Snippets Thursday: Spargus is Haunted
In which Daxter Finally Shows Up
Spargus didn't look any worse for wear when the air train circled the city from above. Sig cast a critical eye over the streets they could see, pointing out landmarks to his passenger.
"Right there at the front is the forges, communications hub, and north market."
He grimaced. "And the half-lit spot is The Scrapyard, but I better not hear about you going in there, cherry."
"The name sounds...charming," Daxter muttered.
"It's the waterfront without the murder," Sig answered tightly. "If a crime's going to be committed in Spargus, odds are high that it's going to be in the Scrapyard."
Privately, Daxter thought that sounded like a shockingly small area compared to Haven's problems. Of course, he didn't know how many crimes were committed down there. Maybe the Scrapyard was an outlier and shouldn't be counted.
He fidgeted with his gloves, his cap, his sleeves for the eighteenth time.
He would never in a thousand years admit to Jak that his olive-green tunic had been stitched together by Tess out of one of her old shirts. And he'd walk over coals before he admitted that it made leaving the city a little more bearable.
Sig reached up and prodded his midriff.
"Hey, cool it, cherry. S'gonna be fine. Jak said they finally let him and Damas out of quarantine, yeah? He'll be there."
Daxter blew out a long breath and slouched to lean against Sig's head.
"I know. S'just...last time we got separated for more than a couple days, when I got him back, he...wasn't the same. We adapted, we always do. He didn't flip when I got turned into a fuzzy monotreme — or he didn't let on if he did. Least I could do was pretend everything was okay, but-"
Sig returned to the passenger hold with a knowing hum.
"But you're a little afraid of what you're gonna find this time."
In the privacy of his own mind, Sig could admit to a little apprehension of his own. If Damas was calling him back, either he wanted a full update on Haven, or he had decided that Sig had failed his mission. The single most important mission he'd ever undertaken. If Damas truly was ending the search, Sig didn't know how he'd be able to live with that guilt.
And then there was the matter of Jak.
Sig wasn't optimistic enough to think Jak had remained ignorant of how Home Night worked. Not after the eclipse recently.
The kid could handle metalheads, and gangsters, he'd survived the closest equivalent to the Sack Man a hu'men could achieve in Errol. But those were mortal foes. Things Jak could fight and win.
What kinds of things had he encountered in the last three months? That would've been five or six separate new moons to shelter through! Would Jak still be the rash, reckless kid he remembered, or would he be spirit-touched? Fearful?
The air train landed with more of a bump than usual. The engines needed maintenance, but with Haven being a war zone, they sure weren't getting it done there. Sig took a deep breath, picked up his peacemaker, and stepped out onto the sand. On the bright side, he was about to have the privilege of watching Daxter's reaction to seeing Spargus for the first time. Havenites always had the best reactions.
When the gates opened, there was some mild surprise expressed, but not even Kleiver stopped him to talk, not with the way he was walking. The inner gate opened into a bustling market. The sun was setting, and all the warriors were out getting ready for work or resupplying. The browns and tans of the desert camouflage most Wastelanders wore was offset by the brilliant colors of fruits, drinks, even laundry hanging from windows and between roofs. They'd only entered the first of six districts, and already Daxter was overwhelmed by how alive it was.
"You ain't seen nothin' yet," Sig said with a fond smile. He pointed to the towering lighthouse that loomed over everything.
"Soon as we're sent for, we're gonna head right up to the top of that thing to meet with Damas. You're gonna lose your mind."
"Presumably," said Daxter, a little archly, "there will be large furniture to handle his whole...thing."
"He only looks like that on moonless nights, cherry. Totally different during the day."
Sig dodged two skinny girls chasing a leather ball — barely avoiding the smaller of the two as she brought her competitor down with a flying tackle — and turned south at the market. He stopped to buy two paper cups of some kind of cheesy, mayonnaise-y, corn thing, passing one to Daxter.
"Ermergersh," Daxter said, or tried to say around a mouthful of corn.
Grinning, Sig jostled his shoulder gently.
"Right? Spargan street food, best in the world, kid. Except on Powder Row. Don't eat anything sold on Powder Row, ever."
And then he failed to grant Daxter any context or explanation for this dire warning, making it all the more ominous.
"Daxter?"
Man and ottsel turned quickly towards the east side of the market. Coming up from a street behind the forges was a familiar figure.
He was taller than the last time they'd seen him, skin finally a healthy shade of brown again, hair pulled up into three braids. If not for the goggles and channeling ring, he would've looked like a different person entirely.
"Dax! Sig!"
Jak hopped a booth, ignoring the shopkeeper playfully shaking a fist at him, and ran to meet them.
The second he was in arm's reach, Sig swept him into a hug that left the boy's lungs protesting.
"Don't you ever scare us like that again, chili pepper!" the big man scolded.
Daxter hopped down onto Jak's shoulder immediately to assess his new appearance. The curls escaping his braids were soft, tight spirals.
"Be still my little fluffy heart. Somebody got you to use conditioner?! It's a miracle!"
Jak snorted and squirmed out of Sig's embrace.
"Ha ha very funny. Not my fault we didn't have conditioner before!"
"Tess woulda lent you hers!"
Daxter didn't actually know if Tess would've lent him hers.
"Tess has straight hair!" Jak complained, "Coils need a whole different routine or you'll get what I had in Haven!"
That got a warm chuckle out of Sig.
"Oh, so you learned how to do a whole wash day, huh?"
He paused suddenly, smile disappearing. Before Jak could dodge, he caught the boy's chin and tilted his head to the side, exposing his cheekbone to the fading daylight. There was a faint green mark there, a telltale sign of a bruise only recently treated with a medpack.
"Where'd you pick this up? Wrong time of day for Arena training. You have a little adventure, rookie?"
Jak's eyes widened.
"Crap! It's still there?!"
He patted his pockets for a moment, coming up with a mostly depleted tube of eco antibacterial gel. It took a fight to get the last few drops out, but it was just enough to fade the bruise to nearly nothing.
"How about now?"
Daxter sensed shenanigans.
"You're good," he snorted, "Back to your usual terminal-babyface."
Jak breathed an audible sigh of relief. His shoulders relaxed, and an easy grin Daxter hadn't seen in years settled across his face.
"Good. If Derrick or one of the other eastside scouts saw that, they definitely would've ratted me out to Tarung."
"Who?" Daxter asked.
At least Sig seemed to know who he was talking about. He leaned on his peacemaker casually and raised a brow.
"Oh, they got you in Tarung's cohort? Didn't know he was taking on minors for training."
"Oh, he's not."
Jak turned and beckoned Sig to follow him.
Picking his way through the market, he tried to explain to Daxter that there were three primary "cohorts" of Arena trainees ranging from six to twenty students at a time. One for experienced adult newcomers, one for untested young adult newcomers, and one for young adults born citizens who were just competing for sport, or trying to catch the attention of a specific guild or division of the militia.
None of them were under eighteen. It wasn't forbidden for someone younger to attempt the trials, but it was decidedly uncommon.
Sig didn't have the heart to tell Jak that the reason it was uncommon was because it was rare to find survivors under eighteen in the desert. Something or someone usually picked them off before Wastelanders got there to investigate. It was one of several reasons Spargans were violently protective of their young ones.
"I made scout last month," Jak told them proudly as he led them out of the market sector and along a dusty road towards the tower. "Tarung thinks I'm on-track to make it to Wastelander by the time I'm eighteen. Damas thinks I'll be able to pull it off before next Fahren."
That was quite a vote of confidence, coming from the king of Spargus himself. Sig guessed that Damas must have seen Jak in action when the kid wasn't holding back. Had he seen Jak's dark form? It did remind Sig sometimes of a spirit. What had Damas thought the first time he witnessed the transformation?
When Jak stopped at a beautifully carved door, emblazoned with a representation of the Wind-Serpent circling the sun, Sig had a feeling something was just a little amiss.
When the kid went inside without even acknowledging that there were guards there, his suspicions were confirmed.
Jak was used to Damas off the clock, it was obvious. Had no one taught him the rules for when the king was working?! It had been months!
"Hold it!"
Sig snatched Jak's arm before he could step into the elevator.
"If you're just going to the main citadel, we have to go by the street entrance."
"I know?"
Jak shook his hand off with a nonplussed expression.
"We're not going to the main citadel, it's okay."
"No, no it isn't, chili pepper," Sig whispered urgently. "Damas at home is completely different from Damas the king. Nobody enters the throne room without a summons. You can't just walk up there!"
"I do," Jak countered.
With a deep sigh of resignation and chagrin, one of the elevator guards confirmed, "He does. Frequently."
"He's got the king's favor," the other guard said with only mild irritation, "He allows it. I wouldn't push it with visitors though, kid."
Jak rolled his eyes.
"Okay, fine, you guys can stay in the elevator if you're scared."
"Scared?" Sig repeated indignantly, "Jak, listen-"
The calmer guard shook her head.
"Don't bother, Captain. Nobody can get the kid to understand ranks and protocol. Not even the king. He's stopped trying, says he's choosing his battles."
That...did sound like something Jak would do. If he'd gotten even Damas to give up and let him go wherever he pleased, Sig didn't think Daxter had much to worry about. Clearly, Jak was fine.
That didn't mean Sig was comfortable going up to the throne room without having been sent for. He shifted his weight uneasily the entire elevator ride, watching Jak bounce on the balls of his feet like an excited or impatient child.
"What the-"
Daxter never finished the expletive.
He stretched up on Jak’s shoulder and gazed at the indoor oasis with mouth and eyes wide open. His head whipped around, from crystal clear water to living stone to carefully cultivated date palms and even weeds as though he was trying to absorb everything at once.
"This is where they brought me after they dug me out of a sand dune," Jak said conversationally, gesturing to the pools, "They kept me half submerged in that one for a whole day to keep my core temperature down."
Thankfully, for the sake of Sig's stress levels, Jak didn't go all the way to the dais. He instead hopped along one of the parallel paths of stones before waving at the king.
"Hi Damas."
Amusement and mild annoyance both colored Damas’s signs when he answered.
"Hello, [FEATHER], come to steal pebbles again, or did you need me for something?"
"Sig and Daxter are here."
Even from the elevator, Sig could see Damas’s eye twinkle.
"Mhm. I see that."
"Don't go to Drakka if you need the forges, by the way." Jak made a face. "He started trying to flirt with Seem-"
"Well that'll get him nowhere fast," Damas snorted.
"-And he completely messed up my knife!"
Damas beckoned to him, raising Sig's eyebrows.
"Well, come here. Let's see if it's fixable."
Jak hopped the short gap from stone to stairs and took the dais steps two at a time. He handed a dismally brittle blade to Damas, very nearly pouting.
"I was doing odd jobs for a week to get this thing fixed up. Am I gonna have to start over, or is it a lost cause at this point?"
The king examined the knife critically, making little hums of dismay or agreement at appropriate times as Jak continued to complain about the easily distracted smith. He was completely relaxed, not so much as a hint that Jak wasn't supposed to be there.
Sig didn't know what to make of it.
Maybe the reason he kept making enemies in Haven was because the kid was born to be a Wastelander.
Damas glanced up at Sig with a smirk and raised his voice.
"You might as well come in, now that you're here."
Sig cringed.
"Sorry about that, sir. I did try to get the kid to wait."
Damas stood up and stretched his spine, handing the knife back to Jak.
"No, he doesn't do that very well," he said agreeably.
"Hey!" Jak scowled.
"Alright," Damas amended, "He's gotten better at exercising patience. Except for when he wants to play in the pools."
Daxter bit back a snicker, and Jak glared up at him from the corner of his eye.
"Stop making it sound like I'm a little kid!" he complained.
Abruptly, Damas trapped him in a headlock, grinning at his squawk of protest, and scrubbed his knuckles across Jak's scalp.
"Jak," the king said smugly, "you are a kid. And twice a month everyone is little compared to me."
Jak crossing his arms and grumbling under his breath did not disprove Damas’s point.
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