#jnd croc

[radioactivepeasant]

@segaphantom MORE CROC!!

(Giant Dark Jak inspired by unused concept art from The Game We Don't Acknowledge. He's a Good Boi. Its not his fault the KG keep making their armor so crunchy!)

[troblsomtwins829]

Croc is the cutest and most wonderful thing that has ever come out of the Bug Jar. Truly. HE's just a little retile toddler! He did do anything to anyone! He snuggles and he squeaks and sometimes he turns into a giant draconic BEAST

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Thursday: Baby Croc Chaos

(For context, the first time the boys were allowed outside, someone took a shot at Croc, because you don't see that every day. It ended up injuring his leg. Jak attacked the man, and Damas was called to break up the fight. Despite being presumed too young for Arena trials and not having cleared the necessary obstacle training course, Damas gives permission for Jak to demand a duel on Croc's behalf. Normally this would be done by the guardian or parent of the injured child, but it's clear that the boys have no parents. Obviously, Jak won.)

Most expected the angry shapeshifter from the Arena to start making more frequent appearances after the battle trial. He had his first amulet -- earlier than most orphans in the youth barracks got them -- and his gate pass now, making him eligible for the work roster. He could start finding artifacts of his own now, and earn enough to support the creatures he called his siblings. With the ferocity he'd shown in the ring, it had been assumed that he'd jump at the chance to carve out a place for himself in Spargus.

And yet the king had sent word that they were to be returned to C-Ward in the tower the moment the Arena settled. And no one had seen them since.

Perhaps it was a confinement of sorts. The king had been fairly displeased to find the foundling boy and Tarn in the holding cells after the market brawl. He'd been even angrier when he learned the context of it.

Those who had been in the market that day, and had witnessed the scaly spirit-child thing, suggested that Lord Damas was simply being cautious. As strange as "Croc" was -- even disturbing to some -- it was a child, unmistakably. There'd been no call for Tarn to fire at it -- and firing willy-nilly in the market was a good way to get a shell to the head anyway.

The matter came up during the city's weekly review of the wall defenses. Hutch, head of the city architects' guild, handed over the blueprints for his wall turret proposal and glanced to the far edge of the throne room. Strangely, the shapeshifter was there, sitting amongst the date palms with the talking animal and the spirit infant.

What a time to be alive that such a sentence could even be thought-!

Had Damas summoned the boy? For what purpose?

Hutch saw the orange creature point to one of the trees, and the boy moved as fast as lightning. He slapped a palm to the trunk as if trying to crush something, then took a small spray bottle from the mustelid.

Ah, the king had put them to work removing pests from the trees. Fifteen of the palms filled the room in large planters, and the architect pitied the foundlings for the unenviable task of applying pesticides to them all. Maybe they were being punished for something.

The king scanned the blueprints carefully before passing them to the director of finance.

"This design is compact enough that adding it to the wall wouldn't put a burden on the city's budget. However, I am concerned about the amount of eco an automated turret would consume. What do you plan to run it on?"

"S- solar...power...actually," Hutch answered sheepishly. "I've just realized my proposal for solar panels is still sitting on my desk."

Lottie, the finance director, looked at him dryly. "Probably would've helped to start with that one."

The architect flushed slightly. "It's been a busy week," he protested, "The monks have been at me for old archived blueprints of Tributary!"

Then he wearily asked, "Should I go home and get the other proposal, sire?"

Damas didn't answer right away, which was unlike him.

Instead, his eyes were fixed on the trio of inhu'men orphans working in the artificial grove. (What were they? Hutch didn't think they were actually spirits, but darned if he'd ever seen a Lurker with so little hair!)

After a moment, the king seemed to shake himself.

"No, that won't be necessary," he said quickly. "Just...explain it to Lottie when we adjourn for noon rest."

Unexpectedly, that week's patrol leader for the gate wall spoke up.

"They get noon rest too, right, sir?"

Evidently the presence of the shapeshifter and siblings had concerned him as well. Odolan shifted uncomfortably, whether because of the boys or because of -- apparently -- calling out the king himself.

"Shouldn't they be in the barracks during meetings?" Odolan pressed.

"No," answered the king. He sounded almost disinterested, as if the matter barely merited comment. "They have a room here. They just don't stay in it."

Now his other advisors began to shift and frown between each other. The only people who should've been living in the tower were the ruler of Spargus and his personal guards, a detachment of medics and patients in the warriors' Convalescence Ward, and the staff of the water treatment and kitchen facilities. Underage foundlings -- almost always rescues or defectors from Marauders, not exiles -- went to the youth barracks. They had to make connections with their age mates, to form Squads! It was a well-established part of Spargan culture by now. Why in the world would their king deny the new foundlings that? Was it because of their appearance?

Odolan looked deeply uncomfortable as he asked, "Is- is this because of how the boy killed Tarn? He was well within his rights to do so."

"Mhm. That's partially why." Damas didn't look up. He scratched notes quickly into a pad of recycled paper. "Here, Hutch. Look this over and tell me if it's sound."

He handed him a rough diagram of the front wall with alternate turret locations, then twirled the pencil between his fingers.

"Er...mostly, sire. But that junction there is above several wall residences."

"Ah, right. Scratch that one then." Damas took the pad back and drew a line through the box meant to represent a turret.

"Actually- here. Draw me those solar panels you're on about. Show me where you'd put them before you discuss it with Lottie."

When he finally glanced up, he saw that half the guild heads and advisors were still casting confused or curious glances over at the boys in the grove. The children were eavesdropping, of course. The chores had been implemented in an attempt to mitigate that somewhat, but with the amount of scarring and eco healing marks in their bones, Damas suspected they'd learned to listen carefully no matter how busy they looked. He couldn't explain to his council why he indulged Jak’s refusal to go back outside until Croc's nightmares stopped. Or admit that his own curiosity was keeping him from sending them to a barracks RA to sort out. It may have been -- he had trouble admitting it, even to himself, without pain -- the age of the youngest. He was no older than Mar had been when he was taken. He was small, and helpless, and the youth barracks were for teenagers, not toddlers. Separating Jak from his younger sibling just seemed cruel. And too much like how he'd lost Mar.

With a long-suffering look, Damas asked dryly, "Does anyone else have concerns about the gremlin gang they'd like to voice so that we can focus on the task at hand?"

Taking it as an invitation rather than sarcasm, -- she'd never been good at detecting sarcasm, in her defense -- Lottie remarked, "Who's going to look after the wee creatures when the lad enters his first Squad?"

Damas waved that off immediately. "They're not ready for Squads. Not in the least."

"Not ready for Squads?" Hutch muttered to Odolan, not quiet enough to go unheard, "How can a foundling not be ready for basic training?"

At that moment, the nature spirit thing came scampering out of the palms with an excited trill. Scuttling along before him was a very panicked scorpion -- no doubt it had been sleeping in the soil brought up for the planters. The scaly toddler crouched, tail lashing, then pounced. He held it it up by the tail, proudly showing the small arachnid to the adults, then his brothers.

"Good catch, Croc!" Jak ducked out of the palms. "Let me see it."

He ignored the presence of the council and crouched to examine the absolutely furious scorpion.

"Cool. Never seen one this small before. Check out the carapace-"

"Urr?"

"Hard shell. Body."

"Urr!"

"It ain't a juvenile. That means this sucker's got some pretty major poison in that stinger."

Damas opened his mouth to say something, then shut it again and shook his head. Perhaps eventually the council would learn what he had: it was completely and utterly useless to try to interrupt Jak when he was excited about something.

Carefully, Croc set the scorpion down and pinned it in place with his foot claws. With chubby fingers and the SparSign common to infants and toddlers, he asked, "I eat dat spicy bug?"

"Yeah sure, just not the tail."

Instant panic amongst the adults.

Damas launched out of the throne.

"Oh for the love of- Croc! No! Do not eat raw scorp-"

Too late.

The wide, wide mouth opened, and with a noticeable crunch, the scorpion met its end. While the adults stared in wide-eyed expressions ranging from disbelief to bravely stifling explosive laughter, Jak relieved Croc of the stinger.

"We'll put this with the other ones."

Jak finally looked up and stared impassively at Damas, still ignoring the council.

"What?"

"He's an infant, Jak! You don't know he can eat scorpions safely," Damas sighed.

The boy shrugged. "He's eaten way worse and been fine."

The orange one scurried out and up onto Jak’s head.

"Bald-faced lie. Eatin' KG gave him the most unholy flatulence and you know it."

Jak pretended not to hear this.

"Besides," he said, sounding cocky, "Dax and me ate scorpions plenty of times when we were little. It didn't hurt us."

This got an...interesting reaction from the Wastelanders. In what environment were young children allowed to catch and eat scorpions regularly? They were supervised, of course, they would have had to be-

"You realize," Daxter said with a hint of bitterness in his voice, "That we wouldn't have had to hunt scorpions if your absentee uncle had actually fed us instead of spending the grocery money on treasure maps every month."

Well then.

As one, the advisors turned to look at Damas. He simply gestured to the boys as if saying "you see?"

Dry as dust, the king asked, "Any other objections to continued adult supervision?"

Odolan shook his head and wondered how the strange orphans had even lived this long.

"I withdraw the question."

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippets: Free Day Thursday PART TWO!

Surprise, now you get Baby Croc stuff that needs no trigger warnings! Still borrowing Star Wars "swears", still not sorry.

Part One Here:

The Slam Dozer rolled to a stop in the midst of the Strider Range. Three Wastelanders stepped out, looking around them for what should have been a missing warrior. There was nothing. No vehicle, no sign of the Wastelander who had activated their beacon.

"Eyes open," their leader grunted, "Could be a trap."

Something moved among the boulders, and the men raised their rifles instantly. In response the pale something shrieked and dropped out of sight. Long ears were still visible from the sides of the rock it had chosen as its hiding place, trembling. Then, as if gathering its courage, it raised its head above the boulder.

The men recoiled.

It looked almost like a human child, but...but not quite. A leathery hide the color of a bloodless corpse, pupils so dilated that no sclera were even visible, horns poking out of wiry gray hair. This was not a human. But it didn't look like an animal, either.

"What the kriff!"

The largest of their number raised his gun, sighting down the barrel onto the creature's forehead.

The leader grabbed the barrel and forced it down.

"Hold your fire!" he snapped.

"But sire, look! The rottin' thing's gotta be a metalhead!"

The third man wrinkled his nose incredulously. "You see any gems on that thing? Strewth, man, I think that's a bloody spirit!"

Their leader eased closer to the rocks, noting with some disquiet that the beacon they'd picked up was in the same direction.

"Who are you?" he demanded, as if the creature could understand him, "Are you friend or foe?"

To the surprise of all three, the creature responded.

In the broken SparSign of an extremely young child, it signed, "I Croc! Help Croc? Help big brother! Help! Help!"

On legs shaped more like a Leaper's than a human's, "Croc" bounded away to crouch over a crumpled form in the sand. This time, it was clearly human.

"Eeeeg. Ep!" The spirit thing made a pitiful squeal and patted the boy’s face.

"Big brothers not get up! Too tired! You help? No hurt!" Suddenly he bared sharp fangs, revealing how he'd gotten his name. "No hurt my brothers! You not Red Armor Crunchies? I eat Red Armor Crunchies."

The men wondered whether they really wanted to find out what a "red armor crunchy" was. Slowly, one hand out in a placating gesture, the leader of the band began to move closer. He kept his eyes on the spirit-child and its human "sibling", ready to halt if they made any sudden moves.

"We will not attack you if you do not attack us," he said to the creature. "Where are your people, little traveler? How have you come to this place?"

The spirit-child nestled closer to the motionless boy and uttered a distressed chittering. "I no know. Fancy bad man say us are monsters and taked us here so us would get dead. I no wanna get dead!"

"Exiles?" The big man murmured to the man with the eyepatch.

"Haven's really gone to the crocadogs," Eyepatch muttered back. "I thought their nature spirits had already abandoned them. Didn't think they were killin' em."

"It ain't a spirit, Drake. Nature spirits don't wear clothes."

"Then what is it? Sure ain't a metalhead, tell you that much."

"Enough," their leader interrupted sternly.

He continued to approach the exiles, one foot in front of the other, and pointed his staff behind him.

"There are others here. Animals. At least one is a species capable of speech -- they may shed some light on this. Drake, get the animals and give them some water. Kleiver, put the boy in the truck. He's still breathing."

The child brightened, losing all trace of his former ferocity as if a switch had been flipped off. "You help? You good guys?"

"We try to be," the man with the staff answered, a little dryly.

As he came to a stop by the bodies, he knelt. The human "big brother" was painfully thin, cheekbones sharp against a face that looked younger than anticipated. He had the same matted hair "Croc" did, as if no one took care of him at all. The refuse of Haven: it was not an uncommon condition for exiles to be found in. But most were older, and either coherent or already dead. This boy was somewhere in between.

"He an' Daxter no answerin' me!" Croc fretted. "Not Bad Guy, you wake him up, okay?"

"Damas. Not "not bad guy"," the man grunted as he took a waterskin from his belt. It was half empty, but it would have to suffice. "If I'm to call you by your name, I request that you do me the same courtesy."

"I no can curtsy, Damas man," Croc answered solemnly, "Tail too heavy."

"I said courtesy, not- nevermind." Damas lifted the human boy's head and poured water into his mouth. "Where did you learn our sign language, little traveler?"

Immediately, the child pointed to the unconscious boy.

More mysteries.

🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊🐊

"Yrrp!"

Jak was rudely reintroduced to consciousness by the full weight of his half-brother...clone...person...slamming into his stomach. His eyes flew open as the breath was driven from him in a pained wheeze. Instinctively, he shoved the scaly child off and rolled to his side, gasping for air. The kid was no lightweight.

"Jak!" Daxter's worried voice cut in over his wheezing, "Are- are you okay?! I tried to keep the menace distracted, but he was going crazy while they took the IV out!"

The what?

Jak slowly opened his eyes and blinked until his vision cleared. They were in a room made of metal and some kind of reddish brown stone, radiating a comforting heat -- nothing like the murderous sun in the desert. Jak made a face.

"Wh- rr?" he rasped, unable to say much more until he'd swallowed several times.

"Off. You could have hurt him," a new voice interrupted, deeper and sterner. It wasn't anyone Jak knew.

Croc chirped indignantly, and then the surface Jak lay on rose slightly as if a weight had been removed. Was he on a mattress? Oh. Yes, he was on a remarkably clean mattress. And for that matter, he seemed to be remarkably clean.

That was...a little disturbing. A lot disturbing, actually. Because Jak knew he hadn't washed himself.

"Cr-oc?" he croaked, and finally rolled back onto his back.

An unnecessarily spiky man stood at the end of the bed holding Croc, bundled up in his arms like a particularly naughty puppy. Croc didn't seem to be too upset about it, which was unusual, seeing as Croc bit anyone who wasn't Jak or Daxter. Even Tess had gotten nipped once.

Jak stared at the weathered warrior at the foot of the bed, and the warrior stared back.

"If this is another mirage, I'm going back to sleep," Jak muttered in a creaking voice.

The man laughed.

It was a crackling, raspy sound, as if he were unused to it.

"If this were a mirage, I wouldn't have to make sure the young goblin here did not undo the monks' hard work to repair your ribs."

"My ribs?"*Jak’s face twisted in confusion. "Nothing was wrong with my ribs."

The stranger fixed him with a measured stare that left him feeling oddly defensive.

"Young man, you had two cracked ribs and three that had healed improperly from past breaks. Surely you noticed that kind of pain!"

The boy's blank stare was dismally telling.

"Nobody cares about cracked ribs as long as you can still fight," Jak grumbled. "I've had worse."

Daxter cringed beside Jak. "He's not wrong. Jak here's been through stuff that would give a metalhead nightmares. Don't uh, don't take it personal, y'know? Him and me, we got raised to think pain only mattered when it happened to someone else."

"Why isn't Croc biting you?" Jak interrupted. "He hates strangers."

"Because biting one's host is not an acceptable way to treat the laws of hospitality," the man answered, then bounced Croc a little higher in his arms. "Is that not so, little one?"

"I not bite the Damas man, that's rude," Croc confirmed. "But I maybe bite the stinky man a little bit."

"No, we don't bite Kleiver either," the man -- Damas? -- corrected firmly. "You don't know where he's been."

"I bite only a little bit!"

"No."

"A just a little bit!"

The man adjusted his hold on Croc, shifting him to his hip as though a half-metalhead baby was a perfectly normal thing to encounter.

"You are not biting Kleiver and that is final."

Then he turned his attention back to Jak.

"This one led me to you and your friend in the desert. I brought you to my city. In return, I expect you to be honest when I ask you some questions."

Jak pushed himself up into a sitting position and grimaced at a faint wave of dizziness. "That's it? Just answer some questions? I don't buy it."

Damas looked annoyed. His lips flattened into a thin line for a moment, and his eyes grew calculating. Then he seemed to come to a decision.

"Answer questions for now. Should you choose to remain in my city, you will be expected to prove that you will contribute to the good of the community and not sit idly while others do the lion's share of the work. It is so for all newcomers, although dispensation can be made for your age."

Jak bristled. "What about my age?"

Their rescuer -- and host, apparently -- raised an eyebrow and Jak found himself quieting unexpectedly.

"Exiles as young as the three of you are rarely found alive. Most of our laws apply to older survivors."

Daxter blinked. "Huh. Well. Nice of someone to notice for once."

Damas barely nodded. "The monks will inform me when you are considered recovered enough to be moved. In the meantime-"

He bent and set Croc down on the floor.

"Go, amuse yourself, little one. No biting."

Then he reached into an open bag sitting on the table at the foot of the bed and held up the beacon.

"Let's discuss this."

[radioactivepeasant]

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