Ch. 7 Dream

He watched the boy from behind the glass. The red-head sat at the steal table on a folding chair with his head down and shoulders slumped, his hands cuffed in his lap. The dried blood was still on his clothes and face.

"He's just a kid," she murmured aimlessly.

"That's not an excuse," was his reply.

A small knock came to the door and he nodded for one of the recorders near it to open it. A woman with raven hair and tilted eyes walked in, her two-inch heels clicking on the concrete.

"Hi. I'm--"

"We know who you are," she replied. She didn't take the hand extended her. "This is my partner." She nodded to him. But he didn't turn away from the boy. He could only project all his hatred at him from behind the glass.

This close. This close.

They'd been so close to finally catching that creature and this-- this stupid, naive, moronic child had ruined it. All of it, all their hard work, down the drain.

And for what? They didn't know. The boy hadn't said a word since they'd brought him in. Not even his name. He'd just sat there, staring at the table like he was in some other world. Like he was pretending he was strong. Pretending it all hadn't happened.

But it did. And that wasn't an excuse.

----------

The woman opened the door and closed it behind her, heels clicking with every step. She sat down across from him and shuffled through the piles of papers in front of her. Finally, situated, she laced her fingers and looked at him with a mischievous look.

"Hello, there. My name is Rayn. I heard you got yourself into a spot of trouble."

He didn't answer.

"Well, I'm here to help in any way I can, ok? But I need you to cooperate with me too, 'k?" She waited for any sign of an answer, but when non came she went on.

"Ok, well, I'm going to have to ask you a couple of questions. It shouldn't take long, I'm sure." She paused again. "Well, we'll start off with this: What were you doing at St. Helen's?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. It didn't matter.

"... Alright... How about, your name? Yes, that's a good place." She waited. "Sir?" She snapped her fingers under his eyes, but got no response. Finally she sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Alright. We can play that game, too."

----------

The darkness was so strong. It pressed in on all sides, the silence burning in his ears. Why did he hate the quiet so much, why?

That's why it brought him here in the first place. His breathing was soft, not like the others. They were too strong, too strong to last too long.

But he was just right. Not too big, not too bad. Just right. Not threatening enough. Just right.

Why couldn't they understand? He was trying to help. He was taking the pain away. When it was all over there would be no more pain. So why couldn't they understand? Why did they hunt him so?

"My, my. Look how the graced have fallen."

He'd heard the steps but hadn't bothered to move. His charcoal eyes saw everything from every angle, and he could see the boy just right. Dark hair. Dark skin. A smile on his face as he laughed.

"You sure have fallen quite a ways," he said.

Why are you here?

"Why? Why, I wonder. Think about it. It's over. It's all over now."

It will never be over.

"A simpleton could only think so." He saw the reflection of metal in the dark.

"It ends."

----------

His legs pumped hard against the concrete, the buildings flashing by in mutated pixels of black and blue, yellow and white in the street lamps.

A whole day. They'd kept him nearly a whole day in that room.

A chill shot through Daxter's spine as he remembered the blinding light and inhospitable scene. Why did it remind him so much of something? What was it? Why?

He didn't know where he was going. He just ran. Ran away. Away from those-- those things. Those people.

They'd released him when they couldn't hold him any longer. Setting him right outside the door and uncuffing him, and watching as he turned and ran.

He still ran. So hard his lungs burned as they threaded air into his veins, the same veins he'd seen just a short time ago from another person.

As they'd walked him out of the hospital in handcuffs, he'd made the mistake to look down. He'd seen the head that had been missing. A middle aged woman with curled brown hair stuck tight under her cap. Her chocolate eyes were wide and dripping with blood. Did so much really come from a human? Beside her head he saw a glint in the gelling fluids. A small gold locket hung around her ears, thrown with it from the momentum. The locket was open, half drowned in the sludge. But one small picture was still safe, still showing the world the inside of the woman's heart like no amount of tears or shredding could ever hope to.

A little boy. No more than five, he smiled with his hand half cut out of the tiny picture. His eyes were the same color as the woman's.

The very same.

Daxter pumped his legs harder as he willed to forget. Willed to not have seen that picture, to not have dropped then, vomiting his heart and tears to mingle with the blood of the damned, to not have shook and wept in front of them.

But he had. And it didn't matter. They still blamed him. If he'd been awake to stop him-- If he'd not called 911--

What was he saying? Jak was alive. Alive, damn it! That's what mattered! No matter what anyone said!

It wasn't Jak! Jak wouldn't do those things! Not Jak! No!!

"AAHHH!!!"

The pain shot through him and thrust him forward. He could have heard the shot if he were listening close enough. The lamp post caught his shoulder, halting him, and the red-head fell to his knees in agony, clutching tightly his chest.

He cried out again in pain as scalding tears rolled down his frozen cheeks. It was always so cold at night. So cold...

Daxter swallowed hard as he gulped in the stabbing night air. Finally the pain subsided to a dull ache where his heart was. He lifted his head and gazed around him with scared, tired eyes. He grasped the lamp pole and grunted as he pulled himself back onto his uncooperative legs. They shot with pain, every nerve stinging wither every knifing step. But he moved forward. Where? He didn't know, or care. But his pain pulled him further. Deeper into the cursed city.

He limped for blocks, for miles, his left arm hanging lifeless and numb. But he kept moving, kept going on because there was something-- someone-- he had to find.

The choked cry almost missed his frozen ears completely. His breath caught and he pushed himself from the walls he'd used for support and across the road. He stopped at the entrance to the subway. It was dark at the end of the stairs, and fear pulled him away. The city was too quiet, the lamps light fading around him. The darkness setting in.

He took one last deep breath.

Daxter stepped gently, quietly down the cement stairs. When he reached the bottom he pushed his foot around to make sure it was the end, and he walked forward, keeping to the wall.

He heard something.

The red-head stopped and listened. Had he? Or was it just his imagination?

There it was again.

What is that?

Daxter pushed from the wall and got to his hands and knees, feeling before himself. It seemed like he searched for hours, the darkness never relenting. He almost didn't notice when he finally touched it.

Cloth. Hard from dried saturation.

He swallowed hard again as he mouthed a single word, his voice not cooperating.

Jak?

His trembling hands pushed a little more, finding an arm, connected to a chest, a neck-- and a head. He swore he felt long, slender ears; but he couldn't tell. He didn't care.

Daxter knelt over the head, his fingers running over the smooth skin and grooves-- the lips, nose, closed eyes and eyebrows. It was him. He leaned in close, his own ear to his friend's nose, and his listened.

The faintest of breaths was evident, ticking his skin. He leaned in close to the chest, with his fingers on the blond's neck. The pulse was short, but even. Light. Hardly there. But still there, none the less.

Suddenly Daxter raised his head in realization. Another set of even, calm breaths met his ears.

"You just don't give up."

Daxter closed his eyes.

"Why are you doing this...?"

"I'm trying to protect you! Why can't you see that?! He's a monster, Daxter! A--"

"I don't care."

He listened as Daniel's breath caught in his throat. He heard him take a step back. "Why...?"

"... It's not his fault."

"What?"

"Jak is still Jak." He swallowed. "Monster or not."

He heard a loud clang on metal as if hit the floor. "This can't be happening..."

Daxter opened his eyes. Suddenly the dark around him wasn't so strong. He looked down to see Jak's eyes partly open and watching him closely. When the boy saw him, a small smile crossed his lips. What was he saying?

The scratch of something and Jak's eyes flickered past Daxter. Not but a second later the barrel of a hand gun was pushed into the back of his head.

"I'm trying to help you!!"

"That's not your job anymore."

A swift intake of air in the dark behind him explained he'd hit a nerve.

"It is me job!! You don't do it!!"

"I don't have to."

Suddenly he remembered. He remembered everything.

He reached behind him, taking hold of the end of the gun. Turning his head slowly, he smiled to the boy behind him. "It's your turn to take a break."

Daniel's face was twisted in pain and fury. "NO!!" he shrieked. He threw the gun from him, clutching his head in his hands and collapsing into himself.

The room rumbled. Daxter looked around him at the dimly lit room as it began to crumble. His eyes jerked from one crack to another. The floor pushed up against itself, jutting out like spears and screeching as it rubbed against itself. The walls breaking in the center from the crumbling ceiling's weight. The air was hard as steel, sharp as daggers as it stabbed into his lungs. The ground beside him crumbled--

He gasped as he saw it wasn't there. No ground, no Jak. Nothing but darkness. But beyond the darkness he could see eyes. Hundreds-- thousands of eyes watching him. Mouths screaming in agony. Hands reaching for him--

A scream met his eardrums so loud it hurt everywhere. He covered his ears, trying to block it out. But it only seemed to get louder. He felt strong hands shaking him forcefully, bruising his arms. He tried to fight them, clenching his eyes shut. But they were too strong. And he was weak-- so weak. Was that why Daniel was trying to protect him? Because he was weak?

He couldn't blame him. He'd always just tried to look out for him. But he'd taken it too far this time. He had.

Finally Daxter released himself, letting the arms shake him awake. He just wanted to wake up, to leave this horrible city and never return. This horrible, blood sucking, innocence beating--

Daxter's breath caught in his throat as his eyes blinked open, adjusting to the harsh light. He was sweating, his blanket sticking to his body. His breathing came out in gasps as his chest rose and fell heftily.

A shocking head of long, spiked blond hair sat before him. It faded to an apple green at it's roots. Deep blue eyes stared at him in horror, in worry.

Daxter took a deep breath as he looked around him. The yakkow curtains twisted in the breeze entering his window. The wood frame room was small, but cozy, with his clothes muddled about and a desk in the corner with a mirror on it.

Daxter looked back at the blond in front of him, who raised a single eyebrow in question.

He smiled lazily.

"Bad dream."