I don't really have anything to say for this chapter, just...thanks for reading? Seriously, I'm glad that those of you who enjoy it do. This fic is a lot of fun to write.
Happy reading!
Fixing the communications system let Keira avoid all the confusing thoughts and feelings that were bouncing around in her head. The work was second-nature to her: she'd been fixing machines for most of her life. But it was just distracting enough that she had no brainpower to devote to her troubling personal life.
Like the fact that, now that she was here, what was she supposed to do next?
Sure, coming to the Wasteland to see Jak and Daxter had seemed like a good idea at the time. And, sure, maybe Keira had been hoping that Jak would decide to come back to Haven City, that seeing her again would remind him of all the things he'd left behind.
But seeing him out here? It was like seeing a totally different Jak.
Almost like seeing the Jak she knew from her childhood. The boy who was always playing and teasing, who chuckled silently as he fell into mischievous adventures, who easily traded Precursor Orbs for Power Cells with a smile on his face.
She couldn't take that away from him. He was happy here; he deserved to be happy here.
Shaking her head clear, Keira levied a screwdriver and pried off the cover of the communication center. Inside were fragile, practically ancient wires wound around delicate mechanisms. They were still working, but crying out for basic maintenance that should have been done years ago.
She worked slowly, careful not to break or dislodge them. This was so unlike the vehicle work she preferred: humming engines, the smell of oil, sparks flying from welding tools.
She gently pulled out the main nodule. This sort of work required precision, cautious and methodical movements. She was careful not to bend anything out of shape or touch any delicate glass.
The transistors worked perfectly, despite how outdated they were. Only a single modulator, but that shouldn't be causing the issue. The connection wires weren't insulated; maybe that was it? Keira reached into the toolbox and pulled out the electrical tape to wrap them.
Three hours later, Keira was becoming increasingly certain that the issue wasn't with the transmitter at all. Everything seemed to be working correctly: the oscillator oscillated, the modulator modulated, the wires...were there. No, whatever was going on with this, she was sure it wasn't an issue with the transmitter.
"You are permitted to take breaks."
Keira jerked her head around. Damas was there, standing in the doorway, an imperious smirk on his face. A look so familiar to her, though she couldn't quite place it. He continued, "It's well past noon. Aren't you hungry?"
She shrugged, but her stomach growled suddenly. Damas gave a low chuckle. She folded her arms petulantly. "I just get caught up in my work sometimes. No big deal."
"Wait here." He stalked away, back oddly straight as he walked. That was also familiar, Keira noticed, though she recognized this one. That was the way Jak walked, with his shoulders back and head held high. She frowned and tried to remember: had he always walked like that? Or was that a habit he'd developed in the years they'd spent apart?
She was having trouble remembering her childhood in Sandover. It was blurry and faded, faraway in the recesses of her mind. That scared her a bit.
Damas' footsteps echoed down the hall again, capturing her attention. She looked up from the floor as he reentered, a woven basket in his arms.
The basket landed on the floor beside Keira with a thump. "Eat," Damas commanded. "You are of no good to me when weak from hunger."
"...Thanks." She leaned over the basket and peered inside. There was some kind of flatbread and a little container of oil, along with several fruits and a small cistern of water. She started to tear a piece of bread off and glanced up at Damas. "You know, you're not so bad."
"Hmph. So they say." He folded his arms and watched as she chewed the bread. It was softer than she expected; bread in Haven City was tough, as if the dough had been worked too much before baking. "Have you made progress on your task?"
"Sort of." Keira dipped another piece of bread into the oil. "From what I can tell, the problem doesn't seem to be the transmitter at all."
He raised an eyebrow as she took another bite of bread. The oil was tangy and spicy, but not hot. He made a noise in his throat. "That's...something, I suppose."
"Hey, progress is progress." She swallowed and tapped the transmitter with her nails. "I'll run a few more diagnostic tests to see if I can pinpoint the problem. Even if it's not with the transmitter, I'll bet we can fix it!"
Damas clasped his hands behind his back. "See it done."
He started to walk away, but Keira looked back at him. "Hey...before you go, can I ask you a question?"
Damas raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
"Suppose I wanted to go back to Haven City," she said, "but visit Jak and Daxter here sometimes. Can I do that?"
Damas frowned. "...I will admit, there is no law already in place that bars you from doing so. Most who seek refuge in our walls have nowhere else to go." He tilted his head, thinking. "You have shown that you are willing to work for the people of Spargus. You obviously have skills that would benefit the city, so I see no harm in allowing you free passage in and out."
Keira broke into a smile, though Damas' face turned stern. "But you are responsible for the well-being of Spargus when you are here. Do not expect favor just because you are a newcomer."
"I wouldn't dream of it," Keira answered dryly. Damas gave a shadow of a smile before he turned and left. Keira tore another piece of bread apart with her teeth and chewed it thoughtfully.
Maybe this place wasn't so bad after all.
Youth, Damas thought wryly. It came with a certain vigor, a vitality and enthusiasm that waned the older you grew. He never understood the old Wastelanders who sneered at the young folks, muttered about their laziness and their foolishness.
If they could see Keira now, buzzing across the room like a madwoman, he wondered if they'd still think of her as foolish or lazy.
"Jak, you're right on time!" As Damas led Jak and Daxter to the back room, Keira suddenly grabbed the ring on his tunic and pulled him forward. "C'mon, I think I figured it out!"
"Nice to see you, too," Daxter grumbled. "Not even here for five seconds and she's already shoutin'."
Keira dragged him to the table, where she'd put the transmitter back together. She picked up a wrench and quickly tightened a bolt on the side panel.
"What have you found out?" Damas asked her. "Do you know what's wrong with it?"
"Okay, well, there's good news and bad news." Keira twirled the wrench in her hand. "The good news is, the transmitter is still in pretty good condition, no problems there."
"And yet, there are problems." Damas stood in front of her, stiff and straight, appraising her work. Keira smirked at him.
"Well, there are a lot more parts than just the transmitter, you know. There's the transducers, the amplifier, the receiver…" She trailed off as Damas raised an eyebrow. "Okay, you don't seem like the kind of guy who cares about all that, so I'll keep it simple. This box?" She cocked a hip and tapped the main terminal. "It's working perfectly. It's transmitting a signal with no trouble. The problem is, the signal isn't reaching far enough out to get to your communicators."
"So how do we fix it?" Daxter held up a tangle of wires. "Ooh, ooh! Maybe we should tie all these babies together!"
Keira rolled her eyes at him. "I just told you, it has nothing to do with anything here. Communication towers have satellites in them. These satellites are what sends the signal out to the communicator itself."
Jak looked down at the scattered bits and pieces. "So there's a problem with the satellite?"
"Well, satellites, plural." She folded her arms over her chest and cocked her hip. "Communication towers work using triangulation—well, technically, trilateration—which means that you need three satellites in different locations to send a strong signal."
"So one of 'em's busted!" Daxter had gotten tangled in the wires now; Jak shook his head and reached over to free him.
"Yep. And I think I know which one," Keira replied. "I sent out a test signal, to see which satellites this communication system is programmed to. Long story short, it looks like this system was using one satellite from Spargus, and two satellites from Haven City. At least, it was until one of the Haven satellites went mysteriously off line."
Damas made a disgruntled noise in his throat. "Sig bought this from a contact in Haven City years ago."
"He probably got it from Krew," Daxter remarked from beneath the pile of wires. "Anything worth havin' went through his pudgy little hands."
"We only received one satellite. We were told we only needed the one to be placed at the highest point in the city." The king huffed out an annoyed breath. "Are you saying we were lied to?"
Daxter snorted as he popped his head out from the wires. "Sure sounds like Krew."
"I'll bet the missing satellite was on top of the Palace," Jak said, yanking a wire from Daxter's tail. "Which explains why it's not working, since the Palace is, um...currently rubble."
Keira smiled broadly. "All we have to do is build another satellite to replace it. With three satellites, the problem should be fixed."
"Hmm." Damas rubbed his chin thoughtfully, frowning as he considered it. "I dislike the idea of any part of our communications system lying in Haven City. It puts us Wastelanders in a vulnerable position."
"I thought you might say that," Keira said dryly. "So, I figured, if we're already replacing one satellite, why not replace the other one? That way, if another satellite goes down, at least it goes down in the desert."
Daxter gave a yelp as Jak pulled him out of the wires. "Where are we gonna find enough metal to build communication towers?" he asked, scampering up to Jak's shoulder. "And who's gonna build 'em?! 'Cause let me tell you, I'm not going out there with all those creepy dark whozits to build it!"
"Who said we need a tower?" Keira remarked slyly.
Jak and Daxter both tilted their heads, confused, but Damas' eye lit up in realization. "Ah. Of course."
"Of course? Of course what?" Daxter snapped. "Ugh, I hate being out of the loop!"
"There is no need to build towers when we have mountains." The king folded his arms. "We placed the original satellite at the top of the palace due to its height. We can place new ones anywhere we wish in the desert."
Keira nodded. "All I need are the right materials to make the satellites. After that, we'll just need some brave hero to put them in place!" She smiled at Jak, who flushed and looked away.
"I gotcha, baby! No fear, the Daxinator is here!" From his friend's shoulder, Daxter struck a pose. Keira rolled her eyes. "Me and my sidekick will take care of it."
"What materials will you need?" Damas asked, ignoring Daxter's antics. "We Wastelanders may not be rich, but we know how to scavenge."
Keira tapped her chin. "Metal," she said first. "Any kind will do, but Precursor metal would hold up best against the sand. And I'll take any old communicators you've got: I can gut them to create the electronic components."
"Consider it done." Damas turned to Jak. "And you…"
Jak grimaced under the stern glare. "Wh-what did I do?"
"...You should be on your way to Seem." Damas gave him a flicker of a smile. "She's being kind enough to teach you. You shouldn't keep her waiting."
"Uh, right!" Jak nodded and held his arm out towards Keira. Daxter leapt off it and onto Keira's shoulder. She winced as his claws scratched against her skin. "You guys okay to hang out here?"
"Of course," Daxter said. "You go chill with Paint By Numbers, and we'll get somethin' to eat. Hey, wanna go to my favorite watering hole?"
The three of them headed back out towards the throne room, Daxter chattering away while Keira rolled her eyes and Jak grinned at them both. Laughter rang down the corridor, along with a playful exclamation of indignation from Daxter.
Yes, Damas thought with a smile. Youth was something to be treasured.
The euphoria from escaping the metal head leader only lasted until the next Krimzon Guard meeting.
They were missing Ionna and Ali for the meeting. Ali had been injured during the battle, and at Yasir's insistence, was recuperating in the infirmary. He claimed it was minor—just a dark eco burn, nothing serious—but they had all agreed that he should take the time to heal.
"You have exceeded every expectation put before you," Praxis had told him. "You've earned a rest."
Ali had clearly been in awe of the praise, and insisted that he would be better soon. "A few days, tops," he said, waving them away from his bedside. "Don't worry, you're not getting rid of me that easily."
Meanwhile, Ionna hadn't come back to the palace at all since the battle.
"I apologize, Your Highness," she said once they returned to Haven. The Krimzon Guard trooped out of the transport, peeling off armor and sighing with relief. "But Onin and Seem both requested that I return to the Mountain Temple immediately. There are duties I need to attend to."
"Sick of us already, I suppose." He'd given her a grin, which she exhaustedly returned. "Go. Rest well. Tell Seem I said hello."
Ionna smiled gratefully before turning away. She hesitated, however, and then turned to Praxis. "...General Praxis. I owe you my life. Thank you."
Praxis snorted. "No need for your thanks."
At the meeting a few days later, that left Damas, Praxis, Ali, and Yasir.
And a very heated, very familiar argument.
"I renew my objection to having you on the battlefield, Your Highness." Praxis clenched his fist against the table. "Now that the metal heads recognize you, it would be absolutely madness to take that risk!"
"And I'm telling you," Damas snarled back, "that's not going to happen. I intend to fight beside my soldiers."
"Damas," Yasir said quietly, "your loyalty to your men is commendable, but…"
"You are the king," Antwon finished solemnly. "This battle could have very well spelled the end of Mar's line. Quite frankly, we owe Ionna and Ali for their courage and quick thinking."
"Hey, I was there, too," Damas objected. "I fought along with them!"
"Saving your own life doesn't count as heroism," Praxis bit back. "We could have retreated and left you behind to face that...thing on your own! It was only after you!"
Damas slammed his palms on the table, sending the pens jumping. "Make up your damn mind! Am I invaluable or am I expendable?"
"You are nothing but a child, foolish and overconfident!"
"That's enough!" Yasir's voice, normally the epitome of calm and steady, rang out sharply through the room. They all turned to him.
"We cannot afford to fight amongst ourselves," he said firmly. "United we stand, divided we fall. If you are unable to accept that, then we will lose this war!"
"Yasir is right." Antwon folded his arms and glared at them both. "If we do nothing but fight, nothing but fighting will get done."
Damas grit his teeth. "I'm not changing my mind," he insisted. "I'm not staying behind while everyone else fights!"
"Damas. The metal head leader knew you were the Heir of Mar." Antwon exhaled slowly and closed his eyes. "We need to be more careful from here on out."
"He only knew it was me because of my seal." Damas wrapped his fingers around the amulet he wore. "If I hide it, I'll be fine."
"They already know your face!" Praxis snapped. "They'll recognize you if you get close to them."
"And then every battle we have," Yasir continued, "will turn into the same thing: the metal head leader versus us."
"We barely survived the last battle. I doubt we could survive another one." Antwon folded his arms and sighed. "The light sage's quick thinking saved us, but we won't be so lucky next time."
Damas' grip tightened on his seal. "I…"
"And that was an impromptu attack," Yasir added, not hearing Damas' hesitation. "If the metal heads know the heir of Mar is there, they'll have traps, ambushes. We must be prepared."
"Your Highness?" Antwon asked quietly. "Are you alright?"
They were all watching him. Waiting for him to say something, to do something. He felt his chest tighten.
"You must listen to us!" Praxis snapped. "Your selfish desire to fight would endanger every man on that battlefield."
"Praxis, quiet." Antwon reached over and squeezed Damas' shoulder. "Damas?"
Damas inhaled slowly, but couldn't seem to catch his breath. He shrugged off Antwon's hand. "I need a minute. Excuse me."
With that, Damas spun around and ducked out of the room, while they all stared at him. Heart pounding, he headed for the doorway to the roof, to the wall that overlooked the city. He leaned against it and put his head in his hands.
Selfish. Foolish. Childish.
Damas slid the crown off his head and stared at it, twirling it in his hands. He remembered, as a child, when he'd sit on his father's lap and play with it. With a wry smile, he tossed the crown into the air, spinning it and catching it on his fingers. He spun it a few more times, watching the metal shimmering in the neon lights of the city.
"Your father used to say that crown was the heaviest object in the world."
Damas glanced behind him. Antwon was standing there, watching him carefully. He settled the crown back on his head and sighed. He ran a finger over the Seal of Mar and traced the symbol.
"I wish he were here," Damas muttered. "Maybe he could tell me what to do."
"Ha. That's what makes the crown heavy." Antwon leaned against the wall beside him, crossing his ankles casually. "Listen, everyone in that room is on your side. Even Praxis."
"I know, I know!" Damas groaned and rubbed his temples. "I just...it's not in my nature to have other people fight while I stay behind."
"And it wasn't in your father's nature either." Antwon leaned against the wall beside him, crossing his ankles casually. "I'm sure he'd tell you how dangerous such a notion is, but unfortunately, he's dead."
Damas snorted. "Thank you for the reminder. You're very helpful."
"I'm making a point." Antwon met his eyes. "Your father, a formidable warrior in his own right, held the same ideals that you did. He went into almost every battle with the Krimzon Guard, helmed an entire battalion, faced countless metal heads in battle. But he paid a steep price for it."
Damas glared at him. "So I should just smile and nod and stay in my place on the throne, like a good little boy?"
"Did I say that?" Antwon kicked at Damas' legs teasingly. "I happen to agree with you. Good leaders aren't afraid to get in the thick of it." He tilted his head and sighed. "But good leaders also know that there is compromise in every disagreement."
Damas raised an eyebrow. "Compromise?"
"Don't say it like you've never heard of it." Antwon laughed and playfully shoved the king's shoulder. "I'm just saying, it wouldn't hurt to take Praxis' concerns into consideration. There are lives besides your own at stake."
Damas lifted his head. "You're right. I get it."
"Good man." Antwon slapped Damas' back. "Now let's get in there and finish up this meeting, shall we?"
Damas shoved himself off the wall, a grin making its way back onto his face. "I guess we should."
As they made their way back into the meeting room, Damas fiddled with his Seal of Mar. He inhaled as he looked around at Praxis and Yasir.
"You guys are right," he said finally. "But...I'm right, too. So I'll compromise." Praxis scoffed, but Damas paid him no mind.
"I'll wear a helmet and keep anything identifiable back at the palace. And…" Damas hesitated, then continued, "I'll stay stationed at a sniper's outpost. I'll keep out of the fray and let Praxis handle the infantry decisions. I work better as support, anyway."
Praxis didn't look particularly happy with the compromise, but he simply said, "Fine. But you can't go leaping into battle whenever you feel like. Your little stunt with the metal head leader can't happen again."
Damas nodded in agreement. "You have my word. But you have to agree that you won't undermine me." He narrowed his eyes at Praxis. "I won't abandon my soldiers. I'll coordinate long-range and air support, you stick to the ground."
For a moment, he and Praxis made eye contact. They were mirrors of each other, both of them glaring with a sort of familiar anger. Bitter, jaded, frustrated. A glare that said, quite clearly, that neither of them quite trusted the other.
