Story title: Blood On Your Lips
Setting: Jak II – from the start until we loose track of Erol
Warnings: Violence, swearing, sexual themes and implied rape, along with a good ol' dose of Yaoi.
No likes the yaoi? Then no reading the story, because the thing is saturated in it. I'll be damned if I write Erol and he isn't completely and utterly gay!
Yeah, I've been rewriting the story because the first chapters drive me crazy. So there are new scenes, although the plot line is the same – I just changed the way it happens.
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The baron was an imposing man – barrel chested and strong, large and undeniably commanding…
But not one eye was tuned upon him as he leant forwards expectantly upon his throne, his single eye narrowed in disgust. No, no one was looking at him now – not one of the fifty or so guards crowded into the throne room, standing in stiff ranks of red.
Instead every head was turned to stare at the whippish young man who was sitting comfortably in a hard-backed chair, boots resting on the table before him, racing mask resting on his lap.
And right now he seemed far more interested in getting every last speck of blood off that mask than paying any heed to the dozens of people practically dicing him up with their eyes…
"Do you find something I said amusing, commander?" spat Praxis, his words shocking the room out of that heavy silence so that every head swung simultaneously to take in his angry face and powerful figure.
Erol's lips twitched, as if a smile had begun to sneak across them but had been bitten back sharply – his head slowly rising to take in the Baron, by all the world a disgruntled cat that had been denied his own personal pleasures. There was a loud clang as he reached forwards with infuriating calmness and deposited the mask upon the table, bulging lens swinging to fix on the Baron as it shifted upon the smooth metal.
"Let me get this straight, dear Baron." The words were a purr, sweet and sickly as his mouth twisted into a leer and his booted feet shifted upon the table, seeking a more comfortable position. "You have heard a new prisoner shall be coming by some, ah, unconventional means, but you do not know why, how, or where said prisoner will be appearing." Here he paused, twisting his fingers together idly. "Nor do you know when, which causes our current little predicament."
A harsh squeaking of his boots on the metal, fighting back the smirk that wanted so badly to slink across his lips.
"Now, as I'm sure you know, we neither have the strength nor the, shall we say, time, to have squadrons on constant patrol for this wonder boy." A gloved finger shifted through his flaming hair, the commander hiding his smile behind his arm as his control wavered ever so slightly.
The Baron snarled, the muscles of his jaw working furiously.
"So, I was merely interested in what you are going to do to solve this little, problem, of ours."
He smirked – he couldn't help it, it was up there on his lips before he could snatch it back. Oh, he knew he would pay for it – but right now the feeling was far too good to waste. "Of course I have a little solution, if you'd be willing to hear it, oh almighty ruler of Haven City." Those ambers eyes blinked lazily, never straying from the baron.
Praxis shifted in his seat, fighting the urge to go over to Erol and wipe the smug look off his face with the barrel of his gun – but instead he merely inched forwards and fixed the commanders with his best 'I'll have you flogged for this, you insubordinate cur' glare.
"I though you might," he grated out from between his clenched teeth, his temper flaring. It was bad enough the man was a noncompliant bastard, but to show him up in front of the guards! It was unthinkable!
"Tell us then. What does our darling little commander have to offer to our situation?"
Erol twisted the cloth in his hands, eyeing up his mask - as if he had heard nothing the Baron had said and was only thinking of polishing his prized possession a little more.
But then his head jerked upwards sharply, a shark-tooth grin on his face. "Why, my dear dear Baron, I am so pleased you value my humble opinion."
If there were a prize for the 'best manipulating bastard' in the city, it would sure as hell go to him, thought the Baron darkly. Along with the 'evil as hell' award and the 'I kill for fun' medal.
"It is quite simple really – you got the information filtered through to you, and as such it is broken and unhelpful. So why don't we just go to the source…"
Praxis blinked his single eye.
"And you know the source of my information do you?" he hissed, fists clenching so that all colour bled out from his knuckles.
Erol simply chuckled, amused by the display as he shifted in his seat. "Of course I do." Another smile, baring a glimpse of gleaming teeth. "The old soothsayer down at the Bazaar. I would like to have a little talk with her."
The commander clicked his tongue against his teeth, frowning slightly. "With your leave."
Praxis was on the verge of barking 'no' at the top of his lungs when that dangerously sleek tone stayed his temper, and he found himself surveying the situation with cool detachment. Despite the man's obvious authority complex the commander did have a point, although it irked the Baron to hear it delivered in such sick-sweet tones.
"Go now then," he finally growled.
Erol smiled.
"But take a squadron with you, and don't you dare try anything tricky, commander." The title was a hiss, soft and deadly, "because if you do I will kick you out onto the streets of this city on your arse."
It was a hollow threat and everyone in the room knew it, despite the gruff bellow it was delivered in – although in that moment Praxis was inclined to think otherwise.
Erol nodded stiffly, scooping the racing mask from the table as his lanky body surged to its feet, his voice soft and far too sweet as it slid from between his lips. "As you wish."
The mask was secured upon his face, the straps pulled tight in quick, practiced motions of his gloved fingers. Erol moved towards the door, motioning silently for the nearest squad to follow him into the dark hallway beyond.
But, as always, he couldn't resist getting in the last word – pausing, his back still turned to the crowd, waiting for the squadron to filter past him before he spoke.
"I think we have fixed our little problem, haven't we Baron? I do hope you'll be waiting for me when I get back."
The Baron could tell he was smiling, and by all the gods it sent his temper raging!
But his bellowing cry of 'of course I'll be waiting, you insubordinate cur' fell upon deaf ears as the commander slipped between the blast doors and the resounding clang of the metal connecting rang through the throne room like thunder.
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Out in the hallway Erol felt a familiar surge of glee – not because he had come out on top in their latest battle of wits, but because he was out of the throne room and the free of the oppressive glare of the 'big bad Baron'.
He was a lion amongst the sheep now, and the guards wouldn't breath a word to the Baron no matter what he did.
Because they knew the penalty for crossing that unspoken line, and they sure as hell didn't want to go there.
Erol strode down the hallway, the red men following at his heels like obedient little puppies – although each one knew they didn't follow some loving master but instead strode along in the shadow of a man who didn't give two creds about their state of health.
Or one, for that matter.
The pace through the palace was unrelenting, Erol driving them hard to get to the streets below as quickly as possible, seemingly oblivious to the fact that each guard was encased in something a tad heavier than his own armor. Not that they complained – it was better to have him hounding you than letting you go slow, because you knew that if he did that he was definitely planning something you weren't going to like.
The hallway loomed ahead, the elevators whirring in the sickly light.
Erol was on it before you could take two breaths, urging them up with sharp and unremitting snarls – fractured here and there by the odd slap of his gun holster connecting with his thigh and a stream of swear words that seemed to slip so elegantly off his tongue.
It was as if any word, every word came out so much sweeter when it came from between his lips.
"Come on, you dogs. We don't know how much time we have and I'll be damned if I have to waste any more getting you to move, so speed up or I put a bullet right through your skull."
It was threat they were all willing to believe.
As the last guard stepped upon the elevator Erol's hand came to slap harshly on one of the many buttons littering the walls and there was sickening lurch as it dropped with speed towards the earth – the walls a blur of colour, every guard standing stiff and silent as Erol prowled among them.
They were like ranks of robotic monsters, not men but mechanical beasts crafted by hands to used to the taste of death and destruction. And he, slipping through them, cutting through the walls of red armor – he was the only thing that looked remotely alive, like he had flesh and blood and could feel something other than the emotions programmed into him by some mad scientist intent upon world domination.
But, if anything, Erol was the least human of the lot…
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"The dark one comes today with the sinking sun, and he comes into a world of red."
The harsh and grainy voice of that blasted monkaw split the silence like a knife, causing Erol to smile and chuckle as he slipped his gun back into his holster and spun on his heels.
Behind him the blind old soothsayer did not move an inch, sitting silent and utterly still with her hands folded in her lap. It was not that she wanted the wonder boy to be captured, simply that she knew what had to be done – and sadly the years to come were crucial in order to craft the hero.
But even so it cut her deeply to relay such information into the hands of this monster.
The commander who would become tormentor in the dark years she knew were coming – whose hands had felt a million choking breaths and had caused death and destruction countless times, and many times more. A man so stepped in blood his very presence brought bile to her throat.
So vile, so despicable…
So necessary.
Even Erol was shocked by the ease of which he had convinced her to give in, his suspicion aroused by those words – set on squeezing out of her the reasons why she had folded so quickly to his whim.
Onin knew he wanted to hurt her – to make her talk (through the bird – but it was her words all the same.) But he wouldn't, because her speech was ringing in his ears. He didn't have time, and he knew it.
But he hesitated, lingering at the flap of her tent – hand hovering over the grip of his pistol.
Until at last, with a savage growl, he stalked back into the sunlight and left her with what little peace she could find with such a heavy heart beating in her chest.
The blaring sunlight caused Erol to slit his eyes, shifting the mask that was perched upon his head so that it blocked out most of the harsh light. The bulging lenses caught it, filtering a sickly path of red into his eyes – so that for a moment he saw only blood and believed he could taste it on his tongue.
And then he stepped forwards and the eave of one of the buildings sliced through the light and cast his body in shadow. The commander blinked, shaking his head slightly as he motioned for the squad to follow him once more.
"And he comes into a world of red," Erol mused – parting the throng of civilians simply by being, by walking among them with the red men following quick behind. His amber eyes glared into the distance, trying to make sense of the words.
Then it hit him – hard.
Not unpleasantly so, for it caused a smile to glide across his face, as if he was attempting to gouge at the inky stains upon his face. "Industrial section," he snapped – his words immediately echoed by a gritty, radio voice and passed into the headsets of the guards not close enough to catch his soft tones.
As he walked Erol slid his pistols from their holsters, checking each in turn before, satisfied, he slipped them back and allowed his pace to quicken. A patrol moved past him, moving purposefully towards the palace – guns cocked and pointed forwards, sickeningly robotic voices harsh as they filtered through the radio.
Erol ignored them – and their mechanical growls of 'commander'. He had a task set, and the Baron wasn't there to breath down his back and snap at him in childish fits of rage. Ahh, yes, life was good.
And it was about to get a hell of a lot better…
There was flash of light, as if the sky had torn open and spat some flaming ball into the world – and by all appearance it did exactly that. The commander quickened his pace further, the discordant jumble of boots echoing off the shiny metal walls of the buildings as three of the guards surged up the ramp after him, the rest skirting around to secure the location.
Tck tck. Tck tck. Tck tck.
The intruder was blonde, and small – with blue clothes and bare feet. AND what appeared to be an orange rat lying on the ground beside him.
It would be fair to say that Erol was pleased with his find.
The clanking of their boots on the walkways had raised the rat, which cried out and scampered off as quick as it's short little legs could move.
"Forget the rat – the Baron wants him!" Erol snarled, and one of the guards immediately stepped up and flicked the gun he was holding around his hands, pausing only to see the slight flick of his commanders fingers before he drove the heavy butt of his gun straight into that blonde head.
"We've been waiting for you…"
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Authors notes: I like this prologue far better! And it's longer! YAY! And, if I may so – WAY more in character than the original.