Torn_Away

He never felt the claws that caught his face, ripping skin dangerously close to his blue eyes. He did feel the leather around torso snap under the heavy grip and heard the high pitched shriek from his left shoulder. It was the only thing that mattered in that instant, drowning as the moment hit him in the chest.

It was like being dunked into the harbour of Haven. It felt filthy, he was choking on too thick air and it was freezing cold, rushing through his body, inside his veins. It brought that same gagging feeling at the harbour water too, like he wanted to be sick.

A spray of red arced before his eyes, and he felt himself being thrown sideways as something hit his shoulder. It didn't matter.

A flying ball of colour, fiery like a sunset, passed before him. Red flicked in every direction and he stood there, leaning forwards, willing himself to move, to leap and grab and kill and hate and hurt.

But all he could do was feel cold.

The tiny ball slammed into the ruins and slid downwards, still desperately clutching the metal shoulder guard. Red smeared in a long trail afterwards, pooling around the limp figure when it stopped its descent.

He heard screaming. Loud, angry, desperate screaming, and his throat hurt, really hurt and he was moving, his claws ripping flesh and metal alike, and red hazed his vision, dripping into his eye from scratches, small scratches he couldn't feel, and there was blood everywhere and more eco, fuelling his burning hate.

Cold, cold burning hate.

And he looked to the side, his body getting heavier as he slowed and stopped, saw the last vestiges of black light crackle about the air, about his body and he was walking, a dead man walking, to the trail of red and the ball of soft, warming fire.

He knelt down and smiled shakily, touching the hot little body. "Fighting's over, Dax."

Daxter didn't look too good. His breathing was shallow and he only stirred when Jak's fingers trailed over his tiny ribs.

"We gotta go home, Dax. I promise, no more missions after this one. I promised that before we left, didn't I? I mean it." He picked up the metal and padded it with his scarf, not really concerned that his right arm wouldn't work properly for some reason. As gently as he could, he slid Daxter into the make shift stretcher, tying him in with the ends of the material.

Looking through the glowing skull gems and last pieces of eco, he found the shredded remains of the leather straps. Enough remained, he used one as a sling and the other to cradle Daxter against his chest, leaving his left hand free for a gun.

"Don't worry, buddy, we'll get you home and patched up fine. Neither of us is hurt that badly."

Daxter seemed to agree with him, which was reassuring. Jak started running back to Haven, maintaining an easy lope that was hardly interrupted when he whipped out the scattershot gun to blast a stray creature that eyed them off like they were food.

He couldn't work out why his arm wouldn't work. Nothing hurt. And the red in one eye was disturbing, but not distracting.

It wasn't that long as walk, but it seemed to take a long time, like the world was moving faster than it should. His shoulders were getting cold and it was eerily quiet with only the wind and his footsteps breaking the silence.

The warmth against his chest kept him going, when he felt heavy and half asleep. The little harsh breaths against his skin — where had his tunic gone there? — reminded him that he stopped for even a short rest, it might be just that little too late for Daxter.

The gate greeted them and Haven city shuffled past, not looking at the man who walked in, carrying his precious bundle with him. No one looked not until he was pushing open the door to the Naughty Ottsel and dragging his feet to the bar.

"Tess. I think Dax is injured. You have to help him."

"Jak?!" Hands were steadying him, strong hands, maybe Torn. Maybe not. Tess was staring into stretcher and bursting into tears, brushing her fingers over Daxter's sleeping face.

It got blurry then. Voices, saying things that didn't make sense in context, because he knew they couldn't mean what they were saying.

"...dead. Been dead for hours. His back and neck are pulverised, and the blood loss would have..."

"...shoulder has been torn to pieces... ... might never use again..."

"...got back at all. He keeps asking for Daxter..."

"...didn't suffer much. Probably didn't know what hit..."

"...damn rat's dead, and he's apparently let himself be target practice..."

Jak smiled at Tess and, cradling Daxter in his numb right arm, kept stroking the soft fur, not noticing that Daxter was as cold as Jak himself.