DEF: And I return to my first and most beloved fandom with JakxTorn goodness. Ah yes.


"What the hell was that supposed to be?" Torn demanded, throwing out a hand and sending the light swinging dangerously between them. For once the rat was quiet, wrapped around the blond's neck, half hidden away in matted, rain drenched hair and a ratty red scarf. Anyone else would've felt some measure of pity for the pair, soaked to the bone, hair and fur clumping with things far more sinister than mere water, bone deep exhaustion evident in their posture.

The blond was just a kid really, Torn was pretty sure he wasn't even old enough to be in the Hip Hog yet alone fighting a suicidal war against a corrupt, insane tyrant. He put his life on the line eight days out of seven for a city he didn't even give half a damn for.

Anyone else would've pitied him, Torn wasn't anyone 'd seen men, boys this one's age, die in the heat of battle, against the Metal Heads, against the guards, far too often to let this kind of shit slide.

"We kicked the Baron's ass," came the stubborn rely, exhaustion, frustration, hatred, it all bled into the smartass answer and not for the first time did Torn wonder just what kind of hell this kid had gone through to become this cynical and morbid. Oh he has the jist of it, he's read the stolen reports and heard the second hand accounts, if even half of it's true then he knows the Precursors can't exist. Still, the just is never close to enough and he may be the hardass front of the Underground movement but even he doesn't have the balls to ask.

"Without authorization! You weren't working for the Underground, you were being a loose cannon with a score to settle!" he yelled, pounding a fist on the table. He wasn't so much pissed, no not so much pissed, as just plain aggravated, they didn't have place for loose cannons in this war, he didn't have the patience to handle them. One wrench in the machine and everything was blown to hell, although at the rate Jak's going, it won't be long until the walls are falling down all around them.

"Hey, we're doing twice as much as the rest of this Underground movement combined. We're the ones risking our necks to blow up your ammo or saving your people from Metal Heads," the blond sneered, unbelievably blue eyes narrowing to thin blue slits, Torn couldn't help but wonder if the faint flicker of darkness was a trick of the light or just his imagination. Usually the rat was the one complaining about how little respect the pair got, Jak would just remind them how willing he was to do their dirty work so long as it got him closer to the Baron. He wasn't used to arguing with someone that was miraculously in the right, no matter how grudgingly he had to admit it.

"Which we can account for! At least if that goes to shit there's some kind of back up, I can't prepare for some angst ridden teen and his convoluted thirst for revenge!" he shouted actual anger seeping into his voice, surprising him. He didn't get angry, frustrated yes, aggravated hell yes, irritated as all hell, but never angry, not really. But then, maybe he was just angry at the situation as a whole, there were so many chances of taking out the Baron, so many opportunities he could've exploited but Errol's got him by the balls and the bastard knows it.

"Lucky for you I don't need a backup then," Jak snarked, lips pulling back in a feral smirk, one that belied just as much amusement as it did 'back the fuck away, this one's dangerous'. He didn't wonder if it was just a trick of the light this time, not when he glanced down at that smirk and saw too sharp teeth that looked as though they could tear out a man's throat easier than blinking.

He doesn't say anything as the pair leaves, doesn't try to stop them or give them the mission he had for them, it has to happen sometime in the next few hours but it can wait. He returns his attention to the city maps and carefully plans missions that never overstep any bounds, that let them trudge ever onwards but never at the pace he knows they could.

He tries his best not to think of a blond boy with his orange rat out there in the rain, soaked to the bone and the triumph that burned in his chest from one small fight against the Baron. He tries not to think of all the assistance he could actually give to that blond boy, enough to maybe kill the fucker off but then, they wouldn't have anyone left alive to share in the victory. He pretends he wasn't about to offer the blond stay here, where it was at least dry, and get some sleep on the hard, narrow bunks. He has a war to plan and too many restraints to work around.