A/N: Hello, there! Demz here, imparting to you the cheery little fact that this section currently makes me cry at night! Well. Sniffle enthusiastically, at least. Moving on!

This was written on a TOTAL whim. There’s a snowball’s chance in hell that it will continue, but for the moment it could inspire people. Could. Maybe. I know different, crackpot views on characters and alternate universes usually scrape me from the bottom of my proverbial barrel when I’m down there.

As House MD says, CLIMB OUT OF YOUR HOLES, PEOPLE!

Toodaloo, and to the AU!

Pairings: Possible JakxDaxter, implied TornxAshelin

Warnings: Totally not canon. This will not abide by the plot except in vague circumstances and character connections, so don’t stress about conformity.

PS: Is anyone EVER going to use that ‘Boggy Billy’ option on the ‘main characters’ slot? OMFG I would pay to see that. I WOULD PAY BIG MONIES. … :cough: Yep.

-.-.-.-

Underdog

-.-.-.-

It was late. It was cold. The coffee was thin and greasy, but also all they had.

Jak sipped it mechanically, thoughts stuck on the speckled canister he’d slopped it out of. There were little details to be considered, like how long it had been in their car. Whether it was instant or not- had he been fortunate enough to brew something before racing out of his apartment that morning?

It was his quaint way of dealing with stress and, as it turned out, one of the better options. He tried not to count the footsteps, but they hammered in the empty street.

“Stop it.” He said flatly.

“What? I got an animal in me!” The other barked, throwing him a dirty, indignant look before whirling for another thirty feet of footsteps. He mowed through them, hardly satisfied. “I can’t chill, I can’t just… flop on my ass like you and call it a night!”

Jak set the coffee on the hood of his car, just behind his elbow. It was making his stomach cold, but he shoved his hands in his pockets to quell their empty feeling.

“We’re done and we don’t have a warrant.”

“Never stopped us before,” he grumbled, mutinous. “Finders keepers, and you know how cops get when they’re tossed an excuse to cuff somebody. Makes their night.”

“Dax.” It wasn’t a dangerous tone, but it quelled any immediate jabs. Daxter stopped pacing, instead settling for a snort. Jak had a vague hope for the continued silence, slowly leading his mind to irrelevant things- but a thump next to him vaporized any chance at recovery.

“But we called it in ages ago.” Daxter said, almost whining. Jak closed his eyes as the redhead settled next to him, rustling in his cavernous coat. He could almost see his friend’s peevishly folded arms and slumped position. “Y’don’t think those numbskulls could’a-“

Jak tuned it out easily, focusing on his surroundings. The street was coated in runoff, gritty and dark. Lonely and cramped. He knew the rest of their team was waiting on the other side of the building, covering the other exit in case their targets were tipped off before help arrived. Nothing to worry about.

Daxter, sneering about a pit-stop for doughnuts, scuffled closer to him. Jak could feel his elbow on the back of his hand, a surreptitious plea for contact.

Before, it was all easy. Oh, don’t worry about it sugar, they’ll be here in seconds- he was all loose wrists and sleepy eyes. But when push came to shove and it was time to bare steel, Daxter was neurotic at best. Jak smiled, but wiped it before the other could ask. He sometimes wondered how Daxter had held up under the stress of freeing him. Help had not been wanting during the act, of course, but the knowledge of a ‘backup team’ parked a mile away doesn’t do much when you’re trying to talk your way into a prison yard. Which he did.

Jak shook his head, reveling in his own bland, well-traversed amazement, right as the sirens started. The silence of the street ended quickly, blotted out on all sides by encroaching red and blue, and his friend instantly perked up, giving an attentive rustle. Jak opened his eyes, thumbed his gun and Daxter loped to the roof of the car, popping a stick of gum in his mouth.

“There we go. There we go!” Daxter grinned, all mismatched teeth and round cheeks. “Ch-ching. In go the boys in blue, out comes our meal ticket. Show me the mobster!”

Jak had to smile.

-.-.-

Half an hour later the street was crammed with white, flashing cars of all sizes, resembling scattered boxes waiting to be unpacked. Any route between them was a maze of single-file steps and gritty exhaust fumes, navigated by the salmon of the crime-stream- shouting police.

A tall redhead in black stood at the forefront, arguing heatedly with the on-sight police. Everyone had uniforms, all of which gleamed with one or more official-looking badges, and the monotone of radios buzzed ever louder. The crime scene was covered, and Jak’s team had joined him by now, all moored placidly where the welling crowd had nosed them aside.

One uniformed woman took interest in their estrangement. With a fluid glance back at the head detective, who nearly had the flunky by the collar now, she picked her way over to where they stood scattered around the car. She looked dryly satisfied, heels clicking, but only raised her eyes when within their circle.

“Did I give you enough of a head start?” She asked, tucking her scarf over one shoulder. Her arrival and question was met with schooled indifference, as though none knew her or cared to, but they all shifted closer. The street continued to wail, new police cars arriving by the moment.

“Good tip. Saved us time.” The tallest grunted, long hands lodged in his pockets. He had a lean, raw face- sticky distortions in his skin indicated severe burns, and his heavy eyebrows were singed to the point of no return. He was handsome still, with bright blue eyes.

“You get the guy?” She asked, pointedly avoiding looking at the leader.

Frown deepening, he nodded over to the building’s entrance. It was in the process of being elbowed open, white paint peeling off in sheets as they packaged the perpetrator into a cramped crouch. He struggled, throwing off one side of his escort only to stumble the same way, slamming into a filthy wall. The rest of the team scrambled like ants, attempting to scoop up his jabbing elbows and restrain him. The woman nodded, then looked at the rest of the team.

“Thanks for showing up.” She said, almost smiling. Her full, red lips were meant for much more, but at this clammy, wailing hour of the morning the bare minimum seemed enough to settle for. There was just old greasy coffee, hours of waiting and no smiles. Jak understood.

“Aw, you know we couldn’t say no to the call’a justice. Not when so many puppy-kickers are on the loose,” Daxter interjected snidely, earning a tired look from their informant. “How’s the bust settlin’ with your crew though? Ginger looks ‘bout ready to boil over.”

He sounded unduly pleased at this fact, tacking on a graphic wince as the other redhead seized some unfortunate officer’s coffee cup and dashed it to the ground, clearly fuming. The police around him scattered tactfully, clutching any respective clipboards, and the instigator leered around, fine face warped.

“We’re only here to look good,” she said brusquely, glancing back from her boss, who had stalked off to find more uninformed officers. “You know that. Our paychecks keep everybody else’s in the clear.”

“Yea,” Torn said grimly. “Insurance.”

“Gotta make the Board think you’re doing something.”

Ashelin smiled briefly at Jak. It was probably the second or third time she had heard him speak, but the pleasure it brought was transitory. All too soon she nodded, hearing Erol raise his voice somewhere behind her.

“Thanks for doing my job.” She said after a moment, strangely without bitterness. Jak nodded, Daxter gave a smug little ‘You couldn’t live without us and oh, let me count the ways’ sound and Torn made another, more neutral sound, eyes fixed unwaveringly on her.

“Sure,” he said. His face was gaunt in the strange light, but his expression was dangerously preoccupied.

She turned without looking at him and walked off towards the nearest chief police car. Briskly splitting the crowd, she began reading the criminal’s rights as soon as he was dragged into view, stepping away as he spat at her shoes.

The crowd began to thin. The lights were watered down. Daxter made a noxious comment and slipped off the hood of the car, skulking back to his own ride. Jak followed, hands in his pockets and gun safelocked. Absently, almost regretfully, Torn picked a cigarette from his pocket and slid it between his teeth, watching Ashelin slam the door to the police car and walk back to her own. Erol followed, trenchcoat flapping.

Everyone pretended to ignore that same, profoundly sad look he got when she turned and walked away without a flicker of regret. It was routine, bland, and painful as hell. But so was business.

Tucking the cigarette back inside his pocket, he opened the car door and, once inside, muttered something evasive. Kleiver rearranged his review mirror, stepped on the gas and the bust was officially over.