I love Torn. I really, really do. I love his voice and his tats. I love that he's completely okay with sending people off on suicide missions, yet he has enough principles to leave the Guard. He's nobody's hero, but that's okay, because in Jak 2, nobody is the hero. Then in the third game Jak goes all blue and glowy and somewhere along the way rediscovers his standards, but whatever. Torn also gets out of the office and takes on a suicide mission of his own in game three, so I am cool with that.
I also love slash, as a stroll through my profile page will tell you, but the boys wouldn't cooperate. So no slash, just snippiness.
Also, in regards to the title, the Nero in question is the Roman emperor who supposedly played the fiddle while he watched Rome burn. There is someone in this game who reminds me very strongly of that- no prizes for guessing the obvious, thank you.
He doesn't bother looking up when the door rolls open. He's too busy trying to translate Vin's handwriting, which looks like he was writing with the pen in his mouth, and mentally composing a scathing lecture that Vin will never hear. The Shadow has very strict ideas on how people are to be treated, and while the subject of proper reaction to illegible handwriting hasn't exactly come up before, Torn is pretty sure nothing along the basic theme of your handwriting sucks yakkow balls is acceptable.
So he ignores the door, since if it was the KG, he'd already be dead, and no one else is of any interest to him at the moment. At least, not at first. Then he smells- something- and looks up.
"Hey," Jak says, sounding tired and hoarse. He looks like hell and smells worse- blood and gunpowder and week-old sewer water. Daxter is a limp pile of orange fur snoring away in the crook of his arm.
Torn folds his arms across his chest and waits. He's not the one who couldn't even get the cheapest room in the cheapest motel for lack of basic hygiene. As if sensing this, Jak grudgingly continues.
"You said we could crash here."
Indeed he had. He says that to all new recruits, although it's rare he is taken up on his offer.
"Take a shower first," Torn grumbles. "Clean clothes in the drawer. And do something about that one-" and the loathing he manages to pack into those two small words leave no doubt as to who 'that one' is, "he stinks worse than you."
Jak takes the top bunk, as far from Torn's desk as he can get. The clothes don't fit him well- he's broader and shorter than the original owner- but they're clean, and he's nowhere near as aromatically offensive as he was before.
Daxter, on the other hand, still smells like wet ottsel. Torn resigns himself to it, since he can't really prop the door open and air the place out.
They had been sent out almost a week ago with Krew's regular payment. True to form, Krew had basically shanghaied the new blood and Jak became Krew's newest leg-breaker. Since this was the plan all along, Torn had let that matter run its course and focused on other things- Vin's impromptu cryptography lessons, for one.
Apparently, in the week since, Krew had run his new errand boy ragged, and Jak had come to the realization that anger and five-minute power naps could carry a guy for only so long. There's mutterings and shiftings and one loud demand for a private room that Torn, who cannot even begin to describe how much he is not in the mood for Daxter's crap, flat-out ignores. He simply sets his jaw and settles himself more firmly in place and continues with what he was doing, not even acknowledging the two in the corner. He's rewarded, after a long few minutes, with Daxter's obnoxious little whistle-snore.
When Torn finally bothers to look up, Jak is tucked against the wall, one arm wrapped loosely around the walking mouth, the other cradling a morph gun- and who the hell thought it would be a good idea to give a gun to this lunatic? Torn snorts and returns to work, finally burying Vin's notes underneath everything else in protest. He's a fucking soldier, not a nanny or a translator or whatever the hell else everyone seems to think he is. This shouldn't be his problem.
He paces the small room for a minute, not doing anything in particular but still needing to move. Then he stops mid-stride, takes a step back, and peers into the bathroom.
Jak had left his clothes to soak in the half-full bathtub. Torn is not surprised by the concept- the colors certainly won't run, and the fabric is intended to take a hell of a lot of abuse- but that Jak even thought of it…
It's surprisingly domestic, coming from a kid who is best described as feral.
He splashes a little bit of water- from the sink, thank you- on his face, avoiding looking at himself in the mirror as he does so. Then he heads back out to get some work done.
Daxter stops snoring after about an hour, and Jak's quiet, steady breathing is lulling Torn into a brain-fogged stupor. He'd made the mistake of sitting down on the bench tucked against the wall and is now regretting it, since exhaustion and an ill-treated body have ambushed him and refuse to let him so much as get up and stagger five feet to one of the bunks. There are no chairs at the table for this reason- he hasn't gotten a real night's sleep in years, at least since before he joined the Guard, and he knows all the tricks to running on fumes.
It's not a sound so much as a lack of it that finally pierces through the haze. The constant, thready hum of zoomers has gone quiet; the ever-present sound of life outside the hideout is absent. There's a sense of isolation, of loneliness- the feeling of being the last living man on the planet.
Torn doesn't bother with swearing. He saves his breath and moves.
The generator is chugging along almost silently in its little closet-room. Torn ducks in and slides in between the generator and the wall- briefly thanking the Precursors he's scrawny- and hits the kill switch, reversing the flow of processed eco into safety tanks that will prevent explosions. The lights immediately go out but he knows his way around.
The knee-high vent hasn't been used in too long and has rusted shut. Torn doesn't even try forcing it open- he simply kicks the whole thing loose, prying it off and away once he won't break his fingers in trying. On the other side of a short tunnel is another grate, this one leading outside. In theory, it's a channel to keep cool air circulating in case the generator starts to overheat. For now, it allows a trickle of fresh air so they won't suffocate.
He pops open the other two vents in the hideout- these are easier, used more frequently than the generator room's, and require about four seconds each. A brace against the door so the heavy metal sheet doesn't become a fast-flying weapon. Lights turned off, even though the generator's down, just in case. Tug on the zoomer hanging off to the right to make sure it's anchored well, blow out two of the three candles, and last but mostly least-
He puts one foot on the bottom rung of the ladder, reaches into the top bunk, seizes Jak's ankle and hauls him right off the bed. The kid's awake and grabbing for his gun before he's completely airborne, but Torn- having decided the best way to not get shot is to be the one with the gun- has relieved him of his weapon already.
Jak lands on his shoulder, rolls to his feet in a graceful move. Daxter lands facedown with a splat between them.
"What-? Torn?" Jak yelps, obviously confused. Torn cuts off any more questions by offering him the gun and, when the kid reaches out to take it, grabbing his wrist and dragging him forward, shoving him into the bottom bunk close to one of the open vents.
"Shut up and stay there," he growls.
One last sweep to check everything that can be done, has been, then he blows out the remaining candle and dives into the bunk parallel to Jak's and braces himself.
Small feet pad softly along the rough stone floor. "What the hell is going on?" Daxter demands, or starts to. He gets as far as 'what the hell is-' before he interrupts himself with a squeak and a thump. Torn doesn't need light to know the little rat was just grabbed and hauled to safety.
He can feel it now, a deep steady vibration in his chest, and he closes his eyes and drops his head back. Once upon a time he would be up there, coordinating the strike. Now he was cowering like a rat, hoping he wouldn't be noticed and crushed.
Sometimes he wonders why he didn't follow his first instinct, to steal a transport and fly off to Spargus, instead of simply disappearing into the slums. Sure, it'd be running away from his city, but Damas would surely have a warm welcome indeed for one who betrayed the Guard.
Then the first bomb hits, and the time for thinking, and wishing, is over.
It ends soon enough. The ceiling drops a few fist-sized chunks of itself and settles a thick layer of dirt over everything, but everything is intact. Torn can tell without even having to look that both the inner and outer door will open just fine. He can also tell that the generator will need serious cranking to get the eco flowing once more before the lights come back on, but fortunately he has a wide-awake rookie ready to do grunt work.
"What the hell was that?" Jak asks with far more volume than Torn feels the situation merits. Torn merely fishes out his matches and sets about relighting the candles.
"Carpet-bombing," he says succinctly. He presses one of the tin-cup candles into the kid's hand and points in the proper direction. "Go crank up the generator."
Jak doesn't like Torn's answer, but he likes tripping over things in the dark even less, so he reluctantly does as ordered. Torn collects the fallen chunks of ceiling and piles them in the corner, then brushes the dirt off the papers on the table and makes sure nothing was damaged. Then he sets about undoing all he did in preparation. The door brace goes on much easier than it comes off, and the vents like being open more than they like being closed. It takes Torn about twenty minutes to get it all done.
Judging by the sound of it, it takes most of those twenty minutes for Jak to find the generator's crank. Eventually Daxter comes out from under the bed and goes to stand by uselessly and make snide comments- in other words, offer his help.
Once the obnoxious cranking noises begins, Torn pries the door open and slips out, to see what damage has been done. A few roofs have caved in and one building sags in on a corner, the support obviously having collapsed on itself. None of those buildings were occupied by anything other than rats and the occasional homeless drifter, so Torn heads around the corner and looks out over his little slice of the city.
Other people are coming out, carefully picking their way around debris finally shaken loose after years of being so close to a war zone. Most simply look to their neighbors' homes for damage. A few wander a bit farther and crane their necks, trying to see if smoke is rising beyond the wall. One little boy looks at Torn, at his tats, tugs on his mother's skirt and points. His mother looks, slaps the boy's hand down and quickly sweeps him back inside. Torn tucks himself into a doorway, able to see but not be seen.
After a few minutes Jak appears at his elbow, breathing hard and looking none too amused with his latest job. Daxter is naturally firmly planted on his shoulder.
"What do you mean, carpet-bombing?" he demands. At the word 'bomb', everyone close enough to overhear his none-to-quiet words all flinch. Jak shifts a little closer and lowers his voice. "Are you saying Metal Heads did this?"
Torn's rough voice doesn't lend itself to subtlety any more than Jak's, so he keeps his answer short. "No, I'm saying the Baron did this."
Jak looks around again, then turns and looks up, as other people are doing. There's no smoke, which means nothing burning, which is actually a good thing this time. He looks back down, lifts a brow; Torn smothers a sigh and explains.
"Because of how fast we lost Dead Town, the city wall just north of here was built in a hurry. To the Metal Heads, that means it's weaker. They hit it with a concentrated attack sometimes, so the Baron sends in a strike team to clear out the area."
The low buzz of talking swells briefly with alarm. Then there is silence, as the people on the street all disappear. Jak moves in behind Torn, finding his own hiding place, and they watch in silence as a squad of Krimson Guards march by. Accompanying them is a fat little man- the city planner, Torn knows, whose job it is to keep the city intact and looking good. He hurries through, forcing the Guards to half-trot to keep up. There will be no construction crews repairing and rebuilding here.
Once they're gone, and have been for long enough, Jak moves back into Torn's sight.
"They weren't bombing that close to the wall," he says, and Torn shakes his head.
"Nah, they were pretty far. But sometimes the Metal Heads are already at the wall." He pauses, looks around. There's real damage visible, old overlaying older. One or two buildings were erected in the same spot, with the same materials, as a building that fell. They didn't even bother tearing up the metal girders sticking up from the ground. They simply made the new building smaller.
"One time I was pilot of one of those transports," he continues, even quieter than before. "One of my men got antsy and dropped a bomb too soon. I hadn't even cleared the city wall."
Daxter starts to say something, but Jak shifts his weight, jostling the little parasite into silence. Torn shakes his head and pushes himself away from the doorframe, heading back towards the hideout.
"Is that why you left?" Jak asks, following him. Torn doesn't bother to look back.
"That was the day I left," he answers, which isn't what Jak is looking for but is all he'll ever get. His Guard days are an open wound, seething with infection, and he doesn't need Captain Insensitive and his sidekick Motormouth the Wonder Rat poking at it.
The lights are back on at the hideout and the door slides open without a fuss. Torn heads into the generator room, ostensibly to fix the grate but mostly because it's a closet and far too small for two men and a rat to hold any sort of meaningful conversation.
Not that that bothers Jak, apparently. "Not many people leave the KG, right?"
Torn scoffs. "There's only been one KG traitor who survived to talk about it, and you're looking at him."
"So what about all those people you see the KG 'recruiting' on the street?" Jak asks, tone gone dark. Torn matches it with scorn.
"Cannon fodder. Put 'em on the front line so the real troops don't have to deal with them. Who knows, they might get a lucky shot and take down a Metal Head or two before they're butchered."
"So you weren't recruited. You volunteered. You were one of the real troops."
Torn jams the grate into place, thumps it with a fist a few times to make sure it stays put. Then he stands and turns to face Jak. The bad thing about the closet, he muses, is that Jak completely blocks the doorway and leaves no room for maneuvering.
"Yeah," he snarls. "I did. I was. Then I quit."
Something shifts in Jak's face, a shadow chasing itself across his eyes, and Torn abruptly recalls all those stories. While Jak had been out fetching the Baron's banner, Kor had told him about Jak's transformation. The Kid had demonstrated, his arms over his head and his fingers curled into claws, stomping around after his croca-dog. Torn had heard of these sorts of things before- the Baron's experiments were by no means secret- and had shrugged it off. Now he wonders if he'as about to get a demonstration from the real deal.
Then the moment is over and Jak backs up. "Yeah. You did."
Torn moves past him, going over to the table to resort through the maps and papers there. His communicator is flashing. Most likely the Shadow, checking in after hearing about the bombing strike. He sends the all-clear signal.
"So why did you quit?" It's Daxter this time. Torn studies the communicator in his hand. He thinks about marching into the wasteland, under command of the best CO he's ever known, with orders to shoot the man in the back once their mission was accomplished. He remembers the pain of his tats, so bad he couldn't eat for a week, yet going out twice a day to walk patrol. He remembers being officer in charge of more than a few of those recruitment drives Jak mentioned. He remembers hearing the screams of those unfortunate sacrifices and thinking nothing of it.
He remembers the woman who approached him that fateful day, eyes dead and tone flat, and told him that he had just killed her entire family. It would have meant nothing to him- acceptable casualties in a take-no-prisoners war- if he hadn't pulled the trigger back in the wasteland. Or passed out from pain, back when he'd gotten his tats, and been left lying helpless in the streets. Or if he hadn't also heard his comrades laughing at the front-liners' screams.
There was no one big thing that told him it was time to walk away. Just a bunch of little things, each one less tolerable than the last.
"Didn't like the health plan," is what he says. Then, "I don't need you right now, so either go back to bed or go back to Krew."
Jak takes the bunk by the door again, bottom one this time. Daxter plops down in another bed across the aisle. They bicker and banter for a while, too far away from the table for Torn to pick up any words. Then they go quiet, still awake, just quiet. Sleep won't be coming easily to them again, not for a while.
Welcome to the war, Torn wants to say, but doesn't. Instead, he pulls Vin's papers out from banishment at the bottom of the pile and gets back to work.