Chapter five, Cell

Mizo might have been a control freak when it came to his people, but his way of running practical things – outside of everything related to combat racing – had been careless at best. The many crime families answered to him, but as long as they didn't get in his way he let them do whatever they wanted.

Then again, everything seemed careless compared with how Rayn did things. It quickly became obvious to Razer that this was purely a business venture. Rayn had chosen her education in company management for this express purpose. She was going to have full control.

Razer hadn't expected to be privy to her long-term plans, but he'd been called to her office several times in the past few days to discuss things that had surprised him. He'd expected to be nothing more than a way to reel in the crop of Mizo's goons – who were still coming crawling in, and he brought them to Rayn whenever that happened. That alone was surprising at first, to both the thugs and to him. Rayn had her hands full, he knew that perfectly well, and yet she took the time to have an impromptu interview/briefing with every scarred, tattooed man or woman.

He had watched them shift and glance around nervously, uncomfortable in the lavish office, feeling just how out of place they were, but having nowhere else to turn, either. And he saw clearly that it was just another tendril of control that Rayn stretched out. She saw them, she learned their names, and she spoke softly and businesslike – the complete opposite of Mizo. It brought them off-balance and scared them, because it was something new and unfamiliar, and they instinctively felt that the delicate, polite little woman behind the desk was not to be trifled with.

Razer had to admit that it had been pretty funny to watch Shiv shift from foot to foot, awkwardly pawing at the torn remains of his ears and answering Rayn with hoarse, one word phrases. The man had kept glancing at Razer the whole time for some sign of what the hell was really going on, and had only gotten bland little smiles in return.

Edje fared better, but that was because the man was dumb as a brick and only ever did what he was told.

Cutter… wasn't around anymore. Along with several others who had – before or after the interviews – been deemed disagreeable.

Razer himself had found that he was suddenly in the position of an advisor, which was a dizzying change from Mizo's way of letting him roam free and doing whatever he wanted. Just being the pride of Kras, the retired champion until told otherwise.

Now he had to think, all of a sudden. It was a strange turn of events, but he found it intriguing. Rayn had some very interesting ideas, too. On this particular evening he stood in her office and studied a list of statistics she had given him, while she pointed to a map of Kras and Haven, thoughtfully circling and drawing trade routes with her fingertips as she spoke.

Her long-term intentions, she explained, were to make Kras less dependent on the mainland. The last time Haven had got cut off from them had been trying. Kras had no shortage of eco – thanks to having started out as an offshore drilling platform, with a myriad of little ones around nowadays – but for food, when there was little trade to be had, all they had was fish. And that gets a little tiring without garnish.

Razer listened, and he agreed. He hadn't suffered much during the shortage, but even as a top dog, he had felt it. Had it been going on longer, there would have been serious problems. Of course it was on everyone's tongues back then and still in the back of the minds of anyone with half a brain, but he had never heard any feasible suggestions for a solution. They needed some creative new ideas.

And that was all that the two of them could conclude at the moment. Razer put the papers on Rayn's desk and watched her gather them up to put them away along with the map. Her lips were tight and her nails scratched at the documents. It was slight, but he was used to searching for weak points.

He had suspected that the food plans were a way to stall something she really didn't want to think too hard about, but had to face.

"So…" she finally said, returning to her chair and intertwining her fingers so hard that the skin whitened. "Our little issue with the rebels."

Razer nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

Things weren't going smoothly. Several crime families were proving difficult to subdue or seduce.

"We could start taking them out, but even if we're careful it will alert all of them," Razer said. "They're still not sure if they're scared of you enough to band together."

Rayn rapped her fingertips against the table, glaring at it. There had been a grave miscalculation on this subject, but she wasn't prepared to admit that just yet.

"They need a show of power," she said. Her fingers drifted over to the open calendar on the desk, and it didn't pass Razer by.

The princess was waiting for her knight.

He opened his mouth to voice another thought, when there was a knock on the door and he looked around.

"Yes?" Rayn called, a little more shrill than usual.

The door opened and Chilton nervously peeked inside, sensitive as a cat to the tense atmosphere.

"The Wastelander has returned," he said.

Rayn's mild annoyance at the disturbance evaporated.

"Bring him in and run along," she said, absently pushing the calendar aside. With a glance and a nod to the side, she silently commanded Razer to move over to the wall.

Razer wondered if it was really wise to have this meeting with just the two of them against the visitor, but he wasn't the boss. Also, his curiosity had been piqued ever since his first meeting with Rayn, though he had kept from asking any questions. He hadn't stayed alive for so long for nothing. Mizo had had a… soft spot for him, but somebody wondering too much and too loudly did not get to keep such a position.

Chilton withdrew and was only briefly visible as the door swung open and Sig walked in – every motion stiff as if he was being dragged forwards by somebody else's will and struggled against every inch. For every step the Peace Maker he held clacked against the floor much like a staff, like he needed it for balance.

The last time Razer had met him, he'd still been a Wastelander to the tips of his huge fingers, but now he wore only his racing gear. Even if he looked smaller without his armor on, Sig was still imposing. Razer hadn't focused much on the man during the championship interviews, but seeing that dark, bald head made him realize he'd never seen him without a helmet on.

His lips pressed unusually tight, Chilton reached out and pulled the door shut. Sig's fingers twitched at the soft click of it closing behind him. The creaking of the floor rung through from the other side as he walked away.

Rayn gave the newcomer a radiant smile.

"I'm glad to see you again," she said. "I trust you had a safe trip?"

Sig looked the other way, mute. He only turned the gaze from his one good eye back towards Rayn as she stood up from behind the desk and approached him. Still he didn't move.

"I have prepared quarters for you," she continued. "I hope that they will be to your liking."

Silently watching, Razer had to admit being impressed by Rayn's gall, madness or bravery – whatever it was that kept her from balking under the quiet fury in the green eye watching her.

"There's a lot of work to be done, though we have gotten started without you," Rayn just went on, as calm as anything. "Now that you're here, it'll make things much easier—"

She made a move as if to reach out to touch his Peace Maker. That finally elicited a response, as Sig jerked back.

Razer held his breath.

From where he was, he couldn't see Rayn's face very well. But he had a feeling that she smiled, amused. The hairs on Razer's arms stood on end.

Sig said nothing.

With a shrug, Rayn settled back as if nothing had happened. Any sign of the last day's concerns had disappeared, her movements light and airy.

"Ah yes, and…" She thoughtfully tapped her cheek with a fingertip, resting the finely manicured, teal-painted nail against her soft skin. "Neither one of us want you to be found, but you are, unfortunately, very recognizable. We will have to work around that. As a first precaution, I think we should give you a new name. As code, of course."

Sig's jaw twitched.

"You can call me whatever ya want," he said in a low, rumbling voice that made Razer instinctively shift his weight. "But don't go thinking I'll answer."

"What was that?" Rayn softly said.

Air hissed in through Sig's flaring nostrils.

"… Miss Rayn."

It took considerable effort on Razer's part to not reach for his butterfly knife. He stood stock still, every muscle tensed to spring as Sig and Rayn stared at each other – a huge war machine of a man and a delicate little fairy of a woman.

But that fairy was an evil one, straight from old folks' tales.

With a hard twist of his neck, Sig turned his face away so that only his mechanical eye remained visible, aimed at the wall. Rayn did not move, gaze steady. Holding him.

Whatever dirt she had on the Wastelander, Razer concluded as he carefully relaxed a little, had to be amazing. But unlike Rayn, the former champion was not so completely certain it would be a strong enough chain if tested too much.

"Very well, if it bothers you that much, we'll still call you Sig in private," Rayn said. Sig's fingers clenched even harder around his Peace Maker. "Moving on…"

She took a step back and looked him up and down, which he refused to acknowledge. Still watching in silence, Razer raised a lightly clenched fist to hide his smile. Rayn's motion and Sig's rigid expression reminded the racer of Jak's reaction to being scanned much the same way.

Rayn casually rested her elbow in her opposite hand, flicking her fingers like she was giving subtle conductor cues to an orchestra.

"Without your armor you don't stand out as much," she said, "but the cameras did zoom in on your face a few times during the championship. That eye thing, do you need it?"

"It scans for heat sources," Sig said through his teeth. "Can't take it out without surgery."

"Ah well. That could be useful, so we should keep it even if it's recognizable. But you must grow a beard. And hair." She added the last in a disapproving tone, pointedly looking at his shaved head, with its darker dusting of sprouting hair. "That looks simply barbaric."

"Ya didn't order a brute?" Sig grunted, glaring at the floor.

"No sarcasm, if you please." The last three words were like a whip crack.

Sig's jaw moved, but he said nothing more. At least she let him off about the title, this time. Allowing herself a small, annoyed sound, Rayn folded her arms.

"Work with me, Sig. I don't intend to make this any harder on you than it needs to be."

He looked away again then, because the look in his eye would say more than she could accept. But at his side, his already tightly curled fist began to shake.

"I will make sure that nobody finds you, in case our old friends come looking," Rayn said. "But you will have to do your part, as well. With this, just as with everything else I'll require of you."

No comment.

"Make sure you rest well tonight," Rayn said, a hint of anticipation creeping into her controlled voice. "Because we must begin striking very quickly tomorrow."

He couldn't sleep.

Even with the blinds and the curtains pulled over the windows, flashes of bright, colored light flared through the little cracks and flickered angrily on the walls. The flashes cast shadows across the room, making them jump around and trigger his well-honed instincts, causing his mind to jolt awake.

Even if he pulled the cover over his head, it didn't keep the sounds out. A steady stream of angry honks, laughter and drunk singing from the street drilled into his ears. He laid on his side and put the pillow over his ear, but it just slipped away. Tried to hold it in place, only to lose his grip as he began to drift off and it fell again, leaving his ear open to the noise.

Past midnight he staggered out of bed and into the bathroom to stuff paper into both ears, but even that seemed to muffle the sounds from outside only marginally. Even worse, he couldn't relax with one sense dulled like that. A nagging voice in the back of his head hollered that it left him vulnerable to a sneak attack.

Haven had been bad, but not this bad. And he'd had a purpose there, which had made it easier to bear being in that concrete cesspit.

And the lights and perpetual noise were just the troubles caused by outside factors.

He could try not to think all he wanted, but his mind refused to go anywhere but back to everyone and everything he had left behind. Went over them all one by one or in a chaotic whirl, remembering faces and phrases and events. More than anything else, he struggled to not wonder what they were doing right then.

It should still be a few days before they realized he was gone. He didn't want to imagine the reactions. Didn't want to ponder that they'd search for him. Part of him wished he could have left some message, but he had no clue what it should say. Any version of "Don't worry" would be a lie. And had he left a message, they might come looking even here. The mere idea caught the breath in his throat.

With no clues left behind, they should eventually assume he had died in the desert.

He tried not to think about how much that would hurt them. Damas would purse his lips and move on, counting off another valued soldier, but Jak and Daxter… and Tess, and…

Sig wrenched his thoughts off that route by throwing the blanket off of himself, so violently that it half tumbled to the floor. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed with a jerking motion, he planted his elbows on his knees and rubbed his face.

This got him nowhere.

He stood and paced the room, then continued out in the corridor that divided the chunks of the apartment.

It was the roomiest, and best furnished place he had ever lived in. Or rather, existed in. Everything prepared before he got there, not a thing that was his own – not even the clothes in the wardrobe. He'd only noticed that because the door was slightly ajar when he came in. He hadn't bothered to look much at anything.

The place looked no more pleasant to him in the dark than it had in the fading evening light. Neon pink, purple and green flashes flickered across the rooms and floors, cut off only by the hard shadows of furniture and the edges of the windows.

All the noise got in there too, of course.

If the bathroom hadn't been so small, he might have slept in there. There were no windows in that room.

In the kitchen, his new communicator sat on the table where he had dumped it. Brand new and without a scratch, unlike the weather-worn and often-repaired one he'd used for years. It was also modified so that it could only take calls, not make them. Rayn didn't want to take chances that he'd change his mind in an unguarded moment.

He mechanically opened the fridge, finding it fully stocked. Apart from bottles of carbonated water and juice, there were packs of pre-cooked meals, enough for at least a week. The expiration dates said they would stay fresh for longer than that, which gave a hint of the levels of preserving chemicals in the food.

His stomach churned at the sight and he closed the fridge again.

The cupboards were less stocked, but there were still more plates, glasses and mugs than he'd ever need. He closed the doors after only a glance. Turned on the tap and splashed water into his face, then cupped his hands and gathered up water to drink. It had a faint aftertaste of disinfectant. Not surprising. Rayn – and probably everyone else from Kras – had been lugging bags full of water bottles on the trips to Haven and Spargus for the championship. One sip of lukewarm oasis water would probably have made the lot of them keel over.

Again his thoughts went there. Fighting it was pointless, really.

He'd have to eat something eventually. There had been a meal on the ship from Haven, he vaguely recalled, but he wasn't sure what it had been. Anything would've tasted like cardboard, anyway. The food Rayn chose for him though? He already had to live in her world and breathe her air and follow her orders.

It struck him that she hadn't said a word about paying him.

It wouldn't surprise him in the least if she thought that room and board was well enough, or even ideal. She'd made it abundantly clear that his own wishes were undesirable. He still had some of the leftover prize money Jak had shared, but the bulk of it had gone to his ship ticket. For a week or two it might let him eat things he chose for himself, but even that thought didn't manage to coax any appetite.

He stepped out of the kitchen and stood in the corridor for a moment. Drunk laughter, shouting, screeching wheels and roaring engines, coming from near and far. Incessant neon flares. Disturbances finding their way through the rooms.

It was such a simple solution, but his frustrated, distracted brain hadn't been able to come up with it before. He walked down the corridor and closed the door to the living room filled to the brim with armchairs, a huge TV on a fancy bench and other things he didn't care about. Then he walked back and closed the door to the kitchen stuffed with food and cutlery he didn't want.

Finally he went and pulled the mattress from the bed, blankets and all, and threw it on the corridor floor. Once he shut the bedroom door, the noise became muffled and the colorful flashes were cut off. They were still there, creeping through the edges of the doors, but it made a big difference.