You know, I've been replaying the Jak series again, and I just realized, no one ever talks about Veger blowing up the palace. Like, that's a big deal, right? Destroying an entire section of the city? That should at least get some jail time.
Happy reading!
Every once in a while, Torn did do his own dirty work.
If he was being completely honest, this sort of mission wasn't one he really wanted to do. If he was completely honest, it was a little too insane, just a bit too stupid, for him to consider it a good idea.
As he pulled the hood up on his jacket and stepped into the drizzle, he tried not to think of all the consequences of getting caught breaking into a high-ranking nobleman's house. He'd be kicked out of the Freedom League for sure, not that he particularly cared about that. Prison time, probably. Precursors knew Veger would cherish the chance to throw Torn in a cell. Hell, if Veger was pissed enough, Torn might just find himself hanging out with Jak and Daxter in the Wasteland.
Usually, missions like this ended up on Jak's plate, but Torn really couldn't justify calling the kid back. According to Keira, he and his rat were fitting in just fine out there, better than they had in Haven. Torn couldn't blame him; after all, the city had turned its back on him. Why wouldn't he return the favor?
Torn's boots splashed as he walked. The rain had been going steady for almost three days, drenching every sidewalk, building, and person. A wet crocadog meandered past, barking at the droplets and bounding through puddles. His stomach twisted.
Torn had never been a huge fan of the Kid. Or…any kids, for that matter. Most of his interaction with the boy had just been the occasional shushing. Babysitting had begun and ended at, "Sit here and be quiet."
Still, with the knowledge in his head that the Kid had been Jak of all people, Torn couldn't help but feel shitty. This city, the Baron, the KG, even Samos himself, had taken this little boy and broken him down so bad he wasn't recognizable anymore.
Torn kept walking, ignoring as the animal lurched into a puddle, spraying water everywhere. He had to stay focused. Not the time for stupid, sentimental feelings.
Veger lived in a high-rise apartment building in New Haven, on the 25th floor. Of course the jackass would live on the top floor. Couldn't be on the ground level.
Currently, Veger was at an emergency meeting with Ashelin and the remains of the Haven City Council. She hadn't even questioned it when Torn said he needed Veger to be busy for a few hours.
"Just…promise me it's not something illegal," she begged faintly. "I have enough on my plate without you getting into trouble."
He'd just given her a dark chuckle, which was technically not a promise. He wondered how pissed off she'd be when she found out.
Well, no use worrying about it now. He stepped under the awning and looked at the panel on the side. Every apartment had a call button, neatly labeled with the name and number. Torn considered it for a minute, then reached out and hit all of them.
It only took a second for someone to buzz him up, probably expecting company. Disappointing for them, he supposed. The door unlocked with a heavy click, and Torn quickly stepped in.
The lobby was the most boring shade of gray he'd ever seen. There was nothing in the room but a lone metal bench and a stack of old magazines beside it. Considering how much the rent was in this place, Torn had expected something a bit…more.
In the back corner was an elevator and a door going to the stairwell. He quickly ducked into the elevator, keeping his hood up in case of security cameras. As it rattled to the top floor, muzak blaring over tinny speakers, Torn sighed.
Assuming he got out of here without his mug shot posted all over the damn city, he needed a drink. Some of that cinnamon whiskey that Tess kept on the top shelf. As grating as Daxter was on his nerves, the rat did know his alcohol. Pity that was about all he knew.
The elevator shuddered to a stop, the doors opening to a long hallway with three doors. Veger's door was the furthest down. Torn approached it apprehensively, careful to listen for any neighbors that might be about.
He pulled out a pass card. Veger's apartment building was new; its security system was completely upgraded, and Torn didn't have the technical skills to override it. Instead, he decided to use the old-fashioned method.
He slid the pass card into the gap between the door and its doorway. He slid it down, until he heard a sharp click and felt resistance. Bingo.
Torn maneuvered the pass card until it caught on the deadbolt of the lock. He pushed the bolt back into the door and it creaked open. He smirked. All the technology in the world couldn't keep a good thief out.
Veger's apartment was an elegantly hideous place. For starters, all of his furniture appeared to be a crushed velvet material, in a deep maroon color. Torn wrinkled his nose as he passed a marble bust of Veger's own head, lovingly placed on the mantle. As tempted as he was to shove it off, he opted to ignore it instead.
Torn was really looking for, was proof. Proof of…something. Of whatever Veger was planning.
He had no idea where that proof would be, or what it would be, for that matter. But he needed something, anything, that would prove that Veger wasn't the shining beacon of good he appeared to be.
People were fickle. From what he'd heard, the KG - Freedom League, he mentally corrected himself - was split on Veger. Some of them were totally behind the noble, hoping that things would get better under his rule. Others were a bit more leery, not quite willing to throw their support behind an aristocrat for fear that he would become an autocrat.
What Torn needed was something to change minds. Something that would convince them that Veger was a self-serving cockroach. He flipped the light on in the kitchen and started going through cabinets.
A lot of expensive pots and pans, fancy utensils, and gold-lined plates. Torn wondered if Veger even cooked his own food, or if he hired some poor chef to make it for him. Precursors help the soul who had to do whatever Veger said.
He passed by the garbage can and recycling bin. Of course Veger recycled. The city was literally on fire, and the guy cared about his carbon footprint. Not that it mattered, since recycling services had been suspended because, you know, the war.
Actually, Torn mused, it was probably more likely that Veger cared about his image. Gotta pretend like he cared about his carbon footprint. Heroes protect the environment, after all.
Torn folded his arms and surveyed the rest of the apartment. Okay, he hadn't expected to find anything in the kitchen, anyway. Who kept incriminating evidence in their kitchen? Torn headed down the hallway.
Besides the bathroom, there was a bedroom and an office. He hung a left and picked the bedroom first, flipping on the lights as he entered.
Veger's bedroom was just as awful as the rest of his place. Taking up the majority of the room was a four-poster bed, complete with enough red drapery to start a small fabric shop. The bed was so big, the only other thing that fit in his room was the wooden dresser.
Torn didn't linger too long in the bedroom: he quickly shuffled through Veger's clothes (Thank the Precursors the noble was so neurotic. Even his underwear was neatly folded). He checked through the closet and found nothing.
He checked to make sure nothing was out of place, then headed to the office, feeling a bit more hopeful. Plenty of incriminating documents in there, right?
As it turned out, Veger's office was more infuriating than Veger himself.
Everything was meticulously organized: financial papers in a file cabinet drawer, labeled by year and going all the way back to Veger's first job; his pens lined up by shade, from lightest to darkest; books organized alphabetically on his shelf, dusty with disuse. Just the sterile feel of the room made Torn's skin itch.
He frowned as he shut the file cabinet. It wasn't as if he had all night to search through these files. Ashelin had only guaranteed him two hours of Veger-free time, and the clock was ticking. Torn sat in the desk chair and leaned back, his hands on his head.
If he had something to hide, where would he hide it? The most obvious place would be that file cabinet, but practicality told Torn not to look there. If there was anything in there, he wouldn't find it tonight. Better to save that as a last resort.
Where else? Torn glanced around the room, exhaling slowly. Well, there was the desk, but when he checked inside, it was completely empty. Weirdo.
Torn stopped. That was weird, now that he thought about it. Weirder than Veger normally was. Why would the guy keep his desk emptier than Daxter's skull?
Unless the lack of evidence was, in itself, evidence.
Torn stood up, suddenly inspired. He dashed out of the office and skidded into the kitchen. His eyes hit the recycling bin and, without any hesitation, he tipped it over. Various items spilled out onto the linoleum floor, but Torn didn't pay them any mind. He sorted through it and, at the very bottom of the pile, found something.
Papers.
They had stains on them from the trash, but he didn't care. Hell, he'd dug through worse.
The papers were handwritten, in handsome script, addressed to the barracks of the KG. Torn recognized the name: one of the Guards, a mid-level officer. The letter didn't seem to have much on it; there was just a series of letters and numbers, none of which made any sense to Torn. A password, maybe? Or a cypher? He flipped to another letter.
This one was addressed, not to Veger specifically, but to the Haven City Council's Headquarters, with no name.
Suspicious.
The second letter only had one word scrawled hastily across the paper:
Done.
Torn frowned at the word. What the hell did that even mean? What was done? He flipped to the next letter.
Another incomprensible string of characters, though this one looked more like a mathematical equation than anything. Torn ground his teeth as he read the response, which only said:
Need more no. Too much oh.
"What the actual fuck?" Torn muttered. The KG hadn't exactly been the brightest bunch; the Baron had been more concerned with their ability to hold a pulse for as long as they could, but this wasn't even a normal language.
He started to flip through the papers again, but his communicator beeped. "Giving you a heads up: the meeting's over. Veger's back in action." Ashelin's voice sounded tense, so much so that Torn almost asked what was wrong. "Whatever you're up to, I'd wrap it up."
"Got it. I'll meet you at the Naughty Ottsel in twenty minutes." Ashelin was silent, so Torn added, "You sound like you could use a drink."
She still didn't respond, but the communicator clicked off. Torn shoved the recycling back into the bin and folded the papers up into his pocket. With everything back in place, he flipped the light off and headed for the door.
He kept his hood up as he snuck back into the hall, the electronic lock clicking behind him. One elevator ride later, and he was back on the streets, safe in the anonymity of the crowd.
Torn brushed against his pocket as he headed toward Daxter's bar. He had no idea what this was, but he held out hope that it would help.
And if it didn't, well…
At least he could make fun of Veger's decor.
Just as the sun was going down, someone knocked on Antwon's apartment door. He swore loudly and picked up his cane. He still wasn't quite used to having a permanent injury like this. He'd always been one to walk quickly, to run places. Now he could only hobble.
He reached his door relatively quickly. He was getting better, he mused to himself. Six months did a body good. He half expected to see Ionna at the door, chastising him for holding his cane wrong or pushing himself too hard. But when he swung open the door, he was greeted by a surprising face. Or at least, half of one.
"Praxis." Antwon blinked in surprise. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
Praxis nodded in greeting. "Antwon. The new lieutenant general. I must congratulate you on your promotion."
One that Antwon hadn't really wanted. But with Yasir gone and Praxis out of commission for a while, Damas had wanted someone to lead the troops. Antwon was next in command, the next logical choice.
"Thank you." He let Praxis in, awkwardly setting his cane aside. "And I suppose I should congratulate you on your recovery. You seem much better."
Praxis sat down at the kitchen table, while Antwon began to make coffee, trying not to stare. 'Better' was a strong word for what Praxis seemed. He'd had metal plates grafted onto his skin, so now instead of an eyepatch and bandages, it looked like scrap metal had been attached to his face.
Antwon poured two mugs and sat down. "I'm sure you didn't come all this way just to congratulate me," he said. "I will admit, I'm surprised to see you up and about."
Praxis took a deep drink. "Ah. Medical grade coffee is weak. I need to readjust to normal society."
Antwon took a sip from his own mug. "You also didn't come here just for the coffee," he commented. "What's going on?"
Praxis nodded in approval. "This is why I think you're a good leader, Antwon. Always courteous, but always straightforward. To the point." He took another drink and added, "At least Damas made one good choice recently, the damned fool."
"Damas means well," Antwon reminded him. "Say what you want about him, but he cares about the city. He's just…young. Rash. He'll get there."
"Hmph. Not quickly enough, if you ask me." Praxis drained the rest of his mug and leaned forward. "We need to do something about it, before he forces another tragedy upon us. The nest was...unjustifiable."
Antwon frowned. "I disagree. As you often say, this is war, and in war people die. Tragic as it was, as misguided as it was, Damas assaulting the nest was a choice made with good intentions."
Praxis scowled. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions."
"And the road to heaven isn't?" Antwon shrugged. "Regardless of how we feel, Damas is the king. We can guide him and advise him, but we can't override him."
"...Perhaps we can." It was as if the very air had shifted. Praxis' tone had turned dark, scheming, and Antwon felt his stomach twist. Praxis leaned forward across the table. "There is the old saying, 'Might is right.' We have might, Antwon, the might of Haven City behind us!"
Antwon was quiet for a moment, so Praxis continued, taking his silence for agreement. "The citizens of Haven are already tired of Damas' rule. His troops have been betrayed by him. Their loyalty lies with me, with us, Antwon, with the Krimzon Guard! We could teach that childish fool a lesson he'll never forget!"
Antwon stood up abruptly, his cane gripped tightly. "Praxis," he said tersely, "why did you really come here?"
"He must be stopped." Praxis stood as well, all pretense of a friendly cup of coffee gone. "We have a duty, not to Damas, but to this city! If we continue to support Damas, we aid and abet the destruction of Haven itself. He will be the end of it, he will allow the metalheads to eliminate the last stronghold of humanity. We must stop him!"
Antwon began to walk across his apartment. "Are you finished?" he asked curtly. He opened his front door and stood in front of it. "That was a very passionate speech, Praxis, but passion is a poor substitute for integrity."
Praxis followed him, blustering. "You know I'm the one who is right!"
Antwon laughed bitterly. "Though we don't always see eye to eye, I have the utmost respect for you. You've saved my life on the battlefield countless times. I've always believed that you were a good man, a good soldier." He met Praxis' eyes, tilting his chin up haughtily. "You should leave before I start to believe something else."
Praxis sneered at him. "So, this is what it comes to. Damas is clinging to his crown, and his loyal lapdog stays at his feet."
Antwon gave a humorless chuckle. "Well, better to be a lapdog than a snake, I suppose." His expression sobered. "You're talking of treason, Praxis."
"You're a coward," Praxis growled. "A spineless fool."
"I am—!" Antwon cut himself off with a sigh. "I am the same man who went into that nest with you. And if that makes me a coward, then so be it." He gestured out the door with his cane. "I remain, as always, loyal to King Damas. Goodbye, Praxis."
Praxis' face twisted into a snarl. He headed out the door, but before Antwon could shut it, he said, "Ali will support me."
"And Ionna will not," Antwon responded matter-of-factly. "I believe that makes us evenly matched."
"It's a damned pity that Yasir isn't here to break the tie."
"A pity indeed." Antwon narrowed his eyes. "But then again, I think we both know which side he'd be on…don't we?"
With that, Antwon shut the door in Praxis' face, his heart hammering as he locked out the general of the Krimzon Guard.
The silence of the throne room was stifling and awkward once Sig left. Ionna still sat at the edge of the water pools, splashing water on her pale face, avoiding looking at Damas. For a moment, he stared at her, not sure what to do, before he finally sighed and sat beside her.
"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. He had to keep his hands clasped together to stop himself from fidgeting.
She dipped her hands into the water again. "I'm fine, Damas, just a bit tired. These visions always take it out of me."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know what you meant." She took her shaking hands out of the water and stared at them. "No, I'm not alright. He's out there somewhere, with metal heads and Dark Makers and marauders, and who knows what else."
Damas stretched his legs out on the steps by the water. He could not, he refused, to let his mind entertain the what-ifs of the situation. Mar was alive, and being kept away from his family, and that was all Damas needed to know. Until that changed, that was all he wanted to know.
But Ionna was more pessimistic. More realistic, sometimes. Right now, she saw nothing but danger. Damas wouldn't allow himself to see anything but hope.
"He'll be alright." Damas tried to keep his voice soothing and comforting. "Mar is a survivor."
Damas had always said that he wanted Mar to be safe. To be happy. His son shouldn't have to become a survivor. As if she could tell what he was thinking, Ionna looked up at him. "I suppose it's better than the alternative," she mused lightly.
They lapsed into silence again, both looking into the water. Their reflections were distorted, warped by the ripples. After a few minutes, Damas said, "Do you think I should have sent Sig out?"
"I don't know." Her voice was honest, if conflicted. "I'd be lying if I said no. Sig's no pushover, I'm sure he'd be fine. But…"
Damas waited patiently. He'd always been good at this: giving Ionna the space to sort her thoughts into words. Finally, she continued, "It's no use putting Sig into danger for a maybe. We don't even know where Mar is. The desert is a big place."
"And Mar is being cared for," Damas added. "He is safe, for now at least."
Ionna didn't say anything, but she didn't need to. They were both thinking the same thing: safe was different than home, and home is where he needed to be.
To his surprise, Ionna suddenly leaned against him, her head pressed against his arm. She sighed heavily. "I'm tired," she murmured , so softly that Damas barely heard her. He awkwardly patted her knee.
"Me too," he told her. "Me too."
"Keep up, cherries, 'cause I ain't slowin' down."
Jak quickened his pace, Daxter bouncing as he jogged. He wasn't used to seeing Sig, usually laid-back and easy, moving with this kind of urgency. The man had come into the infirmary and, as soon as they finished cleaning, had hustled them out into the city.
Jak and Daxter had both asked, repeatedly, what the hell was going on, but the only thing Sig said was, "Just follow me, and don't ask questions."
"So, uh, what are we doin'?" Daxter asked, clinging to Jak's shoulder. "What's happening, big guy?"
"Well, that's a question, isn't it?" Sig led them through the bazaar, dodging and weaving around browsing Wastelanders. "Just keep your mouth shut and worry about it later."
Jak didn't look particularly pleased with that direction. It must have shown on his face, because Sig continued, his voice less urgent and more calm.
"Listen, cherries," he said, "there are some things that Damas keeps close to his chest. You two are alright, good friends who'll watch my back in the thick of it. I trust you, but this isn't about trust."
"Then what's it about?" Jak asked darkly.
"...Look, I don't go around tellin' everybody about what the Baron did to you, do I?" Sig eyed Jak cautiously. It was a touchy subject, he knew, but it was the best way to make Jak understand. "I won't go around tellin' Damas' business, either."
Jak was quiet for a moment, then he nodded, steel in his blue eyes. "Alright. What do you need us to do?"
Sig grinned broadly at them both and took them up a stairway to an unassuming house. "Just watch my back, like you always do."
Sig opened the door to the house and they followed him in. It was warm inside, almost stiflingly so, and it smelled like raw fire and coal. Jak was reminded of the Red Sage's hut, in the volcano, a lifetime ago. Sig glanced around, then called out.
"Mama? You awake, Mama?"
"Of course I'm awake," a voice called from another room. "It's not even sundown. I'm in the workshop, come on back."
Sig led the way through a cozy kitchen. Jak liked how it was set up: a cooking pot against the wall, a tiny wooden table with two chairs, a colorful clay pitcher nestled beside the water basin. It gave him a sense of nostalgia, a homey feeling that seemed to sooth him.
They walked into the back room, which was about ten times hotter than hell itself, by Jak's approximation. He was sweating after just a few seconds in there, and had no idea how Sig was walking around with his armor still on. They walked to a forge, where a woman was working with molten metal.
Sig's mother was so unlike Sig himself that Jak almost rubbed his eyes to make sure he was seeing her right. She was tiny, for starters, only coming up a bit past Sig's elbow. Still, as she set down her tools, there was something in the way she moved that made Jak think this was a woman he did not want to cross.
Her hair was braided in dozens of thin braids, colorful ribbons woven through them. The braids were tied up, but as she stepped away from the forge, she pulled them down. "What trouble did you get into now?" she asked Sig. He grinned sheepishly at her.
"You always say that," he replied. She, thankfully, led them back out into the front room, where it was comparatively cooler. "How come you think I'm gettin' into trouble?"
"Boys only come to their mamas when they've gotten themselves into some kind of trouble." Her eyes, a mirror image of Sig's good green one, fell on Jak and Daxter. "These those city boys you were telling me about?"
"Yeah, Mama. This is Jak and Daxter." He gestured to each of them in turn. "Guys, this is my mama, Zy'air."
She nodded at both of them in greeting. To Sig, she said, "You still haven't answered me, cherry. What are you doin' here?"
"Damas has us lookin' for something, and we think some Nomads might know where it is." Sig folded his arms over his broad chest. "You happen to remember where they settled down at?"
Zy'air frowned. "I thought Damas said no one was headin' out into the Wasteland. Too dangerous is what they're saying."
"That's why I'm takin' Jak and Daxter," Sig told her. "They're gonna watch my back out there."
She gave them a once over and nodded approvingly. "...Good. Don't go out there alone."
Daxter opened his mouth to ask something, but Jak nudged his shoulder and gave him a look. Stay quiet, it said. So Daxter shut his mouth and grumpily leaned against Jak's head.
"I don't like you goin' out there at all," Zy'air continued, walking to the table. "You hear about those monsters?"
"It's important," Sig told her. "Really important. Trust me, Mama, I'll be careful, but I gotta get it done."
Zy'air eyed him sternly for a moment, then gave a weary sigh. "Get your map out, baby. I'll mark them down."
Sig grinned broadly at her. "You're the best, Mama."
With the map on the kitchen table, Zy'air started marking X's around the Wasteland. "No promises," she added. "It's been years since I've visited the Nomads. They might have new settlements nowadays."
When she had about a dozen X's marked, she stood back and nodded. "There we go. I'd start with this one," she pointed at the most eastern mark. "Dessa lived down there. She's got a good pulse on the Wasteland, so if you find her, you might find whatever Damas needs."
Sig rolled up the map. "Thanks, Mama." He kissed her forehead. Daxter stifled a snicker and cleared his throat to cover it. "I really appreciate it."
"Uh, yeah, thanks, Mommy," he teased. "And don't worry! Orange Lightning is here to make sure your kiddo gets home safe."
Zy'air glanced at them. "...You better. If anything happens to my Siggy, I'll encase you in Precursor metal."
"Eh, heh, yeah." Daxter rubbed his tail nervously. "Good thing we're all top-notch fighters, right?"
Sig clapped his hand on Jak's back. "No worries, Mama. Jak and Daxter are good folk. We'll watch out for each other."
Zy'air's eyes looked Jak up and down. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling like he was being looked through. Finally, she said, "If you trust 'em, baby, I will too. They seem like good boys."
Sig turned to leave, with Jak following suit, but Zy'air stopped them.
"Your armor is a bit too big for you." He turned around and she reached out to tug on his bracers. "It needs to be refitted, and it's scuffed, too. You need to take better care of it." She gave him a tight smile and nodded. "Stop by after you get back to the city. I've got some orders to fill, but when I've got some time, I'll make it as good as new."
Jak blinked. "Oh. You don't have to do that."
"No arguments," she said firmly. "Now get out there and get your mission done."
With a wave goodbye, they left, going back out into the city. By now, the sun had gone down and the air was pleasantly cool. Jak sighed, happy to be out of the stifling house.
Daxter had evidently reached his limit. "Alright, big guy, spit it out! What's goin' on?!"
Sig rubbed the back of his neck. "Alright, you two," he conceded. "I guess if you've stuck with me this far…I'll give you all the info I can." He gestured to the bar they frequented, its sign glowing in the night.
"Let's get a drink, chili peppers. We've got some stuff to talk about."