A/N: I'm definitely not going to stick to posting every other day, but I have yet to decide what I'll do instead. Either two or three times per week. Thanks for bearing with me while I figure out a workable schedule!

Some random notes. First off, because I was rather unhappy with it I made some additions/revisions to chapter two, mainly in the first half. If you don't recall Jak having breakfast with his uncle and want some additional J/K cuteness I'd recommend checking it out!

Secondly, Jak, Daxter, and Keira have all been aged up two years, three in Keira's case. There are a couple reasons for this, the bigger of the two being that ten years ago there wasn't a nice and convenient fan wiki with all the information I could possibly want in one place. Between that and all the let's play and cutscene compilation videos, it's been worlds easier to reference what I need. I remember poring over GameFaqs and taking notes as I played through the game before.

Third, I'm amused to no end that I named Ryker what I did and how it somehow has nothing to do with Star Trek. I have a very dim memory of going on some random website and finding a list of names that are good for rogues or hot shots or something along those lines. I had never heard of Commander William T. Riker the first time around, but since I gave up writing TMC I have watched The Next Generation all the way through twice. Makes me wonder if my Ryker ever sits in chairs by stepping over the back first. :P

Lastly, I'm on AO3 now! After learning of FFN's past purges, I figured I should be posting in multiple places. If you're on there as well feel free to look me up under the pseudonym fire_lemur (they don't allow dashes).

Enjoy chapter four!

Keira awoke with a start, gasping out of her nightmares. Groaning, she sat up and shook her groggy head in an effort to clear it. A clock on the wall read five thirty, and she heaved a heavy sighed. Though she had long considered herself a morning person, this was much too early an hour for even her to tolerate. Unfortunately, if recent experience was anything to go by she would be unable to fall back asleep. She wrapped herself tightly in her blankets and settled into a comfortable position, hoping she might drift off, but it was a futile effort. In the end, all she could do was toss and turn, her mind already a busy station running several trains of thought. Grumbling, she got up to get dressed, resigned to her internal clock's betrayal.

As with most mornings, when the garage was quiet and she only had her own musings for company, the mechanic reflected on her time in Haven City. Her first days were in large part spent attempting to better understand her surroundings. Mar Memorial Stadium was located in Main Town, an area of the city known for its booming commerce and beautiful canals. It was one of many districts, each with their own distinct economy and atmosphere, all separated by security checkpoints. It was also by far and away the most privileged.

For years now, Haven had been ruled by the dictator Baron Praxis. Even longer than that, the city had been at war with the Metal Heads, the same terrifying creatures that invaded Sandover Village through the Precursor Ring. Keeping the city safe was Praxis' justification for everything he ever did, and he governed with an iron fist. Only a scant portion of the citizens, the business and military classes, enjoyed prosperity under his reign. Most everyone else resided in one of the city's vast slums, their labor exploited to keep the eco flowing.

Eco powered everything in Haven, but the most voracious drain by far was the great shield wall surrounding the entire city. It was a marvel of engineering, a five-story-tall bulwark made all the more formidable by a series of sharp spires jutting out of its parapet like hundreds of jagged metal horns. Sustaining it necessitated vast mining operations that sprawled into the wilderness beyond, pillaging the earth for ever more resources. Outside the safety of the city perimeter, they were vulnerable to Metal Head attacks and very costly to protect and maintain. Slum workers made the best of the horrible pay and dangerous conditions, but many died on the job.

Wages were further driven down by the slave labor of lurker babaks, great beasts that rallied under the evil Gol and Maia in Keira's world. Since before she could remember they had always been a threat, raiding villages and wreaking havoc with savage ferocity. She couldn't believe it the first time she saw one lumbering past, docile as a meek child, following its human master with packages and bags balanced in its furry purple arms.

The great inequality of the city bred contempt for its ruler, and that contempt bred action. Though she was insulated from the struggling majority, Keira still heard whispered conversation in the streets of the Underground. Over time she came to understand they were a resistance organization, constantly mucking things up for the Baron's forces.

Unfortunately, no amount of familiarity with the socioeconomic and political realities of Haven proved helpful in finding Jak, Daxter, or her father. Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months with no sign of them, and she began to doubt they were even in the city. Surely if they were looking for her too she would've heard something by now.

Once she asked Vivian where it is is people go when they disappear. A few might make it beyond the shield walls and into the treacherous Wasteland. More likely they were made to labor in the eco mines or imprisoned in the Krimzon Guard Fortress. In all cases, they would never be heard from again.

Further complicating matters, she didn't know exactly where or even when Haven existed. The spread of information was so tightly controlled that library access was restricted, and the only maps she ever saw were of the city layout. And the year… Her first day on the job, she learned from Ryker that it was 497. Her response was nothing less than incoherent shock. According to the calendar she was familiar with that would place her well over one thousand years in the past, and yet her surroundings were so technologically advanced that it must be impossible. Had the Precursor Ring transported her between worlds? Dimensions? Unfortunately, she realized then and there that she would somehow have to find answers on her own. Ryker wasn't just puzzled by her reaction, he looked at her as though she had ten heads. She didn't blame him. Such fantastical travel wasn't the province of mere humans—it only existed in tales of the fabled Precursors themselves.

And so she did her best to pass off her ignorance as an absent-minded blunder and vowed to keep the truth of her past secret. Until she could find a way to learn more about the city's history, she was forced to conclude she was in a different world from her own, and possibly from her companions as well.

Despite the trauma of her arrival in Haven and the crushing disappointment of her fruitless searching, Keira stayed afloat by throwing herself into her job. Indeed, she had time for little else. Vivian put her to work right away, fixing engines, waxing zoomers, and completing odd jobs around the garage, all of it revolving around Ryker's races every weekend. She made a small stipend, and her breakfast and bed were provided. Of course, the food was cheap and she slept on a lumpy, old couch, but she wasn't complaining. She was safe, and she rather liked the people she was interacting with.

Vivian was an extremely proud woman, largely because of her father's legacy. He had been one of the top managers in the business and she did her best to honor his memory. It wasn't always easy. Women weren't exactly commonplace in the racing world, and so she often wrestled with a double bind. Many considered her a threat simply by existing, and it was only through sheer tenacity of will that she continued to scrape by. Even though she always maintained an aloof exterior, Keira deeply admired her. She had never met such a fierce woman.

Ryker, on the other hand, was far from aloof. He was warm, friendly, and an irredeemable flirt. He seemed to take particular joy in getting Keira to blush, but she was no slouch at making eyes. She'd flirt right back, assuring herself it was all in the spirit of their amicable rapport. Although he didn't live in the garage he still spent a great deal of time there, most often for testing out her modifications. He needed any edge he could get as this was his rookie season. Given the often deadly nature of the sport, a racer had to be at least eighteen in order to legally participate, a requirement he barely satisfied. But what he lacked in years he made up for with raw talent. He was a truly gifted racer and determined to dethrone Erol, commander of the Krimzon Guard and longtime city champion.

As Keira proved her mechanical acumen and won the trust of her superiors, she earned the right to accompany them on errands around the city. It was in this way that she first went out of Main Town and began exploring the rest of Haven, though she was always required to stay in the zoomer and away from any business transactions. Vivian maintained an odd chain of suppliers, many of them in the East Side Slums. The KG were always to be avoided, and Keira soon came to understand that they were operating outside the bounds of legal commerce. She didn't mind. Her horrifying experience with the Krimzon Guard when she first arrived and the appalling poverty of the Slums instilled in her a deep hatred of Praxis' regime.

At times like these, when Ryker or Vivian took Keira to the Slums, she saw glimpses of a very different man and woman. Cracks would show in their carefully controlled exteriors, hinting at deep wells of anger. Keira sensed they must have endured great hardship in the past, but given her own unwillingness to talk about herself, she denied her burning curiosity and avoided asking questions. Left to fill in the gaps, she imagined them exacting vigilante justice as members of the Underground.

After throwing on some clothes, Keira went to the restroom and turned the sink's squeaky handle. Cold water flowed into the basin as she bent to splash her face. A shiver traveled down her spine, and she grabbed a small towel to dry off. Dragging the terry cloth down to her mouth, she opened her tired eyes and stared at her reflection for a few moments.

She exited the restroom and glanced at the clock again. It was only five forty-six. She glared up at the ceiling. Vivian owned the tiny apartment above the garage and was undoubtedly, in Keira's mind, enjoying the peaceful embrace of a deep and blissful sleep.

Muttering to herself, she set about finding some breakfast. By the time Vivian came downstairs, she was well underway with her work finishing a new customization of the air racer. Ryker was due at noon for a tune-up, but the hour came and went without him showing up.

For lack of anything better to do Keira continued tinkering with the zoomer. She was nose deep in the engine when one of the large bay doors, at last, slid open. She looked up just as Ryker walked in with a beautiful blonde. They were all smiles, engaged in companionable discussion, and the green-haired girl scowled. They were such an attractive pair she immediately assumed they were a couple. Why else would he blow her off?

"You're late," she tartly announced, interrupting their conversation.

"Am I?" he asked, a sly frown wrinkling his brow, "I thought I was early."

"You were supposed to be here almost an hour ago," she corrected, jerking her chin at the clock on the wall.

"Really? I could've sworn you said to get here at one." He grinned as though that were a sufficient excuse.

"You know how testy Vivian gets when you're not on time for tune-ups, so don't blame me if you get chewed out."

Ryker shrugged, utterly shameless.

"Can't say I'm surprised that this lug had something better to do," the blonde stated as she extended her arm, "I'm Tess."

Keira hesitated, looking the woman up and down. She was what Daxter would call a bombshell. Her figure was sublime, shown off by clothes that clung to her curves and bared her toned midriff and thighs. A plum headband coiffed her perfect flaxen locks, and her scarlet lips were parted in a friendly smile.

Cautiously warming to Tess' amiability, the mechanic wiped her palms on a clean rag and clasped the proffered hand. "Keira." She was met with an enthusiastic shake.

"Now," Tess said, "Let's get down to business." She lifted a huge suitcase on top of an available work table with notable ease, evidently stronger than she looked. After fiddling with the clasps, she opened the case and revealed a cargo of gleaming firearms.

Keira's emerald eyes widened. She didn't know what she had been expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. She watched as Tess picked up a large handgun for Ryker to examine, and it dawned on her that she was watching a sales pitch.

"Wait," she murmured, "so you're here to sell guns? Not…"

"Not what?" Tess asked, her long lashes fluttering expectantly.

"Well…" Keira fiddled with a wrench, suddenly feeling childish, "The way you walked in together I thought you two might be…"

Tess and Ryker exchanged a look, and a beat later she burst out laughing. "Us? An item? He wishes!"

"I do not," he quickly objected. His expression was unusually earnest, and his golden eyes kept darting to Keira and back as though he was assessing if she was taking this seriously.

"What's got you so flustered, Ryker Baby?" Tess teased as she elbowed his ribs, doubly amused by the racer's apparent agitation. Though her words were coquettish, there was no genuine passion behind them. Their dynamic read as strictly platonic. Keira couldn't help but smile as she watched them, surprised by the relief she felt.

The sale resumed, and as the discussion honed in on the firearm's minutiae she studied the rest of the wares. In addition to guns and ammo, there were grenades branded with the seal of Baron Praxis. Black market then, Keira thought to herself, and her estimation of Tess grew. Then her gaze settled on the smallest gun in the lot. Unlike all the others it had a cylinder of chambers, and the accompanying ammo glowed with cyan light.

Though she was the daughter of the Sage of Green Eco, it was blue eco that most often captured her imagination. As a child, she always adored taking trips to Rock Village, or more specifically, the Blue Sage's laboratory, and she always pestered the azure-skinned mystic with as many questions as possible. The more she learned of the substance the more her ingenuity expanded. Many of her inventions relied on it to achieve movement.

"Interested?"

Startled, Keira looked up to find the perky Tess blinking at her. "Oh," she mumbled, "Yeah… I mean, I've never seen a blue eco gun before."

"It can take any type of eco so long as they're in the correct cartridges, but I'm fond of the blue ones. They're best for fanning the hammer."

The arms dealer offered up the revolver inspection. Having never touched a gun before, Keira awkwardly wrapped her fingers around the grip. She was instantly struck by how heavy the small weapon was. She shifted it back and forth, testing the weight. Though it seemed foreign and strange, she couldn't deny it felt good to handle.

"I'll pick that up too," Ryker declared.

"For yourself?" Keira asked.

"For you."

She gaped at him. "Why would you get me a gun?"

"Do I need a reason, Hagai?"

"Yes," she replied in a deadpan voice, "yes you do."

"So I'll have an excuse to take you out shooting," he answered with a cheeky wink.

Keira stared down at the revolver, considering the proposition. She was in a hostile city ruled by a fascist dictator. Maybe having her own weapon wasn't uncalled for. "Alright… Why not? I don't know the first thing about it though, so good luck to you." She saluted him with the gun.

"First thing's first then," he said as he quickly grabbed her hand and redirected the barrel toward the ceiling, "even if you know it's not, always assume the gun is loaded and point it in a safe direction. Accidents can happen, and I need my beautiful face intact."

Footsteps sounded on the stairs. "Keira!"

"What can I do for you, Viv?"

The manager walked into view and stopped on the second to bottom stair, resting her forearm on the low clearance above. "I have to run to the stadium offices, so—What is this?" Her brown eyes narrowed as they took in the scene, lingering on the shining weapon in Keira's hand.

"Tess' popup armory," Ryker said in his singsong voice.

"I thought you knew better than to conduct business in the garage like this."

The racer's smile evaporated, and he shuffled to and fro on his feet. He couldn't look more uncomfortable. "But," he protested, "it's just Tess."

Vivian scowled at him with such intensity that Keira wondered what on earth was going on. She had a sneaking suspicion they wouldn't be having this discussion if she wasn't there.

Snorting in exasperation, the manager descended the last two steps and stopped at her side. "May I?"

Realizing she was asking for the revolver, Keira obediently handed it over. Vivian unlatched and opened the cylinder with practiced ease, spinning it like a wheel. With a flick of her wrist, it swung back into place, and she smoothly aimed at the back wall to test the sight. Satisfied, she placed it on the table.

"It's a good choice," she concluded. Turning on her heel, she swept toward the bay doors. "When I'm back I expect the transactions to be finished and the tuneup underway."

"Nice to see you too, Vivian," Tess called after her.

Her only response was a dismissive wave over the shoulder, but just before disappearing into the stadium hallway she turned toward Keira and pointed at a stack of drawers. "By the way, that package over there is for you."

The mechanic glanced at the boxy object, wrapped in plain, undyed paper. It sat on top of the drawers, small and unremarkable. She had noticed it earlier but thought nothing of it. There were always mysterious parcels coming and going. She might have asked what it was, but the manager had already vanished. Instead, she went to open the package, and her face lit up. Inside was a weathered old tome, hardbound and inked with plain dark letters.

"What is it?" Ryker asked.

"A book," Keira replied, reverently running her fingers over the cover.

The racer leaned over her shoulder for a better look. "Haven: A History," he read, "Sounds riveting."

Despite his sarcasm, her spirit was soaring. Though she had recently discussed her desire for a history book with Vivian, she never anticipated the manager would go out of her way to acquire one. This was precisely the type of text that was kept under lock and key at the library, and the answers she had been searching for may very well lay within its pages. "How do you think she got it?" she wondered aloud as she leafed through.

"Viv has plenty of connections even I don't know about, so it's hard to say." He gave a noncommittal shrug. "What do you want with a boring old book like that anyway?"

"Ever the scholar, eh, Ryker?" Tess needled.

Keira grinned, and her eager eyes settled upon a map of Haven's corner of the continent. "So long as I'm in this city I figure it can't hurt to learn about its hist—" As she took in the depicted geography she was robbed of further speech. Much of it was unfamiliar, notably the sprawling Wasteland that spread over the earth like a barren blanket, but there were certain landmarks she recognized near the southeastern coast—the ruins of an old Precursor citadel, the white-capped peak of Snowy Mountain, the volcanic grounds of Fire Canyon. Each familiar feature led to another and another, stringing together a tapestry she knew but couldn't comprehend. By the time she found Haven City, neighbored just off the coast by small and craggy Misty Island, the book quaked in her trembling hands.

"What's wrong?"

She glanced up to find Ryker frowning at her, concerned and confused, and found she had no words with which to respond.

"Hagai."

He said the name with enough force to snap her out of it, and she closed the book so hard there was a sharp thwap. "Nothing! Nothing's wrong. I'm just going to put this away, and we should get to work before Vivian comes back."

Before he could say anything to the contrary, she made a beeline for the small lounge that served as her bedroom and pulled its patchwork olive green curtain shut behind her.

Jak regarded the light fixture in the ceiling, tallying each time it flickered on and off. Just when he thought there was a recognizable rhythm to it, it would break with the pattern he imagined and reset his count to zero. With every irregular cycle, his stone-faced expression would calcify a little more, and his boredom grew more oppressive.

How long had it been since his spectacular failure of an escape attempt? His thoughts aimlessly meandered through the memory of that first day as they had innumerable times.

Within an hour of his scuffle with the guards, the door opened again. In came two new guards and a medic to tend to his injuries, a thin man who wouldn't speak or look him in the eye. The prisoner's blood was drawn, his forehead and toe were cleaned and bandaged, and his shattered foot was encased in a cast. This surprised him. These didn't seem like civilized jailors, so why heal him? Why not let him rot? Not long afterward he received his first meal through the slot in the base of the door, its reservoirs slopped with gruel and mushy vegetables. Again he was surprised. While plain in flavor and disgusting in texture, the food was not without nutritional value. It was as though they were trying to keep him healthy.

With no social interaction, no clock, and no window to the outside, Jak soon lost count of how many days he had sat in that same prison cell, frequently staring at the same dark eco stain. Aside from medical visits to check on the condition of his cast and eventually remove it, he was in solitary confinement. Footsteps would occasionally echo in the halls, but once he was healed they always passed on. There was no one to see and nothing to do. At least once his cast was off he could throw himself into exercise, but all too much of his time was spent doing nothing at all.

And so Jak would let his mind wind wander, endlessly retreading the same lines of thought. Would he ever see the sun again? Why had the corpse oozed dark eco? Where were his companions? He had no idea if Samos and Keira had even landed in the same place, but Daxter was another story.

It didn't take long after Jak's incarceration to realize that, for the first time in his life, his friend had abandoned him. Instead of standing his ground when the KG showed up he ran away. Why now? They had been in plenty of life-threatening situations before, but the more time passed the more convinced he became that Daxter was gone for good. It stung him deeply, brewing resentment and magnifying his loneliness.

There were times when Jak was overcome by bouts of hysteria. He would scream, he would beat the walls with his fists, and he would weep like a child. Never before had he experienced such violent torrents of emotion, and the shame of it ate away at his psyche. He never felt more pitiful or powerless in his life. Existing alone and unstimulated in crushing silence was slowly driving him insane.

The quiet was interrupted on rare occasions—sometimes Jak would hear screams. It was diminished such that it was obviously far away yet still so piercing that it seemed the victim was all too close. The horrible noise would usually only go on for a minute or two, but it felt much longer than that.

On one day like any other, Jak was contemplating the reason for his incarceration when he heard several pairs of feet thumping in the hallway. Knowing they would pass by, he didn't even look up. But then he heard the lock clank and the hinges screech as the cell door swung open, and he stared into the glowing vermillion eyes of a guard's helmet. Several of them walked in, and one gruffly commanded, "Get up."

When Jak failed to immediately comply, one roughly grabbed his arm and yanked him to his feet. He winced but didn't make a sound.

Handcuffed and encircled by his captors, he was marched out of his cell and down a long corridor. They passed what seemed to be hundreds of numbered doors identical to his before they entered a cavernous chamber. Straining to look over the taller shoulders of the guards, Jak saw the room was lined in cells and catwalks. Barred sconces cast a chartreuse glow, and acrid steam rose from vents in the floor. There was a warp gate on the far side, but it was inactive. A small platform, connected to the main walkway by a bridge, rose out of a gaping pit lined in yet more cells. Atop the platform sat a steel chair armed with restraints and reclined to angle toward a massive machine above.

Jak involuntarily shivered as his eyes swept over the length of the mechanism. The overall effect was not unlike a three-armed top, suspended from the ceiling by a pillar of luminescent orange circuitry and bulging pipes. Each mechanical arm sported devilish apparatuses, all pointing threateningly at the chair below along with the main column.

The guards led Jak over the bridge toward the platform and three people who stood waiting. One appeared to be some sort of scientist and wore a white lab coat. The man who had arrested him stood to the left, grinning maliciously. The third was a new face. Half a face at least, Jak thought to himself when he noticed the right side of the man's head was covered not in flesh but metal plating. He towered over the other two, his intimidating bulk afforded a regal air by the meticulously groomed beard of auburn and gray sprouting around his mouth. His shining silver armor was accented by swathes of red cloth, and a sword hung from his oversized leather belt. A plate shielding his abdomen bore an emblem, a half skull over a blade—a fitting symbol for a man who looked every inch a ruthless predator.

The closer Jak drew to them, however, the less he paid attention. He became wholly fixated on the machine. It filled his entire being with dread so powerful his leaden feet grew heavier with each step. Only by reminding himself of the soldier's weapons and the pit below was he able to force himself forward.

The bearded man scowled and gestured at Jak with an open palm. "This is your prime specimen?" he scoffed, "He's just some punk kid!"

The redhead soldier countered, "He may be young, Baron Praxis, but my scientists tell me he has great potential. He shows the residual effects of advanced eco channeling."

"The best eco channelers all but vanished after the Metal Heads appeared."

"Even so, the data is unmistakable. He has the most potential of any subject we've seen."

"I don't want potential, Commander, I want results," Praxis growled, and he studied Jak without a trace of empathy. His one eye narrowed. "He's awfully quiet. Usually, they're begging for their lives by now."

"The boy is mute, Your Eminence."

"Really?" That seemed to intrigue the Baron. He stalked forward, his considerable height growing more domineering with every step, and snatched Jak's chin with a large, unyielding hand. The prisoner was helpless to do anything but flinch and endure the dehumanizing scrutiny like livestock. He could feel the wet heat of the Baron's breath, a sour warmth that quickened the rise and fall of his own chest.

"...How old is he?"

"We've placed his age around seventeen."

"That makes him the youngest one yet… May you last longer than the others."

Praxis released Jak and nodded at the guards. With the obedient efficiency of trained crocadogs, they proceeded to remove his handcuffs and manhandle him into the chair. Panicking, he fought back and succeeded in getting an arm free long enough for his fist to make contact with one of the soldier's exposed ears and send its owner staggering backward. He almost managed to leap off the chair when the other two tackled and wrestled him into a tenuous submission. They held his arms and legs down and latched the restraints into place.

Their task done, the guards stepped back from the chair and watched as he struggled against his bonds. No matter how hard he wrenched, Jak couldn't free his wrists and ankles. There were only bruises and chafed skin to be won. Primordial fear began to seep into his mind like melting ice. He looked first at the scientist, then the commander, and last the Baron, his desperate gaze imploring.

Praxis looked dispassionately back. "Let's begin, Erol."

The redhead nodded and spoke, it seemed, to thin air, "Initiate Dark Eco Injection Cycle."

"Initiating Dark Eco Injection Cycle," responded a computer-generated woman's voice.

A sinister clanking sounded in the machine above, and Jak futilely recoiled like a cornered animal. Several consecutive layers, each smaller than the previous one, slowly extended down from the center of the column. The last layer contained the instrument-laden tip of the machine, three long and vicious needles that hovered mere inches from his breast. He broke out into a cold sweat as he stared wide-eyed at the ominous contraption. Then everything stopped moving.

The scared teenager released the breath he didn't know he was holding, his racing pulse thundering in his ears. Was that it? A low humming noise vibrated from above, a sinister answer to his question. His very bones quivered as they resonated with the sound. It slowly built upon itself, rising in intensity until it was a throbbing pitch. Just when he thought he could stand no more the sound shattered into a sizzling cacophony and violet rays of dark eco erupted from the needles, arcing into his body.

Jak's flesh exploded with such agony that he couldn't hear the pure, primal scream tearing out of his own throat. His heart pounded relentlessly, forcing out blood that savagely hammered through his distended veins. Every muscle, every nerve, every inch of skin bunched and burned as if he were being flayed alive. So violent was the stimulation it felt like his very cells would rupture and disintegrate, leaving what consciousness he had adrift in an infinite ocean of pain. Driven by instinct and wailing without end, he arched against the restraints, endeavoring to free his limbs till his wrists and ankles grew slick with red.

If he had the mental capacity he would have tried retreating into his head and escaping to a place where the eco couldn't touch him. He would have thought of Daxter reducing him to tears with laughter. He would have recalled Samos scolding him for running off to Misty Island. He would have remembered Keira kissing him for the very first time.

But the dark eco was inescapable. It devoured his flesh, mind, and soul, dragging him into darkness so complete not even his memories could survive.