Chapter 9: Claimed in Crimson
The kiss was nothing like the ones before. It wasn't sleepy or tender or desperate. It was a violent claim, an anchor thrown into a storm. Jak seized Milly’s wrist, his grip unyielding but not crushing, and spun her to face him. His other hand cupped the back of her neck, fingers tangling in her hair. He pulled her into him and crushed his mouth to hers.
The last sparks of Dark Eco still sizzled in the air around them, raising the fine hairs on her arms. His lips tasted of ozone and copper and fury. She gasped against his mouth, a sound of shock that melted into a ragged inhale. For a heartbeat, she stiffened. Then her hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist in the front of his torn, sweat-damp shirt, pulling him closer. She kissed him back with a ferocity that matched his own—a wordless, defiant agreement.
When he broke away, it was only far enough to rest his forehead against hers. Their breaths mingled, sharp and uneven. The violet corona in his eyes pulsed faintly, reflected in her wide blue irises.
“Jak—” Torn’s voice cut through the charged silence, laced with pure, unadulterated outrage.
Jak didn’t turn. He kept his eyes locked on Milly’s, his voice a low, graveled growl meant for Torn but spoken to her. “She’s the reason I didn’t kill them all.”
The truth of it hung in the acid-tinged air, more shocking than the violence itself. It wasn’t control. It was a choice. A line drawn because her imagined disapproval, the disappointment in her eyes he’d seen only in terrified flashes, was a more potent deterrent than any of Torn’s commands.
Torn stalked forward, his boots crunching on broken concrete. He stopped a few feet away, his jaw a hard line. “You compromised this mission. You used unauthorized force. You could have brought a whole patrol down on our heads.”
Finally, Jak turned his head, though he didn’t release Milly. The Dark Eco had receded from his eyes, leaving them a turbulent, stormy green. “They got what they deserved.”
“It’s not about what they deserve!” Torn shot back, his composure cracking. “It’s about order. It’s about not becoming the very thing we’re fighting! You think the Baron’s propaganda machine won’t hear about this? A demon with glowing eyes tearing through his men? They’ll use it to scare people, to turn them against us.”
“They were hurting a child,” Milly said, her voice quiet but clear. She hadn’t let go of Jak’s shirt. Her knuckles were white.
“And now she’s seen a different kind of monster,” Torn countered, though some of the heat left his voice. He scrubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “Damn it, Jak. This isn’t the Wasteland. You can’t just… erase problems.”
“I contained it,” Jak said flatly. “They’re alive. They’ll talk. Let them talk. Let them be afraid.”
The standoff stretched, thick and silent except for the distant, broken jukebox melody drifting through the ruins.
Daxter, who had been uncharacteristically silent, peeking from behind a corroded I-beam, finally scurried over. He cleared his throat, the sound absurdly loud. “Okay, fun as it is watching you two glare each other into next week, we are still in a very bad neighborhood. Those goons had friends. Probably with better aim and bigger guns.”
Torn let out a sharp, frustrated breath, the sound of a man conceding to logistics over principle. “He’s right. We move. Now.” He shot a last, hard look at Jak. “This isn’t over. You’re benched. No ops, no patrols. You report to Corman for twice-daily monitoring until I say otherwise.”
Jak gave a single, terse nod. It wasn’t agreement; it was an acknowledgment.
The walk back to the Freedom HQ was a silent, grim parade. Torn led, his back rigid with suppressed anger. Jak and Milly followed a few paces behind, not touching now, but walking close enough that their hands occasionally brushed. A current ran between them, a live wire of everything unsaid.
Daxter rode on Jak’s shoulder, uncharacteristically still. After a few blocks, he leaned in and whispered, “For the record, ‘she’s the reason I didn’t kill them all’ is maybe the most terrifyingly romantic thing I’ve ever heard. And I’ve heard some stuff.”
Jak didn’t respond.
Back in the main chamber of the old mill, the familiar smells of oil, damp stone, and stale coffee did nothing to dispel the tension. Torn dismissed them with a curt wave toward the medical bay. “Corman. Now. I’ll be checking.”
Milly watched Jak go, his broad shoulders set in a defiant line. She felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Daxter looking up at her, his usual smugness replaced by genuine concern.
“He’s gonna listen to the doc about as well as he listens to Torn,” Daxter said quietly. “Which is to say, not at all.”
“He has to,” Milly murmured, more to herself than to him.
“Yeah, well, ‘has to’ and Jak aren’t really on speaking terms.” Daxter scratched behind his ear. “Look, about before… in the bunk room. When his eyes did the weird glowy thing. It’s getting… stronger, isn’t it?”
Milly just nodded, a cold knot tightening in her stomach.
“He’s holding it together. For you, mostly.” Daxter’s tone was uncharacteristically solemn. “Just… don’t let him forget there’s a guy in there, okay? Under all the zappy-zap and the brooding.”
Before Milly could answer, he hopped down and scampered after Jak, leaving her alone in the bustling common area. The sounds of resistance life swirled around her—the clang of metal, low conversations, the static hiss of a radio—but it all felt distant, muffled.
The medical bay was a sterile cave lit by flickering fluorescent bars. Corman fussed over his equipment, casting nervous glances at Jak, who sat shirtless on the examination table. Sensors were attached to his chest, tracking his vitals and Eco resonance. A thin, clear tube fed a steady, mild stream of Blue Eco into his forearm, a preventative measure against “corrosive build-up.”
“Fascinating,” Corman muttered, adjusting a dial. “The stabilization is remarkable. Given the stimulus earlier, I’d have expected massive flux, but your baseline has actually… normalized slightly.” He peered at Jak through his thick glasses. “What did you focus on?”
Jak stared at a crack in the wall. “Nothing.”
“Hmm. Unlikely. The mind cannot be a void during such an event. There must have been an anchor. A thought, an image, a…”
“A person,” Jak interrupted, his voice hollow.
Corman paused, then nodded slowly. “Ah. Yes. That would do it. Emotion as a regulating force. Dangerous, but potent.” He made a note on a chart. “The… intimacy of your connection with the young lady, Milly. It provides a tether to your humanity. A counterweight to the Eco’s… oblivion.”
Jak finally looked at him. “What if the tether breaks?”
Corman held his gaze for a long moment, then looked away, busying himself with a sensor. “Then we pray the anchor holds on its own.”
The door slid open, and Milly stepped in, carrying a small tray with a bowl of broth and a hunk of bread. Corman took the hint, murmuring something about checking readings and slipping out.
The hum of the machines filled the silence. Milly set the tray down on a nearby stool and stood before him, her eyes tracing the lines of the sensors, the tube in his arm, the still-angry-looking veins snaking over his skin.
“You should eat,” she said softly.
“Not hungry.”
“Jak.”
He looked up at her, and the raw vulnerability in his eyes hit her like a physical blow. The tough exterior was gone. This was the boy from Sandover, lost and weighed down by a curse he never asked for.
“I liked it,” he confessed, the words torn from him. “When I was hitting them. I liked the sound. I liked that they were afraid.” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “Torn’s right. What does that make me?”
She moved then, closing the distance between them. She didn’t hug him, couldn’t with the wires. Instead, she placed her hands on either side of his face, her thumbs stroking his cheekbones. Her touch was cool and steady.
“It makes you human,” she said, her voice fierce. “They were hurting a child. You stopped them. The… the feeling that came with it? That’s the price. That’s the thing you have to carry. But you stopped. You walked away. That’s the choice that matters.”
He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. “It’s so loud in here sometimes,” he whispered, tapping his temple. “It’s so cold. And it’s so easy to just let it be loud and cold.”
“Then come back to me.” Her voice was barely a breath. “Whenever it gets like that. Come back to me. I’m warm. I’m here.”
He opened his eyes, the green of them clear and pained. “What if I get lost on the way back?”
“Then I’ll find you,” she said, with a certainty that brooked no argument. “I’ll always find you.”
He pulled her to him then, carefully navigating the wires, and buried his face in the space between her neck and shoulder. He didn’t cry. He just breathed her in—lavender and warmth and stubborn, unshakeable hope.
He just breathed her in—lavender and warmth and stubborn, unshakeable hope. It pooled in the hollow places the Eco had carved out, a temporary balm. The machines hummed their steady, indifferent song beside them.
“They’re going to bench you,” she whispered into his hair, her fingers gently tracing the line of his jaw.
“I know.” He didn’t move. “Probably should.”
A soft snort came from the doorway. Daxter leaned against the frame, arms crossed. “Yeah, ‘cause sitting around here driving everyone nuts is a much better use of your talents. Torn’s outside chewing the scenery. Wants to see you. Again.”
Jak reluctantly pulled back, his hands sliding down to grip Milly’s forearms. The simple contact felt more vital than any Eco. He looked at her, really looked, memorizing the flecks of gold in her blue eyes, the worried crease between her brows he wanted to smooth away. The cold whisper in his veins had quieted to a faint hiss, almost drowned out by the rhythm of his own heartbeat.
“I’m warm,” she repeated, her voice firm, echoing his own words from the bunk room. “I’m here.”
He nodded, once. A decision solidified in his gut, simpler and clearer than any of Torn’s strategies. He brought one hand up, his thumb tracing the curve of her bottom lip. The gesture was so tender it made her breath catch.
“I need to feel that,” he said, his voice rough but clear. “Before I go out there.” He held her gaze, the request laid bare without artifice. “Milly. Kiss me.”
It wasn’t a demand. It was a plea. An anchor drop.
She didn’t hesitate. She rose onto her toes and met his mouth with hers. This kiss was different from all the others. It held no hunger of first discovery, no frenzied heat of earlier. It was deep, deliberate, and profoundly still. A communion. She poured every ounce of that warmth, that stubborn hope, into it. He drank it in, his hands cradling her face as if she were something precious and irreplaceable.
For those few heartbeats, the medical bay, the sensors, the pending confrontation—all of it dissolved into a silent, golden point of light.
They broke apart, foreheads touching. Her lips were slightly swollen, her eyes bright. “There,” she breathed. “Now you take that with you.”
A genuine, if weary, smile touched his lips. “I will.”
He turned, the movement already carrying more of his usual resolved energy. He walked toward the door where Daxter waited, his stride firmer. He paused beside his friend, not looking at him. “Let’s go.”
Daxter fell into step beside him, uncharacteristically quiet for a few paces as they navigated the rusty corridors toward the main common area. Then he smirked. “Smooth, hero. Real smooth.”
“Shut up, Daxter.”
“Just sayin’. If you’re gonna get grounded, at least you got a decent send-off.”
Torn was waiting by a makeshift strategy table, a holographic map of the warehouse district flickering above it. He didn’t look up as they approached. “Corman’s data is promising,” he said, his voice all business, as if the earlier confrontation hadn’t happened. “Your neuro-signature stabilized after the event. The… emotional regulation theory has merit.”
Jak stopped a few feet away, saying nothing. He crossed his arms, waiting.
Torn finally looked up, his gaze assessing. “Benched doesn’t mean useless. The Baron’s propaganda cells are spinning your little display this morning. They’re calling you a ‘rogue Eco-mutant.’ They’re scared. Scared people are predictable.”
“What do you need?” Jak’s voice was flat.
“Information. Someone inside the main broadcast tower in the Financial District is feeding them real-time intel. We need a name.” Torn zoomed the hologram in on a towering spire lit with garish ads. “It’s a soft infiltration. No fireworks. No disintegrations.” His eyes locked on Jak’s. “Can you handle ‘soft’?”
Jak held the stare. The memory of Milly’s kiss was a coal in his chest, radiating quiet heat. The cold whisper offered him the tower’s weaknesses, the precise points to strike for maximum structural collapse. He ignored it. “I can handle it.”
“Good. You and Daxter. Recon only. Get the name. Get out.” Torn deactivated the hologram. “You ship out at 0400. Under the radar.”
Daxter groaned, slapping a hand to his forehead. “Of course we do. Because nothing says ‘subtle infiltration’ like a guy who occasionally glows like a bad mushroom and his furry, handsome sidekick.”
A ghost of Jak’s earlier smile returned. “You’re coming.”
“Well, duh. Someone’s gotta keep you from punching the news anchor.” Daxter shrugged, then grew serious. “So, soft, huh? Just walk in, ask nicely for a traitor’s name, and walk out?”
“Something like that,” Jak said, his mind already shifting gears, the warm coal of the kiss banked but still burning bright. It was a different kind of fuel. He turned and headed for the bunk room, already planning. The tightrope awaited, but he felt the tether now, strong and sure. He just had to make sure not to look down.