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NINE
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He always acted like it was the first time it had happened. Like it was the first time he had ever lost control, or his eyesight had zeroed out into some hellish heat-vision and he could hear pulses in the air. Teeth itching. Claws like black calcium extensions of his hot bones—claws, he had claws.
He always acted like it was the first time he'd wanted to kill someone for no reason at all.
But it had happened, because of who had ultimate power over him: who managed his miserable half-life. It was dirty, low. Painful. But he almost welcomed the hellish abandon sometimes, for the brief respite the diluted, protein-laced light eco provided him after it ripped its way through his wet blackened insides. That… return to his old self.
He wasn't quite sure what his 'old self' was, but it was better than his day-to-day self. Night-to-night shell, rather. It was better. More happy. Less… headache. Drifty.
Human.
Darkroot didn't have pure Dark eco in it, and even if it didn't burn his skin like the real stuff did, it still had problems. As the years went by, he had to smoke more of it to last through the night. More, always more. Even then, he didn't make it. Adrenaline burned the watery substitute out, leaving him near breaking point at the end of each race.
The next race would always be to the nearest bar.
Liquor, he learned, helped. Made the Dark eco last longer, and kept his head clear. He turned into a very, very good drinker. Never had a hangover: dark eco ate up the alcohol in his system, and all of its effects. His liver was flawless and would be 'till he died. He was never sick. Someone with the bubonic plague could roll over him in the nude, and he could come away smeared with pustules, putrid phlegm dripping from his mouth, a quart of puss in his stomach, lining his throat: a simple bath and a toothbrush would clear it away.
He was invincible. It was a tested theory: he could not die. He could not die… and you always want what you just can't have. It's part of being human, and it was the only part of humanity he had left. Everything else, he knew, was long gone.
It wouldn't be long before Daxter knew that—realized that he'd known it for months--and he'd be alone again. Another binge, another purge. Another person, staggering away from his life a little more battered than they came into it.
And it always seemed like it was the first time it'd happened.