Chapter 13, The Day After – Dusk
Begin Introspection. Serial code: Daxter.
… bwuhthehell?
End Introspection.
Jak left the HQ in a sort of daze, hardly even noticing where his feet were taking him.
Before he knew it he was moving through the sewers and splashing through the dirty, stinking waters, largely illuminated only by the flashes of light when he fired his gun. At least, the adrenaline served to wake him up. There wasn't just that, though.
Feeling, each moment, like Erol was watching and smiling from somewhere behind him. Knowing that he was alone, and curious as to why.
Nothing happened, but Jak couldn't let it go. Didn't want to.
A mad thought stuck in his brain while he slouched through the dark, slimy corridors, stupid and unshakeable. If he had to go through that feeling of being watched for too long, he'd probably find himself standing on a rooftop shouting at Erol to come out and face him.
It was too familiar, maybe just his paranoia; old fears from the prison of never being out of sight, always guarded – but he wouldn't wager it. When it came down to it… right then, Erol was nothing but a diversion, something just bad enough to take his mind of things.
Because that thump of Daxter's hand on the sink rolled in his ears, and those wide open, shocked eyes was all Jak saw as soon as he stopped to catch his breath.
In compare to that, Jak would have even preferred to hear that hollow, metallic voice calling his name. He could have hated Erol more than he hated himself right then.
To scare Daxter was the one thing he never should have been able to do. What he did in their room hadn't been a newly born crazy alter ego he couldn't control. It had been him.
And Daxter had never been so scared of Dark Jak that he fell mute.
Jak hardly even noticed the sunlight when he climbed out of the sewers and made his way towards the pier, towards his ride far, far away.
It all came down to that Jak already was in a bad mood when he began his journey back to Spargus. It didn't get any better, either.
The long trip in the air train stretched out for eternity behind him as he stepped out into the desert – hours of nothing but his own thoughts. No stream of words washing over him and keeping him from thinking.
He really needed to fight something big.
In the face of that knowledge, it was almost a relief to hear a familiar voice shout at him the moment the city gates opened before him.
"Oi, poppy!"
Only almost a relief, however, because even if Kleiver was good at finding harsh work, it could never, ever be a completely good thing to be noticed by that man.
"Perfect timin'," the huge man rumbled as he stalked across the open area between cars.
Jak took a few steps closer to meet him, but did not reply. For a moment the gaze from the mean little pig eyes went up and down the blond youth, and it seemed like a real danger that there would be questions about the lack of "rat". In the end though, Kleiver seemed to decide that he didn't really care whether or not Jak had finally made lunch out of his pet.
"We've got a coupl'a boys stranded out there with a broken Shark," Kleiver said, jabbing a thumb at the wall which kept the desert out. "'Less you're so mellowed from your weekend in the big smoke that ye can't handle any real action, I want you to take a mechanic out there to get them and the car back."
It sounded disappointing to Jak's ears, at first. In his current state of mind he would have much preferred a hunting trip. Then again, things never went as easy as Kleiver liked to make them sound – just to give poor little newbies healthy doses of shock.
"I'll go," Jak said.
"Good widdle poppy," Kleiver said with a smirk.
While Jak rolled his eyes, the huge man turned around.
"Hey, Zem! Git yer useless ass out here, I found you a ride!" he bellowed.
"Yeah, yeah…"
A tall shadow stepped out from behind a ragged Desert Screamer, shielding his eyes from the sun with a huge hand. The other hand held on to a dully gray tool box.
The man took a couple of steps closer until both he and Jak managed to get a proper look at each other in the glaring sunlight. A foot froze in mid step, lips parting in a sound that never made it.
Jak's eyebrows sunk.
The mechanic was tall, probably almost at Sig's height. And like Sig, his skin was dark – but a deeper, colder hue. A thin, black braid hung down over his shoulder, hair falling out of it and clinging to the sweaty neck.
But the most prominent thing of all were the grey tattoos embedded in his skin. The depth of his color made them harder to spot, but they were definitely there.
Ex-KG, and one not exactly delighted to see who his driver was from the look of things.
Jak threw a glare at Kleiver – and as he did, he didn't notice that the mechanic's frozen expression cracked in a similar scowl at the same person. Both of them silently questioning the fat walrus if there was no other mechanic he could spare.
Kleiver's wicked grin replied that sure, he could. He just didn't feel like it.
It wasn't worth an argument – even in his aggravated state Jak recognized that. Kleiver would be the only one getting anything out of it, and he wouldn't change his mind. He would, however, be delighted to make comments about whiners.
Letting out a deep breath, Jak walked over to his own Sand Shark and climbed in, waving at the mechanic – Zem, was it? – to climb in. The Gila Stomper may have been a better choice in case they would have to pull the broken vehicle back to Spargus, but the Shark was quick and could get the job done.
Besides, it was much closer by and Jak wasn't in a patient mood to start with. Everything so far was bad enough, having to spend time with an ex seemed to be the world's way of icing the crap cake.
Once he sat in the driver's seat, however, Jak tried to get a grip of himself.
He could deal with this. It wasn't like every ex in Spargus was a scumbag, even if most of them kept a careful/distrustful distance. He never had a problem with Torn being an ex-KG back in the day before they knew each other that well.
Then again, in that time, Jak hadn't yet understood what the tattoos meant. For all he had known then, it was something every other person got themselves in that strange, cruel world he had been dumped in.
Torn and Ashelin were alright. More than half the Freedom League soldiers were ex-KGs, many wary of him but not all of them aversive of throwing a grateful shout after him when he dashed in to save their sorry hides once a week.
Jak looked up and quirked an eyebrow as the mechanic clumsily climbed into the passenger seat of the Shark. He moved stiffly, avoiding to look at the blond driver. When he finally sat down his toolbox heavily landed in his lap, huge dark hands curling around the handle.
Without a word, Jak turned his head to the side to look a full question at the other man. Zem immediately leaned even harder against the car's frame, looking very much like he would gladly leap out of the vehicle right there and then.
It would have been so much better if Daxter had been there. He would have asked this bleedin' weirdo just how bad he had gotten beaten up by Haven's blond wonder before getting tossed into the giant sandlot.
But without Daxter there to smoothen it out, all there was in the car was a tattooed giant of a man just waiting to be attacked by a crazy demon.
Jak grit his teeth and looked ahead, turning the engine key with whitening fingers.
He did not need this kind of bullshit right now.
The Shark's engine came alive with a loud humming, and the vehicle rolled forwards. Jak focused on steering through the parking lot, not acknowledging anything else until the gate slid close behind them.
"Where to?" he growled without looking around.
From the corner of his eyes he still noticed Zem twitching at the sound. That did it. This time, the mechanic got a glare.
It almost flattened him against the car's side.
"I'm not going to tear your throat out!" Jak snarled.
Despite what he said, he found himself baring his teeth and quickly withdrew, inwardly cursing and trying to sear the desert ahead of them with his scowl.
"Okay, okay, okay… I got you."
The voice was deep and hoarse, but Zem didn't clear his throat in an attempt to speak clearer. He plucked his communicator from his belt and unfolded it, speaking quickly while it hummed to life.
"They're on the other side of the ruins and then a bit west," he said. "I'll get the coordinates in a sec…"
Jak just grunted in reply.
This trip made the lonesome hours in the air train seem pleasant in compare. Zem couldn't have been more aggravating if he had been constantly talking or even throwing insults. That would be a frustration Jak at least felt familiar with. The mute fear seeping from the huge man was something else, something of the nameless masses that had condemned their once "hero" to a death in the wasteland without even having seen him in person.
They did not exchange another word apart from brief directions from Zem, his gaze glued to the communicator as he spoke. When they finally – after what certainly felt like weeks to both of them – rolled over the top of a dune and spotted a dark smear looking like a car in the waves of heat ahead, the mechanic folded up the communicator and tried to straighten up.
"There," he muttered.
Jak didn't even bother to reply to that. For a couple of seconds it seemed like that would be it, but Zem suddenly reached up to scratch his cheek, hard.
"I- I, uh…"
He pinched his eyes shut.
"I've got a… history," he said, hoarser than ever. "But I ain't… angry at you, I just…"
The hand fell from his face and he turned away slightly.
"Sorry."
It was spoken low to start with, almost made impossible to hear over the engine. Jak still caught it, raising his eyebrows. There had been a lot of apologies flung his way lately, after Torn and Ashelin's official ones many others had followed. Very few of them had, however, sounded believable to him.
There wasn't a question about whether or not this one was honest or not. There was something else, something hoarse and trembling in the voice, in the way Zem's lips were pressed shut now.
Something was off, and Jak didn't like it. He still felt prompted to speak, however.
"I'm not going to kill you," he said, rehashing with some improvement what he had said earlier. It worked as an acknowledgement, but not a pardon. He didn't know what Zem meant, and he didn't want to know, that was all.
Zem flinched, but did not say anything more.
As they came closer, a man stood up in the shadow of the unmoving car and waved. A moment later the rescuers were close enough to see that there was a second wastelander waiting. This one, however, remained sitting – leaning heavily against one of the wheels, his head hanging low and his right arm in a dirty sling. He looked up and squinted when Jak rolled in beside the Shark and turned off the engine.
Sweat glistened on gray tattoos as the wounded man moved.
Another one.
"I was getting worried," the standing wastelander said – his face, at least, free of gray patches. His lips twitched when he spotted the mechanic. "Don't be too harsh on me, now, I didn't ram him on purpose."
He pointed down the hill, and moving to look around the wrecked Shark the newcomers spotted the dark shape of a typical wasteland metal head – a giant lizard armed to its teeth. The tracks in the sand showed that it had been charging, the flung to the side and tumbled down the dune.
That would explain the big dent on the front of the Shark. Zem was already eying it, annoyance seeping from his very being.
On his side, Jak had spent the same time looking at the metal head, fingers absently twitching just at the thought of fighting more of them. It was a blunt thrill Haven never could offer – not beyond that one metalpede, and that had not been a situation that allowed for a fair fight.
He turned around only to come face to face with a not at all unfriendly grin.
"Kleiver oughta think we're in real trouble if he's sending someone like you," the wastelander said.
In his state of mind Jak didn't feel much at all for the half-veiled respect, but he managed to stretch his lips a tiny bit.
Daxter would have loved it – though he would have showed it by demanding more of the same, and aimed his way. But Daxter wasn't there.
It was the one thing Jak could not forget for a moment.
"Yer an asskisser, Nidle," came a gruff snarl from the ground a few feet away.
The fourth wastelander seemed to have woken up, narrowing his eyes at all of them. At this distance it became apparent that he seemed to have some trouble focusing his eyes – which also underlined the fact that there had been a bit of a slur when he spoke.
"Arch there isn't feeling so good," Nidle said, rolling his eyes and jabbing a thumb at the ex-KG slouching against the Shark.
All three of them got an unfocused glare in return for that comment, but the wounded man didn't say anything. Nidle gave him a warning glance just to be sure, then continued in a lower voice.
"Just ignore him, his mind's with the birdies right now. I messed up a little when I gave him painkillers for his arm."
Zem made an annoyed sound, but turned and walked over to open the car's hood instead of commenting. As he bent over the engine, another, and much more acidic, annoyed sound was heard.
Nidle gave him an odd look, as if he had been expecting something more from the mechanic. Yet Zem didn't even look up, not even when he was called.
"Hey, can you fix it?" Nidle asked.
"I'll give it a shot, but you may as well prepare to get dragged back home," Zem replied, digging in his tool box.
Letting out a loud sigh, Nidle let his head drop to the side. A moment passed, and then he caught Jak's eye.
"I'll get the rope if you'd move up in front of us."
He turned and walked over to the broken Shark without waiting for more than a nod. A clanking and rustle rose up seconds later, as a big hand started rummaging around in the back of the car.
Jak started back towards his own car, when a slurring voice stopped him.
"Figures Kleiver would send the cavalierly to get us killed."
Unsteadily, Arch worked his way to his feet and leant against the car. Jak tried to make himself not look around, but he could see the motion in the corner of his eye – and a thought flashed briefly, an instinctual wonder at why Daxter didn't retort.
Then he clenched his teeth and began walking again. Not worth it, just ignore it, a drunk… high moron and nothing else. The sound of Nidle searching for the rope had stopped.
"What's the matter, freak?" Arch snarled. "Not up for tearing limbs off'a cripples today?"
"Arch!" Nidle snapped, but the damage was done.
Jak turned around, hands curling into fists. Yet he remained still and only glared back, even as Arch took a couple of not too steady steps forwards. Too close, too close, but he wouldn't retreat for an idiot of an intoxicated ex.
"Cool it, man," Zem hissed, poking up from the engine to wave a hand at Arch.
The other ex turned his head, bleary eyes narrowed at the attempt at a calming motion. A snort, and then a drawling growl.
"Shut up. Fucking coaltop…"
Jak had once, and only once – because according to Jinx, it only happened about once every third year – borne witness to a very, very drunk man throwing a racial slur at Sig.
It had been a late night at the Hip Hog, at that time, and Sig had been assigned the job as a temporary bouncer. People tended to look at the time with just a glare and jab of a huge thumb, but some morons were too intoxicated to think that far. Most often though, it ended with a verbal hint.
Not that time.
As soon as the two words "mud flaps" had entered the air, everything seemed to stop. The silent "uh-oh" was deafening, but the drunkard didn't even seem to notice it.
There had been barely contained distaste on Sig's face when the argument first started. That changed in a second.
Three booths away, Daxter ducked down Jak's shirt.
The idea had from the start been that the drunkard was to be thrown out.
And he was. He just had to come back for a few teeth later. And be dragged out of the harbor water, before that.
Violence might not kill racism, but it sure gives a bit of momentary satisfaction.
Zem did not have the power to change the atmosphere like Sig could, but he himself changed. Dark lips drawing back from his in compare eerily bright teeth and eyes narrowing, all that pathetic meekness was gone in a flash.
Apparently though, it was not noticed by the one it was aimed at.
"Get back t' work, I ain't talking to you," Arch snarled, sweeping his arm out at Jak. "'m talking to this fuckin' eco freak-"
The backhand flared against the bright sky and blazing sand, and deep down, Jak knew that by that distance it would safely pass several inches away from his face. That knowledge stood no chance against the far stronger instinct, the one that only knew of tattooed faces and static laughter and hard gloves.
Before he even had finished a single thought his arm flew up to block, and Arch's wrist collided with it.
It only earned him the swaying ex's full attention. The bleary eyes turned to Jak again, thinning with fury.
"You pickin' a fight?"
"That's enough, Arch!" Nidle shouted. But nobody listened to him.
Jak met the not too focused glare without a word, drawing back his hand to his side. It wasn't worth it, it wasn't worth it-
"Thinkin' yer so great 'cause you're a good driver, eh?" Arch sneered. He jabbed a finger at Jak's chest. "Even Damas wants ya dead."
Jak caught the man's wrist in an iron grip before the unsteady finger managed to actually touch what it was jabbing at. Not even this and the sliver of teeth showing stopped Arch.
"Whaddaya think he sent Sig at ya in the arena for?" The smirk grew wider, catching on to the tiniest hint of a flinch. "He sure don't want him dead."
Jak opened his mouth, but no reply formed within his mind.
He had avoided thinking about that. Of all things, he had made himself absolutely, under no circumstance, even consider that one thing. Because he had known that he had no explanation, no sensible reason.
Nails digging into palm and a dangerous whisper in his ears liar liar liar liar shut up-
A shadow fell over the two of them, a huge palm slamming into Arch's chest and sending him stumbling backwards, the surprise loosening the grip holding him. At the same time, the intruder's other hand crunched down over Jak's shoulder and shoved him further away.
"I oughta-!"
Zem's growl was cut short as a smaller hand closed around his wrist and ripped his hand away. He turned, anger draining into a look of pure horror the moment he met Jak's eyes. The smaller hand more threw aside the wrist than let go, and Zem recoiled as if bitten.
For the first time since he had left his own car, Jak spoke.
"Don't touch me. Ever."
"Ah- I- r-right…" The rage that had changed Zem for the briefest moment deflated, and he stepped several more steps backwards.
In the background Arch started to say something again, when there was a sudden thunk and the paler ex fell with glazed eyes. Rolling his eyes, Nidle stepped back and massaged the edge of his hand.
"Sorry about that," he said, then bent down to grab Arch's limp form and drag it back into the shadow.
Jak hardly heard him, stalking back to his car and climbing in to drive it up in front of the Shark. Once he held on to the wheel he could hardly remember how to let go, clenching his fingers around the hot leather until his entire arms shook.
Nobody said a word to explain what Arch had said about Damas. Daxter wasn't there to make it better.
Daxter just wasn't there.
While Jak was still heading through the sewers, amusing himself with the age old art of mentally kicking himself senseless, Daxter finally made his way out of his living quarters.
He could not have recalled the last hour if he tried. It may have involved a lot of sitting on the bathroom floor, but it was a guess as good as any.
His chin was still as unshaven as he had found it after the shower.
Blank eyes scanning the walls and floor before him, idle and uninterested even as he moved. There really was no plan, and he only vaguely registered the route when he realized where he was heading.
Just because there was no place else.
He went to the heart of the HQ, to the land of computers and frowns, where Ashelin reigned supreme and everyone spent all day reading reports and listening for calls for help coming in from the soldiers in the city. Mostly calls for Torn to come and save them.
Daxter went there knowing that he wasn't wanted. Went there despite the fact that being a pain in the ass currently lacked its usual charm. Still, even their annoyance that didn't mean anything right then was better than the uninterrupted chug of his own thoughts.
He had wanted to go outside – not too far, of course, in case there would be any nasty surprise attacks – and just get a proper feel of his recovered body. Just move about, run a little, maybe scale a tree (all in spite of what he had promised Jak, of course). Pretend that he was still in Sandover, maybe. But ever since Jak left, Daxter hadn't felt like it anymore.
The door to the computer hall opened, and the redhead found himself mostly ignored. Except for by one.
"Aark! The rat problem is getting bigger!"
Pecker shot up from his resting place on Onin's basket hat, flapping out of reach as quickly as he could.
"Can it, bird brain!" Daxter grumbled back.
He had wanted to chase Pecker down too, yet even that didn't seem interesting anymore. Only sparing the bird one acidic glare, Daxter flung himself into a chair – a little harder than he should have, as the creaking startled him a little. Luckily enough, the piece of furniture held up.
He still had to get used to actually weighing something.
Grumbling to himself, he crashed an elbow on the chair's armrest and leant his face against a fist, crushing his lips against the hard ridge of knuckles. After a moment, he fell silent and closed his eyes.
What… the… hell?
Something had happened that could not have happened. What had he been drinking yesterday? What had Jak been drinking?
Daxter ground his lips against his teeth with the fist until it hurt, trying to get rid of the memory of Jak's… what Jak had done.
He couldn't freaking deal with this. What… the… hell? Jak was his best friend. A guy! Best guy friend! The guy Daxter knew since forever and inside out! There was no way he'd want to k… do something like that, not to a guy. Not to his partner in crime. For starters, Daxter would have known about it.
He would have.
As close friends as they were, as close as they had lived for years-
Daxter bit his knuckles as a choking heat flared up across his face.
Curling up on Jak's chest and creeping into his shirt for protection and Jak holding him close and Jak had seen him naked yesterday and what had Jak been thinking about?
The fist muffled a strangled sound escaping Daxter's chest.
He felt like he would throw up.
His stomach rolled for a moment, but then it froze as frigid guilt poured through his being.
"I'm not going to move."
How could he, dared he think about Jak like that? Jak, whom he just up and left to two years of hell, but who forgave him and still kept him safe no matter what? Jak, who would throw away his gun and raise his arms in defeat for the off chance that it may save his best friend?
And just two days later, was that best friend no better than those who yelled "eco freak"?
He might still throw up.
But why had Jak kissed him?
Daxter pulled a face behind his fist as the k-word finally made it through his mental filter. Damn. Damn, damn, damn! What… the… hell?
How had Jak expected him to react to that?
More importantly… what did Jak want from him now? Daxter suppressed a shudder, then hated himself for it. He just didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to think about that maybe he didn't have a best friend anymore, not if that best friend asked things of him that he couldn't give.
But Jak wouldn't… leave him behind. Not any worse than he was doing now, this was necessity. He'd come back.
The prospect of seeing Jak again made Daxter crunch his eyes shut even tighter. He couldn't deal right now, just couldn't. How could he ever?
Maybe, maybe this separation now was a good thing, right now. But then, would Jak have kissed him if they wouldn't spend time apart?
No… no, Jak didn't run away from things unless it was really, really, really bad.
… this was worse. And he should have known that. He shouldn't have kissed his best friend in the first place.
He shouldn't have done that.
"Well, somebody's looking under the feather."
Daxter nearly jumped out of his skin as Pecker plopped down on the chair's other armrest.
"Get lost before I pluck all of your feathers, birdie," the redhead muttered, turning further away.
"Aiaiai," Pecker said, sweeping a bright blue wing at Daxter's cheek and then quickly flying away from the half-hearted smack coming his way. "If you're not going to put your soul in it, there's no sport in indulging you."
"Get cooked!"
Despite the angry shout however, Daxter did not even make a motion to stand up.
He didn't see Keira watching him with a raised eyebrow. Even Samos gave him a glance that lacked the usual acid. Torn and Ashelin, meanwhile, did not even look up – writing off the shout as nothing worse or less than any other of Daxter's outbursts.
They had not known him for most of their lives.
Pecker flapped back to the unmoving Onin – perhaps she was sleeping, Daxter dully thought – and did not attempt to bother the gloomy redhead anymore. An uncanny silence followed, as Daxter sunk back into his brooding, tapping his finger against the armrest at a constantly changing, annoyed pace.
A sixth sense made him glance up when from the corner of his eye he noticed Samos wobbling over to one of the smaller computers. The sage pushed a button, stopping a blinking green light. A voice buzzed, but it was too far away for Daxter to hear. After a couple of seconds Samos answered something and hit button again. He turned around, meeting Daxter's eye for a brief moment.
"Jak made it through the sewers," Samos announced. "He's leaving the city now."
Daxter flinched and stared at the floor. A sound of acknowledgement was heard from Ashelin, but Torn and Pecker probably just nodded. Daxter wouldn't know, fully occupied with trying to figure out what the hell he thought about Jak heading off and away.
He did not pick up on the quick, light steps until a small, strong hand closed around his wrist and he was hauled to his feet, blinking in surprise at Keira. She most decisively nodded towards the door and proceeded to drag him along towards it, and out into the corridor. Well outside, she continued down the hallway at a quick pace. It took Daxter a moment to adjust to her speed, his own legs a bit stiff and unused to almost having to jog. This did of course not stop him to repeatedly ask her what the deal was.
"You look like you need a talk," she finally said over her shoulder.
"Ah dammit," Daxter said, trying to sound perfectly jolly though his stomach tried to turn into a knot. "I hate it when you ladies say stuff like that…"
It did not take too many turns before he knew where they were going.
In these full-blown-war days, Keira did not work on fixing and building racing zoomers or creating rift riders. She lived closer to the surface than most of the rest of the team, making herself useful by repairing damaged military vehicles. To make things easier for her, she had been assigned a room at the same level as the garage.
Right then, that didn't matter much beyond the point that she did not drag Daxter along to her room, but to the garage. A big double door finally opened for the two of them, washing out a wave of chilly air smelling of metal.
The garage was large, but not huge – one of many such places, though this was the central one, as part of the vastly equipped underground HQ. Haven could not afford the risk of keeping all their weapons and vehicles in one single place, had not done so since the beginning. So they had various places to store everything important, ready to be called upon if need be. Daxter thought he recalled something about this particular garage being a leftover from before Praxis' time – he had used it of course, but like so much else he had not built it. Mar probably had, like everything else – that or Jak's dad or granddad maybe, Daxter had always lazily figured about these kind of things.
Right now, there wasn't much action going on down there, from the looks of it. A couple of mechanics could be seen further down the underground parking lot, waving at Keira in the dusty glare of the lamps lining the dent between ceiling and walls. Or rather what remained of the walls, since everything was set up like a stable for military cruisers.
A few blue vehicles were left in their little homes on either side of the garage, the paint flaking and leaving the red beneath painfully visible.
There was probably a big door somewhere that opened to let all of the big bad fighters out, but Daxter had no interest nor time to reflect on it. Keira turned just after the door and dragged him off towards a corner, where a grayish door awaited.
Behind that was, as it turned out, what looked like a coffee room. A very simple kitchen – sink and coffee pot – and a table, both wearing dark, circular stains of many, many cups. A few chairs seemed to have been randomly placed all over the room, and in the far back there was a small, worn sofa. It was to that which Keira headed, then pushed Daxter down to sit on it. He looked up, quirking a nervous eyebrow.
"I've known you forever, Daxter. What's wrong?" Keira asked, punctuating her question by waving her finger about two inches from his nose.
She left it mercifully unsaid that anyone could see that something was wrong.
"Oh it's just… well, ya know, not-"
Daxter cleared his throat, setting his mind as straight as he could.
"It just kinda sucks finally being back to normal when Haven is practically falling apart again, ya know?" he said, stretching his lips so far it hurt. "I can't really enjoy it like it oughta be."
She wasn't buying it, and her folded arms said so before she actually spoke. Though she did give him a second to breathe, before she verbally punched him in the gut.
"It's Jak."
But then, he had braced himself for the hit, so it didn't hurt so much. He got back on track almost immediately. Almost too quickly, actually.
"Aw sheez!" he said, slapping the air. "Who needs him? It's always Jak, Jak, Jak 'round this joint. We can all have a good time even without the blond wonder, can't we?"
Keira smiled a little.
"I miss him too, Daxter."
All air left the redhead. His shoulders fell.
"It oughta be tough for you," Keira said, sitting down beside him.
Once, he would have given his left arm – maybe – to have her move in so close to him on her own. But right now, Jak – the bastard – had made him too numb and confused to even appreciate Keira getting close and friendly.
"You haven't been apart since- for forever, right?" she said.
Daxter bit his lip, looking the other way.
"It's not… it's not just that…" he muttered.
She remained mercifully silent, just waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more, while he fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. Still, she kept waiting until he was ready.
Daxter gulped hard.
"Keira, don't hit me with the wrench, sugar-hun, just…" he forced himself to look at her for a moment. "Just why did'ya and Jak… y'know, break up?"
He didn't look, but he could guess that she bit her lip. Seemingly without thinking, she plucked a small wrench from some pocket and started turning it between her hands. Probably feeling better with something to keep her hands occupied, but it did not seem to work. The silence stretched until Daxter thought that he would explode, so much that when she breathed in to speak he cut her off.
"'Cause I think, think… he never told me, see, and I think he's really…"
Daxter gulped again, rubbing his neck.
"… Really, y'know, lonely."
Oh sweet merciful gods now she'll know he made a move on me! JAK! ME! ARGH WHAT the HELL-
When Keira finally spoke, Daxter was so engrossed in his personal mental screaming that he nearly jumped out of his skin for the second time in the last half hour. Even if she spoke so softly that it could hardly be heard.
"I don't know."
He glanced at her, but now she was the one who didn't look. She sat hunched, head dropping while the wrench kept twisting between her fingers.
"We never said anything about it, it just happened," she murmured.
A heavy feeling of regret cozily settled in Daxter's chest.
"Ah, Keira, babe, forget it, I'm sorry…"
She shook her head, but didn't straighten up.
"No, don't worry," she quickly said, a tiny smile in her voice. She shook her head again, cutting off another volley of stumbling attempts to patch up the mistake. "I just don't know."
One of her hands came up to cup her cheek, propping her up better than her neck seemed able to currently do.
"I just couldn't calm him down, I guess," she said. "He couldn't relax for long, he just wanted to keep moving."
"He does that all the time, it's nothing to worry about," Daxter said, trying to smile wider than he wanted to.
Keira let out a breath that sounded like half a chuckle.
"Yeah, I guess…" she mumbled. She took in a deep breath, and somehow Daxter managed to make himself wait and see. "I always worried about not being there if he needed me though. But, he's got you, right?"
Daxter choked out something like a weak laugh, trying not to let it sound too high pitched. It was pretty tough with the paranoid part of his mind hysterically screaming she knows she knows she KNOWS AAARGH!
Hence why he jumped when she touched his arm. Their gazes met in an instant, he being the one quickly looking the other way.
"Sorry, I didn't mean- he'll be back for you, Daxter," Keira gently said.
Oh. She'd meant it that way. Right, right. The Demolition Duo, always together, inseparable-even-if-you-use-a-crowbar way. Not the big-bad-hero-best-friend-suddenly-randomly-gay-for-you way.
Still…
AAAAAARGH!
He kept looking away, too afraid of freaking out to dare to say anything.
The hand fell from his arm back to Keira's knees, her voice softer than ever as she asked.
"Daxter, does he… does he have nightmares when you're there?"
Daxter's stomach turned to ice.
He stared down at the back of Keira's head, her teal hair falling down to hide her face.
"D-did you tell him what he screams?" Daxter croaked.
She shook her head.
"But you did hear him?" he insisted.
"Yeah…" she breathed, hoarsely. "'Don't touch me'."
Silence fell between them, cold and heavy. It lasted for what felt like hours, neither of them able to break it first. Daxter closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the hard wall.
His inner screaming had stopped, confusion and frustration frozen in Keira's words. Jak's words.
Cloth rustled softly, and he looked up when Keira straightened up. This time, he didn't turn away when their gazes met, even if the look in her pretty green eyes was painful.
"Does anyone else…?" she said, speaking low.
Daxter tiredly shrugged.
"Torn knows, but I think that's it. I told him not to tell Jak."
"That's good…"
Again silence fell, but its rule was short this time as they still looked at each other. Very soon, too soon, Keira drew in a short, vulnerable breath.
"Do you think…" she started.
But her voice broke.
Her dainty little fingers rose to her face, nails digging into the soft flesh of her upper lip. Daxter shuddered.
"I don't wanna think."
He turned away, fingers twisting around the hem of his shirt. Despite this, he could fully well note how Keira curled in on herself. Small shoulders rising as she hugged herself, raising up her feet on her tiptoes.
Before he knew it, Daxter had turned on his seat and put a hand on her shoulder. Keira gave a start, staring at him in surprise.
"You know babe, Jak wasn't ever reeeally angry at you for the whole Erol thing," Daxter said, talking a little too fast even for him. "He was just kinda worried outta his mind."
He realized the connotations of the last sentence too late, and made a face to cover up his flinch.
"Er, I mean, he knew that Gingerman was a psycho," he quickly said. "He just wasn't so sure if you knew."
"No…" Keira murmured, leaning back and closing her eyes. "No, I didn't."
They fell silent.
After a little while, Daxter's hand slid off Keira's shoulder and landed in his lap.
It was his turn to start when she suddenly straightened up. His curious gaze met with a determined look in her eyes.
"It just proves that he'll be back," she said, her voice steady. "No matter what."
Daxter's lips carefully stretched. Yeah, that was right, right? It'd be alright, Jak never let anything be wrong in the long run. He started to nod, opening his mouth to say something in agreement.
But then sweet little Keira, in blissful ignorance, punched him in the gut with her next line.
"We love him, right?" she said, smile brightening just a little bit for every word.
Until then, Daxter had managed to forget, for a little while, what had happened.
He bit the inside of his cheek hard not to scream, twisting his head to the side not to let Keira see his expression.
She gave a chuckle, and his hands clenched.
"It's not a manly thing to do, I guess," she said, weakly cheerful.
Oh. Right. She still didn't guess it, after all. But that didn't make her pick of words any less unpleasant.
"Ehehe…" Daxter muttered in an awkward laugh, rubbing his neck frantically. "S-sure aint."
He nervously glanced in Keira's direction when she touched his shoulder.
"So, feeling any better?" she asked.
No… yes… maybe?
"Yeah," Daxter said, in a voice so steady that it surprised him. "Thanks, babe."
She smiled then, the last remains of unease falling away from her face. Daxter really, really wished that what was on his mind could do the same. As she stood up he did the same, and they headed back together, chatting about anything but battles… and Jak.
By the entrance to the control room, Daxter declared that he wanted to do something. Keira just smiled and nodded without asking any questions. He turned around as the door opened to let her in, waving over his shoulder as he left.
He started walking again, and didn't stop. Roaming the underground corridors of the HQ, not caring where he went, only trying to avoid anyone he might know – and to keep moving, to strangle the thoughts rattling around in his head.
He pondered skipping food for the sake of not wanting company, but dinnertime found him too hungry to keep it up. For as long as possible he stayed away from the dining hall however, which saved him from coming face to face with most of the gang. When he got there and grabbed a tray and plate of stew from the cafeteria ladies, only a few nameless lower officials were around – and Torn sitting in a corner, reading reports while shoving down what was probably just enough food to keep him alive.
From what Daxter could tell, the commander had just started eating when the redhead got there, and he finished his meal a couple of minutes after Daxter had sat down by an empty table.
Hardly looking up Torn put his tray away and left, still reading reports. He escaped without even knowing that he'd never been at risk for a jibe about his eating habits. Even now, Daxter couldn't muster the wit.
He had a really bad feeling about the near future.
Unfortunately, he was proven right when he eventually went back to his and Jak's room – his room only for the moment, thank you – and looked around while pushing the door shut. The light was still on since he had left. He had not remembered to switch it off, which didn't surprise him much.
Everything looked too much the same, far too much. Impersonal like the blandest guestroom – just a bed with pale bedclothes, a small table beside it, a perfectly cubic bureau for storing a couple of changes of clothes, and the door to the bathroom (which Daxter very pointedly avoided looking at, for that matter). Daxter had often said that heroes deserved better, but then… it was far more luxurious than Spargus, and he and Jak both slept much better there than in Haven. Not that Daxter would ever admit it.
There was absolutely nothing for him to do here. But before, that had never been a problem because Jak had been there, and that was enough. Now though, he had no idea if he even wanted to see Jak again for quite a while.
Daxter finally let out a groan he had been holding back, sinking down onto the floor and cradling his head in his hands.
He had spent all evening turning it over in his head, but he was no closer to understanding now than he had been a few hours earlier. All he knew was that something had been made wrong that shouldn't possibly have been wrongable. And he was scared as hell of that change.
He needed to talk to Jak. More than anything else, he needed to get an explanation. To hear that it was just a really bad joke, if at all possible – but he couldn't really hold on to that crazy hope.
He needed that chat, he knew it. It would be easy too… Keira would surely lend him her communicator if he just said that he wanted to have a one on one conversation with Jak. But turning that thought over and over in his mind, Daxter only felt a cold nail crawl through his spine. He wasn't prepared for that, not yet.
How, just how could he not be prepared to talk to Jak?
His hands slipped down to his chest and he hugged himself tightly.
"Idiot… idiot, idiot, idiot!"
What would Jak tell him when they got a chance to talk? What would he ask of his childhood friend now? Daxter didn't want to think about that, least of all.
Maybe… maybe it would feel better tomorrow, when he'd slept on it all and wasn't so shell shocked? At least, he could give it a try. And if that didn't help at all – which the cynical part of Daxter's brain grimly believed true – then he could always get dead drunk.
And then again, if he did that then he'd probably end up declaring the disaster to the entire city, and that was definitely not a good idea.
And if he was brutally honest, he highly doubted that he would be able to get a wink of sleep, despite the fact that his legs ached from all the walking and his arms and shoulders reminded him of all the weapon practice he and Jak had done in the morning. Despite that, he could have been dead with exhaust and still doubted that he would get any decent sleep. Dragging himself up from the floor, Daxter resolved to at least give it a try, despite his skepticism.
Unfortunately, skepticism seemed to hold a steady grip of his fate that night.
After turning off the light he laid still in bed for a little while, but then he started tossing and turning in a futile search for a comfortable position. His own brain gave him no rest, rolling the thoughts that had haunted him during the day over and over again. There was no solution to find now either.
It continued for a couple of hours, he wasn't sure how long. After an eternity, he did manage to fall asleep, briefly – only to wake up with a start. Blinking at the darkness, confused for a few seconds. Then he rolled over and fumbled for Jak, too groggy to remember… only to recall the truth when he realized that he was alone. Mentally cursing, he rolled over and angrily curled up again, closing his eyes hard.
Missing Jak and glad that he wasn't there, at the same time.
The same thing happened a second time, but this instance left him on his back, staring up at the blackness. Eventually, his eyes got used enough to the darkness to make out the bland, strict shadows of the room.
He covered his eyes with a hand, suddenly feeling naked without his fur.
Naked and lonely.
Bit by bit the anger peeled away under his exhaust, until only a dull throb remained.
He rubbed his forehead, trying not to think. In the next moment he let out a groan and rammed the back of his head into the pillow.
"Idiot!"
But the outburst ended there, and he went back to staring at the back of his own hand. His snapping breath was the only sound, apart from the low buzz of electricity. Some distant sound could be heard if he strained his ears, distant marching steps of the security guards. He kinda appreciated that sound now. At least it meant that there were other people awake.
A thought struck hard and he bit his lip. Was Jak lying awake many miles away, alone in his home in Spargus?
An evil thought muttered that he probably was sound asleep, the moron…
… but Daxter knew Jak better than that. He wondered, with a rising sense of dread, what would happen if Jak had a nightmare and he wasn't there to make it better.
He sat up, blanket sliding into his lap as he pressed both palms to his forehead.
Jak is a big boy, Jak is a big boy, Jak is a big bad hero who can take on half the world with his arms tied behind his back…
Except not even Jak was a hero in the middle of the night when his mind had taken him on a rollercoaster of his unspoken fears. Even if he was beyond better now in compare how it had been just after he'd gotten out of prison, who knew what would happen when he was alone? They hadn't ever, ever been separated since… then.
Daxter took in a deep breath and let his hands fall.
Okay. First thing tomorrow morning he was gonna get himself a communicator of his own, come hell or high water. Even if he'd have to pull everyone's hair to get it. Then, call Jak, sort things out come hell or high water or mental breakdowns, give him a shiny new number to call at any time in the day at all, and at least be safe in the knowledge that nightmares wouldn't be so scary anymore. If they could get past the whole… kissing… thing…
Which they damn well would. Right?
Right?
… right.
It wasn't exactly iron resolution, but it seemed to soothe the worst, current fears.
Feeling relieved, he laid back down and tried to fall asleep again.
Despite the ebbing unease, sleep still seemed to elude him however. Soon enough, the tossing and turning resumed, and continued for torturous, slow minutes.
Eventually, an idea crept into his tired head. At first it sounded too silly, though. Yet, as he laid awake, curling, straightening, turning, and not finding any rest, it begun to sound more and more… not sensible, but promising.
Finally he sighed and rolled out of bed, turning on the lamp on the nightstand and growling in pain at the stinging light. Stumbling on tired legs, he made it across the room and over to the far back corner, close to the bathroom door.
Jak's dirty clothes still laid in a pile there, forgotten. In the same motion as he turned around, Daxter bent down and ripped a shirt from the heap. Angrily clutching it, he went back to bed and switched the lamp off. He curled up beneath the warm covers again, holding the cloth against his chest. Close enough to feel the familiar scent.
He woke up once more before morning, briefly in the early hours – and only to find that he had bundled up the blanket into a roll. In his sleep he hugged it, still clutching Jak's shirt. Too sleepy to be annoyed, Daxter unrolled the blanket over himself and went back to dreamland.
Because of his inability to fall asleep for half the night, he slept until midday the next day. He would probably have kept sleeping too, if he had not been roughly awoken by the news that Jak had been shot.
Begin Introspection. Serial code: Jak.
I can't feel safe around exes. I just can't. They all wore masks, I can't, nobody could know what any of them did. What I might have done to them back then. Or they to me. And they can't know if I recognize them. But I never know.
So much happened… in the prison, I think sometimes I must have forgotten some things. Maybe some of it just blurs, because it was the same pain over and over again. But it never got to be mundane. Sometimes, something else happened, something to break the usual pain. All those times are the ones I wish I could forget the most.
I did see a face once, but I don't remember what it looked like. If I've met him afterwards, I wouldn't know. It was too quick. But then, it wouldn't surprise me if he's dead.
It wasn't so long after I started talking, I think. I know I must have been talking, because… because of what Erol did.
During one of those daily fights with the guards I managed to tear off one KG's mask and landed a punch in his face. In the next moment he had lifted me by the throat. He was huge, his arms too long for me to reach even to land a good kick. I still struggled, I didn't want to die anymore. Not until I could make them pay. But he would kill me, that's all I remember of the way his face looked. I heard some of the other guards call at him to stop, but they didn't really care. Nobody tried to do more than yell.
But I still struggled, but it was brief because he rammed my head into the wall. I lost consciousness, knowing that I was going to die like that.
As usual, I was wrong.
I woke up, lungs burning and my throat so sore I thought it would break if I tried to breathe. I couldn't see at first, couldn't hear anything but the buzzing in my head and the shrieking of my gasps.
Not sure how long it took before I realized how silent the prison was. Silent, apart from the wheezing of green smoke and distant, unknowing marching. Silent, apart from the murmur too close to my ear.
"Don't you die on me. Don't you dare. I'm not done with you."
I didn't want to breathe then, not when he wanted me to. But I couldn't stop.
And Erol stayed too close, sitting beside me and holding my shoulders, not even letting me slump.
When I looked to the side, the KG who had tried to strangle me laid knocked out on the floor a little ways away. Nobody else moved, the other guards recoiling when Erol glared at them. When he finally let go of my shoulders he massaged the knuckles on his right hand, muttering to himself. And scowled at the fallen guard.
I doubt that Erol didn't kill that guard later, because he dared to want to kill me.
That's the most disgusting thing of all.
End Introspection.
Author's note:
I may have to raise the rating when the next chapter comes around. Only because of language though, I'm afraid. At least that's the reason for now.