A look- well. More of a brief glance inside Torn's head. This is still when Jak's new to the Underground, working the 'crappy missions' for Torn.

Underground work was kept underground for a reason. Only the most desperate came. And not many of them could produce the guts that the rookie consistently laid all over the floor... Figuratively speaking. Torn hoped it would stay that way, as he shook his head, eyes closed, brows raised in exasperated wonder. This kid... The hell.

The hell'd he come from? The hell was he, for Mar's sake?

It generally went against the commander's "Don t Ask, Don't Tell" policy to take an interest in his recruits. Especially newbies. It wasn't advisable to think about most of them as more than dispensable. For their underworld was rightly named. It was for those unable to live among the surface, having already undergone hell. The Underground welcomed fighters. But it couldn't use all of them. And the cold truth was that this was justified- justified by the need for their deaths in a mission as impossible as the rebellion's. There was no romanticizing it. Every measure would be taken to protect its members, but only as long as they didn't jeopardize its continued survival. And the movement's survival was all-important. They were literally the last left standing against the Baron s tyranny.

It was always a tough draw, every decision. Every head count of survivors. It drained on him, but he shouldered the responsibility. Someone had to. No one else would or in his opinion, could handle the strain. There weren't many Torn could trust to even stay alive. Experience helped, but often meant little in the world of the Underground, when put up against the Baron's forces, who kept the city on a dangerously short leash and under a crushing foot. That liked to kick... Hard.

Grudgingly he admitted he needed Jak's skill. Simple beginner's luck could NOT in any world have kept him alive that long, or gotten the kid out of so many risky operations vital to the cause. At least, Torn saw them as important. The rat called them suicidal.

'Only when done with that peashooter they'd been using.'

The tattooed brows leveled as he made his mental argument. He always spared them the artillery he could afford to give them a fighting chance, throwing in an ammo upgrade when the situation demanded it. But this was comparable to arming a child with a pointed stick and telling it to go destroy a nest of metalheads. Seeing them return to the base not just miraculously intact, but with goddamn success. It threw him for a loop. The kid had surprised him-no short feat- surprised them all; just strolled straight on into their hideout like some kind of freaking omen. Offering hope to the cause in a matter of weeks- Torn snorted, needing to laugh at the absurdity of it all. What a flaming contradiction that was.

Jak's temper- seeming to burn only with the desire for the Baron's head, severed and bleeding on a plate- was their beacon. Their "light at the end of the tunnel." Torn didn't think in poetic terms. He didn't think he could if he tried. He was, for better or worse, far better acquainted with reality than he would ever have wished to be. But Jak... He couldn't deny that Jak could help their cause. Was helping their cause. He was a rare asset, but couldn't be relied wholly upon. Torn wouldn't risk resting the fate of their mission on the angsting shoulders of some teenage hellion.

...No matter how much promise he'd shown.

Hell. Better to not think about it, he finalized, turning to review the papers gotten to him from his tireless network of spies; ones that told him what kind of weaponry was being updated at the ammo factory. He entertained the idea of just sending the 'Dream Team' and not worrying about the technicalities.

They'd taken care of suicide missions before; ones that he'd sadistically dubbed himself. Back before he was seriously considering utilizing their abilities. Back when he was only sending them out to give them a dose of reality, scare 'em off if he was lucky. They'd- well, he couldn't speak for the rat, but Jak had proven himsef tougher than he'd anticipated. There was a drive in him that nearly equalled his own.

Besides, this one shouldn't be too difficult if the rat's stories hold an ounce of truth.

Clacking the sheets into a neat pile once again on the tabletop, he grew serious. That was a risk he would never take, never would he be stupid or arrogant enough to ignore precaution and protocol. That was the difference between him and Praxis, though they might both be unfeeling bastards. He couldn't save them all. But he could make sure they were prepared enough to have a fighting chance. And he would damn well do that if nothing else...

No matter how much paperwork it required.

A/N: So.. Here it is? Sorry if it was unsatisfying/confusing/disorganized. I MAJORLY edited the verbal vomit I was pouring out, but now it seems kind of disappointingly short. *resigned shrug* I'm basically making my own pathetic attempts at fanfiction because all my favorite J&D authors seem to have fallen off the face of the earth..

Anyway, this is the first thing I've dared to post, and feedback means a lot :) Was it boring? decent? *gulp* OC?

I've got more written, with actual interaction (confrontation would be the better word) between Torn and the dynamic duo. But I don't want to post it if it's painful, so I'll judge by the response for this.

Thanks for reading ^_^