A/N: I'm attempting to make up for my general lack of updates by rehashing something that's already been posted on dA! :D So have fun with it.
Nnergh. I wrote this in maybe ten minutes tops, just to have something to do. So now you get to enjoy my little brain fart of a half-baked idea that was meant to have more it! 8D
Which means that I originally planned to write something else, but ended up with this instead. Might just write that other thing too then. We'll see.
Actual other story updates are coming. Along with that collection of random J&D humour I promised.
Veger is the one character in the series that I would physically love to burn and otherwise torture. He even makes Krew seem loveable.
You were the son of the great warrior Damas. . . No matter how many times I say it, the word still doesn't fit.
Father.
Dad.
That doesn't sound right either. Neither taste right, or roll off my tongue correctly. Instead they're garbled, choked, because I can't pronounce them right. I never used them. Never had a reason to. Never spoke much to begin with.
And now he's dead.
This dead man –the man I held while he died was my. . .
I still can't say it.
Father.
It sounds too strangled –clearing my throat first thing in the morning before I head out, stomping down hallways and through corridors and I can still hear that word because I can't get rid of the damn thing. The memory I want to repress –the others, such as prison, the wumpbees-, but the one I still want to remember. Because of what it means.
Because it means my father's dead and I never told him who I was.
Please promise me one thing. Promise me you'll find my son, Mar.
Because I didn't think things through.
Find my son. . .
Because I'm too damn stubborn and look what it's gotten me.
Save the people, Jak. They need you. . .
Screw the people. I need my father.
My father is dead.
Damas.
But I still can't see that man as my father.
Is that wrong? Is it bad? He is supposed to be the man I spent the last year with, and never once did it click –oh hey yeah, that's gotta be my father. Am I really that stupid? Hell, look around me, look at what I've done. The answer to that question is pretty obvious.
Did I ever call him 'dad'? . . .'Daddy'? Was I so young that I don't remember? Too naïve? Stupid? Where was I –why did he let that happen?
Why did you betray me, dad?
Why did you let them take me away –hide me? Why didn't you stop them? Didn't you care?
Didn't you care that I have spent the last sixteen years not knowing who my own father was? Whether or not I had a family?
Did you not want me?
Hell, I sound like a whiny jackass.
But I guess I don't blame you for what happened.
Part of me does, but maybe that's because I was just jealous.
Keira had her father –'Daddy'- and I never got to know mine. Is it wrong that I'm jealous? Hell, he's a short little green man, and just earlier Keira actually came to me and told me that she was debating whether or not he was even her real father.
Why's it matter? At least she has one.
Damas. . . Father. . .
I can't even put that in the same sentence.
It doesn't fit. Because despite the fact that I know it's true, I just can't… see it.
Makes me feel horrible though.
Like a . . .disappointment. Like there is someone else worthier of the title 'Damas' son.' Because of who I am, what I did.
Animal man? Really, dad? It's not like I asked for that to happen. To become some freak of nature thanks to Praxis and his right-hand man. But hey, at least I got to take names and kick some ass. So maybe it evens out a bit in the end.
I'm an heir to Mar. People think I am Mar. I don't want to be. I never asked for any of that. I just want a normal life –if I'm worthy of that any more, if it even exists now.
I don't like that word –normal. Doesn't make any sense. What the hell is normal, anyway? Is normal families torn apart, cruel dictators, war, experimenting on random people, and then watching others die as they tell you to find their son, just as you suddenly realize that you are their son?
I'm not ashamed of you by any means. Myself more so than anything. Because I still can't call you… that. Because I can't say two syllables and it is driving me insane. I've already said it a few times—once when you asked if my father had ever taught me how to pick my fights, the other when. . .
When I watched you die.
Death does something to you, you know?
I trusted you, actually. And I have a hard time trusting people – it's taken time, and I still don't fully trust myself either. Kinda sad really, huh?
But you were someone I looked up to –a role model, a mentor, whatever you want to call it. And I was still amazed by the fact that you ever cared. The new guy out in the Wasteland, Spargus –the middle of friggin' nowhere, but you acted like it was your job to watch over me.
Not that I really needed it, but hey.
. . . Alright, so I guess I really did need it where I was going, but I was still floored by the general thought of someone actually reaching out and offering aid and guidance.
Daxter and the others don't count.
But I still can't seem to wrap my head around the fact that you're my. . .My. . .
Damn. I can't say it. And why the hell not?
It's making me nauseous, actually. The way I'm fighting myself –again- just to say that one word that will completely change everything.
Things aren't the same anymore. And maybe I don't want them to be.
But for what it's worth. . .
My name is Jak. My father called me Mar.
And my father Damas is dead.
Oh... and he never knew... how delightful.