Author's note: Sig's tattoo is on his concept art for Jak X. Only "lif" is visible, and obviously more letters than E could fit, but let's go with "life" for the sake of discussion, eh?

Chapter four, Guilty

Jak made it. They're fine. Nobody died. They won't be angry enough that it's worth letting that viper have her way. She can't control me.

He had thought so, and the mantra had grown louder and louder in his mind the closer he got to home. The words of both Rayn and Krew burned in his memory, lighting not fear but an all-consuming rage. How dared they even think they had any power over him?

Rayn could reach out and spread copies of that recording as much as she wanted. It was no secret that he'd been spying on Praxis' Haven and needed a way in. People could grumble and Kleiver would get pissed about it coming to light because his part would be revealed too, but it'd be forgotten. Sig knew that the people that mattered the most would be surprised, but they wouldn't judge him. Rayn couldn't intimidate him.

But Damas could.

And Damas was unforgiving.

"Poisoned?"

And it just went downhill from there.

Sig had known that somebody would have to tell Damas the truth at some point, preferably as soon as possible – because the repercussions would be dire if the King found out too much later. Or more dire than they already looked.

Sig had also known that if he wanted to come clean with Jak and the others, there was no getting around coming clean with Damas as well.

But he never got further than revealing the truth of why his friends had taken part in the championship.

"She forced Jak to do her dirty work?! She had all of them at her beck and call? If I ever get that little witch within arm's reach…! Vultures! All of them! Poison! Of all the disgusting…!"

Sig had never seen Damas so angry. He paced back and forth in front of the throne, words spewing out of his mouth, slamming the butt of his gun into the floor. Every hard clack and every single word hit Sig like waves of icy water. As he mutely watched his King, ice tendrils seeped into his heart to choke all the rebellious thoughts.

For a little while, Damas was so absorbed in his ranting about filthy, backstabbing tactics that he seemed to forget Sig. It didn't last, though.

Sig winced when Damas whirled at him.

There was no mercy for any accomplice in the King's eyes.

"Did you know? Did Kleiver know?" Damas stomped down the steps with murder in his eyes, jabbing a finger at Sig's chest as he held his gaze. Sig couldn't bear to see that fury, but he couldn't look away either.

"Not Kleiver. They told me," he said, voice sounding strange in his ears. It might have given away underlying truths to Damas, had he been in a normal state of mind, but the King was far beyond his usual cool, levelheaded self.

"Why did you not tell me?!"

Training alone kept Sig rooted in place. Afterwards, he wasn't sure how he had even managed to remain upright.

"Jak didn't want—," Sig managed.

Damas had his communicator in his hand before Sig even got to the third word, smashing down several buttons. There was a beep.

"Yes, Da—," came Jak's voice from the speaker.

"Get up here right now!" Damas snarled.

Just before he shut the communicator off, without waiting for a response, Daxter whimpering "Oh snap…" made it through the link. Sig's gut dropped as Damas's burning gaze returned to him.

"What were they poisoned with?" Damas demanded.

A dark, sick hope flared up.

"Night shadow," Sig lied. Damas paused and then grunted acknowledgement.

The name was similar enough to black shade that if mentioned, Jak and Daxter would probably not notice the difference. As much as he respected the two of them, neither one was a stickler for details. More importantly, it was a poisonous flower which – though now near extinct – had been native to a chain of islands near Haven. It had properties similar to black shade, and the antidote was just as hard to create.

If Damas learned that the poison had come from the Wasteland, he'd make the connection instantly. Really, it had surprised Sig that nobody else seemed to – but it could be that they had been too busy worrying to really think about it, after Ashelin explained about what her alchemists had found out about the wine bottle.

It in no way guaranteed that Damas would never find out, but it bought Sig some time.

As soon as Jak and Daxter appeared in the elevator – one with his face grimly set in stone, the other fidgeting, both bracing themselves in their own way – Damas dismissed Sig to turn his frustration towards a target that was closer to home. Despite the chaos in his own head, Sig had the presence of mind to give the boys a stiff, hopefully encouraging nod. Jak didn't even look up, completely focused on Damas. He tended to get like that when it came to the King, had been like that ever since the truth was revealed. Right then, though, it stung like a metal head stinger's barb.

Daxter gave a twitching, nervous little smirk, and then Sig was past them. He stepped on the elevator and pushed the button to take him down. The layers of the tall structure flew past in a blur before his unseeing eyes.

It was over.

Everything was over.

The familiar, sandy streets melded together before him as he stepped outside and began his walk. People everywhere, talking, exchanging goods. Together, with purpose. Familiar sights, familiar smells. His mind felt numb, and yet oddly open as every sense became heightened – the sounds, the sand slipping under his feet, even the tint of sweat and salty winds on his lips. Trying to take all of it in while he still could.

Afterwards, he wasn't sure how he got anything "productive" done. That he had instructions from Rayn helped – for better or worse. She had been very detailed. And even then there were parts he had to make his own decisions about.

Winning the championship had earned Jak a hefty price sum, which he had promptly split between all his competing friends. It wasn't exactly surprising, but it was a touching move. Ashelin and Torn refused out of sheer pride, of course, until Daxter dumped a bag of credits each on their heads once they all got off the ship to Haven. And then he and Jak ran off before they could be returned.

Sig had left his share in his apartment as soon as he got back to Spargus together with the Demolition Duo, before he went to see Damas. Now he returned there to fetch it, snatching it off the table without throwing a second glance around at the place that had been his own for years. The simple, undecorated two rooms with just a table and a couple of chairs, a box of tools for cleaning his equipment, a water urn and a sleeping mat.

The dry knocking sound of the door closing behind him as he left rung in his ears.

Absentminded, staring straight ahead as he walked, he pulled out his communicator and made a call to Freedom HQ, requesting that the air train that had brought him, Jak and Daxter back home would wait for him a little bit after it had refueled. The operator agreed in a bored voice, commenting that it wasn't a problem since the transporter needed some repairs as well.

He hoped he could avoid everybody he knew before he had to leave.

As soon as he entered the vehicle pit he spotted Kleiver, lumbering around yelling at a line of stone-faced mechanics for slacking off in his absence.

Sig had to call to Kleiver three times before the huge man noticed the intruder over his own shouting. The annoyance at being interrupted changed immediately when Sig made a motion to the bag he held, and Kleiver dragged the other Wastelander off to a more private corner of the parking area – to the obvious relief of the mechanics.

Arms crossed, Sig silently waited as Kleiver counted the money and took out what he was owed for the bronze camellia. There was still a fair bit left after that.

"Too bad for me hero boy is such a softie," Kleiver commented with a pleased grin as he handed the much lighter bag back to Sig. "Would'a been fun to have ya sweatin' it off for the next five years."

Sig forced a bland smile and grunted, because a lack of reaction would be suspicious. It wasn't a very good response, though – Kleiver peered at him for a second, but then just turned away and stormed towards the miserable mechanics for more verbal punishment.

For a moment Sig just stood there looking at the scene, with the ragged men and women standing there, some of them swaying and stifling yawns. Kleiver had obviously dragged everyone in, including those who worked the night shift, to take the abuse.

And then Kleiver finished off with a gruff conclusion that at least the place hadn't fallen apart, and since they had at least managed that much and he was thirsty for some real beer after weeks of that Kras piss, they should all go have a drink together. Clenched jaws loosened in grins and the line dispersed as the mechanics laughed, slapping Kleiver's back as they welcomed him back. He grinned too, and then led them off into the city.

Rough, rude and cruel, but not truly mean-spirited. Much like Spargus itself.

Sig fastened the bag on his belt and went to find his Sand Shark. It was nearing that time of the day when it got unbearably hot, and with the mechanics gone the car pit was nearly deserted. There was nobody who paid any heed to him driving out.

He needed a fight. Beneath the smothering bitterness, a sea of rage bubbled with no outlet. But no metal heads or marauders showed up to serve as stress relief. The drive towards the desert ruins was short, and it would have been boring if he hadn't been absorbed in gazing on the vast expanses of rolling hills of sand. The sun blasted down and painted the landscape in painfully bright colors, forcing him to squint. He flew across the sand, careening down slopes and past rocky outcrops and vibrant green cacti. Absently, he noted that it was almost time to harvest the fruit some of the prickly plants produced.

That particular sweet, hard-shelled fruit spoiled quickly after harvesting and were too difficult to preserve, so they represented a rare, yearly feast. It was one of the very few luxuries the desert readily offered.

But he would not be there for it.

Mountains rose up in front of him and he crossed one of the few streams in the desert. Then the pale shells of long abandoned houses came into view. There was a long story behind that village, a failed attempt at expanding Spargus many, many years ago. And plenty of legends, to boot. At least it still had purpose, since leaper lizards loved the place and that made it easy to catch new ones.

Sig drove around it, up a hill where the cliffs offered shadow. There he parked and swung his legs over the side of the barebones cage of the car, resting his boots on the shaded, but still hot sand. The wind howled through the empty window holes of the dilapidated buildings, tossing little clouds of sand here and there. He could see movement down there, twitchy shadows ducking around, carefully looking for food. Lizards.

Even in the shade, the heat was stifling. Every breath tore at the moisture in his throat. First rule of being out in the desert was to not open your mouth more often than necessary, both because of the sand and because it drew more water out of your body. Daxter had always had trouble with that. Covering the mouth only helped marginally.

Sig unhooked his water flask and took a deep gulp from it.

There were things he had to do. He didn't want to go through with any of it, and that made it difficult to decide where to start. But he had to begin somewhere.

Putting the flask down, he reached under one of his pauldrons and opened the latch. The metal head skull slipped off his shoulder and into his grip. He looked at it with all its scratches, and the eye sockets seemed to glare back. That kind of armor material wasn't a unique thing in Spargus, but in Haven it had made him stand out in an even more intimidating way. Krew had liked it that way.

Rayn did not.

It was insane doing this out here, but he had no choice. He couldn't do it in Spargus. Somebody would see him, and he refused to leave any part of himself in Haven.

He dropped the pauldron on the passenger seat and unlatched the other one. Standing up, he took his Peace Maker from his back and leaned it against the car so that it was out of the way.

Bit by bit he shed his armor. Even with the sleeveless shirt he wore beneath it and the rest of his clothes remaining, he felt naked once he had finished. The desert wind felt raw against his sweat matted skin.

Alright.

Next step.

He hunched forward for a moment, feeling nausea building in his gut. Sheer willpower forced it back, but it took him several minutes to gather himself enough to continue.

Gritting his teeth, he reached into one of the bags by his belt and pulled out his war amulet.

Just held it. Turned it over and over. Rubbed his thumbs over it, studying all the little kinks and indentations. He'd had it since he was fifteen, and had passed the tests to become a full citizen of the city he had grown up in. The city that would always come to his aid if he pushed the button on the amulet. There hadn't been many times when he had to activate it, but he wouldn't ever have gone anywhere without it.

Sighing, he looked up and stared off at the horizon.

The thought was there, to just disappear into the desert. But the mere idea of suicide was revolting to him, even when the alternative was a life of degradation. He was not yet that desperate, though a voice in the back of his mind said that he might very well become such, and wish he had been allowed to die in the Wasteland. He didn't want to think about that.

And if he didn't return to Kras like Rayn had decreed, she would make sure everyone saw that recording Krew had saved for her. Then Damas, Jak, Tess and everyone else would remember Sig as a traitor. He could at least live on as a better person in their memory.

He glanced at his right wrist, and pushed his glove upwards so that the simple tattoo became fully visible. "Life", emblazoned in his skin the day he'd earned his war amulet. It was a family thing. His mother had had the same when she met his father, who had liked it and taken it on, too.

He let the glove slip back, smoothening the rough cloth over the single word.

Closing his good eye, he grasped the war amulet in both hands and ripped it apart, just barely managing to suppress a snarl. The hard snap burrowed through his brain.

Looking down, he saw two pieces still sticking together, the third one free apart from the wires that connected the combined beacon.

Rayn had only told him to toss it away. That made it obvious that she knew some basic things, but she didn't understand. He couldn't just throw it away. It was a device that could be used against Spargus, in the wrong hands. If marauders or any of the more intelligent metal heads got their hands on it, they could easily use it to set a trap.

He walked some ways away from the car and kneeled down, letting the broken amulet slide from his hands into the sand. Standing up, he returned to the Sand Shark and grabbed his Peace Maker.

The familiar flare crackled to life as he pulled and held the trigger. He waited for it to build to a furiously hissing ball of lightning, then released and watched it fly through the air. Sand flew in all directions as it struck the ground and exploded in a blinding flash, leaving a messy crater filled with warped lumps of molten sand. A burnt smell filled the air.

And all that remained of the war amulet was a twisted piece of slag. Sig waited a little while for it to cool enough to grab the remains from the small crater and bury the destroyed amulet in the sand. The next storm would unearth it, but it was something he needed to do.

With nothing else left, he bundled up his armor with a piece of rope and drove off along the mountainside. There was a cave opening nestled amongst the cliff, leading into a giant cavern that had to be occasionally cleaned out of metal heads.

It was also where, in a freak accident, Daxter had ended up transforming back into a human.

Just a little ways inside, the path was sharply cut through by a wide ravine. One needed a Dune Hopper to cross, but that wasn't Sig's intention. He drove up to the edge and stopped the car.

Stepping out of it, he grabbed his armor and, clenching his eye shut, threw it into the abyss. The sunlight did not reach very far in, and he imagined that the armor disappeared out of sight long before he heard the first, distant clatter echo up towards him. It rang out again and again as the armor slammed into rock and tumbled on and on into oblivion.

He was back in the car, revving up the engine before the sharp sounds from below had quieted.

As he drove, he called in to check on the air train, learning that it was just about ready to go.

Returning to the city, he parked his car and quickly returned outside. The car pit was still abandoned, and nobody called to him.

He'd have to wait in Haven for a few days before there would be another ship to Kras, he knew that. In the meantime he could just stay in the apartment he had there. He'd have to call Damas and lie that Freedom HQ wanted him for something for a week or two.

That would make it take even longer before anybody realized that he was gone.

He boarded the air train and it took off as he crashed on one of the benches inside, head dropping as he rested his elbows on his knees, letting his hands dangle.