A/N: Whew, bet you didn't think you'd hear from me again, eh? But I cannot abandon my baby, not when I'm so close to the end! Sorry for the ungodly long wait! Finals and all came up and whomped me all of a sudden. :P But I am now 18, and, as my best friend says, legal. That's always a cause for celebration! ;)
Disclaimer: I do not own this… but I am listening to Coheed and Cambria, an AWESOME band. I thought the guy was a girl at first, but the more I listened, the more I fell in love with his voice. And they're so diverse! You ought to go listen to the CD at a music store or something! I don't own them either, though. Damn. x.x
Daxter stood and stared down at Jak's weapons. He didn't remember having come back to the Naughty Ottsel, but here he stood, mind filled with memories and guilt.
He was going to do it. At least, he was going to try. There never had really been any doubts in his mind. He owed Jak that, if nothing else.
Somehow, he just could not bring himself to call upon the Precursors for strength.
It was too cruel! What was it about Jak that forced him into the role of the hero, made him always be the sacrifice? There were others, there were always others, so why him? The entirety of their lives, his and Jak's, had been leading up to this place, torture and loss and madness and pain, all for people who weren't their own, and for what? So other people could bring down their city in the Metalheads' stead while the very stuff that had made their hero, that gave him the power to save them, was driving him mad, had driven him out of the city that he had saved and left him to die? What had Jak done to deserve that?
Damn them.
It didn't matter that they really were Jak's people, Jak's own relatives and townspeople, because they weren't, not really. Sandover was their home, just as much Jak's as it was his. Home would never have let this happen to one of their own, not like this.
And he bore just as much guilt as every single one of the people in this bedamned city.
He had tried to find Jak. Oh, Precursors, how he'd tried! But what was he supposed to do, a furry animal who no one would pay any attention to except to glance down as their boots collided with him or stepped on his tail? The hulking things in red that had taken Jak away were everywhere in the city, looking with their inhuman masks at every single thing, on alert, no doubt because of Jak.
He still remembered clearly his first day there, how Jak had suddenly been whisked away and he had just stood there, spewing his false promises and wondering that the hell was going on while the city all but roared around him, sound exploding in his ears. Panic, confusion, shock, all assailed him until he couldn't feel which was which and he just stood there, staring at the spot where he had lost Jak until a hard boot kicked him and sent him flying into a wall. He had just lain where he had fallen as the sun set and night came, praying to anything and everything that would listen that Jak would gently touch his back and wake him from his nightmare with that gentle smile of his and the glint in his eyes that meant that it was time for another adventure.
But Jak had never come back, and Daxter had been left to fend for himself in a terrible city that never would have existed, not even in his most nightmarish dreams.
It hadn't taken him long to realize that he would get no help from the citizens. They were terrified of the guards, and they had reason to be. His second day, Daxter had managed to find his way over to the Bazaar area, lured by the scent of food. He paused in front of the food stands, gazing curiously at the developing spectacle, others around him stopping to do the same. A young, dirty boy had suddenly darted out of the crowd and snatched a fruit from one of the food stands, then fled- straight towards Daxter. But before the boy could get to him and melt into the crowds, he had been caught by one of the guards, and barely before Daxter could have done so much as blink, two others had materialized out of nowhere. Many of those in the crowed departed instantly as the number of guards increased. As Daxter and a few brave others watched in horror, the three men had thrown the child to the ground and began kicking him. The kid was collapsed on the ground, screaming and crying.
Daxter winced with each blow that fell.
The scream sharpened as one of the boy's ribs cracked under the guard's boot.
No one in the crowd moved.
A heavy foot slammed down on the boy's outstretched hand and twisted, the crunch of bones not quite obscured by the sound of the wailing cry.
The eyes of the people in the crowd strayed; many turned and walked away as the beating continued.
The screaming had stopped, replaced by shuddering, bubbling gasps for air as the boy choked on his own blood.
And still no one moved.
He's dying, Daxter had thought to himself. He's dying, and no one is going to help him.
There was a loud, sickening crunch as one of the guards slammed his foot into the boy's face, laughing.
No one moved to help the child.
Not even Daxter.
The boy's face was faced in his direction, mashed, bloody, unrecognizable as the face of a child.
The guards had tired of their toy and walked away, leaving him broken and dying in the middle of the street, crushed hand still reaching out to the piece of food that had fallen. Daxter had felt burning bile rising in his throat as he looked at the boy, bloodied and matted hair falling into the broken face. His eyes were dead, accusing, staring at him, staring through him, until Daxter had to look away or he would have been sick on the spot.
The boy died.
There had still been a few people paying attention to the murder while pretending not to be. A thin, grimy man calmly stepped around the boy's body and scooped up the piece of fruit, pleased with himself.
The sudden sound of a shot being fired and the man's strangled cry had informed the people of the city that the guards were definitely still paying attention. There were screams as the guards fired into the crowd at random, and Daxter had nearly been trampled as everyone fled in panic. Daxter, too, had turned and fled with all the rest.
Hungry, terrified, and frightened, he had run and run and run until he collapsed in a corner and fell into a troubled sleep. Again and again that night he saw the boy being beaten to death, and the face that stared at him accusingly, blaming him for his death, was Jak's.
Time had seemed to drag and yet fly by. He had lived by stealing food or starving through hellish weeks and months. He had learned to keep his mouth shut and his ears open whenever a member of the Krimzon Guard was around, and, because of his small size, ended up hearing much of what was happening in the city, and consequently knew where to avoid and when, something that saved him from walking into a deathtrap more than once. He had deluded himself, told himself that any day Jak would come waltzing up to him with a sheepish grin on his face and they would walk out of this hell and find their way home.
Yeah right.
It was almost funny, really, how hard he had clung to the belief that Jak would just materialize out of thin air and whisk him away to safety just in the nick of time. He would never, ever forget the feeling that had flooded through him when he had heard news of Jak at last. A completely random and innocuous conversation between two guards who didn't see him hiding in a pile of trash, a few blissful words that struck home in a heart that had become devoid of hope.
That night Daxter had cried, out of relief, out of pent-up frustration, out of the strength of the knowledge that there was something he could do, that he hadn't just sat back and lost Jak forever.
Daxter sighed, eyes drifting shut.
Once he had found out that Jak was still alive, it hadn't taken any time for Daxter to get to him, so great was his drive. It had been ridiculously easy to get into the KG fortressm especially with his size. For all their cruelty, the Krimzon Guard were incredibly dense. Daxter doubted that the Baron could have gotten so many to follow him unquestioningly otherwise.
And oh, Mar, how he had felt when he had seen Jak! He had been almost unrecognizable, so different from the Jak that he had grown up with.
Something inside him had quailed at the sight of his long-time friend. He had looked so much stronger, even lying there on the table dead to the world and clothed in tattered, dirty rags. Oh, he had always been muscular before, but his frame was larger, heavier, more buff; and yet, there was still a strong hint of his former petiteness in his build. But it was more than that. There was a new aura that surrounded him, a cloud of anger and power that clung to him where it had not existed before.
He remembered hopping up onto his friend's chest and looking down at him for an instant that seemed like an aeon, taking in the angular, mature face that had aged at double, triple the speed it should have, the long hair that swept back from his face to frame the cream color of his neck against the cold steel table. Jokes, light words had come bubbling to his lips as his mind processed what he had seen.
And by Mar, his voice… it transformed the energy around him into a tangible thing, demanding attention, demanding to be heard. It had surprised him when Jak spoke, it truly had. Granted, it had not startled him nearly as much as Jak's sudden transformation had. He had been scared, terrified, but only for an instant. Jak would never have hurt him, never, demon or no. For when Daxter had looked into the black depths of his eyes, had seen his tiny form reflected in the dark pits of their murderous depths, he saw his friend, deep down inside, terrified, reaching out to him.
That was why he would go. That was why he'd give up everything. Because no matter what the demon did to him, Jak was still alive within him, and Daxter would save him.
He was dallying too long. Daxter opened his eyes and sighed, picking up Jak's gun and testing its weight. He knew how to shoot- when he was sitting in a zoomer, ottsel-sized and not having to worry about moving while he aimed. But being normal-sized and having to be able to run and pay attention to everything around him was a totally different matter. He knew that he really ought to have gone to practice for a while in the gun course, but he didn't want to waste the time. Every minute that he was standing there was another minute that made it harder for him to find Jak.
Daxter fired the scatter gun once, surprised by how little kickback there was compared to when he had fired it in Orange Lightning formm. His finger found and flicked the handy button on the side of the gun and the weapon shuddered and changed in his hands. He squeezed the trigger again, bullets thunking as they embedded themselves in the unfortunate wall. Another click; this time, he held the trigger down, inhaling the blue smoke while casings littered the ground at his feet. He realized that there was a grim smile on his face.
No wonder Jak liked this.
He stopped his assault on the wall and set the gun down in order to reach for the holster that Jak usually wore. There was a disconcerting moment as Daxter fumbled with it, trying to adjust it to his lanky frame, ending up completely tangled up in the leather straps while the metal ring tried to get as much of his hair to go through it as it could. But eventually he got it and slid the Morph Gun into its place on his back.
He walked down the stairs, trying to formulate a plan. Walking out of the city would not do, not at all. He needed some sort of car or something so he could carry enough food and water to find Jak and get… somewhere. The zoomers weren't covered, and he would fry before he could do much of anything. He needed something covered…
A wicked grin curved his lips. He and Jak had never tried that before. That might've been one of the few KG vehicles that they had never tried to steal…
He was still smirking when he walked into the main room of the Naughty Ottsel. "Tess, babe, I need a favor."
"What is it, Daxxie?" she asked, eyes huge as they looked at him. Daxter could tell that he looked different even from his usual, non-orangified self. Boy, had it been a surprise for her when she had first seen him! Daxter still believed that he was partly deaf from her squeal.
"I need some food and water bagged up and ready ta go ASAP."
Adorable confusion stretched itself across her face. "How much?"
"Ah…" Daxter paused. "A bunch."
As she disappeared into the back room, Daxter leaned an elbow on the counter and lounged for a while, serious but not really thinking of much of anything at all. He ran his tongue over his front teeth absently, thinking that he wanted to sit down but not really wanting to at the same time. He stared at the room, taking it all in but not really seeing a single thing.
The next thing he knew, his face was being smashed into the squishy warmth of Tess' breasts as she enveloped him in a massive hug, squealing his name as she buried her face in his hair.
"Mmu mmff mreeffe…"
"Oh! Sorry!" She giggled and released her hold a bit, although there were bright tears shining in her eyes.
"You're crazy, you know that?" she demanded, the effect of her suddenly stern demeanor ruined by the great sniff that punctuated her sentence.
Daxter patted her back awkwardly, unsure of how to respond. "Uh… babe?"
Tess pulled back a bit more and looked into his eyes. "Can I help, Dax?"
Was he really so transparent? Well, with a big-ass gun strapped to his back and sturdy clothes on, asking for food and water to go off somewhere, it seemed so.
Daxter opened his mouth to tell her no, but the sight of her perfectly pink lips wobbling as she read the denial in his face stopped him. Maybe there was something she could do after all…
A half hour later, Daxter "stealthily" hauled his giant bag of foodstuffs along behind him, on one side of the giant pillar that stood in the bay while Tess waltzed around the other, turning on every ounce of her girly charm and fully set on her job of luring away the guard that sat in the otherwise empty transport ship in the bay. Daxter paused just out of the KG's sight, listening as the sounds of Tess' giggles floated to his ears. He snuck a glance around the tower and almost laughed as he watched Tess scoot closer to the obviously flustered KG, who had gotten down out of the transport. She linked her arms in his and drew him around the pillar in the opposite direction of Dax and his bag batting her eyelashes and giggling all the while. The driver's side door to the transport stood open, the guard obviously never having thought that anyone would be brave enough- or stupid enough- to steal it.
Daxter glanced to each side to ensure that no more of the Krimzon Guard had decided to waltz over in his direction, then dropped his bag and darted into the transport. It took him a terrifyingly panicky moment to locate the lever that opened the hatch, but his questing fingers eventually caught it and he slipped back out and ran back to his bag of provisions. He hauled the bag over to its destination quickly, though his back was tense and he expected at any moment to feel a bullet go ripping through his flesh. He paused before he tried to lift the sack into the back of the transport, looking over his shoulder at Tess and the KG… who was about to look his way.
He froze like a yakow in the headlights, panicked. His eyes squeezed shut and his face scrunched up, waiting for the inevitable pain. One eye gradually opened when it didn't come, and Daxter nearly collapsed with relief as he saw Tess slide a hand up the brute's chestplate and up to his mask, turning his head away from Daxter. Mar bless the girl!
With a couple of grunts, Daxter managed to heave the bag into the transport, then fled to the front and jumped in. The hatch closed and the former ottsel gripped the controls. The craft wobbled as it rose into the air, higher and higher until Daxter could see over the wall and out into the wasteland beyond, a desert that stretched out to the horizon and beyond. He didn't look back, he couldn't. He didn't want to see the price that Tess would pay for helping him.
Barely able to swallow for the lump in his throat, Daxter slammed on the gas and shot out over the walls and into the waiting desert.
Mar guide his path.
