Aneko: Oh hai. :) Just thought I'd hand over a little oneshot.
Disclaimer: Don't own Jak and Daxter. Or Jak II. I don't really like Jak III, so there's the clue that I didn't make that one either.
Whenever they take him out of his cell to perform their experiments, he trembles. If the guards notice it as they shove him through the door and into a stumbling walk, they say nothing. They don't care—he is just the lab rat. The prisoner who can't speak, can't talk back to them.
It is a nightmare he can't get out of. No matter how many times he closes and opens his eyes, his surroundings of stained gray walls and the man with the cold, cold eyes never change. He longs for sun. For a hut on the edge of a beach. Places that now only exist in memories and dreams.
The first experiment was the worst. Dark eco burning him alive without fire. He wanted to scream, his body desperately wanted to, but the vocal chords that had been silent since his birth could not struggle free. It was a brand that seared his heart, that maybe if he could have made some sound, any at all, someone would find him. Anyone. But he couldn't, and they wouldn 't. There was only pain and fingers that probed his damaged body. The guards had to drag him back to his cell, so weak he was unable to stand. He barely moved for days after that first experiment, and thankfully, they left him alone as he took shallow breaths in his dingy cell. The pain came in waves.
Sometimes now, he wishes that he could go back to the beginning of those two years. At least back then, they had given him days to just breathe. These days, he is taken out daily, without fail, for injections that he can just feel mutilating him, changing him into something else.
He doesn't remember when he first started screaming, but once he had started, he didn't know how to stop. Like a baby learning it's first sounds, his voice found release. Sounds ranging from a low growl to a scream like a banshee.
Praxis, rather than looking disturbed, seemed delighted. "At least we're getting somewhere." he growled, his eyes lighting up with that maniacal glow that always meant pain was going to follow.
His wrists and ankles are always red, from his constant struggle against unforgiving iron restraints.
Sometimes, he wakes up in the middle of the night, thrashing, back arching, mouth dry. The phantom pains are almost as terrible as the real.
Sleep is always a gamble. Often, it's an unpleasant one, but sometimes, when he is just too tired, too burnt out and hollow to feel, his dream are soft and gentle. Memories that are usually hidden in his dark awakenings in the flickering light of the dungeon warm him more than the scant blanket that barely covers his beaten body. Memories of sun on his face, paws on his shoulder, and a young woman's laughter. He always awakes with his eyes wet and the taste of salt in his mouth.
Sometimes it feels like the screaming is the only thing that keeps him sane. As his insides fall apart from injections of dark eco, the only thing he can focus on beyond the haze of pain is the sound of his own voice, rough in his throat from abuse. He has no idea how long the experiments last. At first it was only a few minutes before they stopped. But everything is starting to bleed together, and he's afraid that if he's here much longer, there won't be any of himself left. He never knew what the words breaking point meant until now. It feels like a waking nightmare. Cell, guards, chair, pain, guards, cell, sleep. Repeat. A circular pattern. Routine.
Waking from dreams that have recently been nothing short of beautiful. The more beautiful they are, the harsher the waking.
They have to drag him again, because he's slipping, slipping, always—
He's been told he's not the first, and he wonders how many others before him have wasted away in this pit.
Oh, precursors, the pain. It hasn't really gotten easier. He just let it become a part of his existence, like breathing, or eating, but—
The guards will come for him any minute now, but maybe they'll let him sit for a minute to breathe, just like they used to.
His eyelids are heavy and he doesn't fight it. His voice is silent, but his cells scream. Purple electricity in his veins.
"Ding ding, third floor!"
He almost smiles, his eyes still shut. Maybe someday, that dream will be real, and then—
"Jak! It's me!"
Aneko: Happy Mother's Day. Have you told yo' Mama you love her? You'd better. Cuz Santa Claus is watching. I don't know, whatever. But I love my Mom, she's great, she's fantastic, she's…amazing. I want to be just like her when I grow up. :3
That is all.