start lifting them one at a time. One up, one down, switch, repeat. 

It…looks like swimming…

Hasn’t he been swimming before? Can he still?

Confusion must show on his face, because his handler starts talking about what they’re doing again.

“The goal is to lift your legs as high as you can, nice and slow, so you get a good stretch. It’ll also help to build your strength back up, too. If you need a little more support, you can try it this way.”

Smiling Blue Eyes puts one of his legs down at a bend, with his knee still up, and lifts the other.

“For this one, it’s better to do a few lifts with one leg before you switch. Go ahead and give it a try!”

A command.

His outstretched leg was still being held up. That must be the one they want him to move. What would be the consequence for failure? They hadn’t hurt him yet, but it wouldn’t be long, he’s sure.

“Let’s start with…let’s say five for each leg.”

That didn’t sound like very many.

He thinks.

Tries to remember.

Had the Singing Monster ever explained a command like this?

Would this new handler make him do more if he succeeded? Failed? How much would it hurt to try?

The command was to try.

He wants to defy them. Wants to fight and deny them any idea that he will obey them.

But what good had it done?

He’d fought. He’d disobeyed. He’d chosen to do nothing. All in the hopes that it would lead to his end and yet… And yet he lives. He lives and still he is commanded to try.

Something in him wants to try.

Smiling Blue Eyes look at him. Wide and patient. Hands not moving from where they rest and hold.

He takes a breath.

Slowly. Slowly. He lifts his leg like he was shown. The hand stays under it to hold it steady as it goes higher and higher. Until a twinge in his stomach tells him to stop. He lets it fall, but strong thin hands catch it. They lower his leg slowly down again.

“That was great! Just four more!” Praise. “You don’t have to go that high if it’s hurting.”

He’d failed the command. And he was praised? Instead of letting his foot crash to the cot, instead of a bruising grip pushing it down, it was caught and lowered?

Why?

He works up the nerve to try again. Not nearly as high. And this go, he’s able to lower it himself.

“Two down, three to go!”

And more praise.

“That’s number three! You’re doing great!”

What kind of handler was this?

“One more. You’re almost there, sweetie.”

How?

“Good job! Alright, time to switch.”

How is it that those smiling blue eyes, those thin hands, that blonde halo-

“Let’s do five again on this side and then we’ll move on. You ready?”

How is this so much more terrifying than the Man with the Metal Face?

He’s praised with each successful try. 

He falters on the last, unable to raise his right leg above his knee from a sudden throb deep in the bone. He’s terrified what that failure will mean.

“That’s good, just a liiiiiitle more.”

The hand holding his leg only raises it higher. Not as high as his first try, just high enough to match his second and onward. His leg is lowered and the hands perform the rhythmic squeezing from before. The rambling words return as well.

“There’s actually a ton of different exercises you can do, but I want to keep things simple for now. I’ll show you one more for your legs, this one helps your stomach muscles too, but you don’t have to do any right now.”

Hands are moving his legs before he can process the words. Both of his knees are up with his feet planted on the cot. A halo of blonde towers over him.

“For this one, it’s pretty simple. You pull up your knees like this and just let them fall to one side…then you pick them back up and do the same on the other. You can also do just one leg at a time.”

His legs are led back down and left alone at last. He’d almost forgotten the arm part of this ordeal.

Those, too, are simple, easy tasks. One is just to lift his arm and bend it so he touches his shoulder, and the other is flexing his hands.

Five lifts and ten flexes each.

“You can do these whenever you want, but I’ll try to do them with you at least twice a day. Keep a routine and all.”

They glance at something behind him.

“Oh wow, is it really almost lunch time?! Okay. Sandwich for me for sure. As for you, honey-boo-” he twitches under their gaze “-I’ve got redberi and cacao mixes left. Which would you like?”

His brows furrow. Red-bury? Kah-kow? Were those even words? Mixes of what? What were they for?

Hands lift his own clearly in his vision. “Here, let’s try this way. If you want Redberi, make a fist for me. If you want Cacao, spread your fingers instead.”

That was it? That small movement was all he was being made to do? That can’t be right. 

Smiling Blue Eyes waits for a response, one he hasn’t given yet, but still they wait. He doesn’t even think about it when his hand clenches into a fist, prepared to fight again if he has to. Tired as he is, he will die before he lets this handler be the one that breaks him.

“Redberi it is.” the halo bobs.

And then they’re gone.

He stares at his still raised fist. He’s left alone again. Alone and confused and- the panel wasn’t replaced. The door is open. 

He lets his hand fall back down with a huff. He hates this new handler. Hates their weird tricky commands. Hates their soft words and strong hands. Hates how different they are to the Singing Monster.

Where are the machines? The straps? The chains? The cage? The white coats?

The Chair?

Smiling Blue Eyes returns with another two syringes, now filled with some pinkish stuff. They sit, once again, on the cot with him.

“I’m gonna start with your swallow reflex again, okay?” They say, “You ready?”

It’s the tricky command again.

He knows the pipe is gone now. He’s sure he could bite if he tried, but he’ll have to wait and see if they try to force him. Instead of allowing hands to open his jaw, like before, he presses his lips closed; even bites them together to make it as clear as he can.

He expects the smile to turn. The pleasant light to falter. The hands to grab and show just how strong they can really be. A dark expression of rage and displeasure at his disobedience.

“That’s alright,” The eyes keep smiling, “To be honest, I’m not much a fan of redberi, myself. I mean, it’s fine but, like, it’s not something I’d normally go for. Between you and me, though, someone’s gotta eat it!”

Not a voice or whip raised against him for his defiance. No hands touch his jaw or force him to taste the paste-goop within the syringes. 

They are pushed into the tube regardless.

Both of them.

He blinks.

They…still gave him the food? Hadn’t they already done that earlier?

Yet another terrifying oddity.

Was this a promise? A reward for doing those exercises? But shouldn’t he not be allowed the food now? He doesn’t think so? He doesn’t know.

Another promise comes. To be cleaned as soon as his handler has eaten as well. He wonders if they’ll drag him away or shoot the water where he lays. Smiling Blue Eyes pulls the wide panel over him and turns back just before leaving again.

“My name’s Tess, by the way. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He is not going to remember that.

Another promise fulfilled, Smiling Blue Eyes lets him sit upright when next he tries to leave the cot. They command-guide him through another stretch that has him bending to touch his toes with legs extended. They seem delighted that he can grasp his feet fully in his hands. Rising back is much harder, though he manages.

Near a full day he’s had to rest and to watch the sky, but still he feels uneasy. 

Not once thus far, has he been given a command he could not easily perform. Nor punished for his small acts of disobedience. Not from his recent escape attempt, not from denying the syringe, not from failing the exercise.

There must be some trick. Some way to get their mask to drop, to show the terror he’s certain sits just behind those smiling blue eyes. There must be a guard, because there's always a guard, he just hasn’t seen them yet.

His healed fingers, while sore, are far from enough to cause any lasting damage. He tried his teeth while bent over, and he couldn’t seem to bite hard enough either. Until he could get ahold of a weapon, death will have to wait.

There is still something he can do. Something he knows he’s not supposed to, but never got the chance to try more than once when his hands were shackled behind his back.

His new handler leaves him alone a lot, he’s noticed, but never for long. 

It’s during one of those brief moments he reaches for the long hollow straw sticking out of his nose.

If he takes it out, they cannot force the paste or the goop or whatever it is into his body. They will have to pin him down to reinsert it like they once had before. He knows it will take more than a hand’s worth of guards to make that happen. 

No matter how strong those hands are. No matter how that face contorts with rage, he will have the satisfaction of knowing he won this stupid game of wits!

He yanks the tube.

It slithers and slides all the way. It’s so much longer than he thought it would be. It must morph into a snake for how it burns the back of his throat. The bitter bite when it finally frees from his nose is both pain and relief in the same breath. 

He rubs his face at the sting left behind.

Shuffling outside the door.

His coughing will only serve to alert them of what he’s done.

He doesn’t have long.

He can use the tube.

He’s done it before. There’s enough to use, he could wrap it around their neck. Pull them down with his body. That’s all there is to it. Simple. Easy. His hand reaches for it as the door opens.

It has to be fast. It has to be quick.

His chest heaves. His limbs seize with the metal ring’s bite, however brief. He’s left doubled over coughing and wheezing and hacking up thick black globs of burning acid. For once, unhampered by the pipe.

Once again, his body betrays him.

Hands are on him again in moments. Strong thin hands that pull him upright, but don’t force him to lay. Words are spoken. Soft cooing words and pats on his back until the spasms ease away.

“It’s okay, honey, just get it out,” they say.

He looks for the tube between coughs. 

It’s vanished.

His heart sinks.

He’d just had it. It was there . In his hands. Where could it have gone?

Smiling Blue Eyes must have taken it. Must have known what he would do with it, if not for them, then himself.

Dread sets in.

“Don’t worry, sweetie, I’ve got you! I’m right here.” Encouraging. Always encouraging. Why are they encouraging? Why aren’t they angry? They’re supposed to be angry! What is he doing wrong?!

They’re still holding him, he realises. Not the bruising grip of the guards. Not the painful grasp of the Singing Monster. It’s present, but not forceful. Gentle like Green Eco.

That’s wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The hands keep their hold. The voice keeps its soft reassurances.

“I’ve got you, sweetie. You’re alright.” They say. “You’re alright. I wouldn’t want that thing in me for very long either.”

He balls a fist and aims to strike their neck. 

He’ll fight if he has to. 

He remembers fighting.

Smiling Blue Eyes remains unharmed.

He missed? How could he have missed, they’re right there!

He tries again, just as quick as he can manage.

Once again, Smiling Blue eyes is unaffected. 

Unharmed.

The smile finally falters, if only slightly.

“You’re gonna hurt yourself a lot more than me if you keep that up.”

He blinks.

Readies himself for the rage that will surely come.

“Just try to relax, okay, hun?” They say. “I promise, you’re gonna be just fine.”

There is something very wrong with this handler.

One shaky foot in front of the other, he stumbles at last out of the room he’s been trapped in. Smiling Blue Eyes lets it happen.

They’ve let him do a lot of things.

They let him move, or not, though he does those little exercises when he feels like it. Which is often, surprisingly. They let him sit up and lay down and stretch and spread and curl. They let him turn onto his side so he isn’t on his back, he hates being on his back. They let him disobey commands without consequence.

And not once. Not once has the smile left their eyes.

He stumbles. Once. Twice. Each failed attempt at walking is met with encouragement to try again. To succeed. Each success is met with praise and further encouragement to continue succeeding.

What a weird person.

He makes it halfway through the second room before his legs begin to fail him. There’s a pink cushion with legs and black stripes on either end that he’s encouraged to make it to before he’s allowed to take a break.

A promise.

He’s let down slowly to sit, and once again praised for what he’s done, though he can see the cot from where he sits. It feels like an impossible distance and yet it looks hardly far at all. 

He’s rewarded with a small box of sweet tasting liquid. Smiling Blue Eyes calls it ‘Husk-apple juice.’ It tastes familiar, but different. He’s not sure from where, but he knows he knows it. 

He tries not to think about it.

“You did really well this time!” Smiling Blue Eyes sits next to him with another item in their hands. “Let’s take a breather and then go back, sound good?”

They wait for him to finish the box of juice.

That’s another thing they do a lot of. They wait for him to act, to move, to take, or not. Not once have they made him do something outside of the steadily increasing exercises, and even those, they wait for him to do at his own pace.

He finishes the juice and takes the offered item. It’s a soft warm bun he knows is filled with tasty things. He finds it incredible how the inside remained so cold and crunchy.

He notices the eyes on him before he checks. Smiling Blue Eyes is looking at him.

He pauses mid-chew. Pulls up his shoulders. Was he eating too slow? No, they wanted him to eat slow. Too fast maybe? He ate his first meal too fast and most of it came back up. He thought he was doing better at chewing.

“I was just thinking.” They say.

Strong thin hands move slowly, so he can watch, to his shoulder, then rub along his back. Blonde brows furrow in thought. A hand moves up to his head. It pats and tugs gently on the knotted mass.

“We’re going to have to see what we can do about these tangles, here soon.” A promise.

Ah.

He’s not against it, really. He knows how matted his hair is. It’s grown thick and heavy and he’s long since stopped wincing whenever it pulled. Smiling Blue Eyes hasn’t said anything about it up to now, so he thought it was just another one of those things that didn’t matter.

Then again, Smiling Blue Eyes seems to like things being clean, so maybe it’s just a ‘them’ thing.

“I have to work tonight, but it’s a short shift. So I can see what I can grab on the way home and we can start tomorrow.”

It’s the tricky one. They’re not asking him to do anything, they’re asking if they can do something.

He nods.

The smile brightens.

It feels warm.

He’s left to finish his bun in peace. Smiling Blue Eyes is still in sight, messing about with something in a cupboard. They mumble to themselves as they move. There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to it, though.

A buzzing sound breaks the silence.

Smiling Blue Eyes looks at the black strap on their wrist. “Oh, shoot! Is it really that time, already?!”

They open and shut several boxes, shoving a few small things into a bag on a stool. They turn to face him.

“Okay, okay. Sweetie,” They say, “I need to get going. I’m late for a meeting, but I have a few minutes if you need something before I go.”

He furrows his brows.

They seem to understand his question. “Do you want to go back to bed now?” They ask. “Or do you want to stay out here?”

He thinks. Does he want to go back? Is he really allowed to stay in the cushioned room? He’s tired of staring at the walls covered in splashes of pink and wardrobe buried in pillows and plush creatures. Would they really let him stay if he asked?

He swallows. Points down at his feet. 

The smile returns. They nod.

“Okay. Let me get your blanket real quick.”

They race to the room with the cot and return with the light blue blanket. They leave it well within reach next to him and pat his shoulder again.

“Okay. I’ve got a few sandwiches in the fridge when you’re ready for food, there’s nut-butter or spam-n-greens, so take your pick.”

They swing the bag over their shoulder and move to the door. They pause.

“You sure you’ll be okay?”

He nods.

A breath. The smile brightens.

“Alright. I’ll be back as soon as I can, okay?”

He nods again.

“Okay. Okay. See you later. Bye!”

The door shuts. Locks.

And then they’re gone. And he’s alone again.

He sits a while. Unsure what to do with himself.

Being alone isn’t unfamiliar. He remembers being alone a lot when he was in a cell. Surrounded by others, but unable to be heard or seen. The Cage left him seen, even when he didn’t want to be, but not seen like how Smiling Blue eyes sees him.

No, that isn’t true. There was another. He hasn’t thought about it in a while, though.

Once, before the Cage, before the chains; there was Quiet Man.

Quiet Man saw him the same as Smiling Blue Eyes, he’s sure. They must have.

They were both trapped in those cold cells.

He shakes the thought from his head.

This was a new room, one he hasn’t seen yet. The door Smiling Blue Eyes left from must be the exit, but they’ve locked it, so he can’t get out that way. There are two stools next to a high table with some sheets of parchment on top. Behind that was the coldbox the sandwiches are in. There’s a small nook just beyond, but he can’t quite see what’s there. In front of him is a low table with a small tool box on one side, but whatever was on top must have been moved.

Smiling Blue Eyes must have hidden it somewhere, whatever it is.

The walls were at least different from the room with the cot. There’s a tall thin window on one side, and the rest seem to be more plain. They would remind him of the cold steel walls of a cell if not for the pictographs pasted here and there. Some were of people. Others were of far away places like forests and beaches and mountains and temples. Seeing them made something in his heart ache. To see them with his own eyes. To feel the sand between his toes again.

Wait. Again? Has he felt it before?

He hasn’t really thought about it.

He sighs, tearing his eyes away from the colourful miniature sights. He settles back down into the pink cushion with legs. Takes the blanket and wraps himself in it. It’s warm and soft, like always. He takes a moment to let himself breathe. He can’t remember when he was last able to breathe and to just… be.

It’s nice, he thinks.

It’s quiet, too. Not the dead quiet he’d gotten used to, but…different. He can hear the faint shuffling of others outside of the small dwelling. Doors opening and closing. Muffled talking, laughing, yelling, crying.

There’s life in this place. Life he’d thought was long gone and taken by the Man with the Metal Face.

‘Life will always make a path its own.’

He blinks.

Something connected at some point over the last few days, he notices. Softly mended without his knowing.

This…isn’t the Fortress.

He still doesn’t know where he is, but it’s not the Fortress, it’s not a cell, and it’s not a cage. There’s no handler. No guard. No tests or experiments or white coats with their knives.

There’s just him and…he tries to remember the name… Jess? Mess? Tess, that was it. Tess.

This…’Tess’ …is strange, he thinks. He’s not sure if that’s a good thing.

She’s definitely weird.

She cheers everything he does like it’s some great victory. Somehow always knows when he’s hurting and never lets the hurt linger. She is gentle where others have been harsh. Patient, when before there was none.

She gives him warm cups of broth, a slathering of Green Eco, a pat on his arm or hand, clean bandages.

Food and rest and warmth.

Each small wonderful warm thing is a gift to be cherished.

He wants to remember them when they’re finally taken away.

He sighs. Pulls his knees to his chest. He never knew how much he missed being able to wrap his arms around himself. It feels better this way.

His eyes are drawn to the window. To blue, blue sky. The clouds have thickened and blocked most of it, but even those are more than he expects to see. He lays his head on his knees and watches, content, as the drifting grey and white shapes grow thicker and thinner with the ever changing colour of the sky from day to night and back again.

This, he knows, is real. 

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Takes a shuddered breath.

Please let it be real.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

Daxter wanted to throw up.

No, scratch that. He wanted to bleach his eyes, scrub his brain, jump into a vat of boiling oil, and then throw up.

Of all the twisted, mucked up, rotten, under-crawling swill!

He’d finally been able to sort all of the data he’d pulled from the Fortress over a month ago. Finally had everything labelled and organized as only he knew how. From all the chat logs he’d downloaded and skimmed that discussed the Baron’s many “projects,” only two had remained elusive to Daxter’s ever-keen notice. 

Two projects he now had, not just the bullet points, but meeting notes for them, as well.

“The Destroyer'' it was called, how clever, was a comically oversized bomb that was being designed to detonate over a large enough area to encompass not just one Metalhead nest, but the main nest, the queen, the surrounding nests, and just about everything else it can reach; right down to the precursor metal core of the planet. The main component needed was some ancient - by their terms- relic called ‘The Precursor Stone’ that was the main ingredient to make the thing go BOOM.

Now, Daxter will be the last to admit that he was not an entirely sane individual. There was a whole continent’s worth of people, literally, that probably had more bolts twisted than him. That being said, the Baron may have taken the calf with this one. 

Even without all of the monumentally tiny things that could, and in Daxter’s professional opinion, would, go wrong, there was one very big glaring hole of an issue. He couldn’t quite figure the math, but if that fancy stone they wanted so bad was as powerful as it supposedly is, he had a pretty safe bet that that boom was going to be a LOT bigger than they intended.

And no matter how bad that boom might end up being, it’s the other project that worried him most.

‘The Dark Warrior Program.’

On paper, it looked like any other lab-based Eco study. Detailed descriptions and research notes and sciencey techno-babble about the properties of Dark Eco, what uses it performed with and without any input from the crew studying it, the effects it had on low and high concentrations of exposure, environmental effects, etcetera. Which would all be fine if it were any other Eco study.

But they didn’t stop in the lab.

One of the spreadsheets listed almost three hundred and fifty ‘participants’ in the study. Each one just as detailed as the last. Health ratings from their first exposure onward, the conditions they were under at the time and following, and what mutations occurred. 

And man, the mutations that occurred.

Daxter skipped over those for his own sake. There was only one prisoner he was looking for. And if his file was found within the most secured documents of the Fortress, chances were very good he was made part of the program, too.

He cracked his knuckles and hesitantly typed into the document’s filter box:

‘712426’

A row about halfway down the list lit up.

It was there.

He scrolled down to it, the cell was marked with a link that opened the corresponding tab in the same document.

Daxter took a breath. He glanced at the prisoner information on top only briefly. Same anonymous name that was in the prisoner file. He started reading.

Evaluation 01:: 15-11-0340 :: Normal performance, mute, athletic, endurance level above average, high adaptability observed.

Injection 01:: 22-11-0340 :: 5% :: No anomalies

Evaluation 02 :: 22-11-0340 :: Normal performance, mute, athletic, endurance level above average, high adaptability observed.

Injection 02 :: 25-11-0340 :: 5% :: No anomalies

Injection 03 :: 28-11-0340 :: 5.5% :: No anomalies

It went on like that for a while. An injection of Dark Eco every few days, the concentration increasing ever so slightly; and some evaluation every week or so. Eventual inclusions of ‘Trials’ and ‘Examinations’ made spotty appearances as well. A note here and there about a change in diet or behaviour, some mention of bathing - and Daxter hoped to all things sacred they let Jak bathe more than once a month. 

The part that made Daxter sick wasn’t so much the cold, analytical nature of these research documents. No, the part that made him feel sick was that it kept going . On and on and on for months and months. And the time between each addition was getting shorter and shorter.

About fourteen months into the program, there was a highlighted note that drew Daxter’s eye away from the disturbingly increasing percentage for the injections followed by the ominous ‘no anomalies.’

Containment breach :: 14-01-0341 :: 21:36

Soldier 41136: Charles Beacon charged for offense (Posthumous)

Someone in the guard feeling sorry enough for their role in this crazy place to let prisoners escape? Likely story.

Subject contained :: 22-01-0341 :: 07:14

Soldier 11348: Cpt. Aylin Wiles awarded

Daxter remembered that date. That was the day he went chasing down that hellcat. He remembered being a whisker away from busting Jak out of the cargo cage before the KG’s backup arrived. If he had just been a little faster…

Medical Evaluation :: 22-01-0341 :: Twisted tendons of strained ankle(left), buckle fracture of tibia and fibula(right), subject is aware and rebellious. Unable to treat.

Recommended action: Remote Taming Collar :: Applied

Injection 315 :: 23-01-0341 :: 62.3% :: No anomalies

Injection 316 :: 24-01-0341 :: 62.5% :: No anomalies

Note :: Observed fracture of right leg healed. Subject is suspected.

Recommended action: Increase injection period to five(5) or more hours within next week. Observe all changes.

Daxter felt every hair on his hackles rising by the line. Increasing the injection time gave birth to a new string of notes about maintenance tickets and equipment failure. The longest it’d been able to go on for was three hours straight before it overheated and had to be shut down for the handler’s safety. The HANDLER’S safety. Otherwise it would risk total equipment overload and failure. 

It should have failed. 

It should have rendered that thing utterly useless a LONG time ago. Instead, the action they took was inputting planned breaks for their injecting machine to cool down enough to continue its cycles for even longer than before. Daxter eyed more than one note that mentioned a twenty-four hour ‘session.’

No one could survive that.

He gulped.

But Jak did.

Somehow. Somehow he managed to survive as long as he did.

No. No, this couldn’t be Jak. Whoever this poor sap was suffered for far too long, and hopefully died painlessly in their sleep by the end of this awful document.

There was only one sure way to find out. There were images attached to the files. Progressive shots along the timeline of the project to document physical changes in the subjects- at least according to project notes. Each one separated into their respective subject files helpfully labeled by their number and date.

Daxter opened one of the uncomfortably large collection and stopped dead.

Blue eyes stared back at him.

Face pale. Purple veins peeking out along his jawline. Hair horribly matted to the point of nigh unsalvageable. Some bit gag stuck between teeth that were now far too long and too sharp. Cheekbones unnaturally sharp and hollow.

But those eyes.

Daxter grew up with those eyes. He’d known them all his childhood.

He’d seen kindness and rage and stubborn determination and fear and concentration and defiance in those little blue pools.

Sunken though they were, even half dead, certainly from pain and exhaustion combined; no matter how long it’d been, Daxter knew those eyes.

He didn’t want to believe, but there was no refuting it.

Those eyes belonged to no one but Jak.

This prisoner was Jak .

After two years. Two long, awful years of searching and poking and listening. Two years of hunting down every nugget and kernel that might help him along the way. TWO YEARS.

Daxter had finally found his best friend.

But there was no joyous reunion. No celebratory dance. No silly quips to lighten the mood or distract from the terror.

Just the hollow echo of his own words.

‘Don’t worry Jak! I’ll save you before you know it!’

He promised. He promised he would find him. Promised that he’d be safe and away from harm before he even knew he was in danger. Promised he’d come back again and again. Break into the Fortress, find Jak, get out, go home. That was the plan!

That was the plan.

But now…?

Precursors, what was he going to tell Keira? Was he even going to? She needed to know that they’d finally found Jak, but… He couldn’t do that to her. Daxter is a lot of things, devilishly clever being one of them, but he couldn’t be the one to tell Keira that their best friend was now beyond the veil. She didn’t have to bear the burden of this knowledge. She already has enough to worry about without planning the most morbid scavenger hunt.

Never in a million years would he dream of telling Keira about this.

He told her.

Some of it, at least.

Daxter told her that he finally found Jak in the prison’s files. That it was in the Dark Warrior Project. That the project involved forcing Dark Eco into their collection of unwilling subjects. That the project ended, and that there were no survivors.

He didn’t tell her about the videos.

Keira deserved to remember the hero boy she fell in love with. 

When he was young and strong and sweet and everything she ever knew him for.

She didn’t need to know about the “experiments,” the “examinations.” They could call it whatever they wanted, it was still torture. 

She didn’t have to know Jak never saw anything outside of those walls. That the brave boy they knew and loved was beaten so brutally, so often, that he’d stopped fighting back. That he’d spent the last two years being forced to absorb enough Eco to kill a man a thousand times over.

She didn’t need to watch with every recording as he got thinner…and sicker.

She didn’t need to know that Jak died long before the eco got to him.

Guilt roiled in Daxter’s stomach. Every prickle of his fur screamed that he had betrayed the very foundation their friendship was built on. That he was the one who deserved to suffer, not Jak! Never Jak! Jak was the hero. Jak was the strong one. Jak rushed headlong into danger without a care to his own self. 

Jak was the one who should be comforting Keira while she sat catty corner to the tiny little folding table in their kitchen sobbing into her hands.

But Jak wasn’t here. 

Jak was gone.

And Daxter…What could he do? He was two feet tall, covered head to tail in fur, and made an unhealthy habit of being ‘the problem.’ He couldn’t offer any sagely advice. This wasn’t some enemy to defeat, and even if it was, Dax couldn’t fight it. There’s no engineering a fix, not unless he was secretly some kind of god-which, last he checked, he wasn’t.

He couldn’t help when he had the chance and now Jak was dead and Keira was hurting and it was his fault.

He was just too small.

That was just an excuse though. And Daxter knew it.

Daxter was small and weak and selfish. Because he always has been. 

There must be something he could do. He looked over to Keira again. She was still hunched over trying and failing to hide the full-body shaking between her desperate, pleading gasps. Precursors…she didn’t deserve this.

He didn’t even think about what he was about to do. Keira was hurting and he wasn’t about to leave her alone. Daxter was too small to fight, but there was something he could do. That he’d done before for Jak during their last adventure together.

Keira startled when he parted her arms and started maneuvering into her lap.

“No, Dax-! Dax, don’t, I can’t- Just-!” She couldn’t get her words out, but that was okay, she didn’t have to.

Daxter circled once and sat down on her legs. He grabbed one of Keira’s hands and placed it pointedly on his side, then leaned onto her shoulder to hold her other arm with his own tiny hands.

Maybe she knew what he was doing, maybe she didn’t. It didn’t matter. Daxter knew it was the right call the moment he felt the hand on his side balling up and gathering his fur into a loose fist. She hugged him tighter, pet his side, scritched behind his ears, wept onto his head. It was rough and uncomfortable and he would probably have to spend an hour combing through the matts, but he wouldn’t be anywhere else in the world if he could help it.

Keira held him closer in those long minutes than she had their entire childhood together. About three years ago, he would have maimed for that. 

The guilt twisted even further. 

How could he even think about that? It wasn’t the time, and Daxter will absolutely not make an already shitty day even worse. No matter how nice it felt to be in her arms.

Ancients, forgive him… he was so selfish.

They stayed like that a while. Daxter didn’t dare do more than shift now and then for the sake of comfort. He sat and waited and maybe shed a few tears of his own. No one would tell on him.

It was Keira that broke the silence. Choking back enough air to manage a full sentence.

“So what do we do?” She asked.

“You’re the ‘adult’ here,” he countered after a moment, “don’t you know?”

That earned him a weak laugh and an absent scritching at his shoulder.

“I’m still … missing a few components … for the Rift Rider.” Keira managed. “Those, and the location of a working Rift Gate.”

“We don’t have to do anything right now.”

“I know… We…” a breath “...we have time.”

Time. Funny how they had so much of it.

“Yeah…” he breathed.

Daxter squirmed just enough for Keira to release her grip.

He leaned back to look up at her. “So what do we do?”

She bit her lip, it took a moment before her answer. “I won’t go back without him…”

“Me neither.” Daxter assured.

“We’ll just…have to find some way. Some way to make it work.”

“You think somewhere with the Sentinels?” He offered.

“In the Basin, I think.” Keira replied. “Overlooking Rock village.”

Daxter remembered him and Jak spending a lot of their downtime, between moving all that precursor crap to the lab, exploring the Precursor Basin. Weither on the A-Grav Zoomer or on foot, they’d go poking into every little hidey hole for things to bring home.

Maybe they shouldn’t be thinking so far ahead, they didn’t even know what the Baron had done with all of the subjects of his stupid project. Even so…Even if there was nothing left but ash, they’d still bring Jak home.

Dax forced a watery smile. “He’d like that.”

Keira put in a bereavement request to the Garage manager. The man was practically sobbing in relief that she was finally taking some time off, and actually extended it with her accrued PTO. He promised her she would have plenty of work to do later, but for now, to take care of herself. Something both Keira and Daxter quickly learned she wasn’t very good at doing.

Even though her door wasn’t open, Daxter still found her down in her toolkits tinkering with this or that. Modifying the Rift Rider, tuning her racing zoomer, adjusting the jets on her hoverboard prototype. Anything that kept her hands busy and her mind off of anything else.

She wouldn’t go hungry if Daxter could help it, he made sure to bring her little snacks and bottles of water. More often than not, he’d find Keira slumped over her lift staring blankly at her wrench or a wall, like the Abyss was calling and only she could hear it.

Daxter had called his own boss at that point. He didn’t give too many details, but suffice to say he got some leave time of his own. Along with a similar promise of plenty of work training some new-hires when he got back. 

He pretended to be excited.

A few days passed, and then a week.

Keira reopened her garage for her clients, and Daxter stayed right with her. Out of the way, but nearby if needed. She seemed to do better when she was mad at people for being stupid rather than mindlessly undoing and retightening the same bolt for hours.

“Look, I’m just saying, that cannot be good on your back!”

Keira huffed. “If the dumbass wants to break his neck on this thing, that’s on him. I’m just making it safe to fly!”

Daxter wondered, not for the first time, why any idiot would want a rival team’s mechanic to fix their ride. Not like it’s any skin off his rump, money was money, but they were setting themselves up for failure if Keira were any less honest a person.

Daxter pricked his ears to the distant whine of a familiar approaching engine.

“Incoming,” Daxter drolled.

Keira hummed in response, but continued fiddling with the wire connectors.

“Want me to leave you two alone?”

She sighed. “No…” she confessed. “No, stay this time, please.”

As if she had to ask. Of course he would stay.

The rhythmic stomp of those ugly custom military boots were the only warning either of them needed.

“Good afternoon, Commander.” Keira said before the man could knock.

Daxter watched, disinterested, at the idiot’s gaping mouth as he was once again beaten to the greeting punch. He really did look stupid like that. Daxter started to wonder if maybe he was doing it on purpose.

“Good afternoon, Keria. I hope you’re doing well.” Erol sang.

Daxter resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Even with the commander’s hand behind his back, Dax could smell it from where he sat.

Keira finally turned to the man. “Did you need something?” She asked.

“Well, I tried to come visit last week, but your door was closed.” The commander explained. “And when I checked with the proprietor, he said you were taking bereavement.”

“Oh…” Keira said. “Yeah…”

Erol pulled the small bouquet from behind his back, holding it gently out to her.

“For you,” he said, “I know it’s cold comfort, but I also know how hard it is to lose someone you care about.  They must have been very important to you, and I’m truly sorry for your loss.”

“Oh…” Keira breathed.

She noticed it too. Heartsease and Unforgottens. Yellow and white with delicately deep blues mixed in. A single white Valley Bulb centered among them.

Keira reached out and gingerly took the flowers from Erol’s hand.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

Erol nodded and replied equally softly. “Of course.”

Daxter could see the tension in Keira’s shoulder’s rising. Her eyes were watering and her face was turning red. Precursors, please don’t cry, not in front of him! Daxter will step in if he has to, she just had to say the word. She knew he would.

“I..uhm.” Keira stammered.

“It’s alright, Keira. I understand.” Erol’s smooth sing-song voice seemed to fill every space in the tiny garage, “I’m here should you ever have need of me. You know that, right?”

She nodded.

He placed a hand to her face, brushing her bangs out of the way and tucking them behind her ear. The movement so tender, it made Keira look away from the blooms to his forge-fire eyes.

“If there’s anything, anything at all I can do for you, please,” Erol said softly. “Please do not hesitate to ask for me.”

Keira’s facade was failing fast.

“I just want to make sure you’re alright.”

She looked away at last, “Yeah…I know…” she whimpered.

Erol opened his mouth again to say something, but a shrill ring cut him off. He stammered and fumbled for his pocket to pull out his communicator.

“Ah, I’m sorry, I have to take this.” Erol beamed apologetically.

Keira just waved him off, unfazed.

The man’s face dropped to a scowl when her back was turned and he scampered into the entryway. Daxter waited a beat to check on Keira.

“I’m going to make some tea.” Was all she said before waving him off as well.

Erol had just picked up the line when Daxter caught up not two steps behind the main door.

“Go for Erol.”

Whoever was on the other line must not be somebody Erol liked. Though, truth be told, Daxter could think of approximately zero people the man liked beyond himself and the Baron.

“What do you mean ‘it’s gone?’”

The commander rubbed his eyes with a huff.

“Are you telling me,” he said slowly, “that every sample we’ve collected. From the last two years. Spontaneously combusted. IN THE LAB?!!?” That last part was a screech.

Daxter glanced behind him, but Keira’d gone back upstairs already.

“Who was the last one to enter the lab? I want their numbers! I swear, if even one of you has been tampering with the- “ Erol’s face froze in fury. “Come again?”

Erol was standing stock still, eyes wide and face pale. Interesting.

His face went red a moment later, he was practically yelling into the communicator.

“Get me video feed from the last twenty-four hours. If someone else was in that room, I want to know about it! Erol out.”

Silence for a beat.

Erol kicked a sizable dent into the metal trash can. His growl near animalistic.

And, of course, Daxter was too bold for his own good. He scrambled to the knocked over can to search for ‘goodies.’ Just like any other rat. The startled shriek that came from none other than the man above was more than a little satisfying. Daxter: ten, Erol: one.

“Oh.” He groaned. “It’s just you.”

Just like the Sculptor’s muse, Daxter glanced up with the biggest, most vacant eyes he could muster. He even twitched his nose for good measure.

“I don’t understand why she keeps you around, you’re not that special. There are a million rats in the world, why you?”

Oh if only Daxter were three feet taller.

Erol rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 

“No, she’d be able to tell,” he said after a moment. 

Okay, enough looking cute, time to get dirty. He could hear the man’s disgust between crumpled wrappers being moved around.

“Fuck me…” Erol sighed. “Okay, Erol. You were the primary handler for the project. You were the last one to dictate what happened to the subject. Said subject is no longer here. So….step one, assess the damage. Step two, retrieve new samples. Simple. Easy. A child could do it!”

Daxter slowed his trash sifting, ears pricked.

“I’ll have to get in touch with Hemmingswen. He’s the one I had on disposal… Shit. And he’s off today. He won’t reply to any emails off the clock. Okay. That’ll have to wait, but you have a plan.” A deep breath. “Everything’s under control.”

There was an ear-splitting roar when Erol turned his zoomer’s engine on, and Daxter’s not too proud to admit it startled him out of the trash can in a heartbeat. He glared at the backside of the Commander’s bright red chestplate as he sped away from the stadium to enact his plan. Not one part of Daxter was happy that part of it involved desecrating the body of his best friend…but… Erol was now his best lead to finding Jak… or at least… what’s left of him.

Daxter scoffed. “What a piece ‘a work.”

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

Sig breathed a heavy sigh as he walked back into the dive bar that employed him. His last hunt hadn’t got quite to plan, but at least no one had gotten hurt. That was more than he could say for the nest of metalpedes he and his entourage ended up torching.

He could still hear Tanni’s harpy screech about having to leave the few artifacts they found hidden in the nest behind. It wasn’t like they expected the newborn larva to start spitting acid at them. The man should have been grateful to get out with his life and limbs intact. Sig knew far too many people back home that weren’t so lucky.

A drink was in order. To celebrate ‘the continuing struggle of life despite the circumstances,’ if nothing else. And no one better to serve that drink than a certain little blonde bombshell Sig had made nice with about a month ago.

Tess was happily chatting away with Boone, the old bartender that’d been working with Krew since long before Sig ever pinged on the fat man’s radar. She slid a drink to the same man Sig was just working with, he could hear Tanni’s shrill even above the normal noise of the bar. 

Tess didn’t seem bothered, though. In fact, he’d go as far to say she was invested. Having told a few details of his work, himself, Sig had concluded the girl loved stories. The more harrowing, the better.

Beyond that, she seemed a lot happier working directly with the patrons than she did washing dishes or bussing tables.

Maybe he had something to do with it, maybe he didn’t. Who could say?

“Hey Sugar Plum,” Sig greeted.

Tess immediately switched focus, “hey Sig! The usual?”

“Gimme something new. Anything you’re workin’ on?”

That shiver-inducing spark was unmistakable. “You bet! Gimme just a minute, okay?”

Sig nodded and took a seat at the bar. Normally, he’d pick a booth that was out of the way and would give him a clear view of the entrance. Something about Tess, though, just had a way of putting people at ease. He couldn’t really explain it. Sig had seen no shortage of angry customers, even had to ‘escort’ a fair few off of the premises. That same angry and drunken rage could be calmed down in a matter of minutes with Tess there. Girl was either foolish or fearless, and Sig had long begun suspecting the latter. 

Beyond just her work at the bar, Sig had taken the chance to invite her for some target practice once or twice. The range didn’t see much use; being that it was under Krew’s name and only his people got to use it. So it wasn’t surprising that they ended up with the place to themselves.

After a quick run down of the rules, Sig sent the little lady loose while he sat back to wait his turn; passing the time by watching her score alongside the video feed.

And damn , could she shoot.

His own score couldn’t come close, but he settled for a new person best.

He’da been ready to challenge her properly if she hadn’t come in her next shift with several nasty cuts on her arm.

“Lookin’ a little worse for wear, there Sugar Plum. Run into a metalhead?”

“What?” Tess asked; then, as if only just realising, looked down at her arm. “Oh! That? We tried for a bath yesterday. Didn’t go over so well.”

“Your cat did that?!” Sig baulked. “You sure it’s a good idea to keep him?”

“It’s really not that bad. He just got a little freaked out is all.”

“I dunno…”

“He’s not dangerous!” Tess protested. “He’s just… a little spicy.”

Sig raised a sceptical brow. A ‘little spicy’ may well be the first step to something much worse if she wasn’t careful. Tess didn’t seem too bothered by it, at least up front, but he could tell that she’d been avoiding using the arm for most of the night.

“If you’re sure.” Sig replied, not at all convinced.

A lot of their chats went like that, actually. If it wasn’t guns, it was about the little stray. Sig would be certain Tess had taken in a wild coypanther by the, often violent, wounds if not for the fact that they gradually got less and less frequent. 

First it was a comment about how ‘he’d finally come out of hiding.’ Then an overly cheerful ‘he let me brush him today!’ Nail trimming was still a pipedream, it seemed, but at least the little guy hadn’t destroyed any furniture. Well…as far as Sig knew, he hadn’t. Though she obviously still got into a scrap or two with the little guy, judging by the new looking cut at her collar.

A gentle interruption in the form of a brightly coloured drink in a tall glass was pushed in front of him.

Tess, ever observant, asked, “You look pretty deep in thought there, big guy. Something on your mind?”

Sig took the drink with a learned reservation. Looked like some kind of pink fruity monstrosity that burned his nose hairs just by looking at it. 

“I was just thinking about that cat of yours. How’s he doin’?”

Her smile brightened. “He’s doing good! I came home yesterday, and he actually ate his breakfast all by himself!”

Apparently the poor thing had a hard time eating when he wasn’t being watched. Sig chalked it up to food insecurity. He’d fed a few strays himself and knew sometimes they wouldn’t eat unless someone was standing watch to make sure they could enjoy their meal in peace.

“That’s pretty good.” Damn that drink was bright. He could already feel the tell-tale warmth in his knees. “Any chance you found a name yet?”

“Actually…I was thinking maybe you could help me out with that.”

Sig put down his drink and made direct eye contact. “Fluffy, Brutus, Mr. Fuzzypants, Ripjaw, Clawrence, Henry-”

“No! No no no! Not like that!!” Tess laughed. “I mean maybe come and meet him, maybe help us figure out a name together!”

He raised a brow. “Oh? Am I finally meeting this vicious little furball?”

“He’s not ‘vicious,’”

“Those bruises say different.” He countered.

Tess huffed. “Well…truth be told, I might have to help out a friend in a few weeks.” 

“Ah…so you need a sitter?”

She nodded. “He hasn’t met anyone else yet, and he can’t go to a boarder. You’re the only person I can ask. Pleeeeeaaaaasssseee won’t you come by?”

“Not sure how good I’d be for that, Sugarplum. I go out of town a lot, myself.”

“Please? Please? Pleeeeeeeaaaaaaaassseeeee!”

Sig was starting to think leaving Tess behind the bar was dangerous. The warmth in his knees had already spread to the rest of his joints. That, or maybe his ‘tough guy’ image was sipping. Shit, it was just plain hard to say ‘no’ to Tess.

“Alright,” he conceded, “I gotta take care of a few things before headin’ home to get cleaned up, first.”

The smile remained unwaveringly sincere. “Oh! Thank you thankyouthankyou! I’ll get with you as soon as I’m off shift!”

“Sure thing. You wanna meet up here, then?”

“The plaza,” Tess said firmly, “it’s about halfway.”

Sig nodded. “Plaza it is.”

Admittedly, he was a little late. After a shower and a much needed nap, Sig hadn’t realised how long he’d been out ‘till he checked his messages. Street lights were already on by the time he made it to meet up with Tess. Thankfully, she was still waiting for him by one of the Plaza’s obnoxiously large braziers.

“Hey Sugarplum.” He waved.

She waved back. “Hey stranger! Was starting to worry about you!” Tess rose to her feet and indicated Sig to follow.

“Hope I didn’t make you wait too long.” He said apologetically.

“Kari tried having me work another double tonight.” Tess groaned. “I’m just lucky Nat showed up early and made her let me go home.”

Sig chuckled. “I’m sure that little furball wouldn’t mind eating on time, either.”

“Speaking of…” 

Tess stopped slightly ahead of Sig and turned to face him, her expression unusually serious. They were just shy of the border between the Stadium district and the Slums.

She levelled him with a dangerous look. “I need to know right now, before we go any further, that you’re going to stick to your word. That you’re going to help us.”

Ah. So the facade finally dropped.

“I had a feeling you weren’t really talk’n about a cat.” Sig sighed. “Is it a kid? Family?”

“No, he’s not family. I don’t…actually know how old he is.”

Well, that hardly narrowed it down.

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” Sig asked.

“No! No, not at all!” Tess replied far too quickly.

Sig raised a doubtful brow.

Tess huffed. “Look, I’m not going to abandon someone in need when I can actually do something about it. I can’t help everyone, I know that, but I can at least help someone .”

“I know it’s not my place to tell you what to do,” Sig said, “but there’s a few too many ‘maybe’s in there for my taste.”

“You’re saying you won’t help?”

“I’m sayin’ don’t get your hopes up. I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to care for him all the time, so if you have something that’ll work, do it. Don’t wait on me.”

Still tense, Tess lowered her gaze.

“More importantly, I need you to ask yourself if you’re absolutely sure that this is something you want to do. And if helping this ‘cat’ is really worth the risk.”

“I do.” She murmured. “You didn’t see him, Sig… Skin and bones…”

Sig drew his mouth thin and sighed. He just knew he was going to regret this. But…he wasn’t one to back out on anyone in need, either. 

Sig took another deep breath.

“Alright.” Decision made. “Lead the way.”

Just outside her apartment door, Tess stopped again.

“Remember, don’t freak out.” She warned. “He hasn’t met anyone else yet.”

“Sure thing, Sugar Plum.” Sig promised.

Tess took a deep breath and turned back to the door. She unlocked it and entered with a quick greeting to the ‘cat’ before waving him inside.

“What in the…?” He breathed.

Now, Sig wasn’t a channeler. Never had the gift for it. Even then, he knew the sour prickle and stench of Dark Eco that hit him smack in the face the moment he entered the little apartment.

“Ta da?” Tess weakly cheered.

Definitely not a cat.

Though, truth be told, Sig could see the comparison. A scrawny little thing with sharp claws and teeth sat crouched on the floor in front of Tess’ couch. His hair was matted, but a clear effort had been made to fix that without the indignity of shaving the poor boy bald. The sweater and pants, that he could only assume belonged to Tess, hung loosely off tightly wound shoulders. Scarring peaked out on a shoulder the sweater didn’t cover.

Sig raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, there.”

The kid hunched over, eyes locked on him, and growled.

“Honey. No. This is Sig, he’s a friend.” Tess said.

The growling grew to a snarl, but Sig could see the kid backing away. He could figure why, too.

Sig was a big guy who carried a big gun and tended to lean on the heavier side. He made an intimidating figure in most lights. If he was looking at it like Tess played it: the kid was a cat, and the apartment was his territory, and Tess, his caretaker, had just let in the biggest, meanest looking Bullizard known to man.

He felt threatened, and Sig knew full well there was nothing more dangerous than a scared and cornered animal.

“Easy there, little guy.” Sig cooed. “You must be the stray Tess found. She’s told me a bit about you.”

The kid glanced to Tess and then back at him. Foot sliding backward.

Sig moved slowly, purposefully, to take off his coat and lay it on the barstool next to him. Hands always visible.

“I didn’t bring much with me today, just a knife or three. If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather keep them where they are, yeah?”

The kid seemed to relax a little. He was still glaring daggers, but at least Sig didn’t feel like he or Tess were in immediate danger anymore. He carefully made his way a little closer before kneeling down and leaving his empty hands out for inspection.

The kid stared at them for a while before hesitantly raising his own. They were still thin and boney, ice cold to the touch. Kid’s fingers were a blue and purple that normally would be from poor circulation or worse, frostbite, but the obsidian black claws that took the place of nails said something very different.

Best not to ask, it wasn’t his place to know. 

Instead, he made nice. “You see? All good, here.”

The kid looked up at him once more before retreating back to the cushion he must’ve been sitting on before. Hands hidden and knees pulled tight to his chest. Sig had to wonder how in the world that was in any way comfortable. 

No, no. Not his place to ask.

Tess let out a relieved sigh. “You see, hun? Sig just looks big and mean. But he’s actually a big sweetie!”

Sig shot her a look, but couldn’t help smiling at the accusation.

He really needed to get better at his ‘tough guy’ look.

Speaking of looks…actually, now that he was closer… “You said you got a brush in there?”

Stray’s eyes narrowed. Tess looked sheepish.

“Yeah… I couldn't get more than a handful of knots out.”

Sig hummed, eyeing the nest appraisingly. “You got a wide-tooth comb? Maybe some chopsticks? Girl like you, I know you got some conditioner.”

“I tried conditioner, it didn’t help.” Tess said.

“You probably didn’t let it soak long enough.” Sig replied. “Trust me, mess like that needs all the help it can get.”

A breathy huff brought his attention back to the subject of the matter. The kid’s shoulders were up to his ears with a clearly defiant glare that said, under no uncertain terms, ‘no you will not be touching me or my hair.’ Sig couldn’t help a chuckle.

“I promise it won’t be that bad. It might take a while, but I’m sure we can get it untangled between Tess and I. You’re welcome to help out, too. It’s your hair, bud.”

Stray did not seem to agree with him, but he wasn’t growling at him either.

Tess sighed behind him. “I’ll go get the bottle. I’ll see what else I can find that’ll help.”

“How many hair bands you got?”

“All of them.” She replied. “Oh, I’ve got snacks in the fridge, help yourself!”

“Don’t mind if I do.” Sig accepted the excuse to get up and move before he’s stuck on the ground for who knows how long. “You want anything, kid?”

He’s met with a quiet stare.

Sig stared back. Waited. Eventually the kid just shrugged and looked away.

Bowl of sliced fruit, it is.

Tess returned with a bottle and an arm fully loaded with hair ties and scrunchies.

“You wanna sit up on the couch?” She asked.

“Nah, I’m all good here.”

“‘kay, I’ve got some extra pillows we can sit on, too.”

Thank goodness. Much as being at eye level will make working easier, Sig was not looking forward to the pain of sitting on a hard wooden floor for as long as he was expecting to. The provided pillows were perfect, and Tess even threw in a few more for good measure.

They were sitting on the floor, all three of them. A Rebel, a Wastelander and a Stray. Seemed like the world’s weirdest slumber party…or the start to a bad joke. Mama would mourn that she hadn’t come up with it first.

“Alright, now let me take a look at your scalp here. I wanna see how close to the skin those matts are.”

The stray watched, but didn’t object as Sig gently poked and prodded and rubbed along his hairline; slowly working further in. It seemed like the matting wasn’t as condensed around most of what Sig could feel. There was enough growth to keep the worst of it from pulling at the scalp. All except for two spots that were hard as a rock. He resisted grimacing at all the work they’d have to do just to trim some of it anyway.

Tess giggled, and Sig looked up with a questioning glance, but stopped when he saw Tess wasn’t looking at him. 

He followed her gaze downward. The little stray had his eyes closed, with his chin still resting on his knees, but his face was totally relaxed.

Sig sent a smirk in Tess’ direction. “And you were worried we wouldn’t get along.”

“Something like that,” she muttered, still smiling.

Sig let go. The kid blinked a little and refocused back on him.

“Alright, just one last thing before we get too wild here,” Sig leaned forward just a bit to finally ask: “What’s your name, kid?”

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

“What’s your name, kid? ”

The odd importance, a name.

Names didn’t matter in cells, in chairs, in cages. There were others, he knows, long long before the Cage, there were others like him. Other subjects. Other things. None of them had names though, not that he knew.

But…doesn’t everyone have a name?

Tess has a name. Sig has a name.

They aren’t things reduced to a number on their neck.

They’re people . And people have names. Names are important.

Something firm. Something solid. Something theirs. But… a name, a title, a number, they’re the same thing, aren’t they? Just something to be called.

The Singing Monster only ever called him ‘freak’ or ‘prisoner’ or ‘it’

The white coats called him ‘subject’ a lot.

He hated when Metal Face called him ‘soldier,’ because he never wanted to be one. Not for them .

Tess was different, though. He liked Tess. Tess called him ‘honey’ and ‘sweetie’ and ‘cutie’ and other nice things that ended in ‘ee.’

But those aren’t names. Not like the Big Man, Sig, is asking for.

He thinks. Long ago, back in the cells, when there were others. They had names, didn’t they?

Quiet Man must have had one.

He may have had one too, once. He must have lost it in the Cage. He doesn’t think about it much. It’s easier that way.

“Worst case scenario, we come up with a new name for you.”

“I don’t have a ‘little big book of names,’ Sig.”

“I got plenty of ideas.”

He scrunches his nose at the thought.

The large man chuckles, “well I can’t just call you ‘kid.’ Come on, you gotta help me out here.”

He looks between Tess and the Big Man. They wait for him, just like Tess does. He wants to tell them that he doesn't remember. Doesn’t even know where to start. All he can think to do is shrug helplessly.

“Can you write it?” The Big Man asks.

He shakes his head.

“Alright, but you can spell it?”

He looks away, curling more into himself. He wants to hide from this, whatever this is. It feels like commands, but they’re not commanding, they’re asking. They’re asking him something he doesn’t know, and he doesn’t know how long they’ll keep waiting if he can’t answer them .

“Okay…” they hum, “that’s fine…there’s gotta be somethin’ though…”

They raise their hands, making quick but steady motions with them.

“What about Sign? I’m a little rusty, but I know the basics”

{You can Hand-speak?}

He blinks.

Hand-speak?

He…he knows hand-speak.

He can already feel the motions his arms want to make. Should he let them? What would they say?

Hesitantly, he raises his hand. Remembers the question.

‘What is your name?’

His hands move almost without thinking. Three quick motions. He has to stop and try again, slower.

Again. Again.

He blinks. Eyes wide. He knows those motions.

The motions that mean letters and words.

The swinging little finger. That’s ‘Jir’

An upright fist with his thumb at rest: ‘Ahn’

His first two fingers spread out, his thumb set between them is: ‘Keet’

He repeats the motions. Stronger this time.

{Jir-Ahn-Keet} Over and over, they spell it, {Jir-Ahn-Keet}

“Jak? is that right?” Big Man asks.

Jak. 

Jak? 

JAK!

That’s his name!

He has a name !

He- Jak nods, a smile ghosting his face.

“Good to meet you, Jak.” They smile, holding out their hand.

Jak takes it in his own and shakes it in a firm up and down.

They blink, seemingly surprised. Then smile, and let go.

Sig turns away; and Jak is left to his own thoughts again.

His thoughts that he can say with his hands .

He wonders why he hadn’t thought of it before…If there was any chance anyone could have understood his hands before they were locked behind his back. Someone would have. Someone must have.

His name on his own doesn't sound right. Something’s missing.

It couldn’t just be him, though. There’s another. 

Another name. Another person.

Jak is never by himself. 

He lets his hands say his name again. Lets them keep going. Two more words follow.

{orange} and {lightning}

Orange…Lightning…

Daxter .

The loud-mouth, the hype-man, the brains, the ever-observant. His partner. His friend. His best friend. Rarely a moment spent apart, and even fewer without Daxter’s comforting voice.

Daxter’s voice…High, but not shrill. Quick to comment and oh so clever. So much more clever than Jak. Daxter would have found every little weakness in the Fortress, ones Jak hadn’t even thought of, and used it. And Jak would have the muscle to pull it off.

That’s how they were. That’s who they were. Jak and Daxter. A package deal.

A certainty fits snugly in place. Jak looks up to Sig, does this man even know what they’ve done for him?!

Sig isn’t looking at him. He’s turned away messing with the bottle Tess brought out earlier. Pouring water inside and mixing the tincture with a long stick. Tess is messing about with her Table of Things. 

She’s quick to notice his eyes on her she turns and tilts her head in question.

Jak takes a breath and repeats the gestures for Daxter’s name.

Tess’s brows draw close. “Uhm…I don’t know, sweetie.”

“What’s that?” Sig finally looks up.

“Jak has a friend, I think. Is that what you were saying?”

Jak bites his lip and nods. 

He trusts Tess. Tess hasn’t done anything to hurt him. Nothing beyond pinning him down for a while whenever he fights her, at least. He’s not as sure about Sig. Sure, the man gave him his name back, but would Sig take something as well?

“Hey, that’s good! Means you still got people out here for you.”

Jak repeats the sign again, and Sig’s face changes to one of amusement and confusion.

“Not sure I’ve ever met anyone with a name like that ,” the man laughs, “but I can keep an ear out for them. Can’t be too many people that go by ‘Orange Lightning’”

“Oh my goodness, is that they’re name? That is so cute!” Tess giggles.

Jak curls in a bit, suddenly ashamed and unsure of himself and what he’s really asking them. Of course they wouldn’t know Daxter’s name as Daxter . And he’s not sure he remembers how to spell it like he spells his own.

Tess notices. Of course she does. She holds out the multi-coloured cube. “Here you go, sweetie. Is there anything you need before we get started?” 

It’s a distraction, he knows. Tess brought it to him days ago during the second brushing attempt. She explained it was a game to match the coloured faces. Jak isn’t sure Tess and Sig will be able to do much before he gets fed up with the game, though.

Both Tess and Sig sit on either side of him. Neither in front. Neither blocking. Neither holding or stopping him from moving.

The door is unlocked, but Tess is relaxed. She’s talking, but not at him or herself. Sig’s talking too, but less words and more hums and grunts. If Jak really wanted, with how they’re sitting, he could bolt for the door and be gone before they could stop him.

He picks up the cube, instead. Rotates the faces. Waits.

A hand touches his head and he stops a moment, half expecting it to wrap into a fist and pull, like they often did.

But it doesn’t.

It touches a bit of matting and slowly pulls and tugs until it gradually unweaves. It’s a gentle touch. Patient. Like Green Eco. Like Tess. Fingers weave along his scalp and gently press and rub. Tess’ conditioner is cool where it greets his skin, but the little spots quickly warm and are brushed away.

He’d forgotten how nice it feels. To have fingers run through his hair. To have a hand pat his head rather than grab or pull or hit.

Jak closes his eyes. Lets himself feel, really feel, the gentle tugging that soothes more than it hurts. Slowly, slowly, the hands move about. Gradually working free the dried and woven strands. Occasionally pushing or pulling away what was needed. Brushing. Combing. Picking. Unravelling. Gentle. Gentle hands working and working. Murmured sounds fade and still the hands work. Still they work. Still they press. Still they move about.

And then they stop.

“Well now… that’s interesting.” Sig says.

Jak blinks. He completely forgot about the little colour-cube in his lap.

Tess looks up, “what’s that?”

“Little man, did you know you had a couple of horns coming out of your head?” 

It’s said with a chuckle, but Jak tenses. The white coats never mentioned horns, as far as he knew. His handler had dragged him by the hair often enough, they must have known, but… did they know? They must have. This couldn’t be new.

Maybe that’s why Metal Face decided to stay.

Tess’ voice. “I have a powder mirror, do you want to see?”

Jak shakes his head. He doesn’t want to see. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he reaches up to find them with his hands.

His hair is still damp from Tess’ conditioner. It feels sticky and weird, but also softer than he ever remembers it being. And there, just like Sig said, there were two hard nubs. They stood out far enough that he’s certain they’ll be plainly visible now that his hair’s out of the way. Definitely not new. Not unless the horns had grown terrifyingly fast. The skin around them was dry and flakey and itchy.

Ichy, itchy, so itchy. Hands pinned too far away. He can’t reach. Itchy. There’s no room. There’s no room. So itchy.

“Hey, hey, none of that.” Hands are on his. Pulling them down and away from his head. 

Sig says, “guess this is news to you, eh?”

“I had no idea.” Tess replies. “They’re actually really cute!”

Hands on his head, touching around the nubs. It feels good and it doesn’t.

“Looks like there’s some pretty dry skin and flaking. I’m willing to bet that isn’t too comfy for ya.”

Jak only nods.

Sig hums. “You might be able to find something that’ll work better, but conditioner and lotion will have to do for now. I’d recommend using something that you can leave in.”

“Like an ointment?”

“I was thinking some hair oil or a leave-in conditioner.” A pause. “You hangin’ in there okay, Cherry?”

Jak reaches back. His hand pulls forward a soft, thick, wavy gathering of hair. It’s…longer than he thought it would be. A lot longer. The ends are still ragged, but it’s worlds better than the dry and crusty locs he’s been stuck with for so long.

Tess pulls the hair back behind his shoulders, humming to herself.

“What do we think about braids?” She asks. “It’ll keep your hair out of the way and it’ll help stop it from tangling up again.”

He hums, nodding. He definitely didn’t want to have to dedicate another afternoon to Untangling if he could get away with it.

Sig gets up and stretches wide, with audible pops in his limbs.

“Count me out, kids.” The man says. “These old bones can’t sit on the ground that long. I’ll let you take it from here.”

“You heading out already?” Tess asks.

“‘fraid so. Got an early day tomorrow, which means it’s bed time for this old man.”

Tess chuckles. “You can’t be that old. What are you, like, fifty?”

“Ouch. Now that one hurt.”

Jak furrows his brow.

Sig only smiles. “Take it from me, enjoy your youth.”

“We’ll try. Be safe getting home, okay?”

“Will do. Take care, Sugarplum.”

“G’night! Thanks for stopping by!”

“See you later, Cherry.” Sig nods to him.

Jak gives a small wave.

The door closes and Tess leans heavily on it with a sigh. She looks at him and smiles.

“Well…that went way better than I expected.” She says.

Jak snorts.

“Oh my goodness! Was that a laugh from my resident Mister Grumpy-puss?”

He forces his face into a scowl.

“Oh, come on!” Tess whines. “I never see you smile!”

Jak’s pretty sure that’s a lie.

She laughs. “Alright. Come on. Let’s get that stuff rinsed out and dry you off.” 

Did they have to?

“We can use the pitcher and cup this time, promise. Then we can do up your hair.”

He huffs, resigned to his fate.

A beeping and buzzing interrupts them. Jak looks at Tess, but she doesn’t seem alarmed by the noise. She just reaches into her pocket and pulls out the beeping device.

“Oh, hang on, honey. I gotta take this, I’ll be right back.”

She leaves the room and makes the device beep again.

“Hey, baby! How’s it goin’?” Tess says, far… far too cheerfully.

Jak strains his ears, but he can’t quite make out the murmur she’s listening to.

“Oh, but Pookie, I told you I was busy tonight. I had to introduce my kitty cat to his new sitter!”

He frowns. The device must be a communicator of some kind, so that means there’s someone calling her. But…who?

“No, I did not forget, it’s on my calendar for eight tomorrow morning…No, eleven’s fine. Do you want me to bring you anything special?”

More muttering…something shuffling… he still can’t make out any words.

“Oh, that’s no problem! I’ll bring you some! I know you’ve been super tense this last few weeks. Oh! Hey, before I forget, I wanted to ask you a favour…” She pauses a while. “Well if you’re gonna be like that, I guess you’ll just have to be surprised.”

Something that sounded like an irritated groan came from the little device.

Tess laughs. “Okay, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye bye!”

She hits a button on her communicator and puts it away. She turns back to see him peering around the doorway at her.

“How do you feel about a trip out tomorrow? Get some fresh air?”

He stares, confused and unimpressed. His hands move without him even thinking.

{Weirdo}

“Aaaw!” Tess giggles. “You are so cute. C’mere!”

Uh no. Hug alert. HUG ALERT.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

Torn’s seen a lot of shit. Working for the Baron as a Krimzon Guard from private all the way to Commander wasn’t an easy journey. Very few survived as long as he did with their morals intact, and even fewer with their sense of reason. Some orders he gave and some he followed still hung around on quiet nights. He’d seen enough parents and children starving on the streets, dying to their Baron’s negligence, and still believing they would see the day their home was finally free from war.

The sight never got easier.

He had to get used to it.

Torn half-expected the Dead Town prisoner they’d found a while back to be long-dead and buried, but according to Tess, he’d survived. Not only that, but he was alert and responsive, something Torn would have to assess for himself. 

Seeing that same prisoner recovered, in any capacity, was nothing short of remarkable. It wasn’t often someone that far gone was able to come back; a testament to Tess’ sheer force of will and her skills as a caretaker. His eyes were less sunken, cheeks less hollow, and Tess had managed to tame that matted nest into something resembling sectioned braids.

The horns were…interesting.

The fact he was crouched on their main map table and had knocked over the first of many afternoon coffees was less so.

"Is he wearing your clothes?" Torn growled. 

Tess huffed a sigh, "look, I don't have anything else that would fit him and I can't exactly take him to the store." 

Torn's eyes narrowed, aimed at her now. "So you brought him here!? " 

The beast let out a low growl in Torn's direction. Tess put a hand on his shoulder to quiet him. Torn didn't think they would stop at just baring their teeth if she wasn’t there. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about that.
"Okay, mister I'll-wear-the-same-thing-every-day-until-it's-physically-repulsive-to-share-an-air-space-with.'" 

Torn cringed. He wasn't that bad, he thought. 

"My boy needs clothes, and we have a closet FULL miscellaneous outfits and stuff. I figure I can help him pick something out from there."

Torn wanted to argue, but relented. This wasn’t a fight worth having. If Tess can find something that’ll fit the kid, fine. A few disguises worth of clothes is a better loss than hearing Tess complain about having to buy a whole new wardrobe.

That was assuming the kid cooperated enough in the first place.

Torn groaned. He didn’t get paid enough for this.

“Fine, just don’t take everything.” He said. “You're not getting a whole foot locker, just a few days worth.”

“Of course!” she promised. “What kind of freeloader do you take me for?”

Torn watched unamused as the former prisoner - kid’s name was Jak, Torn reminded himself - got off the table to follow Tess toward the short hall that led to one of the Underground’s storage closets. He spared the mess of coffee only a glance before heading toward the tiny kitchen to find something to clean it up with.

Torn could feel his concentration slipping by the second. Maps and notes blurred into incoherent smears of colour the longer he stared. He could hear snippets of Tess picking out or rejecting certain clothing items now and then. The chatter made it hard to concentrate on the updated ammunition storage protocols he was trying in vain to memorise. He’s pretty sure even without the distraction, it wouldn’t have made much of a difference.

He was about to reach for his coffee before he remembered that it'd been knocked over, Torn checked his watch, over an hour ago. May as well start another pot if he planned on finalising the next rotations by tonight.

Torn wandered back down the hall to the messy kitchen, pausing as he passed the storage room Tess and Jak were still currently occupying. The former, holding something up for the kid to try on.

“Alrighty, arms up!”

The top was a sleeveless turtleneck that took a bit of finagling to get past the horns. Tess helped pull out the mass of hair as soon as it was in place and started tugging on it here and there.

“How’s the feel? Looks a little tight on the shoulders.”

The kid felt around his chest and neck before nodding.

“Feels good?”

Another nod.

“Okay, let me check the size real quick so we can keep an eye out for more.”

Torn left them to finish his journey to the heavily stained coffee maker. He peered inside the pot to find it almost empty. Welp, he was planning on starting a new pot anyway. And waiting for it to finish brewing was about the only excuse for a break he’d allow himself.

He didn’t want to stand around the kitchen watching it brew, either. He wasn’t hungry yet, but he was bored. Might as well check on his agent and her…guest? Pet? Beast? Torn wasn’t entirely sure what would be more appropriate for the kid yet.

Leaning on the doorframe, he watched the kid dig through the box in front of him. Jak paused a moment, grabbed the item and went to get Tess’ attention. Torn noted he seemed to favour his right leg, probably an old injury. He hid the limp pretty well.

“What’s up? You find something you like?”

Jak was holding a bundle of belt straps connected to a pauldron and metal ring. It was an odd piece they’d found…shit, he couldn’t even remember. It was in one of the piles of thrown out crap the KG disposes of about every month. Sometimes there were salvagable parts, and sometimes there were bits of clothes they could add to the slowly expanding collection of mismatched disguises. The Underground tried to keep everything on hand for whatever uses it might have.

“Do you need help getting it on?” Tess asked. “To make sure it fits?”

Jak shook his head and held the straps and pauldron closer to himself.

“Okay, just add it to the ‘keep’ pile, then. We’ll take it home and get it cleaned up.”

Torn looked at the pile of clothes Tess had started laying out for them, trying to determine which pile she planned on taking versus which one planned on letting the rest of the Hideout keep.

“You’re not planning on taking everything, are you?” Torn asked.

“Oh, hey! Perfect timing!” Tess beamed. “Come here, I need your foot.”

Torn raised a brow. “Wanna run that by me again?”

“Well, okay, not your foot, just your shoe. None of the spares we have are going to fit him.”

“They’re standard issue si-”

“Size eleven, I know, but I gotta compare it to the Citizen ten. That’s the closest and it’s still too narrow.”

Torn rolled his eyes. She could have just grabbed a few sizes up if she really needed the width. Of course, this was Tess he was talking about. ‘Close enough’ didn’t cut it. Never did.

Jak watched with interest as Torn leaned against the doorframe and Tess grabbed a foot to place the sole of the other shoe against it. Torn made the mistake of checking the kid and was met with a face of pure bewilderment. The kid’s own feet were clad in socks and wat looked like makeshift sandal wrappings were set to the side, presumably so he could try on the myriad of spare shoes they had on hand.

“Length is good… still too narrow, though.” Tess hummed. “Okay! you’re free to go back to your maps and lists and numbers.”

Torn resumed his position. “I’m waiting on coffee.” He shrugged.

“Oh? Taking a break for once?”

He didn’t like the way she lit up at that. Nor the way she paused like she suddenly remembered something.

“Actually, hang on a sec, sweetie.” Tess put a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “I need to talk to Torn for a minute. I’ll be right back”

Jak looked briefly between the two rebels with a distrusting expression.

“Everything’s fine, I promise. Why don’t you start getting everything wrapped up, and we can go home as soon as I’m done.”

He nodded after a moment. Tess pointed out again which pile they were taking back and followed Torn back out the the main area.

Torn didn’t waste any time. “What’s up?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” She said. “About maybe letting Jak join the Underground.”

Torn raised a brow. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“And I don’t think he has anywhere else to go. I mean yeah, he’s kinda growly and scruffy, but I just know he’s going to do so much better here with us than out on his own.” Tess pleaded. “Torn, think about it.”

“I am.” He said. “He’s a prisoner of the Baron with a record so far hidden, even my contact can’t get into it. He’s an unknown and potentially dangerous. I can’t let him join just because you have a soft spot for him, I’m sorry.”

“I can’t keep him locked up in my apartment forever. That’s not fair to him!”

“I can’t have him running loose around Haven, either. We still don’t know what he’s capable of.”

“Then let him show you!” Tess pleaded.

“Tess, no. That’s not- We do not have the resources to keep him under watch. We barely have enough to make the dents we have. ”

“So maybe Jak can help. I can teach him how to shoot, basic self defense-”

“And you suppose the Baron will just sit pretty and wait for us to build a force strong enough to take him down?”

“No, but-”

“It’s not worth the risk.”

“Maybe it is, though! You don’t know that!” Tess countered.

“I’m not arguing with you, Tess. Let it go.”

“You won’t even consider that maybe Jak could be even a little bit helpful?”

“I’m not risking our entire operation on a ‘maybe.’”

“Then what about you ?” Tess spat.

Torn blinked. “What about me?”

“You’re saying we should have left you, then?”

“...Tess…” He warned.

“That we shouldn’t have wasted our time saving you because you were almost dead anyway.”

Torn grit his teeth.

“And what happened when we did, huh? You got better and you work yourself into the ground every single Ancients’ damned day for this movement. You work to make Praxis pay for every life he made suffer that you couldn’t save, and I bet you anything Jak feels the same way!”

Torn turned around, he had to. If he didn’t, he might do something he’d regret.

“We didn’t give up on YOU , Torn. No matter how much easier it could have been!” Tess said. “The least you could do is give him a chance.”

Torn took a deep breath, all his weight on the table in front of him. Tess crossed a line, and she knew it, but she made her point.

“Fine.” He conceded through gritted teeth, “if that’s what you want, Tess. I’ll give him a chance.”

“Thank y-”

“Now get out.”

The hiss of a distant door mechanism was the only indicator that she left. Torn checked over his shoulder anyway just to make sure. The empty bunks and rusty pipework were all that greeted him. He turned back to the wall and let out another deep sigh.

A hand drifted up to touch the scar on his neck. The smooth flesh swelled just enough to stand out from the rest. If he searched hard enough, Torn could probably still find the stitch marks.

The alley lay before his eyes, a sea of blood. Dull pain throbbed with each shallow breath that only grew more strained and garbled as his lungs filled with iron red. He swore he could still feel the weight of his attacker on his back, pinning him to the ground. Head pulled back too far to fight it. The cheers of the small gathered crowd as unskilled hands had taken and were using his own knife. Cutting deeper. Deeper. Just let it happen, there’s no changing what he’d done. He deserved this—

Torn closed his eyes. Opened them. Maps and marred posters replaced the bloodstained vision. He let go of his neck and instead reached for a dark bottle just off to the side.

He would accept Tess’ apology later. 

Right now, he just wanted to forget.

Back when the Underground was just a handful of people who hated the Baron, there weren’t many ways they could actually prove their loyalty to the cause, much less fight back. It was only in the last few years, even before Torn got involved, that their numbers grew too large to keep reasonable track of by any one person.

Besides him, of course.

He knew every member’s name and reason for fighting, their relevant skills, and a basic understanding of their abilities to keep their mouths shut. Most relevant, however, he knew how those members ended up joining. Including the longest standing, still living members of their ranks.

From what Torn gathered, joining back then was a hazing ritual to test a potential member’s mettle and willingness to stand against the Baron. Two roles were important in that ritual: the Instigator, and the Compliant. Any number of people could take either role, but Torn figured he and Tess could fill them in on their own. 

Besides, Jak was still an unknown, potentially volatile and dangerous. The fact the hazing took place outside the city walls was only a bonus if it turned out the kid couldn’t be trusted.

Tess agreed easily to the proposal. And She and Jak were to meet Torn at their designated spot a few hours before sunrise.

Torn pointed to his intended target. “You see that tower?”

Jak nodded.

“The Baron likes to brag about that eyesore being the image of Haven’s perseverance. All because he’s got a little flag on top.”

Jak’s dark glare made Torn hopeful.

“Bring me that flag. Any way you deem necessary.” He smirked.

The challenge set by the Instigator, to be refuted by the Compliant. Tess performed the role perfectly.

“Are you out of your mind?!” She shrieked. “That’s way too dangerous, that tower could collapse any minute. There has to be something else he can-Jak?”

The pipsqueak was gone. Normally that would mean the initiate had chickened out, but something told him this wasn’t the case. Torn glanced over his shoulder to catch the ratty blonde mop running between the lower pillars of the ruined tower.

Tess reacted much like he expected. “JAK?! Jak what are you doing! Get down from there!” Concern for the kid’s wellbeing.

Torn only started to regret his decision to bring the kid out here when the first crumbling block broke apart under Jak’s feet and fell to the shallow murky water below. How the kid managed to grab the thick rebar above him so quickly, he’s pretty sure he’ll never know. Before either rebel could process it, Jak was at the top of the tower violently shaking the Baron’s flag to dislodge the pole from its concrete prison.

It gave way with an audible shriek, even from that distance, and more rumbling sounded from the tower’s foundation.

Torn tensed at the first shift of rock. 

Tess gasped beside him. “JAK!”

An ominous groan filled the area as more and more cracks formed and the tower grew more unstable. In one mighty movement, the peak shifted, broke, and fell. Over a decade of that tower standing sentinel as the Baron’s bragging post was destroyed in seconds.

And Jak fell with it.

Torn kept an eye on where he’d last seen him. He thought he saw something bounce off an old awning, but he couldn’t be sure. The sound of scraping metal took both of their attention away from the, now crumbled, tower to see a figure riding a wire connector like a zip-line.

“Son of a lurker…” Torn breathed.

The little shit was lucky the wire had a current insulator inside of it, otherwise he would’ve been utterly fried. And that’d almost be worse than leaving his corpse in the what-once-was-a-tower, because there’s no way in hell they’d be able to dig him out.

Said kid landed next to the two rebels with a resounding ‘thwump’ that had Tess jumping in surprise. And then immediately turning to fuss over him.

“Jak!” She cried. “Are you okay? What in the world were you thinking?!”

Jak only raised his eyebrows and held up the flag. The pole was rusted from weather exposure, but the jagged breaks toward the base and the sizable arc it now bore were all caused by him.

Torn smirked. He couldn’t say he’s sorry, because he’s not.

Tess continued her fussing. “Do not scare me like that! I thought you were going to get hurt!”

The kid only looked more confused.

“Jak… Sweetie.” She forced a laugh. “You weren’t supposed to actually go up there!”

The kid looked to the flag in his hands, then to the tower’s remains, then back to Torn. He held out the flag for him to take.

Torn’s smirk morphed into a satisfied chuckle as he accepted the gift. “Not bad, kid.” He said. “Not bad at all.”

“Ancients give me patience. You boys, I swear!”

“Alright, I’ll concede.” Torn said after a moment. “Kid-”

“Jak.” Tess corrected.

“...Jak. What you did was impressive, but risky. I’m sure the Baron’s already aware of his precious tower crumbling to pieces, so you're going to need to lay low for a few days before I start sending you out on assignments.”

Jak only nodded. Stern understanding on his face.

“You should be good to take him home, Tess, but stay out of sight. Use the sewers if you have to.”

“Oh, that shouldn’t be a problem,” came her cheerful reply. 

She flipped up the hood for the garment Jak was wearing. It was oversized enough to easily hide the horns, but a misshapen pair of cat ears took their place. 

“Tadaaaa!”

Torn glanced at the kid to get his read on the utterly ridiculous disguise.

Gods abound, he had no idea, did he?

And Torn wasn’t going to tell him.

“Just be careful getting back,” he said instead. “Let me know when you do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Aw! You do care!” Tess batted her eyes. “See Jak, I told you he’s not always so mean and serious!”

Torn rolled his eyes. “Yeah, soft as barbed wire, now get going.”

Tess waived a cheerful goodbye before dragging her charge back to the gates. Torn stayed behind a bit longer, mostly to make sure no one was following them from outside the walls. He couldn’t be at fault if he admired the carnage from their latest addition, though.

Ten years he’s been with the Underground. Ten years pushing pencils and tracking names and getting by with the bare minimum. Spending each day being frustrated that they could never get more than an inch at a time while the Baron would happily take a mile without the slightest bit of effort.

Not once in ten years has Torn seen so much destruction in so little time. In their favour, no less.

It was actually kind of impressive.

It was also highly dangerous. Not just for the kid, but for the Underground’s operation as a whole. All it would take was one unstable move. And Jak, for lack of a better example, was the textbook of unstable.

Torn rubbed his eyes and groaned.

Maybe it’s the migraine. Maybe it’s the hangover. One thing’s for certain, this kid was going to be a lot of trouble no matter what he ended up doing.

Torn was definitely not getting paid enough for this.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

It was far too early for this. That incessant buzzing and ringing was going to drive him mad. Erol rolled over to find the disturbance to his otherwise restful slumber. His pager was the cause, lighting up the room alongside the rapid noises.

Of all days. Why today? Just what had those idiots done now ?

Oh. Not the lab boys. A summons from the Baron.

Well…there were worse ways to start the day at…oh’ four-hundred. Drat. He wouldn’t have enough time to make coffee at home. And the pot in the breakroom was so cultured by this point, it was starting an education system. Before he could ponder using one of the instant cups he was gifted last holiday, his pager beeped again. 

An urgent summons. No time for coffee at all, it seemed.

Erol sighed and hit the auto-reply that told them he’d be there shortly. He rose from his bed and stretched with a satisfying groan. Perhaps it was too much to hope it was something interesting for once. He’d kill for anything that didn’t involve being at a desk or filing paperwork!

“Commander Erol.” The Baron’s voice boomed at his entrance. He shuddered in delight every time he heard the overwhelming power in that candence.

Erol bowed. “I came as soon as I could, Baron Praxis.”

The Baron waited until he had closed the distance to stand at the base of the throne’s steps. By then, Erol had noted that he was not the only one summoned to this impromptu meeting. Commander Praxis and Major Gilmore were also present.

“We’re glad you could make it, Commander.” Said the Baron. “The council is waiting on an official report before we take any action.”

Gooseflesh prickled beneath his suit. A report on what? His progress with the weapon modifications? Surely not. Erol sent in near-daily tickets for the necessary components and permissions needed for the engineering team to do their damn job. They couldn’t expect so much progress in only ten weeks!

“Of course, my leige.”

He pretended not to see Commander Praxis rolling her eyes.

“Major Gilmore, relay yesterday’s notice.”

The gangly older gentleman cleared his throat and pressed a few keys on his tablet. The resounding pings between the three other present peoples meant the message had been successfully forwarded to their tablets. Erol knew better than to pull out his own to read the report himself just yet. He knew it was a formality and a reference for correspondence.

“At about oh’ three-forty this morning,” Gilmore began, “the Baron’s high tower in Dead Town suddenly collapsed-”

Erol raised a brow. An old tower finally giving way after so long being left unmaintained wasn’t so unusual. It wasn’t as if anything in Deadtown had been maintained since the wall had been sealed to close off that section of the city. Any number of things could have led to the tower’s final collapse, tragic though it was for the statement of Haven’s continued perseverance.

“-and a figure was seen on top. Removing a flag bearing the Baron’s family crest from it.”

That was… less usual.

“A figure?” Erol asked.

Younger Praxis leaned forward, suddenly more interested. “Did the report happen to get a description of the suspect?”

“They did.” Gilmore nodded. “Forwarding security footage and time stamps.”

Erol took the cue. He and the other commander accessed their own tablets to review the accompanied images. They were blurry from so far away, despite the otherwise high quality of the footage.

Indeed a figure could be seen climbing up the ruined tower. Blocks of concrete breaking off behind them as they got closer and closer to the top. It wasn’t until they had reached the flag that they could properly be made out.

Erol’s mouth ran dry.

There atop the old ruined tower, violently attacking the Baron’s flag was a strikingly familiar mop of green-blonde hair. Even with the degraded quality at such a distance, he could make out the dark sclera that would normally, were it anyone else, be nearly imperceptible.

Erol could scarcely breathe. “Impossible…”

“Suspect is presumed to be late teens to early twenties, with light hair and abnormally high strength, as evidenced by the, ehm… violent removal of the tower’s flag.” Gilmore explained.

“Are you certain the suspect survived?” Commander Praxis asked.  “A fall from that height could kill someone, at best.”

As the tower collapsed, the figure could indeed be seen falling with it.

“Unfortunately,” the Major nodded, “we have reason to believe they did. Near the end of the clip, you can see someone with blonde hair walking at the edge of the screen.”

Commander Praxis squinted her eyes in concentration. “Are there any other angles, Major Gilmore?”

“Unfortunately not.” The man replied. “The cameras on either side of the Deadtown gate have been disabled for quite some time, and the only other one pointed toward the tower has a faulty sensor. Can’t record anything more than ten meters away.”

Erol swallowed dryly.

“My lord, This could be nothing more than the behaviour of a reckless teen.” Erol explained smoothly. “Someone clearly got a misguided notion that destruction of city property was an appropriate use of their time and energy.”

The Baron grunted in thought.

Major Gilmore clicked a few more things on his tablet. “We’re checking public records now for anyone matching the suspect’s description.”

“‘Blonde teenager’ isn’t much to go on…” Commander Praxis added. “It may be better to stand by until we have more information.”

The Baron narrowed his eyes. “And risk them causing more damage? I don’t think so. Major Gilmore, keep us up-to-date on any leads to this individual’s wearabouts. Make sure your men know what to look for.”

The older man bowed respectfully. “As you wish, Baron Praxis.”

“Ashelin, you and your team are to continue searching through the records for possible locations of Mar’s Tomb.”

Commander Praxis nodded stiffly. “Understood.”

“You’re both dismissed.”

Erol watched the two as they went, Major Gilmore with a steady gait and Ashelin with the same pout in her carefully measured steps Erol had learned to recognize.

What a spoiled little princess she was. 

Nothing at all like his adorable stadium mouse.

He glanced back to the Baron, expectant. The man stepped closer to converse quietly, as if they would be overheard.

“You and I both know that was no mere act of teenage rebellion, Commander Erol.”

A cold chill ran the length of Erol’s spine. Of course the Baron had recognized the figure in the video. How could he not? They’d both been in close proximity with that Eco freak for months at a time. Erol would swear he could still smell it on his boots.

The Baron continued. “I do hope you have a more reasonable explanation for me.”

He had to think, dammit! His job could be on the line!

“I assure you, sire, I followed your instructions to the letter.” He said as smoothly as he could.

The Baron narrowed his eye. “hm…” 

“You ordered the subject be disposed of, my liege; and I can confidently say that it was dispatched by my own weapon. It was dead!”

“...It fooled you.” The low rumbling cadence drew all warmth from the room.

Erol swallowed more than his pride. “...Yes, my lord.”

“Commander Erol, you’ve been my most loyal subordinate. That, and that alone is the reason I’ve called you here this morning.”

Erol couldn’t help standing straighter.

The Baron towered over him. “If that thing is still alive, I want it found before it can cause any more damage to my city. Is that understood?”

“Of course, Baron Praxis. I’ll see to it personally.” Erol bowed.

The Baron turned away. “You’re dismissed.”

Erol turned with a practiced click of his heels and left as quickly as his legs would allow. His mind already playing out, step by step, what he had already intended to do that day.

First and foremost, he had to get in contact with Second Lieutenant Hemmingswen. Email would be too slow, but Erol had already sent one in advance and marked it ‘urgent,’ so unless the man was as daft as he was stubborn, he should have already seen it. And assuming Hemmingswen hadn’t seen it yet, which Erol was already planning to be the case, he’d need to make a call. His communicator was already up as he scrolled through the list of recent contacts.

It beeped for a few moments as it connected.

“This is Hemmingswen, I’m not in the office right now. Leave a message.”

Erol resisted the urge to growl as the automated message system beeped again.

“Hemmingswen, this is Commander Erol. I sent you an email last night, I need to speak with you urgently. Baron’s orders.” 

Erol closed the call and kept marching toward the elevator. Hemmingswen’s office was only… a few floors down, and he was supposed to be arriving any minute now. 

He hit the button and waited for the painfully long elevator call.

And the equally painfully long wait as it travelled to the chosen floor.

Erol had been more than lenient about the lieutenant's ‘work-life balance,’ and once the man actually showed up , they could properly get to work.

He checked his communicator again. Hemmingswen should be in his office by the time Erol arrived, and hopefully would have reviewed any emails and messages. The less Erol had to repeat himself, the better. Of course, the man would want to engage in no shortage of small talk before finally getting to business.

Against his will, a nagging thought entered his mind: What if the creature had somehow survived? Found allies? Who would ally themselves to such a thing? How dangerous would it be alone versus with whatever fool thought they could control the thing?

One thought led to another and then to another. 

Erol couldn’t help thinking again of the samples in the lab. Were they still somehow connected to the Eco Freak? Could it control them remotely? He’d reviewed the security footage the night before trying to find something, anything that would have indicated what the trigger would have been. Nothing showed from the footage outside of the doors; and the only camera within the lab itself told much the same story. No one was in the lab when it happened, either, so he couldn’t even hold an interrogation.

One moment everything was normal, and the next, the entire room was charred and destroyed, with the few surviving structures left tainted and dripping with Dark Eco.

“Who was the last one to enter the lab? I want their numbers! I swear, if even one of you has been tampering with the-”

“That would have been you, Commander.”

“Come again?”

“The last code that accessed sample storage. They were your numbers, Commander.”

Erol ground his teeth. He hated this long wait. Hated standing still and doing nothing. If, after the Metalheads are at last defeated, the Baron wished for the Palace to be remodelled, a shorter tower would be ideal. That or more stairs. Erol would lose his mind if he had to continue enduring the dull stillness of the elevator.

It didn’t even have any music.

Dead Town was just as run down as he remembered. Dilapidated structures coated in layers upon layers of muck and grime. Polluted waters all but bubbled with the filth that found it hospitable. Erol barely held back his disgust from the slimy wet mud clumping into the tread of his boots.

He had prayed that today would be far more agreeable than the one before. He’d had it all planned out, hour by hour; even made backup plans should the original fall through. And yet, somehow, the fates seemed fit to ruin every good thing in his life.

No…the divines couldn’t be blamed for everything; that he knew.

It’s that Eco monster that’s ensured Erol spent the day trudging along through murky waist-high water and climbing precarious piles of trash and rubble.

“And you’re certain you dropped it here ?” Erol turned to the lumbering lieutenant standing smartly out of the way. 

The man wrung his hands together in a clear sign of distress. Erol narrowed his eyes at him.

“Well…to be perfectly frank, it was rather dark, but…” Hemmingswen stammered, “...well… it’s unusual to drop trash so far out of range, so…I-I can approximate.”

“Lieutenant Uthre Hemmingswen… I trust, with the utmost confidence, that you performed your task to the letter.” Erol purred.

Hemmingswen cleared his throat.

“And because I hold that trust for you, I’m certain you understand the importance of why I’ve called for your aid today.”

Obvious concern filled the lieutenant's features. “In…finding a bag of garbage? Commander?”

“Not so much the container…but the contents within.”

“Ah…I see.” He nodded, not at all understanding.

Erol smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Hemmingswen…discretion.”

Ah…there… stuck to a chunk of rebar. The grey burlap layer within dark plastic. Despite its firm connection to the rusty protrusion, it appeared notably…distinctly…

Erol stepped closer, pushing his subordinate aside. Gravel and glass crunched under his boots.

The explosion in the lab left melted scorch marks everywhere the samples touched. It was a type of corrosive mass that left a sour stench and burned bare skin, according to the lab boys.

As he got closer, Erol noted that same sour stench, however slight. The disposal bag was very much melted onto the outreaching metal. Almost glued to it. The dark burlap as well, displayed clear signs of burning. The dark stain on the stone below, as if acid had been splashed on it.

“Lieutenant…” Erol called behind him.

“Y-yes, Commander?”

“Your major was in applied physics, was it not?”

“...yes?” Hemmingswen replied hesitantly. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, Commander.”

“About how high up would you say you dropped your cargo from?”

“I couldn’t say for sure but…I didn’t drop altitude after crossing the wall, I can confirm that much.”

Erol hummed. “And if you had dropped a rock from a similar height… assuming it had landed at this precise location…about where do you think it would have gone from there?”

“Uhm…well… uhhhh…” the lieutenant hemmed and hawed, approaching the dark stain himself; and looking downhill with a clear look of concentration. His eyes darted back and forth, tracing the surroundings for any more marks that they could see. “Ah!”

Hemmingswen stepped down, carefully treading the unstable ground all the way downhill. Pointing at particularly blackened stains that now stood out starkly on the greyed concrete rubble.  “Here, Commander Erol!” He called.

Erol followed closely behind, taking stock of the perimeter as they went - just because they hadn’t been attacked yet didn’t mean they were safe.

He’d stopped in front of a smaller smearing of blackened dirt and dust. Tucked haphazardly under a rock was a bundle of green twine nearly fully stained black. There was that same sour stench coming strongly from the rock. Upon lifting it, the same twine he’d used to bind the Freak for transport had melted into the stone, coating the entire face of it.

“Interesting…” Erol hummed.

The twine hadn’t been burned apart. Nor had it been chewed or ripped. A clean separation indicated it had been cut. Most likely by a knife.

The creature was indeed gone…but weither or not it was still alive was another matter that had yet to be settled. One Erol sincerely hoped would quickly be solved.

“Did we find what you were looking for, Commander?” Hemminswen asked.

No…but it was a start…

“You’ve been very helpful, Lieutenant.” Erol said with a smile. “You may return to post.”

“Yes, Commander!” the soldier saluted with a click of his heels. “I’ll wait for you at the transport, then?”

“Yes…I’ll be along shortly.”

Another salute, and Hemmingswen began his precarious climb back to the transport vehicle they had taken in. Erol remained stationary, glaring at the rock.

Given the catastrophically rapid nature of the samples’ decay, there’s a strong case for the subject being alive. That, and the lack of dragging or claw marks in the surrounding area indicated a surprising lack of metalhead activity

Dead Town’s gate had been faulty at best, being accessible only from the eastern gate in the Slums; meaning anyone dumb or desperate enough to be out here would have to live within that district. Perhaps a scavenger or some equally brash profession that permitted sifting through the ruins for marketable salvage.

Erol dropped the stone with a growl and began his own ascent back uphill.

Wherever that Freak was, he’d find it. The Baron had commanded it so. No home left unsearched, no suspect left unquestioned, no stone unturned. 

If the whole of the Slums would suffer until the creature was found, then so be it.

He’d get to the bottom of this. One way or another.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

Chapter Text

Itchy…itchy…so itchy. Dry and cracked and flaky. It itches so bad. No, don’t scratch, that’ll only make it bleed, and then it’ll itch even worse.

But it itches!!

Maybe rubbing? 

“Jak, sweetie, no scratching.” Tess warns.

Jak grits his teeth, but lowers his hands.

“Is it your head that’s itching? Or your horns?”

He presses his lips together as another wave of discomfort radiates from the crown of his head. He holds up his hands, curving each pointer finger in a mock-show of horns.

Tess hums in thought. “Okay…and the ointment didn’t help?”

He scrunches his face. The ointment stings like acid. Nothing at first, but quickly changes into a horrible pinching burning sensation that’s even worse than the itching and scratching and bleeding. And it smells awful.

“Okay, I get it,” she giggles, “let’s try just some warm water and lotion, then. I still have that Green Cream we used on your back. Would that be better?”

He doesn’t remember that. Should he remember that?

Tess gets up and moves to the little cooking area of her home. She pulls a mug from the cupboard to the powered kettle, humming something about the amount of water, or lack thereof it seems; and then moving to the sink. She turns the tap.

But water doesn’t come out.

“Huh…” Tess hums again, “...that’s…okay…??”

She turns the taps off and on again. Still nothing. She opens the cupboard below, muttering to herself.

“Do not tell me-” Something squeaks. “I know I paid that just last week!” A small bang. What is she doing? “Oh, come on, don’t-no… UGH! Okay, Fine!”

Jak leans over,  trying and failing to make out Tess’ mess of pipes beneathe the water basin.

She stands up abruptly just as her communicator starts buzzing from her bag. She has it in her hands within moments and answers it quickly.

“Hey, baby! Bad news-! …uh-huh…you too huh? … No…” Tess sighs, her face scrunching into a rare frown as she pinches her nose. “What are we supposed to do?! Do you know how expensive potable water is? The canals aren’t safe to drink, never have been! And the runoff in the Water Slums is even worse! …yeah, he’s here…yeah, okay.”

The device beeps again and Tess holds it between herself and Jak.

“You’re on speaker.”

“Jak-” Jak frowns. It’s the angry, rough-voiced man Tess calls her ‘boss.’ “-The Baron’s turned off all water to the slums. I got a friend that says there’s a manual override out at the Pumping Station, out past the North Wall.”

A growl sits low in Jak’s chest. Of course The Man with the Metal Face is still set on ‘results.’ Survival doesn’t matter to them. Probably never did.

“Sounds like you’re in.” The tall man, Turf? Twig? replies with a chuckle. “Tess can lend you a spare communicator and city map to get you outside the walls. Watch yourself out there, Metalheads like to patrol close to the city gates. We’ll know when you make it.”

“Hey, but what about-” The device beeps again before Tess can finish. 

She makes a face at it, then sighs, staring at the ceiling. She closes her eyes and inhales sharply, slowly letting her breath go after a few moments before the communicator buzzes again. It’s a notably different pattern than when Tree called. Jak wonders if it’s random, or if Tess has different patterns for everyone that calls her. 

“Hey, Sig! What’s goin’ on, big man?” Tess answers.

“Hey Sugarplum. Just calling to ask how your little Stray felt about a day trip outside the city?”

She sighs, relief plain on her face. “Sig… you’re on speaker. He can hear you.”

“Yeah? And? What’s he say?”

Jak couldn’t stop the grin growing on his face if he tried. He decides he likes Sig. He looks to Tess and nods.

Tess smiles brightly. “He says you have perfect timing.”

“That’s what I like to hear!” Sig laughs. “I’ll be by in a few. Got a little present for him.”

The device beeps again as the call ends. Tess smiles at him. “Sounds like you’re going on a field trip.”

Jak can already feel his limbs buzzing for the chance to run around. It’s been days since Tess last let him go outside! He’s ready to go! Can Sig get here any faster?!

“Woah, woah. Hold up, sweetie-bun.” She pulls him backward towards the bedroom. “You’re not going out dressed like that. Come on. Real clothes.”

Jak looks at what he’s wearing. Comfy clothes. What’s wrong with that?!

Tess’ face sharpens. “Don’t you want to wear your new shoes? And that ring and shoulder guard you picked out? We spent so long making it nice and shiny and new, don’t you want to show it off?”

Oh…well…uh… yeah. He does, actually.

It’s a fight to keep the hoodie on, though. It’s too cold without it. And he just likes the way it feels. Tess only agrees with the promise-threat that it will get washed whenever he gets back.

Yes, okay, fine, Bossy!

“Do not stick your tongue out at me, that’s rude!”

He does it, anyway.

Jak isn’t sure what he expects the ‘pumping station’ to look like. Maybe pipes and a few gears, but nothing like the massive towers of metal and stone that reach high up from the water’s surface. Everywhere, little hissing and clunking from internal mechanisms are noisily cranking away. He’s never heard so much noise in one place before, and it all melts together into a rough jagged hum. Sig seems unbothered by it. Maybe he's used to the noise.

“Alright, Cherry. Lesson one” Sig starts. “Always be aware of your surroundings.”

Well…yeah. That one is obvious. A hand lands on Jak’s head, pulling down the hood and covering his eyes. He grabs the hand and shoves it away with a hiss.

“That goes double for your allies.” Sig continues with a grin. “Always make sure you know where Friendlies are so you don’t start dropping them when you’re aimin’ somewhere else.”

Yeah...that…that makes sense. Jak’s pretty sure he always kept an eye out for Daxter and it was the same the other way around. At least, he feels like they did.

“Lesson two,” Sig continues, “Senior Hunter takes point on all scouting trips.”

Jak furrows his brows at that.

“Seasoned hunters know better than to let their guard down until the whole troop is safe. You’ve got something you need to do out here, but you can’t be expected to get it done if you’re distracted every few minutes with more enemies. As soon as I give the all-clear, we’re good to go. Until then, I need to pay enough mind to keep us both alive; and so do you.”

Oh, like a hunting party!

That seems fair enough.

{So what do I do?} Jak asks after a moment.

“ You …” Sig hums, “can help me out until the all-clear is called. You ever used a machete before?”

Jak can’t say that he has. But the large knife feels good in his hand, though he thinks maybe it should be heavier. The long belt fits on his hips once he buckles it tightly. A smaller belt looks like it keeps the sheath attached to his leg. That one takes a little more finagling before it’s tight enough to stay put, but loose enough not to feel like a restraint.

{What about you?} Jak asks.

“No need to worry about me, Cherry. We’re rolling with the Peacemaker.”

The staff Sig brought has the head of a Metalhead on it, with a gun barrel sticking out from its fanged mouth. It’s an odd looking weapon. Does it even shoot? What does it do when it does? Jak wonders if it’ll be bright and loud, or quiet with shocks.

“You ready? We got a lot to do today and bossman's impatient as all hell.”

Jak adjusts his grip on the knife - Machete, it’s called a machete - and nods.

“Alright, let’s move.”

Even with how weird shoes still feel on his feet, Jak has no trouble keeping up with Sig. Walking across the sandy beach to a large metal contraption ahead. They duck under a section of piping through some underbrush, and all Jak can think in that moment is the feel of mud under his feet and the scent of dried leaves mixing with ocean brine.

There’s a thrilling sensation tingling under his skin. Urging him onward. To go, find, explore. He tries his best to ignore it. To stick with Sig and wait. He still looks, though. All around him, Jak looks out both for possible danger, and places maybe worth another visit once the all-clear is called. There’s a high cliff way up past some piston pumps covered in greenery that catches his eye. He wonders what could be up there.

Sig puts up his hand to stop him. “Hold, Cherry. See that bad boy up there?”

Jak follows the pointing finger to a large many-legged creature lumbering across the cliff face. He could faintly sense the Yellow Eco pulsing from the bright glittering gem in its head. He didn’t know Metalheads could get so big!

“Step back a moment while I line up the shot.”

Sig sets his Peacemaker to charge. It takes a few moments before a small, white ball forms at the end of the barrel. It crackles as it gets bigger and in that moment Jak knows what it’s made of.

Jak shys further away from the weapon.

Dark Eco freely forms and concentrates into one bright little ball of energy. It doesn’t dare extend beyond its holding point, but he swears he can feel it trying to break free. Reaching. Grasping. Wanting .

He flinches when Sig pulls the trigger, half expecting it to turn right back and hit him instead, but it sails effortlessly through the air all the way to the Metalhead beast. It seizes as it’s hit, letting out a short shriek of surprise or pain and then collapsing over its many legs onto the ground below.

“That’s one down! Let’s keep moving.”

Jak stares at the downed Metalhead a little longer. The Eco isn’t gone like it’s dead, it’s still there. Meshing and morphing and…it’s like it was dead before and now it’s alive with rot. Wriggling, writhing, tingling rot. He can almost feel the sludge under his skin moving like it wants to be closer. Can Eco even ‘want’ to begin with? Does he want to know? Does he want to find out? 

No. No he does not.

He turns away as quickly as he can to continue after Sig. Sig says there’s still more to hunt, so he’ll stay by Sig. Sig hasn’t called the all-clear, so Jak has no reason to even attempt to try.

The next Metalhead they find seems to be digging at something on a little sandbar just too far out to walk. Sig motions Jak closer until they’re both pressed against a wall of both metal and stone. Once again, the static ball of energy forms at the end of the Peacemaker, and Jak keeps well enough away from its reach. He doesn’t feel the tug nearly as much as it rockets away to hit the target Metalhead. It hadn’t even noticed them watching. Not even as it fell to the ground and went still.

“You might have to help me pull this one in, kiddo.” Sig pulls out a length of rope with a sharp hook and weight tied to one end of it. “These suckers tend to be pretty heavy.”

Jak nods, and raises his hands to ask what Sig wants him to do when the large man starts spinning the weight and hook above his head. Jak ducks back down immediately, scrunching himself against the wall to keep away from it. It doesn’t swing toward him, and Sig keeps it on the far side of his body, but Jak winces all the same. Sig lets go of the hook and it sails through the air just past the downed Metalhead; and it finds purchase on a joint between the head and body.

“We get this sucker to shore and then move on,” Sig explains. “If we leave it in the water, that’s an open invitation for someone else to grab it before we can.”

Jak nods again, wading in about waist-deep and helping pull the rope until he can grab onto the beast, himself.

Under his hands, he can feel it more. The mottled mixing of Eco just under the surface. It presses against him, seeping through the gaps of chiton, drawing closer. He thinks he might be absorbing it somehow, channeling it from the Metalhead to himself, but when he lifts his hand to check for that telltale static hum and sludgey ooze… there’s nothing. His hands are clean and the Metalhead is just as dead as it was before.

“Careful there.” Sig warns. “These things are still nasty even dead. Stay away from any claws or teeth if you can help it.”

Maybe…maybe he's imagining it.

That's right, he's just imagining it. Jak would be able to tell if Eco was going into him, he's certain. Maybe just being around it has him confused. Especially being near Sig's ‘Peacemaker.’

Jak eyes the weapon suspiciously. He wonders where it gets its Eco reserve from, and if that is what he's feeling, or if it's just the natural process of decomposition. He remembers the white coats talking about it when they thought he wasn’t listening.

Something about how everything is Eco, or was Eco, and eventually everything breaks down and mixes together. Returned to the planet at different rates. That’s why they had so much trouble figuring out how much of each colour to put into him and the others.

It’s Dark Eco no matter what, he doesn’t get what difference it makes. It still hurts, it still burns, it still moves and twitches when he doesn’t want it to.

“Hold up.” Sig’s harsh whisper breaks Jak from his thoughts.

The armoured man stands ready and alert, scanning the underbrush along the shoreline. Jak strains his ears. Trying to catch any sound above the deafening hum clunking away within the metal pipes and walls around them.

Sig lowers his weapon slightly. “...thought I heard something…” he mutters. “Eyes and ears, Cherry.”

He goes to turn away, but Jak’s still staring. Still scanning the shoreline for any tiny movement. Beyond the hum of machinery, he can just barely make out something. Or more, the lack of something.

Birdsong.

When they got here, Jak could hear birds chirping and insects buzzing; and he’d tuned it out with the rest of the noise as best he could, but now that he’s searching for it…it’s absent.

Jak licks his lips to wet them and hesitantly blows through his jagged teeth three short notes. Two low, one high. Sig looks at him with widened eyes, but doesn’t stop him from whistling again.

His eyes are starting to hurt from keeping them open for so long, but he might miss something if he blinks, so he doesn’t. He eyes the underbrush intently. Something…something’s in there. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he can feel it. A glimmer of Yellow in a void of Dark.

Sig must see it too.

He raises the Peacemaker and fires at the Yellow glimmer. It’s different from the one he used on the Metalhead still sitting in the water between them. This one is fast. Almost too fast to see. And judging from the way another Metalhead lunges painfully out into the open at them, not nearly powerful enough to kill. 

It saunters in a jagged gait, face marred from the burning acid shot, snarling with wicked teeth.

Sig marches to the shoreline, unafraid. He stands on the beach with water barely above his ankles as he waits for it to get closer. He scoffs at its battle cry and sets his weapon to charge.

Three things happen at once.

The Metalhead starts bounding toward Sig. Sig releases the charge from his peacemaker. And a strange snaggletoothed beast erupts from the water toward the Metalhead.

They, the three of them, collide together in a spark and a yelp. The energy, enough to fry, but again, not enough to kill. Metalhead lays wounded and growling while the fang beast snarls at both its target and Sig. Jak almost steps forward, then. Leave the ‘prize’ in favour of more solid ground. 

He stops as he feels the water around him move, catching a glimpse of a bright yellow fin that makes his heart pound at the sight of it. Another Fang-beast reveals itself as the fin closes in on the beach. It and the other gargle at one another. The Metalhead snaps at one.

Yet another fang-beast slithers out from the waves. 

“Well ain’t that just dandy.” Sig sounds unamused. He grips his weapon tighter and backs into the waves. “And here I thought all the noise would scare ‘em off!”

Jak feels something move in the water near his ankle.

Several of the Fang-beasts gang up on the Metalhead. They leap with a snarl and bite and claw at their prey while it screams and fights back as best it can. A few more rise from the waves, pausing only a moment to shake themselves before stalking closer to Sig.

Sig clicks something on his weapon and fires at one closing in. It leaps back with a hiss.

“Stay close, Cherry!” Sig commands. “Don’t let ‘em getcha!”

Jak goes to move, but stops himself, looks at the Metalhead still dead in the water. He can already see two Fang-beasts on the sandbar beyond, crouched in waiting. For him or the Metalhead, he isn’t sure, but he knows that hungry look in their eyes. Anything can be a meal to them.

One licks its muzzle.

Steps forward.

Get it out of the water. They need this Metalhead for Sig’s boss. It’ll get eaten or taken away by the Fang-beasts if they leave it in the water! Jak grabs onto it again, and again the feeling of Dark Eco bubbling beneathe the surface greets him. It presses against the thin membrane between the chitin. Pressing. Reaching. Searching. Wanting. It’s inside of him. it’s tearing him apart! Get it out! Get it out of the water!

Focus, Jak!

Get the ‘trophy’ out of the water!

Water. Cold. So cold. Fighting and fighting and- TEETH!

“Woah! WOAH! KID!” 

The jaws of that fang-toothed beast snap shut with a growl, and Jak stumbles clumsily backwards away from it.

“Damn! Watch yourself, kid!” Sig growled. “You got that knife, put it to good use! Let’s move!”

Knife? Knife. He has a knife. Machete. It’s called a machete.

It’s a well-balanced blade, but he feels it could be heavier.

He’s not used to a having a weapon in his hand. He’s not used to having a weapon at all, but it’s clearly well cared for. It slices cleanly through the hide of a Fang-beast, spilling deep red into the waiting sand.

It bares its teeth at him, but he can see its limbs shaking. Adrenaline. Fear. Hunger. Pain. It doesn’t matter. All that matters is to fight.

He remembers fighting.

His body moves before he can think, moving on instinct he’d almost thought was lost. 

The back of his balled fist meets the underside of a jaw. His arm follows through. Returning to center. His foot kicks another body attempting to attack from below.

He sees a large figure in the corner of his eye. Large and covered in armour. He almost turns too fast to stop himself.

Big man. Armour made of Metalhead Skulls.

Not a Guard.

Friend. Sig. It’s Sig.

‘Always make sure you know where Friendlies are’ That’s what Sig said.

He watches for Sig, still firing that Peacemaker in quick, uneven bursts. 

How many shots can it fire? How many has it gone through already? How long does it have to charge to stun? To kill?

Focus! Fight!

He swings wide with the blade. Maybe too wide.

A flash of tan and yellow. Teeth are waiting. He slams his head forward. The creature yelps. There’s blood in the air now. Flicking of tails. Gnashing of teeth. Growls so plentiful that his own drowns in the roaring sea in his ears.

He remembers fighting…

Fighting and fighting and fighting and fighting…

More flashes on the edge of his vision. More enemies. More Fang-beasts.

Now and then, they fall to the rifle.

It’s not aimed at him. Friendly.

He sees one getting too close to Sig’s back and he throws his blade. The Fang-beast falls without a sound. He hears another body fall behind him as he goes to retrieve it. Machete. It’s called a machete.

Just move. Don’t stop.

He nearly elbows Sig when he yanks the machete out.

Sig continues to fire in uneven bursts. The air sings with static Dark. 

Calling. Wanting. Move. Move. Move.

Sig pulls the rifle trigger again. Nothing. Is it out?

“Ah! Damn! Gun’s jammed!” Sig curses. “That’s what I get- Gah! Watch my six, Cherry!”

Jak knows this one: Defend. 

Another Fang Beast hops into view. It doesn’t wait to shake the water from its fur, and Jak doesn’t either. The crack of bones under his fist sends it scampering away. Frightened. The blade in his hand finds a damp pelt attempting to bite at his leg. It yelps and snarls at him.

He growls back. Baring his teeth in a clear threat.

Another braves the distance, stopping short only by force of Blade or Brawn.

One gets a lucky bite at his ankle, but the thick canvas and leather layers protect him from the teeth. A quick kick sends it away.

He stays close to Sig. He doesn’t know how long it will take to clear the jam. He’ll stay as long as he needs to. He knows he can.

He hopes he doesn’t have to.

Behind them both, he can hear the metalhead being moved about in the water. He spares it a glance. Two smaller Fang-beasts are tugging at a limb. They won’t get far. Not with the rope still on it.

A flash toward the shoreline. One of them is closing the distance. He hears something snap as he hits it away. It scrambles back to the pack with a hiss.

He didn’t realise how large the group had gotten.

How many are there? Were there more coming?

They shift and move like waves in the ocean. Watching. Waiting.

Too many. Too many!

He needs to attack while they’re still at a distance. Clear them away before they get closer!

Distance…rifle…shoot… Yellow .

He doesn’t even think about it. The Eco flows so smoothly, gathering in his hand until a nice chunk a little bigger than his fist forms. Jak lobs it at the stalking creatures

A dark purple orb sails just off-target toward the back of the pack. It bursts open in a violent array of violet static that draws to everything around it. Everything.

The Fang Beasts nearest to the blast shrivel into dry dark twigs. The rest either die with a yelp or a spasm before they all collapse onto the ground. Those few left unaffected scatter and dive away into the water.

No more come up from the depths.

A long, low whistle behind him. He turns to see Sig still kneeling over his gun.

“Damn, Cherry!” the man says. “That’s quite a trick you got there! May uh...may wanna be careful where you aim that next time, though.”

Jak looks to the ground. The blast had gone a lot farther than he thought it did. The sand beneath their feet was now lifeless and grey, and it was a ways before it took on more of the pale tan colour he recognized. Plants seemed to have been affected, too. Again, the ones closest to the blast are shrivelled and dry, but farther out, they’re dark and twitch and writhe with the same purple static.

Jak can almost feel them searching.

He turns back to Sig, running his fist in circles on his chest. {Sorry. You okay?}

“I’m alright, kiddo. It’ll take a lot more than a little Dark Stuff to put me down. And for the record—” Sig held up his hand, where a greasy and dented capsule sits innocently, “— this is why you always wanna make sure to clean your gun properly. That coulda gone a lot worse than it did and I’m glad you had my back, Cherry.”

Jak feels something warm bloom in his chest.

“You good to keep moving?”

He nods.

“Come on, then. Let’s keep at it. I got one more trophy to catch and you’ve got a valve to turn.”

Jak stays close to Sig from then on. Eyeing every shadow and rock for signs of movement in case of another ambush. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were more waiting in the brush. He’ll fight longer if he has to, he knows he can. Jak barely notices when they stop again. 

“There you are, beautiful.” Sig holds up his Peacemaker and takes aim. “Take a look there, you see?”

Another large, top-heavy-looking Metalhead stands sentinel at the top of the ridge. It seems unaware or unbothered by their presence.  Jak can only just make out more piping behind it.

Sig smiles. “Too easy.”

The Peacemaker sings in static drones as it’s released, travelling in a tight spiral until the charge lands in its target. The Metalhead seizes a moment, limbs stretched out and twitching, until they collapse and the body falls. Dead.

“Boom, baby.” Sig’s deep voice sings. “That’s five in the bag. Let’s grab our spoils, and then see what we can do about finding that valve, yeah?”

The Pumping Station is quiet now. It feels empty without Metalheads lumbering around or smaller animals mingling in the underbrush. An artificial peace disturbed only by the clunking clanging chimes of machinery. Jak supposes that should be a good thing. The silence is because of him and Sig, not despite them.

They work together to pull their prizes out of the brush they’d been hidden in. One or two looked like they’d been chewed on, but Sig says that’s fine, his boss only needs the heads. He offers to show Jak how to make a quick-knife from their claws, snapping it off at the knuckle-

-SNAP-

Each finger held in the jaws of a tool...

-SNAP-

-And sliding the claw out from its sheath. Where to grip it and how to use the sharp curve to cut the thin membrane between scales of chitin. Sig holds the claw-knife out to him, handle first. An offer. Not a command. He can say ‘no’ if he wants to.

Jak balls his hands together, careful to keep his fingertips to his palm. The slow-growing claws are still dull. They do no more than dent his skin where he holds them. He bites his lip. Shakes his head.

Something Jak doesn’t recognize passes over Sig’s face. The man smiles, but something’s different about it.

“That’s alright,” Sig says. “I was nervous my first time scavenging these suckers, too.”

He returns to his work. Easily cutting out the parts he wants to keep. The head. Nothing more. The glittering yellow gem in its skull remains intact, reflecting shining rings of light against the sand.

“Remind me to show you how to harvest the gems outta these suckers. They sell for a good bit, depending on the size, and if you end up joining me on more hunts, there’s sure to be more than enough to go around.”

Jak nods, but he isn’t really listening.

“...Jak? You with me, bud?”

He’s still looking at the body.

Broken.

Beaten until he can barely breathe…

Hollow.

Where many somethings once were…

Dead.

Why won’t they let him die…

Words are spoken. Always that same hushed whisper. Like they’re worried someone will hear. Someone besides him, anyway. He doesn’t bother trying to make out words until they get closer. Close enough for him to know that hands are coming. 

Poking, prodding, searching .

A hand drops onto his shoulder, and he hates that he flinches at it.

“Just breathe, Jak. You’re all good. I promise.” The words are close. Voice deep. The hand on his shoulder is large and warm and… and …they’re gloved but they’re different. Softer. These are good hands. They’re kind and patient and gentle.

They belong to someone who waits for him to move. To not. They wait for him to breathe.

He takes a breath.

Tries to, anyway.

“That’s it, bud. In for three, out for five. You got this.”

That’s an odd count, he thinks. Shouldn’t it be in and out for four each? Then five? He tries for four, but doesn’t quite make it. Maybe Sig’s way is better.

In…two…three…

Out…two…three…four…five…

In…two…three…

Out…two…three…four…five…

“There you go, bud. You’re doing good.”

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath. Lets it out slow. Slow. Slow.

Just breathe.

He’s okay.

Just breathe.

“You back with me, Cherry?”

He looks up to meet Sig’s gaze. Warm Red and Soft Green patiently wait for him. 

He nods. 

“You good to keep goin’? We don’t got much more to do out here.”

He nods again.

Sig nods back, squeezing his shoulder momentarily before letting go. 

“Alright now,” Sig looks up toward the maze of piping. “Let’s see what we can do about finding that valve…”

Jak follows his gaze, each of the many many pipes seems to branch off to parts unknown, but each split is angled in some way, for the most part. If he follows it like a river then…eventually it gets bigger with more water to go through it, and then… ah ha! 

Their destination sits quiet behind a bush. A simple red wheel on a pipe hiding from the sun and nothing else. Between the valve and the lever next to it, Jak’s pretty certain which is the manual override Trent talked about.

The valve is tightly wound in place. Jak almost thinks it’s welded shut if not for the tiny amount of give he finds. He takes a breath and tries again. He almost loses his grip at the wheel’s stubborn refusal, but progress leads to more progress leads to a sudden jerk that undoes it entirely.

There’s a tug on his clothes as a pipe opens and sucks in a huge gulp of air. Jak worries it’s trying to pull him in, but the pipe cover closes a moment later, and his hood falls back down to block his vision.

He decides to ignore Sig’s barely hidden chuckles as he pulls it back down again. When Jak gets back to Tess, he needs to remember to ask her how to put holes in the hood for his ears. All this up and down with it is getting annoying!

Sig takes a breath and leans on his weapon like a cane. “Can I ask you something, bud?”

Jak looks up. Waits.

“Where’d you learn to mess about with Eco like that?”

He tilts his head in question.

“It ain’t too common around these parts, is all.” Sig smiles. “And Praxis has had his eye on channelers for a good long while, feels.”

Jak blinks, thinks, tries to think, anyway.

Eco just comes to him, always has. All he’s known is the dark sludge, but he can feel other colours as well. Green pulsing in the plant life around them, Yellow in the metal eye on Sig’s face, Red in the rocks. Even the machines and water sparked with Blue, though it’s a lot harder to pin-point. The white coats never ‘taught’ him anything, not really; and the only thing that comes to mind with the word ‘teach’ is a stick. A really big stick. That probably isn’t much of an answer, either.

He draws his lips between his teeth and shrugs, unsure what to say.

“You don’t know?”

{Don’t remember} Jak shrinks a little, {Why?}

That…’Something’ he can’t quite identify passes over Sig’s face again. It softens the sharpness of his features. Makes him seem…Jak doesn’t know the word, but…different. Sad, but nice. Is that a thing?

“That’s alright,” Sig says it like Tess does.

Like it’s not actually alright, but they don’t want him to worry about it.

Has he done something wrong, maybe?

“Hey,” Sig smiles easy at him. “You did good today, and we got time. Anything else you wanna do while we’re out here?”

Jak thinks a moment. Turning his head, he can just barely make out the lush forest atop the cliff-face he saw earlier. He still wants to check it out, but would Sig say no? Or would he tell him they wouldn’t be able to go that far. That it wouldn’t be worth the effort to go somewhere if it wasn’t important. Would Sig stop him if he ran off? Come after him? Neither one sounds good…

Tess would let him look around if he asks, he knows that, but Tess isn’t here right now, and she doesn’t understand his hands, anyway.

Jak chews at his lip. He won’t know unless he tries. 

{Explore?} he asks.

Sig smile doesn’t waver. “Alright, Cherry. I’ll let you take point for a little while,” he checks something on his communicator, “I say we got about ‘till sunset, but then we gotta head back. Deal?”

Jak could feel his cheeks hurting as his mouth stretched wide. The subtle buzz urging him to move lights anew in his limbs and he feels like he’s practically vibrating. He’s ready to go! He’s ready to go now! He practically jumps down the walkway, barely waiting for Sig to follow before he’s already back on the beach. He forces himself to stop, to allow Sig to catch up to him, so he can point out the high clifftop flush with trees.

Sig laughs soft and gentle. “Lead the way,” he says.

_-*-_-*-_-*-_

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