Rigor Mortis

By Megan

Disclaimer: I don't own Jak. Please ignore the obvious pun.

Summary: Some people just…don't want to be saved.

Narration

Speech

Note: Another 'came at me out of nowhere' story. I think it's still a monologue, even though the listener is actually mentioned outside of the speaking. And he's talking to Torn, 'cause I'm a disgusting fangirl, whoot!

Clenched teeth, set jaw, eyes like coal. Like pressured coal, slowly cracking to reveal only a harder core of diamond. There are words, many words. For once, his body seems mute, instead of his voice. You're tense, hand and pen poised over the report.

"There was this girl, in the water district. Just a kid, you know?"

Not a hair moves. Nothing to betray the reactions to his words. A kid? you think. A kid not so far from himself? Or is it he who has fled innocence? Certainly, it was not raped or torn from his being. Merely abandoned.

"I don't remember what she looked like. It didn't matter-she was just another civilian. They all look the same after awhile. Anyone without armor, they just blur." He hangs his head, more to hide a reaction than to create one. " You just don't think about them, after awhile. In the back of your mind, you know they're there, and that you're fighting for them, but you don't notice them much. I don't really want to—especially after today. It's easier to ignore them."

He doesn't sigh. To you, a sigh would seem fitting, for the pause he gives, but it does not come. Nothing comes, save for more words.

"She was on a roof. I only saw her because she was on a roof. I thought she might be a scout, surveying the area. But she wasn't scanning the streets or the sky. She was looking straight down. She didn't see anyone, and no one else saw her. There weren't many people about, I think. Like I said—I don't notice them much."

You nod. Many of your fighters ignore the civilians—you notice them only out of the obligation to keep them alive, for with your luck, they'd probably amass their own army and open yet another front against you.

"So I was watching her look at the ground—well, she was over some water, but you get the point. And Daxter was just telling me to move on, to get my ass out of their before another battle started, but I couldn't take my eyes away from her…just…I felt like something was going to happen. Kor, where is Daxter now? I can't believe I lost him, I can't believe…"

His voice cracks, and it seems so strange, coming from that empty face. You lower your eyes, stomach twisting.

"Just a kid. Just a fucking kid."

His head should be shaking. Your mind tells you it should be shaking, but you don't want to look, because you know it won't be, and it's just too much. You sit, and wait for the details, ready to put the facts into the report. They're not relevant—not like the way he won't move, won't gesture. The diamond hardness of his eyes is a pertinent detail, but no one wants to read about it at the weekly council. It demands acknowledgement, even if it's something you have to see to understand.

"Daxter was so scared—I could hear it in his voice. His claws kept digging into my shoulder, and he kept telling me to leave. I don't know what it was—some instinct or something—but he really wanted to leave. He deserves more credit than we give him."

You remember the ottsel, when they came in. He seemed pale even under the fur. His nose was clammy, you're sure, and his coat lackluster. He was shivering, and oddly silent. Motioning to the map, he pointed out the gun course before stepping shakily back into the street. If you hadn't already heard the story, you'd have never believed he was once anything but an animal.

"But I wouldn't leave. I just kept watching, and then she jumped…I ran toward her, and all of my thoughts were scattering…I needed to save her, but I knew she didn't want to be saved…"

There was such a virginal quality to his voice—like he'd never found someone he couldn't help. Like he'd never seen anyone so without hope. Just a kid, you think. Just a fucking kid.

"And I was running, and I could feel my wings opening…I just wanted to help her. My body was going forward, Daxter was screaming, and my mind was failing to find a justification…I mean, what would I do afterwards? What would I say to her, how would I keep her safe after that? I couldn't bring her here, I couldn't baby sit some depressed teenager. But I wanted to stop her from falling."

"I couldn't though…I saw her face when she fell. She looked peaceful, or like she thought she would be soon. I don't know…just…I knew she'd hate me for it. I just didn't want any more of them to hate me…"

He whimpers, and you keep your head down. You know he's staring right at you, as he did the girl. He's watching you not look at him, just looking down at your report. There's fear and shame in his voice, but if you were to look up, you'd only see his firm jaw and frozen face. He won't even be hunching—he'll be standing tall, at attention, delivering the report. It's so unlike him that you almost want to break.

"I hesitated. I hesitated and she died. I just…I know stuff like that happens—plenty of people in the prisons don't wait around for their executions—just…she wasn't in prison. She was just some stupid kid, and she jumped off a fucking building, and I fucking let her die."

You don't say anything. There's nothing you can say. He has to learn—he has to learn that people have a breaking point, and it doesn't stretch as far as his. All you can do is file the report, send him to bed, and see what happens. If he wakes up with a greater resolve to help the city, then he's learned to gain from the situation. If he's still talking too much and moving too little, you'll smack him in the head and take him off duty.

You don't know what you'll do with him after that—you certainly can't baby sit some depressed teenager.

But unlike Jak, you've already learned. You don't need to know what happens next—you'll save him because you want to, and because hesitating gets people killed.

You'll save him whether he wants you to or not, because sometimes, being a bastard gets things done.

He is silent. You look up. He should be standing there uncertainly, looking at his feet, waiting for advice or punishment. He's not, and you're prepared for that. Even if you weren't prepared, you know that you have to act anyway.

You look him in those diamond-eyes, and point toward a bed. Your eyes return to the report, which is empty. You leave it that way.

The council doesn't care about personal growth. Just the useless facts.

Oy. I blame The Crucible for my psychosis.

Note: edited, thanks to eyeslikesilk. The image of a JesusElf was quite amusing.