#Jak wasn't supposed to be in the Arena yet. The Spargans kind of didn't notice him there 😅

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets Friday: Jak 3 alternate opening

What if the Spargans and Marauders both found the boys at the same time?

Jak's saving grace was that prisoners were separated by age range in this strange and terrible place. He was dropped onto a cot in a smaller cell across from the raiders that had taken his goggles and jacket and boots before they were all captured. Without the jacket, some of his worse scars had been pretty visible, as well as fresh injuries.

He didn't remember when the field medic stepped into the cell, but at some point he was given water, and highly concentrated eco.

"Easy, kid. Drink slow," the medic directed him. He scowled over his shoulder at the raiders in the other two cells. "Bloody barbarians, letting one of their young'uns get to this state."

The water had barely returned even a fraction of his voice, but it was enough for Jak to whisper,

"I don't know them"

The medic pulled back, concern etched on his pockmarked face. Then a knowing look.

"Rot. Okay, okay-" He stood up and ran a hand over his hood. "I gotta report that. Crap, I hope they didn't already schedule the trial."

Jak's blood ran cold. Trial.

Images of sneering faces, stun rods when he tried to speak, flooded his memory and he twitched nervously.

"T-rial?" he rasped painfully.

"Trespassing and theft, possibly murder," the medic answered, almost distracted. "I guess we gotta add kidnapping to that too. Trial by combat though. If they make it through, they earn a pardon. So. Hope you don't mind, you might have to see em again."

The medic patted his shoulder. "I'm going to send down an eco and electrolyte mixture. Try to drink all of it today. Barring medical emergencies, I'll get the ball rolling on transferring you."

Jak didn't put much stock in that. No one who put him in a cell ever really cared what happened to him. He lay on the thin palette, sweating, barely able to roll to his side even after the eco. At least he knew Daxter had made it out. He'd find Jak. He always did.

Across the room, the Marauder who'd taken his scarf glared at him with murder in his eyes. What was he looking at? Jak wasn't the one who got them locked in cells!

The stare unnerved him more than he cared to admit. He had no idea who the bandit was, and yet the man looked at him as though he recognized him.

"What's the plan for the trial, eh?" one of the Marauders asked quietly.

"What plan?" another scoffed, "It's just survival in these dogs' gladiator games."

"Not what I heard."

The one wearing Jak's coat leaned back against the bars and scratched his cheek.

"You know they got all the water and eco access, Berni. Worse places to try to fit in than this."

The one glaring at Jak snarled. "That's treason, boy."

The young man shrugged. "I'm a practical man. You pass a trial, they let you emigrate. No consequences for anything that came before, you earn your freedom. Access to eco, clean water, and a shot at real power. You tell me that don't sound like a good deal."

Some muttered grudging assents. Others were as angry as the glaring one. One of them went as far as promising to kill the man if he tried to defect.

"You won't make it out of that Arena," he promised, "I'll smash your skull in."

"Pretty cold, big brother."

"I'd rather see you dead than a Spargan," his brother answered coolly.

Jak closed his eyes and tried to block them out.

A combat trial.

Well, unfortunately, that was one thing he excelled at.

This talk of emigration piqued his interest. He'd never technically existed on paper in Haven. He had no legal rights or protections -- which was why the sham trial was able to take place at all: they classified the boy their leader had kidnapped as an undocumented immigrant. An easy target to exploit for labor and then betray.

If this city gave you rights just for surviving, his odds had just gotten a lot better.

______________________________

The guards came to take them to the Arena before Jak had finished the electrolyte solution. Which, he guessed, meant that medic hadn't told whoever was in charge that Jak wasn't a Marauder.

The eight of them were herded unceremoniously up a narrow set of stairs and into the blinding glare of midmorning. They were pushed out onto antigrav platforms at the end of the stairs that ferried them down into a massive stadium. There had to be thousands of people in the stands, far more than Jak remembered seeing at the races.

Out of habit, he looked around for a floating viewing pod for a leader, like Haven would've had. Instead, he saw a balcony high above the center of the south wall. He could barely make out a figure seated a little ways in. Did this place have a Baron too? Spoiled nobles enamored with bloodsport?

A flash of orange along the railing caught his attention, and his eyes widened.

Daxter!

There he was, climbing up into that balcony like a man on a mission. Jak couldn't help the small smile brightening his face as he looked towards the balcony.

Gunnar, the Marauder with his scarf, only seemed to get angrier when he saw Jak's grin.

"Oh don't look so relieved," Gunnar hissed in his ear, "He isn't going to save you, whelp."

"Rot you," Jak retorted, jerking away from him on unsteady feet.

An unpleasantly familiar voice rang out over the ring, announcing the purpose of the combat trial.

Pecker.

That overgrown feather duster had survived?! What, had he gotten work as a sports announcer?

The moncaw was just explaining that their opponents would join them shortly when Gunnar suddenly surged forward to lock an elbow around Jak’s throat. He'd caught him off guard, allowing him to drag the boy several steps away from the others. Jak started to fight his way out of the grip, but halted when he felt the prick of the blade against his neck.

"Just try, whelp," Gunnar laughed, "I'll open your throat right in front of him."

Was he talking about Daxter? Jak scanned the balcony, but didn't see his friend.

Gunnar stepped sideways until they were directly facing the balcony, then raised his voice.

"I'll kill him, Damas!" he threatened, "You want the whelp to live? You're gonna have to come get him."

Who the Frith is "Damas"?!

The figure in the balcony rose and stepped up to the edge. Now Jak could make out a well-built man in his late thirties or so, covered in Precursor metal armor and wielding an impressive looking staff. There was no chance that this was just another warrior. This man carried himself like a ruler.

Jak remembered his face.

That was the man who had led the capture. That was the man who had been driving when he was tossed unceremoniously into the back of a vehicle.

The man folded his free arm behind his back and peered down at Gunnar and his hostage. He did not look impressed.

"You think threatening the life of one of your own -- without giving him the chance to defend himself -- is going to grant you absolution?"

Gunnar bared his teeth. An agressive smile, like a shrimpanzee.

"Didn't get a good look at him in the storm, didja, you old wolf?" He taunted. The blade pushed just hard enough to draw a bead of blood to the surface.

"Get off that throne, or your spawn dies."

"The rot are you talking about?" Jak grunted.

He gripped the restraining arm with one hand, the knife hand with the other, just barely keeping some breathing room. He wasn't strong enough to pry himself loose without injury. He needed an opening first. A distraction.

Daxter appeared as if by magic, leaping up onto the rail beside this Damas person. Jak couldn't hear what he was saying, but by his stiff posture, he knew Daxter was angry. He pointed now and then in Jak’s direction, then at the armored man in an accusing fashion. The man's brows rose in a concerned expression, then lowered quickly. With each passing second, the frown deepened into something much more hostile.

"You are mistaken," he called down at last, "I don't know the boy."

Then he reached back and handed his staff to someone out of sight. He set down two small side arms and a knife on the railing, and straightened a vambrace. A menacing smile cut across his weathered face.

"But," he announced, "if you wish to invoke a blood feud, I am more than happy to oblige regardless."

With that, he stepped down onto the antigrav platform and let it carry him down. On the railing, Daxter turned to face the ring and signed quickly to Jak.

Oh

There was a plan.

Clever, clever Daxter!

He had signed, "Found your opening."