Jak's Final Fantasy

There was a crash, a screech of tires trying to halt a speeding vehicle. Then he was flying away from the rolling ball of metal and smoke. There was pain as he hit the ground, shooting fireballs throughout his left side. Then, when the dusty gray had settled around the vehicle, he knew it was all over.

Damas had lain crushed underneath it all, blood running out quick and thickly from underneath the monstrous desert transport. Jak could see the light in the older man's eye fading away.

'Find my son. You'll know him when you see him. His name is Mar…' and then he had gone quiet, hand extended with Jak's amulet in his palm.

'Father…'

On nights like that one—warm, still and silent—Jak would wake violently from his slumber and lower his eyes in shame.

This particular night, however, Jak wasn't permitted to go back to sleep. Daxter came hopping across his bed to tug on his nightshirt sleeve.

'Jak, hey buddy, c'mon. Torn's sending us back to the desert to get some stuff. He wants us to leave now.' The orange Precursor bounded away, assuming Jak would follow.

Rubbing his clear blue eyes, Jak looked at his hands. He imagined seeing red rivulets of life running through his fingers as easy as the sun faded. Damas' blood. Damas' life. He had let it slip through his hands like the sand of the desert. On his hands was the memory of the father he could have saved. If only Jak had pulled him out—checked his breathing, taken him back to the city! Damas might've lived. Jak might've been with his father instead of sleeping in the dusty, too small rooms of the new Krimzon Guard headquarters.

Slipping out from under the plain, white comforter, Jak meandered to the closet where his meager possessions were kept. On the back of the closet door was a mirror. Jak took a careless glance at it and noticed large, dark bags under his eyes, the disheartening, dull gaze his blue eyes seemed to be haunted with. His blondish-greenish hair hadn't been washed in days and his goatee was in need of a trim.

But somehow…somehow those things didn't seem important. They were trivial compared to the things that his soul and heart needed.

'Hey, Jak, ready to go?' Daxter poked his small head around the corner of the door to his room. Daxter had changed a little as well, responding to the apathetic mood of his best friend. Daxter's black eyes had a little less luster to them than usual and his fur had lost its healthy shine—a sign that the Precursor was in no mood to care for himself. 'Torn's out front with the Sand Shark.'

'Comin', Dax,' Jak muttered, pulling on a white t-shirt. He would go in his billowy, brown pants. It's not like he would be seeing anyone important. He pulled on his dusty, worn leather boots and made sure to grab his goggles and red bandana—desert dust wasn't good for the body.

With the same lost demeanor, Jak followed Daxter down three flights of stairs, past two mess halls, three training rooms and a set of barracks before walking out the front door into the waiting desert vehicle. Torn was at the wheel, in full Krimzon Guard commander attire, one arm slung carelessly over the passenger seat as he waited for his cargo. The redhead's brow creased at Jak's plodding. Normally the man had more of a bounce to his step—but lately…Torn sighed in frustration. He had tried many times to get Jak to talk to him, but all attempts had ended in failure.

When Jak and Daxter were buckled in, Torn took off, heading north for the exit of Haven City that would take them out to Spargus.

A few crashed mercenaries and a damaged Sand Shark later, Torn was pulling into Spargus. Kliever and his new 'buddy,' Veger, were waiting for them. The very robust Wastelander clapped hands with Torn in a friendly gesture and nodded subtly at Jak.

'What's eatin' 'im?' he murmured. Torn glanced at the usually upbeat man and shook his head.

'I don't know. He's been like this since…'

'Ah. Well, I just may have the thing that'll cheer the bloke up!'

Torn raised a thick, blood-red eyebrow, but Kliever just chuckled and turned to the shell of a man that was stepping out of the versatile desert transport. Daxter was chattering away happily on his shoulder—trying to get some form of positive response out of him—but Jak was only nodding half-heartedly. The Precursor Veger could only grin in response. Though he couldn't talk, cause (much) mayhem or any other evil genius things like that, he reveled in the fact that the world's hero was brokenhearted over something so…small, compared to the rest of the world.

Kliever slung a massive arm over Jak's shoulder, making Daxter jump to the tangled web of vines that was Jak's hair. His tiny claws could hardly get a foothold on the greasy scalp, but he managed, wincing as he pulled on some of Jak's hair, knowing it hurt the world's savior.

Jak didn't respond. Being back in Spargus was the worst possible place for him now. His heart was an open book—and empty open book. One whose pages had been violently ripped out, nothing but fluttery, uneven, jagged edges lining a hardback casing. He avoiding looking at the people who had made memories for him in this desolate place—people who could have helped close the chapter of his life that was causing him so much empty pain.

'Well, now that you three are here, I guess we can go pick up the cargo, eh?' Kliever winked at Torn and led the way into the peaceful city crowded with monks and other Wastelanders. Jak trudged along the familiar territory, watching at the gravel and sand beneath his feet gave way to more stony paths. He knew where he was going, and his heart began to thud in his chest. Unknowingly, he began to breathe faster, his nerves rattling down to his legs. He didn't want to go back there…not without—without him sitting on the throne, looking regal and paternal as he gazed down at Jak, his unknown son. Jak had seen the look in Damas' eye whenever he looked at his newest recruit. It was the soft, fond sort of look that a parent would give their child. The blonde missed it terribly.

He remembered when Daxter and he had gotten back from their first mission out in the desert—how Damas had been worried about the two of them, though he tried not to show it. The way the white-haired man's mouth turned down at the corners, the slight crease of his brow, and the tight, crinkled corners of his eyes—Jak had seen it all. In the short time that Jak had received that attention—he had become addicted to it—he wanted someone to acknowledge his deeds the way Damas had, he had wanted someone other than his friends and Torn to look at him with a radiating smile and say something along the lines of: "that's my boy!" Oh, how Jak missed it all!

'Oof!' the blonde warrior hissed as he bumped into Torn's muscled backside. He rubbed his nose sharply and looked at Daxter apologetically—the Precursor had fallen off his hair. 'What happened? Why'd we stop?' he asked the redhead in front of him. The last thing he wanted was a delay in Spargus. He wanted to go back to those dank rooms in Haven City and spend the rest of his life wallowing in the dark. Torn raised an eyebrow.

'We're getting onto the elevator. Geez, you okay, Jak?' he let the darkened warrior go ahead of him into the crate that would take them to Damas' old throne room.

'Yeah, I'm just fine!' Jak snapped back, walking right into a corner away from Kliever and Torn. He folded his arms and leaned against the side, hoping that if he shut his eyes, he would be awake back in Haven City—that he wouldn't go back to the place where it all started.

'Hmph. Cheery brat, ain't he?' Kliever muttered.

The ride up was taken in complete silence.

When the elevator jolted to a stop, Kliever said, a little too casually: "Me an' Torn'll go get the cargo from the back. You two just wait here or…something." The mustached, heavily accented Wastelander nodded to Torn and they set off towards the back rooms.

Jak sighed and plopped next to a pool of running water. If it was just Kliever and Torn getting the shipment, then why was he dragged along? The fountains on each corner of the large room rippled the individual pools of clear, pure water and sprayed Jak with their cold droplets. He let them drip—they were the cold, silent tears he never shed. Jak brought one brown-covered knee up and rested his chin on it, still staring at the disturbed water.

The water was a lot like him—he noticed. It was clear, cold and the ripples on the surface were nothing compared to the turbulence beneath the surface. The surface below was rocky and weedy, needing to be tended to.

As a drop of water plopped on the corner of his eyelid and began to trail down his tanned cheek, an image of Damas—proud, straight-backed, stern and wrapped in bandages—appeared on the surface of the water. Jak's eyes widened slightly, before he stroked the clear surface to rid himself of the image. It didn't leave. The Damas in the water turned up the corners of his mouth.

Jak lost it. 'Leave me alone already! Stop torturing me!' he slammed his fist into the water, spraying himself and Daxter with a shower (not that Jak didn't need it). The force and suddenness of the pounding sent Jak pitching forward into the pool. He would've hit rock bottom and landed himself a nice concussion—if it hadn't been for the strong hand that held the back of his shirt and pulled him back.

The blonde looked into the pool he had nearly fallen into. A distorted image of him was reflecting back. It was him, and his shirt was behind held by—by…

Jak's wet hair sprayed water everywhere as he whipped his head around and stared at the very real, very amused, very alive Damas holding onto his shirt. A nerve twinged in his neck from twisting it around so fast.

As Jak regained his footing, Damas let go of the white undershirt and stepped backwards to get a good look at his boy.

'You look…well…Jak,' he said, cocking his head to the side and observing the disheartened shadows on his son's face, the obvious lack of care in hygiene and clothing.

Clear blue eyes lightened and widened. Damas…was…alive? But how? He had seen the crash! Been there! And yet…here his father was.

Jak launched himself at his father—half to see if he was real, half to just feel the safety and warmth of a parent. When Jak hit a rock hard stomach, he knew—knew that this was no dream, no illusion. His father was here! His father was alive! His heart burst in his chest and sent confetti throughout his body, opening the faucet to his eyes and letting the tears spring forth.

Damas caught his son, looking at him with fond, warm, dark eyes.

Yes, just before slipping into complete unconsciousness, Damas had heard Jak utter 'father.' Of course, he had a feeling he knew all along that Jak was his son—by pure instinct alone.

'You didn't think a crash like that would kill me, did you?' Damas said, stroking Jak's back.

Jak just stepped back and wiped the salt water from his eyes. The light that was in him had finally reached his face and shone in his eyes. He laughed to himself and ran for his father's arms again.

And as the two sat in the middle of the throne room, embracing for the life of each other, a Precursor got his wings.

Soo…what'd you guys think? Just an idea that kinda hit me as I was playing Jak 3 for the…fifty-gazillionth time. Did I keep them in character enough? Or were some parts too OOC? Ack. Well, I hope you enjoyed!

And an extra thank-you to Weiila for pointing out a couple mistakes. I corrected them.