Only the good die young

He’d been passed off.

It didn’t really matter. He was anyone’s Ottsel at this point, jumping from shoulder to shoulder.  He knew Jak could wipe his own nose in a fight like this, so he figured he’d spread the love. Y’know, chat a bit.

The situation was piteously simple: he, Jak, Sig and a few other scattered wastelanders were caught in something three brain cells short of an ambush. Currently, they were kicking amazing amounts of ass.

A few shots were fired from afar, piffing into the sand near their legs—the men stiffened, hands switching to the butts of guns when the unmistakable war-cry rattled up behind them. All turned, and the scattered brown beasts on the edges of the horizon, like creepy-crawlies on the sand with rags for scuttling legs, swarmed into the ravine. The clash was hard and immediate. They meant business, and the excursion troupe was all right with that. For some, it had even been too long since a marauder tussle.

Again, Jak was fully capable of wiping his own nose.

Breathing hard, Jak jabbed viciously into the side of a marauders head—the wooden mask popped off with a springy crack, and the man’s face was knobby at the brow-line and split at the lip, cleaved in wet red lines up to the nose. A classic deformity. Inbreeding, down syndrome. Daxter curled on his scuffed perch, tail standing at full attention.

“Euh, put it back, put it back!” He screeched, pawing at Jak’s head. Running away was a good enough solution to such a problem, however, and the Ottsel heaved a gut-deep sigh as soon as his buddy bee-lined for Sig, who was locked in a wrestling hold with a deservedly chunky marauder.

“Sweet precursors, no wonder they wear those things religiously-- I’m really feelin’ for the chicks’a this place, but don’t let ‘em near me either! A yakkow couldn’t swap spit with that thing and keep a straight face!”

“Yeah.” Jak had smirked, then stopped halfway down a sandy hill, sticking like a burr. Squinting far beyond what Daxter could see, his blue eyes were suddenly all business. Besides the usual sand spray of battle, the only thing the Ottsel could see was a frikkin’ monster of a marauder with two chainblades, standing stock-still. Further down the hill, Sig threw his opponent down into the sand and put three bullets into his head.

“Fuckin’ animals!”

Jak’s ears perked at the voice and he shuffled the rest of the way to the other wastelander, eyes curiously averted. He reloaded the gun at his side, hurried and low, then stuck out a scarred arm, offering it to the larger man. “Take him, Sig.”

A little too late, Daxter realized the proffered arm was meant as a bridge. Sig had known better than to grab him by the scruff of his neck, but did it anyways. Jak dashed off through the yellow landscape—toward the daddy marauder-- grimly reloading after popping an entangled mutt in the back of the neck. The relieved fighter yelled his thanks and kicked over the body, and Sig finished his job with Daxter in tow.

So Jak split, ditching him with Sig. Still, it was a ride. He thought of it as manning a frikkin’ tank after a broad, yet speedy zoomer.

Five minutes later, he learned his new tank could move.

“You still hangin’ tight, chilipepper?” Big and brassy as his voice, Sig had just flipped off a ravine rock, sending both his pursuing marauder and Daxter for an almighty ride as the wastelander caught and swung the grunt over his head. Wailing, Daxter scrambled for anything to keep a grip on and luckily latched onto the ivory of Sig’s metalhead shoulder plates. His orange body clenched piteously around the spike even after he had swirled to a stop.

Sig half-kneeled in the sand and grinned boldly at the rattled Ottsel, absorbing the moment of inaction. Daxter leapt up the moment he could see straight, a wildly impressed look on his face.

“Whoo baby, that’s somethin’ I could live with!” He slid back and fingered the wicked spike appreciatively, ducking around for another angle. “S’kinda like a rollbar, if you think about it— sweet action! You ‘n me, Sig, we’ll get Jak’s pimped up just like this.”

While the rise of his shoulders had promised a chuckle, Sig had stilled beneath him. The musk, the energy the man radiated was suddenly muffled, and Daxter—hair prickling along his neck-- followed the wastelander’s line of sight upwards, to one of the towering half-hills of sand and black rock. Two were perched to either side of the ravine, high and impassable. The Ottsel straightened, shielding his eyes with a paw.

“Whaddya’ eyeballin’, Siggy?” Then one of the dusty shadows slipped, no longer a rock but a moving, living thing. Another quickly followed, crouching and lunging. Daxter went up to his toes. “Hold the phone, is that—“

“Jak.”

A jerky battle raged on the precipice, the two figures tightly enmeshed. The heavy, lurching motions of the marauder and Jak’s quick parries seemed to come in spurts, bursts. Indecipherable stillness filled all the pauses. Jak, a dimly colored silhouette against the blank blue sky, struck forward, both hands gun-free. The blow missed, or was absorbed—the marauder caught him on the side, and Jak skirted backwards, hunched.

His back was to the high drop-off, with the marauder driving him steadily upwards.

“What is that?” Daxter squinted, mouth cocked to one side. A spectator at some kind of trite sport, shadowing the motions of his favorite player. “He almost looks like he’s gettin' backed up—“

“I tol’ him not to go that route.” Sig whispered fervently, wide, dry eyes fixed on the distant battle. Another low lunge slammed Jak off balance, and Daxter looked down, expecting some fond vote of confidence for the guy—instead, he was filled with an itching, creeping feeling at what he saw in the wastelander’s dark face.

Sig spoke steadily; too steadily.

“I told him to back down if he ever got up there. Back down, Jak. Just slide off, slide off.”

Daxter shifted uneasily, following the scene. Sig’s tension was creeping into him, whipped up by the dry winds and the distance between him and Jak. Of course Jak could get out of it, teetering cliff-sides be damned—the lug just needed a little prompting. Hopeless without him, yeah, but the big guy realized when his neck was under an axe. Jak was good like that, and knew when to duck out.

Soundless and removed, Jak was thrown to the side, skidding closer to the edge. Hundreds of dry feet away, an invisible twitch shocked through the two watchers.

“Jak.” Daxter sang it to himself in that warning, dwindling little whine that always made Jak look over, regardless of what he was doing. Daxter would puff up some excuse as to why JAK shouldn’t be scared—mostly, HE was there, ultimate savior, precursor, all that jazz-- and Jak’s mouth would open and spread humorlessly.

He needed that instant attention. Now. The urge to reach Jak was stifling.

Wake up. Wake up and get out of there.

“Turn it around, Jak, turn it around.” Sig muttered at his side, agitatedly flipping out his peacemaker site and hoisting it to his eye. Jak looked bloodless but battered—then a thick marauder fist caught him on the shoulder and his gaunt face stretched in pain. He fell out of the site.

Daxter gripped the spike tightly. This was crucial. This was dangerous, and here he was on Sig’s blocky, unfamiliar shoulder a hundred feet away. He knew something that everyone else didn’t, he knew best why he should be with Jak.

Jak took a hasty drink, slopping half the dark water down his front. The water ladle hit the bottom of the urn with a pottery-thin thunk. The motions were frusterated, but not frantic. Daxter watched his best friend as he sat down—he watched how immediately the young man’s palms found his neck, his forehead, and pressed numbly. He let Jak press and breathe and think before he spoke.

“Say again, sweets?”

“It’s getting harder.” He repeated, grim and unflinching. Daxter looked at him, rearranged himself, and looked again, all with a shifting, impinging grin of disbelief on his face. Finally, he squawked:

“To go all… Periwinkle Peter? I thought the precursors gave you a lifelong guarantee for that trick! Frikkin’--… aw, no sweat, big guy. I bet they got a number you can call for that sorta thing.”

Jak breathed in, slow and syrupy. Daxter’s ears dropped a notch, feeling the blackness in the simple sound.

“You serious?” He whispered.

And he was.

Weeks ago. Hadn’t seen him go blue since.

“C’mon, Jak.” Sig rumbled, warningly.

How it happened, he didn’t have the slightest, but Jak was just like everyone else now.  Heights were heights, he was on a mother of one, and now he was losing—losing ground, losing blood and losing speed.

The thick brown marauder cornered him, and Jak—after a trembling, breathless second—attempted to duck him. But the movement was sloppy, and he threw himself into an open dirty hand, which heaved him up by the shirtfront and tossed him back.

He stumbled as he hit ground, blank tired blue eyes opening—until, with a short slam across his face with the blunt of the blade, Jak’s body arched. He staggered, his knees gave, his boot scraped and caught with a gritty, silent sound and the whole yellow scarred world flipped upside down.

Jak fell.

He didn’t teeter, he didn’t shout-- he just plunged off the edge, dark and final and whistling through the air.

“Oh shit, oh god, Jak—Jak—“

Daxter launched himself onto the ground and ran like he’d catch him, stop him, slow him somehow. Hundreds of feet to go. His paws sunk, and he ripped them free and ran against the silky ground, jerking and slow and pathetic. He flipped sand into his own face, squinting against it as he ran.

Jak wasn’t falling anymore, but it didn’t seem possible that he’d hit the ground. Hundreds of feet straight down. A thump, a slam. Crunch, no. Daxter didn’t feel anything, didn’t hear anything.

“Jak!”

And as he ran, he ran through a celebration. High and jubilant, the marauders rose up behind him, around him, vomiting a wail from their many brown, rotted mouths. That had been their plot, their plan. They sent their best man after Jak. The assault, the individual battles—the rest were sideshows, this was all about Jak.

Cornered him, wore him down. Pushed him. Dirty, dirty fucking move.

The cliff loomed to the right of him, casting thick gunmetal shadows over the sand. He skittered to a stop, hard rocks bumping into his feet.

Jak lay silently on an uneven jumble of rocks, palms up. There was only a little blood.

Daxter carefully, tensely crawled up, mouth open as he looked down at Jak. His eyes weren’t closed. They were open and blue and his eyebrows sat neutrally on his dirty, bloody brow. Not even high enough to be called surprise.

“Jak?” It was faint and sounded too much like a sob. He laughed, to clear his throat, and started forward again over the cold rocks.

“Jak, big guy, you almost—you cant keep doin’ this to me, I just…” He froze, then. He had to think of something to say to the blank face. “Buddy, talk to me.”

Daxter patted Jak’s wet face, gingerly, and something shifted in the dense shadows, in Jak. The green-fuzzed chin drifted to the side, autonomous and removed, then stuck in place with a moist click. The movement didn’t make him jump, didn’t make him think of life. He watched it, and kept watching after.

Jak didn’t move, and he knew. But it couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be real and he couldn’t just stand there—the tension in his chest didn’t allow it. Frantic, he stuffed his arms around Jak’s neck-- the cold, stretched, bent neck-- his body curling and shaking.

“J-jak.”

He felt the neck move.

He heard the bones slide apart, a grainy scrape muted by Jak’s muscle; by Jak’s cold, slack muscle connected to his cockeyed jaw. He jerked away, folding his arms close to his chest and staring down. He had felt something, the fur had brushed something that felt like rubber, something dead--

“Oh god. Jak.”

Daxter backed down his chest, held by those healthy slits of white beneath his blue eyes. Rolled up, but not enough to be convincing. Not the dead fish look, he didn’t look dead.

He’d just… stopped. Stopped and wouldn’t start again.

He pressed his face against Jak’s chest and slid downwards, bumping over the ring, clutching and smearing nervelessly down to his stomach. He stopped and waited—hurried up and waited, ear pressed flat to the sweaty stretch. It wasn’t moving. It wasn’t the slow steady plunge, in and out, and Jak was broken in twos—threes—chunky fourths beneath him and he wasn’t breathing.

Shit, he wasn’t breathing.

Sig was kicking through the sand behind him but he didn’t matter. He couldn’t do anything, Daxter couldn’t do anything but lose it and choke and scramble for Jak’s hand. Daxter heaved it up—the motion was strained and caused him to cough out a barking sob—and pressed it flat to his body. The rough hand slipped and it felt like a limp stroke across his belly, and Daxter recoiled but crushed his face into Jak’s palm the next second, panic rising with every high breath.

“Jak, Jak—no!”

Sig crunched to a slow stop, a few feet from the body and the Ottsel.

Daxter began to shriek in earnest, curling and clawing. The wastelander watched the throttling panic; saw the body, heard the raw sounds daggering from the little shuddering animal. As Daxter screamed into Jak’s damp tunic, body clenching in a death-grip around the kid’s limp wrist, Sig slowly covered his eyes with his hand, and his lips began to tremble.

~-~-~-~

Everyone came to the funeral.

City people wore black for funerals—most of the circle was cast in dull browns, of skin and leather. Only the stark, huddled group nearest to the body was in black. Samos’ thick hand held Keira’s, white and green digits intertwined. Tess pressed herself to Sig, hands tangled tightly against her chest. Torn and Ashelin stood beside them all, watching and waiting.

Jinx had left once he’d seen Jak.

The vast sky was empty. There was an air of disbelief; of a slow, malignant peace that none were ready to succumb to. The low, shuddering sound of grief stirred restlessly in between the spectators, in the eyes of women. Swelling, growing, stretching.

Jak appeared peaceful.

He lay stretched on a sand-rock slab, still in his clothes. There had been little blood, and his body would not have survived a change of attire. His eyes had been closed, and his spine carefully shifted back into place by dry Medic hands. His head was tilted at a healthy angle. His big hands were laid at his sides.

He was not smiling.

“I believe…”

Damas began, his voice too low to startle—yet he paused, and closed his eyes. The king, wrapped in simple, angular clothing, stood alone in the wide, blurred circle of people around the sepulcher. The sea ground out a bracing rhythm farther down the bluff. He touched his forehead briefly, then continued.

“I believe you existed in my mind and soul before I ever came to know you, Jak.” Damas said, looking down into the young man’s somber face. “Though you came as a beast, you became a blessing to me and to this city. It saddens me to know that we have missed so much, you and I.” His voice hitched, became thick. “Your death has come too early for many more than you know-- myself most of all.”

Face contracting invisibly, pore by pore, Damas pressed his hand onto Jak’s chest.

“Farewell, warrior of mine.” He murmured, and with his other hand he pressed a stone symbol under the boy’s pliable fingers, watching as they immediately uncurled. The crest sat blankly in the desert sun, two circles and two arches arranged in an oval.

“Precursors be with you.”

The rest of the men echoed it, a brassy resonation that was quickly dusted away in the yellow air. A few men moved forward, stepping solemnly and with weight, and surrounded the table. All watched as they drew Jak off of the centerpiece by the underlying cloth, unable to hide the unnatural buckle in the wrapped form as his body broke all over again.

And they began to bury him.

The dusty patter of handfuls of sand being thrown into a grave sounded like footsteps. Jak disappearing forever beneath spots of yellow, a weight of yellow—a desert. Final and unmovable. Jak in the dark. The end, the end.

Ashelin pressed her eyes into the back of her hand, feeling the grief swell behind her temples, her eyes. Her lips stretched but did not open, accommodating and absorbing the spasms that were not allowed to become tears.

Torn was a tall, wiry mass next to her, his breath stiff and somber in the heat. His arm curled around her, unwillingly, and she leaned in with equal reluctance. Neither would allow their dam to break, even while Keira collapsed in her line of family, of friends and crawled forward, slipping in the sand. She rolled and twisted on her knees, expelling ringing, shrieking sobs beside the open grave.

She begged him to come back.

But as more and more sand was piled on and weighted the coffin down to sink into the earth, and Keira’s sobs were shushed by her old, broken father, Ashelin looked up, realizing the grief was incomplete. Realizing there was one who should be saying all of what they felt—that this was wrong. The desert, the world had no right to take this man.

There was one who should be screaming.

“Where’s Daxter?” She asked faintly.

Sig bowed his head, dark throat taut with frustration and grief. None would speak, few could see past their own grief—or they did not choose to. Tess answered for them all, looking ill and mature and wrong in her flat black dress. Her pink face gleamed with tears.

“He’s not here.” She whispered.

~-~-~-~

He cried until he was sick.

The liquor was still in him, alive and souring his stomach and chest as his body heaved and jerked and pushed, arching to expel some limitless grief. Out, out, out; his head couldn’t take it, his body wouldn’t hold.

The house was so fucking empty. He knew what they were doing out there. Daxter knew what was happening, where they were putting him.

They were putting his best friend in the ground.

He tore the chest of drawers up, throwing his body around and squealing when one of the drawers slammed down onto his foot. It was a singular, ringing distraction, a simple pained sound, and then his paws were deep in the things that smelled like Jak.

He scooped all of the clothes out, and they were limp, powder-dry things that felt nothing like Jak without that warm mass underneath. Blue tunics, a maroon thing he’d never worn because it didn’t fit right in the shoulders, cream pants, scarves. Without the sweat, without the feel of leather and hot breath and that strong jaw held just like that--

--his chin drifting, creaking to the side like he was turning to look, broken neck, Tess’s watering eyes and he probably didn’t feel a thing—

Probably probably probably.

“P-precursors. Precursors, Jak.”

Smearing out the lifeless clothes, Daxter made himself a bed in the empty room and curled up.

Quiet, quiet. His sick, sloshing Ottsel stomach bulged and shrank, but his little body didn’t make any sense there on the stone floor with all these clothes. He dug his claws in, straining to feel the folds of fabric. But the sensation was both too much and too little-- suddenly, he wanted to be sick and the clothes were too thick in his paws—he clenched and twitched his claws in, tearing, rolling to the side and the tunic snapped in two. He felt the serrated sound shock up his arms, and reached for more of the unfamiliar mass.

He tore, and hated and broke his brittle claws and sobbed and finally curled around the rag of a scarf in careful, tremulous silence. His little body folded, tail unwinding. He waited, shaking, and he couldn’t do anything more than that because he knew where Jak was going. He knew it the second they wrapped him in the cloth.

“J-jak.”

He just couldn’t watch them put him in the fucking ground.