Author's Note: I love you, reviewers! *throws roses*

Although he was supposed to be piloting the zoomer (already not an easy feat in the crowded air of the city slums) Jak couldn't help but keep looking over his shoulder. They had 'commandeered' a parked 3-seater in an alleyway and were trying to blend in to the traffic and avoid suspicion. Torn was tucked away in the back seat, wrapped in a brown wool blanket.

"How's he doing back there, Dax?" Jak yelled over the wind.

"Uh... not so good..." Daxter responded warily. "He's, ah, coughing up a looooot of dark eco. Doesn't look too hot. Eyes are kinda funny. Generally looking pretty under the weather here."

Jak almost crashed the car as they came in to land outside the Underground's HQ. All eyes turned to Jak as he came bounding down the hallway, Torn cradled in his arms.

"Samos! Samos!!"

Jak sat at the head of his bunk, slumped against the wall. The dry stone itched his back through his tunic. Above, the single ceiling light in the Underground swung in the slight draft that constantly blew in from a crack underneath the main door. The yellow-haired youth fiddled with the strap on his glove, stewing in his thoughts, as was typical for him.

He hadn't been expecting a miraculous happy ending – even after the months of preparation and his almost perfect execution of the rescue mission – but he was frustrated at what little power the Underground truly had. Jak had come bounding in, eager to pull Torn back from the brink, and was slapped down by the cold fist of the Shadow's rationality. A quick diagnosis identified Torn as dehydrated and malnourished, never mind the almost certainly horrific dark eco poisoning. They had given him a whole lot of green eco and soup, and that was pretty much all they could do. What were they going to do, take him to the hospital? With every guard in the city after the Underground's blood?

The young sage hadn't been able to identify the strange Precursor collar affixed to Torn's neck. The writing turned out to be in a form of Ancient Precursor script, a text not even he could decipher. Investigation revealed needle-thin metal rods protruding from the inner surface of the collar into the tender flesh of Torn's neck, making the collar even more mysterious and disturbing. In any case it made it impossible to remove, as it was solid metal with no obvious hinges or catches. Further study was proving impossible as Torn recoiled, coughing and spluttering dark eco, whenever too much pressure was applied to the thing. Sometimes he attempted to protest or talk, but it just made the coughing worse.

It must have been pretty late at this point, Jak thought to himself. He could remember the room being filled with concerned Underground members milling around, asking questions, but the compound was now all but empty. Daxter was fast asleep, curled up in a ball at the foot of the opposite bunk. The room was silent.

Jak cast his gaze across the room to the far corner, where Torn was sleeping. He lay so still that only the gentle rise and fall of his chest every few seconds indicated that the man was still alive.

He lifted himself from his bunk, making his way across the room to sit quietly on the bed opposite Torn's. Torn had been coughing earlier, and the distinctive tint of purple stained his lips and left dots of colour on the dirty sheets. He seemed now to have fallen into a comatose sleep.

Jak cast his eyes over the tattoos that marred Torn's face, crossing over his face and down his neck. From here he could see the tattoos continuing along his arms and chest, though the blankets obscured the rest from view. The normally blackish-grey ink seemed, in Jak's eyes, to have an ever-so slightly purple tint. He frowned to himself. All too well he remembered the torture he had gone through for those two painful years, all the eco treatments, the cruel laughter of the Baron and his lackey. Seeing another victim reminded Jak again of the harsh reality he tried to forget.

And yet despite it all, Torn's face, in sleep, was at the most peaceful Jak had ever seen it. It was surreal. He almost reached out to touch it, but stopped himself.

He sat, keeping watch, for a long time before finally falling asleep.

Bet you thought I was going to put a chapter break here, huh? Muahahaha.
Sorry, sorry, on with the story.

"...him to talk..."

Tiny pricks of sound began to jab at Jak's mind as it lifted itself out of a sleepy fog. He shifted in and out of consciousness. It sounded like Samos talking.

"...-that collar is bad news...."

"...let me try! He's... he's hungry, for... words? Worms. Yacow. Nonono, he's looking for a... Potato!" There were strangling sounds.

Jak was fully awoken by Daxter being violently flung onto his bed. He blinked a few times and rubbed his eyes, swinging his legs over the edge of the bunk. "What's going on?"

Torn was out of bed and leaning on the edge of the table, looking a lot better after a night of rest. Though the colour had mostly returned to his features, the effects of the imprisonment hadn't left him. He looked tired and frustrated, trying to spell something out with hand gestures.

"Our boy here is having difficulty talking, it seems," Samos responded to Jak.

Torn opened his mouth as if to speak. He managed to get out the start of a sound before wincing and holding his neck in pain, trying unsuccessfully to suppress a cough. Recovering, he growled in intense frustration, slamming his fist on the desk a lot louder than anyone was expecting. There was a short period of stunned silence.

"It appears the collar is making it painful to speak," the sage muttered, furrowing his brow.

Torn had gone back to trying to sign things with his hands. They were odd gestures, seeming not to resemble charades or actions as much as being a completely new language entirely. His fingers moved constantly in an intricate, ever changing-pattern.

"What is that?" Jak asked quietly to no-one in particular.

"It does seem familiar somehow," Samos mused. He stroked his neatly-trimmed beard with a chubby green finger. "...Sign?"

Torn clapped his hands together and pointed to the Shadow, nodding. "Ah!" Samos grinned, pleased with himself. "Didn't realise you knew Sign, Torn. Does make sense though, I suppose."

"What's Sign?" Daxter interjected, poking his head up from the bed.

"Old religious language," Samos replied slowly, trawling the recesses of his memory. "Was used by members of the Order of the Precursors, who believed it to be the very language that the ancient Precursors used in their purest form. It was taught to the indoctrinated as their language of prayer. Torn was probably taught it by his parents - most folk were a member of the Order back then."

"So you understand it," Jak responded.

Samos made an odd face. "No, actually."

In the background you could hear Torn facepalm, dragging his hand downwards along his face before pinching the bridge of his nose.

Samos coughed politely. "I don't use Sign - speaking with the plants is more my area of expertise. I didn't dabble with the Order. And Sign users have been scarce since Praxis banned Precursor worship and evicted all practitioners from the city. Mar forbid anyone worship anything but that accursed Baron," Samos added offhandedly. "The only user in Haven that I can think of would be Onin the soothsayer. She's been stationed in the Bazaar for as long as I've known her. She has an assistant who translates for her - Pecker, I think his name was," he snickered.

Jak rose to his feet. "Let's go see him, then." He turned to Torn, who nodded curtly.

"For Mar's sake, be careful," Samos scolded as the two plus Daxter made their way to the door. "With both of you escapees wandering around, the city will be crawling with Krimzon Guard like insects on a picnic. Keep your heads down and don't do anything stupid!"

Would you look at that? Two chapters for the price of one! Where the price was originally nothing, so wow, what a deal. Review!