Hello, ! It's been awhile, but here I am again, writing a fic no one asked for. A couple of points before we begin:

This AU takes place in the middle of Jak 2. It's going to be a little longer than the other stuff I've posted on here, so get ready for lots of words, and lots of waiting for me to get myself together enough to get updates done.

Important points about the timeline:

-Jak and Daxter have met the Shadow and know that they are in the future by this point, and they know about the kid being the heir and about the Precursor Stone, but they have not gone to the Tomb of Mar yet. They have also not found older Samos.

-Ashelin does not know her father is working with the metalheads and giving them Dark Eco. She does, however, know he's looking for the Precursor stone.

-Ashelin does not know that Damas is alive, and, by extension, does not know about Spargus.

Here goes the Prologue! Let me know what you think.

Sand. Grinding against his cheek, against his teeth. Part of him wished he could just choke to death on it.

The KG who'd thrown him out of the transport pulled him up by the back of his shirt. Eventually he manuevered Torn, who had gone limp out of spite, into a kneeling position. The former commander looked up at the soldier's helmet, wondering if he'd known this man, trained this man, been this man, in another life.

"Well, Commander, you know the drill," the KG said, managing to sound mocking despite his helmet's vocal modifier. "You're out here for life. Not that that will be much longer." Torn felt the manacles unlock; they had rubbed his wrists raw and the sand stung the tender skin as they were pulled off.

He had no weapon, no armor, and no chance against the five soldiers staffing the transport. And he knew how much satisfaction it would give Praxis and Erol both to read a report stating that the soldiers had killed him like a dog, that it was unavoidable because he'd resisted.

So he knelt in the sand silently, eyes downturned, as he listened to the transport close up and depart. Eventually, he pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the throbbing everywhere in his body. They'd beaten him enough to slow him down, but not to disable him entirely. Cruel. It would be a slow death.

He wondered, as he began to walk aimlessly, if the others knew that he'd been caught. Exiled. If they would come for him. Logically, he knew they shouldn't-hoped they'd have enough sense not to. The protocol for a banishment was to drop someone in a random location in the Wasteland, so any friends or allies would have no idea where to begin looking.

Tess could run the Underground for him, he was sure. She'd worked for him since she was a thirteen-year-old orphaned refugee from Dead Town, bruises and blood and bone and an utter, devastating rage that outshone any star in their smoggy skies. Tess had had the smarts to find the Underground, to find him, to argue her way in even though she was just a kid. Back then, they'd both been. He a 20-year-old former prodigy, a darling of Praxis, who was desperate to prove that he was not that man; she a starving, stricken barely-teenager.

It had been seven years. He trusted her; everyone trusted her. And she had spent enough hours at his elbow that she could do his job in her sleep.

But he couldn't deny that, deep down, he wanted to be saved. He wanted Jak, bright and colorful against this dead landscape, to leave the city walls and find him against all odds. To yell at him, berate him, kiss him with blood and gunmetal on his tongue.

He'd been a harbor for others for so many years. He needed somebody else to do that for him. Hold him to somewhere, or something.

As he walked, he felt numbness descend over him. Even his morbid thoughts died out, and his mind was silent in a way it had never been in his life. He kept moving somehow, despite the painfully hot sun and the drag of the sand against his boots. Skin blistering, he moved. Until he didn't. Long hours passed where he was only aware of the blistering sun on the back of his neck and the sand against his face, consciousness coming in and out.

And then-something. Movement. Cars. People. Someone pushed a boot into his side, and distantly he heard, "He's still alive!"

At some point he ended up in one of the cars, sprawled across the back seat. He could see the sky, painfully bright and blue, but his eyes wouldn't close.

"Did you see those tattoos? He's high-ranking. We better bring him to Damas in person-"

The buggy jolted as they jumped a dune, and Torn knocked his head against the seat. Cool, soothing darkness.

"You're awake."

Someone with a strangely-painted face watched him impassively from his bedside. A Precursor monk, he thought-hadn't seen them in the city since Damas was driven out. The Mar line had been said to have a strong Precursor connection, and the monks had supported Damas' rule. There had been some in the palace, he was sure. And then Praxis had purged them with other loyalists. Burned the temples.

Household altars had been hidden away in closets or destroyed completely, leaving the faithful only their own memories of prayers and holy days. The color orange had drained out of the city completely.

So he wasn't back in Haven. Not with a monk who so blatantly served the Precursors.

He made to ask where he was, but choked on the dryness of his own throat.

The monk moved to hand him a cup of water. Wooden, rough-hewn, but pleasantly heavy and solid in his hands. He tried to drink slowly, moving into a sitting position as he did so.

"Where am I?"

"Spargus. The Wastelander city."

"That's impossible. No one lives outside Haven's walls."

"And yet here you are."

Torn considered, turning the cup in his fingers. It had been made by a carpenter, and he'd never seen craftsmanship like it in Haven, where everything was metal and glass and plastic. Strange that such a simple object would be sufficiently alien to convince him that the monk was telling the truth.

"So I was rescued?"

"By chance, yes. You were lucky enough to be dropped far enough in the desert, and to cover enough ground in Spargus' direction, that some Wastelanders searching for artifacts happened upon you. Whether you will survive long enough to benefit from it is up to you. And to King Damas."

His head snapped up. "King Damas?"

The monk inclined their head.

"He's alive?"

"Indeed. You will meet him presently-your tattoos make you a...person of interest."

This changed everything. Before, he'd simply been trying to get his bearings. But this-not only was the true king alive, he had built a city in the Wastelands. No one was even supposed to be able to survive here. And what kind of a city was this? What resources did it have, what armies might it possess? Why hadn't Damas waged war on Haven to regain his throne?

And what did the king want from Torn? What did he think had brought him here?

He thinks I'm a spy, most likely, Torn thought, a sinking feeling in his stomach. How am I going to convince him otherwise?

As his mind worked, the monk rose, and left the room unnoticed. But eventually, she came back with a plate of food-some kind of grilled meat and something soft and green. Torn recognized it as cacti. Sig had brought some with him sometimes from his trips to the Wasteland, sharing the fruit with some of the Underground soldiers.

Sig.

Precursors, Sig.

He knew. He must have known-about Spargus, about Damas. This is where he goes when he's outside the city walls.

Then what had he been doing in Haven?

"Are you alright?"

Torn realized he had frozen with the plate of food in his hands. He looked up at the monk, who was watching him, eyebrows raised.

"Fine. Just...thinking." He forced himself to eat the food, which wasn't half bad, especially compared to the rations he'd been living off of in Underground HQ.

As he chewed, he tried to slow his mind down.

Think. Deconstruct the problem. That's what you're good at.

The upside of Sig being here, in the city, was that he would be able to verify most of what Torn would tell Damas, though he guessed that Sig would not be able to say with absolute certainty whether Torn had or had not known about Spargus and whether he had been sent as a spy of some kind, or an envoy begging for help for the war effort.

But Sig was enough of a soldier to know that Torn, the Underground's second-in-command, would probably not have been sent on such a dangerous and uncertain errand himself-the Underground would have sent someone more expendable. All in all, Sig might be the difference between life or death.

But even if he convinced Damas of his identity, that he had truly been exiled-what was he supposed to do then?

Torn's loyalty was still with the Underground. Praxis had to be overthrown, and the war with the Metalheads had to end. Haven was still his city; those were still his people. But could he safely return? He had a bigger target on his back now than ever before. Praxis' pride and need to show authority would force him to track Torn down again if anyone even breathed word that he was in the city. It was entirely possible that his return could make things even more difficult for the Underground than they were already.

Could he work from here? He didn't have enough information to know. He doubted he could still continue as the second-in-command, though. He could provide help, but not necessarily leadership.

And deep down, Torn knew that there was another issue: he didn't know who he was without the cause. It was selfish, and he knew it, but he couldn't stop the cold pit of fear in his stomach. If he couldn't return, couldn't fight the fight with his people anymore, then who was he? What was he supposed to do?

"I can return the plate to the kitchens," the monk said, and he was snapped out of his thoughts again. Wordlessly, he held out the plate.

"I will bring back more water and tea, and then leave you to rest," she said. "You are not yet recovered enough to meet the king. I suggest," said the monk, leveling a meaningful stare at him, "that you use the time to come up with a good reason for your presence here."

With that, the strange monk left the room.

Torn settled back into the bed and closed his eyes. He was going to tell Damas the truth, and let the king decide what to do with him.

It'll be good to let someone else decide for once, he thought as he heard the monk setting a teapot and cup next to the bed.