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The snow has been falling all day, not the soft kind that falls slowly to the ground, glistening like jewels, but the wild flurries of blizzard white, blinding, and sharp like razor winged moths. It’s the kind of weather that feels apocalyptic and foreboding. It’s the crescendo, the Precursors rage gathered in storm clouds and pelted down on the city below, a desperate attempt to burry its evil, to blow away the ash and bone. It would be right, it would be just if the Gods ended the world tonight, or the very least this city filled with blackened hearts and hollow souls. Not even the magic of Yuletide could lift Haven from its despair, instead; the festive spirit fell over the land like a shadow, darkening all in its path.
Jak should be indoors right now, not trudging through the rising snow, head bowed against the wind, back exposed to the eco bullets sailing through the wild air. It wasn’t a mission that bought him to the Baron’s fortress. It wasn’t sense or reason that had him pacing restlessly through the streets. It was revenge, it was anger, like fire and thorns in his belly, luring him out. There was an overwhelming ache growing in his chest, tugging at heartstrings and the stone walls placed to keep the pain, the anguish out.
There was no clarity left inside the ruins of Jak’s mind, only rage and madness. It blinds him, or perhaps it’s the snow, the flash of lights and rain of bullets – all Jak can do is run, pray the way forwards leads him out, away. The dark eco simmers hotly under his skin, enough to keep his freezing body in motion long after it should have fallen to the frozen ground. Greenlight from a familiar neon sign cuts through the white, a beacon showing safe passage to shore.
Jak skids, colliding with the concrete side of a building, the force momentarily knocking the air from his lungs. He gasps, the ragged inhale burning all the way down. The Krimzon Guards are getting closer, the wind cyclonic, and Jak thinks, with lungs coated in ice and sorrow, that he should give up, surrender. He’s never going home, never going to be the heroic boy with a heart of gold again – he’s as dangerous as the winds, as bleak as the dark descent into winter, as hopeless as a lost soul during Yuletide.
The winds shift, grab at him like hands and tug, tug him away from the wall, from the guards, from the fall. Dazed, Jak stumbles forward, daring a look back. The snow swirls like a swarm of wasps, condensing until there is a wall of white, not even the flashing crimson lights able to penetrate it. It reminds Jak of white eco, of the purity of hope and kindness it represents. Time bends, metal, concrete, and ice falling away to become a cloudless sky, down below a lush sea of trees.
Jak inhales, and the air is not ash and snow, but something transcending explanation, and it fills him with fire, with life. For a moment he is whole, is the boy he used to be, and everything feels like it will be all right. White eco courses through his veins, flooding him with serenity, with joy and power. He feels warm, feels safe and far, far from this city of desolation. But it ends, comes crashing down in a flare of pain that sears through his right side.
The heat jostles with the ice, disorientating, and nauseating. Teeth gritted against the burn, Jak takes off, letting instinct guide him through the haze. The storm rages on, the wind beating at Jak’s back, a violent force pushing him onward, even when his legs tremble and threaten to buckle. He’s nearly there; can see the warm yellow light spilling out through the frost-covered windows. It looks like hope, like home, though it’s not, could never be.
Jak struggles the last few steps, collapsing against the door, praying that the lock hasn’t frozen shut, it turns, the metal cold against his fingertips, and the door swings inward, handle ripping from his hand. He stumbles forward, legs useless, feet frozen, and falls to the floor. It’s an undignified entrance for Haven’s most wanted, but there is no one around to see. The lobby is blissfully empty, the other residences tucked away safely in their rooms, huddled under warm blankets with loved ones.
Jak is alone, is sprawled out on the floor, body shuddering and shaking as violently as the boarding house around him. He’s used to being alone, is tragically familiar with lying helplessly on the floor, bleeding and broken, gasping through corrupted lungs. It hurts to breathe, each inhale like swallowing fire, a painful contrast to the frigid air pouring through the open door. Jak kicks out with his left leg, boot colliding with the door’s timber frame, the frantic kick stronger than the blizzard winds.
The door slams shut, the thud a pin drop amongst the roar of the storm. The other residence remains undisturbed, unaware to the mess collapsed on the woven welcome rug. Adrenaline begins to fade, leaving in its wake ice and fire. The cold has seeped down to Jak’s bones, is frost coursing through his veins, is an uncomfortable contrast to the searing pain in his right side. There is blood seeping into the rug, mixing with the melting snow. Crimson and white. Life and death.
Jak’s vision tunnels, the world flickering out of focus like film from a broken projection reel. For a moment he is falling, plummeting through the floor, through the earth, through time itself. Jak fights against the freefall, against the darkness rushing up to consume him, to trap him in memories of untold horrors. He crawls back into his skin, which doesn’t feel right anymore, into his head, which is as hazardous as a mind field.
The darkness recedes, letting Jak return to the world little by little. The lobby reforms piece by piece, vision hazy then shifting into focus, into a vast space of lights and shadows. The room is still empty, but the floorboards above are creaking, familiar footsteps approaching. Gathering what little strength is left, Jak slowly rises to feet, swaying dangerously. He plants his feet firmly on the floor, fingers curling into fists at his side, the bite of clawed tips holding him place.
His vision blurs, burning from the oceans of tears that need to be shed, but he won’t cry, has already shown far too much weakness for one night. Ice coated lashes flutter, desperately blinking away the moisture. The creaking gets closer, closer, closer, and with a steadying breath, Jak gathers all the broken pieces, slotting them back into place, but nothing fits right anymore, all the edges are jagged and brittle from rust.
“Jak!” Daxter appears at the top of the staircase, voice exploding shrilly into the air “where the hell have you been?” He rushes down the steps, stopping at eye level. He looks ruffled, angry, it stirs awake a prickle beneath his skin “And why the HELL ARE YOU BLEEDING?”
Jak flinches, hands automatically covering his ears, the motion aggravating his injured side. “I was at the fortress,” he replied, tone harsher than he intended. He’s still not used to speaking, has trouble getting the cadence right. “And some guards shot at me.” Wincing, he lowers his arms, pressing a hand to the torn flesh and fabric, feeling fresh blood coat his fingers.
“Why the fuck did you go to the fortress during a blizzard?”
Honestly, he doesn’t remember what lead him to make such a reckless choice. There was no rhyme or reason, only anger, only bone-deep sorrow and a want, a need for retribution. Sometimes, when he’s wrecked from gruelling missions, from sleepless nights, reality begins to slip from his fingers, his body and mind separating. The world falls away, he falls away, and when his body and mind meet again, he wakes in difference places, without memories of how he came to be there. It’s a terrifying ordeal, is driving him mad, but he won’t tell Daxter any of this.
Instead, Jak shrugs half-heartedly, plastering on an innocent smile.
“Oh, that’s it!” Daxter pins him in place with a seething glare, fur bristling on end. “You’re grounded, mister.” He points a clawed tipped finger in Jak’s direction. “Now go to your room.” He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, tail thumping against the wooden steps, each thud matching the pounding of Jak’s heart.
“You’re starting to sound like Samos.” He snarled, words bitter, sharp like glass, in his mouth. That’s not how he intended to say it, but the fire and thorns twist in his gut, spreading hatred to his heart. It’s not fair to project this anger onto Daxter, but the words have been unleashed, sit heavily in the frigid air between them. “I’m sorry,” he says, apology clumsy on his tongue. “Can we just… talk about this later? When I’m not half-frozen and bleeding?” He forces a smile, trying to add a layer of humour to this fucking awful night, but his lips feel all wrong, and the apology rings hollow.
The silence stretches between them, heavy and thick, then Daxter sighs, the sound cutting the tension like a knife. “Sounds good to me,” he says like it’s that easy to forgive and move on, to shake away the hurt and anger. “C’mon, buddy, let’s get you upstairs before you bleed out on the rug.” Daxter pivots, marching upward. “Oh, by the way, I made us some soup, it should be ready by now.”
“Since when could you cook?” Jak asked, trailing behind Daxter, body growing cold, sluggish as the adrenaline runs out and pain seeps in.
“Jak, I am a man of many talents,” he replied, glancing over his shoulder, brows furrowing in concern. “Unfortunately, channelling eco isn’t one of them.” He spins around. “Do I need to call a medic?”
“No,” Jak snapped, heart seizing in his chest. “I’ll be fine.” He swallows against the frost-bitten stone working its way up the back his throat. “It’s just a graze.”
“Oh, yeah, because I haven’t heard that before.” Daxter shakes his head, frustration palpable.
“Dax, I’m fine,” he insisted, straining to keep the growl at bay, to stay standing while his body ached right down to the bone. “You worry too much.”
“I worry just the right amount, thank ya very much.” He declared, arms crossing stubbornly over his chest. “Seriously, Jak, you’re giving me grey fur.”
Guilt unfolds in Jak’s chest, burning, for a moment, brighter than the pain and despair. “Well,” he stretched out the word, curled his lips into what felt like a pale version of a once playful grin, “you are five hundred years old.”
The tension ebbs and flows like the tide, receding, at last, with the flicker of a grin. “You’re just jealous that I look this good for my age.” Daxter fired back, never missing a beat. “I can’t keep the ladies off me.” He winked, flexing his skinny, furry arms.
Out of habit, Jak rolled his eyes, the response greater than any sentence he could string together. Daxter huffed warmly, spinning around in a blur of orange fur than darting up the last several steps. Jak followed, one hand gripping tight to his side, the other gripping the banister, fingers quivering as a wave of dizziness rushes through him. Destabilised, fatigue and cold bones slowing his usual rapid-fire reflexes, he comes crashing down, the impact rattling through him.
Shuddering, eyes burning, Jak shrinks into himself, unable to hold back the pitiful groan clawing up his throat. Gingerly, he lifts his head, trying - always trying - to rise, the floor moves beneath him, the specks and grains swirling and whirling together. Jak closes his eyes, fingers flexing on the floorboards, trying to find purchases on the world. But it keeps spinning, he keeps spinning, falling, plummeting through the hands of time, through the very fabric of the universe.
“Jak, buddy, hey,” Daxter’s voice slices through the darkness, is a hand reaching deep, deep into murky depths, “stay with me!”
The howling wind, the shuddering walls, the warmth of Daxter’s hand on his cheek carry him back to the night, anchoring him once more to his bruised and fragile frame. Mustering the remaining embers of strength, Jak guardedly shifts from the floor to the wall, back braced against the wooden panels, breath escaping in sharp, shallow gasps.
“You okay there, buddy?”
“Never better,” he replied, teeth gritted against the ache of misery.
“Do you think you can stand?”
He isn’t sure, but he has no choice - it’s get up and fight or lay down and die. Precursors, he just wants to lay down, to rest awhile; instead, he tucks his feet under him, feeling every muscle strain in protest as he rises, using the wall for support.
The boarding house spins, the hallway becoming a revolving blur of painted doors and numbers. They haven’t been here long, though Jak keeps little track of time, focus divided between the two wars raging, one around him, the other within. When he is present, not lost in nightmares or stuck in hollow places, he finds comfort in the warm confines of their new accommodation. The boarding house offers a warmth the Underground bunker could not, a sense of safety that comes with padlocks and a room shared only with Daxter.
The bunker was too dark, too closed in and too open at the same time. Rebel fighters came and went, some becoming regular faces, others fleeting guests that reeked of gun powder and whiskey. There was a sense of brotherhood between the rebels that excluded him and Daxter, but that was fine, Jak didn’t need them to like him, to invite him to play games and drink around the hearth. He wasn’t there to make friends, though it didn’t stop Daxter from trying to involve him.
The truth is, which he’d never admit aloud, is all the noise and commotion, all the strangers reeking of sweat and smoke, made Jak uneasy. They weren’t a threat, even if some of them invaded his personal space before realising he was the new recruit full of dark eco - Jak didn’t doubt his ability to beat them in a fight - it’s just… that open space, the lack of walls, and doors to lock made Jak feel uneasy. Afraid. Afraid in a way that was irrational, yet impossible to ignore.
One night, after hours of tossing and turning, shuddering at snores, and squeaking mattress springs, Jak had enough. He silently packed what little he and Daxter had to call their own, prodded Daxter awake, much to his outrage, and slipped out into the night, no real destination in mind.
“Jak, hey earth to Jak.”
Jak blinked, the raging night trickling back in as the hallway slowly righted itself.
“Where’d you go, buddy?”
“Nowhere.” He shakes his head, pulling away from the wall that tremored like his tired bones, and started towards the end of the hall, counting every step. “Not this time.” He’s still here, in this strange place of temporary safety.
He turns the knob, pushing the door inward, the smell of winter spices carrying him on nutmeg currents back in time, to winter solstice nights. Familiar faces flicker in his mind, cheeks rosy from the cold and lips parting in cheerful laughter, in heartfelt song, a perfect match to the aroma of cinnamon and rosemary. The twinning memories are saturated in colour and joy, are flooding Jak with warmth and wistful yearning. He tries to stay, to let the past hold him tight, but it falls away, like dying leaves on autumn trees, but the rich aroma of almost forgotten food stays.
“It smells like home,” he whispered, heart beating in joy, in foolish delight of being tricked into believing it was true. He places a hand to his chest, an apology, a need for comfort, and continues into the room, making it as far as the small dining table. His vision swims, pain leaving him nauseated, doubled over, and breathing hard.
“Don’t pass out on me, Jak.” Daxter sounds like he’s miles away, though Jak can feel him tucking a blanket around his shivering shoulders.
“It smells like home,” he repeats, unsure if he said it aloud the first time, or if even now the words are in his head, like all the blood-soaked memories he’s trying desperately to keep locked away.
“Yeah, you said that buddy boy.” He can feel Daxter’s hands on his face, fingers inspecting for injuries. “Did you hit your head?”
“I’m fine.” He pulls away, ignoring the dizziness that crests over him in nauseating waves. “Personal space, Daxter.”
“Ah, sorry.” Daxter bounds onto the table, concerned gaze pinning him in place a moment longer. “I’m gonna get the med-kit, stay right there.”
Jak nods, hands involuntarily reaching up to remove his goggles, but he finds only damp frosted hair. Daxter must have removed them earlier or perhaps he never put them on in the first place, and they are still on the nightstand. He can’t remember. He can’t remember much anymore, then there are some horrible, wicked things that he can’t forget. No matter how much he wants too. Shaking the memories away before they can escape, wreak havoc, Jak moves on to peeling off his armour and thermal tunic. He loathes Daxter seeing the scars left by the dark eco treatment and Erol’s twisted punishments, but fatigue weighs him down, the pain and cold stripping him of strength.
The ruined tunic falls to the floor, another garment to be discarded due to carnage. The chilled air nips at Jak’s exposed skin, the radiator’s warmth not reaching far enough to heat the entire room. An overwhelming urge to crawl into bed – which stands six feet away, covers rumbled and inviting – overcomes him, tugging at strings until he rises on quivering legs that give out seconds later. For the third time tonight, Jak falls, body colliding painfully with the chair, pulling a hiss through clenched teeth.
“Hey, take it easy, buddy, boy.” Daxter materialises, springing onto the chair to Jak’s right, a first-aid kit in hand. “You can go to bed after I’ve patched you up.” He sets the kit down, spreading its contents out across the table.
“Sorry,” Jak muttered, nose crinkling at the first whiff of disinfectant. His heart flutters in his chest, a wild thing frightened by the scent of a forest fire. Fingers curl inward, biting into now bare flesh, adding another layer of scar tissue to the silver crescents stamped across his palms. He exhales, hoping Daxter doesn’t hear the way it catches in his throat like the tell-tale sign of a breakdown. It can’t harm him, it’s just a mixture of chemicals, just another scent wafting into the air.
Beneath it, home simmers, sweet, earthy, hearty. Fingers uncurl and shoulders sags Jak inhales, letting the aroma of nutmeg and cinnamon wrap around him. The scent is familiar, tugs at memories of glistening winter nights, but his tired mind catches, holding memories captive. “What did you cook?” he asked, brows pinching together as he pokes at the empty space, finding only snow and dust.
“Your Yuletide eve favourites,” Daxter replied, voice warm with pride.
Jak’s furrowed brows raise, flecks of memories piecing together, “you made winter solstice soup and honey cakes?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.” He spreads his arms wide, waving around a disinfectant soaked cotton ball. “As I said before, I am a man of many talents.”
“So, you’ve said,” Jak murmured, mouth curving into a tight smile as the question from earlier pressed against his lips. Who taught you?
“We’ve got sourdough bread too.” He grinned.
“Sounds good.” Jak hummed, stomach, despite its unrest, growling at the thought of warm food. He can’t remember when he last ate. He won’t think about though, won’t go down the dangerous road of lost time and forgotten moments. “How was your day?” he asked, voice strained and hollow. Small talk is Daxter’s thing, hell talking is Daxter’s thing period, but Jak’s out of fire, out of fight, and the first touch of green eco salve threatens to undo him. Long ago, when his blood wasn’t tainted by dark eco, green eco would leave a soothing warmth beneath his skin, a gentle buzz, now it sears, sizzles like fire. The spark of hunger felt only moments ago shrivels, replaced with a rolling sea.
“Sorry,” Daxter mumbled, “almost there.”
“It’s alright,” he muttered, swallowing the lump of bitter bile, “I’ve had worse.” He’s had much worse, but he shouldn’t have told Daxter that even if he knows it to be true. He can’t take the words back; they sit in the chilled air with the dust motes and twined aromas.
“Yeah, well, you should still be more careful.” Daxter’s voice cuts to the bone, to the place where the guilt and conflict writhe together. He caps off the green eco salve and reaches for the gauze, saying, words less harsh, “you really need to start wearing a disguise.”
Jak huffed, laughter brittle in his throat, “Oh yeah, and what will that do?”
“Keep the guards from recognising you, duh!” Daxter presses the gauze to the sterilised wound, the gentleness of his touch mix-matched to the heat in his eyes. “Geez, Jak, why must I be the brains, brawn and beauty of this duo?”
Jak drops his gaze to the floor, a hot flush spreading through his face. He rubs awkwardly at the nape of his neck, feeling like a scolded child. Daxter has often been the voice of reason, the caution telling Jak to step back from the ledge, come down from the tree before he could fall. The problem is, Jak has already fallen. Hands cannot catch him now, he is already in pieces, is jagged, glistening shards scattered across the ground.
He lifts his head, eyes watering for a reason he can’t understand. “I won’t hide from them,” he declared, expression hardening.
Daxter sucks in a breath, the force of it puffing out his chest and raising bony shoulders high. He shudders ever so slightly with the exhale, a thousand unspoken things swirling from his lungs, into the air between them. There is a beat, a rigid pause then Daxter scrubs a hand over his face, the sight conjuring a mirror image of Samos frustratedly asking the Precursors for patience only to be given none.
“Fine,” he throws his arms into the air, overly dramatic gesture bursting the tension, “we’ll do it your way.” He drops his left hand to a jutted-out hip, lips curving into a warm, teasing smile. “But I had some pretty cool ideas for a vigilante costume.”
The coiling unpleasantness evaporates from Jak’s skin, replaced with a gentle stream of warmth. “I’ll think about it.” He returns the smile, though it feels frail, muscles still half-frozen and sluggish. He blinks heavily, head growing heavy as waves of exhaustion crash through him.
“Hang in there, tough guy-” Daxter pats his arm, the touch scattering enough of the darkness for him to hold onto consciousness a little longer, “-we’re almost done here.”
Outside the night has grown quiet, the raging winds quelled for a time. Inside, warmth pierces through the chill, the strange unease and discontent slipping away, releasing Jak from its grip. String cut, he sags forward, giving in to the weight of fatigue, the need to be taken care off. Daxter too is freed from the storms spell, his eyes lighten, and his voice comes out like spring warmth as he talks, telling Jak of his day as he wipes blood from his skin, taking extra care to scrub it from the creases of his palms and the cracks and chips of brittle nails.
Daxter’s tales filter in and out, a comforting tide carrying him from to moment to moment. The blurry memory of the rage driven day begins to fade and fall away, Jak does not give chase or grab hold of them the way he does other fraying, dissolving memories. He lets them go, only taking hold of the threads when it narrows down to him and Daxter. He holds these fragmented pieces close to his heart, as gentle reminders to take out and unfold when he feels unsteady, when the self-loathing and fear of abandonment threaten to unravel him.
Daxter’s words pitter off, lost in the motion of him scurrying about the room collecting Jak’s clothes. The work in tandem, removing the last pieces of half-thawed clothing and unbuckling worn boots to be kicked off. Jak winces as Daxter helps him into his blue flannel nightshirt, grateful for the soft, warm fabric against his chilled skin. He attempts to button the shirt, seal his scars away from sight, but his quivering, numb fingers leave him fumbling.
Daxter is there to take over, nimbly buttoning the shirt before rolling a pair of woollen socks onto his feet. Something sharp scratches at the back of his mind, releasing a mangled mess of fear and humiliation woven through with relief. The strange collection of emotions surge through Jak, the storm is so brief it lasts only a heartbeat, but it leaves a profound resonance. Exhaustion sets in, bone-deep and borderline numbing, what little can be felt lays only surface deep.
Guilt and gratitude spread like cobwebs under Jak’s skin, bringing tears, which are quickly blinked away, to his eyes. “Dax,” he speaks, voice a husky whisper, but the words are laden with more than what is said next, “I’m sorry.”
Daxter leaps up onto the chair, taking Jak’s face between his palms. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry for, buddy,” Daxter replied, and his words are just as loaden. One day these unspoken, unspeakable tales of horror and misery will need to be said, but for now, what isn’t spoken is heard clear enough. “You’re still grounded though,” he adds, tone serious and firm compared to the teasing grin spreading across his face.
“Whatever, you say, Daxter.” He deadpanned, though the corners of his lips twitch into a smile.
“If I don’t get you home in one piece, Samos will never let me hear the end of it.”
Home, the word tugs at Jak’s heart, as does the certainty in Daxter’s voice. “Do you really think we’ll…” Jak trails off, the ache in his chest, the tightness in his throat threatening to unravel him.
“Of course,” Daxter answered, though the words are thin lies told for comfort, “and once we do, I want to lie on the beach and drink from coconuts for a month straight. Any adventures or world-saving will be put on hold and you-” he points a claw-tipped finger at Jak’s nose, “-will be there beside me! No mischief, no blowing up things, just sun, surf and sand, got it?”
Jak blinks, trying to grasp hold of Daxter’s words, to the memories that flicker with them. “You’ve thought a lot about this,” he says, not wanting to acknowledge the new emotions rising within.
“I think a lot about everything.” He waves the subject away. “C’mon big guy, time for bed.”
Jak doesn’t resist when Daxter helps him to stand, though his small frame and height allow for little assistance. Jak is grateful nevertheless, feels stronger with Daxter at his side, guiding him through the spinning room to the bed. The covers are rumbled and unmade from last night’s tossing and turning, but Daxter pulls them back, wrangling them into order as Jak carefully lays down on his uninjured side. He closes heavy lids over burning eyes, sinking into the warmth, into the waiting darkness. He can rest now.
The storm is over.
Jak wakes to silence, the kind of silence that can only come after a storm. He lies still, eyes closed against breaking darkness - shifting memories and senses reminding of the day and where it led him. The chill has thawed from his bone, chased away by soft blankets and the warmth of the radiator. A dull ache lingers in his side, the seared flesh sluggishly knitting itself back together. By dawn, if it is not dawn already, the wound will have healed, nothing but a faint redness to remind Jak of his carelessness.
Awareness settles in, scattering the last tendrils of sleep, Jak opens his eyes to a winter drowned city. He presses his face against the glass, flinching at the chill, and takes in what little can be seen of the streets below. Apart from the streetlamps, which reveal slivers of snow-covered ground, a sagging bench and a half-buried zoomer, all there is to see is patches of white and dark. The night sky is black as pitch, a striking contrast to the white streets the glisten and glow.
In this midnight hour, Haven City looks beautiful, ethereal, the way Sandover used to look when winter swept in. After the village fell into silence, the celebrations over for the evening and everyone in bed with stomachs full from feasts and feet tired from dancing. Jak lips tug into a smile, stomach growling at the memory of roast meats and sweet treats. Gingerly, Jak sits up, wincing at the odd pull and stitch of his injured side. He shuffles to the edge of the bed, breathing heavily against the pounding in his head. The room spins, shadows, and light merging into a sea of nothingness. Lost in the grey, Jak waits, letting the radiator’s hum and Daxter’s soft snores guide him back.
The dizziness fades, shadow and light slowly untangling as his vision clears, allowing him to the take in the room anew. Jak’s eyes widen, the room, his and Daxter’s little roughed up slice of safety, has been adorned in Yuletide decorations. It’s not overdone and saturated like the storefront windows in Main Town or strung up with tacky lights and tinsel like the Hip-Hog Haven Saloon and various other venues in the slums. The decorations are traditional evergreen garlands, vases of holly and glittery pinecones with subtle touches of modern Yuletide decor, such as a tree about Daxter’s height and a string of fairy lights that flash red and green around the window by the bed. Jak hadn’t even noticed them when he woke, hadn’t seen any of this when he stumbled in hours earlier.
Guilt coils under his ribs, collecting with regret like an old friend. He left, he took off in a blizzard, fuelled by rage and madness and Daxter spent the day turning this shabby, shitty apartment into something resembling a home. Jak swallows the jagged-edged lump in his throat, making a silent vow to do better, to be better.
Sometimes outside forces tug at his strings, propel him out into the world with a thirst for blood and retribution, other times he goes off his own accord, seeking chaos and destruction. There is no controlling the outside force - whatever it may be - it is the puppet master, and Jak is tangled deeply in its strings. The turmoil within is a different story, he can wrangle the demon into submission, cage the violence and rage, fight through the urge to flee, to run until all that’s left is the pounding of his heart and the burn in his lungs.
He will push it all away, will stop reaching for things that are far out of his grasp, and stay. He will stay. Home isn’t Samos’s hut decaying in Dead Town, or the memories of Sandover left in the past, it’s right here, in the evergreen garlands and twinkling lights. Keira and Samos are out there, somewhere, but Daxter is here, is cooking winter solstice soup and decorating for Yuletide. Jak isn’t alone anymore, and it’s not until this moment, on this chilly winter night, that he realises it.
The realisation crashes through him, powerful as the tides during a hurricane, leaving him winded, shaken to the core. He doesn’t know how to handle these new emotions, is so used to feeling hopeless and angry that the sense of belonging stirring within feels foreign, wrong. He breathes through it, fighting down the urge to shove it away, to stay rooted in the anger and misery. The floorboards creak, the pipes shudder, and Jak stays. Not just on the bed, in the room, but in his head.
He exhales, opening watery eyes to the quiet, calm night – the storm is truly over, the damage not as irreparable as he first thought.
He rises, leaving Daxter slumbering as he heats a bowl of soup and toasts a few slices of bread. Quietly, Jak sits down at the table, now cleaned of medical supplies, and takes a mouthful of soup. It tastes like homes. A sensation he can’t entirely give a name to rushes through him, warm and cleansing like white eco, wrapping him in a cocoon of safety that shouldn’t exist in this dangerous world of monsters and men.
For tonight, for this moment, with the taste of home on his tongue, it does.