You know what no one in this fandom asked for? Food-insecurity-based trauma. In fact, take a whole bunch of trauma, I'm feeling generous. Just...all the trauma. Take it all.

Happy (traumatic?) reading!

To the Nomads, a child was another mouth to feed. To the Marauders, a child was another pair of hands to hold a gun.

But Spargus was different.

In Spargus, a child was a new start. Out here, in this land of the forgotten, a child was a reminder that life could grow anywhere there was hope.

Little ones, those too young to go to school, mostly stayed in their parents' care. It wasn't strange to see a merchant in the bazaar with a baby slung over their chest or a toddler traipsing around behind them. Wastelanders would watch over each other's families, forming aunties and uncles and cousins that didn't share a drop of blood. A natural way to live, considering how dangerous it was out in the desert: the more people who cared for a child, the better prepared they were for any tragedy that arose.

Children, at least the little ones, didn't run about without supervision. They played together, sure, but there was an unspoken rule that, if you spotted a kiddo too young to be unattended, you scooped them up and found their parents.

Wastelanders kept their kin out of trouble.

"Now, kid," Sig said mildly, staring up at the turret, "I know you didn't run off on your parents again."

From where he was hanging on the ladder, Mar laughed, but didn't say anything. Not that Sig expected him to: the kid was, what, two years old? Barely old enough to babble.

Old enough to be an accomplished escape artist, apparently. Sig sighed and rubbed his temples. Behind him, Kleiver chuckled darkly.

"Ah, kid's just curious. Little ankle biter's gonna be tryin' to get onto that turret for the next ten years, mark my words."

Privately, Sig thought that the ocean had more to do with Mar's interest than the turret itself, but he ignored Kleiver. "Mar," he called, "come on down, buddy, we gotta go see your papa."

"No!" Mar giggled when he said it, and twisted around a rung of the ladder.

Great, Sig thought. He's got a new favorite word. Out loud, he said, "How about Mama?"

"No!"

Sig groaned and walked up to get the kid. Mar tried to climb up the ladder, like he'd seen Wastelanders do dozens of times, but he wasn't quite coordinated enough to get up. By the time Sig got to him, he was pouting at the bottom, glaring up at the ladder.

"Geez, how do your parents keep up with you?" Sig lifted Mar, who made a disgruntled noise, but didn't cry. He seemed immensely happier when Sig lifted him onto his broad shoulders. "Can't wait until you're a teenager. Your papa's gonna have a heart attack the first time you sneak into the Wastes without permission."

Mar giggled happily and clapped his hands on Sig's helmet. They headed for the infirmary, and as they entered, Mar's chubby hand reached up and rang the bell. Ionna glanced up from her work and laughed.

"I'll radio Damas. Where was he?"

"The turret." Sig let Mar down, and he immediately ran for Ionna, wrapping his arms around her knees. "Get that kid a swimming pool or something, he likes the water."

"No, he likes the sea," Ionna corrected. She used her communicator to let Damas know that Mar had been found. "You gave your father quite a scare, child. Perhaps we need to think about having someone watch over you when we're both busy." She glanced at Sig, who shook his head.

"No way, cherry. Love the kid, but I've got enough on my plate to be his babysitter." Sig folded his arms. "Besides, I don't think there's anyone who can keep his kid under their eye. You blink and he's gone."

Ionna hoisted Mar onto her hip. He laid his head on her shoulder and reached for his hair, twirling it in his fingers. "Poor child must be tired. Too much excitement for one day." She kissed his forehead and went back to her work, the baby on her hip.

"I have no sympathy for you, kid." Sig shook his head. "That's what you get for running off all the time."

Ionna frowned. "It's actually becoming quite a problem. He's too young to fully understand it, but there are a lot of dangers in the city. I think he believes it's a game, like hide-and-seek."

"Maybe buy a leash," Sig suggested, just as Damas came in.

"He'd chew through it," the king growled, making a beeline for his son. "Mar, look at me."

Mar looked astoundingly guilty for a toddler. Damas didn't raise his voice, but he was stern. "You know better. You are not allowed to go wandering around alone."

Mar looked to his mother, eyes wide and pleading. He might not totally understand what Damas was saying, but he definitely knew the tone well. Ionna pursed her lips to hide her chuckle.

"Don't look at me," she told the boy. "You're the one who broke the rules."

Damas hummed thoughtfully. "...Perhaps we ought to put you back in that little enclosure I built. It seems to be the only way to keep you in one place."

Again, Mar didn't seem to understand everything Damas said, but he did hear the word "enclosure", and started to pout. Ionna laughed and handed Mar over to his father. The boy turned his face away dramatically, not looking at Damas.

"But for now, we're due for lunch." He hoisted Mar onto his hip and chuckled. "You two are welcome to join us. I thought maybe we could get some fruit from the bazaar."

At the mention of fruit, Mar's ears perked up, though he continued to stubbornly look away from his father. Sig reached out and ruffled his hair.

"Nah, I got some errands I have to run," Sig replied. "Maybe another day, eh, kid?"

Mar giggled and kicked his feet, the tiny little sandals he wore flipping against his heels. Sig tugged on his ear affectionately and added, "And don't you give your mama and papa a hard time, you hear? One day you'll be really glad they care so much about you."

"You," Daxter said, disgusted, "are a bottomless pit. A garbage disposal. A tapeworm that gained sentience."

As Jak took another bite out of the fruit, Daxter screeched, "How can you still be hungry?!"

Jak swallowed. "I'm bigger than you," he replied. "I have to eat more." He took another bite. "Besides, I think I'm going through a growth spurt."

"Pfft." Daxter rolled his eyes. "You've been saying that since Sandover."

Jak tossed the peel of the starfruit into the water. As the sea monster raised a tentacle to snatch it to the depths below, he sighed.

A part of him knew why he was still hungry. Part of him knew why he had eaten two bowls of soup and still been hungry enough to grab something from the bazaar on a whim. Two years of nothing but half-spoiled scraps and rotten leftovers, followed by a year or so of nothing but cheap bar food and expired grain bars. It was always there, in the back of his mind: the fear that his next meal wouldn't come.

Even now, as he had practically unlimited access to food, his body seemed to urge him to take more than he needed. As if to prove his point, his stomach growled and he finished off the last of the starfruit.

Daxter seemed to sense that Jak had withdrawn. "Fine," he resigned. "Just watch all those calories, or ten years from now, you'll be worse off than Krew."

Jak wrinkled his nose. "I don't think so. Besides, it's fruit. Fruit's healthy, right?"

He stood up and Daxter hopped onto his shoulder. "So, where to now, partner?"

Jak glanced around. The sandstorm hung heavy in the air; it would probably hit within the next hour. Merchants were already starting to roll out tarps and put away their wares. The wind was blowing, as it always did right before a storm formed.

Jak folded his arms. "Sig said business as usual, right? I guess we should go check in with Damas."

There was a sense of anticipation and urgency as the citizens went about their business, hoping to get back home before the storm reached them. The leaper lizards had been huddled together under awnings and buildings, preening and chirping at passerby. The walk to the palace was a reminder that Wastelanders were hardy, strong people.

"Alright, where is the old guy?" Daxter asked, glancing around. The throne room was empty, and as Jak checked behind the water wheel, his friend leapt off his shoulder. "Maybe he's hanging around the garage."

Jak nodded and started back to the elevator, but stopped. Down one of the corridors, one that was usually dark as night, a light was glowing.

"...Oh, no," Daxter groaned. "You can't help yourself, can you?!"

Jak didn't answer, just walking cautiously toward the hallway. "Damas? Are you there?"

No answer. He hesitated, then started down the empty corridor, glancing around. Daxter followed him, grumbling the whole way.

The hallway had a few torches lit along the wall, as though someone had just lit enough light to see their way. There was no sign of Damas or anyone else; Jak almost felt like he had in the Mountain Temple, as if he were trespassing somewhere sacred.

"Jak," Daxter whined, "I don't think we should be messing around back here…you know Sandman probably wouldn't like it."

Jak continued walking down the corridor. "We're just poking around, Daxter," he said, though the unsettling feeling remained. "Come on, be a little adventurous."

"Where have I heard that before?" Daxter rolled his eyes. "Fine, but if there's any weirdo Precursor funny business goin' on, you deal with it."

The torches ended as they approached a door. The inside was lit, the door ajar. Jak opened it completely.

The room was small and cozy. There was a small cot against the wall, with blankets and pillows that looked like they hadn't been moved in ages. A shelf with dusty books was attached to the wall, and Jak absent-mindedly ran a finger over their spines.

There was a rug on the floor. It was a match up of bright colors, knotted together haphazardly. Beside the rug, there was an ugly splotch of what Jak had a nasty feeling was blood. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the frame creaking with his weight.

"This must be...his son's room," Jak said softly. He looked around in awe, not sure how to handle it. It was like a glimpse into something hidden away, something raw and vulnerable that he was never meant to see.

Daxter hopped up onto the bed beside Jak. "Nice digs," he commented, but his voice was lower and less goofy than usual. It seemed that even Daxter could feel the reverence here. "What's that?"

Jak glanced at the head of the bed. There was a stuffed animal, old and frayed and worn. Keira would have called it "well-loved." He reached over and took it.

Cradling it in both hands, Jak felt a weird sense of nostalgia. When he had been young, with his uncle in Sandover, he'd had a stuffed animal similar to this. It was a foggy memory, as though it was a lifetime ago, but he remembered cuddling with it when storms raged outside.

Jak ran his thumb over a worn patch. He thought it might have been a bear or something or some sort. The one he'd had in Sandover had been a yakkow.

Had his uncle made it? No, that was right, he thought, it had been…had it been the farmer? He couldn't quite remember anymore. He opened his mouth to ask Daxter, but was cut off.

"Hasn't anyone ever told you not to snoop?" He snapped his head up to see Damas, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. He didn't seem angry, though; his voice was light as he entered and held his hand out.

Wordlessly, Jak handed him the stuffed toy. Damas turned it around in his hand carefully, a smile lingering on his lips. He sat beside Jak on the bed, still staring at the toy.

"When children of Spargus are born," he said quietly, "it's traditional for them to receive gifts from family and close friends. Most of the time, it's things that are only for babies: a cradle, swaddle blankets, the like. But my son…he slept with this toy for almost five years."

Jak swallowed. "Who gave it to him?"

"Sig. Do you see the stitching?" He pointed to the seams of the animal. They were crooked and sloppy, but tight enough to keep it together. "He made it. He said that all children deserved to have something to be tucked in with."

"Sig?!" Daxter snorted. "Man, he just keeps makin' his image worse. Now he's a seamstress? Maybe he'll make a dress next."

"You poke fun," Damas replied, "until you need a pair of pants mended. Then you'll wish you knew how to sew."

Daxter grumbled something about pants, but Jak ignored him. "I'm sorry about your son," he said sincerely.

"...As am I." Damas set the stuffed animal down on the pillow tenderly. As Jak stood up, Damas straightened the sheets. "You would think that time would dull the pain, but I feel it's…only made it worse. You can never replace a child."

Jak didn't know what to say about that, so he chose to stay silent. Even Daxter remained quiet, watching the old king. Finally, Damas sighed and gestured to the doorway.

"I assume you two were looking for me. What did you need?"

"Oh! Yeah, we just wanted to check in and see if there was anything you needed."

Damas licked his fingers and dampened the torch on the wall, plunging the room into darkness. As he shut the door behind him, he said, "Actually, you have good timing. With the storm coming, there's some tasks that need to be done."

While Damas started to list the jobs, Jak glanced back at the door. There was something carved in there, but he couldn't quite read it in the darkness. He could hear Daxter complaining down the hall.

"Aw, man, we have to help Kleiver? Ugh, why don't you just drown me, Sandy?"

Jak sighed and quickened his pace, following Damas. There was a strange, bitter feeling in his chest.

We better find you, kid, he thought. That room had been empty for too long.

It was almost three weeks before Praxis actually got around to banishing Damas.

They locked him in the prison, hidden away where no one would find him. Sitting behind the metal doors, Damas watched as he lost any claim to the city that was once his.

He was not alone; Praxis was rounding up supporters of the king and quietly imprisoning them. Antwon was shoved roughly into the cell next to him, cursing and spitting all the way. The royal archivist, high-ranking soldiers, medics, ordinary citizens. All of them loyal to Damas. All of them imprisoned.

As time stretched on, as the days turned to weeks, more and more people joined him in the prison. And then, just as quickly, they disappeared again.

Antwon was the first to go. Damas watched through the small, barred window as Praxis led him away.

Damas had no idea what happened to them once they left the fortress; the sick feeling that they had been executed turned his stomach.

Over the weeks, the number of prisoners slowly dwindled. They vanished, led away by Praxis. Damas watched each and every one go.

But he was left for last.

There was a method to the madness. From what little Damas gained from his prison cell, the citizens of Haven City didn't know what had happened. There had been a protest, a riot, and the guards had killed several citizens. And when the morning came, their king was gone, and Praxis was left in charge.

Eventually, he realized that this had been Praxis' plan all along: to let the people make up their own story. Had Damas vanished in the night? Had he been killed by those in the protest? Had he simply left, unable to face his failures as a king?

Had he abandoned them? Who really knew the truth?

Then Praxis came for him.

It was the dead of night, and Damas had been dead asleep. So being roused by a series of guards and dragged out to Praxis was jarring.

He was marched into a transport. They traveled all night, with Damas restrained and Praxis beside him. And for the entire night, Praxis said nothing to him.

Not that Damas said anything, either. What was there to say?

The transport finally landed, and through the window, Damas looked out over a vast ocean of sand. The door opened and he was led out.

The heat was intense, the grains of sand stinging his face. He winced at the bright light of the morning sun, sweat already beading on his brow. Praxis roughly shoved him forward, off the metal ramp. They walked for a few feet before Praxis snarled, "Face me."

The guards moved to spin Damas around, but he already did so of his own volition. He tilted his chin up and met Praxis' eyes. There was a beat of silence, an unspoken hatred between the two of them. Finally, Damas spoke.

"So," he said conversationally, "this is how it ends. You don't even give me the dignity of killing me in my own city."

"Oh, I'm not planning to kill you, Damas." Praxis narrowed his good eye at the king. "The same gift you gave to me, I plan to give to you. Your life, or whatever's left of it. Nothing more, nothing less."

Praxis gave a wave of his hand and the guard beside Damas snapped the cuffs off. With his hands now free, Damas wiped the sweat off of his face, pushing his locks back. The transport revved to life and the rest of the guards started to board it. As Praxis climbed up the ramp, Damas spoke up.

"You know," he said to the man's retreating back, "I still don't regret it."

"Regret what?" Praxis snapped. "The fruitless assault against a fortified nest? Ignoring all of your advisors? The deaths of hundreds of men?"

"Saving you." Damas watched Praxis grit his teeth and took some small satisfaction that he clearly didn't like being reminded of it. "I did the right thing, and no matter what you do to me, I'll always have done the right thing."

"Let's see if you feel that way after a few days in the desert," Praxis sneered. He tapped the transport door a few times and it started to close. "Will your morality save your life?"

"It saved yours." The door closed before either of them could say anything else. Damas watched Praxis' face through the door as it left the ground.

And with that, Damas was left alone.

He started to walk, for lack of anything better to do. Praxis surely expected Damas to die out here; this was less of a mercy and more of a roundabout way to avoid a murder accusation. But it didn't matter.

If Praxis was willing to give him a gift, then Damas would take it.

His life. Whatever was left of it.

Nothing more, nothing less.