Jak awoke slowly, but the moment his eyes flickered open, he was met with a hot, painfully bright glare, and his vision was a white haze. It set his mind on fire and he buried his head under his arms, too much for his fragile senses to take. It held him down oppressively, and desperate to get away from it, he heavily clawed his way forwards across ground that was hot and unfirm, no idea where he was going, just hoping blindly that he would find some relief from it somewhere. All that mattered was escape.
At last he reached the coolness of some shade, and he collapsed face-down again, out of energy and breathing hard. When he was able to, he lifted his heavy head and opened his eyes a little. He could see nothing but dazzling colours swirling before him, but his hands found something hard and solid that offered some surety. He used it to pull himself up, and rested his back against it. His limbs were leaden, pain swelled inside his head like a balloon, and concentrating on anything was next to impossible. He felt sick, and several times he lapsed in and out of consciousness without realising.
At last, when his senses began to soften and he was able to stay awake for longer than a few seconds, he opened his eyes more fully, lucid for the first time. A beach of pale sand lay before him, pristinely clear except for a long, messy trail where he had dragged himself along. It led back to a wide, blue ocean, stretching all the way to the horizon that melted into the sky far away. Not a cloud was in sight. Looking straight upwards, he saw a broad awning of large leaves casting the shadows that sheltered him, and to his left and right, smooth-barked trees grew high. He was sitting propped against one of them. His ears slowly unclogged themselves, and they met with the peaceful sounds of the breeze and the surf.
Jak sat there for a long time, just looking around him and trying to understand what this all meant. His mind was still functioning very slowly, and try as he might, he could not deduce where he was or how he had got here. In his confused state, he even considered the crazy possibility that he had died, and moved on to somewhere else, some other life.
The more he pondered it, however, the clearer things started to become. He was starting to remember little glimpses and snatches of life which were falling together into something vaguely coherent. He remembered the long journey, red skies, the air battle, the fear and anger he had felt as he saw cruisers falling from the sky...
So much death...
Exactly what had happened to himself was still blurry, but judging from where he was now, he figured he too must have crashed his cruiser, and had somehow ended up in this place. He was clearly in a bad way, his left side felt numb, and the confusion he had felt earlier must have come from a concussion. He hoped he had no serious internal injuries. The bitter taste of blood mixed with vomit was in his mouth, and when he wiped a hand across his face, sand and flakes of dried fluid crumbled away from his skin.
He knew he needed help badly, so he called out the first name that always came to mind.
"Daxter?" he whispered.
But his shoulder was bare, and no voice answered him like it usually would.
"Daxter? Where are you?"
He searched all over himself and looked around frantically. His fragile emotions were building, and deadly panic set in. He remembered that Daxter had been in his vehicle with him during the battle, right up to the very end, but there was no sign of him anywhere here. He had to find him! He just had to! His friend couldn't be...
He did not want to believe the dawning reality of the situation, but it was growing ever stronger with every passing second. He tried to stand up so he could search for him, but the pain in his mind and body was too great and he slid back down the tree trunk again to his seat in the sand.
"Help!" he called tearfully, but his voice was no more than a weak croak. He called several more times as strongly as he possibly could, but there was never any answer. All he could hear was the gentle wind in the trees and the washing of the waves.
He took a few minutes of rest, and though his emotions and his body were still fragile, he forced himself up, biting back the pain. It was difficult, but once he was on his feet, he limped heavily back into the burning sunlight on the beach, shielding his eyes with one arm, and took a full look around, searching for anyone, for anything.
Where on earth was he?
The sea just a few metres away was flat and vast, and along the entire shoreline, dark shapes were lapped by slow waves. Sensing clues, Jak hobbled over to the nearest one, half-buried in the wet sand.
"Daxter!" he called. But when he reached it, he could see that it was not his small friend. It was in fact a large piece of recognisable blue metal, still bearing the shield emblem of the Freedom League; it was part of a Hellcat cruiser, possibly even his own, as big as he was. With an effort, he bent down and lifted it out of the sand, hoping that he would find Daxter hiding safe and sound beneath it. But there was nothing there.
More wreckage lay along the beach, and dropping the Hellcat piece, he moved as fast as he could to the next, checking every one. He searched until he was hot and tired and his head started to pound again, but he never found his best friend. The great sense of loss was starting to soak through his body. He shouted for help, moving erratically around on the beach first one way and then the other in indecisiveness. His vision was blurring with the heat and his tears, until he could not take it any longer and had to move under the shelter of the trees again.
He collapsed against the tree roots as terrible realisation crashed down on him. For the first time in his life, he did not know what to do, and he was afraid. His best friend was lost, he was alone and wounded, and there was nobody around to help him.
He remained by that tree for a very long time, languishing in grief and despair, unable to think or speak or do anything. But the longer he waited for death to end his misery, the more his convalescing thoughts began to evolve. It took a while, but rational new questions and possibilities were starting to materialise in his mind as more of his memories healed themselves.
What had happened to Torn and Ashelin? The last thing he remembered from the battle, Torn's cruiser had been on fire but still flying, and though he was a vulnerable target, Ashelin had been protecting him valiantly. Maybe he had managed to regain control and fight on...
Had they won the battle? Were there any other survivors? If so, then all might not be lost for him. If any had made it back to Haven with word of what had happened, then the city had to be doing something about it. None of them could be simply forgotten about and left for dead; there could be a search and rescue party being mobilised right this second, perhaps even being led personally by Ashelin and Torn.
It was enough of a hope for him to hang on to, and it stirred him into sitting up again, looking around in the clearing of the trees. All he would have to do is wait for them to find him. Until then…
His old survival instincts began to kick in again. After all, he remembered, this was not the first time he had been thrown into an unfamiliar and hostile situation with no supplies or equipment; if he could survive the Wasteland, then he could survive here too.
He was feeling more ready, and he tried to work out a strategy. The first thing he did was properly assess himself and his injuries. His left side still felt tender, and upon lifting his shirt, he found a large, ugly bruise growing from his ribs. There was another on his knee, but as far as he could find or feel, he had no open wounds, and no broken bones.
As he continued to search himself, he became aware of how little of his equipment he had retained from the battle. To his dismay, both his Jetboard and his Morph gun were missing. Two valuable and useful possessions lost. Most of his clothing was still intact, but his boots, his armoured shoulder pad, and even his signature goggles were all gone. Fortunately, he had kept his backpack, still strapped securely to himself, and that would surely come in handy for the trials ahead. Its contents, however, were all gone too, including his communicator.
So, he had no transport, no defence, and no means to call for help, but perhaps there were other things that had washed up on the beach that could aid him? He hobbled out onto the sand again, braving the heat and following the trail he had left, first back to the Hellcat wreckage. He lifted it up by one end, and gazed at the Freedom League emblem upon it, remembering everything he had fought for and all he had been through to achieve it.
"I will survive," he said out loud. "I've done too much to die here like this."
As he dragged it back to his spot under the trees, he took a good look around, knowing he would have to become familiar with his surroundings if he were to survive here. Squinting against the sun, he saw that the beach was long and empty both ways, disappearing in a heat haze but running parallel to the trees that seemed to form the edge of a forest. They were the same kind all the way: tall, smooth and without branches until the very top, where broad canopies of leaves spanned outwards like natural sun shades. From the beach, he could see now that each of them bore a curious feature right at their tops, like a rounded sphere of bark or a single large coconut sitting atop the leaves. What manner of strange trees were they? He had never seen their like before.
As he lay the cruiser piece upright against one of the trunks, he sat back down and stared at it for many minutes, as if it would strike some inspiration into him. Eventually, he decided that this little clearing on the edge of the forest would be his base of operations for now. Looked safe and suitable enough. He spent a while ambling back and forth across the beach, carrying back handfuls of wreckage which he deposited in a pile. But by the fifth trip, his head was starting to hurt again, and he was thirsty, and realised that it might have been a mistake to collect so much stuff before he had secured a supply of water. He quickly searched through what he had collected, knowing that every soldier in the Freedom League carried a water flask, but he found none.
There was nothing else for it; he would have to brave the deeper forest in search of fresh water.
After a short rest, he ventured in a little way, until the sand beneath his bare feet turned to grass. Before he had lost sight of the sea behind him, he had already encountered more varied plant life. The trees with the strange spheres on top only seemed to grow around the coast, while further inland the trees looked more recognisable, casting limbs and leaves at all levels. Among them also grew red ferns that sprouted five or six large leaves spreading out at ground level, thick and leathery. Tiny insects swirled around him, curious of the unfamiliar visitor, and he tried to swipe them away.
Keeping an eye on the direction he was heading, he dived in a little further, and the forest soon became denser and wilder, a pathless den. Thorny roots now crawled across the grass, slowing his progress as he took care not to step on any. Heavy branches twisted down from the trees, creating difficult obstacles to climb around. He considered turning back before he risked getting lost or stuck, for the sounds of the ocean had muffled and disappeared far behind him, swallowed by the forest stillness, but then everything stopped, and he broke through into a large clearing. Open sky was above him again, and a tall hill stood before him, blanketed in long grass.
"Aha," said Jak to himself, for he knew that from the top of that hill he could get a better view of the surrounding landscape, and see where he really was. "Let's head up there, hey Dax?"
He stopped himself when he realised what he had just said. He was so used to having Daxter on his shoulder wherever he went, that he realised he would probably spend quite some time talking to himself from now on until he became used to his absence. Accepting that he was gone would be neither quick nor easy. Sadly, fighting down the emotions brimming up inside him again, he scrambled up the hillside alone, taking it slowly so as not to worsen his injuries or his thirst.
When he reached the summit several metres above, the first thing he found was a lone bush growing there, full and leafy. But what caught his attention most was that it bore plump white berries, a bunch around every leaf. These were a viable food source, and he was about to start gathering some, but then he remembered something that Samos the Green Sage, the closest person who he had ever had to a father figure, had taught him in his youth.
'Never eat unfamiliar fruits you find growing in the jungle, my boy. They could be poisonous.'
Jak hesitated. The risks felt all the more severe out here, for he had no village to return to where plenty of safe foods would be waiting. But what was he to do? This was the first potential food source he'd found, and he had to take the chance or die out here. Cautiously, he pulled one from its branch, pressed it between his fingers, and then split it open. Nothing about it looked off, and it had almost no scent. That didn't help him much. With the tip of his tongue, he tested the juice inside. It had a unique sweet flavour, and he felt no immediate ill effects. Taking the chance, he gingerly popped one half of it in his mouth, and waited.
He stood up again and took a look around from the viewpoint. He was slightly above tree level now, and their tops spread out on all sides like a green carpet. But beyond them, he saw blue, the encircling horizon that met with the sea. So, he was marooned on an island it seemed, and turning slowly in every direction, he estimated its area at about a square mile, two at the most. The trees were closest to the shore back the way he had come, meaning that this hill on which he stood was not in the island's centre. There were no other landmarks that stood out; this could be the only high ground on the island.
"OK," he said to himself, feeling a little more in control now that all was laid out before him. "So I must have washed up here after the battle."
He turned over the berry in his mouth. Its taste was gone now, but his mouth felt normal. He spat it out, and tried the other half. So, assuming they were safe to eat, he now had a source of food, but he would need more than just berries to sustain him. Perhaps there were other foods or even wild animals he could hunt somewhere deeper in the woods. He took a moment to listen from the hilltop, but could hear nothing except the light breeze over the canopies, not even a bird.
"Wait," he said suddenly, and looking down the opposite side of the hill, he sighted something amid the trees, something shimmering. He made his way down to it curiously, and as he drew nearer, his suspicions were confirmed. There was a small lake hidden among the greenery, cool and clear.
"Water!" he said, bending down and cupping some in his hand. It looked clean and fresh, and the handful tasted fantastic and really helped to alleviate his worries and suffering. Even his injuries were starting to feel better. But he knew that wild water could also be far from safe to drink. Samos had taught him that too, and as thirsty as he was, he moderated his intake. The rest he used to clean himself up a little bit, checking his reflection in the surface when it fell still. He looked battered and bruised, but he was alive.
Then he looked up, into the deepening woodlands ahead, and sighted something else. New bushes grew here around the water's edge, bearing much larger fruits. They were an odd, irregular shape, and each one could fit in the palm of his hand. He helped himself to several, placing them in his backpack.
"These could come in handy," he said aloud to himself, planning to take them back to his primitive campsite to test them later. But he had nothing suitable to carry any water in. Maybe he could use something from the wreckage he had salvaged...
For the next couple of hours, he went back and forth somewhat aimlessly between the beach and the forest's edge, collecting debris, and travelling back to the lake when he needed to drink. He still wasn't sure if it was completely clean and free of any bacteria, but his stomach was feeling a little uncomfortable. Hoping it was just the combined lack of food and his leftover injuries, he drank small only amounts just to be extra sure. He didn't want to get sick out here, so far from help. And the loneliness was always there, stalking his footsteps, and the silence of the island was heavy beneath the trees.
By now though he was getting to memorise the way pretty well, and began forming a vague, mental map of the parts of the island he had explored so far. Most of the items that had washed up on the beach were just pieces of mangled material, not much good for anything. However, he was very fortunate to find one of the water flasks he had hoped for, so at least now he could carry a small amount of water around with him. But the knowledge that it had once belonged to someone who was dead now, someone who he may have known, haunted him.
Sitting in the camp, he examined one of the fruits he'd found by the lake. Its skin was hard, and he had to break a stone into sharp pieces so he could cut into it. When he got it open, he frowned in disappointment. He didn't know what kind of fruit this was, but he could tell it was not fully ripe yet. He scooped out a small lump with a finger, and licked it. Not as sweet as the berry from atop the hill, but not exactly bitter either. He wasn't sure if these would keep him going long enough.
Placing it down on a leaf, he stared out to sea. What he really wanted was some meat, something substantial, but he had seen no wild animals that he could hunt in the areas of the island he had explored so far. He felt very alone here. Alone and helpless, and his thoughts were starting to drift in dark directions again.
But then he snapped his fingers, and couldn't believe he could have been so stupid. "Of course!"
What had he been staring at all this time? The sea! He was surrounded by a rich breeding ground of life. Having grown up in a small coastal village, he had a fair amount of fishing experience, having once caught a whole basket-load of fish from a small river in the nearby jungle with only a single net. This gave him a jolt of confidence and pride, a sense of achievability… but the island's heavy doubt took him back into its clutches quickly. It was a long time ago since he'd last done any fishing. Could he remember the techniques he had been taught? He thought he could, but he had no equipment.
"Worth a shot," he said, fighting back against the ill feeling. "Now let's see what I could use..."
He brought together some choice items from his accumulated collection. Sharp pieces of Hellcat metal, broken stones, and branches that he had gathered from the forest. Either one of these or all of them could work. He found one branch that was suitably long and straight, which could be fashioned into a primitive spear or harpoon. But first, he tried to make a knife out of a jagged piece of metal, the sharpest he could find, and a smaller stick that could fit into his hand. Carefully splitting the wood at one end, he wedged the metal into the gap until it stuck.
"Not great," he said, "But it might work."
He gave it a short stab, and the head didn't come loose. If only he had some string to lash it all together, but maybe there was some vine or something in the forest that could do the job. For the moment, it suited his needs, and allowed him to sharpen the tip of the longer branch into a sharp point, perfect for spearing a fish… if he could catch one. With more time, he might even be able to make a fish trap he could leave in the water at low tide, but he would need something to bait it with. A piece of fruit perhaps?
He decided to think about that later. He was planning on doing some further exploring of the island next, and see if he couldn't spot any life in the shallow shores, but by now the sun had passed its highest point and it was just too hot to go walking around unprotected. Maybe later. So instead he chose to save vital energy by remaining under the shade of the trees, and reassess his situation. Progress so far: he had some possible food (or at least a means of obtaining some), he had a source of seemingly drinkable water, but what next?
Fire. If he was going to try and catch fish, he would need to cook them. But he knew this would be easier said than done. He had been taught a few techniques that the villagers had shown him when he was young boy, but he'd never been very good at them, if he was honest. First, the easy part. He dug a shallow pit in the centre of his camp and ringed it with stones, and threw some potentially burnable material into it: sticks, leaves, dry moss. This was the right sort of stuff for kindling, but how to light them? Back in Haven, he had become used to having fire at the flick of a switch, but here he was back to basics.
He thought hard, and remembered the old fisherman making a fire using just two dry stones he'd found on a rocky beach, striking them together in such a way that sparks leapt from them. It had amazed him as a small boy, but could he do the same now?
He gave it a try, using a number of stones that he had found so far, and while he could certainly perceive a smoky sort of smell from as early as his first attempt, there were no sparks. He tried again and again, striking faster and harder, but it just wasn't working. Maybe they were the wrong sort; he remembered the fisherman explaining that only certain sorts of stones could produce a spark, but he couldn't remember exactly which ones or how to identify them. He gave up and dropped the two he'd been using. Maybe another way…
He'd also seen the fisherman make a fire using sticks and a thick strip of bark, rubbing them against each other until a smoking piece of charcoal was born. But that was more complicated, and after a quick search around in the trees on the fringes of the camp, he didn't think he could find any suitable substitutes. He tried the only other thing he could think of: reflecting sunlight off a piece of metal from his junk heap, focusing it onto the kindling in the pit, but this proved even more ineffectual.
Feeling defeated, he sat still to think. Fire would have to wait. What else could he do? What about shelter? Yes. Sure, the trees offered him a little, but he guessed he would need something more substantial and protective than that. Maybe this would be easier than the fire; he'd already seen some long, strong-looking branches on his walks through the forest which could potentially support a roof.
He started by making himself a primitive axe in the same manner as the knife, this time using a jagged stone as the edge, then went to one of the branches he'd sighted. Severing it from the tree was hard work, and it probably took him more than an hour of sweat and fumbling with the stone axe-head, which kept coming loose. But after finally breaking it free and dragging it back to the campsite, he made a start on a shelter. Using his intuition, he began by laying down a floor of the large leaves that were growing on the bushes nearby, and built upwards from there, experimenting and improvising as he went along. Bracing the long branch against a tree and burying the other end securely in the sand, he piled more against it and was able to construct a loose frame of forest material and some of the larger pieces of salvaged metal. It looked flimsy, and even more so when he started covering it with more large leaves. But about another hour later, a rough tent-shaped construction sat before him, just large enough for him to crawl inside of and curl up.
"Well, it's better than nothing," Jak said, not feeling satisfied. "Let's see how well that holds up."
He was sure there was a much better way of building such a thing, but for now, this would have to suit his needs. He had kept the Hellcat piece with the insignia on it propped against a different tree, somewhere he could look at it whenever he felt lonely or needed reminding that he had to hold on and wait for rescue.
The sun had passed over now, the shadows were longer, and he was hungry again. But by now the island was not so hot anymore. So Jak took advantage of the late afternoon to finally do some more exploring. From the point atop the hill, the island did not seem too large, so he made the choice to try and walk its perimeter.
New spear in hand, he set off along the shoreline in front of his camp, following the edge of the wood. The scene was long and unchanging, and the view was much the same when he finally rounded the first corner, and the one after that. Empty skies and seas on all sides. The tide was retreating and the beaches were bare save for scattered tree branches and a line of dry weeds at the high-water mark. No signs of human habitation at all. However, on the island's far side, he discovered a rocky area out in the waters where small rock pools bathed in the shallows.
"Ah, this could be a good fishing spot," he said to himself, and he cautiously waded out to them. The rocks were slippery with seaweed, and at first he could see no signs of life among them. But after lying low and waiting patiently for a minute or two, small crabs started to emerge from hiding, and exercising a slow and careful aim, he was able to catch a couple on the end of his spear. He was so happy after the first one that he shouted out, causing the others to scurry back under the rocks again, but he didn't care. He was so hungry that he chose to eat his first catch raw, right there on the rocks, snapping off its legs and breaking open its shell. It reminded him of the crabs that used to live in the waters around his old village. At last, here was a familiar taste of home, and it did wonders for his morale. He caught as many more as he could before the tide started to come in, feeling satisfied enough with what he had achieved.
He made no more significant discoveries as he completed his lap of island, and as the afternoon wore on into an early evening, and as the sun fell lower in the sky, it began to get noticeably cooler. Finding and following his footprints, Jak was back at his shelter well before the sun touched the horizon over the sea, and he spent as much of the remaining daylight as he could making sure he had everything he needed in the campsite. He had his pile of gathered fruits and metal, the water flask was full, and his shelter was as good as he could make it.
Sitting there under the trees, he reflected on all that had happened. He had had an emotionally and physically exhausting day, and now he was starting to shiver as the last of the sun's rays disappeared, leaving inky colours splashed in the darkening sky. He tried again to get a fire going, trying all the new stones he had found on his walk, but it was all in vain. Try as he might, his camp remained cool and dark, and now he faced the daunting prospect of surviving the night.
He stared out at the sea, assessing his progress. "Well… I've survived so far," he said to himself, and that was the best thing he could really find to say. Besides securing a source of food and water, and having somewhere slightly protected to sleep, he was still doubtful. The pain of his injuries had almost subsided as well, but the pain of the loss of Daxter still remained, and now that he was thinking about it again with nothing else to keep him occupied, it threatened to swallow him up once more. Even though he knew he should accept the fact that he might be gone, a stubborn part of him still refused to believe it, and held on to some non-existent hope. There might still be a chance. If he had washed up here, maybe Daxter would soon too. There was still time.
He also thought about Ashelin and Torn, and how long it would take to get rescued. Were they still out there? Was there even a rescue coming for him? If not, what then would he do? Keep holding on here, or try and escape the island himself? He knew that he had to prepare for the possibility of never being found, and if he had to get home himself, could he even manage it? Would he ever see any of them again?
But there was one more person who filled his thoughts most of all: Keira, the sweet and beautiful green-haired girl from his village. He remembered the last time they were together in Haven, such a fleeting and unsatisfactory experience it felt now, and imagined what she must be feeling now when he had failed to return from the bombing run. It made him feel terrible to be stuck here, miles away from her, and unable to tell her that he was still alive. Worse, he had hidden feelings for her that he had never had the courage to express. Were they to remain forever unspoken?
The sun was gone now, and the night air was getting colder. One by one, distant stars blinked into life up in the infinite sky, and their blue light now fell upon the beaches. Jak stared up at the constellations he had long forgotten, that were usually hidden by city light. There were only a few now that he partially recognised, and his weary mind could not place them on his long-disused mental sky-map. There was no way right now he could use them to identify where in the world he might be, or in which way home lay.
At last, feeling shattered and very alone, he crawled into his pitiful shelter and lay down upon the bed of leaves. Though they kept him off the sand, they provided only minimal comfort, and the cold air around him could not be banished. As he lay on them, contemplating his chances of finding sleep, his mind strayed often to memories of home and the people who he cared most for. Daxter, Ashelin, Samos, Torn, and Keira.
And these thoughts continued to plague and torment him as he lay still and sleepless, listening to the sounds of the waves washing ashore in the dark.