Chapter Text
The Spargan vehicle pit was all but deserted in the dead of night, with only a handful of warriors on guard-duty keeping watch over the outer gates. It was eerily quiet without the bustle of mechanics and frequent comings and goings of warriors running missions out in the wasteland; only the soft sighing of the desert wind and the occasional footsteps of the guards broke the silence.
Damas arrived atop the walls sometime around midnight, choosing a spot directly over the outer gate and standing statue-still as he looked out over the starlit dunes. This in itself was not uncommon (rumour had it that the current Ruler of Spargus never slept, largely thanks to frequent nocturnal appearances such as this one) but he was more tense than usual, like a hunter seeking a scent, and he exchanged only the briefest greetings with the guards before falling quiet again. It was the sort of deadened silence that precedes a storm, the air around him charged; the night-guards picked up on the mood and none of them pressed their ruler for details, simply watched and waited for the storm to break.
After long hours of silence, Damas was joined by the captain of the communications hub, a tall dark-skinned wastelander called Pol. Their brief exchange was too quiet for the night-guards to hear what was said, but they all took note when Damas began making urgent calls on his communicator.
Within twenty minutes, a small group of warriors had assembled near one of the torches flanking the city gate, and Damas descended from the walls to meet them. Three hours before dawn was uncommonly early, even for a desert city that rose before the sun to beat the heat of the day; the warriors stood tired and bleary-eyed, trying to stifle their yawns, though none of them would dare complain. Every Spargan understood that it was their duty to respond when called, even if their king didn't have the decency to look as tired as they felt.
Damas acknowledged each of them by name, his tone still soft, but none of them missed the electric tension in the air, the sharp sense of urgency that coiled tightly around the desert king. Every one of them knew that Damas would not have called them here without reason.
'We have a situation,' he began, as Pol and the current guard-captain joined them-- no one seemed to breathe as Damas summarised the problem. A call received in the dead of night was bound to be bad, but this incident might turn out even worse than any of them had anticipated.
Tradition had it that the Ruler of Spargus didn't ride out on missions often, only under the most dire of circumstances. But none of the assembled warriors were surprised when Damas swung into the first car beside its driver, when he personally gave the signal that sent the small convoy tearing from the gates.
---
The sky was just beginning to lighten from black to deep indigo in the east as they neared the steep ridges formed by ancient basalt flows; Damas raised a hand and the vehicles slowed slightly in response. Their target lay within the system of caves and tunnels that twisted and wound beneath the long-extinct volcanic peaks in this part of the desert-- they wouldn't be able to see what awaited them until they were almost right on top of it.
Bel, driver of the lead vehicle, tapped her thumbs against her steering wheel. 'D'you think it's a trap?'
'Almost definitely,' he replied. 'But we expected as much back in Spargus. Keep going.'
As they approached the entrance to the caves, a small flicker of orange dropped down from one of the boulders just inside. Damas stood up on his seat, peering intently at the rocks, then quickly signaled for the three cars to stop. With the engines silenced, the Spargans could hear the small creature yelling thinly, its voice distinctly human even at a distance.
Damas grabbed his peacemaker and jumped down from the car; there was no mistaking the creature's identity. 'Daxter, what--'
'...spikey-headed sonuva yakkow's tit; it's about godsdamned time you showed up!' Daxter yelled, gesturing wildly at Damas. 'I hope you know this is all your fault; we come out here on your crap mission and of course everything goes to shit cause the universe just can't give us a break, and you should know--'
'Daxter--'
'--prob'ly jump off a damn cliff if you told him to, and not even start to wonder why til he was halfway down, and-- hey! What the hell're ya doin', I ain't finished yet, put me d--'
'Daxter,' Damas repeated as he lifted the ottsel to eye level; his voice was very quiet this time, and something in those unusual violet eyes made Daxter want to curl up and hide, or maybe run as far away as possible. He clamped his mouth shut as Damas continued in that same oddly soft tone-- 'Where are the others?'
He managed to find his voice again. 'G-gone, they're just... Jak's gone, and I couldn't even... didn't even see...' The anger was draining away, exhaustion finally engulfing him like the incoming tide; he couldn't even bring himself to care about the indignity of dangling from Damas's hands like a disobedient kitten at this point.
'How do you mean?' Damas asked, startling him back to the present. 'When you say they are 'gone'...'
Daxter glared up at the king, finding another spark of anger. 'Gone! Taken! Poof, vanished! I just woke up and not a trace of 'em left, and that's all I know, okay?' He sniffed loudly and rubbed the back of his forearm over his eyes, then jabbed a finger at Damas. 'And what're you gonna do about it, anyway? You're no better than all the other ungrateful jumped-up leader types our sorry hides've had the rotten luck of dealing with-- gettin' Jak all mixed up in your shit and lettin' him pay the price when everythin' goes tits-up. Every time-- he's always the one who gets hurt, and now he's been dragged off gods-know-where by marauders or metalheads or-- or worse...'
Damas said nothing, his expression neutral as Daxter paused, breathing heavily-- the little ottsel glared up at Damas through his furious tears, teeth bared and fur standing on end. The Ruler of Spargus was an intimidating presence; Daxter was usually careful to draw the line at casual jabs, but now he was past caring, past any fear of what Damas might do to him. '...But I wouldn't expect you to understand what it's like,' he added venomously. 'Everyone always wanting things from him, everyone taking all they can get and never giving anything back...'
'You'd be surprised,' said Damas quietly, his gaze still level, but something in his eyes and his tone made Daxter think of cut glass, sharp and dangerous beneath the calm surface... and somehow, those three soft-spoken words were worse than if Damas had shouted. Daxter flinched and clamped his mouth shut, unsure whether he'd overstepped some invisible line, whether Damas might attempt to drop-kick him as far from Spargus as possible, leave him for the desert to finish off... but Damas just shook his head and added, 'It is unwise to make assumptions, and speak of things you do not understand.' Damas set Daxter back on the sand, crouching down to his level. 'More importantly-- I need you to tell me exactly what happened to the others, if I am to help them.'
Daxter blinked up at him, eyes narrowing slightly. 'D'you... really mean that?'
Damas raised an eyebrow. 'I did not come out here to sightsee, rodent.' He picked up his peacemaker, planting the butt of the weapon firmly against the ground. 'Your party left Spargus yesterday afternoon to investigate a beacon belonging to one of our artifact-runners, activated earlier that day at this location.' Damas indicated the caves. 'The last contact we had with the rescue party came an hour later, as you neared the caves; at that point nothing out of the ordinary had been detected. What happened after that?'
Daxter was quiet for a moment, as though collecting his thoughts. 'Well... yeah, everything was going just like usual, up until we got inside the tunnels. I started gettin' real sleepy, and Jak pulled me down off his shoulder so I wouldn't fall. Was pretty out of it by the time we stopped, but I think one of the others said somethin' about the body bein' moved. And I sorta remember Jak picked me up and I think he was running, an' there was people shouting and gunfire, but that might've just been a normal dream...' Daxter rubbed his eyes again. 'Next thing I knew, I was wakin' up behind some rocks just inside the entrance. No sign of him, or the other three... just the dead guy farther back inside. Didn't look marauder, so I guess it was probably the missing artifact guy we were supposed to find.'
Damas gazed thoughtfully at the cave entrance while he waited for Daxter to finish, then looked back at the ottsel. 'What time would you say you woke up?'
'Don't know exactly... was fully dark out, and the new moon. I'd guess maybe an hour or two before midnight?'
'So you woke up, and then went back inside, I assume to look for Jak. You said there was no sign of the rescue party, but did you notice anything else out of the ordinary?'
'Mostly just... lots of tracks, both from the cars and human footprints-- or boots, anyway, so I figured human, but-- yeah. Signs of gunfire, but I dunno if they were from yesterday, guess it could've been older... oh yeah, and behind some rocks about halfway to where the body is, I found some big canisters.'
'Hm.' Damas frowned. 'What colour? And were they marked?'
'Just a dark grey... and yeah, they had the old KG logo on them-- uh, from Haven City, you know? Big bad military types. And...' Daxter traced a rough shape in the sand with his finger. 'There was another mark, sorta like that.'
Daxter was pretty sure he caught a flicker of recognition in Damas's eyes, and not the good kind. 'Did you notice--'
'Oi, Damas!' Bel interrupted. 'A flare!'
Damas stood quickly, scanning the horizon for the source of the smoke trail. 'There,' he called, pointing at a distant ridge and signaling to one of the other drivers. Find them-- take them alive if possible.
'Hey! What's going on, Sandy?' Daxter asked as the car took off across the dunes. He didn't understand the series of hand-signals Damas had used, while his low vantage point made it difficult for him to see much beyond Damas's parked car-- and he didn't quite have the guts to try riding the king's shoulder.
'That's a marauder signal,' Damas replied, pointing at the trail of thick yellowish smoke hanging in the early morning sky. 'Almost definitely the same ones responsible for this cowardly trap.'
'So, uh... why would marauders go to all this trouble, anyway? Complicated traps and taking prisoners really doesn't seem like their style...'
'It's not,' said Damas, pulling out his communicator and opening a channel. 'Kleiver, I need an investigation team out here-- gas masks, protective gear, scanners, the whole lot. Make sure those filters are fresh; we think the missing Spargans were gassed.'
'G-gassed?' Daxter sputtered. 'Is Jak gonna be--' He broke off abruptly when Damas locked eyes with him, shaking his head as though to say not now; you didn't have to be a reading-people expert to figure that one out.
'We have reports of one dead; the other four appear to have been taken alive. If nothing else comes up, we will be waiting at--' Damas's communicator beeped; he glanced at the readout, then said 'hold' before switching channels. 'Yes?'
'Just picked up a new signal-- Lorne's beacon has been activated. I'm sending you the coordinates now.'
'Good work, Pol. Out.' He switched back to Kleiver's channel. 'Change of plans-- we've got another lead. Your group should proceed with the search alone; contact me when you've finished here.'
'Righto, lordship.'
Damas ended the call and tossed the comm to Bel, who set about plugging it back into the car's nav system. Damas pulled himself up into the car with an easy, fluid grace, then looked back at Daxter, cutting off the ottsel's most recent attempt to ask what was going on. 'Get in, rat-- unless you'd prefer to wait here for Kleiver to arrive with the reinforcements.'
Daxter shuddered and quickly obeyed. The last thing he wanted at a time like this was to be alone with Kleiver... especially considering that he was pretty sure the big man had never completely given up hope of turning him into a snack.
He'd barely landed in the car when Bel floored the accelerator and the vehicle abruptly rocketed forward, slamming him against the seat-back. This lady could give Jak a run for his money in the crazy-driving department, Daxter reflected miserably as he scrambled to get a decent grip on the seat-- he snuck a glance up at Damas, half-hoping that he might be at least slightly ruffled or off-balance, but of course the king had managed to maintain his steady posture with what seemed like no effort at all. Apparently driving like a maniac was the norm in Spargus, or at least common enough that Damas was accustomed to standing in a moving vehicle... or maybe Damas was just like that. Now that Daxter thought about it, you probably didn't get to be ruler of a place like Spargus unless you were some sort of crazy-badass tough guy.
It was almost enough to make Daxter glad Jak wasn't here, or he might decide to try something similar-- and after the Glider Incident the last thing Daxter needed was for Jak to get any new ideas about crazy stunts involving speeding vehicles. And if Jak saw Damas (of all people) riding around in a car like some heroic charioteer right out of the old tales... well, there would be no stopping him. Jak already respected Damas more than any other authority figure the duo had been subjected to, and that was without ever seeing Damas in action-- somehow, the man brought out a side of Jak that no other leader had been able to elicit. Daxter couldn't understand it, but he supposed it was good for Jak to have an older mentorly type he could actually talk to. Gods knew they'd never had anyone like that before; Samos only cared about hearing himself talk, and Sig was a solid friend but not much for deep conversations about difficult topics.
Okay, so there was no denying that Spargus was good for Jak-- certainly more than Haven had ever been. For all its dangers, Jak slept far better in the bare stone room that passed for quarters in Spargus than he had in any of the places they'd stayed in Haven, and he smiled more easily now, actually seemed to breathe. Daxter wasn't particularly fond of the heat and the sand, or the nasty Kleiver-types, or the rather primitive amenities, or car rides that made his bones rattle... but he'd put up with far worse to help his best friend. And if the Sandking was part of that... Daxter supposed he could tolerate Damas, too.
Daxter fought his way into a sitting position a moment later, bracing himself against the seat and yelling to make himself heard over the roar of the engine-- 'So, that stuff you said earlier, about them bein' gassed...'
'Those canisters you found likely contained a type of sleeping gas,' Damas replied-- unlike Daxter, he managed to make himself heard without shouting, likely though some trick in how he pitched his voice. 'You fell unconscious before the others due to your smaller body mass. I'd guess that the missing warriors realised they were under attack and Jak hid you to keep you safe.'
Daxter's ears drooped. 'Yeah... sounds like our hero boy, all right.'
He fell silent again, knowing it was useless to think about what-ifs, but... the thought kept sneaking across his mind, that maybe Jak would have managed to escape if he hadn't had Daxter to worry about; maybe he would've fought them off, and...
A moment later, Damas glanced back at him, as though he'd read some meaning in the silence-- or maybe it was just a coincidence. 'You should try to get some rest. It will be a couple hours before we reach the beacon.'
Daxter looked up at him, incredulous. 'Ya really expect me to sleep at a time like this?'
Damas raised an eyebrow. 'Worrying yourself to exhaustion will do no one any good,' he pointed out. 'And I believe Jak would want you to take care of yourself.'
Daxter slouched back down. Hard to argue with that logic. 'Okay... fine, I'll try...'
The Sandking nodded once with what seemed to be approval, then turned forward again.
Daxter didn't think he would be able to rest at all, between the noise and motion of the car and knowing Jak could be injured or worse, but he must have underestimated the power of sheer exhaustion; once he was curled up on the seat it hit him like a sack of bricks. Sleep came quickly after that, deep and mercifully dreamless.
---
The first thing Daxter noticed when he woke was the shift in terrain; this part of the desert was much rockier, with less of the deep sand that formed the shifting dunes near Spargus. The packed dirt beneath their wheels and the tall rocky outcroppings were a dull rusty colour, and in a few places scrubby undergrowth had managed to take root. Daxter climbed up on the car's frame, squinting against the glare of the morning sun. Massive columns and arches of stone shaped by millennia of exposure to the elements towered over them as they passed, casting long shadows across the sand.
Looking back, Daxter saw that the third car had caught up at some point. He pulled himself up on the roll cage. 'So, hey, Mister Sandking,' he began loudly, nodding back at the other cars once he'd caught Damas's attention. 'Any news on the marauder front?'
'The marauders who shot the flare near the caves crashed their vehicle just as Chiro's car caught up to them,' Damas replied, gesturing back towards the driver who had given chase. 'Unfortunately, none of those marauders survived the crash, so we were unable to gain any new information from them.'
'Ah... too bad for them, I guess,' Daxter said, though without any real feeling. 'What about Kleiver?'
'Kleiver's group should be arriving at the caves shortly,' Damas continued. 'He will contact me once they have finished examining the site.'
Daxter gave an exaggerated sigh in response, just as the cars reached a gap in the ridges to their left-- the mouth of a canyon carved out over the millenia by water flowing down from somewhere deep in the mountains. Damas signalled to the other drivers, and all three of the Spargan vehicles turned into the canyon. Daxter's ears flicked up as the cliff-faces on either side bounced the engine-noise back at them-- he thought back to the caves, and shivered a little. 'Are we gettin' close yet?'
'Yes.' Damas glanced down at the readout on his communicator. 'I'd say we're about twenty minutes out.'
Daxter started to reply, but then the car's wheels hit a rock and he nearly lost his grip on the roll cage. He decided it was prudent to retreat back to the seat, and not just to avoid falling off the car; he also observed that Damas and the gunners in the other cars were keeping a careful eye on the clifftops, clearly on the lookout for enemies. The last thing Daxter wanted was to put himself in the line of fire; his orange fur would likely make a handy target for any snipers the marauders might have hidden among the cliffs.
The canyon walls rose on either side as they drove onward, showing layers of striped sandstone laid down in a distant past, long before even the time of the Precursors. The riverbed beneath their wheels was cracked and dry, with only a few damp patches in shadowed corners where the sun couldn't burn it away, though these increased the further they drove; eventually the cliffs were so close and high that the midmorning sun was blocked entirely, throwing their path into deep shadow.
Finally, the cars slowed; there was still no sign of the missing Spargans, but they had reached a bend too narrow and cluttered with boulders for their vehicles to make it through. Damas made a series of the hand-signals that Daxter couldn't understand; the other two drivers pulled up close to Bel's car and cut their engines as well. One of the other gunners jumped down from her gun-perch as Damas unplugged his communicator from the car's nav system.
'Hey-- what about me?' Daxter called as Damas started to walk towards the narrow cleft in the rocks. 'You're not just gonna leave me here, are you?'
Damas paused and glanced back, one eyebrow quirked up. 'That is up to you, isn't it?' He kept going without another word, climbing the rocks and disappearing around the bend.
Daxter fidgeted for a moment, then leapt down from the car and sprinted to catch up with Damas and the other warrior. He eyed the tall backs with trepidation, but at this point he had little to lose by trying, and in any case he was sick of running to keep up.
Damas didn't so much as twitch when Daxter's thin body thumped against his shoulder, tiny ottsel hands scrambling for a grip on the pauldron. '...Eesh, how's a guy supposed to get comfortable on a shoulder all covered in spikes?' Daxter complained. 'You've got such nice spacious shoulders too; they'd be premo sitting space if only your armour was a bit more ottsel-friendly...'
'I don't believe anyone asked for your opinion, rat,' said Damas dryly. 'If you don't like it, you're welcome to walk instead.'
Daxter snorted and shifted his weight slightly, settling himself down into the narrow gap between the row of spikes and Damas's right ear. The canyon was now narrow enough that Damas could have reached out and touched both walls as he walked. After a couple minutes of silent walking, Daxter sat a little taller. 'So... where are we headed now?'
Damas gestured ahead with his gunstaff. 'Not much farther.'
'Do you think--'
'Quiet,' Damas interrupted. 'Voices carry here.'
Daxter started to say something else, then reconsidered and shut his mouth. It was probably not wise to push his luck, especially if he wanted to help Jak. Honestly, he was surprised Damas had tolerated him this long, and he had no idea how much farther the Sandking's patience might stretch.
They reached a bend in the trail, and Damas paused to peer around the corner. The canyon opened up ahead of them, revealing a relatively flat clearing surrounded by high cliffs. Some large boulders littered the far end of the canyon, where the water would cascade down from above during the rainy season; now there was only a shallow muddy pool at the base of the dried-up waterfall.
There was no sign of Jak, but two of the other missing Spargans were tied up against the heaped rocks-- a man whose many wounds bled sluggishly, and a female warrior who had to be at least a couple decades older than Damas. The wounded Spargan sagged heavily against his ropes, blood dripping into the murky puddles at his feet, while the woman stood tall and proud as though she didn't feel her own cuts and bruises. Earlier, during the initial run out to the caves, Daxter had remarked upon the fact that Spargus would send an 'old lady' out into the desert... and the woman had simply laughed at him, grinning wickedly as she suggested that 'kids' like himself and Jak still had a lot to learn.
The clearing appeared deserted aside from the two prisoners, but this setup was clearly another trap; more marauders were bound to be lurking nearby, hidden out of sight among the jumbled rocks and jagged cliffs. 'What now, Mister Sandking?' Daxter asked, though for once he kept his voice quiet, barely above a whisper. 'I don't suppose they'll let us go up and free our buddies over there?'
Damas snorted softly. 'Those cowards are most likely hiding somewhere behind the prisoners, waiting to shoot as soon as we approach.'
'Brilliant,' said Daxter, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'My favourite pasttime; playing target practise for a bunch of marauder assholes.' He shifted slightly on his perch. 'Unless you got any better ideas?'
Damas paused as though giving the problem serious consideration, then replied, 'Just one.' He unclipped a knife from his belt, passing the sheathed blade to Daxter. 'You should be able to reach them unseen while Jayde and I create a diversion-- I need you to cut Valka free.' He indicated the fierce silver-haired woman. 'Lorne too, but only if he can stay upright on his own; I'll leave it to Valka's judgement. They are to remain still until my signal.'
Daxter accepted the knife automatically, staring at Damas with a stunned look on his face-- for once in his life, words completely failed him.
No one except Jak had ever believed he could do much of anything, even before he'd been transformed into an ottsel; Samos and the other villagers back in Sandover had given him chores but they had certainly never entrusted him with anything important... and then in Haven, he'd just been lumped in with Jak. The 'sidekick', the less important half of the duo, the tag-along pet; Daxter was a curiosity and an annoyance, but never worth paying attention to.
And now, Damas was giving him a look that said it was the most natural thing in the world-- not only to treat Jak's 'talking shoulder-warmer' as more than dead weight, but to entrust Daxter with such a critical role in an important rescue mission...
Damas bounced his shoulder slightly, jostling Daxter's perch. 'Do you understand, Daxter?'
'Y-yes, of course!' Daxter jumped to the ground and stood to his full height, slinging the knife across his back. 'You know you can always count on Orange Lightning to save the day! Those marauders'll never know what hit 'em!'
Damas gave him a grim sort of half-smile that somehow reminded him of the look on Jak's face whenever Jak was about to do something crazy and reckless, the sort of stunt only a guy like Jak could pull off. 'Good-- we're counting on you.' He hefted his gunstaff, scanning the rocks a final time, then held up three fingers to give a silent countdown.
Daxter crouched down, heart racing as he watched Damas's hand; the last finger curled back into his fist and Daxter took off like a shot, sprinting along the canyon wall. Gunfire sounded to his left-- presumably Damas and Jayde had made their presence known-- but Daxter didn't stop to look back. He wasn't going to waste the chance to demonstrate all that he was capable of, knew that in a situation like this even a split second's hesitation might mean the difference between victory and defeat, life and death.
Several frantic seconds later, Daxter skidded to a stop in the damp sand near Valka's bound ankles. He pressed himself as close against the rocks as possible while he cut the bindings; Damas's knife made quick work of the crudely woven rope. 'All yer old bones holdin' up okay, gramma gunslinger?' he commented, just loud enough for her to hear.
Valka snorted softly. 'I ain't ready to keel over just yet, firecracker-- wasn't expectin' to see you again. Figured the marauders woulda turned you to mincemeat.'
Daxter finished cutting through the ankle bindings and scrambled up to her shoulder; there wasn't a lot of space considering how her bound wrists were pulled above her head and secured to the rocks, but he managed to squeeze himself between her ear and a surprisingly firm bicep. 'Guess you better think again, then, cause a couple marauders're no match for the likes of the Daxternator.' He reached up to sever the cords around her wrists; they weren't any thicker or better-made than the ones around her ankles had been. 'Oh, uh-- the Sandking says to stay still and wait for his signal.' Daxter paused, gesturing towards the other hostage. 'You think Snoozles over there can keep upright if I cut him loose, too?'
'Lorne? Not likely; he took quite a beating for tryin' to escape.'
Daxter sheathed his knife and settled back down onto her shoulder. 'Guessing you didn't try for it?'
'Nah... time wasn't right.' Valka rolled her shoulders out, though she kept her arms raised in case any of her captors glanced her way. 'Word of the wise, firecracker-- you wanna survive out here, you gotta keep a cool head at times like this.'
'Heh... you know, his Royal Sandyness told Jak somethin' similar, a while back.'
Valka let out a short laugh. 'Bit hypocritical, coming from him.' She tilted her head towards the right side of the canyon, eyebrows raised; Daxter wrapped a hand around her arm and leaned out from his perch to get a better look.
Damas and the other Spargan were taking it in turns to dart between points of cover, drawing enemy fire and luring the marauders out from their hiding places long enough to take a few careful shots of their own-- Damas had been right about the marauders hiding behind the prisoners, but whoever planned this setup hadn't accounted for the Spargans' excellent aim. As Daxter watched, Damas rolled to his feet, firing a shot almost directly over Valka's head before lunging into another long roll; somewhere above them a marauder let out a strangled yell and fell down the front of the rocks, blood pooling from behind his shattered mask.
'...Whoa,' Daxter whispered under his breath, impressed despite himself-- and that in itself was a rare thing, considering that Daxter spent most of his time riding around on the shoulders of a crazy-badass guy like Jak, and using Jak as his basis for comparison meant that other people pretty much always came up short.
But he had to admit, even Jak probably couldn't have managed a perfect headshot at that distance while on the move-- at least, not without resorting to the eco powers that drastically altered his perception of time, and Damas clearly didn't need to rely on anything so flashy to consistently achieve pinpoint accuracy-- seeing the next couple shots connect as well was enough to convince Daxter that the first hadn't been a fluke or blind luck. Watching Damas was like seeing Jak's brazen confidence and crazy athleticism combined with decades of experience and carefully honed skill, and an almost frightening degree of level-headedness overlaying it all...
Of course, it had always been a given that Damas could fight-- Spargus was clearly not the sort of place that would tolerate a weakling for a ruler, and Damas must have gone through the arena trials at some point-- but before today, Daxter had always assumed that Damas was more of a commander type like Torn; the Underground leader was capable of fighting when necessary, but had always been more focused on organising the fighters under his command, unlikely to take part himself unless pushed to it and preferring to take more of a supporting role when he did. Daxter only needed a few seconds to realise just how wrong that assumption had been-- the Ruler of Spargus was clearly capable of fighting alongside the best of his warriors.
Daxter didn't notice anything that looked like a signal, but he supposed Damas must have given it because Valka suddenly ducked and darted behind the boulder she'd been tied to moments before, the unexpected motion nearly knocking Daxter off her wiry shoulder. The marauders, preoccupied with Damas's onslaught, never saw her coming either-- the first fell when she slammed a fist-sized rock into the back of his skull, then she grabbed up the man's spiked club and used it to drop two more marauders with quick brutal blows.
This was all she could manage before the remaining enemies raised the alarm, forcing her to take shelter among the rocks to avoid the ensuing volley of gunfire, but by then the diversion she'd provided had already served its purpose-- Damas and Jayde had only needed a few seconds to reach the rockfall from the other side, and the boulders that had previously served as the marauders' cover now worked against them, giving them no space to dodge the Spargan onslaught. Less than a minute later, the ravine fell silent.
Damas raised a hand to signal the all-clear as Valka straightened and tossed the borrowed club aside. 'About time you showed up,' she said conversationally.
The corner of Damas's mouth twitched as he nodded to Jayde, who jumped back down the rocks to free Lorne. 'Did you see what happened to the others?' he asked Valka, pausing to check each of the marauders as he passed in case any of them were still breathing.
Daxter turned anxiously to Valka, eager for any word of Jak, but she shook her head. 'They'd already split us up by the time we came to.' She crossed her arms, frowning. 'Not sure what their game is either, but it's pretty damn clear this wasn't the finishing move.'
'Mm.' Damas straightened, apparently having determined all of the marauders to be sufficiently dead. 'You didn't hear anything of note?'
Valka snorted. 'Only if you think taunts and insults are worth repeating-- but no, nothing useful.'
'I can imagine,' said Damas. He stepped closer, motioning towards Valka's injuries, but she waved him off.
'Nah, don't bother.' She started picking her way back around the rocks. 'I'll keep until Lorne's been seen to.'
'Fair enough,' Damas replied, following her back to the canyon floor.
Lorne's injuries weren't bad enough to be life-threatening, as even marauders knew better than to risk killing a hostage, though the man was barely conscious and unable to walk on his own. Jayde and Valka supported him and started back to the vehicles; after a moment of deliberation, Daxter left Valka's shoulder, returning to Damas's side.
'So... that's all? In case you haven't noticed, Jak wasn't here, tough guy.'
'No, but that means little at this stage.' Damas started walking another circle around the clearing, carefully scanning the aftermath of the fight. Daxter returned to his shoulder, landing the jump a little more easily this time; he'd never quite appreciated just how short Jak was until now. 'Valka was right,' Damas added a moment later. 'This is not the final stage of their plan. I doubt they will kill their remaining hostages now, not after going to so much trouble to secure them alive.'
'This wasn't a catching-alive sort of trap, though,' Daxter observed, waving a hand vaguely at the cliffs. 'Those guys didn't look like good enough shots to only make nonlethal hits.'
Damas nodded. 'They took four live prisoners, and are using them as bait, along with our beacons.' He glanced sideways at Daxter. 'What would you guess this means?'
Daxter blinked. 'Me? Uhh, well...' He gazed back at the rocks where Valka and Lorne had been tied up. 'I guess they've gotta know a lot about the way Spargus works, to use the beacons like that. And maybe they just wanna kill as many of us as possible, or... or maybe they're looking for a specific target?' He glanced back at Damas uncertainly, accidentally met the king's violet gaze, then just as quickly looked at one of the dead marauders instead. 'Or maybe they're just mean old leaper shits,' he added hastily.
'I agree,' Damas replied blandly; when Daxter glanced at him again he was half-smiling. 'With every part of that, but most importantly the first bit.'
'Oh?' Daxter shifted his weight, unsure what to do with this sort of almost-praise. '...Waaait, are you testing me?'
'Perhaps.' Damas stopped halfway up the rocks, picking up the beacon. 'It's my job to know what my people are capable of.'
If Daxter had thought praise was difficult to deal with, he was even less sure how to respond to the implication that he was one of 'Damas's people', especially when it came in the form of such a mild offhand comment. He was not used to finding himself at a loss for words, and decided it was probably better to shut his yap before he got himself into even deeper water.
The Ruler of Spargus, Daxter decided, was either a lot wiser than he first appeared, or completely off-the-rocker mad. Perhaps both.
If Damas noticed Daxter's unusual silence, he didn't remark upon it, continuing with his sweep of the clearing; one of the other warriors showed up after a couple minutes to help. They had finished searching most of the bodies when Damas's communicator buzzed.
He unclipped the device from his belt and pressed a button to accept the call. 'Yes?'
'We got somethin', Lordship,' said the Spargan on the other end. 'The marauders dumped Zellos just outta turret range about twenty minutes back-- apparently, they wanted him to deliver a message.'
Damas frowned. 'What sort of message?'
'Dunno, but he passed it on to Sig before the monks took him off to treatment-- want me to transfer you?'
'Mm-- what's Zellos's status?'
'Roughed up pretty bad, but he made it back to the gates on his own, and with all the important bits still attached-- should pull through just fine.'
'That's good,' Damas replied with a brisk nod. 'Put Sig through.'
There was a faint click and a bit of static, and a moment later Sig's voice came over the comm. 'They got 'im, Damas,' he growled-- Sig was normally a laid back sort of guy, and Daxter was startled at how furious he sounded. He opened his mouth to comment on that, but was silenced by the big wastelander's next words--
'Those damn bastards are sayin' they've got your son.'
Chapter Text
Damas stiffened at Sig's words, and Daxter suddenly felt cold despite the desert heat, his fur standing on end along his spine as he braced himself for the enraged outburst he believed to be imminent, the shouting and the aggression that still always set him on edge even after so many years-- but as the seconds inched past, Damas remained as still and silent as stone.
That was... unexpected, and Daxter didn't know whether he should feel relieved or even more unsettled. He'd taken Damas for a loud shouty-rage type based on the whole arena debacle... but as he cracked an eye open and snuck a nervous glance at the Sandking, Daxter began to suspect that the arena incident had been for show and nothing more. Everything about that scene paled in comparison to this instant-- standing in a dusty wasteland canyon amid the wreckage of a battle recently won, hearing that the marauder warlords who had orchestrated the whole thing had also somehow got their hands on his lost son.
There was a chilling intensity to those violet eyes that made Daxter think of daggers and ice and shark-infested waters, a tightly-coiled fury that made the utter silence seem so strange-- it was an aura of pure distilled danger, not unlike the energy that crackled off Jak's skin when he was about to go dark, as powerful and inescapable as a raw force of nature... but, as with Jak, it was carefully contained, under control.
'...Damas?' came Sig's voice over the comm again, breaking the silence-- Daxter could've sworn he felt something tangible in the air snap, not unlike the electric crackle when Jak used one of his most potent eco-channeling abilities, but he dismissed it as mere imagination (after all, he'd seen Jak do enough crazy eco shit that he definitely would've noticed if someone else was channeling like that).
'You think it's legit?' Damas asked, with a sort of forced calm that couldn't begin to temper the cold fury in his gaze.
'The marauders gave Zellos his amulet as proof,' Sig replied, his tone bleak. 'I'd know this thing anywhere-- even tested it at the core-vent to be sure.'
Damas pressed his hand over his face, took a deep breath and let it out. 'What are their demands?'
'They're sayin' you gotta surrender at the river-fort if you want him to live. Alone, and no weapons, or they'll--' Sig's voice broke, and he paused to collect himself. '...They said if you try anything they'll gut him and string his insides across the parapets, and mount his head above the gates.'
Damas said nothing for a long moment, then let his hand drop back to his side. When he finally spoke again, his voice was even flatter than his usual deadpan tone. '...So. They want an exchange.'
'Yeah.' Another pause. 'But, Damas... something ain't right about this.'
'I know.' Damas stared at the cliffs as though looking at something far beyond them, something only he could see. 'But I cannot risk doing nothing,' he added, barely above a whisper. 'Not now.'
The sigh came as a rush of static. 'Knew you'd say that...'
Daxter scanned Damas's face; the Ruler of Spargus did not give a reply (certainly nothing Sig could have picked up over the audio-only comm channel) yet the big guy seemed to read something in that silence that even Daxter couldn't see-- when Sig spoke again, his tone was businesslike.
'They wanna make the trade at sundown. You can ride in as far as the lake-shore, but you gotta cross the bridges on foot.'
'Right.'
'We'll be right behind you-- so don't you get yourself killed in the meantime.'
Damas snorted, as though that last statement was some sort of macabre wastelander in-joke (which, considering the sort of lifestyle these people led, Daxter would not be remotely surprised if it was). 'I do not intend to,' Damas replied, his voice quiet yet dangerous. He ended the call and turned to the other warrior, who had watched the exchange unfold with a stupefied expression that rather perfectly mirrored how Daxter felt. 'Reks-- finish cleaning up here and return to the cars,' Damas said bluntly.
If the man considered commenting on what he had just witnessed, he decided against it. 'Yes, yer lordship.'
Damas gave him a quick nod and opened a different channel on his comm. 'Bel, you and Chiro prepare to depart at once-- Yuri should stand by until Reks has finished cleanup, then they will take the injured back to Spargus.'
'Right-- got it,' Bel replied, and Damas closed the channel and returned the comm to his belt, then started back down the canyon.
Daxter finally found his voice again as the narrow ravine took a sharp turn, bringing them out of sight of the clearing. 'Whoa, hey, hold up a minute-- you're really gonna just... turn yourself over? To the marauders?' He didn't quite have the guts to ask are you completely nuts out loud, but the sentiment probably came through well enough in his tone.
Damas just gave him a look, without so much as a pause in his stride. 'Of course not, rat-- I do not make deals with spineless piss-drinking kidnappers.' His voice was still even, still unsettlingly calm, and Daxter fell into a thoughtful silence as he tried to remember whether he had ever heard Damas use that sort of language before.
They approached the cars, and the other wastelanders all straightened, tense and alert; Bel and Chiro had already brought their cars around to face back the way they'd come, engines idling.
'The marauders have made contact,' Damas announced as he strode forwards. 'They think they can play games with me-- it's time we showed them just how wrong they are.' This was met with cheers and war-cries as Damas reached Bel's car; he pulled himself up with easy grace and stood with one hand on the roll-cage, pointing forward with his gunstaff. 'Bel, Chiro-- let's fly!'
'Aye, lordship,' Bel replied, a fierce grin stealing across her face as her hand shot towards the gear shift.
Daxter's eyes went wide, and he made a hasty grab for one of the straps on Damas's armour-- just in time, as Bel slammed the accelerator and sent them rocketing back down the canyon at breakneck speed, and it was all Daxter could do to keep himself from slipping backwards off his perch. Maybe there was some benefit to the spikes after all; at least he had something to brace himself against on the sharp jerky turns, as long as he stayed low enough to avoid the tips... but you'd never catch him saying that out loud, either.
He dragged himself forward a little, gave one of the snowy-white locs at his side a sharp tug. '...Hey, hold up just a minute, Spikey-- what about Jak? You can't've just forgotten him already!'
'Of course not-- but right now, this is the only lead we have.' Damas glanced sideways at Daxter. 'Or would you have me sit on my ass in the hope that more information will simply drop out of the sky?'
Daxter quailed under his stare. 'Well, uhh, when you put it like that...'
Damas snorted and turned his gaze forward again. 'At this point, I would guess that Jak was taken to the river-fort as well. If what I suspect is true... I was likely their intended target from the start.'
'Yeah, they'd love to get their hands on you,' came another voice from behind the driver's seat-- Daxter twisted to look back as Valka propped her elbows on the head-rests. 'The marauder warlords've had it in for us Spargans long as anyone can remember, but they've got a special level of hate reserved for our lordship here,' she added for Daxter's benefit.
'I suppose there's no point in reminding you that the injured were supposed to go back to the city,' said Damas blandly, his eyes still forward.
'Too late to toss me now,' Valka replied with a cheerful shrug.
'Don't tempt me,' said Damas, though there was no real sincerity to it. 'But as long as you're here, you can take up the guns.'
'You got it, Sandking,' she said, grinning as both Damas and Daxter blinked and turned back at her choice of epithet. 'The fuzzball's got a pretty good mouth on him-- I like this kid.'
'Hey, I've got a name, you know,' Daxter protested, while Damas shook his head and turned forwards again-- Valka just laughed, and crouched down behind the gun-mount to take stock of her weapons.
'So, it's straight to the river-fort next?' Bel asked, her gaze still fixed on the canyon ahead.
'Yes-- we must arrive before sundown at the very latest,' Damas replied. 'Ideally sooner.'
Bel nodded curtly. 'Right-- which route d'you want? Scyther Pass or the Sandeater's Way would be fastest, but both give 'em an easy ambush setup... or we could stay in the open and go round from the north, but I dunno how well my engines will hold out, makin' that sorta run in the midday heat.'
'No-- you're right, going around will take too long.' Damas paused, weighing the remaining options. 'Start towards the pass for now, then turn towards Sandeater as we near the mountains. We'll enter the tunnels at Talon Point and--'
'Hey, hold up a minute-- tunnels again?' Daxter screeched. 'But that's how Jak got nabbed in the first place!'
'Precisely,' said Damas, and Daxter could've sworn he saw just the slightest hint of a daredevilish smirk playing across the Sandking's features-- once again, he was reminded of Jak's about-to-do-something-crazy look, which did absolutely nothing to calm his nerves. This must have shown on his face, because Damas continued, 'Most people would avoid putting themselves in a similar situation to a recent ambush-- so if the marauders have set another trap between here and the river-fort, it's more likely that they'll concentrate their resources at the pass.'
'And on top of that, the caves in this area are pretty much one huge metalpede nest,' Valka added, in an infuriatingly cavalier tone. 'Not the sorta place those lily-livered marauders would want t' hang around in.'
'Oh, well that's just great,' said Daxter, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 'Metalpedes! Just what this day was missing.'
'Hey, kiddo, relax-- marauders and metalheads're no match for the likes of us... 'specially not when 'is lordship gets like this.'
Daxter looked up at Damas again-- the cold fire still burned in his eyes, and it was almost enough to make Daxter feel sorry for the marauders. He couldn't imagine they'd be walking away from this one, not after he'd just seen how deadly Damas could be under normal circumstances... but the slight flicker of pity didn't last long. Even if hurting Jak wasn't bad enough, targeting an innocent child was just about the lowest level of scumbaggery a villain could sink to. No, Daxter decided, those marauders definitely deserved everything they had coming to them.
The wheels bounced over a particularly uneven patch of ground, nearly sending Daxter flying-- he scrabbled inelegantly for a better grip, then righted himself. 'So, uh... d'you really think they've got your kid? You sounded pretty unsure, but...'
Damas shook his head. 'We have evidence that my son was taken straight to Haven City-- the marauders were no more than hired guns. But even if not, it's unlikely that they would have waited years to ransom him like this; marauders often keep slaves for heavy labour, but a child hostage would only cost valuable resources to keep.' His eyes narrowed against the sun's glare. 'This feels... unplanned, compared to the other traps.'
Daxter squinted at him. '...But you're still going to the fort just like they asked? Even though you know it's gotta be fake?'
'Wouldn't you?' said Damas quietly. 'If it were Jak, or someone else you care for-- would you dare to ignore a possible lead, however unlikely it seemed?'
Daxter's hands balled into fists against Damas's armour-- he didn't think the Sandking could have known just how close that hit. During those two awful years in Haven with no sign of his best friend, he absolutely would have jumped at even the most outlandish lead without a second thought-- especially if it had come paired with a grisly threat on Jak's life.
'We will find Jak,' Damas added quietly-- Daxter blinked and looked up at him. 'This is not just about my son-- I would do the same for any child of Spargus, or for any of my people.'
'But... I thought Jak didn't count as a real Spargan yet?' said Daxter. 'Doesn't he still need the third piece of his amulet thingy?'
Damas gave him a flat stare, then shrugged and looked back out towards the rocky outcroppings on either side of their car. '...A formality. It makes no difference to me.'
If Damas had told him that only yesterday, Daxter would never have believed it-- but that was before the Sandking had come all the way out here, had put himself directly in the line of fire to rescue the hostages at the canyon, and he'd done it all without the slightest hesitation. That was already one hell of a lot more than any of Haven's leaders had done for Jak-- even after Jak had practically saved their whole city single-handedly, not a single one of them had stepped up when push came to shove and stupid Count Vulgar and his gutless pandering Council lemmings had voted for Jak to be thrown out like so much trash.
Daxter wasn't the sort of guy who easily trusted others (especially when it came to older men in positions of authority) but... well, actions spoke louder than words, and Damas acted like it was the most natural thing in the world to risk his own life for any of his people, to fight as one of them-- even for the sake of a troublesome young warrior he'd only known a few months.
The two cars shot from the canyon's mouth, and the desert's heat hit like a punch to the face as they struck out across the open expanse. After enduring this for several minutes, Daxter began to scope out shadier spots where he could hunker down for the next part of the ride-- but just as he was about to jump down behind the seats, he remembered that he was still holding onto the knife Damas had lent him back at the ravine.
'Oh uh, yer royal spikeness-- I guess you probably want your knife back, huh?'
Damas glanced sideways at Daxter as he offered it up, then gave his head a small shake. 'No-- keep it.'
Daxter looked down at the knife, then back at Damas. '...You sure about that?'
Damas raised an eyebrow. 'I do not make a habit of sending my people out into the desert unarmed-- it is about time you had a weapon of your own.'
There it was again-- his people. That was really going to take some getting used to-- hell, even before he'd been turned furry Daxter was pretty sure he'd barely counted as human to most of the villagers in Sandover, let alone anything like--
'H-hey,' Daxter sputtered, 'I'll have you know I've managed just fine so far! I stuck it out through two whole years in Haven all on my own, and then I busted Jak outta prison and--' He broke off, unsure if he'd said too much, suddenly aware that Damas was watching him intently. 'Well, anyway, I guess it doesn't hurt to have a knife, too... just in case I need a little extra edge in a fight... to go along with my razor wit, ya know?'
'That is certainly a cutting weapon in its own right,' said Damas. 'Just be careful where you point it, or you may end up getting a close shave yourself.'
'Oh, don't worry about me, mister Sandking, you'll never find a sharper--' Daxter broke off, squinting at him. 'Heyyyy, wait, was that a joke?'
Damas glanced sideways at him, a hint of a smile playing across his face. 'Perhaps I will tell you if you ask knifely.'
Daxter let out a surprised cackle. 'Hah! So you do have a sense of humour!' He grinned triumphantly. 'Ya know, I told Jak that no one who'd put up with Pecker can be all serious all the time, but you've really been holding out on us, haven't you?'
'Often, the most effective strikes are the ones your opponent never sees coming,' said Damas. He reached into one of his belt-pouches and pulled out a length of leather cord. 'On that note-- fasten the sheath to this, so you can keep your hands free.'
'Ooh-- yeah, good plan.' He hopped down from Damas's shoulder, into the scant shade behind the seats. 'Hehe, knifely... I've gotta remember that one...'
He found a spot to sit near the gun-perch-- like Damas, Valka was watching the horizon intently, alert for any sign of trouble. She'd cleaned herself up a bit back at the ravine, with fresh bandages over the worst of her scrapes; perhaps it was simply a side effect of a lifetime spent in the wasteland, but she didn't seem at all bothered by the injuries.
'You holdin' up all right, Gramma Gunslinger?' Daxter asked idly as he settled beside one of her knees.
'Ehh, this is nothin'; I've fought through much worse.' Valka glanced down at Daxter, smiling wryly. 'So, fuzzball-- this the first time you seen 'im in action?' she asked, with a nod in Damas's direction.
'Uh-- yeah, guess so. Why?'
Valka grinned. 'The way you watched him back at the ravine-- you were pretty impressed, yeah?'
'What-- no way!' Daxter scowled. 'I was just-- I was surprised, that's all! Cause the Sandking moves pretty well for an old guy, right?'
'Old? Him?' Valka's brows shot up. 'I was a warrior before that man was knee-high to a leaper-- don't go giving him too much credit for years he hasn't earned.'
'That's... a really weird way of puttin' it,' Daxter commented, squinting up at her.
'What she means is that in the wasteland, age is one mark of a true survivor,' said Damas mildly, without turning around-- Daxter was a little surprised he'd been able to hear the quiet exchange over the car's engines and the crunch of sand and gravel under the wheels. 'Our elders take great pride in having survived this long.'
'Huh...' Daxter nudged Valka with an elbow. 'So your birthday parties must be pretty wild, right?'
Valka laughed. 'Oh, you have no idea.'
Daxter blinked, and decided that it was probably safer not to ask-- the last thing he wanted was to inadvertantly sign himself up for some sort of crazy Spargan tradition. Knowing these people, it probably involved arenas and fighting and way too much sand.
He fell silent as he threaded the leather cord through the loop on the dagger's sheath, then worked it into a makeshift strap-- it took him several tries to find an arrangement he liked, where it hung comfortably at his side and he could easily draw it out. At his current size, the blade was closer to a short sword than a knife, and he swung it through a few swordlike passes... though he quickly stopped when the car bounced and he remembered just how nutsy Spargan drivers were; if he stabbed himself by accident he'd never live it down.
Daxter sheathed the knife and sat down-- he wasn't entirely convinced that it (or he) would be much use in actual combat, but he had to agree it was better than nothing. Ottsel claws were short and stumpy, all but useless in a fight, and biting people was just gross.
There wasn't much to do but wait; all three Spargans had pulled scarves up over their heads to protect their skin from the worst of the sun's glare, and Daxter wasn't eager to find out whether he could still sunburn through his fur... and in any case, none of them seemed inclined to chat anyway. He perked up a little when Damas received a call from Kleiver, but quickly lost interest when the report didn't contain any news about Jak.
As noon drew nearer and the shade narrowed to a sliver, he popped up briefly for a quick look around, and saw that the mountains had come into view before them-- ridges of dark basalt that seemed to hover detatched from the earth due to that strange trick of the light that turned the barren sun-baked sand into a shimmering phantom sea. When they were close enough to the mountains that Daxter could see the slight dip in the ridges (likely the pass Damas and Bel had discussed) they turned and rode at an angle to the mountains until they reached a tall outcropping of rock that looked like a massive claw thrust out of the desert-- and Bel pulled a hard turn towards the dark gaping hole in the cliffs.
Despite all their assurances, Daxter's fur still stood on end as they left the bright glare of the desert and headed into the pitch-black tunnel, the roar of the engines loud and close as the noise bounced off the rough stone around them. The tunnel floor soon began to slope downwards towards the heart of the mountain and all traces of daylight vanished entirely; only the car's lamps and the occasional patch of faintly luminescent fungus lit their way, stone walls looming suddenly out of the darkness ahead, flashing past on either side before vanishing just as quickly into the void behind.
The air felt almost cold and damp, so far belowground; Damas tugged down his scarf and shook out his hair, and the steady calm with which he surveyed the rock walls around them brought Daxter some small measure of relief. The Spargans knew these caves well, and were on the alert for any sign of enemies or traps.
The close pressure of the tunnel air changed abruptly as the path opened out into a large underground cavern, the engine noise reverberating around the much-larger cavern-- but it didn't take long for Daxter to notice that Damas and Valka had their guns at the ready. Metalpede caves, of course. Daxter's little knife definitely wasn't going to be any good against one of the massive burrowing metalheads, so he prudently found a nice safe corner to crouch down in while he kept a wary eye out for any sign of glowing yellow skull-gems.
Bel slowed as she turned into a narrow passage with a high vaulted ceiling, and the ambient cave-light grew bright enough to see their surroundings even without the car's lamps-- vast clusters of metalhead eggs were stuck along the walls and columns, glowing with the sickly yellow-green of their developing skull-gems. Daxter had run many missions with Jak to destroy egg-pods just like these, and conventional wisdom dictated that metalhead eggs should be destroyed on sight if a Spargan happened to find some while out on an unrelated mission, but Damas held up a hand and they passed the clusters by without a single shot fired.
Daxter almost asked why as they picked up speed and entered the next large cavern, but it made sense when he thought about it. Metalheads operated much like a hive of insects, and just like the time Jak had run over that wumpbee nest on his ninth birthday, attacking the eggs would stir every metalhead in the area into a frenzied swarm... except metalheads were at least a thousand times more deadly than wumpbees. Damas had probably judged destroying them wouldn't be worth the risk of injury or delay at this time.
They were about halfway across the cavern when a dull scraping sounded from the narrow crevasse to one side-- 'Bel, on your left!' Damas called, holding up an arm to signal-- both cars banked hard to the right as a massive metalpede erupted from the ground with an earsplitting shriek, its front legs crashing down right where they had been only seconds before.
Valka propped a large grenade-launcher against the roll-cage and fired off a couple of the small explosives while a whine and a bright violet glow from over Daxter's head told him that Damas was charging up his Peacemaker-- the grenades landed at the metalpede's feet, and while they caused very little damage to its heavily armoured forelegs, they had served their intended purpose-- keeping the massive metalhead from overtaking them before the shot had finished charging.
Damas took careful aim and fired-- even shooting from a moving vehicle and with a cumbersome and notoriously difficult-to-aim weapon, the bright ball of eco-based electricity slammed into the metalpede's broad faceplate, damaging half of its many yellow eyes. The blow wasn't fatal (it had just barely missed the skull-gem) but it was enough that the metalpede let out another shriek and retreated back into the earth.
They had nearly reached the exit tunnel when they passed directly beneath a cluster of bright yellow gems-- several smaller metalheads dropped from the ceiling, one of them landing squarely on the roll-cage of their car.
Valka swore, her blaster shot going wide, and she was forced to duck low to evade the creature's spiked tail; Bel swerved sharply to avoid colliding with the looming cave wall and Daxter found himself sprawled right next to one of the monster's hind legs as it took a swipe at Damas, claws striking sparks from the Sandking's armour as he fended it off with his staff--
Daxter hardly thought about it, drew his knife and thrust it deep into the metalhead's leg between two armoured plates-- sticky blue-black blood erupted over his hands as he jerked it to the side, cutting through toughened muscle. The metalhead writhed and recoiled, and Damas kicked it hard in the ribs as the car bounced again-- Daxter's grip instinctively tightened on the hilt of his knife as he was thrown into the air and away from the moving vehicle along with the metalhead.
The creature hit the ground hard, and Daxter just barely managed to avoid being squashed under it, tugging his knife free and throwing himself off to one side as it skidded to a halt. He picked himself up gingerly, thinking that he would definitely be sore the next morning as he settled into a low crouch, but he kept the complaints to himself-- the metalhead had lost no time in rolling back to its feet, and aside from favouring its injured hind leg, it looked more annoyed than hurt... and even though it was one of the smaller varieties, only the size of an average human, that was still several times bigger than Daxter, and even scarier than usual now that he didn't have a shoulder to ride on.
He could still hear the engines echoing around the cave, but couldn't see where the cars had gone, and didn't dare stand up to get a better look-- he wasn't even sure they'd noticed him fall, and his best hope of survival was that the metalhead wouldn't see--
Too late, Daxter thought weakly as the creature's glowing yellow eyes snapped towards him, narrowing to slits as it bared its fangs in a predatory snarl--
The spiked end of Damas's staff slammed into the metalhead's back as he landed on top of it, seemingly out of nowhere-- the point had penetrated deep enough that it remained embedded firmly in the creature's flesh as he rolled off to one side, and Daxter watched with a complicated mix of relief and fresh anxiety when the metalhead rounded on Damas instead, shrieking as it raised one forearm to strike back-- but Damas sidestepped the attack, drawing a short blade; he darted forward and sliced through the thick corded muscles and tubes of the metalhead's neck. It gave a choked gurgle and staggered back, leaking more dark fluid across the rocks, and a final swift blow to its facial plates popped the skull-gem loose
It dropped to the ground, unmoving, but Damas watched it carefully for a few seconds longer before raising his head. 'Daxter-- are you hurt?'
'Wh-- me?' He got up, dusting off his fur in the vain hope that the gesture might cover up how shaken he was. '...Well, I think I might've got a hangnail from stabbing that thing, but... I'm sure I'll survive.'
'I should hope so.' Damas quickly cleaned his blade and sheathed it, then tossed the cloth to Daxter. 'Clean up,' he added, bracing one foot against the dead metalhead and pulling his gunstaff free with an unpleasant squelching noise.
Daxter wiped his knife on the cloth, careful to clean all the metalhead blood off before he sheathed it-- by the time he'd finished, Bel had brought the car back around. Daxter ran over and jumped up to the seat beside Damas, who nodded to him and gave Bel the signal to go. They headed into the tunnels, and Daxter found himself thinking back to the fight, going over it again and again...
Damas set his gunstaff aside and turned to Daxter. 'Show me your hands,' he said, crouching down and reaching under the seats.
'...Huh?' Daxter blinked as Damas set a small case on the seat, flipping it open and pulling out a bottle. 'What's that for?'
'Medkit.' He poured some of the liquid onto a swab-- whatever it was gave off a sharp herbal smell. 'Your hands, Daxter, or you will have far worse than that hangnail to worry about-- metalhead blood is highly saturated in dark eco, and burns organic matter like acid if not treated promptly.'
Daxter's eyes widened, and he promptly held them out. 'Fine, okay, hold yer yakkows!' He wrinkled his nose as Damas expertly cleaned the sticky dark blood away-- and he was dismayed to discover that the fur underneath had been left patchy and bleached to an unpleasant curdled-milk colour. 'Oh, eugh... that's really not a good look.'
Damas snorted, brushing a thumb over one of the spots. 'You should count yourself lucky that it didn't reach your skin-- I am sure this will grow back eventually.'
'Oh, great, that makes me feel so much better,' said Daxter. He paused, watching as Damas put the bottle away and closed the medkit. 'Hey, uh... thanks for coming back,' he added awkwardly.
Damas looked up, watched Daxter's face intently like he was seeing too much, holding Daxter's gaze for longer than was entirely comfortable. 'I thought you understood by now-- I came here to save Spargans, not lose them.'
Daxter said nothing as Damas stowed the medkit away and retrieved his gunstaff. There didn't seem to be any response he could give.
The tunnel began to rise, and eventually brightened as they neared the exit-- Daxter had all but forgotten that it was the middle of the day outside, and as the final turn in the tunnel brought them within sight of the exit, he found himself squinting so hard against the desert glare that his eyes were almost completely closed. Damas signalled a halt, and both vehicles stopped in the shade of the tunnel mouth-- the metalhead fight in the caves hadn't cost them too much of a delay, and they'd made fairly good time so far; it was only an hour or so from here to the river-fort, which gave them time for a brief rest.
After taking a minute to stretch their legs, the Spargans gathered around while Damas went over the next stage of the plan: Chiro's group would hang back beyond the dunes and ridges north of the river and keep an eye out for Sig's war-party, while Bel's car would make the approach from the west, stopping at the bridge that provided the only access point to the fort, located on a small island in the river. They still had no idea what they would find when they arrived, or what might come after, but Daxter could tell they all anticipated a fight.
As though in defiance of the tension in the air, the Spargans brought out some preserved food and water bottles, passing them around. Daxter thought it a little strange that they could just sit around and snack at a time like this... but then, they had to take care of themselves first if they wanted to last through the coming fight. Maybe it wasn't so strange after all, for these people who were aggressively bent on survival at all costs... and, to be fair, Daxter was very hungry.
Daxter finished his meal, and after a couple minutes he found Damas standing up on some tumbled rocks, peering out across the desert. He climbed up next to the Sandking, but didn't speak immediately; without the noise of the cars, the desert felt unsettlingly vast and silent.
He wasn't sure how long he'd been standing there when he turned abruptly and looked up at Damas. 'Hey, uh... sorry.'
Damas glanced down at him. 'For what?'
'Ya know, earlier, when I said all that stuff about you not understanding or caring--'
'Forget it,' said Damas.
'But didn't it... I dunno, bother you?'
Damas snorted. 'Do you really think I've never heard worse? I have led Spargus for over a decade, and you are not the first to suggest I've made a colossal mess of it.'
'That's not what I--' Daxter sighed. 'Well, okay, that is what I said, but what I'm saying now is that I was wrong.' He scowled and folded his arms. 'And I don't apologise to just anyone, y'know, so you better appreciate it while it lasts!'
Damas shook his head, his eyes serious. 'There was some merit to what you said-- every time I send my warriors out into the desert, there is a chance that they will not return. I have never attempted to deny responsibility for the lives that are lost.' He looked back out across the desert. 'Without taking those risks, however, all of Spargus would wither and die-- and I do all that I can to ensure my people will survive.'
'But you really do care-- if you didn't, you wouldn't be here. I just... hadn't seen that yet, I guess.'
Damas shrugged. 'Then that is my failing, not yours-- trust and respect must be earned, and willingly given.'
Daxter frowned. 'Whoa, waitaminute-- what's the use of bein' king if it ain't about respect?'
'Leaders are only as good as their actions,' said Damas. 'I never set out to lead Spargus-- I fell into it quite by accident, and I nearly turned it down. But then I thought that if my leadership could save one life, give one person a chance they would not have had otherwise... that alone would make it worth the effort.'
'So... do you think it was?'
Damas smiled wryly. 'I should hope so, but it is not for me to decide.' He raised his eyebrows. 'What would you say?'
Daxter paused, suddenly very interested in one of the discoloured patches on his arm. '...Jak likes you,' he said finally. 'Looks up to you, ya know? He was in a pretty low place for a while, so... I think it's been good for him, being out here, and having... I dunno, someplace he can just be.'
Damas nodded once and picked up his staff, jumping down the rocks before turning back to Daxter, that crazy sort of determination lighting up his eyes again. 'Then it's about time we found him and brought him home-- wouldn't you say?'
Daxter grinned and jumped back to his shoulder. 'Yeah-- about time we showed those marauders they picked a fight with the wrong city.'
---
Time seemed to bend and stretch as they rode across the dunes, the shadows lengthening and the river sparkling mirror-bright in the sun; the drive felt like it spanned a small eternity... yet Daxter still felt horrendously underprepared as the fort came into view, his heart racing with fear and anticipation.
Damas stood tense like a coiled spring, and Daxter jumped back to his shoulder as he scanned their surroundings for any sign of activity-- the marauders were no doubt keeping watch for their approach as the sun neared the horizon, and must have seen them coming, but while they could see some movement along the top of the fort's wall there was no sign of a trap or ambush, few places for enemies to hide out in the plains around the broad slow-moving river.
They slowed to a stop at the bridge, and Damas stood up on the seats, staff in one hand-- several of the marauders on the wall were pointing now; clearly Damas's apearance was well known to them. Though they were too far off to hear, Daxter could guess well enough what sorts of things they were saying, laughing and congratulating one another-- at least, until one man stepped up to the parapet over the gate and called for their silence, and at once they all went still.
'Damas, Ruler of Spargus,' the marauder warlord shouted across the water. 'So, you've decided to show up?'
'I have come as requested,' Damas called back. 'If you truly have my son, then show me-- I will go no further until I have seen him, alive and well.'
The warlord turned aside to issue a command to a couple of the other marauders, who turned and left. For a moment, nothing happened... and then the guards returned, shoving a hooded figure up against the crude parapet.
Even at a distance and with the prisoner's head covered, it was immediately clear that they were too old to be Damas's lost child. Daxter could see it in his face, resignation and disappointment at the final confirmation that it had only been a trick after all. They had anticipated this outcome, of course, but Daxter knew the pain of crushed hope all too well, knew exactly what it was to lose someone so important, to spend years hunting for them and finding nothing...
But then the marauder warlord stepped up to the prisoner and pulled the hood off, and Daxter's heart suddenly felt like it was trying to escape his chest as he saw exactly who it was the marauders were holding.
'...Jak?!'
Chapter Text
Even at a distance, there was no doubt that it was him-- Daxter would have known his best friend anywhere, the green hair fading to yellow at the ends and the rich brown skin, even the way he held himself as he pulled against the marauder's grip, fighting against the pain and exhaustion. But at least he was alive and awake, able to stand mostly on his own; at least Damas had been right when he said even marauders knew better than to kill a hostage who might still be useful to them...
He tore his gaze from his friend to look at Damas's face, and it was some small comfort that the Sandking looked every bit as confused by this new development as Daxter felt. '...Wait, wait a minute,' Daxter sputtered, 'I feel like I'm missing something here-- why the hell do they think Jak is your kid?'
Damas shook his head slowly, his own gaze still fixed on the top of the wall. 'Your guess is as good as mine. Jak is far too old to pass for my son, unless they have assumed that I had more than one child.' He frowned, and continued half to himself. 'But that doesn't explain how...'
Daxter was left hanging on the silence, waiting for him to finish the thought-- there was something in Damas's eyes, a faintly troubled look... but whatever it was, Damas brushed it off, tossed his peacemaker behind the seats and jumped down from the car. 'I'm coming,' he called.
The marauders snickered amongst themselves. 'No weapons!' one of the men holding Jak taunted, his voice thin and reedy and slightly muffled by his mask. 'Ye try anythin', and yer boy loses 'is 'ead!'
Damas removed a couple knives and a handgun from his person, pointedly dropping them next to his peacemaker, one eyebrow quirked. The marauders would not have been able to see his expression from the wall, but Daxter could clearly read something in it-- an odd sort of challenge. Bel and Valka watched silently, as though they'd also picked up something in his mood, something they had no intention of trying to argue with.
Daxter finally found his voice again. 'What're you doing?' he blurted, though he could clearly see the answer and they all knew it. 'You're... still going through with this hostage thingy? Even though it's not...'
'It doesn't matter how they came to such an absurd conclusion,' Damas replied, adding another blade and some ammo packs to the pile. 'Only that as long as they believe it, Jak's life is in imminent danger-- and if we do not play along, I don't doubt that they'll carry out their threats.'
Daxter pushed down a fresh flare of panic-- he knew Damas had no intention of letting that happen. 'So, uh... what's the plan?'
'Get him safely out of there.' Damas nodded towards the top of the wall, and started unbuckling his pauldrons. 'I'm still working on the details.'
'Uh-huh...' Daxter crossed his arms. 'So what happened to 'a smart warrior never takes an enemy head-on'?'
Damas flashed a grim smile. 'It depends on how hard your skull is.' He dumped the rest of his armour on top of the pile of weapons, then looked pointedly at Daxter, who was still perched on the roll-cage. 'Well? Aren't you coming?'
Daxter blinked, then let out a bitter almost-laugh. 'Guess I don't count enough to get you in trouble for bringing me, huh?'
Damas regarded him thoughtfully. 'At times like this, it is not a bad thing for them to underestimate you. I know that they are wrong-- and I should hope you do too.'
Daxter gave a shaky sort of grin. 'Well, when ya put it like that...' He reached for his knife strap, but Damas shook his head and flicked his gaze towards his shoulder-- Daxter got the message and jumped over, adjusting the sheath so it wasn't visible as Damas turned to the two women in the car.
'Bel, Valka, you know what to do-- return to Spargus immediately if Jak requires medical attention. We can hold out until the war party arrives.'
They nodded, with murmured words of assent and another lighthearted suggestion to be sure he didn't die, which Damas once again brushed off. Daxter thought the three of them were all freakishly calm given the circumstances... and he couldn't help but wonder if that confidence wasn't misplaced as Damas started on foot towards the bridge.
Daxter's grip tightened on the fabric of Damas's tunic-- the shoulder beneath him was well-muscled and broader than Jak's, but compared to the armour it felt slim and terribly exposed. 'Uhh... not that I'm complaining, cause the lack of shoulder spikes is a huge improvement in the shoulder-riding department, but... why'd you ditch the armour, too? All they said was no weapons, right?'
'It's a matter of perception, mostly,' said Damas. 'The more vulnerable I appear, the more likely it is they'll lower their guard enough to make a critical mistake. It benefits us to have them believe that I have given up all hope of resisting.'
Daxter thought back to the early days in Haven, how Tess had gathered valuable intel for the Underground by playing the role of a vapid waitress, how even the biggest and baddest crime lord in all the city had never suspected the spy right under his nose. Daxter supposed that Damas was going for something similar, except with one significant problem-- 'Seems to me that won't be much help if they just shoot you full of holes as soon as you're in range,' Daxter pointed out.
Damas's eyes flashed with a mix of grim amusement and utter self-confidence, and Daxter was once again reminded of Jak-- maybe the marauders' mistake wasn't so outlandish after all. 'I am harder to kill than you seem to imagine.'
Daxter still didn't see what that had to do with not getting shot, but didn't get the chance to reply-- Damas halted and spread his arms, still far enough back that the marauders stationed at the top of the gate would have a hard time getting a clear shot at him. 'I have come this far on good faith, Marauders,' he called. 'I will go no further until you have freed my son.'
The marauders sneered and Jak strained forward against their grip, eyes very wide-- disbelief and uncertainty, a stunned sort of wonder, just the slightest glimmer of a deep pained longing. Daxter glanced at Damas-- he'd never taken the man for a natural liar, yet there was no hesitation on those last two words, even knowing that the marauders had made a mistake... but no, it was more than a simple bluff; the pain of Damas's loss was all too real, as was his desire to see Jak safely home. A deeper truth, even if the words themselves were false.
'You're in no position to make demands, Spargan Scum,' their leader replied-- his full set of armour and elaborately-decorated helmet and mask marked his status as a very high-ranking warlord, and he was built tall and broad; Jak looked almost child-sized by contrast as the marauder grabbed his hair and pulled his head back. 'You get yourself all the way to the gates, or I kill this ill-bred scrap right now.'
'Ill-bred? Look who's talkin'!' Daxter muttered under his breath-- Damas snorted softly, but his gaze remained fixed on the parapet. He didn't move.
'And if I enter your fort without assurance that you will keep your end of the bargain, I have no doubt that you will simply kill my son, and eliminate two enemies instead of one,' Damas replied. 'But be warned-- if you kill him now, my war party will wipe this fort off the map, and I will be beyond your reach-- or you could free him, and I will surrender without resistance. That is why you orchestrated this whole affair, is it not?'
The marauders appeared to talk amongst themselves for a moment, then the warlord grabbed Jak by the front of his tunic and pitched him over the parapet.
Both Damas and Daxter tensed-- there was no way either of them could reach Jak in time to break his fall-- but his descent was just as quickly halted by the rope binding his wrists, which looped back up over the parapet, held firmly by the marauders. They lowered him slowly (albeit with little care for whether he bumped against the wall) until his feet dangled at roughly waist-height.
'Soon as you're inside the gates, we set 'im down, and he goes free,' the warlord called. 'That good enough for you, Spargan?'
Damas's gaze flicked from Jak to the top of the wall, calculating-- and then he nodded. 'Very well.'
The massive gate ground open as Damas started forward again, just enough for a single man to pass comfortably through the gap and into the dusty vehicle pit beyond-- Daxter could feel his heart pounding, his whole body tense as a coiled spring, and once again the air around them felt charged with electricity. This looming uncertainty was, without a doubt, far harder to bear than riding along with any of Jak's crazy actiony stunts.
'Daxter,' Damas murmured, hardly moving his mouth as he spoke. 'When I bounce my shoulder, go to Jak-- wait until I'm through the gate, then cut him loose and get him back to the car.'
'Wh-- that's your plan? But then you'll be--'
'I will take no chances with this-- I still doubt they intend to keep their word. You must make sure Jak gets away safely.' He shot an oddly inscrutable glance at Daxter, still without turning his head. '...Or isn't that why you came all this way?'
Daxter bit his lip, looking from Damas to Jak, then down to the side. 'Y-yeah, of course!'
'Good,' said Damas, returning his full attention to the top of the gate as he fell silent again, and neither of them said anything more.
Daxter just really hoped Damas knew what he was doing.
The signal came as soon as Damas judged them close enough-- Daxter dropped to the ground behind Damas, then made a dash for the wall and took a running leap at Jak's ankles. He very nearly got kicked off before Jak registered the familiar feel of his hands and feet-- Jak abruptly went still as Daxter climbed up his back and finally tugged the gag from his mouth. 'Hey Jak-- holding up okay, hero boy?'
Jak's deep blue eyes were clouded with the leftover drug-haze from whatever they'd used to keep him subdued, but there was also relief that Daxter wasn't hurt (just like Jak, to have been more worried about whether Daxter had made it to safety than he was with saving his own skin) and they took on a familiar determined glint as he glanced towards the gate. 'Dax...? What's going on? I-- I thought I heard--'
'Yeah, Mister Sandking came here to bust you out,' Daxter explained quickly, drawing his knife and going to work on the rope-- this one was thicker than the others at the canyon, much tougher to cut through. 'We just gotta make it back to where the others are waitin' with the car, and then we're home free.'
'But Damas, he's--'
'Listen, Jak, that guy's the last person you gotta worry about,' Daxter interrupted, rolling his eyes-- trying to squash down the flicker of concern that hovered at the edges of his own mind. 'Turns out Spikey's a total nutso badass-- I've got some great stories for you, buddy, and this time they're actually all true, so as soon as we get back to Spargus--'
'Dax.' Jak didn't say anything else, but he didn't need to-- he never did.
Daxter let out an exaggerated sigh, and put his rope-cutting on pause to look Jak in the eye. 'All right-- listen up. You promise to get that fine hero ass back to the car as fast as you can, and I'll go make sure the Sandking doesn't get himself killed. Got it?'
Jak opened his mouth defiantly, but Daxter cut in before he could speak--
'Do you understand, Jak?' he growled, with a hardened sincerity in his tone that surprised both of them-- and then Daxter's eyes softened slightly. 'Just... trust me, okay? I can do this.'
Jak paused-- still unsure what to make of this unexpected change to Daxter's demeanour, or his friend's new determination to help a man he'd never cared about before-- but then he nodded. 'Yeah... okay.'
Daxter gave Jak a pat on the head and returned his attention to the rope-- just as the warlord's call came from beyond the now-closed gate. 'Pull him up!'
'Run, Jak!' Daxter screeched, gripping the rope above Jak's hands and swinging his knife into the remaining strands with all his strength-- and at the exact same moment, the marauders above gave the rope a sharp tug. The weakened rope snapped under the combined forces, and Daxter clung on with all he had as he was sent flying upwards-- he heard the dull thud of Jak's feet hitting the ground below him, followed by a startled shout and a loud crash from the other side of the wall--
The momentum carried Daxter over the parapet and sent him skidding across the walkway on the other side; somehow he managed to grab hold of another piece of rope just in time to stop himself from going completely over the edge. He had only a split second to get his bearings-- one unlucky marauder had fallen off the platform, the others staring down at the crumpled and unmoving body below, and at the centre of the courtyard a pair of shirtless grunts with thick corded muscles had shoved Damas to his knees, holding his arms twisted behind his back. Damas looked sharply up at the parapet, his eyes going wide as he saw Daxter dangling from the edge--
'Oi! That orange rat-thing's got a knife!'
Daxter's attention snapped back to the marauders on the walkway as they all turned to look where the speaker was pointing-- Daxter couldn't see their faces behind the masks, but it didn't take a genius to tell that they really weren't happy to see him, especially when one pulled out a spiked club and took a menacing step forward--
Damas gave a coarse shout and threw himself backwards, ramming his shoulder into the closest guard's stomach and throwing him to the ground; he followed up with a quick jab to the man's windpipe to make sure he stayed down before rolling back to his feet. He didn't stop moving, spun around and drove his elbow into the second guard's mask-- and that was all Daxter saw before the rope he was holding jerked upwards, the club swinging down towards him.
With no time to think, Daxter simply let go-- and for once he was grateful for the ottsel body he'd been stuck with. The drop to ground level would surely have injured any regular human, while Daxter was light and springy enough to pick himself right back up and make a break for the crude sheds nearby. He'd probably be sore all over by tomorrow, but he knew that if he wanted 'tomorrow' to be a thing he'd have to get out of sight before they could catch up--
'Forget the rat!' the warlord called. 'Shoot the whelp, and get him under control!' He jabbed a finger at Damas, who had seized the second guard by the straps of his armour, using the man's body to shield himself from several eco blasts before throwing the guard into an approaching trio of melee fighters-- even unarmed, the Sandking was clearly holding his own, and Daxter anxiously turned back to the parapet instead--
'He's running away!' one of the gunners shouted from the top of the wall, pointing out towards the bridge. 'That damn rat must've cut the rope!'
Daxter allowed himself a grin (Jak was fast and agile, and marauders were not known for their marksmanship) but the glimmer of relief was short-lived. At the top of the wall, the warlord shoved the gunner out of the way and grabbed up a long rifle, bracing it against the parapet in a way that gave Daxter chills-- like the man knew exactly what he was doing, knew that he wouldn't miss.
The platform might as well have been half the world away, as far as Daxter's chances of reaching it soon enough to do anything were concerned, but that didn't stop him making a mad dash for the nearest ladder. Damas never needed your help; you should've stayed with him; that's your one damn job and you blew it--
He didn't hear the blaster go off amid all the other noise, but he did see the warlord step away and shove the gun back into its owner's hands with a disgusted admonishment about how all the fort's gunners were useless... and there was no missing the finality with which he turned back towards the courtyard. Daxter froze, fear and horror locking him into place as he stared numbly up at the piece of filth who had just shot--
'Daxter!!' came a coarse yell, cracking through the nightmarish haze-- a hand closed roughly around his middle and yanked him backwards just as something heavy thudded down into the packed dirt where he'd been standing. Daxter looked up just in time to see Damas punch the marauder swiftly in the neck, grabbing the man's large club and spinning it into the side of the man's head with a sickening crunch.
The marauder dropped, and Damas glanced down at Daxter, who still dangled from his right hand-- more gunshots went off and Damas dove to the side, eco-blasts striking his raised arm with a brilliant flash that left Daxter blinking spots from his eyes-- he was doing fine on his own; you're only a distraction; now he's been shot too and it's all your fault and-- Damas didn't stop moving, taking advantage of the momentary confusion to roll behind a low wall, dragging Daxter along with him.
Daxter braced himself for the inevitable, excuses already waiting on the tip of his tongue (he'd always had a problem with authority; Jak would've insisted on busting into the fort himself if Daxter hadn't come) and he hated himself for it. He knew he'd screwed up royally and for once he deserved every harsh word about to be flung his way--
Damas deposited him on a shoulder, Daxter's fingers instinctively gripping at the fabric of his tunic (now spattered with fresh blood, though at least none of it seemed to belong to him) and he spoke with a steady tone, three simple words that were so far from anything Daxter expected that Damas was already moving again by the time Daxter fully processed what he'd actually said.
Watch my back.
'W-wait,' Daxter sputtered, 'but I'm-- they--'
'Later,' Damas replied. 'Just focus.'
Daxter bit his lip and nodded-- you're already here; what's done is done... don't screw this up too.
None of the marauders seemed to have caught sight of where Damas had gone; they shouted and argued amongst themselves and scrambled about in search of their enemy while Damas darted around the back of a shed, carefully keeping out of sight. He sprinted towards the low platform at one side of the main entrance, where the marauders had bound several slaves to the massive crank that opened and closed the gate.
Damas jumped up to the platform, his gaze fixed on a heavily-scarred woman with strong arms and shoulders-- unlike the other captives, she had been restrained with an old half-rusted chain in place of the usual rope. 'You-- what's your name?'
'What's it to you, Spargan?' the woman shot back, her eyes hard-- but then they widened in surprise when Damas spun and slammed the club into a weakened spot on the chain, shattering the link, then passed the weapon to her.
'We have a common enemy,' he said, looking around at the others. 'Fight for your lives and your freedom-- Spargus will have a place for you.'
A fierce grin flashed across the woman's face, fire in her eyes-- and then the marauders had spotted Damas again, and he took off across the dusty courtyard, drawing their attention away from the slaves and grabbing up a dropped marauder rifle as he went. Daxter snuck a final glance back at the scar-faced woman, now in the process of cutting her companions free-- and then he remembered he had a job to do, and turned his gaze towards the walkways instead, his ears twitching to pinpoint the marauders' shouts and curses so he could warn Damas of any incoming attacks--
Damas slung the rifle across his back and sprinted for the crude structure that served the marauders as a garage, and for one terrifying moment Daxter was hit by a grisly mental image-- hijacking a car and attempting to ram the closed gates, the shoddily-built marauder vehicle crumpling and going up in flames upon impact with the pair of them inside-- but Damas ran at the building's wall instead, his momentum carrying him several steps up the side; he grabbed the edge of the roof and flipped himself up in a fluid and surprisingly graceful motion. From there, one of the platforms that ran along the top of the wall was just within reach, and Daxter was beginning to see something like a plan.
Behind them, the fort had erupted into an all-out battle; the freed captives had taken up any weapons they could get their hands on and were beating the marauders back with far greater effectiveness than Daxter had expected. Perhaps they too had learned to follow the survival-at-all-costs mindset he'd seen in seasoned wastelanders like Damas and Valka, enduring pain and hardship until the right opportunity presented itself... or perhaps it was simply desperation and the faint glimmer of hope for their freedom that lent them the strength and the will to fight.
Damas pulled himself up to the walkway at the top of the wall and crouched low next to a support beam, then took careful aim with the borrowed rifle-- with only a handful of shots and no spare ammo packs, he chose targets where they would do the most damage, picking off enemy gunners and brawlers whose armour and weapons indicated a high status, which marauders only gained through combat prowess. He never took more than one shot for each target, never needed to.
Daxter tore his gaze away from the fighting to check for approaching enemies-- just in time to see a gun pointed straight at them. 'Daaah, Spikey, look out!! Marauder incoming!'
Damas threw himself out of the way, Daxter slipping from his shoulder with a yelp-- the heavy projectile struck the edge of the platform at their feet, forcing Damas to drop back to the garage roof below while Daxter cowered behind the nearest bit of shelter he could find.
The marauder warlord strode along the walkway towards them, hefting a massive gun in both hands. 'I don't know what you hoped to accomplish by resisting,' the warlord spat. 'But it ends here.'
Damas rolled backwards, evading the second shot as well, and snapped the borrowed rifle up-- only to have it jam as he tried to fire, and the edge of the roof was already dangerously close behind him. He cast the useless weapon aside and dodged the only direction he could without going off the roof or straight into the gunfire-- but not quite fast enough. The warlord's third shot caught him off-balance, hitting his side with another bright flash of light, the force enough to bring him to one knee--
'I would've loved to give you a slow and painful death,' the marauder snarled as he reloaded. 'But I see now that you're far too much trouble for that.' He cocked the gun, staring down the length at Damas, utter contempt in every line of his posture. 'Any last words, Spargan Scum?'
Damas pressed one hand against his side and raised his head-- smiling grimly, like a hunter about to ambush his prey. 'Never underestimate the small ones.'
The warlord let out a mocking laugh. 'What load of shit are you--' he began, but the question was abruptly cut short as a blur of orange struck his chest, the short blade plunging hilt-deep into his neck.
Daxter gave his knife a sharp twist as he wrenched it out in a spray of blood. 'That's for Jak!!' he screeched, dimly aware that Damas was on the move again-- but the warlord wasn't dead yet, still had the strength to grab Daxter and fling him away; he hit the wall with enough force that the impact left him dazed, the knife spinning out of his grasp and across the walkway...
Damas hauled himself back up to the platform with a wince, picking up the knife and thrusting it into his belt as he headed to Daxter's side, all without taking his eyes off the warlord-- the man dropped his gun and slumped to his knees, blood spilling down his front and staining the lower edge of his mask; it was a fatal wound, but he was still alive, and Damas knew all too well that the most dangerous enemies were often those with nothing left to lose. The dying man's gaze locked with Damas's, a faint glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes as he let a fist-sized metal object tumble from his fingertips, followed by the soft tink of a small metal pin striking the platform at his side.
Before Daxter could piece together what was happening, Damas had snatched him up and sprinted along the walkway, leaping into the air and clearing the top of the stockade just as the sharp bang went off behind them-- and then the world was spinning around them, the burst of flames at the top of the wall and the dusky sky, the deep orange-gold blaze of the setting sun reflected bright in the water and the long deep shadows stretched across the dunes--
A few seconds of flight before they plunged into the river below, and Daxter's breath left him in a rush of bubbles before he had the thought to hold it, his body already crying out for air even as the murky river water swirled around them, pressing in on him from all sides...
Their momentum changed abruptly as Damas kicked off the riverbed, propelling them back towards the light-- Daxter choked and gasped as his face broke the surface, drawing in almost as much water as air, but firm hands propped him up, keeping him above the water while his lungs violently rejected the liquid he'd inhaled.
Damas pulled them out of the main channel, swimming at an angle to the sluggish current until he could stand up in the shallows. 'Are you hurt, Daxter?'
'Nah-- m'fine,' he managed between coughs. 'Just-- peachy.' Daxter wiped a hand over his face as Damas waded up to the bank, shaking himself out in a vain attempt to dislodge some of the water from his fur. Damas set him down on a large boulder at the water's edge, and he cast a despairing look in the Sandking's direction. 'You've... got insanity in your family... haven't you,' he croaked.
Damas pulled himself up next to Daxter, squeezing water from his skirts. 'Correct,' he answered blandly, his expression perfectly neutral as he met Daxter's gaze. 'What's your excuse?'
'Uhh--' Daxter blinked, thrown off by the blunt reply. 'Wait-- for real?'
Damas seemed almost to smile, his eyes flickering with amusement as he retrieved the knife from his belt. 'Yes, actually-- though most likely not in the way you're imagining.' He flipped the blade over and offered it to Daxter hilt-first. 'Be sure this dries fully before you sheath it, so the blade doesn't rust.'
'R-right.' Daxter took the knife back, glanced from the bright blade to Damas's face. '...Well, at least your crazy's the same sort I'm used to, so that's nothing I can't handle.' He paused, fresh waves of guilt and shame washing over him at the thought of his friend. 'Think Jak's gonna... be okay?'
'Bel's gone,' Damas replied, squinting back towards the bridge that connected the fort to the riverbank. 'Jak must have been hit by their gunners, but he was still alive when Bel and Valka reached him-- the fact that they have taken him back to Spargus means he has a chance, and Bel is one of our best rescue-drivers.'
Daxter's ears drooped back, his shoulders hunched. 'I... really shoulda stayed with him, huh? You told me to stay, and I knew that's the most important thing, always look out for him, but I just...'
'You did what you believed was right at the time,' said Damas, watching as the Spargan war-party crested the dunes to the north. 'Whatever may come of it... there is no changing what was done, and it is pointless to concern yourself with hypotheticals when you can never know how things might have played out differently.'
'But I--'
'You can never know,' Damas repeated firmly, though there was a soft sadness in his eyes as he turned to Daxter. 'Do you think I have never wondered whether I might have prevented my son's kidnapping? If I had been faster, if I had seen it coming...' He shook his head. 'In the face of tragedy, it is only human to wish we might have changed things for the better, but that way of thinking truly will drive you mad.' Damas turned back to the desert, one hand raised to signal his people. 'Out here, doubt is a luxury we cannot afford.'
Daxter puffed out a breath, but didn't try to argue-- he couldn't see how he was supposed to stop the fears and what-ifs from whirling around his mind, but he had to admit that there was a lot of sense to what Damas had said. '...Anyone ever told you you're pretty wise? Well, for a crazy pantsless Sandking, at least.'
Damas snorted softly, watching as one of the Spargan vehicles peeled away from the rest of the war-party and started towards them. 'Not often-- most simply leave it at 'insane'. But I have found that sometimes it's the craziest moments that are most critical to our survival.' Damas quirked an eyebrow and nodded to his shoulder, an open invitation.
Daxter jumped up without a second thought, and only belatedly found it strange how quickly he'd grown comfortable riding a shoulder other than Jak's. He didn't know what he should make of that, and seized upon the first complaint to cross his mind instead-- 'Blech, you're all damp and clammy,' he whined, shaking himself out again. 'That's gotta be even worse than the spikes!'
'At least I don't smell like wet rat,' Damas replied dryly.
Daxter opened his mouth to retort that Damas didn't smell so sweet himself-- only to be struck by the realisation that the Sandking did smell weirdly sweet. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before... but then, he'd long since learned to consider it a good day when Jak only smelled sweaty and not like he'd just dragged himself through a sewer (as he did with lamentable frequency) so maybe he'd simply trained himself to ignore that sort of thing.
But before Daxter could comment on the smell, the car skidded to a stop nearby and Sig jumped out-- he scowled at Damas as though he too had a lot of not-very-flattering things to say about Damas's idea of 'staying out of trouble', though he kept it to himself when Damas gave his head a slight shake. 'Any word from Bel?'
Sig looked from Daxter to Damas, his expression tense. 'Yeah, just before we got here-- Jak was hit in the leg trying to make it back to the cars. Sounds like there was a lot of blood, enough that he'd passed out by the time they picked him up, so they bound it up best they could and gunned it back to Spargus.'
Damas nodded-- this was about what he'd expected to hear-- and walked back towards the car, fingertips brushing Sig's shoulder. Daxter couldn't quite decipher the glance they exchanged, but Sig just looked exhausted in the absence of his usual tough brand of optimism, and Damas seemed almost apologetic.
Sig gripped the hand, meeting Damas's gaze, then let go. 'So what next? With you out here, that's the last of our people accounted for, but...'
Damas shook his head. 'We're not finished here-- and in any case, I do not think my warriors would be pleased if we asked them to turn back after they'd come all this way.'
'You got that right,' Sig replied, reaching to grab his comm from the car. 'Want me to open the channel?' Damas nodded, and Sig entered a code into the device before passing it over.
'Damas speaking,' he announced-- 'Today the marauders sought to turn one of our greatest strengths against us. Their leader has already paid the price for this foolishness, and I trust that you will show the rest of them that Spargus is not so easily broken.' Damas paused; the comm's current channel wasn't set to receive any replies, but Daxter could easily imagine the shouts of agreement. 'Of the enemy, take no prisoners, but be mindful of their slaves-- some of them have already been freed and are fighting for us, and they are to be offered a place if they wish it. Fight well, for all of Spargus!'
At the fort, the war party surged forwards, no doubt drawing strength from Damas's words-- but Daxter could see that the energy and the passion didn't quite reach the Sandking's eyes. Damas just looked weary as he cut the channel, tossing the comm back to Sig, who caught it and settled back into the driver's seat. Daxter glanced towards the fort and the war party, then back at the two wastelanders. 'So... are we headed back to Spargus, or...?'
'Yes,' said Damas. 'Part of being a leader is knowing where you're needed most-- my warriors are more than capable of finishing this battle on their own.' His expression was tense as he pulled himself up into the car beside Sig. 'We must make sure Jak and the other hostages arrived safely.'
'That reminds me,' Sig grunted as he ducked down briefly and pulled a medkit from where it was fastened below the seat, offering it to Damas. 'You better take care of yourself too.'
'You say that as though I'm about to keel over,' Damas replied dryly-- but he still accepted it and sat down.
'Well, you're doin' a crap good job of convincing me otherwise.' Sig entered the ignition sequence, and the car's engines kicked into gear. 'Got a cloak in the back, too, for when you're done with that,' he added, with a critical look at Damas's ripped tunic, though there was also something teasing in his gaze. 'Wouldn't want to catch a cold, would you?'
Damas snorted and shook his head as they shot off across the dunes, angling away from the rest of the war party. 'Now you're being ridiculous,' he replied, opening the medkit and removing a jar of herbal salve infused with green eco. '...Daxter, are you sure you're not injured?'
'Me? Uhh... well, I still got that hangnail, which is super annoying by the way, but you're the one that got shot-- more than once, unless I was seein' things-- and I mean, there's a big bloody hole in your shirt, so I dunno why you're even worried about me.'
'Because it's my job to ensure the survival of my people,' said Damas. '...Though you do make a fair point.'
Daxter slid down to Damas's knee as he pulled his tunic open, peeling the still-damp fabric away from the wound in his side. He'd been brushing it off like it was nothing, but Daxter was used to seeing Jak tank through super grisly wounds, so the actual state of the injury came as a surprise-- bruises were already blooming along Damas's ribs, and there was an ugly welt where the shot had hit, but the wound itself was barely more than skin-deep. 'Huh... you know, I figured it'd be much worse, cause that marauder bazooka thing looked capable of inflicting some serious damage, but that's... surprisingly not terrible.'
Damas grunted, scooping a liberal amount of salve onto some clean gauze, then he passed the jar to Daxter. 'I need you to be quiet for a minute,' he said, not waiting for a reply before he pressed the gauze to his side with a grimace.
Light flashed through his fingers, and Daxter watched in stunned disbelief as a swirl of brilliant green sparks traced along his veins, swiftly knitting damaged tissues back together-- Damas hissed in a sharp breath as something in his side gave a faint pop, his hands going tense as though it took all his self-control to hold still-- and then he slouched against the seat-back and exhaled, looking up at the dusky sky and blinking to clear his vision.
Sig cast him a brief glance. 'You alright?'
'Cracked rib,' Damas mumbled, taking another deep breath before he straightened up again, and noticed that Daxter was gaping at him. '...What?'
Daxter spent a few seconds grasping for words, then simply blurted, 'You're a channeler?'
Damas sighed and took the jar back from Daxter, screwing the lid back on. 'Only a minor one,' he replied, almost defensively.
'Good enough for us,' Sig added cheerily.
Damas shot him a glare, then looked back at Daxter. 'In any case, it's not something I like to show off-- my abilities are too weak to be much use.'
But Daxter wasn't listening. 'Waaaaiiit, is that what was goin' on back at the fort? Cause it seemed like they just couldn't hit you most of the time, and when they did there was that weird lightshow and I've never seen anything like that before, neither... you're tellin' me that was all crazy channeler shit?' Daxter folded his arms and scowled up at Damas. 'Sheesh, you coulda told me you had fancy secret eco tricks up your sleeve, and maybe me and Jak wouldn't've had to worry so much!'
Sig laughed as he steered them around some stone ridges. 'Chilipepper's onto you, man.'
'I did tell you I was difficult to kill,' Damas replied.
'Yeah, well, that coulda meant anything-- or coulda just been some crazy wastelander bravado! I mean, comin' from a guy who rides cars standing up, and walks right into enemy forts unarmed, what was I supposed to think?' Daxter paused to squint up at Damas. '...Except I've never heard of green eco bein' able to do that sorta stuff, even when it was ol' Loghead the Sageface, so... what's the trick?'
Damas raised an eyebrow, smirking faintly. 'If I told you, it wouldn't be much of a trick, would it?'
'Okay, fine, keep your eco shenanigans to yourself-- it's probably a load of stuffy boring nonsense anyway!' Daxter paused, then glanced back at him. 'But, uh, maybe think about teaching Jak that one? Cause, ya know, that not-gettin'-shot trick would've been pretty useful back there...'
The flicker of humour vanished from Damas's eyes, and he nodded. 'I will try... as a user of dark eco, it should theoretically be possible for him to pick this up as well, though there's no guarantee he'll take to it.'
'Huh... if you say so,' said Daxter. 'But... thanks.'
Damas turned his attention back to his wound; it had stopped oozing after the eco treatment, but he set about applying a clean bandage anyway, while Daxter fidgeted and tried not to worry about Jak. As he cast about for any possible distraction, his gaze landed on the word Damas had tattooed across the left side of his chest.
'So... life, huh?' Daxter commented as Damas closed up the medkit. 'Never thought you'd be the tattoo-gettin' type, but that's pretty fitting for a guy like you, with the whole survivor thing...' Damas quirked an eyebrow at him, and he paused thoughtfully. 'Ya know, actually, I feel like I've seen that tattoo before... does it mean somethin' special?'
'Yeah, chilipepper,' Sig answered, taking one hand off the wheel to tap the bracer over his right forearm. 'That was mine you saw-- kinda surprised you remembered.' He shrugged. 'Guess you could say it's about... trust, us sticking together through the worst.'
Daxter snickered loudly, watching as Damas returned the medkit to its place beneath the seats. 'So wait, you guys actually got matching tattoos? Ain't that usually like... a couples thing?'
Damas straightened up, his gaze perfectly neutral. 'And what if it is?'
Daxter blinked and looked between them; he couldn't tell whether Damas was actually serious or if it was just another deadpan joke, and Sig's stifled chuckle didn't help to clear it up, either. '...Hold on a minute-- what about the whole arena battle-to-the-death thing, then?'
Sig did laugh at that. 'Just a test, cherry-- newbies are supposed to lose that last fight before they're brought in. It's tradition.'
Damas reached for the bundled cloak behind the seats, one eyebrow raised at Daxter. 'Don't you think Spargus would run out of people rather quickly if we truly required every new citizen to engage in a duel to the death? We lose enough to the desert as it is.'
'Huh... guess so.'
Daxter fell quiet again while Damas pulled the cloak around himself-- and he must have picked up on Daxter's need for a distraction, because he smiled faintly and said, 'Perhaps if you ask nicely, Sig would be willing to tell you about our own arena fights, back when we first came to Spargus.'
Sig grinned. 'I got an even better idea-- how about I tell you how he won the throne, chilipepper?' Damas shot a glare at Sig, who just shrugged. 'Hey, man, he'll hear that one eventually, whether it's from me or not-- I coulda offered the one about the metalhead skulls instead.'
'What's the metalhead skull story?' Daxter asked, curiosity rapidly getting the better of him.
'How I got these beauties,' Sig answered, nodding proudly towards one of his pauldrons. 'And also how I first met Damas.'
'Ooooh, that does sound good,' Daxter replied-- especially seeing as Damas apparently wanted it kept secret. 'Lay it on me, big guy!'
'Sure thing-- but only if Damas promises he won't try to 'correct' all the good bits.'
Damas rolled his eyes. 'I wouldn't, if you could tell it without exaggerating...'
Daxter settled down into the folds of the cloak as the banter transitioned into a tale about an exiled Havenite with piercing violet eyes that defied death, sudden metalhead attacks and moments of unexpected mercy... it was a gripping story, but Daxter couldn't fight his exhaustion for long, and as much as he tried to stay awake for all the juicy details, he was soon lulled into sleep by the rise and fall of Sig's voice laid over the steady hum of the car's engines.
---
They had already reached the northern coastal range when Damas gently shook Daxter awake-- it was fully dark, a few hours later judging by the distance they'd travelled. Daxter climbed back up to Damas's shoulder as they rolled in through their city's outer gates, all the tension and fear rushing back like a punch to the gut. The Spargan vehicle pit was quiet and largely deserted, though Bel still waited beside her parked car, and stood when she noticed their arrival-- she must have known Damas would be eager to speak with her.
And sure enough, Damas jumped down before Sig had even pulled to a full stop, heading straight for Bel. 'You haven't been waiting too long, I hope?'
'Nahh-- you made pretty good time yourself.' Bel gestured towards the inner gate. 'The monks took 'em to the healing wards soon as we got back-- Jak was stable but still unconscious, and Valka went along to brief them.' Damas nodded, and Bel jerked her thumb back at her vehicle's cargo area. 'Still got all yer gear, too.'
Damas pulled his gunstaff out of the pile. 'Take the rest of this up to the Lighthouse, and get some rest-- you did very well today, Bel.'
She smiled back. 'Thanks, lordship.'
Damas inclined his head and started towards the inner gate, Daxter carefully adjusting his balance as the loose fabric of the cloak shifted under him-- with no armour or even a fitted shirt to hold onto, he had to be extra careful not to slide off as Damas's brisk stride carried them across the small desert city. It was quiet at this time of night, with very few people out in the streets; the main war party had not returned yet, and Daxter thought the whole city seemed to be holding its breath.
The healing wards were located in a quiet corner of town near the sea-- Damas turned right after leaving the canyon road, taking a side-street that wound along the cliffs to the well-illuminated entrance. The monk on duty greeted Damas in hushed tones, and informed him that Zellos and Lorne were both asleep in the ward, while Jak was still in the surgery having his wounds treated (Valka had already gone home, as none of her injuries were severe enough for the healers to keep her overnight). It would be a poor time for a visit, but Daxter opted to stay in the waiting area anyway, determined to see Jak at the first possible moment.
Sig was waiting just outside as Damas left the wards, falling into step beside him as he walked down towards the shore. After several minutes passed in silence, Sig put a hand on his shoulder, gentle but firm. 'C'mon, man, you look half dead on your feet-- you need to rest, too.'
Damas made a vaguely disgruntled noise at the back of his throat and shrugged the hand off. 'Later-- I must be alert for when the war party returns. If any of the marauders' captives have chosen to accept my offer, they will need--'
'Yeah, sure-- but right now you got nothing to do but wait, anyway.' Sig snorted loudly. 'And you're not even wearing a shirt-- unless you want to meet 'em half-dressed.'
Damas scowled at him, but conceded the point and let Sig set a course back towards the centre of Spargus, where the lift up to the Lighthouse was located.
The vaulted chamber at the base of the Lighthouse's spire was an ever-present oasis of calm amid all the uncertainties of life in the Wasteland-- Damas quickly cleaned himself up and returned to the main chamber, let Sig press a cup of hot tea into his hands as they settled on the steps with the city's pumping system at their backs. They didn't exchange more than a few words, simply sat in companionable silence and listened to the water running through the pools and the rhythmic turning of the water-wheels, as though it was the city's own heartbeat...
Some time later (after the tea was gone, though neither of them could have said exactly how much time had passed) Sig reached into his belt-pouch and pulled out the amulet, pressing it into Damas's hand. 'Here... I'm sorry.' He gripped Damas's shoulder; their eyes met for a moment, and then Sig let his hand drop away again. 'Guess it was just a dirty trick after all...'
Damas folded his fingers tightly around it without looking; the shape of Mar's crest was all too familiar, even like this. He drew in a deep breath and let it out, gazing over at Sig. '...I'm tired,' he murmured, his voice even coarser than usual-- and Sig had no doubt that he wasn't talking about the long day of fighting, but rather something far deeper; tired of the endless search that never brought any of the answers they sought.
'I know,' Sig replied. He said nothing more, but the promise was there in the silence between them. They would keep looking, do whatever was necessary until they found... something, anything. Even the answer they least wanted to hear would be better than this terrible uncertainty, never knowing the truth...
...And then Damas abruptly sat straighter, opening his hand and frowning down at the amulet. 'Sig... how did the marauders have this?'
'Huh?' Sig looked over at him. 'I just figured they must've kept it from when they took him, right?'
Damas's eyes were bright, burning, like a barely-contained storm. 'Why would they show me Jak, then?'
Sig blinked at him. 'How do you mean?'
'At the fort-- I demanded that they show me my son, to prove he was alive.' Damas was on his feet now, every motion filled with restless energy. 'They tried to use Jak, but if what you said was true, they would have known Jak is several years too old, and they can't have thought I wouldn't remember my own child's age.'
'I dunno, marauders can be pretty damn stupid sometimes.'
Damas shook his head. 'Not these ones-- their warlord was clever enough to orchestrate the gas trap at the caves, and he knew enough about my past to connect the Seal of Mar to me.'
Sig frowned, suddenly looking very troubled. 'Wait... you sayin' you think...?'
'It's the only explanation that makes sense,' said Damas quietly, starting back towards the lift. 'They must have assumed Jak was my son because he was carrying this amulet when they captured him.'
Chapter Text
Sig remained silent as they descended back to ground level, the loud rattling of the lift mirroring the white noise in his mind-- Damas was right; there was no other likely explanation for the misconception (at least as long as they were ruling out 'marauders are idiots') but it wasn't one he liked. 'Jak... always seemed like a good kid,' he said slowly, as the lift bumped to a stop. 'I can't see him gettin' mixed up in somethin' like this, least not on purpose...'
'I don't want to believe it either,' said Damas. 'But I will not let that cloud my judgement-- I only want the truth, and this is the best lead we've had since he was taken.' Damas stepped off the lift, the door sliding open before him. 'Whether Jak had some hand in it, or simply picked the amulet up by chance, not knowing what it was...'
Sig fell into step beside Damas as he started back towards the shore at a brisk pace-- the pain and uncertainty in his eyes were all too clear; there would be no turning back now, even if a part of him feared what they might discover. Sig wasn't blind to the way Damas had come to care for Jak in the months since he'd turned up in the desert-- it had always been Damas's nature to reach out to young people who had been cast aside, to ensure they wouldn't suffer the same chilly neglect he had endured all throughout his own childhood, and Jak had needed that guidance more than most. Sig had thought that was good for both of them, a chance to let old scars heal... until now, when it could very well come crashing down on their heads.
A betrayal from Jak would cut deeply, more than Damas wanted to let on and possibly more than he even realised himself-- he would be fine, eventually (because Damas was nothing if not resilient) but Sig still worried about the immediate fallout, didn't want to see his oldest friend hurting like that. 'Damas... What do we do, if...?'
Damas shook his head, seemed to pick up exactly what Sig was thinking without him needing to say more. 'By our laws, all who come to Spargus have the right to earn a new start free of their past actions, and as Ruler of this city I must honour that. I will not lose sight of my duty.' He glanced at Sig, a look that said he knew that wasn't really what Sig had been asking; his integrity as a leader had never been in question. 'But... there are some things I personally cannot forgive.'
'Fair enough,' Sig replied softly-- after all, he was in much the same position. He loved Damas's son as his own, had been willing to drag himself through the worst of Haven's filth for the sake of the bright-eyed child he still remembered so vividly, to go where Damas could not... he'd risked and sacrificed so much just for the chance to bring the little mar home safely, and would have done it a thousand times over if that was what it took. Sig might have grown fond of Jak and Daxter during his time in Haven, but it would be for nothing if it turned out they had done the unthinkable.
Sig started to say something else, some attempt at consolation, but then Damas's communicator buzzed, and he automatically reached for it and accepted the call. 'Yes?'
'Lord Damas! The war party's nearly back at the gates.'
Damas halted abruptly, silent for a couple seconds, then he turned and started back along the canyon road. 'I'll be there,' he said into the comm, then clicked it off again and returned it to his belt.
Sig caught up to him. 'You sure? I can see to it if--'
'No.' Damas didn't slow down, his expression firm. 'I still have a promise to keep.'
Sig paused, and it took him a moment to remember-- the marauders' slaves, whom Damas had offered a chance at citizenship. Of course Damas would want to welcome them in person, as he always did. Sig said nothing more, followed Damas to the gates.
They arrived just before the war party, and all at once the vehicle pit was flooded with activity-- warriors reporting in with their accounts of the battle, monks and medics treating the wounded, drivers pulling their cars into parking spaces, Kleiver showing up only a couple minutes after Damas to berate those who had damaged their vehicles and muster up a small team of bleary-eyed mechanics to begin repairs... Damas stood at the centre of it all like the eye of a storm, untouched by the chaos around him, his own personal turmoil carefully hidden beneath the calm surface.
As the vehicle pit began to clear, Damas turned to address the small group of ex-slaves-- he knew from the reports that none had refused his invitation (as it was clearly a better option compared to the uncertainty of the open desert) though there were fewer here than at the river-fort; not all had made it through the battle alive, and most had sustained some injury in the fight. The woman Damas had singled out as their leader would have a few new scars to show for it, but there was also a faint glimmer of respect in her eyes-- she had not entirely believed that he would make good on his promise, perhaps not until this very moment.
To most, this introductory speech would have sounded indistinguishable from any other-- Sig could tell that Damas's thoughts were elsewhere, but only thanks to nearly two decades of experience reading him. This was an important survival skill, the ability to put personal feelings away until the danger had passed. Damas had become very good at it over the years.
But it was eating at him, and the new Spargans still needed to be assigned temporary quarters for the night-- not to mention adding them to the training and work rosters, ensuring they received treatment for their wounds and basic equipment, explaining how the various city systems worked-- a dozen little time-consuming details. Sig smoothly took over, giving Damas a look that said he had somewhere else to be, that he'd done his part-- Sig half expected Damas to refuse, but he simply nodded and put a hand on Sig's shoulder, then slipped away into the darkened streets.
---
Daxter sat on the rocky outcroppings overlooking the sea, sick with worry despite the monks' reassurances that Jak would be fine-- it wasn't enough, not until he'd seen Jak with his own two eyes. Even if his friend was asleep, even if it was only for a minute... but no, the monks had been very firm on their no-visitors rule, so here he was, alone and without anything to stop his mind from turning up every single possible worst-case scenario (as well as a few that were entirely illogical, just for good measure).
Of course he had intended to stick around at the wards until they finally let him in, but the healers had rapidly lost patience with his frenetic pacing and the incessant questions about Jak's status. In the end, the monk in charge of the ward had informed Daxter that he was being a Disturbance to both healers and patients alike, and if he couldn't calm down and wait quietly he would have to leave.
As much as Daxter had longed to fight back, demand to see his friend right now... he just hadn't had the energy to argue. He tried to tell himself that there was no chance he'd be able to change their minds anyway, and making a scene here would only get him in even more trouble, and the healers really did have Jak's best interests at heart (even if they went about it in the most stiff and insufferable way possible)... but deep down, it still felt like giving up.
He'd tried to wait on the steps outside the entrance, found even that to be utterly unbearable-- he'd wandered aimlessly at first (couldn't bear to return to the small room he'd shared with Jak since the first arena trial either) and finally he'd wound up here, at Spargus's rocky shoreline, staring blankly out at the waves that surged tirelessly against the cliffs in the vain hope that the rhythmic crash of the sea might drown out the endless cycle of exhausted worries running through his mind...
It was dark here, far darker than the seaside near Haven had ever been-- something about the close proximity to the city lights and its haze of smog had ensured that the nights were never truly dark, even on the far side of the shield-walls, with only a handful of the very brightest stars making it through the pollution. Daxter had never quite paid attention before, but he supposed he'd taken the stars for granted back in Sandover (he didn't think back home, because Sandover had been Keira's and Jak's home but he, Daxter, had never been wanted or welcome-- he wasn't sure 'home' had ever been a place so much as the presence of even one person who wanted him around-- but that thought started to lead him some strange places and he quickly dismissed it). In any case, the night sky over Spargus contained many more stars than Daxter had seen in years, enough for him to lose himself in their half-formed patterns...
Daxter's efforts to distract himself had probably been a little too effective, because he was jerked back to the present by the sound of worn boots on the rocks, and realised he had lost all sense of time passing (aside from the fact that it was still dark out, still the same long night as when they'd arrived back) and he looked up to see that Damas had stopped beside him, staring out to sea as well, his face as inscrutable as the dark waters.
After a moment in which neither of them spoke, Damas crouched down (sitting on his heels in a way that struck Daxter as rather unkingly). 'Daxter... there is something I must ask of you,' he murmured. 'Can I count on you to be honest?'
There was something odd in those violet eyes; Damas seemed troubled, uncertain even. After the events of the past day, when he'd always moved forward with aggressive determination and absolute certainty, it was chilling to see him look so... lost.
'Y-yeah,' Daxter managed. 'Uhh, is something wrong? Jak's... gonna be okay, right?'
Damas stared at Daxter for a couple seconds as though the question had been entirely incomprehensible-- but then he shook his head and answered, 'I am certain Jak will make a full recovery. His injuries were not overly severe.'
Daxter let out a breath and sat down again; somehow it was a lot more reassuring coming from Damas. But... 'What's eatin' you, then?'
'Months ago, when I...' Damas paused, decided to start over. 'You seemed to know something about Jak's parents-- I know it is a sore topic for him, so I wondered if you could tell me more.'
If Daxter found the question odd, he refrained from commenting. He shrugged slowly, looking into the distance. 'Not much, really... just that he's an orphan, as far as anyone can figure. He was always really bothered by it, back when he was a little kid-- got better over time, but then after everything that happened in Haven...' Daxter shook his head. 'He was worried about what they'd think of tall-dark-and-gruesome if they turned out to be alive somehow. Dunno what those bastards said to him in there, but they sure put some crazy ideas in his head...'
Damas leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. '...Any parent who would reject their child over something like that is undeserving of the title,' he muttered-- more to himself than Daxter, the remnant of some old half-buried grievance. Daxter almost asked, but Damas glanced over at him and continued. 'Is there a particular reason why Jak is worried about that? Did he remember them at all when he was younger?'
'I... think he might've, at least a little,' said Daxter. 'But I never asked him about it-- couldn't even if I'd wanted to. Jak didn't really talk when he was a kid, and it took me a while to learn how to read him well enough, and by then I never really thought to ask...'
Damas blinked. 'He didn't speak? Not at all?'
Daxter shrugged. 'Jak used to be a mute-- never said a single word out loud the whole time we was growin' up back in Sandover, though he didn't really need to, at least not with me. Guess he would've been at least fifteen before he started talking...' Daxter looked down at his hands, missing the odd expression in Damas's eyes at this revelation. 'Can't imagine what finally pushed him over the edge... You know, I said to him once, way back when we first met, that he should never feel he had to talk, not unless he chose to-- and then in the end he was pushed to it by those bastards.' Daxter's hands curled into fists. 'I shoulda been there sooner, made sure he never had to...'
'We all have times in our lives that we regret,' Damas murmured. 'Things we wish had played out differently...' He looked up at the sky. 'And so we must make the most of the time we do have, live every day in defiance of those who would take everything from us...'
Daxter swallowed hard and nodded, rubbing the back of his forearm over his eyes. 'Y-yeah...' He glanced up. 'Hey, uh, if there's anything we can do... you know, to help you find your kid... I'm sure Jak'd do anything, and I... I want to help, too.'
Damas turned at that, fixing Daxter with a piercing stare-- and not for the first time, Daxter reflected that Damas had a way of looking at you like he could see straight through you. 'Daxter. A moment ago, you mentioned that you and Jak grew up in a place called Sandover. The only 'Sandover' I know of was destroyed centuries ago, before Haven City was founded.'
'Oh. Uhh... did I say that?' Daxter kicked himself mentally; he must have let the name slip out without thinking-- and just his crappy luck, Damas was apparently one of the few people to recognise what it meant. 'Well, ah, it's... you know...' His ears drooped back against his head; the steely glint in Damas's eyes indicated that he wasn't going to give up until Daxter answered the question properly. 'I mean, it's a crazy story even by my standards-- couldn't come up with something this weird if I tried, and believe me, that's saying something.'
Damas raised an eyebrow. 'Having lived quite a few crazy stories myself, I find that's often the case. However improbable this story sounds... I would like to hear it.'
For once in his life, Daxter paused to choose his words carefully. It was still so strange and new, not something he'd ever expected, but over the past day Damas's trust had grown into something he valued deeply... and he knew that if he screwed this up, he might very easily lose it forever.
'...We did grow up in Sandover,' he began slowly. 'You know I wasn't always fuzzy, right? Well... turns out falling in dark eco has pretty weird side effects sometimes. And, long story short, we went on a big journey to try and get my old body back-- you can see how well that turned out-- but here's the important bit: at this old citadel place way to the north we found a super-sized transport ring all covered in runes, and a weird little machine kinda like a zoomer but chunkier. And we shipped this crap back home and got it all set up, cause Grandpa Green said it was important, and...' Daxter took a deep breath. 'Well, first of all, we might've kinda started the whole metalhead invasion thing, cause when we activated the transport ring a whole mess of the buggers came swarming out-- and then when we drove our zoomer-thingy through, we landed in Haven. That was a little over three years ago now.'
'So... you are telling me that you and Jak originally came from hundreds of years in the past, just happened to stumble upon some sort of time machine, and used this device to travel to Haven City,' said Damas, his tone carefully neutral.
Daxter winced at this blunt summary; somehow it sounded a lot more absurd when he wasn't the one saying it. 'Uh... yeah, that's pretty much it-- we didn't mean to end up in Haven, had no idea what the tech was even supposed to do, but-- yeah.' Daxter paused. '...Well, except for one thing-- turns out Jak actually came from Haven to begin with, and the old geezer took him back to Sandover so he could grow up someplace safe, away from all this.'
Damas gave Daxter a long searching look. 'Haven City is full of orphaned and neglected children-- a problem that I'm certain Praxis has done nothing to improve. Why would this... 'geezer' go to such great lengths to protect one child out of so many?' There was something strange in those violet eyes, something Daxter couldn't quite identify-- under other circumstances, he might've thought it was fear, but that didn't make any sense, and Damas didn't leave him time to wonder about it. 'What was it that set Jak apart?'
'It's cause he was...' Daxter squirmed; Jak hadn't wanted his identity to be widely known, but Daxter couldn't see any way out of explaining now that he was already in this deep... though at least, Damas was probably the last person to treat Jak any differently based on his ancestry. '...Jak was the heir to the city, descended from Haven's founder,' Daxter explained, ears lying flat against his head. 'Or that's what they all seemed to think, even though no one had the faintest idea where he'd come from or who his parents were-- just a big load of mystical crap about him opening some dusty old tomb, and I guess when they found him he had this big fancy necklace with Mar's seal on it, but that's still pretty weak proof if you ask me...'
Damas sat in silence as Daxter trailed off, then very suddenly stood up and started walking.
Daxter had to scamper to catch up, jumping to a low wall nearby and then up to Damas's shoulder. 'W-waitaminute, where are you going?'
'I must speak to Jak.' Damas glanced sideways at Daxter, but made no attempt to dislodge the ottsel from his shoulder. '...I suppose you may come, but only if you promise to remain silent until I say otherwise.'
'O-okay...' Daxter fidgeted, drumming his fingers against the edge of Damas's pauldron. 'Uh, if it's about him being Haven's heir... he's kinda touchy about all that, ya know? He's happy here, more than he ever was in Haven-- he never wanted to be king of anything, least of all that mess of a city. Most of 'em got no idea who he is-- I mean, they all thought the Kid was the heir, but we hardly told everyone about all the time travel nonsense...'
'Mm.' Damas's stride was long and purposeful, his violet eyes sharp-- like a hunter stalking prey.
Daxter laughed weakly, as though he hoped it might alleviate the tension. 'Heh... I mean...' His ears drooped, his normally loud voice trailing away to something barely audible. '...Who'd believe in time travel, anyway?'
Silence, save for the crash of the sea in the distance and the soft rhythmic crunching of Damas's well-worn boots against the sandy streets of Spargus. When he finally spoke a minute later, he hardly sounded like himself-- his voice too soft, too broken.
'Daxter. I... do not take you for a liar.'
He looked up, startled, mind buzzing with a thousand questions but none of them quite made it out. 'Then... why...?'
Damas shook his head. 'This is something I must hear from Jak.'
'But...' Daxter finally found his voice again. 'Even if he's descended from kings, or grew up in the past... does any of that change who he is now?' His small hands curled into fists against Damas's shoulder. 'I thought you'd be the last person to care about that sort of thing.'
'I don't,' Damas answered bluntly, slowing down as they neared the entrance to the healers' ward. 'At least... not in the way you are implying.'
Daxter frowned. 'What's that supposed to mean?'
'I will explain later.' Damas waved to a Spargan at the door, following them inside. 'Remember that you promised to remain silent.'
Daxter grumbled something inaudible, but he settled down on Damas's shoulder and didn't protest further. He still didn't understand what was going on, but he could detect the sense of purpose in Damas's voice-- whatever was troubling him, it was deeply important to him and apparently had something to do with Jak, and Daxter hated the prospect of being shut out entirely. If there was ever a time to keep his mouth shut, this was it.
They passed through the small antechamber and into the darkened ward beyond-- unlike when Daxter had tried to come alone, the healers made no attempt to stop Damas from passing, and simply nodded to him as he strode towards the screened-off section at the far end of the long narrow room. A single lamp had been lit, its light visible through a gap in the screens; as they approached Daxter was relieved to see that Jak was already awake-- and clearly alert enough to be bored out of his mind, because he was glaring daggers at the monk-healer who was sitting watch. His scowl only deepened when the monk blandly suggested (for what sounded like the umpteenth time) that he should try to sleep.
Damas glanced at Daxter (giving him a final warning look) then pushed one of the screens open. The monk (who had the clearest view of their entry point) immediately stood to attention. 'Lord Damas!'
Jak's head snapped around, and his expression brightened upon seeing Daxter; Damas held up a hand and looked to the monk. 'You may leave us-- I will call if we need anything more.'
The monk inclined their head and bowed out-- it was a clear dismissal, and the look in Damas's eyes said that he did not want to be disturbed.
Jak picked up on the nonverbal cue as well, the odd tension in the air, and his smile slipped. 'Dax...?'
Daxter instinctively bunched up to leap to the bed, then caught himself and looked sideways at Damas. 'Uhh--'
Damas picked up the stool recently vacated by the monk, setting it near the bed. 'If you are feeling well enough, I would like to talk. Is that all right?'
His voice was perfectly calm and neutral, but the request still made Jak squirm. 'Sorry... guess I really caused you a lot of trouble this time...' Jak looked up at Damas. 'I tried to tell them they'd made a mistake, but they wouldn't-- they just kept saying-- they wouldn't listen.'
'When the marauders assumed you were my son?' Jak twitched at those words, as though he'd been slapped, and Damas sighed. 'I am not angry with you, Jak.' He sat down, resting his elbows on his knees. 'Tell me what happened-- the marauders ambushed your party in the caves, correct?'
'Y-yeah...' Jak shook his head. 'I don't... remember much, but at first they were just going after all of us, and... must've drugged us, somehow. I tried to make sure Dax was safe... fight didn't last long, after that.'
'They used sleeping-gas,' Damas explained. 'The cave was rigged with pressure pads, buried in the sand near where they'd left Dannik's corpse, so that the weight of any vehicles sent to investigate the beacon would activate the gas.' Damas snorted. 'A remarkably sophisticated trap, for marauders-- without Daxter's warning, we may very well have fallen for it, too.' Jak blinked at him, and he waved it off. 'What came next, after you woke up?'
Jak took a moment to collect his thoughts. '...They'd taken all my stuff, my gun and knapsack and ammo pouches, my boots and all my armour... even went through my pockets.' He spoke as though he meant to sound indifferent, but the look in his eyes told a different story-- he'd felt violated, deeply disturbed at the thought of strangers grabbing at his unconscious body. '...They must've already got that idea into their heads, somehow, because they were acting all weird around me by the time I woke up again... sort of frantic, I guess? And when they saw I was awake, they shoved some strong-smelling stuff in my face, kept me mostly unconscious like that until we got to the fort...'
'Did they say anything to you?'
'The big one... the leader, I guess, he kept taunting me. Gloating about how they were finally going to catch my... I didn't realise they meant you, at first. I tried to tell them I never knew my father, but they just laughed, and...' Jak hung his head. 'I'm sorry,' he mumbled again. 'It must've been terrible, thinking you might actually find your son, and then...'
Damas shook his head. 'Jak, you are not to blame for what happened-- and to be honest, we suspected it was a trick from the beginning.'
Jak's head jerked up again. 'But... you still came...?'
'As I would for any of my people,' Damas finished. He pulled one of the recovered beacons from his belt-pouch and held it in the palm of his hand for Jak to see. 'That is the purpose of these war-amulets, which every warrior of Spargus has earned the right to carry-- so that in our greatest need, we may always call for aid, and know that our allies will answer.' Damas's gaze was level, sincere. 'This is my first duty as Ruler of Spargus, and this same loyalty is all I ask in return.' He set the amulet down on the edge of Jak's bed. 'There is one more topic I must address-- can I trust you to answer truthfully, Jak?'
He sat straight, as much as he could against the cushions. 'O-of course-- if I can help, I want to--'
But he fell silent again as Damas pulled a second small object from a pocket, held the coppery-coloured amulet up so its polished surface caught the lamplight. 'Do you recognise this?'
Jak started to reach for the amulet, but Damas held it back, placed his free hand gently but firmly on Jak's shoulder and pressed him back against the cushions. Jak huffed out a breath and let his arm drop. '...It's mine. The marauders took it, so I thought I'd never...' He tore his eyes from the amulet, looked at Damas as though he really wanted to ask for it back but didn't quite dare. '...How'd you get it?'
'Later,' said Damas. 'Do you know what it is?'
'The Seal of Mar-- Haven's founder,' Jak mumbled, with a sullen look that seemed to say, And what's it to you?
Damas ignored Jak's silent challenge, turning the amulet idly between his fingers. 'These Seals... for many generations, it was tradition among the royal lines of Haven City that all young Heirs would be given one of these amulets-- far more than a simple piece of jewelry, they function as master-keys, allowing their bearers free access to most restricted areas within the city... and whether by chance or by design, they also work on many of the Precurian ruins found all over the world.' Damas's hand went still, and he looked over at Jak. 'You may have noticed this effect on your explorations.'
Jak's expression had gone from sulky to utterly stupefied. 'Y-yeah...' But how the hell do you know all that?
Damas seemed to pick up on the unspoken question, and raised his eyebrows. 'You are not the only wastelander to have come from Haven City-- I was born within its walls, and grew up surrounded by legends of Haven's founder and first King. I could not have escaped Mar's legacy if I'd tried... and there were times I wished more than anything that I could.' This threw Jak off even further, but Damas didn't offer any explanation, fixing Jak with an intense look as he ran his thumb over the amulet's surface. 'Tell me, then-- how did a Seal of Mar come into your possession?'
Jak fidgeted with his blankets. '...I don't know. Only that I had it as a kid... They took it when I was first exiled but Ashelin returned it to me a couple months ago. Before that...' He shrugged, uncomfortable. 'They just told me I had it when the Underground found me. I don't remember where I first got it... from my parents, maybe, but I can't... I don't know who they were.' Jak's brow furrowed as he glared down at his hands. 'I don't even know if I'm a real Heir-- maybe I just picked it up somewhere, or-- or someone thought it'd be funny to hang one of those things around some random kid's neck-- I don't know.'
'Hm.' Damas looked back at the amulet, now nestled against his weathered palm. 'I can assure you-- even though one of these amulets has been made for every Heir of Mar to be born in Haven over the past several centuries, it is also tradition that they be broken and buried with their owners upon their deaths.' At that, Jak gave him a startled glance, and he went on-- 'As I'm sure you can imagine, there are very few left unaccounted for, and the keys coded within them are nearly impossible to counterfeit-- especially since that particular function was not widely known outside the Royal Family and their most trusted Priests.'
Daxter gave him a very puzzled look at that, opened his mouth as though to speak-- if it was such uncommon knowledge, how would a guy like Damas know so much?-- but Damas shot him a warning look and he clamped it shut again. Daxter glanced at Jak instead, but (most likely due to his injuries) his friend didn't seem to have picked up on the strange half-revelations.
'You also opened Mar's Tomb,' Damas continued, and two pairs of eyes snapped back towards him. 'Daxter told me,' Damas added in response to the question in Jak's eyes-- he flipped the amulet over in his fingers again, studying Jak's face intently, his own gaze inscrutable. 'The Tomb requires more than one of these to open. Mar's blood, the so-called 'gift', his Legacy... and even then, it's not always enough; the Oracle must determine that the time is right, that the Heir is worthy...' Damas's voice trailed off; he seemed almost to be talking to himself as he continued. 'If the Tomb opened for you, there is little doubt about your lineage.'
Jak slouched low against his pillows. 'What does it matter?' he mumbled bitterly. 'I still don't know who they were, if Praxis killed them or if they meant for me to be some sort of... puppet-king, or if they just...' Jak looked away, fingernails digging into his palms. '...if they didn't want me,' he finished in a whisper.
Damas regarded him for a long moment, something like regret passing across his face. 'I would... like to tell you a story, Jak,' he said quietly. 'I think it will help you come to terms with your own past, if you are willing to listen.'
Jak looked highly doubtful that any story could help him, but he shrugged and gave a faint vaguely-affirmative noise.
'As I mentioned, I originally came from Haven,' Damas began. 'My parents... they wanted nothing so much as a child who would be a credit to them, who would live up to the family name... they demanded no less than perfection, an impossible standard I could never hope to achieve.' His eyes were full of sorrow. 'This is not a fate any child should have to endure, but I suppose history has an unfortunate habit of repeating itself-- I think we are not so different, you and I.'
'I... I'm sorry.' Jak looked down at his hands. 'I didn't know--'
Damas snorted derisively. 'I do not ask for your pity, Jak-- in many ways, I was the lucky one.' Jak blinked up at him, and he quirked an eyebrow. 'My sister, Phobe, was everything they hoped for, so they had no time to spare for a troublesome son who lacked all the skills that mattered. In the beginning I envied her, for the affection and validation I never received, but in time I came to understand that I could never have been content playing the role they desired-- and as lonely as it was, to know I was unwanted, I found a certain freedom in it too. Whatever anyone else thought of me, at least I could say that it was the path I'd made for myself.'
Jak was looking at him with something like wonder and admiration, but Damas hadn't finished yet, shook his head and continued. 'Unfortunately... fate is not so forgiving, and often it is not enough to want something-- you can only push people so far before they break, and then... there's no going back.' Damas sat straighter, folded his fingers over the amulet in his hand. 'For all her power, Phobe was not immune to that pressure-- and in the end it destroyed her.' He smiled humourlessly. 'I managed to survive, and so they were all forced to settle for second-best-- even if no one dared to say as much to my face, I could see that they would gladly have traded my life for hers.'
'That's... awful,' Jak whispered, his eyes wide with horror. 'You mean-- even your own parents...?' Damas regarded him sadly, nodded once. 'How did you... was that why you left, ended up out here?'
'Not exactly-- in Haven, we were taught that there was nothing of worth beyond our own borders, so leaving of my own volition never occurred to me. I still believed in my home, in all the people who lived there-- I believed that I could make a difference, and could never have turned my back on my people.' Damas gave a wry smile at that. 'Not unlike your own choice to answer their call for aid.'
Jak returned the smile, a little sheepishly. 'Yeah... well, we still had friends there, and even if I was mad at first... I couldn't just abandon all the innocent people who had nothing to do with any of that...' He straightened a little against his cushions. 'But if you didn't choose to leave, then...?'
'Even decades ago, Baron Praxis had no qualms about killing those who stood in his way,' said Damas. 'When I refused to comply with his demands, there was only one possible outcome-- a fight I lacked the skill or experience to win. On the front lines of the metalhead war, there were few to witness it, and he could spin it however he pleased. I was used as a convenient scapegoat to ensure that no one would question his rise to power.'
Daxter squinted at him, clearly trying to work out the missing piece to the puzzle, where Damas fit into all of this-- maybe the exhaustion was finally catching up to him, because his brain felt like it was going quarter-speed... and Jak was even worse off, too caught up in hearing about Damas's past to ask any of the right questions. But Daxter still held his tongue; if Damas chucked him out now for breaking the no-talking rule he'd probably explode--
But maybe Damas picked up on his restless fidgeting; maybe he guessed at the nature of those burning questions. 'Two years before that, my parents died on the first night of the metalhead resurgence-- ambushed while travelling between outlying settlements beyond Haven's walls.' Damas gazed down at the Seal, his expression carefully neutral. 'That was the summer before my eighteenth birthday, so the official coronation was postponed until I was of age, but for all intents and purposes I became King of Haven City on that night.'
Daxter jerked upright as though he'd been electrocuted, his eyes very wide. 'No fuckin way!!'
Damas silenced Daxter with a look, eyes oddly bright as his gaze returned to Jak's face. 'I have long since come to terms with my own upbringing-- it was many years in the past, and there is no seeking reconciliation with the dead.' Damas opened his hand again, holding the Seal in the space between them. 'But bloodlines and ancestry mean nothing to the desert. When I became Ruler of Spargus, it was entirely by my own merit-- and that is the legacy I intended for my son, the right to choose his own path.'
Jak stared at Damas in stunned silence, as though he had suddenly started speaking in a foreign language, and Daxter wanted to jump over to the bed and shake Jak until it clicked for him too-- all the little similarities, all the details he'd very nearly glossed over, the crazy mistake that had maybe turned out to not be a mistake after all; come on Jak he's tellin' you he's your--
'I can tell you exactly where this particular Seal came from,' said Damas, his gaze dropping back to the amulet he still held. 'It was made for my sister-- I kept it after she died, for reasons I never quite understood, but I have carried it ever since. And this--' He produced a second amulet from his belt-pouch, identical to the first. 'This one was made for me. When my son was born, I passed it on to him.' With that, he pressed the Seal into Jak's hands, as though it were the simplest thing ever, as though he hadn't just turned the whole world on its head...
Damas moved his hand to grip Jak's shoulder. 'From the moment my son was taken from me, I swore that as long as I still drew breath, I would never give up until I had found him again-- and not a day has gone by that I have not thought of him. Had I only known where to look, I would have let nothing stand in my way.' His gaze locked with Jak's, burning like the sun. 'My only regret is that it took me so long to see what was right before my eyes.'
Jak's breath caught, tears tracking down his cheeks, torn between a desperate sort of hope and the profoundly ingrained fears that wouldn't quite let him believe what he thought he was hearing. 'You... can't mean...'
Damas smiled and nodded once, the warmth in his eyes far too powerful to be anything but the truth. 'Welcome home, Jak.'
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