Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Baron Praxis’s former palace was a much nicer home base for the Underground than their previous slum abode, that was for certain. While Torn did not intend to give up the original HQ-- it would make a great safehouse even after main operations had been transferred elsewhere, for once thing-- the Palace had all the room they could have hoped for and then some.

Of course, there was always room for improvements and renovations. Luckily for the former Underground commander, the Palace also provided a number of lovely rooms in which one could set up a desk and then not move from it for days.

‘Have you eaten anything today?’

Torn flicked his gaze up momentarily from the blueprint he was examining. ‘Yes.’ He needed to work out the necessary corridor width that would accommodate all the new security equipment they were installing; maybe if he picked up the pencil and compass again Tess would get the hint that he didn’t want to be bothered.

No such luck; instead she crossed her arms and moved closer. ‘What was it? Because I know I brought you breakfast before I went to the Naughty Ottsel, and that plate’s still there untouched.’

‘Uhh…’ His mind raced for a moment and came up with nothing. ‘...Ration bar?’

Tess didn’t reply, except for a pointed nod towards the small garbage can resting beside the desk. It was very obviously empty.

Torn growled faintly and put the pencil down to knead at his forehead. ‘Tess, I’m busy. And not hungry. It doesn’t matter.’

‘What do you mean it doesn’t matter?’ said Tess in exasperation, spreading her hands. ‘If you don’t eat you could seriously mess yourself up. You haven’t STOPPED working since… since before I can remember!’

He made to pick up the pencil again but the put her hand down on it firmly, forcing him to look up. ‘Torn, we WON. Praxis is gone. The metalhead nest is empty. Don’t you think it’s about time you had a break?’

He managed to wedge the pencil back out from under her fingers. ‘The rest of you all can take a break whenever you want,’ he said, irritable. ‘But the city doesn’t stop running--so long as I’ve still got work to do, I’m going to do it.’

Tess’s eyes narrowed, and her lips hardened into a thin line. With another sigh, she turned around and left the room; Torn immediately resumed working.

With any luck, this would be the last he heard of this. So what if his stomach hurt too much to eat? He had a job to do.

Torn never was very lucky.

__

His communicator sparked to life around five oclock in the evening. Ashelin’s voice crackled along.

‘Torn, I need you upstairs.’

He blinked at the device for a moment; Ashelin had been occupied with assembling a council and a plan of action for Haven city moving forward, and he’d been given the impression that she had that well in hand. But if she needed him… ‘Roger,’ he said into the communicator, and then stood up.

As he stood in the lift, he briefly pondered the accuracy of her using the phrase ‘upstairs’-- while the Palace technically had stairs, it was just one set for emergency purposes (he’d checked on the blueprints). No one had ever used them. But perhaps some sort of new signage was in order, to make sure all of his operatives knew where they were just in case…

He emerged from the lift into the first of two floors that Ashelin had taken over as her wing; the lower for important meetings and her office, and the upper for living quarters. The meeting room was empty, as was the study; after walking around in confusion, Torn flicked his communicator back on and raised it to his mouth.

‘Upstairs,’ said Ashelin, before he could get a word out. ‘The rest of the way upstairs.’

Torn frowned, but stepped back into the lift; when it emerged he found himself in Ashelin’s large antechamber, where there was a small table set up with place settings for two. Ashelin, having heard the lift, had stepped out of the bedchamber to stand behind one of the chairs.

A suspicion began to settle over Torn’s mind. ‘What’s going on?’ he asked.

‘We’re going to have dinner,’ said Ashelin. She motioned him towards the other chair.

Slowly, he went. At first he was horribly worried that there was going to be an attendant or something to bring the food (he felt a deep sense of embarassment at the idea of being served, especially as it would probably be by an underground member); but instead Ashelin merely brought over a covered tray from another table and set it in the center, allowing them both to serve themselves.

‘Did Tess put you up to this?’ asked Torn, watching Ashelin ladle some soup into a bowl.

‘She didn’t put me up to anything,’ said Ashelin calmly. ‘She did tell me you haven’t been eating.’

‘That’s not true,’ Torn protested, and then closed his mouth, realizing how ridiculous I ate yesterday would sound in this context.

‘Well, either way, I thought it would be nice to have dinner together,’ she said, leaning back in her chair with a faint smile. She swirled an elegant glass full of water in her hand. ‘I’ve barely seen you for the last week. Hardly a desirable state of affairs for the Governess of Haven City and the Commander in charge of getting the Guard reorganized.’

‘There’s been a lot to do,’ said Torn.

‘Well, perhaps you could tell me about it,’ said Ashelin. She took a sip of the water, and then pointed to the bowl of soup on the table with a suddenly steely look in her eye. ‘But first you’ll try some of that.’

The soup was delicious. Torn only lasted about a minute, though, before the wash of now-familiar burning pain from his midsection broke off his sentence and bent him forward in his seat. Gritting his teeth, he put down his spoon.

Mar, did it just get worse? He’d been hoping he could bluff his way through… Normally it took several minutes for the pain to start.

Ashelin started up from her chair, alarmed. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘It’s…’ Nothing. Torn rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the beginnings of sweat. ‘...I don’t know.’

‘Was it the soup? Precursors, you’re not allergic to something, are you?’

‘No! No,’ Torn waved a hand as she straightened up and put the cover back on the serving bowl. ‘It’s not the food. This has, uh… this has been going on for awhile.’ This last was uttered in a mumble.

She stared at him, her brows lowering. ‘How long?’

He looked away, and she grabbed him by the chin and made him face her again. ‘How. Long.’

‘....About a month?’

She released him, looking horrified and somewhat hurt. ‘You haven’t eaten for a month?!’

‘I have!’ he protested, trying to sit up despite the horrible burning. ‘It’s just… been unpleasant.’

‘Why didn’t you tell anyone?’ The horror in her voice was turning to exasperation, mirroring Tess from earlier.

‘It’s been too busy,’ he said, finally managing to straighten up. He shrugged uncomfortably. ‘I’ll take care of this once all this restructuring mess is done with.’

This appeared to be the wrong thing to say, because her brows snapped back down. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re going to take care of it now.’

‘But--’

She was already walking away, towards a communicator lying on an end table. ‘You’re going to call Samos and meet with him immediately,’ she said, handing it to him. ‘And then you’re going to take a vacation.’

‘What?!’ He stared up at her. ‘I can’t-- there’s too much to--’

‘That is an order, Commander,’ she said. ‘You are not to set foot in any offices for a week.’

When he didn’t immediately move, she rested a hand on the table and leaned in close. ‘Understood?’ she said quietly.

‘Y-yes,’ he said, and fumbled with the communicator.

Chapter Text

Samos reacted about as he’d expected. It was impressive how such a short, squat man could somehow still seem to tower over someone nearly twice his height even with the platform shoes.

‘Do you know what an ulcer is, Torn?’ he’d said after the initial examination, with that peculiar tone of false sweetness that usually belied an imminent explosion.

‘Yes--’

‘You have a hole in your stomach, you idiot! Any day it could have opened up the rest of the way and you’d have bled to death on the inside!’ Samos jabbed a finger into the center of Torn’s chest, eliciting a wince. ‘For a tactician you’re surprisingly dense.’

‘So what should I do now?’ said Torn, resigned.

Samos pushed at his shoulder, indicating he should lie down; Torn did so. ‘I’ll heal it,’ said Samos. ‘But I can’t cure rank stupidity-- you’re going to have to cut back on the late nights and caffeine, or it’s going to come right back.’

‘Caffeine?’ said Torn, alarmed. Having given up alcohol, coffee had become his saviour. ‘What? What’s wrong with coffee?’

Samos barked out an unusually evil laugh. ‘It’s too acidic. But don’t worry about it, boyo; you can adjust. You’re on vacation now, remember?’

__

Once free from Samos’s attention and with strict instructions to eat regularly (and a threat that someone would be checking in to make sure he did), Torn hopped into the zoomer he’d left on the street and thumbed on his communicator to call Ashelin.

‘I talked to Samos,’ he said.

‘What’d he say?’ asked Ashelin.

Torn shrugged one shoulder even though she couldn’t see it. ‘It’s not important. I’m better now-- coming back to the Palace.’

‘No you’re not,’ said Ashelin.

Torn slowed down on the zoomer and someone else jostled him from behind; he quickly flipped between zones, lowering his vehicle down to the ground. ‘What?’

‘No work for a week. It’s probably easiest if you stay away from the Palace altogether-- except for dinner every night, of course.’

Torn blinked at the communicator, momentarily lost for words. ‘....So… what do I do in the meantime?’

‘Anything you want,’ said Ashelin. ‘I hear they’re holding the first preliminary trial run for the next racing Cup at the Mar Coliseum in a couple of hours; that should be entertaining… Oh, and Tess wanted to help out. She’ll probably be calling soon.’

Torn had never particularly been one to care about the races (even when he’d been in the KG, where it was a favourite topic of discussion, he’d always found something else to do whenever people were planning to watch one), but in these circumstances it did sound slightly better than doing nothing all evening. He sighed and pressed his fingers briefly to his forehead. ‘Fine. But did you find someone to go over the schematics I was working on?’

‘Those aren’t due for well over a month from now, they’ll keep.’

‘What about tracking that KG holdout, I had a lead that they were--’

‘It’s being taken care of.’

‘And the--’

‘Torn.’ Her voice was as amused as it was stern. ‘This isn’t a work conversation. Relax; nothing is going to fall apart in your absence.’

He wanted to retort but couldn’t seem to think of anything good to hurl back. Instead he just sighed again. ‘...Fine.’

‘Promise you’ll take it easy?’

His shoulders hunched as he stared at the zoomer’s handlebars. ‘...Promise.’

‘All right. See you at eight tomorrow for dinner.’

The communicator clicked as she hung up; he thumbed it back off, staring into space, and then just sat there for a moment looking at nothing.

Promise?

He revved up the zoomer again, kicking it into gear and returning to the flow of traffic. Well… if he was barred from desk work, he might as well take a ride around the city.

It had been a long time since he’d travelled in the open for more than a few minutes. Years, probably. As a Guard, his life had been in uniform and strictly regimented; in the Underground, it was simply too risky, especially as he took on more responsibilities and became too hard to replace.

It was odd; he still had to tamp down the instinct to tense up whenever he saw the red armour of a Krimzon Guard. They were following his own orders now; whenever one recognized him on his vehicle (it only happened twice, as he was out of uniform himself) he received a salute. They were his force to command, now. But the red, the logo, and the gloss remained rooted to something deep and unpleasant at the bottom of his psyche.

A rebrand was definitely in order, as soon as they were finished with the most intensive period of repairs.

Without any conscious decision or intent, his hands at the wheel began to guide him into the once-familiar patterns of the patrols he used to be assigned the most during his time in the KG. He let it happen, making note of the state of each street he passed through and beginning to mentally frame up a report on the progress of repairs.

For the most part, he grudgingly had to admit that things were going as well as could be hoped for, if not better. The greater bulk of the rubble had been cleared away already in the worst-hit areas; Haven work crews moved quickly.

He slowed down, passing by the power station that had been Vin’s haunt; the gaping door had been boarded over, but there were huge claw marks and holes in the concrete surrounding it. He knew there were crews inside piecing the machinery back together inside (because he’d organized them himself three days ago), but there was no sign of activity visible from the outside. With a frown he finally turned away, making a mental note to look into getting some sort of memorial put up.

His communicator buzzed back to life.

‘Hey Torn!’ said Tess cheerfully. ‘Ashelin told me what’s going on. How about you come by the Naughty Ottsel for some lunch?’

‘Is the rat there?’ Torn asked warily.

‘Uhh… Well, it is HIS bar, sooo…’

Torn really did not feel like dealing with Daxter right now. ‘I’ll pass, then. Thanks.’

‘Actually, you can’t,’ said Tess, her cheer undiminished. ‘Ashelin thought you might say that-- so it’s an official order.’

Torn groaned aloud. ‘Fine,’ he snapped a moment later. ‘I’ll see you--’ and the rat ‘-- in a few minutes.’

Traffic flow was busy in the city-- it hadn’t taken long at all for business as usual to resume after the attack, and the ebb and flow of people and vehicles was nearly back to normal now that people felt safer. There’d been a few halfhearted attacks on the hastily-repaired wall sections by metalheads, but the leaderless rabble had been easily beaten back; plans were in motion to put up more permanent reinforcements.

Or… they’d been in motion when he left the office yesterday, anyway. Rationally, he knew Ashelin was more than capable of staying on top of the project; while the New Krimzon Guard was smaller in terms of manpower than the force the Baron had commanded, they still had plenty of power and resources to spread around. And she wasn’t stupid; if anything genuinely big or unexpected happened, he was sure he would be recalled.

Less rationally, he couldn’t help but fret over it. He was supposed to be relaxing; but the sensation of powerlessness was, if anything, more stressful than the job.

Not an aggressive driver by nature, Torn didn’t bother trying to push through the traffic; he was in no hurry. But the flow still brought him to the Port all too soon.

He left his zoomer by the door and took a moment to cast the giant ottsel head mounted above the door a glower of deep distrust and loathing before stepping through into the dimly lit bar. Tess was leaning against the counter, talking to Daxter; she turned and looked back over her shoulder to smile as Torn entered.

‘Whoa, look who’s here!’ said Daxter, jumping up to the top of a napkin dispenser to spread his hands in Torn’s direction. ‘Gravel-breath himself! Gettin’ some sunshine for a change, eh?’

‘This bar is darker than any office I’ve ever worked in,’ said Torn curtly. He looked around. ‘Where’s Jak?’ The bar was empty aside from Tess and Daxter; the lack of patrons was unsurprising as it wasn’t technically open for business yet, still in need of some repairs, but it was rare to see the rat without his companion.

‘He’s off on one of the missions you assigned him yesterday, I believe,’ said Daxter. ‘We split up for this one though, because I’ve got duties here,’ he added primly, drawing himself up to preen as he emphasized the word ‘duties’.

‘Daxter picked up a new game to build up the arcade,’ Tess chimed in, nodding towards the corner; there was a large new machine there, covered with garish text and graphics on par with anything Krew had ever offered. Its front was still turned to face the wall and all the cabling was tangled around it, with an open and slightly-bent manual tossed on top of the mess; it seemed that installation had been paused midway through. Torn looked back over at Tess and Daxter with an eyebrow raised.

‘Yessir, there’s a lot of important work to do, running a fine establishment such as this,’ said Daxter, rolling his thin shoulders. ‘Complicated stuff. I needed a break.’

‘We’ve mostly repaired the kitchen!’ said Tess. ‘So we can do food again. Come on and sit down, Torn, we’ve got something for you!’

She patted one of the bar stools and Torn hesitated a moment before stepping forward (with a longing glance towards the booths, which would keep him a more tolerable distance away from the gregarious orange rat). Daxter vanished and then reappeared bearing a plate, which he dropped in front of Torn.

‘Voila! Tell us how it is,’ said Daxter eagerly. ‘And then tell the world! We could really use some endorsements. Fledgling business, you know how it is.’

Torn stared down at it for a moment and then slowly picked up the fork. Samos had healed the damage to his stomach, but he had yet to try eating since then; it was hard to get over the aversions that had built up over time. His mind unhelpfully supplied him with a psychosomatic memory of the horrible burning and nausea that had plagued him for rather longer than the month he’d admitted to Ashelin.

Defiantly he stabbed the fork into a pile of what looked like mashed potatoes, and then paused to look over at the ottsel. Daxter was staring at him in eager anticipation, elbows leaning on the top of the napkin dispenser.

‘Would you cut that out?’ Torn growled. ‘I don’t need any help losing my appetite here.’

Daxter’s back jerked straight, affronted. ‘What? Moi?’ He spun around and walked away, throwing his hands up in a huff. ‘Some people, I swear… just got no taste.’

Tess leaned a hand on her hip. ‘Torn, that was really rude!’

‘I’d like to remind you that I’m here under duress,’ said Torn. Tess’s expression didn’t change; if anything it grew harder.

In the sudden quiet, from the far end of the counter, Daxter’s mumblings could be heard. ‘No appreciation for beauty, really. Or any of the finer things in life… Wouldn’t know a handsome visage if it smacked him in the face!’ There was the sound of clinking bottles.

Torn sighed. ‘...Sorry. Thank you for lunch.’ He picked up the fork again and started to eat.

He kept bracing himself for the pain but it never came; of course, he had no doubt in Samos’s abilities, but it had been so long… Some of that internal effort must have shown in his face, because after a minute or so Tess asked him worriedly how it was.

‘It’s fine,’ he said. ‘Tastes good.’

A flash of orange at the corner of his vision was Daxter’s head, rising slowly from behind the counter. ‘Good, you say…? Would you say... good like a hearty, pick-me-up on a cold day, or like an exquisite dish to be savoured?’

‘It’s good,’ Torn repeated flatly, meeting the wide eyes woodenly. Daxter was unperturbed, grinning up at Tess. ‘He likes it! Shall we say, it’s ‘Revolutionary Approved’?’

Torn paused for a moment. ‘...Did you cook this?’

‘Well… parts of it,’ said Daxter, shrugging with an affect of nonchalance. ‘Tess over here helped!’

‘You’re not planning to cook all the food for the bar once it opens, are you?’ Torn looked at him dubiously. ‘Not that it’s bad, but… that’s a lot of work.’

‘We’re looking around for a chef,’ said Daxter. ‘Don’t worry, it’s all under control.’ He remained unruffled by Torn’s skeptical stare, preening on the countertop.

Tess leaned against the bar as the conversation flagged; after a minute, Daxter dusted off his hands and jumped down to the floor, heading back to the exposed guts of the new arcade game. Shortly, the air was filled with mechanical whirs and the sound of Daxter’s soft muttering from inside the machine.

‘Are you going to watch the race?’ Tess asked Torn.

‘Wasn’t planning on it,’ said Torn, stirring his fork around the plate.

‘Aw, are you sure?’ said Tess. ‘It ought to be fun. There’s a promising new racer, I’ve heard.’

‘I don’t do fun,’ said Torn.

‘Well, what else are you going to do?’ said Tess, raising an eyebrow at him. ‘Are you planning to just mope around all week?’

Put that way, there didn’t seem to be any good answer. Torn sighed.

__

‘How did it go?’

Tess sighed. ‘I forgot how much of a stick in the mud he can be, you know? I’ve never met anyone who didn’t enjoy watching the races, but...’

‘Hmm.’ Ashelin tapped a pen on the documents she had spread out over her desk, then raised it to sign another form. ‘I was hoping it’d get him to relax a little.’

‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him relaxed in the whole time I’ve known him,’ said Tess. ‘And I’ve known him for a long time.’

Ashelin smiled briefly, jotting down a note on another sheet of paper kept off to the side. ‘I know he can. But it’s true that he doesn’t really have any hobbies to fall back on. He’s barely left the palace since we moved operations here.’

‘He never left the hideout at all, during the war,’ said Tess. ‘Back then it was because it wasn’t safe to leave-- but now that we’re all considered heroes, we can go where we please. I don’t know why he hasn’t taken advantage of that. Everyone else has.’

Ashelin knew the answer to that one, at least; she and Torn had talked about that very thing off and on ever since the defeat of the metalhead leader and the start of her own rise to power. Torn was decidedly uncomfortable with the idea of being in the spotlight; he left all the speeches and public activity to her, preferring to stick to his office as much as possible. In the immediate wake of the war, there had been a swell of public interest in the people behind the victory, and everyone in the underground had become instantly famous. Some thrived on the attention, some were indifferent, and some… well, some retreated even further into the shadows, waiting for the spotlight to move on.

She sighed and pushed her ink pad aside so that she could lean an elbow on the desk surface, resting her chin on her fist. ‘He has his reasons. But maybe in the meantime we could find things to do around the city that don’t involve crowds…’

Tess brightened up. ‘I have an idea! I’ll take him to the gun range, that always cheers me up.’

Ashelin raised both eyebrows at her. ‘Wouldn’t that count as work?’

‘No way! We have some new prototype weapons in from the Vulcan plant, no one can stay in a bad mood when they play with those puppies. I’ve been itching to try them out ever since they came in yesterday.’

Tapping her fingers together, Ashelin smiled faintly. ‘Okay… well, give that a shot. Let me know how it goes-- and if you have any other ideas to keep him busy. I don’t want him to spend this whole week clawing at his office door.’ She sighed. ‘I’m sorry I can't be more help, I’ve just got no time--’

Tess waved a hand, grinning. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it! This oughta be fun.’

Chapter Text

The gun range was empty, which was how Torn liked it. Tess was in top excitable form, showing him various new features and gadgets of her latest stock of weapons. Torn nodded along, examining the things she handed him; while he couldn't see himself ever wielding much more than his pistol and a knife, he had to admit that they were solid pieces of equipment.

He was just stepping out of the Blaster course when his communicator unfolded itself and drifted away from his belt.

‘Commander Torn!’ said the crackling voice. ‘I have an update on the KG holdout situation. They're holed up in the mines. Requesting permission to assemble a force.’

‘Granted,’ said Torn. ‘Tell everyone--’

Tess’s hand snatched it out of the air. ‘Call governor Ashelin!’ she snapped. ‘Torn is not to be bothered by work for the next week.’

‘But--’ the voice was almost plaintive. ‘He told me to--’

‘No exceptions!’

Torn stared at her as she lowered the communicator. ‘Was that really necessary?’

Tess met his eyes balefully. A detached part of Torn’s mind admired how quickly and completely the ordinarily cheerful girl’s innocuous demeanour transformed to become authoritative and stern; not everyone had the trick of that. ‘You heard Samos. AND Ashelin. Take it up with them if you’re not happy.’ She smiled, though the steel remained in her eyes. ‘I won’t be the one to let them down. Now come take a look at this new prototype that just came in, a neat little addition to the Vulcan…’

Sighing, Torn followed her to the far side of the room, eyeing his communicator which she’d stuffed into a pocket as they walked.
__

Life in the city went on. The weather that week was pleasant, which was good for the construction efforts; the slums in particular were progressing very nicely, and Torn made a point of passing through slowly on a zoomer each day. He might be restricted from work, but he wasn’t housebound; they couldn’t stop him from taking the air, right?

Besides, it did actually relax him to see things going well. Watching the slums destroyed in the fighting transform from rubble to… well, a lot of scaffolding at the moment, but if all went to plan the new quarter would be spectacular. Sometimes, when he turned a corner and saw the contours of some new building taking shape for the first time, he felt a stab of pride.

Less relaxing was the niggling part of his mind that whispered that perhaps things were going too smoothly. Was there another shoe waiting to drop? He didn’t mention this part to Ashelin when he met her for dinner each night; instead he nodded and stuck to bland, positive subjects-- complimenting the food was usually a good fallback plan, he found, if he couldn’t think of anything more substantive.

Tonight she seemed distracted, absently swirling her wineglass and staring into it with a distracted expression. Torn watched her do this for at least a minute before he cleared his throat.

‘What’s going on?’

She snapped back to attention immediately; for a moment she looked mildly guilty, then it turned into annoyance. ‘Oh… nothing you need to worry about.’

‘You seem worried,’ said Torn, undeterred. ‘Has something come up with the construction? ...The KG holdouts?’ He paused, trying to read her expression for a reaction. ‘Metalheads?’

‘Everything is fine, Torn,’ said Ashelin, putting down her wine glass in exasperation. ‘We have it under control.’

Torn’s eyes narrowed, almost in triumph. ‘What do you mean by ‘it’?’

Ashelin reached up to knead her fingers between her brows. ‘We still have to decide what to do with the holdout KGs we captured; I still think we can get more information out of them.’ As Torn opened his mouth to speak, she held her hand up. ‘It’s handled,’ she said firmly. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘Are you sure I can’t do anything to help?’ said Torn.

Ashelin shot him an aggrieved glare through her fingers. ‘You’re not making this easy for me,’ she said. ‘Of course we want you back-- but only when you’re healthy again. Stop trying to worm your way back in early.’

Torn sighed, leaning back in his chair, and looked away. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean--’

A touch to the side of his face made the sentence end in a stammer, as Ashelin gently turned his head to look at her. ‘It’s fine,’ she said. ‘Let’s just have dinner.’

Torn sighed, then turned back to his plate. 'All right,' he said, only a little grudgingly. 'But you'd better be keeping the reports for when I'm back.'

__

Ashelin waved Torn goodbye and closed the door, then leaned back against it, listening to his departing footsteps and counting down from ten. Then she strode back into the room and pressed a button set into the wall; a compartment popped open, revealing the messy collection of folders she’d haphazardly jammed in there. She lifted the topmost one and opened it, spreading its contents out on the table as she flicked her communicator on.

‘This is Ashelin,’ she said tersely. ‘Report.’

‘The mines are secure,’ said Jak’s voice. ‘All the KG are taken care of.’

‘And by taken care of, you mean…’

‘We kept two for questioning,’ said Jak.

‘Good.’

Sig’s voice broke into the communications. ‘There’s something else you should know, though. There’s an empty Metalhead nest here-- a recent one. Stingers most likely.’

Ashelin’s hand stilled where she’d been writing down a quick note in the folder. ‘You’re sure?’ she asked.

‘I’ve seen too many of them not to recognize it,’ said Sig. ‘We don’t know whether the Metalheads and KG are working together-- but we can’t discount the chance, either. ’

Ashelin rubbed at her forehead, then forced her hand back down to finish writing. ‘Noted,’ she said. ‘Collect some samples and bring them back here with the captives, we’ll see if we can learn anything.’

‘Got it, Gov,’ said Sig. ‘I’ll be in touch once we’re back.’

The communicator folded itself back into her pocket and she flipped over another page in her report, pulling out a map of the city to add a few more marks with the most recent information. A fresh Metalhead nest…? That was a bad omen. Torn would flip--

No. He wouldn’t find out about this for a few more days at least. Ashelin forced herself to take a deep breath, closing her eyes and pushing back from the table to get herself a glass of water.

Halfway to the pitcher, her communicator suddenly sprang away from her hip once again. ‘Governor!’ said the voice on the other end. ‘We’ve got a problem!’

Ashelin stifled a sigh, and answered.

__

The following day, Torn was starting to grow suspicious that something was up. Ashelin didn’t meet him for breakfast, stating that she had an unexpected meeting, and seemed even more distracted than usual. While he felt a small amount of guilty satisfaction at not having to lie to anyone that he was feeling better or had regained his appetite, it was a worrying lapse. Before he could press the matter, though, Tess had taken him in tow, and by half past ten he found himself once again at the Naughty Ottsel. The smell of something burning greeted him as he walked in, and he covered his nose. Tess coughed and ran to the bar.

‘Daxxie! What happened?’

‘Tess?’ Daxter emerged from the door behind the bar, kicking it shut behind himself. ‘Euhh… Not to worry, a tiny cooking mishap. I’ll have it fixed in no time.’

‘I take it the search for a new chef isn’t going so well,’ said Torn, running a hand along the top

‘The search? It’s going amazing, I’ve got applicants coming out the wazoo!’ said Daxter, gesticulating with both hands-- then suddenly appearing to remember that one of them contained a blackened dishcloth, he hid them both behind his back and shrugged sheepishly. ‘It’s the, uh, the finding that’s the problem.’

‘Pity,’ said Torn. He looked around the empty bar. ‘No Jak today either?’

‘Nah, he’s busy with--’ Daxter caught sight of something just behind Torn’s shoulder and paused, then went on, ‘some lame patrol thing, don’t worry about it.’

Torn looked back over his shoulder; Tess grinned at him. Was it just him, or was the expression looking somewhat strained…? Before he had a chance to say anything, she was sweeping past him, opening up the corner of the bar to let herself through. ‘Looks like it’s just us for now then,’ she said. ‘Come on, let’s see if we can’t save lunch.’

The next hour or so was spent in an almost companionable bustle. They aired out the kitchen and cleaned up, and then Tess took charge on the actual process of cooking. Daxter’s culinary instincts turned out not to be too shabby, but his size made it difficult for him to reach things easily; perhaps unsurprisingly, this was what had led to the first attempt’s failure.

Torn was finding himself… enjoying it? No, that couldn’t have been the right word. But it wasn’t the worst, despite the fact that if he’d been asked one week ago for his personal definition of hell, ‘trapped in an enclosed space with the rat’ would have been pretty close.

He almost didn’t notice when Tess slipped out of the kitchen. Leaving Daxter to monitor the steaming frittata, he started to follow her-- but almost as soon as he’d opened the door, she waved him back into the kitchen, holding a communicator to her ear, and deliberately turned her back. Torn headed back in, reluctantly.

It wasn’t a big surprise when, as they sat down to eat, she announced that she had to head out shortly afterwards. Torn raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Has Ashelin decided I don’t need babysitting anymore?’

Tess grinned broadly. ‘I think Daxter is more than up to that job.’

Daxter’s tiny chest puffed out. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘I’m great at… wait, what did you say?’

‘You’ll have to keep an eye on Torn for the rest of the day,’ said Tess. She snapped her fingers. ‘Why not go for a boat ride in the Port? It’ll be nice and relaxing, and you can see all the progress the construction crews are making in this part of town!’

Torn’s mouth opened, then closed. He hadn’t done as much inspecting in this area yet-- the Port had taken relatively little damage in the invasion, compared to the rest of the city, but this was the closest thing to work that he’d been offered all week. ‘... That sounds… all right.’

‘Wait, don’t I get a say in this?’ Daxter complained, waving his arms at Tess. ‘I’ve got my own job to do here, you know!’

‘You could probably use a break too, Daxxie,’ said Tess. ‘You need to wait til Jak gets back before you can do the heavy lifting anyway-- and just think how nice it’ll be out there on the water, feeling the fresh air and the sunshine...’

‘Twist my arm, why don’cha,’ said Daxter, grumbling. ‘Fine…’

‘Thank you so much, Daxxie!’ Tess pressed a quick kiss to the top of his head and then headed for the door, waving back to them both as she went. Torn waved back, then dropped his hand as the door swung closed and looked over to find Daxter looking back at him. He couldn’t see his own face, but he was pretty sure their expressions must have been perfect mirrors of one another’s confused dismay.

Then Daxter’s face split into a shit-eating grin. ‘So,’ he said. ‘If I’m the babysitter, that makes you the--’

‘Don’t even think about finishing that sentence,’ said Torn.

Daxter stopped speaking, but the grin remained. He was undoubtedly thinking of all the fantastic new taunts and jibes he could hurl at Torn with this fantastic ammunition-- it was Torn himself who’d used the damned word in front of him, after all. Torn sighed, and stood up. ‘Well, this has been entertaining, but I know you want this as little as I do, rat. We’ll both be happier if I get out of your fur.’

‘Ohh no you don’t!’ Daxter scrambled off the table and ran in front of Torn, arms extended as he blocked his path. ‘Jokes aside, I have been given a duty.’ He lifted his chin and closed his eyes, touching a hand to his chest. ‘I take my duties very seriously, I’ll have you know.’

He was the very picture of solemnity. Torn eyed him, unimpressed. ‘Uh huh,’ he said. ‘So you wouldn’t rather be, say, trying out that new arcade game you just got in?’

Daxter’s gaze flicked over to the corner, where the shiny new addition sat, and lingered there for a moment. Just as Torn started to creep past him, though, he snapped back to himself and bristled.

‘Hey! I’m not joking, buddy!’ Daxter swarmed up onto the table and prodded Torn in the middle of the chest. ‘Tess and Ashelin are doing this because they’re worried about your stupid crusty hide, and even if I know your bad mood will probably outlast all the rest of us, I’m going to help them out. You’re going on that boat ride, mister.’

Torn blinked down at the finger, then rolled his eyes and stepped back, resigned. This was going to be a long afternoon.

__

The transport vehicle dropped Tess off at HQ, along with the crate containing the experimental weapon prototype she’d picked up from the gun course immediately after leaving the bar. The New Krimzon Guard officer tried to lift the crate for her but she waved him off, hefting it as easily, and headed in.

There was a KG squad inside, busily putting on their armour and helmets; they barely raised their heads to acknowledge her, intent on their tasks. Tess raised her communicator. ‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘I have it. What now? What’s going on?’

The elevator doors slid open at the far end of the room and Ashelin strode out, her face grim. ‘Thank you for bringing that, Tess-- looks like we’ll be testing it sooner than we thought. There’s been a Metalhead sighting in Haven Forest.’

Chapter Text

It was a beautiful day at the Port. Haven City was not recovered enough from the invasion yet to have crowds flocking to the water’s edge for recreation, but it was the sort of weather that was drawing out a few anyway. Torn didn’t see the appeal, personally, but he had to grudgingly admit that the way the sunlight sparkled off the water had a certain hypnotic quality.

He and Daxter had both agreed that actually locating a tour boat was too much hassle, when there was a perfectly good zoomer right there. And so they found themselves out over the harbour in a rattly teal two-seater that coughed out smoke every now and then, with Torn sitting in the passenger seat and trying to relax.

He’d been tuning Daxter out for the past half hour. The ottsel was chattering away at the front of the zoomer, apparently enjoying the tour guide act-- or perhaps he took some sort of perverse ironic pleasure in explaining the sights and sounds of Haven City to Torn, who had grown up there and could probably recount the history of every paving stone, while Daxter had been there for a mere couple of years.

‘And over there you’ll see a-- huh.’ The change in Daxter’s tone was enough to alert Torn, who sat up, looking over in the same direction as the ottsel.

There was a bulky Krimzon Guard transport parked close to the entrance path that led to the southern agricultural district. Torn squinted at it, frowning. ‘That’s not a patrol route.’

Daxter laughed awkwardly and tried to play it off. ‘I’m sure they’re just on some sort of mission, right? Ashelin musta sent them to do something out here.’

Torn ignored him, but grabbed the wheel to keep it in place when Daxter tried to steer them away. ‘Something’s not right,’ he said. The figures on the dock were carrying large crates onto the transport-- battered and stained crates which appeared to have come from outside the city, from the looks of the boxes themselves, but the only routine transport in or out of the city that Torn was aware of wasn’t scheduled to arrive until late afternoon. So what could they be loading?

His eyes settled on the number code emblazoned on the back of the vehicle and his mouth went dry as he realized what he must have subconsciously noticed already. ‘That vehicle was stolen last week,’ he said.

Daxter had gone still beside him, his eyes wide. ‘There’s dark eco in those boxes,’ he said.

‘What? How do you know?’ said Torn.

Daxter gave a small, shaky laugh. ‘I’d know it anywhere. I hate to say it, but I think you were right. Something’s fishy.’

The last of the boxes on board, the armoured men on the dock closed up the transport and hopped on board as it started floating out across the water, directly towards Torn and Daxter. Torn let go of the wheel and Daxter steered the zoomer off to the side as they both tried not to look as if they were interested in the transports’ movements. Once it was past, Torn, looked over and met Daxter’s eyes.

‘Tail them,’ he said as he pulled out his communicator. ‘But not too close. Don’t let them notice us.’

He dialed Ashelin, and waited as the communicator buzzed, taking longer than usual to establish a connection. When it finally went through, there was no visual-- Ashelin had chosen to accept the call as audio only, which was odd.

‘Hello, Commander,’ she said. Was Torn imagining it, or did she sound slightly out of breath? He cut her off before she could go on.

‘Daxter and I are at the Port, and we have visual on what we believe is someone impersonating KG officers in order to transport dark eco into the city,’ he said quickly. ‘They’re heading north towards downtown now. We’re in pursuit.’

‘Oh. Shit.’ It wasn’t his imagination, Ashelin was definitely out of breath.

‘Where are you? What’s happening?’ said Torn.

‘Don’t worry. And stop following that transport, I’ll--’ There was a loud sound for a moment and the sound cut out briefly, then returned as Ashelin continued. ‘Sorry. I’ll assign a team to it.’

‘If you’re not at HQ right now, any team you assign won’t make it in time to keep visual on the vehicle,’ said Torn, growing annoyed. ‘Are you at HQ?’

There was a long silence-- in fact it was silent, Torn was increasingly certain that she was muting her microphone input to keep him from hearing whatever was going on in her vicinity. Then, ‘I’ve let my assistant know. I have to go now. Don’t do anything stupid.’

‘Ashelin--’ The call dropped, leaving Torn staring in irritated disbelief at his communicator.

Daxter let out a low whistle. ‘Well, I guess that means it’s up to us, eh?’ When Torn didn’t answer right away, he shifted in closer. ‘Eh? Gravel-breath?’

‘Don’t call me that,’ said Torn. ‘We’re still on their tail, right?’

‘Yep. Don’t worry, Orange Lightning knows allll about tails,’ Daxter said, and then, laughing at his own stupid pun, cranked the steering wheel to the left. As the zoomer rounded the corner, Torn spotted the transport up ahead, making its slow but steady way through traffic.

They wound their way through the city. Torn tried calling Ashelin again, but she didn’t pick up, and he fought down a sharp stab of worry (which felt suspiciously like stomach pain). He did get through to her assistant back at HQ, and apprised them of the route he was taking and the situation-- he had been correct about the lag in operations, though, and any help sent out would not be arriving for at least another five to ten minutes. It was imperative that he and Daxter not be noticed.

They tailed their quarry at a distance through several more sectors. As the assistant reported to Torn that the backup team was being dispatched, the transport entered the water slums, its bulk sliding through the eco shield, and Torn frowned. A stolen transport, laden with dangerous eco, entering what was to be the focal point of the redevelopment efforts…? This was going nowhere good, and even Daxter was looking nervous.

The zoomer entered the slums too, weaving between scaffolding and huts-- and almost immediately, there was a problem. ‘Uh oh,’ said Daxter, as Torn swore. The transport was out of sight, having slipped too far ahead through the complex three-dimensional maze of this sector. The zoomer had entered a cul-de-sac between three huts, and there was something cluttering or obstructing their view in almost every direction; so many pieces of scaffolding, extended zoomer docks at varying levels, and balconies. It was the perfect place to hide… or to make sure a pursuer would lose sight of you.

‘They must have seen us,’ said Torn, looking around in agitation.

‘There’s no way!’ said Daxter. ‘I kept other zoomers in between us the whole time--’

‘They could have allies keeping tabs on the flow of traffic,’ said Torn. ‘Or they take this route on purpose to shake pursuit. Damn… I should have thought of this. Get us back out of here.’

Daxter threw the zoomer into reverse-- and suddenly, blaster fire was slamming into the front and sides of the vehicle, the force of the shots sending it reeling back into the side of the one of the nearby huts. Flame gouted from the engine; in one swift motion Torn grabbed Daxter and rolled out of the zoomer onto the closest elevated walkway, ignoring the sharp stab of pain from his traitorous guts. Two shadowy figures emerged from their hiding places on the far side of the space. Torn dizzily pulled in his legs and then kicked out at the smoking zoomer, sending it careening through the air towards their attackers. He scrambled to his feet and tried to bolt around the corner as it exploded, but perhaps the shockwave was stronger than he’d anticipated, because almost immediately he found himself slamming facefirst back onto the rough wooden planking of the balcony.

Daxter squirmed out of his grip and pushed at Torn’s shoulder. ‘Hey! Fearless leader, we gotta move-- ah, crap.’

Torn pushed himself up to see another figure running towards him along the walkway, as yet another emerged from around a corner. How many more would show up…? He had to act quickly, try to get a weapon, try to protect Daxter--

He lurched to his feet and lunged, but something was wrong. The ignorable mild ache in his stomach had evolved to a terrible burning, stabbing pain. His opponent was moving too quickly-- or he was moving too slowly? Torn’s hand missed its grab for his adversary’s weapon, and they stepped over his attempt to sweep their leg with contemptuous ease. Torn’s shoulder slammed into the wall-- had they even touched him? What was happening?

He lashed out blindly with a leg as he felt himself losing his balance, and connected more through luck than intent. Armour crunched, there was a yell… and then a flash of orange streaked through his distorted vision, grabbing the gun that was falling through the air. Daxter landed in front of Torn, brandishing the blaster that was larger than his whole body, and began firing back at their opponents, yelling the whole time.

‘Yeah! Eat eco, you buncha morons! Get outta here! And stay out!’

Suddenly, the walkway was empty. Daxter scampered to the edge, peering out, and then headed back to Torn, holding out a hand cautiously. ‘You, uh…think we should wait til backup gets here? You don’t look so hot.’

Torn swayed back to his feet. ‘I’ll be fine.’ He had to put a hand out against the wall as spots filled his vision, then cleared. ‘Where did they go?’ His ears were ringing.

‘You shouldn’t--’

‘Shut up, rat,’ said Torn. The sound in his ears wasn’t ringing, it was… the transport’s engines, powering up below them. He stepped to the edge of the walkway and looked down, then jerked back as a shot rang out, narrowly missing him.

‘Hey!’ Daxter ran to the edge of the walkway and fired down in return, as the transport rose from where it had been wedged between two teetering huts, shedding camouflaging beams as it went. The armoured individual who had been shooting at them scrambled back inside as the back corner of the transport’s cargo hold caught at the base of the walkway Torn and Daxter were standing on, causing the wood to buckle upwards and then give way with a shattering crunch.

‘Shit!’ Just like that, there was no more time for thinking. Torn pushed himself from the wall he’d bumped into, and Daxter leaped onto his shoulder, urging him on as he jumped with all of whatever was left of his inconsistent strength.

He landed on the top of the transport, which shuddered and then swerved suddenly. The whole thing rolled slightly to the side before hastily righting itself-- the driver apparently remembering mid-maneuver that this wasn’t like a normal zoomer, and wouldn’t take well to being flipped over while fully-loaded. Inexperienced, then; but it was enough, with Torn’s balance already so shot, to send him flat again. As he tried to push himself up, Daxter ran along the roof towards the rear doors, swarming down and out of sight as blaster shots rang through the hull.

The driver of the transport flew up towards the gap between two buildings and then rapidly back down, apparently still trying to shake them off. Their passenger was firing wildly out the window, but without being willing to lean far enough out, their shots all went wide. Torn gave up on standing and clung grimly to the vehicle’s roof as it bucked under him, with a terrible feeling he knew where this was going to end. He could only be glad they were in one of the far corners of the slum whose residents had moved out temporarily to await the destruction and rebuilding of their homes, so there were no civilians around to get in the crossfire.

And finally it did; pushed beyond its limits, the heavily-laden transport fishtailed on the next attempt to swerve, its hold striking a dilapidated hut with full force. The old wood gave way immediately, jagged beams piercing the cargo hold as sheets of corrugated steel billowed and peeled away with a noise like thunder. A small hand pulled at Torn, and as his grip on the roof failed, instead of plummeting to his death, he found himself pulled inside the chaotic hold. The vehicle’s momentum sent it crashing through a sloppily-built wooden scaffold, then another hut, before landing on a dock and slowly tilting until its corner was just brushing the water.

When things still again, Torn opened his eyes again inside a dark, cramped space, whose only illumination was through various fist-sized holes in the walls and ceiling. The crates that had been in the hold were jumbled around haphazardly, along with the body of another armed figure who had apparently been hit by Daxter’s blaster fire; Torn was lying between two thankfully-intact crates on the tilting, gently vibrating floor.

The only sounds were creaks as the metal of the transport groaned against the dock that was holding it out of the water; there was silence from the driver’s cabin ahead, which seemed to have taken the worst of the damage from the crash. He swallowed, trying to push himself up, only to be surprised by an agonizing retch as dizzy, painful nausea caught him up.

Daxter had climbed up the doors to pull on the handles, trying vainly to open them, but at the sound he ran back down and over to Torn.

‘Shit, did you get hit?’ he said, stopping at the end of the crate to peer at him. ‘I thought I got you before the crash, but--’

‘No,’ Torn managed to say, curling his knees in towards his chest as he regained control. ‘I didn’t get hit. This is… not related.’

‘Shee-yeesh,’ said Daxter jumping down to the floor and bending sideways to look at his face. ‘No wonder Ashelin pulled you from duty. You, fearless leader, look like lukewarm garbage.’

‘Thanks,’ Torn gritted out.

‘Where’s your communicator?’ Daxter asked. Torn fumbled at his waist, then stilled. Daxter’s ears rose, then drooped as they both realized.

‘It must have been knocked off in the crash,’ said Torn. Or anywhere else along the way, really. He hadn’t noticed… but then, it seemed as if he’d only been aware of less than half of the chaos that had ensued after the initial ambush. He gritted his teeth, sitting up the rest of the way, then suddenly lurched forward to heave again as his stomach protested the motion. The bile that came up was bright red.

Daxter grimaced in sympathy, then hopped up onto the pile of crates. ‘Hang on, they musta kept some green eco in here-- ya gotta have some sort of first aid supplies when you’re pulling off a heist or whatever the heck these mooks were up to, right? At least we’re seriously lucky none of the dark eco is leaking, hoo boy…’’

Torn stared down at the grimy hammered metal floor and listened dully as Daxter hopped from crate to crate, inspecting each one in turn. The sound of water lapping just beneath them was oddly soothing, despite the peril he knew it would present if whatever was supporting the transport were to give way. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, pulled it away to look at the blood on it, then wiped it on the fabric of his trousers as Daxter came hopping back with a small green container.

‘Look at this, it was all they had!’ said Daxter, handing it to Torn and watching as the man hesitated and then downed it. ‘What a buncha morons, am I right? Smart enough to ambush us, but not smart enough to keep their own supplies.’

‘They may have kept them in the cabin.’ Daxter blinked, then grumbled a bit. Torn exhaled as the green eco worked inside of him; such a small quantity wouldn’t do much, just as even Samos couldn’t instantly restore his insides to perfect health without a frankly prohibitive supply. But it still helped, as the pain went from a fierce stab to a dull burn. ‘... Thanks.’

Daxter was still watching him, perched on the side of a crate; Torn opened his eyes and looked narrowly over at him. ‘What?’

‘Why are you doing this?’ said Daxter.

‘Doing what, rat?’ Torn gestured irritably at the hold surrounding them. ‘It’s not like I planned this.’

‘Why were you still trying to work at all if you were in this bad of a shape the whole time?’

‘The city won’t slow down just because I do,’ Torn snapped. ‘We may have beaten back one threat, but that doesn’t mean Haven is safe. We can’t let up our guard.’

‘You say we,’ said Daxter, tenting his fingers together and pointing them at Torn, ‘but all I’m hearing right now is you. You know that if you’re part of a team, part of the point is trusting the people around you, right? Y’dont hafta be on all the time.’

‘You do if you’re the one in charge,’ said Torn.

‘Oh, that’s right! So remind me... who’s in charge right now?’ Daxter tilted his head to one side, looking infuriatingly smug. Torn looked away, and after a moment, Daxter stepped to the side and leaned over so as to re-enter his line of vision. ‘Say, you may not know it to look at me, but I’m a natural-born leader myself.’

Torn made a choking sound, and Daxter paused, looking concerned for a moment, before identifying the sound as a laugh. He jumped to another crate and strolled along its lid. ‘Thanks to an unfortunate accident, I’m not usually in a position to give orders these days. And it’s hard sometimes-- Jak pulls all kinds of harebrained moves and all I can do is just hold on. But if he misses stuff, I’m there to see it for him… and if I miss stuff, he’s there for me. You get it?’

Torn was quiet, and this time Daxter allowed the silence to stretch out between them.

‘Dax--’ Torn started, only to be interrupted when Daxter suddenly made a delighted sound, clapping his hands together.

‘I just realized. You’re down right now and Ashelin’s somewhere else... I’m the one in charge of this ship! Get ready to take some orders from Orange Lightning, buddy!’

Torn growled and grabbed at him, but Daxter dodged, cackling. Torn started trying to lever himself up to his feet, leaning heavily on the nearest crate. ‘And my first order is-- whoa!’ The floor of the transport shuddered suddenly and both of them froze; in the sudden silence as the transport stabilized again, the topmost crate on the pile slid down, hit the floor and burst open with a clatter.

It was not full of dark eco. Instead it looked like…

‘Are those... robot parts?’ said Daxter, cautiously approaching the metal pieces scattered across the floor. Torn knelt back down very slowly.

‘Looks like it,’ said Torn. ‘The eco must be a power source for… whatever this is going to be.’

From outside, a low thrumming noise became audible, growing steadily louder. Daxter’s ears perked up and he looked towards the ceiling. Torn started shifting as if to stand and Daxter held up a hand firmly. ‘Don’t move,’ said Daxter. ‘I’m going to see what that is.’

Any reply Torn was going to give died in his mouth as he watched Daxter climb up to the ceiling of the transport and squirm easily out one of the holes. He settled back to the floor, staring upward.

After a moment, he heard Daxter calling out to someone, and a faint scuffing sound as the ottsel leaped off the roof of the transport. The thrumming noise got louder, descending until it was adjacent with the side wall of the transport; there were a series of mechanical clanks, and the floor shuddered again, lifting out of the uneven slant it had settled into when the float engine failed. Something was raising it up.

A moment later, there was a small thump on the roof, and Daxter’s face peered in through the same hole he’d left by. He was grinning from ear to ear. ‘Good news, El Capitan! We’re saved!’

Torn closed his eyes and smiled.

__

The next hour or so was a whirlwind of activity that Torn could only vaguely keep up with. After he was extracted from the ship, the cargo of the rogue Krimzon Guard transport would be removed, separated, and stored for analysis; the ship itself would be brought back to the yard to be inspected for bugs, and then potentially restored and returned to service if it proved salvageable. Torn left the details to Daxter, and accepted the offer of a ride directly back to HQ.

Samos was as incensed as Torn had expected. After healing the worst of the new damage he stormed around the room, using words like ‘internal bleeding!’ and ‘could have died!’, accompanied by some very violent hand motions.

‘You’re right,’ said Torn, in the middle of one of the diatribes. ‘I’m sorry.’

Samos paused, then squinted at him. ‘Oh, well saying that makes it all better! So what are you going to do about it next, hmm?’

‘I’ll stay off work,’ said Torn.

‘For a month!’ said Samos, jabbing a finger in the air.

‘A m--!’ Torn bit back his protest, closed his eyes, and leaned back on the cot. ‘Okay.’

‘Good,’ said Samos, who had swelled up in anticipation of a different response, and now allowed himself to deflate. ‘Good. I’ll tell Ashelin.’

Ashelin appeared barely twenty minutes after that; she burst into the room, surprising her assistant who had been quietly doing some paperwork near the door. Torn found himself wrapped in a hug before he could even sit up the rest of the way.

He patted her back awkwardly; she hadn’t taken off all of her armour, and one of her pauldrons was jabbing him uncomfortably in the chin, but he didn’t otherwise move or say anything until she had pulled back.

‘What were you thinking?’ she said, hands snapping her hips as she straightened up. ‘I told you I was sending a team!’

‘I didn’t think they would get there in time,’ said Torn.

‘Did you know the tracking ID on the stolen vehicle was pinged when it entered the slums? They would have been caught without you.’

Torn slumped back in the cot, sighing out a long breath. ‘I… overestimated how ready I was to be in the field. It won’t happen again.’

‘It had better not,’ she said. Suddenly, she pulled over the chair that was nearby and dropped into it. ‘I suppose I’m partially to blame… If I’d been able to answer your call properly it might not have happened this way. There was, hm, an incident in Haven Forest.’

He looked at her, struggling not to ask, and after a moment she sighed. ‘I suppose keeping you in the dark this whole time may not have been the best way to approach things. Metalheads were found in the forest.’

Torn stiffened, and she held up a hand. ‘They’ve been dealt with. After going out there to fight, we have every reason to believe these are more stragglers left over from Kor’s forces; we found remnants of an empty nest in the mine, which was probably laid over a month ago and took an unusually long time to hatch.’

‘So no sign of a new leader rising up to replace Kor,’ said Torn.

‘No, not at the moment,’ said Ashelin. ‘If anything I’m more worried about these rogue Krimzon Guard-- they do seem to be up to something, and I don’t like it.’

Torn looked up at her cautiously. ‘So…’

‘No, you are not forgiven for risking yourself so carelessly,’ said Ashelin, fixing him with a stern glare. ‘... But I am glad it was spotted in the first place, if you hadn’t been out there at the port with Daxter we might never have known. Good work. Just…’ She leaned in and pressed a kiss to his forehead, making him suddenly acutely aware that he hadn’t yet had a chance to properly bathe after the whole ordeal in the slums. ‘Be more careful. Please.’

‘I’ll try,’ he said. He watched her as she stood up, stretching out her back. ‘Can I be kept in the loop this time though, at least?’ he asked. ‘I’ll take the rest of the week--’

‘Month.’

‘Month, whatever-- off of work, but if you leave me in the dark again like that, I might actually go crazy.’

She smiled. ‘Sounds like a reasonable request. Granted.’

He relaxed then. Ashelin headed for the door; he looked up just as she reached it. ‘Oh, Ashelin?

‘Mm?’

‘Thank Daxter for me.’

She smiled-- possibly in amusement, he couldn't tell. 'Sure.' She closed the door after herself, leaving Torn on his own in the quiet medbay.

Just as he was starting to reconsider his agreement to stay put, Ashelin's assistant entered, bearing several folders. She put them down on the table beside him. 'These are logs of the last weeks' worth of mission reports,' she told him as he looked up in surprise. 'Ashelin thought you might want something to entertain yourself with.' Her expression made it clear that she was dubious of Ashelin's definition of 'entertainment'.

'It's perfect,' said Torn, and settled in to start reading.

END