Kill Chain, Chapter 1

The way he told the story, there simply wasn't a beginning.

Their story just sort of picked up the morning after, with a little clever re-wording tossed in for consistency's sake. A freak metalhead attack hit in the middle of the night, leaving Jak and Daxter to the task of chasing the dark critters out of town. While they were out scoping the area for anymore signs of beastly intervention on the night's events, Daxter got a little roughed up, and things had gone downhill from there. Sentry duty gone horribly wrong. Nothing more. Anyone wise to the real deal was under strict order by their respective rulers - Sig for the grudging people of Spargus, Ashelin for the fearful Haveners -  to keep their mouths shut tight, zip-and-lock. If one word of the truth got out, people would immediately point fingers at the one guy that had just brushed his pants off from saving their asses a second time around.

Jak couldn't handle that kind of burden again.

Daxter settled back against the tan-hide sheets they'd piled at the only dry end of their small raft, trying not to let his mind wander too deep into that nest o' monsters. Given the choice, he'd rather not think about what Jak would do if the world hated him despite all his efforts to live up to their expectations of who he should be - a hero. Granted, Jak's methods of getting from 'Point A - we're all gonna die' to 'Point B - we're all good' were a little ... unorthodox, or maybe dangerous, or definitely the opposite of 'heroic', but really. Twice in the past year - that's back to friggin' back - he'd saved them all. Picked up Daxter's mess, put his life on the line to fix a mistake he didn't make, and then waved it off like it was just what he did - because it was.

He was incredible.

He also caused the entire mess to begin with - which Daxter put great emphasis on when they were around their friends, and completely ignored when he was alone with Jak. If Jak hadn't been so damned biased against his dark half and so thoroughly convinced Light was perfect, maybe Daxter wouldn't have gone off the deep end and put them all through the metaphorical meat grinder.

Maybe that night wouldn't have gone as right as it did - when all of this really began.
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He didn't have enough toes to count the ways this night would go wrong.

To begin with, he had a colorful array of bothersome emotions welling up and making a damn good attempt at strangling him within an inch of his sanity. There was the obvious feeling of utter contempt; frustration always was top on the 'Daxter's mood of the day' priority list. What happened to Jak oughtn't have, and sweet, sweet vengeance had done absolutely nothing to deter his raging need to claw that smug bastard of a priest's fuzzified face off. You just didn't do a guy the way Veger did, taking somethin' the big guy always wanted and grinnin' about it like Jak deserved that.

His tail twitched irritably against the bedsheets he'd stretched out on, arms crossing tightly over his chest. It wasn't until Jak's ear twitched and his head tilted a little to the side that Daxter realized he was the one growling.

Thankfully, the hero was too busy sulking miserably at the foot of the bed to bother asking questions.

Orange Lightning wasn't exactly the life of the party then, either, so he couldn't complain. He felt just as down about how their rescue from certain doom had gone, too. Not just for Jak, no; though he knew this was killin' his buddy more than he could ever fix. He'd never outright said it, and he doubted he'd have a mind to, but Daxter was damn hurt by the loss they'd suffered for personal reasons of his own. The ottsel wasn't about to kid himself by sayin' he was as close to him as Jak was, but the facts as they went, well ... He'd always, sort of, wanted to be. Maybe even thought it was possible, for a King to see a rat like him as a ... as a son.

That's where Daxter started hating himself, nestling further back into the worn hide of the blanket to shrink away from his shame.

Because deep, deep down, locked up and barricaded off from the rest of the world, Daxter was ... was maybe just a little put off about it all.

Maybe just a little ... a little jealous.

"It just ain't right." Somehow, he'd pictured Jak jumping at the sound of his voice, springing back to life, but he was vaguely disappointed to find a small perk of the ears his only response - and a less than satisfying one, at that.

It was ever-unspoken Jak-inese for 'Yeah, I'm listening. Say whatever; I'm not really paying attention, so it doesn't matter'.

Not good enough.

Dax tempted the Wasteland-born blonde to speak with a heavy dose of awkward silence, just waiting for him to ask, 'What, oh dearest Daxter, is unfair about this mess? Besides the glaringly obvious answer of everything and all of the above' - as if he was kidding anybody with the 'I can stay silent longer than you' act. Especially against Jak, running champ at the Quiet Game with a grand record of seventeen years.

"I swear, if I eva see those Precursor rats again, I'ma show 'em why they shouldn'ta messed with my best pal," he finally half-snarled after his failed attempt at pressuring Jak to talk to him, shaking a fist at nothing before he huffed back into place," Just ain't fair, lettin' what happened to old King First-Impression be. They had tha power t'stop Count Vegan-or-whatever, 'n this is what they chose? I changed my mind again. Precursors stink."

The amazing lack of any response at all brought along issue number two with their present situation - Jakky boy's current state of being.

The best way to put it would probably be 'utterly broken', 'emotionally shattered', or maybe - for the understatement of the millennium - upset?

Everything this side of Jupiter knew bad things happened when Jak got upset.

"Jaak?" Elbow working his torso up from the pseudo-nest of comforter, Daxter did an up-and-down for any signs of Jak's body talk he might have been missing. The wayward ears? Got that. The droop of his arms against his knees, keeping his torso from losing a fight with gravity? Saw it. The way his ass had firmly planted itself in the same spot for at least an hour, without so much as an itch that needed scratchin'?

Definitely saw it, and definitely didn't like it. Jak may have been mute for the first fifteen years of his life, but the guy was forever runnin' his yap - always sayin' something, even if no one but Daxter could tell what it was.

Except for that moment, just minutes before they were to stalk off out of the palace quarters to gather in the lamp lit center of Spargus - the rest of the desert village having already made the trek. Jak didn't have any words for that, it would seem.

Then again, what could a guy really say, when he was off to the funeral of a man that had sacrificed everything for his loved ones, not even knowing who they were? Burying your dad had to be a real ice breaker; or, Daxter would guess, anyhow. He wouldn't know.

He'd never gotten that privilege.

"Jak, y'ain't gotta do this. Ain't nobody down there expectin' ya - or WANT'n ya - ta have any part of what they're doin' tonight. We could just stay here, enjoy the bed, 'n by tomorrow, this'll all be over," Daxter hopped his way over to Jak's side, settling back on his heels once he reached him," An' hey! I figure with Sig busied up headin' the ceremony, the King's harem of bangin' desert babes are just waitin' for a big hunk o' soldier like you to, ah, 'console' 'em."

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and nudged at his friend's thigh, but just as he went to waggle his eyebrows suggestively - and secretly catch a glimpse of Jak's face - a giant palm covered the entirety of his neck and shoulders, giving a strong stroke down his spine.

Holy mother of - well, Daxter. The man-turned-ottsel couldn't fathom a guess at when the last time Jak pet him was, but he'd probably shoot for sometime around the 'Pre-Darkification' era - four or more years ago. Four long, miserable years deprived of this - those rough fingers edgin' into all the right spots on the little guy's spine to whip up some fresh shaky-Ottsel pudding, that unique way the hero could dig at his shoulder blade and get his tail thumping from the shivers - he hadn't realized how badly it had sucked to have Jak go all 'understanding' on him post-rescue until now.

See, old Jak? The kid was a real pain. Always questionin' and stickin' his narrow little nose where it oughtn'a gone. Aside from figuring all the good spots to push on Precursor items, he had another particular talent - finding all the good spots to push on Daxter. Anything from ticklish necks to blowing at the ex-human's big, gawky ears drove Daxter up one wall or the other, and oh, how that man had loved to exploit and terrorize every single tick he found on the redhead. A few nights after Daxter first got thrown in the Bubble Bath from Hell, Jak's curiosity and need to push the other boy off every feasible mental cliff drove him to one gutsy decision - he reached out and kneaded against the Ottsel's neck, visibly panicking when the little guy dropped to the ground and went limp as a corpse.

It took forever to move again, but Daxter eventually overrode his new body's apparent dead-weight reflex to fwump his tail on the green-blonde's thigh, signaling that he had not, in fact, snapped his neck - that just felt really, insanely awesome, and ohgoddoitagain. Words, there were none; but from that point, they weren't needed, anyhow. Anytime Daxter saw fit to let the boy run a hand through his fur, he tapped his tail at the guy's leg, and down came those wonderful fingers to rub obligingly up and down his spine.

An adventure and two years of being the world's hairiest hobo later found that had changed.

The first time they got to take a break - see: spend one night where they didn't get woken up by KG patrols or a metalhead front - Jak had been especially aloof. Taking it upon himself to cheer the big guy up, Daxter cozied up against his hipbone and knocked twice at his knee with the edge of his tail - only to get it crushed by the side of a painfully strong hand. A friendly game of back-and-forth later found Jak staring at him mournfully, explaining that he didn't want to treat Daxter like a pet. Ever. Even if the ottsel asked for it.

So why was he now.

"Awright, awright, I know what yer doin', and it ain't gonna work!" the orange mush screeched, gathering himself up as he shoved the hand away from that spot just along his ribs," If you think you're hidin' that pretty mug o' yours so ya can keep sulkin' like Krew on a diet, then lemme tell ya, y-"

It was then that he actually saw Jak's face.

Oh.

Oh damn.

"You're... uh. Oh. So that's why you uh ... oh."

Through the red-rimmed, half-lidded look Jak gave him, Daxter gathered the man was in no condition to go anywhere at all - but he would anyway, for Damas.

"Ah, shit, pal," Daxter patted at his leg while the man swiped a forearm across his face, snuffling irritably at himself for making Daxter's ears and sense of humor droop to an ultimate low," You been bawlin' like this for all this time we been hangin' in old King Sparg-ass' room?"

Jak glared weakly at the insult to his father's name, drawing a sheepish smile out of Daxter.

"Come on now. Just thinka what that bossy ol' bearhog-wrestler Damas'd do if he saw ya leakin' a whole ocean from them baby blues," Daxter leapt and scrambled to Jak's shoulder, leaning his body in toward the man's ear while he whispered, " Though, between you 'n me, I wouldn't mind a little fresh salt water around here. Mucking it in Haven Sewage Drain-Off ain't exactly my idea of good swimmin'. If I wanted to slum it in shit-stew, I'd go back ta workin' fer our dearl-ord-thank-god-he's departed pal, Krew-the-Whale."

His knuckles bumped gingerly against the heartbroken hero's moist cheek, feeling for all the world like a hero himself at the small tweak of a grin Jak couldn't help.

"There, see? All ya need is a little dose of yours truly, 'n you're good as the Golden Boy ya always been," ruffling up a bit of the blonde's hair, Daxter chuckled proudly before his grin morphed into brilliance," Hey! That's it! What d'ya say we skip town fer a while, just you 'n me, babe! Yeah, I'd say we got tha rights ta layin' low for a week or two, huh? It's high-time for some tide-time, buddy; a little sun 'n beach action, just like what we used ta get back home. Whatcha think, Jak? Up for a vay-kay?"

Jak was shaking his head, but that smile said it all.

"Wooh, yeah! Come on, then, big guy; we got a funeral ta crash, and then it's nothin' but good times for what had better be a damn long while. Hey, ya think fur tans?" Daxter leapt over to his usual resting spot as Jak stood, freeing them both from the bite of tension Dax hadn't even realized was there. Jak's eyes were still bloodshot and way too wet for Daxter's taste, but when the man walked out of that bedroom door, it was in stride.

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He tried to kill Sig.

Jak had done so well, shouldering his way to the front of the crowd without so much as a scowl, standing somberly in front of Damas' resting place on the altar, that Daxter had just assumed the night would work out after all. Then again, he had assumed a lot of things.

Like, say, burial rituals, and that they would be the same in Spargus as they were in Sandover.

Oh, now he knew. But then? Not a clue. The few funerals he'd seen had all been watched from afar, as he had been relatively unwelcome in the village as a child, but he had gathered that funerals were a peaceful, slow affair. The body was dressed elegantly, the person's expression set as if they were taking a little catnap instead of a nice death, and the well-decorated raft they were set on had to be eased ever-so-gently into the ocean by their folks. Candles burned after them in their honor, prayers to the Precursors for their souls to find happiness in the afterlife (or some crap like that) were hummed, and the whole thing took up a huge chunk of twilight - lasting anywhere between two to four hours.

Spargus? Completely different. Seem had apparently figured they'd be ignorant to that, and had tried - honestly, she had - to warn them, but when had they ever really listened to warning?

"Jak, you must know, this place is your homeland, but it is not your home - this people, this culture, it is yours, but it is not the one you remember." Jak just brushed the hand on his shoulder away, sending Seem as soft a look as he could muster from the depths of his mental turmoil.

"Relax, Seem. I've seen all kinds of things these past couple of years; I don't think a little burial's gonna send me over the deep end."

Yeah. Irony. The Precursors loved the stuff.

"Please, you do not understand, ways of mourning vary greatly in all parts of the world. Your home people are a very gentle kind, and you know that those of Spargus are not. Think now, Jak - your previous village was a peaceful one, was it not? Samos tells me that they used water to give rest to the souls of the dead. What then, if water is the burial tool of a peaceful village, would a warrior tribe use?"

As Jak opened his mind to the idea, Sig emerged from the palace, immediately starting on his obituary as he made his way down the steps to the altar.

"I recognize a lot of you gathered here," he made it a point to look at Jak and Daxter as he stopped beside the altar, hand finding the soft sheets draped over the edge of the stone slab on which Damas' body lay," And normally I'd say that's a good thing. For all my time working under good old Damas in Haven, I was a little worried you'd all forget your pal Sig and go on your merry ways. It's good to know that the loyalty of my people doesn't prance off every time I skip out of town.

But, today, I wish I didn't recognize half of you here - because honestly, I wish we weren't here to begin with. It's been a long battle, and we've lost a lot of men and women, soldiers and civilians - fathers and friends."

At a nod of the head from their King, two monks took a torch in one hand, walking purposefully toward a basin filled with the glow of embers as Sig continued on.

Sometime later, Jak and Daxter would knock heads trying to remember what it was Sig raved about after the torches were lit. An introduction to Damas' corpse was definitely in there somewhere - as if anyone in Spargus wasn't aware of their dead king when they saw him - and they were almost positive Sig tried to throw a joke in, but really? They weren't paying an ounce of attention. The instant those torches began to flare with a fire that made itself hellish and too-intense by Jak's rising panic, the heroes of Spargus were struck slack-jawed in horror and epiphany.

" - burn his body, so that his soul can look for rest, and his ashes can be given back to the desert that gave birth to him - "

They were going to light Damas on fire.

" - would have been honored to have his son here to send him off - "

They were going to burn his father's corpse to ashes, right in front of him.

" - Jak -  "

The ends of the torches touched the oil-soaked sheets, but no one paid mind to the crackle of the fire as Damas' body was engulfed in a flash of heat.

They were much more keen on the crackle of dark eco snapping in the air.

"Jak - ?"

The hand wasn't just shoved away this time - claws dug into the skin of it, tore it forcibly away from the rapidly paling body.

"Wait, buddy, don't - "

He was already screaming. Screaming at the flames warping his father's corpse, screaming at the corpse itself for being dead, and as a mental switch flipped hurt and misery to rage, the blackness of his own eyes blinded him.

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There was a small, hopeful moment where time simply wasn't. No one would ever be able to count how many seconds passed with the crowd whirling itself into a panicked frenzy, Daxter trying to calm the monster beneath him down, and Sig saying something, something like Seem's name but he couldn't, he couldn't -

Sig.

The moment of Dark Jak standing in the middle of a stampede, only vaguely aware of what was going on, ended with him grabbing roughly at something, something that scared him and shocked his every nerve to the peak of adrenaline, and throwing it off to the side, freeing his fast-diminishing conscious up to do what it damn well pleased and it, it -

It wanted to jump.

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By the time he came to, the people were gone. Ran away, probably; Spargus warriors were a special brand of gritty gun-toting maniacs, but they were still very human, with very human instincts - that, or they had just learned. Learned what everyone else already knew.

When Jak got upset, bad things happened.

Things like Seem, clutching at claw marks on her hand and neck a few yards away.

Or the two monks who had lit the fire, their bodies tossed crudely on top of it.

Or, better - Sig. Gaping and doing his damned best not to look as scared as he must have been, with those claws digging into an oddly unarmored abdomen - until they drew back into Jak's hands, at least.

Where was Daxter?

"Sig," if anyone could look more terrified than the new King of Spargus just then, trapped and suffering injuries potentially worse than those he endured from the metalhead monster that had supposedly killed him, it was the Prince of Spargus, as he realized exactly what had happened.

It wasn't ever supposed to again.

Words failing him, the ex-mute drew back, recoiled, back hit the altar and the stone was warm - fire was still burning, more fuel to it now, where did Daxter go? Must've run when Jak ran, leapt, through the fire, over Damas to get to Sig, tearing and snarling and hitting and pulling, exposing anything and clawing, ripping, howling, stomach armor gone, digging in, going for a kill - kill Sig.

He ... He tried to kill Sig.

Had consciously wanted to kill Sig, a friend, a very close one - one of the few he trusted.

And if he could kill Sig, who's to say he couldn't kill Daxter?

"Sig, I - "

There was no doubt.

"Wh - "

Daxter ran.

Might've gotten hurt. Probably just scared.

"Dax-Daxter?"

Scared, because he'd thought the same way Jak did just then - that if Dark Jak had stopped discerning friend from food, then Daxter was just a tag-along meal waiting to get roasted.

"Daxter - "

He needed to find him.

"Daxter!" His feet scuffled with the floor beneath him, shoved him away from the ground and the gore and kicked into a full on sprint, his voice rising to an all-out screech as he ducked around suddenly-alien twists and turns in the streets of Spargus, mad-dashing it after the one thing that could fix this.

He needed Daxter. Somehow, somehow he made it better.