It was a mercy that he didn't need sleep anymore.

He probably wouldn't have slept again anyway after witnessing the Dark Makers salvaging and reassembling his body piecemeal, asking him periodically what this piece was for and where that piece was meant to go and was iron or chrome a better substitute-

Never, not even in the Dark Warrior Program, could he have dreamed up something like that — it was supposed to make soldiers, wasn't it? He was fairly certain the program had been for making soldiers. Soldiers had to be able to actually fight, it would've been counterintuitive and a waste of resources to induce unnecessary procedures according to...to...

Errol remembered his face. One half of it was metal, just like his. He was important, Errol knew that, but he couldn't remember why.

One thing he did remember was The Boy.

He didn't know when they'd met, but he knew Jak hated him and he hated Jak. He knew Jak was to blame for the unthinkable suffering he'd experienced after his "death". He knew he'd stolen his victory at the NYFE races, and he was a rebel against...against...who?

He was the harpy's father, yes? Praxis, his name had to have been Praxis, then.

Ashelin didn't deserve him, she didn't appreciate what she had-!

Errol knew something else about Jak now.

Something his allies had warned him about.

They'd had to upload the relevant historical information to his techno-organic brain in order for it to mean anything to him, but the brat was the heir of an old enemy of the Dark Makers.

Very convenient, uploading information straight to his brain. Errol couldn't make himself think of his restoration, but he certainly appreciated the adaptative upgrades. Much higher-quality than the prosthetics and adaptive equipment those Wastelanders favored, but for the first time in his life he understood why they made them instead of just discarding their wounded.

Errol had lost some of his memories, and most of his original body, not his ability to fight and plan. Not his self. He was still just as much Errol as he had been before the brat's interference.

Not, of course, that someone like Errol would ever have admitted that the Wastelanders were more advanced than him when it came to attitudes about physical abilities.

He had to hate them on principle already, considering the bloody House of Mar had survived because of them.

They were like cockroaches! It you didn't make sure they were dead, they multiplied!

Kill the grubs, and there was less chance of them multiplying.

The grub was headed for that wretched desert right now. He had a little mouse hole to hide in out there. Errol knew that for a fact, he'd seen his smug little face, surrounded by other whelps, laughing at the remains of his lieutenant. And then the little fool had actually returned to Haven! Luck was finally with Errol again. It didn't matter that the brat had friends with him-

Since when does he fight in a unit? Since when does anyone actually protect the freak?

"Why aren't we taking the air train?!" one of Jak's soldiers was shouting as the brat did what the brat did best and hijacked a hellcat.

Of all the useless things to remember, why did Errol have a detailed tally of how many times his enemy had committed grand theft auto?!

"And lead that thing to the others?" the shrill voice of the rat retorted, "Use your noodle, Ace!"

Jak seemed to be ignoring the blue-haired Wastelander's question. He waved vaguely to a bearded one and one with a cybernetic eye. Not as good as Errol's, of course, but he would admit that it was a well made prosthetic.

"Roth, Phaeng, you're on the guns. Keep him off our tail. Asa, call home."

"Off your tail?" Errol murmured, altering course slightly, "Not likely."

I always win, Jak.

Oh, he was going to make that little worm wish he'd never been born.

This turned out to be slightly more challenging than expected.

He could cover vast distances with speed, but there had to be solid ground under him. And the heart of the Wastelands was an island. It helped that the stupid boy seemed to be trying to lose him in the archipelago, like he thought a hellcat wouldn't be conspicuous.

Perhaps he thought Errol would lose his footing and fall into the ocean. Little fool, even that wouldn't stop him! Errol no longer needed to breathe!

He was tireless. Relentless. Five hours was nothing to revenge.

How ironically appropriate that the boy should run out of road so near to the place where Errol had first discover he still lived.

Now it would be his grave — if he was lucky enough to die. He hadn't decided yet if he wanted to kill Jak or draw it out. Perhaps bring him to his new friends. They would certainly appreciate the possibilities-

Oh. He remembered now. He remembered why the eco freak was an eco freak.

That was his handiwork! Well, his oversight of others' handiwork, but Errol had never been one to give credit where credit was due.

Yes, the Dark Makers would be very appreciative of a little dark warrior. A corrupted Heir. How wonderfully ironic it would be!

If Errol let him live.

He probably wouldn't.

But he'd bring it up, just to see the fear in Jak’s eyes.

And there he was now, trying to hide in a canyon. It looked as though his friends had abandoned him, save for the rat — that seemed typical. How marvelous. No honor amongst thieves after all.

"Oh dear, all out of friends, Jak?"

Errol landed with an impact that made the stones rattle.

"I do hope you'll at least make it interesting for me. Try not to lose the will to live after I kill the rodent, I'd be quite disappointed."

The brat lifted his chin — ugh, he'd lost none of his defiance.

"Fully upgraded legs and boosters, and I still beat you in a race. Gods that's pathetic."

He was talking back. This was new. Usually he let the rat do the talking while he did the shooting or driving. Errol wasn't sure he liked this. Where was the fear? The rage?

Pum pum

He missed the first drumbeats. Errol was too distracted by Jak holstering his weapon and turning his back on him! Him! Like he meant nothing after all those years of terrorizing him!

"Goodbye, Errol."

Pum pum

What was he doing?

"Fleeing already?" Errol sneered, "Or have you just given up?"

Jak had the gall to dismissively wave him off without even looking behind him.

"You're not my problem anymore."

Pum-pum pum-pum

"My only job was to lead you into the kill zone."

PumpumPapumpum

Pumpumpum

He couldn't ignore the drums anymore. They reverberated off the walls of the canyon, like a colossal heartbeat, growing louder and louder. Feedback screeched across his audio processors, solidifying into a shrill ringing that drowned out everything else. Everything but the drums.

Pumpum papumpum

Pumpumpum

Pumpum papumpum

Pumpumpum

The freak stopped short at the end of the canyon wall like he'd run into an obstacle. Grimacing in either pain or anxiety, he crouched, squeezing his eyes shut and clamping his hands over his ears as the rat did the same.

There, that was the best opportunity Errol was going to get.

But as he took a step forward, powering up his cannon arm, the heat mirage behind Jak...moved.

From the heat shimmering at the end of the passage, a strange figure emerged. It walked with a curious gait, almost a shuffling dance. A hide cloak covered a hide dress, jingling with hundreds of bone beads. The hood of the cloak held no face, only an endlessly deep black void, and the skull of a crocadeer, wreathed in cactus flowers.

What in every circle of the seven Precursor hells was that?

The preposterous figure meandered closer at a pace that would've been too easy to outrun. But they all seemed to be frozen in place. He watched the deer skull bobbing from side to side with each step and each drumbeat. Not a drum at all: long, gnarled gray fingers tipped with wicked claws tapped out a rhythm on the stretched hide of the gown.

Its hypnotic dance held them transfixed as it came to a stop over Jak's huddled form.

The skull did not move, but the void seemed to tilt in a way that made Errol nauseous.

He shouldn't have been able to feel nausea.

A fear so palpable it had nearly a physical weight to it settled over him. This was something far beyond his comprehension. Neither hu'men nor Precursor, ancient. And angry.

It traced a long claw over one of the fractal scars on the brat's arm.

Each one felt then something scratching, clawing at their minds. Agonizing tearing until there was a hole in their being big enough to whisper through.

"Who hasssss done thissss? Hmm? Ssssshow me."

The brat didn't move, but Errol felt the accusatory finger aimed at him nonetheless.

The crocadeer skull turned in his direction, and the figure stalked towards him. That was when Errol saw the tail, long and scaly, poking out from beneath the dress.

The tiny bones and teeth jingling around wrists and neck — dozens, hundreds of bones. Its patchwork veil and gown didn't look like cloth anymore. It was leather, many colors and textures of leather.

And some of those squares had

Oh gods

Some

Oh gods nononono

Some of the squares still had faces.

"Not much, not much."

The terrible voice twisted in Errol's brain, he felt things sparking, shorting out.

"But Má makessss do."

The gnarled fingers pointed back at Jak.

"Run home to Baba, sssnakelet. Run along, interloper hatchling. Not for younglingsss eyesss what Má mussst do."

Jak stumbled to his feet. He didn't run — didn't seem like he could — but he didn't look back.

The whine of engines was completely drowned out by the ringing. It wasn't until the hellcat rose up that Errol realized Jak had never been cornered at all. He could almost respect it. Not that he had time to think of such things for long.

The hellcat was a mile from the canyon before sound came back. Jak leaned back against the seat and blocked out Errol's distant screams. He knew what was happening and he didn't want to think about it.

"You good?" Daxter whispered.

Daxter very clearly was not. He hadn't stopped shaking once. The first spirit he'd ever encountered and it was the one every parent prayed their child would never need.

"Would've been faster to just shoot him," Asa said in a subdued voice.

Phaeng shook his head.

"You don't rob Má of her prey. Not if you're smart."

"There's the beacon." Jak pointed over Roth's shoulder. "Put her down on the cliffs."

Roth blew out a long breath.

"Yep. Let's hope getting Spargus its own hellcat will be enough to keep your father from strangling us when he finds out we let you do that."

Jak cracked a smile, still shaky with adrenaline.

"Nah, you'll be fine. I might get house arrest though."

"Yeah I'm not helping you out of that one, bud." Phaeng shook his head. "Peewee, you good to go to the range with us until Jak gets parole?"

Daxter cleared his throat three times before he got a handle on his words.

"Naturally."

"Traitor," Jak signed discreetly.

Daxter was wholly unrepentant. Being small enough to sit on shoulders meant half the time the Wastelanders assumed he'd been dragged into Jak's chaos and not the other way around. It was very convenient, unless you were Jak.

[Video ID: Dr. Shale is standing n a beach, with the camera pointed out towards Castelia bay. Based on the location of skyarrow bridge, it's probably somewhere just south of Nacrene city.

The doctor turns towards the camera, setting sun behind his back, casting the massive smile on his face in shadow.

"Greetings und salutations to the fine people of Unova- und to all the ships at sea! Mein name ist Dr. Burness Shale, und I have come to you with a very special announcement! That is to say-"

Suddenly, there are two deep and echoey thuds. The doctor has time to get out a "Wos-?" before the ocean's surface bursts in a thunderous explosion. A shout of alarm comes from behind the camera, as Raze- a massive Machtan Steelix- dives between Dr. Shale and the shrapnel which comes raining down.

Peering around the creature's head, the mad engineer furiously slams his cane into the sand.

"Wh- WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?! We had a predetermined time when the bombs should go off, und they were meant to take out that support on the bridge! That aquatic- eh?"

Again from out of frame, Hundau- a midday Lycanroc- trots into frame. In his jaws is what looks like the mangled remains of a diving suit helmet with a scratched-out Team Aqua logo.

"What the...?"

Offscreen, Cecil's voice bursts out "WHAT THE-?!"

But Shale isn't looking at the sorry remains of what had probably had a head in it.

He reaches out and removes a small magnetic item from the back of the helmet plate. It twinkles a brilliant orangey-gold in the setting sun.

"How could this...- ACH! CUT THE FILM ALREADY, YOU BUMMELZ! We must leave. Now. Before things get very exciting around here!"

The last few seconds are just the other team shale members yelling at each other in Machtan, but as it shuts off one more time Shale can be heard saying, very softly...

"It can't be."

There's a silence. Anakin opens his mouth and closes it again. I am a Jedi, he wants to say, but. But. He isn't, not really. Not anymore.

"Not," Obi-wan continues, voice suddenly chillingly void, "to friends of the Sith."

"What," Anakin chokes out, suddenly going cold. Obi-wan raises a glare towards him and suddenly Anakin feels like he might drown.

"Let's not play games here, Anakin. Practically the whole Temple knows about you and the Chancellor by now."

The whole Temple. . . you and the Chancellor. . . You. And the Chancellor.

"I didn't know!" he says, gasping for breath, begging for Obi-wan to understand, "I didn't know he was the Sith!"

"Please, Anakin," says Obi-wan, cold and utterly devoid of any sympathy, "we both know you knew exactly what you were doing."

"I didn't—I—"

"You let him train you," Obi-wan says, stepping closer. "You let him meet with you, week after week, day after day, letting him fill your head with lies and poison and darkness. You believed every word. And then," he stops, eyes boring into him, "And then you killed him. As a Sith Apprentice kills their Master."

"I didn't know! " he practically shouts, twisting his fingers into his hair and yanking. "I thought—I thought he was my friend, I thought—"

"Ah." Obi-wan says, and Anakin looks up with a shred of hope. But his face is as stony as ever. "You were stupid, then. A pathetic leech on our lineage's legacy—and your mother's."

"No," he breathes. "No—"

"You disgust me." Obi-wan says simply.

He turns and leaves him standing there, not even bothering to look back, and suddenly Anakin wishes—wishes that he'd shout, rage, shake him, or slap him, or anything, anything but this.

He doesn't.