"Philosophical vomit" about Haven City while following Jak. Enjoy, those who care. I don't own Jak and Daxter, but I wish I worked for Naughty Dog.
he ain't nuthin' but a supernova jehovah.
Aero © 2010
the crowd was booming over the industrial quarter, sewers digesting their disaster, metalhead foe not dead, but death is awaiting close like the rising red. depressing indeed. the bustling crowd proclaims thoughtlessly with no words spoken as they push past their modern day Jehovah.
the azure armour of the doubtful Freedom League troops clank obnoxiously, banging against the pivoted pavement. many have women and children, lives to save, cities to reconstruct inside and outward. they complain steadily, low and hushed amongst one another like church women, mouths hidden in darkness, hands outstretched with dignity and dutiful defiance.
they hated the smell of the city like the rest, like the stench wafting under the noses of the slumlords, stoop kids swinging their dark eco, drugged up, withered legs back and forth like the time they were to waste. they were no better than the rest, yet future depended on them. who is them? the Freedom League or the children? who knew, in all honesty? most would put their money on the dog on the street instead. doomed.
uptown, downtown, smell still curling around the bodies. they lead mortal, hurried lives, men in suits, women in long dresses. no religion, no obligation, nothing to live for, no one to live on. children are few, none anew, cries for help as explosions burst in the distance. metalhead activity was raging and Jak couldnt help but open and close his mouth. nothing would change, nothing will ever change.
still, they try, silly dreams driving them over the cliffs of eco mines, sickeningly poisoned caverns wrapping its hands over the wounds of soldiers. the baby boom will start, but no one to care for them. the city will be stripped naked, cleaned, flipped anew and only memories of Mar will remain. the palace sunk, the sky is dingy and sun-kissed blonde hair leave gyrating passion floating above water. who was he to judge though? these were the people he saved once to be twice. sickening indeed.
the televisions usual techno boom boom bow and the powerful voice of the announcers telling the lifeless souls of the sandstorms, the images flickering gold, red, and the checkered goal was laid straight and flat. he raced past while these people learned how to walk slow, maybe even to run if they're lucky, under the fear, into their deaths. fucked up.
he had a headache, more so than before. perhaps hed get a drink from the Naughty Ottsel (headquarters, where else, where else?), abandoned and run by Tess herself, a small frail body jumping around to the orders of the FL. poor girl, delicate hands reminding him of adults, grown ups, a scary thought of being responsible, the only one with the balls to fight, fight, fight. peacemaker ammo hot, blaster gun stirring, teeth gritting, nothing to lose, fulfill your duty, your destiny... A shame. awkward.
awkward indeed. duty was a funny word. he aint nuthin but a supernova in the sky, showing off, popular, famous, exiled, beautiful destruction, glorious resurrection of peace and serenity. think about that. peace on their world. nothing but the low churning of a breathing city.
Marvelous. Truly Marvelous.