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The Good Soldier	By : grimreaperchibi Category: +G through L > Jak & Daxter Views: 1754 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Jak & Daxter, nor the places, people, or objects within. I make no money writing this.

Chapter List
- 1-The Good Soldier
- 1
A/N: A gift for Amaronith, whom I promised something to help perk up her day, then sort of forgot about, and finally finished as a birthday gift. I'm sorry it took this long to get around to it, but I'm so very glad you loved it.
This is a time-warped version of the two year gap during Jak's incarceration. Torn's still in the KG, Daxter's human for some odd reason again, and the Metalhead assault on the Temple District/Old Sandover has only just occurred. Now that you're up to speed on my delirium, enjoy!
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“We are here today to honour—”
Torn stopped listening, though if it was consciously or a side effect of the blood rushing in his ears, he didn’t know. It didn’t matter, either. If he listened to any of Baron Praxis’s loquacious extolling on how the war needed more people like him, he was going to be ill. And while throwing up all over the medal they were trying to pin to his chest would have earned back a certain amount of respect from what little of his personal squad remained, it would also mean vomiting on the Baron’s daughter. There were many cleaner and more efficient ways to commit suicide, so he bit his tongue, stared blankly ahead, and allow the meaningless bit of metal to be attached to his dark gray dress jacket. He stood there, spine straight, shoulders back, feet together, the very model of military attention, catching only bits and pieces of how he was such a good soldier, a brilliant commander, a man to be emulated in these dark days, wishing he could pass out like some rookie recruit who’d locked his knees in an effort to stay still.
He was a good soldier—his record, like his jacket, was littered with laurels and praise. He excelled in all areas of combat, was more than proficient with his weapons, and had earned the respect of every man he’d fought beside because of his dedication. He was a brilliant commander, rarely losing any campaign he put forth and rarely losing a man regardless of the outcome. His reputation as a hard-ass, by-the-book tactician was balanced by the loyalty he inspired in his men by working just as hard and long as they did. He was always the first one in and the last one out, every day of his career. But for the first time in his life, he wondered if that was worth emulating.
As soon as the opportunity presented itself, Torn excused himself from whatever the hell it was that “polite” society called the gathering after that horrible PR stunt, found an unoccupied restroom and locked himself into it. He had just enough time to loosen the stiff collar and tuck the brocade away before dry heaving into the sink. He crumbled miserably over the counter as his stomach tried to reject something it didn’t physically have. Dinner from the night before had come up a handful of hours before morning call. Breakfast had stayed down long enough for him to find a toilet. He hadn’t bothered with lunch and he was skipping dinner now. There was nothing left to give up, yet his stomach kept rolling, cramping, choking him with bile and self-loathing.
Slowly, the nausea faded. Shaking hands fumbled with the taps. He rinsed the sour taste from his mouth, swallowing a small handful to ease the burn in his throat and the empty pit in his gut. The sweat was washed from his face and neck. Still feeling unsteady, but no longer violently ill, he turned his attention to the mirror to see how badly he’d messed up his uniform. It was bad form to miss your own party, after all…
A face he didn’t recognize stared back.
Oh, he recognized individual pieces. The short reddish brown hair that needed to be clipped back to a more manageable length sometime soon. The slightly square jaw that gave him the look of a man older than twenty-seven summers. Light blue eyes that had faded, become dull, as stress etched lines in the corners and across his brow. The bold gray lines of his Mark of Rank stood out starkly against ashen skin, half war paint, half holy symbol, and absolute proof he had more than earned his position as a Commander of the Krimzon Guard. He still remembered thinking the same thing when the ink was new, glossy black and smarting like a sunburn perilously close to blistering, that the face staring back couldn’t be his own. Just like the tips of his ears when he’d officially graduated from boot camp, he’d learned to look past them, to see the person he was underneath the scars and armour.
Then, he’d seen a strong young man with the power and drive to make his city a better place. He wanted to help people, wanted to give them a better life, wanted to make sure the desperation that so many lived with wasn’t for naught. Haven City and her wall were exactly that to so many: a haven against a world filled with nightmares. As one who had survived because of the bastion of hope the city represented, he’d felt an almost overwhelming need to give as much as he had been given. Now he saw a coward, a foolish man who’d given over the best of himself blindly to things far worse than the ones outside the Wall. Someone who had chosen to be a good soldier over being a good man.
His fist lashed out before he could stop himself. The mirror shattered, breaking his image into hundreds of accusing eyes and disappointed faces—the eyes of every person still in his command and the face of every soldier he’d left behind.
All they had to do was hold for five minutes. Five more minutes, and reinforcements would have arrived. They could have held their position that long, gotten the back-up they needed, and made the push that would have forced the Metalheads back down the hole they’d come from. They could have taken back the Temple District, saved so many lives, if he’d just pretended he hadn’t heard the order to retreat. Hell, he could have blatantly defied it. An act of treason, to be sure, but one death versus hundreds was math he considered correct. Even if he’d been shot dead on the spot, he knew his men would have carried out the order and that part of Haven would still be theirs.
But he hadn’t. When that gun barrel had rested against his head, he’d caved, choosing his own life and career over those who’d put theirs in his hands. He didn’t deserve a medal for that. What he deserved was a shallow grave.
Screw good form. There was no way he was going to spend his evening standing around, accepting congratulations for being a gutless bastard. Especially from people who seemed to think this was all an exaggerated game of some sort. Disappearing would probably anger Praxis, but right then, Torn didn’t give a flying fuck what the Baron wanted. He needed aspirin, a strong cup of something numbingly alcoholic, and his bed, preferably in that order. He hadn’t gotten more than two steps out of the door when a voice stopped him.
“There you are.” Ashelin smiled at him as she approached from the other end of the hallway. “You’ll stand against wave after wave of Metalheads, but a few stuffed shirts make you run away?”
It was a tease. He knew that. It still felt like a knife had been shoved between his ribs. “Lady—”
“I told you, we’re equal rank now,” she scowled. “Don’t call me Lady Praxis.”
She was always going to be Lady Praxis to him whether she liked it or not. And while they may have both been commanders now, she was still the daughter of the Baron, heir apparent for the city, and he was the son of refugees, some of the last to enter before the walls were closed. She belonged in that room, not him.
“Lady,” he repeated, mostly because he was still in uniform and she had been bribed into a dress. “Please make my apologies to your father and the other guests, but I’m feeling unwell and need to retire early.”
Unhappiness warred with concern on her face. “Are you okay? I can escort you…”
“It’s fine. I just…need some air.”
“I’m not a child anymore. You can tell me what it is!”
No, she was most definitely no longer a child. The petite thing he’d met on graduation day almost ten years ago had grown into a stunning, vivacious woman. The older brother feelings that had developed when she’d been assigned to his squad after boot camp had matured right along with her body, leaving him treading a very dangerous line. As a commander now herself, her Mark outlined but not yet filled in, no one would think twice about them spending time alone together, rank and age be damned.
That had nothing to do with anything right now. He didn’t want to be alone with her because her eyes had been so warm and proud as she attached the newest badge of honour to his chest. Like everyone else at the ceremony, she honestly thought he’d done the right thing. Maybe it was cowardly, but he couldn’t handle that at the moment.
“Please, Ashelin,” he said softly. “I just need to be alone right now.”
The sudden lack of an honourific seemed to startle her. The calm composure that made her worth the design on her face came back. “I expect to be notified with an update on your condition by morning call. I can handle your squad if you need more time.”
“Thank you…Commander.”
She smiled. “Good night, Torn.” She turned smartly on her heel and walked away, disappearing around the far corner with only one glance back. He stared after her for a minute, then began the long walk from the Palace yards back to the barracks.
***
He could have chosen to live elsewhere, but it had made little sense to maintain a separate lodging when he spent the vast majority of his time inside the Fortress. Out of deference to his rank, he bunked alone in a room that had been converted from an old office, complete with an attached bathroom for privacy. He was also the only one who lived there on a permanent basis. The barracks were for all the enlisted men and women on active duty, which included three shifts of ten squads who rotated around about every six weeks. As such, the place was much more like a club house than a functioning dormitory for the Fortress, and with fewer rules to abide by.
So the fact that there seemed to be a squabble going on in one of the bunk areas was of little surprise. The ranks had been flooded recently with men who had too much testosterone and too little brain power—there was always a power struggle going on somewhere. Most nights, he ignored it. They were grown men; they could figure it out themselves. But during the walk, his nagging nausea had turned into a raging headache. He didn’t have the patience to deal with the noise.
“What the fuck is your issue tonight?!” he snarled from the doorway. “Squad, attention!”
Scratchy and soft as his voice could be, it still rolled through the room like thunder. With a wave like effect, the men stiffened before bolting upright to attention. They fell into rank as their instincts told them. The uniform stamping of feet signaled the end of all movement…except for a loud burst of profanity from somewhere in the middle of the room. Torn moved before he could think the action through, barreling down the line with a blistering reprimand on his tongue for the errant enlisted man.
It wasn’t one of his guards, though. Shock halted his advance, leaving his mouth open with nothing to say. He blinked away his surprise, took one quick, assessing glance, and did not like what he saw.
The ripped clothing was enough to set his teeth on edge. The rapidly darkening bruises on pale skin made his blood boil. But the thing that completely burst his control was the fact that the skinny boy, who was trying to pull the tattered remains of his shirt and pants closed in some urgent need for modesty, was just a kid, a child barely old enough for the hair below his navel to take on the same vibrant red colour the unruly locks falling into his eyes had.
Torn yanked a blanket free from a nearby bed and tossed it over the still cursing form before whirling to deal with those involved. “Everyone in this room is suspended until further notice. Get your shit together and get outta my sight!”
“But sir—”
“You can’t be—”
“Commander Erol—”
“I’m the commander standing in front of you,” he snarled. “My orders are the ones to be obeyed. I don’t give a damn what Erol said—get out and don’t come back, or I’ll have you all arrested and tried for every offense I can think of. Out!!”
If the soldiers, as a group, had decided to ignore him, Torn knew he would have been in trouble. Most standard infantrymen were hulking brutes for a reason—they had to haul almost eighty pounds of equipment, armour, and weaponry with them while out on patrol. Combined with numbers and a narrow fighting space, there would be almost nothing to stop the lot of them from just trampling right over the top of him. But he hadn’t taken his position as one of the youngest to ever command without running into his share of muscle-bound assholes. All he really had to do was intimidate the leaders, the three who had spoken up earlier most likely, and the rest of the pack would scatter without protest. And he knew how to be intimidating. He still sighed silently with relief when the room cleared without a fight.
Glaring out the doorway until the last man disappeared, he turned the rest of his temper on the boy behind him, wrapped securely in the blanket, having apparently given up on his clothes. He grabbed a thin wrist and yanked the other to his feet, practically dragging him out of the room. There was more swearing as fingers clawed uselessly at the iron grip. Torn just stopped cold as soon as the profanity started to repeat itself, flinging the smaller body down the hall towards the door. “Get out of here, brat, before I haul you in for underage solicitation.”
Mostly bare feet skidded and stumbled across the floor, but planted themselves rather than running as he’d expected. The whelp drew himself up to his full, though non-threatening, height and sneered back, hate and fear warring in his bright blue eyes. “Mind yer own damn business, Tattooed Wonder. No one asked ya to play superhero.”
“Hey, I just saved your ungrateful skinny ass from getting raped within an inch of your miserable life. Show some common sense and scat, or do I have to drag you back to your nurse-maid kicking and screaming?”
“Fuck off! I know what the hell I’m doin’.” He stepped defiantly closer, but there was a nervous swallow accompanying the action. “You wanna drag me kickin’ and screamin’ somewhere, it better be a prison cell, or I’m gonna—” The tirade cut off as his eyes unfocused briefly. There was a swell of colour on freckled cheeks and a gasped breath, like he’d taken a hard blow to the chest. “I…” A violent shiver racked his small frame as his skin took a darker flush. Torn could see the pulse speeding up in a thin neck, the gasp turning into soft pants. “What the hell…?”
Torn groaned, mostly to himself. He did not need this tonight. He was tired; what he needed was some aspirin and maybe something to make him sleep deeply enough his guilty conscious couldn’t follow. It wasn’t unusual for the working girls (or boys, in this case) who found their way into the barracks to have their pimps give them something to keep them going all night. It was a habit that was more disgusting than illegal, but he had little to say in the matter. It had been either get the brothels legalized and under some sort of supervision, or watch the streets run with blood from gang warfare. They were already losing too many men outside the Walls, and a generous amount of revenue was being pumped back into the war machine because of the new bylaws, but doing this to a kid…
Just what exactly was he trying to serve and protect anymore?
“What were you injected with? Do you know?” he asked as gently as he could. The boy was woozy enough now to need the support of the wall to remain standing, looking thoroughly confused and more than slightly terrified. Panicked eyes shot up at the question.
“Inject—? No! No needles! I haven’t touched nothin’!”
Shit… “Not all injections use needles. Pressure injections go straight through the skin and into the bloodstream.” And left nasty, stinging bruises, which would be almost impossible to find on a body already so badly mauled. Damn it all to hell, he couldn’t turn the kid out now, not obviously drugged with an unknown agent or quantity. Taking him to the sick bay would break the blind-eye rule that the contract with the brothels demanded. Which meant there was only one other viable solution. “Come here.”
“Wha?” The boy stumbled backwards when Torn took a step forward. “No! Don’t touch me!”
His coordination was getting worse—what the hell had he been given? Torn made a mental note to search the bunk room later. “Calm down, you’re only making it worse. Just trust me, all right? I’ll make sure you get through this.”
“T-trust you?” The redhead laughed; a scornful, hard sound no one that young should be able to make. “Right. Why should I trust a guy who looks like he lost a fight to a fountain pen?”
“Because you don’t have a choice.” A quick step and a half was enough to close the distance between them. In the span of the other half-step, Torn threw his shoulder into a slender middle and lifted, hoisting the smaller form with disturbing ease. Then he spun on his heel, moving quickly back towards his original destination. The struggles of his burden were even shorter lived than the swearing, which turned into mostly stifled moans after only a few steps. A part of him felt bad for being so rough to a body starting to spiral out of control, but it was a necessary evil right then. The sooner they got to his rooms, the better it would be for everyone involved. Thankfully, they ran into no one during the awkward trip and soon, Torn was lowing the bundle of shaking boy to the bed with a lot more care than he’d been picked up with. The other immediately scrambled away, pulling the blanket after him as an afterthought. There was still a healthy amount of hate behind glazed eyes, watching with as much concentration as was possible for any hint that he might be come after.
Torn waited until he was curled up securely into the furthest corner of the bed before making a very deliberate action of removing his dress jacket. “Stay put and stay quiet. I’ll be back shortly,” he added after a moment’s thought. There was no response. He didn’t expect one. The door locked behind him when he left.
He rounded up a group of men to toss the bunk room, citing a random search. There was the usual assortment of contraband floating around; various stimulants, pornographic material of all sorts, food…and two unlabeled vials, one mostly full, the other empty save for a few drops clinging to the bottom. Colourless, odorless, tasteless—high end but otherwise unidentifiable. It didn’t really matter, he supposed. The end result would be the same regardless of what it turned out to be. What disturbed and worried him was the fact that there were two vials in the first place. The rest of the search was left to the staff sergeant on duty, leaving him to consider his wayward charge back in his room.
The boy had easily been given three times the normal amount, and his quick decent spoke to the potency of the liquid he’d been injected with. Given his reaction to even the prospect of being hooked up on something, the redhead wasn’t a regular user, which made the whole situation a bit trickier to deal with. There was no resistance to the drug, no way to know what might be a normal reaction versus a life-threatening complication. No way to know if anything being done was helping or hindering the process of metabolizing. …And standing in the hallway wasn’t going get anyone anywhere. He’d already made a declaration of intent. Now it was time to pull through.
He detoured to the duty station, putting his leave notice for the next day as well as a note for Ashelin claiming continued sickness. Then he stopped by the sick bay to pick up some emergency supplies, just in case things decided to go badly. After making sure all the loose ends were tied up, Torn returned to his rooms.
Having seen his fair share of marks jacked up on aphrodisiacs before, he was rather surprised to enter a quiet, empty room. He’d been gone a while trying to free up his time—long enough for whatever it was still in his pocket to dig in and tighten its hold. The boy should have been writhing around on his bed, begging to be touched, nearly mindless with need. Instead, the bedding was only slightly rumpled. The blanket that had been both cover and protector lay crumpled on the floor beside the bed, forgotten. For a moment, Torn panicked. Just what the night needed, a kid higher than a kite on the loose. Then he heard the hiss of running water and noticed the normally closed bathroom door was slightly ajar. The light wasn’t on, but the closer he got, the surer he became that his query was there.
Carefully, he pushed the door open and flipped on the light. Sure enough, the redhead had curled into the corner of the shower just as tightly as he could, face buried in his knees and shivering. His clothes and hair were drenched, giving him the look of a drowned rat. He tried to hunch down even more when he noticed Torn standing in the doorway, staring out miserably from under wet bangs. It was an impressive display of willpower, sitting that still under what had to be icy water, hands absently clutching at his own arms hard enough to white knuckle painful looking bruises. He wasn’t panicking, he wasn’t slaving to what had to be pretty powerful urges, and he wasn’t falling apart somewhere in between. There was a resilience there few seemed to have anymore and for the first time in a week, Torn felt a spark of pride. This kid was made of some pretty stern stuff.
He slowly approached and knelt down, aware that the stern stuff he was admiring could very easily be used against him. Since he had been expecting to be jumped when he walked back in, the Guard Commander hadn’t really thought about the sticky details, like having permission. He’d already grabbed the boy and hauled him into his rooms after being told not to touch once. Seeing that this wasn’t just going to be some mindless rut to ease hormones, he now felt obligated to make sure this was something that was wanted. Those wild blue eyes watched, waited, but did nothing else. There was a tell-tale flush spread across his ears and cheeks, soft pants of breath slowly becoming harsher, drawn through chattering teeth. Yet there was still hate and fear burning in the background, warring with the drug induced libido.
“You’ve been injected with a heavy dose of a high-end aphrodisiac,” he started, realizing he sounded cold, but he was rather helpless to do much about it. Facts were all he could offer. “I’m no expert, but even I know you’ve been given too much at once. This isn’t going just go away, and it’s probably only get worse as time goes on.” He paused, trying to gauge how well the situation was being accepted. The fear had escalated, pushing on towards full-blown panic. “You can stay here for as long as it takes to get out of your system. I’m not going to throw you back out on the streets like this. And…I’m willing to help you through this.”
Panic spiked hard as the redhead shoved himself back even further. Torn resisted the urge to reach out and grab, to force him to listen. He’d only be going back on his words if he did that. “Hey!” he snapped, hoping the military tone would snap the other back into compliance. It mostly worked. The boy froze, his eyes wide in horror, practically white under the heavy flush and gasping like he was on the edge of a full-blown breakdown. “I’m willing to help, but only if you want it. Otherwise, I’ll leave you in here alone. I won’t touch you if you don’t want to be touched. And no one else will touch you either.”
Despite everything, there was a flurry of calculations being made behind those glassy eyes. The kind of quick assessments and judgments only a child of the streets could make; cost, worth, validity, sincerity, all measured in the blink of an eye. Something wavered. Something became solid. “Promise?” asked a hitching voice, very unlike the one that had been cursing not long ago.
“By the oath I took when I accepted this Mark, I promise.”
There was a bark of that scornful, hate-filled laugh. “That means shit ta me. You assholes are all alike, as far as I can tell.”
Torn frowned. What the hell did that mean? “I’ve got nothing else, brat. You’ll have to take my word as it is.”
The boy shifted uneasily, a completely different set of shivers making him curl in on himself. “The wind…” The words were badly muffled. “The wind, the sea, an’ the stars…”
“What?”
“Swear ta the wind, sea, an’ stars!”
The wind that bears our voices, the sea that bears our bodies, and the stars that our souls ride through the night. His mother had often said it, a half-prayer that was repeated when things seemed impossibly difficult or trouble never-ending. He’d personally never used it before; it was part of the old ways no one had time to remember, let alone pass on. But if that’s what it took… “I swear. By the wind, the sea, and the stars, I’ll help you through this.”
The effect was immediate. One second, the redhead was practically a part of the tilled wall, the next he was all but sitting in Torn’s lap. Thin, ice cold arms wrapped around his neck, latching on with all the strength they could manage. “Don’t leave me…”
The Commander blinked, slightly taken aback by the rapid switch in attitude. He wasn’t quite sure what to make of his oath, or this reaction, but he didn’t need to understand the why of it. It had worked and that was all that mattered. Permission granted, even though it hadn’t been said in such words, Torn carefully wrapped his arms around that quivering body. He froze at the high pitched whine the contact created, the boy arching into him. Despite being so cold, the nerves were apparently still on fire. Well, at least that settled his first course of action.
“Come on,” he prodded gently. “We need to get you out of these clothes and warmed up.”
“No,” was the stubborn reply. “Too hot already…”
“Giving yourself hypothermia isn’t going to help that heat. You’ve got plenty of other problems to deal with right now. Don’t take on more than you can handle.”
There was no smart-ass retort, just a violent shiver and a gasp of what could have been pain. The boy slowly pulled back, curling up on the floor, though no longer huddled in the corner. Torn reached out to adjust the water temperature, purposefully setting it to the high end of warm knowing it would take a while to get there. Then he kicked off his shoes and socks, stripping down like he normally would for a shower before realizing that may not be the best of ideas. He set his belt aside, but kept his dress pants on. They wouldn’t be the first pair he’d ever ruined, and probably not the last, either. He turned to see his charge hadn’t moved and withheld a sigh. “Come on,” he said again, holding out a hand. “Get up so we can get you out of those rags.”
There was a reflexive jerk as the boy’s ears dropped completely. “…I can’t…” he said, making sure to keep his eyes averted, like it was some shameful secret being shared. Maybe for the redhead, it was. Torn did sigh, turning his attention to the rack that held his shower supplies instead.
“Look, I know you don’t like this. I’m not too hot on it myself, but it’s where we are and what we need to do.” He checked the water, which was slowly warming, adjusted the temperature again and then the showerhead. “Contrary to what a lot of people believe, I’m not a mind reader, so I need you to tell me what’s going on.” The shampoo and soap were set on the floor within easy reach. Then he settled down, back against the freezing tile, and hauled the startled kid into his lap. There was a sharp yelp and a whine of distress as the urge to press closer and pull away fought with each other. Torn kept a solid grip on bony shoulders until a decision was made, then carefully lifted that bruised and flushed face so their eyes could meet again. “My name’s Torn. What’s yours?”
“Ya don’t—”
“I don’t fuck around with anonymous partners,” he interrupted. “And I’m not going to just use you like a cheap whore doing a poke and hump in some dark alley. I’m trying to help you. Make it a little easier for me and tell me your name. Not your street handle,” he pressed before the other could do more than open his mouth, “your name.”
For a moment, it seemed like the redhead was going to be stubborn about that, too, and then that young voice was saying, “…Dax—Daxter… I’m Daxter.”
“Daxter, huh?” A funny-sounding name for a funny-looking kid, but Torn kept that thought to himself. “What do you want?”
It took a while for Daxter to answer, fighting every step of the way to the response Torn was expecting to hear. His admiration for the street rat went up another notch, and out of deference to that, he remained patiently quiet. Finally, the resistance broke. The redhead crumbled in on himself. “T-touch…” he stammered. “Oh, gods, touch m-me… Please…”
The emphasis on the word ‘please’ made it sound like it wasn’t part of the kid’s normal vocabulary. To be honest, Torn was kind of amazed the word was there at all. There weren’t many people who remembered those kinds of niceties and even fewer had reasons or opportunities to use them. Still, it was a rather vague command. “Touch?”
“Yes!” It was hissed out through clenched teeth. “Anywhere… Everywhere… I need…skin…an’ somethin’…” There was a frustrated whimper as he shifted in Torn’s lap, straddling the legs under him and arching into the shower spray. “Please… Just touch… I can’t…”
“Okay. Calm down.” That broken voice was becoming hysterical; he’d hurt himself if he couldn’t stay at least marginally calm. “Tell me if something hurts.”
What was probably a snarky comment morphed into a guttural moan of relief when calloused hands finally pressed against cool skin. Torn took his time familiarizing the redhead to his touch, keeping his hands in relatively neutral territory while gently exploring. It would give him a good excuse to look over the extensive damage already done. Fingers traced over cheeks and smoothed a furrowed brow, pushing stray pieces of damp hair to the side. Slowly, some of the tension eased. The frantic gasps for air eased back to a soft, rhythmic pant. Feeling a little more confident, the hands moved further down, bypassing the badly battered neckline to slide over narrow shoulders. Daxter moaned again when the touching turned to tentative kneading, effectively melting under what would normally be considered a half-assed attempt at massage. Sensing no more real resistance to what was happening, Torn began carefully peeling away the shredded clothing.
…He couldn’t tell if the bruising was really just that bad, or if it only appeared that way because the skin it marred was so pale to begin with. At least the cold dunking had helped prevent some rather nasty swelling. It still made him mad to look at them and see clearly defined fingers and hands in the black welts, phantoms that were going to take their sweet time vanishing from this world. For as bad as his neck was, Daxter’s upper arms were worse, the smudges trailing all the way down to the wrists. There were some light scratches on his chest; probably from when his shirt had been ripped open. More indistinct bruises cast dark shadows along what could be seen of his torso. After a while, Torn found himself frowning for a completely different reason. Since tattoos marked the Guard, the brothels had chosen hot-iron branding and the street gangs used scarification to show affiliation. With a mouth and attitude like his, the boy practically screamed street rat, but there was barely a serious mark on him. Where were the scars counting out how many people he’d killed, the branding that the owned and kept were forced to live with forever? How had someone in their early teens managed to escape so unscathed?
Daxter began shivering, a sure sign he was warming up. And with those shivers came another round of tensing. Torn abandoned his attempt at clothes removal and reach for the shampoo instead. Something small, simple, soothing. Besides, who knew when the kid’s last bath had been, or how clean it had actually gotten him. He poured twice his normal amount into his hand, then thought better of it and added some more before starting to lather it into the tangled mess of red hair. The innocent, calming touch helped his charge relax again, so much so that he allowed himself to be held and tipped back to rinse the suds away. With only a little difficulty, he shrugged away the ruined shirt. A hesitant hand reached out, stopping about halfway, like the action had just been noticed.
“It’s all right. You can touch.” Unsteady hands landed on Torn’s chest, almost as cold as the tile had been. They didn’t do anything else except rest there, braced but not pushing. Since the hair washing had gone so well, the soap was picked up next. A thick lather insured that no undue pressure was applied anywhere. Daxter did okay until Torn reached around to start soaping his back. With a high, reedy whimper, the redhead collapsed fully against him. Concerned, Torn stopped. This was met with an immediate yowl of disapproval.
“No! More! Keep goin’—don’t stop!”
As if to prove his point, Daxter pressed harder into the body beneath his. Well, he had asked for vocal cues. It was his own damn fault for getting ordered around by a kid. Torn resumed his awkward washing, but it wasn’t until his hands passed over the small of the redhead’s back that he realized he’d made a serious miscalculation. Because he had gone quiet and relatively still, the Commander had assumed that the boy in his lap had managed gain some control over himself. Assumed that the washing technique he was employing to make them both a little more comfortable would act as a way to slowly engage in other activities. That was most definitely not the case, if the strangled noise Daxter made when his hips were barely brushed was any indication.
Actually, what he had been doing amounted to torture. The shivering, the stifled noises, the hesitation…all of it indications that instead of relaxing and going with it, the boy had continued fighting, holding himself back until now, when he was at the absolute end of his rope. Torn shifted, bringing one leg up sharply at the same time he pressed Daxter’s hips down. A sharp yell was choked back as a face pressed into his neck, breath hot and ragged dragging along his skin. …So much further along than he guessed and nothing left for it. He shoved those skinny hips down and held, forcing Daxter to grind against the hard thigh pressed between his legs. Another distressed sound was suffocated against his neck as the body in his arms jerked. Torn couldn’t tell if he was trying to get closer or get away, but the result was the same. After about the third or fourth hard squirm, there was sharp, bitten off squeak and Daxter went still.
Torn swallowed hard, taking deep, even breaths as his head hit the tiles while an unmistakable warmth ran along his leg. He felt kind of dizzy and out of sorts, which was probably nothing compared to how Daxter felt. The half-hysterical sobs had come back. He tightened his arms around the boy and pretended not to notice the extra moisture falling on his chest.
When the panic-stricken edge wore off, he adjusted his grip and steadied himself against another barrage of whimpers. “Can you hang on?” he asked quietly. “We need to get cleaned up.”
The answer was a silent nod and the tightening of arms, but Daxter didn’t move otherwise. Torn took another deep breath, then pushed himself to his feet. More noise became muffled by his neck when his own arm tightened around that frail body, keeping them securely together, then again when they stepped into the hard spray. The lingering soap was washed away as Torn tried to finish stripping them both as efficiently as possible with only one hand. He was almost less than successful. Daxter was panting again, hands kneading in frustration and this time, it was more than obvious how far along he was. This time, Torn didn’t hesitate. His hands found their place on still chilly thighs and hoisted the boy up, grinding their hips together. It was a bit harder to hang on as the redhead writhed like an eel, but the end result was the same. With a sharp jerk and a sharper cry, Daxter came again.
Finally, the tension seemed to ease. The body in his arms rag-dolled and as gently as he could, Torn let him slip to the floor. One last splash of water washed away the remaining mess before the shower was shut off. The lone towel he owned was pulled down and run through dripping hair before being wrapped around a still form. Daxter huddled in it, the fight in him momentarily subdued. He was given a rough and quick dry before being picked up once more and hauled out to the bed. Torn picked up the blanket from the floor, wrapping it around that too small body as well. He brushed the now brilliantly red hair from a still flushed face.
Need was already starting to build again in those far-looking eyes, but there was a terrible kind of understanding lurking there as well. It had to be a hard thing to accept, that there wasn’t a foreseeable end, that there was no control to be had and that the small mercy of not having to make some sort of a decision was still a poisoned trap. That solid something was still there, however, keeping him together even as he tried to fall apart. Daxter still looked ready to cry when his attention turned back to Torn.
“It—it doesn’t go beyond…us…” he said haltingly.
“No,” Torn assured. “Not beyond us. Not beyond this room.”
A trembling hand reached out to grip his shoulder. “I…” The words were choked upon as that thin body shuddered. “I don’t—” A couple tears blinked free.
The Guard Commander refused to think about the implications of those words. “It’s okay,” he countered, gently pushing the other back into the bed. Daxter tried to deny, but the words were lost under a wavering moan as Torn stroked a hand down a narrow chest, come to rest on a quivering stomach, just shy of intimate. There was a whine as hips jerked, seeking more. “It’s okay,” he repeated, stretching out next to his charge, fingers sliding a bit lower with each desperate thrust without truly moving. “I swore I wouldn’t leave you. That I’d take care of you. Stop fighting yourself and let me.”
It took a couple more minutes of coaxing before the redhead relented and actually pushed the hand down to where he wanted it most. With the vain hope he wasn’t about to commit an atrocity, Torn wrapped his fingers firmly around the hard once more shaft he’d been directed to, beginning a slow yet strong jerk that had Daxter sucking in his breath. There was a whine of protest mixed in with the other noises of need as the grip was adjusted, but with no overt signs of distress, Torn ignored it. Instead, he paid attention to how Daxter responded to each new thing he did with all the intent of a man watching and responding to a battlefield. In short order, he knew everything he needed to give or prolong the pleasure his charge was feeling without making it too much.
The first time, he pushed those buttons hard, having already dragged the experience out with his testing. The second time Daxter came at his hand, it was a much longer, more deliberate tease and retreat until that skinny body reflexively curled into his in search of more. The third time, however, simply proved such things could only go so far. The redhead had stopped fighting his body and the drug in his system refused to let orgasm take the edge off any longer. The next obvious step was more direct stimulation through penetration. There was only one problem with that; Torn was barely hard enough to do anything worthwhile and his fingers could only do so much.
He couldn’t do it. Other men had never been his preference, and certainly not a kid. He could touch, he could comfort, he could even help the process along, but he could not keep an active sexual interest despite how the other body was pushing him. That wasn’t fair to either of them, but fairness had been gutted in a dark alley a long time ago. He’d sworn one of the oldest oaths there was and he’d be damned if it was only duty that he gave tonight. They both deserved more than that.
So after he’d managed to pull another shuddering climax from that high stung body, but before the next round could start, he pulled away back to the bathroom and the pants he’d left there. He studied the second vial that had been taken from the bunkroom. With little idea as to what it really was, what he was about to do was insane. His world had already gone mad, so what did a little more matter? The vial was uncorked. He sealed his thumb over the end and flicked her wrist, leaving a single drop of the liquid behind. After a moment’s hesitation, he used the glass edge to carefully cut away half of that. The rest was licked away.
Even a dosage that small had a kick to it. It felt like taking a shock blast straight to the stomach. The cramping turned to warmth soon enough, leaving him with a loose, just this side of drunk feeling all the way down to his toes. Well, it had certainly done something. Whether it was the intended effect had yet to be seen. Torn wobbled a bit back to the door.
The smell of sex hit first, which instantly turn that warm looseness into a hard heat that burned away most of the disconnected cobwebs in his brain. The breathy sounds he’d been hearing for a while now suddenly caused a rush of that heat to his groin. Yet it wasn’t until he actually saw Daxter that any of it became desire. The boy had rolled to his knees, one set of slick fingers desperately thrusting into an unknowingly displayed ass while the other set stroked a still hard and leaking shaft in time. The analytical part of Torn’s mind accepted the influx of information in much the same manner he had all night. The rest was overrun with lust, the want to replace those thrusting fingers with his now very hard cock undeniable without being consuming. That part demanded to know why he hadn’t thought this was arousing in the first place even as he tried to assert that it wasn’t. The dichotomy was dizzying until he firmly told the soldier half of himself to shut up and get the hell out of the way.
Only half aware he was moving, Torn returned to the bedside. "Keep going," he encouraged as he reached out to touch. Daxter gave a sharp gasp as calloused fingers began kneading and petting the strong muscles of his upturned rear and pale thighs, then a loud moan that wavered when his ass was firmly spread open. He was allowed to keep going in mindless abandon for a while, then Torn added his own fingers to the mix. The effect was immediate--Daxter screamed as he came, body convulsing through the overload.
The brief respite was used to push the redhead's hips down, which in turn spread his legs wider, and was held there while Torn quickly lubed up his own hard on. Moving swiftly so that his mind couldn't keep up, he lined himself up and pushed smoothly past already well relaxed muscles until he was fully seated inside the younger man. Daxter tensed around him with a faint moan that had nothing to do with pain and everything to do with relief. Torn held still until the hips in his hands began to shift back against him. He shuddered a bit as he pulled back and slid forward again, finding a rather sedate pace within the body he was taking.
In the end, that pace didn't really change as they moved closer to the edge; the movements simply became harder. Each forward thrust was met with a firm push back, earning ecstatic cries between heavy pants for breath. Torn was pretty sure he was going to leave bruises of his own on those slim hips, but neither of them seemed to care much. Certainly not Daxter, who'd found his words again.
"Fuck me," he begged breathlessly. "Gods, please.... Fuck--ah! Fuck me. Jak~!"
In some other situation, maybe having someone else's name shouted in the middle of heavy sex would have been a turn off. As it was, all Torn did was file away the information for later and do as he was asked. He moved with single minded intent, taking what his own body wanted as much as he was giving Daxter what he needed. The hard thrusts became erratic the closer he came to coming, but it was actually the sudden harsh cry as Daxter came that did him in. Torn growled through his own orgasm as the body around him clenched and trembled, riding again the other instead of actually moving.
As soon as it was gone, desire flared again. This time, Torn didn't wait for Daxter to catch up. He pulled out just long enough to flip the other onto his back and started over, finding a slightly faster rhythm this time. There were no complaints, just an increase in the nearly delirious half-muttering and pleas Daxter continued to make, the name Jak called several more times before the smaller body was overwhelmed again and choked the noise off. Only marginally satisfied himself, Torn switched their positions again, stretching out on the bed and forcing Daxter to ride him. He kept a strict control of movement, allowing the redhead to take himself but only in the manner and at the speed the Commander decided. Slow and steady until all it took was a couple hard thrusts to make both of them stiffen and shudder.
Finally, there was a break in the pattern. Though there was a noise of disapproval when Torn finally pulled out, Daxter fell weakly to his side rather than immediately start the process over again. Torn help him stretch out, absently stroking sweat slicked skin as Daxter attempted to regain his breath. Torn felt warm and liquid again, oddly content with the half arousal he still felt twitching through his lower belly. It was ready to flare back to life even though he was currently sated, but there was no pressing need to do something with it. He felt the body curled against his begin to relax for the first time in hours and breathed a sigh of relief, confident the worst was finally over.
***
They had a lot of sex that night. Torn lost count of how many times exactly, though they had definitely been working through the later stages. Daxter had started to find rest in between rounds, pure exhaustion send him to sleep quickly until the demand for more woke him again. The grace period became longer and longer until finally, shortly before morning call, he simply slept.
Despite barely resting himself, Torn rose from the bed as he would any other day. He showered and cleaned with the thoughtless mechanical motions that had been beaten into him. His dress pants weren't the last cause he'd imagined they'd be. Daxter's clothes were, though. The whole of the bedroom needed to be aired out, the bedclothes washed if not completely replaced. And they'd need food sooner than later. He absently tucked the blankets in a little more securely around the still sleeping form occupying his bed, brushing that surprisingly vibrant hair from a slack face. Kid was actually kinda cute when his mouth was shut. He watched Daxter sleep for a while, all the questions from the night before making themselves known again. Then he sighed and went to take care of the few things on his list that he could.
Daxter slept for several hours more, still, silent, and curled into a ridiculously small space. When the boy did finally wake, he was much more coherent even if he wasn't completely free from the drug still. He didn't shy away when Torn settled next to him again. After another round of rather intense sex, Daxter stumbled through his own shower while Torn stripped the bed and replaced the sheets. They ate in silence after that.
"So, who's Jak?" Torn finally asked. Daxter bobbled the cup of coffee in his hands, almost spilling it all over himself and the bed he sat on.
"None a yer business," was the hissed response once the cup was secure again.
"You screamed his name in my bed," he countered calmly. "That makes it my business." Daxter shut his mouth with an audible click and glared instead. Torn switched gears. "How old are you?"
"Old 'nuff."
He snorted. "You look like you're ten--"
"I'm sixteen, you ass!" the redhead snarled, eyes lighting up with anger and defiance. Torn managed to keep most of the smirk to himself. And then the spark faded, clouded over with confusion. "I'm sixteen...? ...Yes--no." Palms pressed into his eyes in frustration. "Fuck... I can't remember how long we've been here. Shit..."
"Then you came from outside the walls. How did you get into the city? Tell me!" Torn demanded when he still received no response. "If you found a hole somewhere in the Wall, then the Metalheads--"
"We fell from the goddamn sky, all right?!" Daxter snapped. "That stupid piece of Precursor crap disintegrated on us and dropped us ass first into this hellhole. Then one of you assholes beat the tar outta Jak before draggin' him away."
"The squads can be heavy handed, but they don't just arrest people indiscriminately. What did you do?"
"Nothin'! We hadn't even been standin' for a minute when a jerk with marks on his face like yours walked up and started waving a gun around." He deflated. "An' nothin's exactly what I did when they took him."
Torn was quiet for a moment as he lined up all the pieces in his head. "So, Jak is a friend who was apprehended by a KG Commander and most likely thrown into prison," he finally said. “And I bet you though it was great plan to try and seduce the guy who took said friend. Only he didn't want you. He gave you to his squad instead." He rubbed a hand over his face when there was no rebuttal. "Holy Sages, kid. You got a lot of brass, trying to pull that off, but not a lot of brains."
"I never thought it was a great plan and no one asked you."
"No one had to. Don't you get it? You don't have a brand, so you're not valuable. No one would have come looking for you if you'd just disappeared and Erol knew that. Those men had absolutely no incentive to let you live after they were done with you."
Daxter paled considerably as that thought struck home. "And what the hell does that make you? Some saint in a land of sinners?"
"No. Just a man who's made some serious mistakes in his life." He sighed. "And for the record, it's been a year since there was an unexplained light show near southtown. I remember because it was my shift, but Erol was the one sent to investigate. He reported a malfunction in the Shield Wall system. Wouldn't be the first time he'd lied on a report."
"So where does that leave us?" Daxter asked after a few minutes of silence.
"With you taking as much synthetic green eco as your system can handle and getting as much rest as you can. Second shift is mine tomorrow, so there'll be plenty of time to get you out of here in the morning—"
"Yer just gonna toss me out, aren't ya?"
"Do you ever shut up and listen to what people say?" Torn snarled, glaring the other into silence. "You can't stay here. Even if Erol doesn't recognize you, nothing going to save you from the next set of goons who try to jump you. But I know a guy who does work all over the city, including some of the more secure KG facilities. You'll have a better chance of finding your friend that way than trying to sleep through the Guard. If you stay with him, he'll even be able to protect you."
For a long while, they just stared at each other, Daxter working through his own set of calculations and scenarios before finally asking," Why? Why are you doing this?"
"Believe it or not, I took this job to help people. I haven't done too good of a job recently and I plan on changing that. I just hope this Jak of yours is worth the trouble."
The response was instantaneous. "Jak's worth a hundred of you."
For a second, Torn saw exactly what that solid something that had kept Daxter going was. He smiled. "Somehow, I don't doubt that."
***
The rest of the day was spent in a holding pattern. Daxter responded well to the manufactured eco, the bruising fading steadily with each dosage until only shadows remained. There was a couple more rounds of sex, each less of a demand than the previous until the last of the drug's effects wore off. In between periods of rest, Daxter talked about the place he'd come from and the friend he was looking for. While the names of places like Sandover and Rock Village sounded vaguely familiar, Torn put no stock whatsoever in the claims that they had saved the world from dark eco. He never doubted Daxter's devotion, however. The kid didn't have a strong fighting spirit, would never be the one to lead a charge, but he was a defender—someone who would hold a line and protect the back of his partner. Jak was a pretty lucky guy in Torn's opinion.
The next morning, he got the other out of the barracks and to his contact without incident. Osmo was a good man, even if he tended to be too kind, so he felt kind of bad about foisting Daxter upon him. He felt no such remorse about failing to mention the fact Osmo ran an extermination business, which was why he had access to so many different locations. The loud mouth brat was made of stern stuff, after all; he'd be just fine.
In the following weeks, he trailed after the mysterious "Jak," trying to prove or disprove the existence of said person. He never found the owner of that name, but what he did find was disturbing enough. Prisoners missing, sections of whole databanks locked down, files altered, and a large number of requisitions for dark eco that shouldn't have existed in the first place. The first warning flag was the amount of information he was restricted from. The second was Erol confronting him, the basic message saying he was out of his league and to leave well enough alone. The other Commander slipped, however, by saying that if the Baron had wanted him in on the project, he would have been invited. It had been meant as a slight. All it did was lead Torn right to a tangled mess of reports about death from dark eco exposure and a crackpot scientist's theory that it could be used to enhance soldiers.
He got hammered that night, trying to get the words and images out of his head. The drunker he became, the angrier he got as well. Once the hangover was manageable, he decided to do something about it. Then he simply disappeared.
About a month later, Ashelin found an envelope with her name on it waiting for her in her room. Inside was a memory stick, a badge she would always remember pinning to a person she admired, and short note written in an unmistakable handwriting.
My oath was to serve and protect the people. I can't do that within the ranks of the KG anymore. I'd rather be a good man than a good soldier.
***
“Hold up, you two. I need to talk to the rat before you go.”
Daxter bit his tongue in an effort not to swear. It had been bound to happen sooner than later. He’d just hoped it would be later. Much later. After he was dead and his body had been turned to fine ash kind of later.
He admitted it had been fair foolish to think that this Underground Commander they were supposed to find wouldn’t be the same jerk he’d had the grave misfortune of meeting before, but really, how many people would name their kids Torn? The hair was different, the outfit was different, but those facial tattoos…he’d never forget something like that. He’d seen the recognition in the ex-Krimzon Guard’s eyes the moment they’d met. He’d thought for sure the whole sordid affair was going to get spilled out right in front of Jak not even a day after achieving freedom. But they’d been treated as roughly as he did all other recruits (harder than a lot of the others, actually, the prick), more gruff and unapproachable than remembered. A couple weeks with no sort of formal acknowledgement had actually led Daxter to believe it wasn’t going to be used against him. Apparently, Luck hated him as much as Fate did.
He flinched when a big, warm hand landed on his shoulder, breaking him out of his silent panic attack. The smile was automatic and only partially fake when he turned to look at his friend. The perpetually angry scowl Jak wore had somehow morphed into concern, sending a fluttering through the redhead’s chest. Finally, after weeks of trying to acclimate to life with each other again, something other than simmering rage.
“Everything okay, Dax?” the blond asked quietly in that dark and rough voice that sent a completely different kind of flutter through his system. Deep blue eyes promised to do whatever it took to make sure the answer would be yes, evening out the strained parts of his smile.
Long dead Precursors, he was so damn happy to have Jak at his side again.
“S’cool,” he lied, making that happiness bittersweet and hoping it didn’t reflect on his face. “Prob’ly has somethin’ to do with that dead fish in his bunk…”
Jak rolled his eyes and gave Daxter a “Really?” look. The redhead just grinned. Lips twitching, his friend shook his head and let the matter drop. “Don’t make it worse for yourself,” he said, giving the shoulder under his hand a squeeze. “Tell him you’re sorry, try to be sincere about it, and be quick. I’ll meet you outside in five.”
Daxter hummed an agreement, keeping the act up until Jak disappeared into the stairwell and he heard the telltale whoosh of the outside door opening. Then he sighed heavily, resigning himself to what was coming next. It didn’t matter what Torn asked for, he told himself. It wouldn’t be anything he hadn’t already given up for Jak once. He already knew what lengths he’d go to if the situation called for it. Now was no different than then. The mental pep-talk did nothing to make turning around easier. He stalked up to the table covered with maps and papers in the back of the room, using it as a barrier between him and the man on the other side, who was calmly writing out something.
“So. That’s the Jak I’ve heard so much about,” Torn commented idly, not even looking up from his work.
“Don’t fuck around with me,” Daxter hissed, sounding more defeated than irate. “Just tell me what it’s gonna cost to keep what happened between me an’ you between me an’ you an’ be done with it already.”
The Underground’s tactician finally looked up somewhat surprised. “You haven’t told him.” It was a statement, not a question, but Daxter elaborated anyway.
“Tellin’ him now won’t do nothin’. He just spent two years in a fuckin’ torture chamber thanks ta me. He needs to be pissed off right now an’ I just as well assume it to be with someone else for the moment.” He paused slightly before continuing on a little more softly. “He needs someone he can trust an’ I’m the only one who can be that person.”
“So you’re going to lie to him every step of the way.” Torn chuckled rather humourlessly, shaking his head. “You’re still doing things backwards, brat. He should know what his freedom cost—he might appreciate it a bit more and take more care in preserving it.”
This time it was Daxter who laughed without a trace of humour. “He’s just gonna hate me for it no matter when I tell him, so what does it matter?”
“Then he’s not the man either of thought he was.” The pen was finally put down. Torn folded his hands over the paperwork and leveled a serious look at the redhead. “You put yourself into some very real danger trying to make up for what you saw as a mistake. If he can’t accept that, then I’ll personally put him out of both of our miseries. A little over a year ago, I helped someone who needed help. That someone helped me in return. As far as I’m concerned, there’s no outstanding debt to be paid. So unless you just want to dredge up bad memories for the fuck of it, relax, and let it go.”
There was an almost irresistible urge to tease, but Daxter found it in himself not to press his luck this once with some smart-ass comment. Instead, he offered up a very mature, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now what was this about a fish being somewhere other than on a dinner plate?”
“Oh, hey, look at the time,” Daxter said, checking his nonexistent pocket-watch. “Gotta job to do an’ Jak’s waitin’ on me, so see ya ‘round, Tattooed Wonder!” He waved innocently and ran away shamelessly, completely missing the soft look on Torn’s face as he disappeared.
---------------
The End
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The Good Soldier