* Hero of Time *

Authors notes:

So, I've been toying with idea to rewrite the entire Jak & Daxter epos as I imagine it. And I would not stop after all the different games, as I do have an interesting idea for how Jaks (And Daxters) life continues. This should be seen as nothing more than a prelude to the story to come, setting a tone, so to speak. Yes, the story will mostly keep in line with the games, maybe borrowing a few elements from some of my favourite fanfics. The really new story won't start until I have written down the entire story, as portrayed by Naughty Dog, more or less.

Please review, so I know what to change in my style of the story as it continues. And I hope someone will be willing to go along on this journey with me.

Maybe to the very end of time.

* Prelude*

Lightning brightened up the dark night sky over the city. The tall, dark houses shadows grew longer for a short while, for again fading into the utter darkness. As the rain tirelessly continued on smattering down on patched metal roofs, another flash of lightning flashed the city in light. The city indeed looked very frightening. The rain and darkness made it look like a place where murder might be a nightly occurrence, and where it might be wise to know where the nearest place to hide was, at all times. And places to hide where there no shortage of in this city. Narrow alleys, large walls consisting of piping and industrial-looking boxes was to be found everywhere around the city.

To furthermore make the city look ominous and scary, there was The Wall.

The entire city was surrounded by a huge, dark wall. The wall looked as it could stop anything. The huge scars and patches of clearly hastily made repair on the outside of the wall was indeed evidence of that this wall clearly had stopped a lot of things during its existence. The world outside the city walls had never been a friendly place. A lot of creatures lived in the wilderness outside the city. And although the city clearly was a modern one, with a lot of industrial prowess, the forests and swamplands surrounding the city was still a dangerous place to visit. Therefore, the walls was kept in shape by diligent workers of the city. There was never any shortage of workers in the huge city either. But as it was peaceful times for the city of Haven, not much work was needed to keep The Wall in prime condition.

In one of the corners of the city, a building was standing. It was built up against the two walls of the wall that met there. It didn't look like much. It was in good shape, but not exactly the sort of building that you noticed when you passed by. That was also what most people did, passed by. People in the neighbourhood just accepted that it had just always been there. It had never changed owner. At least, not even the oldest person living in the neighbourhood could remember ever seeing anyone carry in boxer or furniture or any of the things that a person brought with him during a life. Not many people visited the house, and people in the area never really cared to wonder who lived there, or why no one ever visited.

Not that anyone would go out in this weather, anyway. The weather was truly frightful, and as the light from another lightning faded away, a flicker of light could be seen in the very top window of the house in the corner. Someone was awake.

In a big lofty attic, a man sat by a desk. The desk was clambered with papers, pens, inc and indescribable little trinkets, that most people probably would discard as junk. The sort of things you might find at the bottom of your backpack after a long journey. The man, who was barely visible to the naked eye, only luminated by a single candle on the desk, looked tired.

Not tired in the way of a man who needs a good nights sleep though. He looked tired in the way of a man who had lived one life for a long time. He looked as an old man, without carrying the common attributes of a man who had had a long life. His eyes showed an inner tiredness, but his physical attributes seemed to be frozen in time. At a quick glance in the dark room, he could surely not be older than fifty years old.

The man sighed. It had indeed been a journey. But measures of time did not matter much to him anymore. He stared at a paper in front of him. It was hopelessly blank. He muttered to himself.

"Time. Every story depends on it. But how do you tell a story that does not care for the logic of time?" He sighed. Then, with the solemn determination of a man who was obviously more used to a more direct approach to solving problems, he started writing.

"Countless eons ago…" The man stared at the words he had just written. Then he broke out in loud laughter, almost competing with the roar of the thunder. Still laughing loudly, he crumbled the paper into a small ball, and threw it against a wall farther down the loft. It hit a wall, and fell down to land on a pile of similar balls. The pile was starting to gain height.

"Sigh, how can writing be so hard?" In truth, he confessed to himself and the darkness of the room, he had never had to write anything. He had most certainly never had to write down the story he was trying to put on paper this night. He hadn't even ever told anyone the whole story. Not really. Not in the way he had experienced it. No one had ever heard his version of the story of his life. Even if it seemed to be a story often told.

Maybe it was for that very reason he tried to write it down, he asked himself. If it was written down, he never had to tell anyone, and the story, even if it was never to be read, would remain in the world. This stories purpose was not to be read. Its purpose was to be written, so that it would not be forgotten.

"Dammit Jak, just do this. Of all things you can do, this can't be what stops you", he muttered, now a bit angrily. He did not much care for failing. He placed a new paper in front of him. He wrote.

All the stories you have ever heard to this day, have followed a line. They start, they end, moving along the stream of time as a boat down a river. That is the one unbreakable rule of a story. They must start, they must end, and most often, time progresses alongside the story. But what happens between those two points is unique to each and every story.

I am trying to tell you my story. But this story does not care for the points of beginning and end, it does not follow the stream of time. That is what makes it such an elusive story. I guess, the only way to tell it really, is by letting you experience it the same way I did.

The story starts with my earliest memory. It starts at a beach, under an infinite blue sky. This is a place without problems. This is a place that does not know of any evil. This is a place that have people who does not know how to harm each other.

It starts in Sandover village…