Author's notes:

This fic was written for wolfychan's fanfic challenge. The goal was to describe a scene she had drawn of Damas and Jak. This story was written in the style of Snow Crash, by Neal Stephenson. That canon has a lot of emphasis on violence, gore, and beautifully abstract word choice/sentence composition. I really recommend the book; it's an excellent piece of cyberpunk literature. And it's really fsking cool!

Neal wrote it over two years. I wrote it over two days. Forgive my interpretation; I tried my best to preserve Neal's canon style.

Enjoy!

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The king of Spargus is staring through a Peace Maker focus at a Metal Head a story taller than he is. There is a long silver gash - twenty standards, at least - in the sand behind him where a brash young hero slammed on the brakes three minutes ago. In fact, the Sand Shark is still sputtering at the end of that trail, bleeding oil and gears into the desert floor. A minefield of disemboweled Grunts fans around it.

An orange animal is screaming obscenities from somewhere to the right, but that's not important right now. What's important is that this salivating tower of scales, dark eco, and electricity wants to separate a majority of Damas from his bones. And Damas just used his last shot to deliver the other Metal Head Beast into serene, dissipated nothingness.

Some diehard stars outsparkle the fangs in the focus. The air is clear, cool, and smells like iron. But really, it's the teeth that inject the atmosphere with a quaint charm- the mad grinning, sharp, moonlit shine, and, of course, slavering jaws. Damas steps back, an invitation for more sand to pour into his boots. The stars fade out and the skull gem's bioluminescence stops throbbing. As Damas cocks an eyebrow, the focus explodes with white. He blinks furiously and drops the gun to groin-level.

There's something inexplicably wrong with the desert. It's foggy. The Metal Head is frozen, arms outstretched, one lysozyme-laden spit stalactite hovering delicately in midair.

If he really wanted to, Damas could reach out, grab it, and stab the Metal Head in the eye with its own saliva.

Instead, Damas looks over. Well, now. The young hero has just gone a sterile bluish-white and clapped his hands, rendering a small and very important part of the universe immobile.

"What're you still standing there for? MOVE!" Daxter stains the gleaming hero's shoulder. A gun is tangled up somewhere in his flailing limbs and loud, silhouetted commands.

Damas greets the sand with his elbows and face. It returns the salutation via the nasal cavity, coating the back of his throat. A sizzling blue whip cracks overhead; electrons with uncivilized velocity dissect the Metal Head at the quantum level. It begrudgingly explodes. Daxter indulges in his bragging rights. The wasteland beast's viscera return to earth, the first desert rain in five months.

A woosh, and the curious white fog retreats. The drool stalactite irrigates the ground. Already on one knee, the hero collapses further into his tripedal posture. His back looks like Kleiver tenderized it for lunch with a pair of needle-nosed pliers.

"Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaak. Walk it off." Daxter does an avoidance dance, twirling around crippled cacti, steaming Metal Head bits, and a few lumps of newly-formed glass. Dark eco squirms inside the crystals, fossilized like a whumpbee trapped in its own honey. "I valiantly saved the day. Er, night. Again!"

Damas grunts, shoves the butt of the Peace Maker into a hunk of Metal Head brain, and props himself up. There's sand wedged between his embedded crown and skull. The discomfort level is somewhere between itchy and excruciating. Fortunately, there's still enough adrenaline racing through his body to block sensory input. "What has happened?"

"Jak went white and froze the big sucker. I did all the hard work of wasting it," says Daxter, flicking his tail to the side.

The rodent is smugger than all the big neon signs in Haven. "It is much easier to hit a target when it does not move," says Damas.

Daxter scowls. He lets the gun fall to the ground and walks across it- a bridge over the slushy metal meat. Jak's face twitches a little at his investigative digit. "C'mon, Jak. Get up!"

"Prepare yourself for another attack." Damas scans the broken horizon. He knows towering shadows and shiny figures tend to come in waves. But nothing more careens down the dunes. "Stay alert."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. It's slick with sweat. The past few minutes are a blur of ammo, fangs, and sandy headaches.

"There was fifty behind us," says Daxter, gingerly pulling strips of sopping cloth from Jak's skin, "but dark boy had used up his juice when we jumped outta the Shark. He got ripped up pretty good before levelin' them. I told him to heal up a bit, but-" Daxter holds up his ragged tail. "See this? We had just enough time to turn around and save your kingly hide- I sacrificed a good lower third of gloss so Jak could freeze Slice'n Dice. It's going to take a month to grow back to lady-stroking perfection!"

Damas kicks a path through the entrails and shrapnel. He regards the hero- face down, inhaling more sand than air. A rainbow of blood and armor and eco and flesh.

"Now he doesn't have enough light left to heal," says Daxter, flicking ammo residue from Jak's limp hand. "He can do that, you know. Oracle mumbo-jumbo, rigmarole," he wiggles his fingers.

So, the hero was already badly wounded when the Beast had decided to favor Damas. And instead of using his regeneration abilities, Jak saved someone else... Damas glances north, where the stars glare down with particular disdain.

"The last time he was this empty'a both eco types, he was scampering across beaches capturin' bugs for his collection."

Something tugs at the back of Damas' brain. It's a memory in full color, smell, and sound. Moths and little hands. It's usually locked up tight behind superfluous labels like "family" and "love" and "loss." Before the tiny, blue-eyed figure can free itself from the banishment of premeditated repression, Damas clamps down.

There's no time for that. Not now. Not ever.

Not yet.

Back to business.

"There's not enough time to return to Spargus." Damas doesn't like their location. Halfway up a sand dune, blood always flows the wrong way. "Get the emergency medpack from the vehicle. It's under the driver's seat."

Daxter looks down at the bodies ringing the Shark and gulps. "Is it me, or are some of those still moving?" Wind rattles through the forest of upturned wrists; talons break off and litter the ground. "Can I make a suggestion? Your kinglyness is much, much bigger and taller than I am. Why don't you go over there? I'll, uh, maintain the perimeter here. Right here." He crouches, claws wrapped tight around Jak's bicep.

To say that Damas' eyes flashed like a thousand burning skull gems with the fury of subordinate disobedience would be an understatement. Kind of like how saying Errol has unreasonable quirks is an understatement.

"Yeesh! All right, all right! My finely toned, aerodynamic body is better for sneakin' around deadbeats, anyway." Daxter takes a deep breath. "Do it for Jak, do it for Jak." He skitters down the dune, around the puddles of vertebrae. The number of high frequency yelps increases proportionally with his distance from Jak.

Using his forearms as plows, Damas clears the area around the hero. He turns Jak's face. Two cuts across the forehead, a bruise below the right eye, another bruise spiking along the jaw line, and a smashed nose. Beneath the skin is a fine layer of busted capillary lace. Damas has seen ugly wounds. These are pedicure shrug-offs, but the exposed rhomboideus major in Jak's back worries him. The muscle, glistening with sand and blood, dives in and out of view, weaving between splinters of skin and armor.

"War demands sacrifice," starts Damas. But the habitual words fade at his lips. "You've been… proven yourself very valuable to m-… Spargus." Damas is quiet for a moment, then nods. He weeds the Metal Head pieces from Jak's flesh; wire arteries, splayed like ivy, are rooted in deep. The hero takes a breath. With that hopeful sign of life, dark eco begins to seep into the wounds. Purposefully. Sucked in by Jak himself. Damas snatches his hands back.

The skin around Jak's eyes crinkles.

"What manner of sagery is this?" asks Damas.

Jak moans. He goes to bend his knees; Damas pushes his calves down.

"Not yet, young warrior. Wait until the supplies arrive."

The hero groans and moans and coughs up sand. In the distance, the Sand Shark does the same, then dies. Daxter screams about ignition wires, broken keys, and a strange beeping sound that just won't quit. Jak opens one bloodshot eye.

"Ow," he says.

"Don't talk," says Damas.

"Is it as bad as it feels?"

"Worse."

Jak buries his face into his forearms, still moaning. Avoiding the eco, Damas digs his thumbs under the armor and pulls up. Jak's full body wince does nothing for the location of the metal shards.

"You fought bravely." Damas tries to distract Jak from the messages his exposed nerves are torpedoing into his brain. "I- Spargus is grateful for you, Jak. Your suffering here will not go unrewarded."

Right now Jak could care less about rewards. He's pretty sure this much pain would send a full-grown yakkow over a cliff with insanity. He can't remember how many Metal Heads dug into him when he turned around.

"A million," he mumbles. "Mazillium."

Right now Jak could also care less about coherency.

"A king needs to know the boundaries of his men, so that he can always push them," Damas continues. "I will make a note tonight. 'Jak can take down an army and a half of Metal Heads.' It is a pity you hadn't fought them as your third round in the arena. I am convinced you will earn your citizenship now."

Jak isn't screaming, though his vocal chords threaten defection from the strain, because he knows that might bring more Metal Heads. He does care about that.

"No need to fear!" Daxter races up, medpack bouncing in his arms and dried blood streaked through his fur. In another time and place, the pose would've been slapped on a poster as propaganda against the krimson establishment. "Orange Lightning is back and deliverin' out loud! One life saving medicine box, served up hot."

"Quickly." Damas snatches it from the panting ottsel, leaving red fingerprints on the latch.

"Hey! A thank you will suffice. Or exclusive rights to the swimming holes in yer throne room. I'mma need a whole lot of privacy to wash this gunk out." He twitches a foot. "Ugh. Some things should never get stuck between your toes." Jak makes a gagging sound. Daxter deems it a laugh. "See? He's fine. Nothing a little ottsel humor can't heal."

Damas snorts and opens the box. He tosses the safety instructions out of the way. There's a gel bag on the right and a telescoping tube on the left. He hands the tube to Daxter. "Open that up. Keep it low."

"Well, uh." Daxter scratches his head and pulls the two ends apart. "Yeow! It's hot!" The thing is shining red light from a slit down the side. The intricate details of Jak's back carnage are now polished in matte.

"Red, low visible wavelength," says Damas. "Metal Heads don't notice it as quickly." He squishes the gel bag, uneasy, and points to Jak's wounds. "See how the dark eco moves? What is he doing?"

"Eating it up," says Daxter, waving the red light around. "Charging his hero batteries. Don't worry. He knows what he's doing."

Damas attempts some mental calculations. Dark eco-tolerant plus green eco equals what? He's never even heard of the first variable. All his soldiers and wastelanders are burned by dark eco, just like anything else. Nothing but Metal Heads survive a diet of DE.

And then there was that display of light eco. A time explosion. Or something. Light and dark eco in the same body.

What the hell is this kid?

A damn good warrior, that's for sure.

Is green eco going to make it worse?

Jak is kicking and pounding the sand. The nasty cuts aren't closing by themselves.

"C'mon, c'mon!" Daxter goes to take the bag. "Hurry up or he'll start complaining. And save some for me, will ya?"

"Very well." Damas bites the edge of the bag; green eco seeps into his mouth, clearing up a few cavities he doesn't know he has. He dumps the stuff onto Jak without ceremony. It smells stale, left in the shade too long.

"Oooo," says Daxter, holding up the light.

The king and the ottsel watch, fascinated and sorta bored respectively, as the green eco corkscrews through the flesh and musculature. The Metal Head parts recoil and disintegrate. Flashes of light spiral out. Daxter swipes some eco from the side and rubs it into his tail.

"Whaaaat?"

Damas shakes his head disapprovingly. "Let him take it. He needs it more than you or I. Precursors willing, there is enough." He leans back, wrist guard popping as he settles his weight. "I did not intend for our journey to the temple to end like this."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't taken so long talkin' to Happy Face Paint, we wouldn't be out here in the middle of the night!"

"Hold your tongue!" Damas snaps upright, then sighs. "But you are right. I was there for too long. My monks have been warning me for a long time… and they've finally found proof in the archives."

"Uh…" Daxter sinks into his haunches, giving Jak more space to writhe. "What're you talking about?"

"Seem gave this to me." Damas pulls a piece of parchment from his thick belt. He points between the streaks of sweat. "Do you see the symbols here? The star that shines in the day."

"Uh huh," says Daxter, not looking.

"She says we have been warned of the danger that lies ahead. By Mar. But she will not speak the name of the prophet near me."

"Yeah. She does lots of weird stuff."

"She dishonors my son when she seals his name within her throat." Damas sits cross-legged, pulling cactus spines from his boots. "It is not a forbidden word. Time and time again, I have asked her to embrace it."

"Wait. You named your kid Mar? That's kinda presumptuous, isn't it?"

Damas pulls a disk from beneath his shirt. "He was named thusly to honor the house of Mar, to which we belong." He spins the amulet in one hand. In, out, in out- the black and white halves flicker red and gray.

"That looks kinda familiar-"

"Nyargh." Jak arches up. Slowly. Carefully. Pulling his knees to his stomach so he can get up without snapping the new flesh bridging his back together. "Are we leaving now?"

"Jak!" The ottsel pats his shoulder. "Boy, do you need a shower. Don't even look in the mirror when we get home, kay? I've seen enough for nightmares, and we all know how delicate your psyche is. Lets go!"

"No. Not leaving yet," says Damas, tucking the amulet away. "Be patient. We can afford a few minutes for your rest. Tonight's victory is small, but meaningful. For, you see, no others have come." He spreads the parchment out and takes the light from Daxter.

"So they're either all dead, or all hiding out, waitin' for something big." Daxter sticks a few fingers into the green eco bag, scraping the sides. "I'm gonna bet on the waitin' it out bit. That's just our luck, you know?" He dabbles some eco on his chin. "How'd you sleep, buddy? You got a nice rest while I risked my neck gettin' supplies for ya." He jerks a thumb in the direction of the dead Shark and its corpse satellites.

Jak massages his temples. "Yeah, thanks, Dax." He sits up and curls his legs under him. "Ow. Goddammit. Still bleeding. C'mon, lets go back to Spargus."

"No," says Damas again, straining to decipher the parchment. It's written in newly smudged, anciently fancy calligraphy.

"There's a light eco well there. I'll heal faster."

"A distress signal was sent when the Shark turned off," says Damas. "Wastelanders will arrive before the next hour turns. We stay here."

Jak scoffs and stares up at the sky. If he's thinking meaningful things, like how beautiful the stars are and how he hasn't seen constellations since Sandover, his crossed arms and hard face don't show it. He's probably thinking about pollution and ammo and how the hell he's going to stand up if, every time he leans back just a little, his new scars crack open a bit more. Regardless, he is very distracted, staring up at those stars. So he howls like a flambéed crocodog when something scratchy and warm presses into his back.

"Augh!" He jolts forward, increasing the pain factor by four.

"Don't move," says Damas. He presses his fingertips into the muscle expertly. Blood and dark eco bubble up beneath the parchment, leaking through the holes left by the monks' quills. "You're in shock. Your lucid state is only temporary. If you don't stop moving, you're going to suffocate your spine with excess fluid. I will not mercy kill my best field soldier."

"Told you he likes you, Jak! Relax, buddy. Help's on the way. I saw to it myself." Daxter leans forward. "Rejoice in the knowledge, the fear, the welcoming of your father. One never knows when the Precursors will take him," he reads. The script is easier to see, now, bolded in red. "What the hell does that mean?"

Damas turns his head and shuts his eyes. "So spoke Mar, with terrible grief, the day he learned the price of family. Seem quoted it to me the day of my coronation. It is part of a long prayer about loss. I hold it dear to my heart."

Jak breathes loud and slow. Having run out of things to bombard his thinning bloodstream with, his brain stem releases encephalin. An opiate smile crosses his face.

"What's that got to do with crazy day stars?" asks Daxter.

"Nothing. Everything. I do not know. The account of the day star is on the other side of the paper."

Ink dissolves into the hero's body. He carries more than one secret of the ancients. He does not know this. None of them do.

"Back on your stomach," orders Damas. He keeps the pressure firm as Jak reclines.

Daxter digs until the sand comes up dry. His ears twitch behind the brown mound. "Listen, peeps," he says. "I'm just gonna curl up here for a few minutes, kay? I know it won't be exciting without me, but I've been up since yesterday at who knows when. Lookit the bags under my eyes. I'm turning jowly, like Onin." He shudders. "Small mammals gotta sleep more than big monkeys, you know."

"Aren't you concerned about the acute state of your friend?" asks Damas. Sleep is betrayal. "We're in the desert. We don't sleep with a man down."

"You're missing the point," says Daxter. "Jak's my buddy. I took good care of him. I know he's going to be fine." Daxter flashes a grin and sinks down into the hole. "Jak's way stronger than you think. Can smack that thick head into a wall and come out better than before." Snoring commences immediately.

"'Sfine," says Jak. "Really was up since yes'day. Got me my breakfast. I think it was… fruit? 'Sa good friend, yeah."

Damas frowns. The hero is confused. And then he sees it. He turns the light off and waits for his eyes to adjust. There. Yes. Blood trailing down from hidden lacerations. Throbbing with dark eco, sick glistening. Too much is gone. Way too much. No wonder Daxter had to dig so deep. Damas panics, now. Or almost does. He tries to shove the panic down, down into the place where happy kids skip alongside the Port and giggle at stalwart Palace guards. There's something about this hero that reminds him too much of his son. It's the way he swings his arms when he walks, his quiet ability to stick his nose where it doesn't belong. The wide, flat cheeks and blue eyes, like-

Damas clears his throat. "Keep talking, Jak." He knows a team of wastelanders is on its way. He knows it. Just like he knows, someday, he'll see-

"Mar. Jak! Jak. Stay alive. That's an order. Keep talking to me." Damas pushes harder. There wasn't enough green eco to close all the arteries. The damn gel bag was probably past its shelf life. How often does Kleiver change supplies? The man hardly changes his briefs. Need to change train of thought. Stat. "I never told you about my son," says Damas. "You asked if I had a child, and I brushed the question aside. I should not have done that. He is a curious boy. Jak, can you hear me?"

"Didn't know my son," mumbles Jak. "Wai- ne'r had one. Haha."

"He loves watching races. He catches moths at twilight. He knows all the best streetlamps for finding the big ones."

"There's bugs'in Haven?" Jak's face is so pale. "S'all dead there, now. They're all dead t'me, now."

"Hang in there, Jak. The day I find him, I want him to meet you. When you first arrived at our gates, you were angry and self-righteous. But tonight you showed me that you're willing to sacrifice yourself for others. And my son… he is just like that. Or will be, when his time comes. I know it."

"Smells… funny here." Glassy eyes. "Life's screwed up, know? Never saw my dad. 'nd you ne'r saw son. Sometimes… I r'ly hate th' future."

And he's quiet. Quiet enough to wake Daxter, who peers over the edge of his burrow and swears.

And then there's something wrong with the memory blocks. They burst open, flooding Damas with the emptiness he's been trying to fill with monarchial duties and defensive maneuvers and arena battles. This can't be right. There is something fundamentally wrong with Jak bleeding out in the desert. Damas feels it, plucking his gut. It's a second loss, threatening to render every strength speech he's ever made hypocritical. Help will be here soon. This cannot be. There is too much to do. He can't go now. Damas plunges a fist into the flesh-metal mess. Where are the open vessels? He'll hold them shut with his teeth if he has to. Just wait a little longer, Jak. This cannot be.

And then Damas hears two words.

"Hello, cherries."

Finivit