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Zanka’s staff moved with precision, cutting through air with sharp, perfect control. Jabber’s grin widened each time their weapons met, his rings twisting and shifting around his fingers with a shimmer of silver light — morphing into curved blades that hissed with faint venom.
“C’mon, Zanka! Don’t tell me you’re tired! You were sharper last time!”
“You never stop running your mouth,” Zanka muttered, pushing forward.
“Oh, don’t be shy— I know ya’ miss me.”
They collided again, metal grinding against wood. Sparks flashed between them as they locked weapons. Jabber’s laughter cut through the sound, wild and breathless.
“Well, I missed this,” he said, grin crooked. “You and me, breakin’ each other apart.”
Zanka shoved him back, scowling. “You’re insane.”
“Yeah,” Jabber said easily, “but you like it.”
Zanka shoved Jabber back, Jabber’s shoes skidding to a stop across the rough ground of the wasteland, before immediately pouncing forward, the slashes of his blades glinting in the light.
The fight continued — brutal, fast, fluid. Zanka read every move, but Jabber’s unpredictability made every strike a gamble. He fought like someone who didn’t care about winning, only about feeling.
Then, mid-swing, Jabber’s foot landed next to a slick puddle. The gloop beneath hissed, his rubber sole dissolving immediately.
Zanka’s eyes snapped to it immediately. His stance shifted — defensive, ready. His pupils contracted. The liquid wasn’t normal. It shimmered faintly green under the dying light, bubbling like it was alive. Waste. Toxic. Dangerous.
“Jabber,” he said, low and warning.
But Jabber only followed his gaze and tilted his head, grinning. “What’s that, some leftover trash juice?”
“Don’t.” Zanka’s voice was sharp now.
But Jabber’s smile only deepened, lips twitching with that same wild defiance. “What, you worried I’ll melt?”
Before Zanka could move, Jabber crouched down and reached out with his bare hand.
The reaction was instant.
The poison sizzled against his skin. His breath caught. His hand convulsed violently. “Ah—!”
He jerked back, clutching his arm, the veins darkening beneath his skin as the substance spread upward, pulsing with unnatural light.
“Ow, shit— that— hurts—” His voice cracked, rough with shock.
Zanka’s eyes widened. He didn’t speak, but every line of his body tensed. The air between them thickened, heavy with the smell of burning flesh.
Jabber’s grin broke. His pupils dilated, rolling slightly back he stumbled, falling to one knee. His mouth opened like he wanted to keep laughing, but no sound came out except a weak gasp.
The rings on his fingers glowed faintly — the metal drinking in the poison like it was alive, dark iridescent green threading through the shifting blades.
He coughed, trembling. His grin flickered but didn’t quite disappear. “Heh… guess I found somethin’ new to play with.”
Then his pupils rolled back. His body seized up, a violent tremor that rippled through every limb, and he collapsed, body crumpling with a thud.
Zanka didn’t move right away. The air was still buzzing from the fight, dust and heat lingering. Then, slowly, he stepped closer — careful, almost wary, watching Jabber’s twitching hand.
He’d seen poison before, but not like this. The black creeping along Jabber’s veins was spreading faster than it should. His body jerked violently once, twice, like it was trying to fight itself.
Mankira responded first, its shape warping into it’s final form — longer, jagged blades, pulsing with the same poison that had entered his veins.
Then Jabber’s body moved.
It wasn’t steady — a sudden, erratic jerk that sent his body lurching upright, eyes glassy, wholly white. His movements were messy, like his body was being controlled by something else.
Zanka stepped back, raising his staff. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Zanka blocked the first blow, then the second. Sparks flying as he fought against someone who wasn’t even conscious.
“Damn it,” Zanka muttered, parrying another poisoned strike. The air hissed where the blade cut through, leaving streaks of burning residue behind.
He circled around him, keeping distance. Jabber’s body convulsed again, swinging wild and hard. His breathing was harsh and broken.
“Even unconscious yer’ a pain in the ass!” Zanka struck back, ramming assistaff into his ribs, heavy hit to the ribs — but Jabber barely reacted. Another slash came, clumsy but dangerously close.
It went on like that until finally, Zanka parried a slash, using the momentum to slam his staff into Jabber hard, sending him flying to the ground. The blades in his hands flickered weakly before dissolving back into rings.
Jabber’s body twitched once, then stilled. His eyes were rolled halfway back, blood seeping from his nose and mouth, breath shallow. The poison’s blackened veins reached up to his shoulder now, pulsing faintly.
Zanka stood over him, staff still raised, breathing hard. He’d done it. Actually beat him. A genius, the raider who laughed at every hit.
But the feeling didn’t sit right. Not when the man who never stopped smiling lay half-dead at his feet, veins blackened and skin cold.
He exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw tightening.
For a long moment he didn’t move. He waited, half expecting Jabber to laugh, to get up and ask for round 2, but there was only the faint, wet sound of his breathing.
With a quiet sigh, Zanka deactivated his staff and slung it behind his back. He crouched beside Jabber, eyes flicking nervously over the raider’s still form.
After a beat, he extended a finger and poked Jabber in the shoulder. “Oi… you alive in there?” he muttered, more to himself than to Jabber. Nothing.
Zanka poked him again, harder this time. Still no reaction. A muscle in his jaw twitched. “…Tch.”
Zanka hesitated, then carefully pressed two fingers to Jabber’s neck. The faint pulse beneath his touch made him exhale sharply, half-relieved, half-annoyed.
“Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, the word softer than he intended.
After a long pause, Zanka slowly slid his arms beneath Jabber’s shoulders, hauling him upright. The raider was heavy, his weight dead and limp.
He grunted softly, adjusting his stance, and then bent his knees to hook Jabber’s legs around his own waist. Carefully, he swung the raider onto his back, balancing him like a reluctant, unconcious passenger.
Zanka adjusted his grip, using the staff horizontally behind his back to brace him. Jabber’s head lolled against his shoulder, his breath ragged against Zanka’s neck.
Jabber twitched again, although weakly. Hands spasming, posture limp. Zanka could feel the cold in his skin, the faint tremors against his back.
The long walk back to base began.
The sun beat down on him, each step echoing across the wasteland with the dull rhythm of boots on sandy gravel.
After several minutes, Jabber stirred.
“Damn…” His voice was rough, barely more than a whisper. “You carryin’ me?”
Zanka didn’t look back. “I am. Now shut up.”
“What? You care about me? Hah—” The sound broke into a harsh cough, blood splattering against Zanka’s shoulder.
Zanka said nothing.
“That’s hot,” Jabber murmurs after a moment, voice slurred with exhaustion. “I like it when you man-handle me.”
“Would you just shut up?!”
Jabber’s answer came out soft — a small, breathless giggle that brushed against the side of Zanka’s neck. His lips brushed against his neck, light as a spark and lingered there for a second too long.
Zanka froze mid-step, every muscle tightening. He could feel the grin forming against his skin, faint and crooked, the warmth of it cutting through the chill in the air. His ears burned.
“Damn idiot,” he muttered under his breath, but his voice had lost its usual bite.
Jabber’s head dropped forward, chin brushing Zanka’s shoulder. The next breath came quieter, slower. He’d passed out again.
The poison still glowed faintly through Jabber’s veins, the same unnatural light Zanka had seen in that bubbling pool. Each pulse a reminder that he might not make it.
And still, Zanka didn’t stop.
“You better live through this, you asshole.” he muttered, voice low enough that only the wind could hear.
—-
Riyo trailed ahead, her grip firm around Rudo’s wrist as she half-dragged him down the hall. “C’mon, man, you have to see this,” she whispered, excitement buzzing in her voice.
“Oi— what is it already?” Rudo stumbled behind her.
Riyo skidded to a stop just before the corner, her finger shooting up to her lips. “Shh.”
The soft hum of Eisha’s infirmary light spilled into the corridor, pale and sterile against the dim hallway. Riyo leaned forward first, careful not to creak the door, motioning for Rudo to do the same.
Inside, the usual quiet order of the room was disrupted. One of the beds near the far wall was occupied — and not by any Cleaner.
Long brown locs spilled across the pillow, golden cuffs glinting in the harsh light. Ten silver rings caught the glow, bruised knuckles lax, yet oddly delicate in how they rested atop the sheets. The steady rise and fall of a chest beneath the white blanket was the only proof they were alive.
Rudo blinked. “No. way.”
“Yup,” Riyo nodded, unable to look away. “Jabber.”
Before Rudo could whisper another word, a quiet voice came from behind them. “What are you two gawkin’ at?”
Both turned sharply, Enjin stood there, towering over them, one brow arched.
“Shh!” Riyo waved him down frantically. “You’ll wake them up!”
Enjin sighed but leaned in anyway, curiosity getting the better of him. Within seconds, the three of them were stacked against the doorframe like a line of eavesdropping idiots — Enjin at the top, Riyo in the middle, and Rudo crouched at the bottom, balancing on the tips of his shoes.
Rudo whispered, “This is ridiculous.”
“Shut up, I can’t see past your head,” Riyo shot back.
“Kids, kids,” Enjin cut in, amused. “You’re gonna blow our very professional surveillance mission.”
“You’re a grown man,” Rudo muttered under his breath.
“Exactly,” Enjin replied easily. “Which means I’ve had years to master the art of snoopin’.”
Inside the infirmary, Jabber lay still, the glow of the overhead lights catching the faint sheen of sweat on his brow. His breathing was slow, uneven. The rings on his fingers gleamed faintly, still humming with trace energy.
But what really caught their attention was the figure beside him.
Zanka sat slumped in the chair next to the bed, head tilted slightly forward, arms loosely crossed. His jacket had been half-unzipped and his torso was wrapped in bandages, clean white stained faintly with pink. His left arm rested on the edge of Jabber’s bed — close enough that their hands nearly brushed.
Riyo leaned closer, whispering, “Zanka brought him in this morning. Carried him all the way here.”
Enjin’s grin widened. “Well, would ya look at that. Didn’t think the kid would go soft for Jabber of all people.”
Rudo scoffed. “Jabber’s tried to kill us, like, three times. Now he gets the VIP treatment?”
Enjin crossed his arms, unimpressed. “I’m just saying, it’s bold. Jabber’s dangerous even when he’s unconscious.”
“He is unconscious,” Rudo shot back. “That’s the problem. I don’t trust him
Riyo raised an eyebrow, smirk evident. “You’re scared an unconscious guy’s gonna get you?”
“I’m not scared. I’m cautious,” Rudo snapped. “There’s a difference.”
Before she could tease him more, a soft voice floated out of the room.
“U-um… you don’t have to hide…”
They all jumped — Riyo straightened so fast she smacked her head into Enjin’s chin.
“Ow—!” Enjin hissed, rubbing his jaw.
Eisha was standing just a few feet away, her delicate hands fidgeting with her sleeves, cheeks faintly pink. “I…could overhear you.”
Caught, the trio exchanged looks.
Eisha fidgeted with her sleeve. “But, um… could you please leave? They both need rest… especially Jabber.”
Before either kid could reply, Enjin’s hands clamped down on their heads, forcing them into a bow.
“Ah, right, no problem, Eisha!” Enjin beamed, voice just this side of too loud. “We’re goin’, we’re goin’.”
Rudo squirmed under his grip. “Oi—let go—!”
Riyo gave a stiff thumbs-up from mid-bow.
Rudo mumbled something that sounded like, “I still don’t trust him…”
Enjin nodded politely to Eisha, then began ushering them backward down the hall like a bouncer clearing a club. “C’mon, you two. Let the lovebirds rest.”
—-
Zanka’s eyes fluttered open to silver quiet.
Moonlight spilled through the infirmary window, painting pale lines over crisp sheets and metal cabinets. His gaze followed the cool path of light — soft at first, unfocused — until he locked onto a pair of violet eyes staring right back at him.
Jabber was sprawled across the mattress like he’d fallen from the sky and landed sideways. One arm draped lazily over his own ribs, head propped up on his fist, just close enough that his breath brushed across Zanka’s cheek.
Zanka jolted upright on instinct.
Pain stabbed through his ribs, sharp and immediate. He sucked in a breath and clamped his teeth to stop a groan.
Jabber blinked, then smiled. Slow. Too genuine.
“Oh,” he whispered. “You are alive.”
Zanka scowled. “Back off.”
Jabber didn't move. He just blinked, slow and amused, then said casually, “You really know how to beat me down, huh. I mean, I thought the poison was bad—”
He coughed from sudden laughter, bringing his hand to his ribs.
“—but then you just had to break my rib again with that last swing? Really, Zanka?”
“I didn’t break—”
“You did,” Jabber insisted, wiggling slightly as though to verify. “This side right here, y’know, under the third one? Pretty sure that’s cracked. It’s got your signature all over it.”
Zanka rolled his eyes. “You say that like you’re proud.”
“I am proud!” Jabber declared, grinning brighter. “You never hold back—not with me. It’s beautiful…”
He tilted his head. “Hurt like hell though. And the poison? Man, one of the worst things I’ve ever felt. It was like—”
He held up his other hand and wiggled his fingers dramatically.
“—like my blood was trying to crawl out of my veins. Like fireworks and lava and… and… vibrations in my teeth.”
Zanka blinked, expression flat.
Jabber nodded gravely, as if confirming a scientific fact. “Teeth, Zanka. My TEETH.”
“…You’re ridiculous,” Zanka muttered, but his tone carried a flicker of amusement.
Jabber dramatically flourished his free hand forward. “Well, at least it’s stored in here now,” he murmured, letting his index finger graze Zanka’s chin. “cant wait to use it on ya’…” He bit his lip, mankira pressing cold against the ash blonde’s face.
His violet gaze drifted over Zanka’s face — softened, then his grin widened.
“Oh, and I heard your friends outside the door earlier…”
Zanka stiffened.
“They seemed real curious about us,” Jabber continued, tone far too pleased with himself, “Apparently you carried m—”
“So why aren’t you up and fighting me then?” Zanka blurted sharply, sitting up straighter. “I thought you loved fighting.”
Jabber’s brows rose, surprised at Zanka’s sudden avoidance, but no less smug. He propped himself up on his elbow, grinning.
“Oh, I do,” he said, “but your Eisha friend must’ve pumped me full of sedatives. Probably enough to knock out an elephant.”
He half-spread his arms, then sagged slightly as if to demonstrate. “But hey. I’m still standing.”
Zanka glared. “You’re lying down.”
“Don’t get technical on me,” Jabber fired back — then winced, hand flying to his side. “Ohhhh. Yep. There’s the broken rib again. That’s your work, Zan-zan.”
Zanka’s face flushed with heat. “Don’t call me Zan-zan.”
Jabber stared.
Zanka stared back.
A small, knowing smirk tugged at the corner of Jabber’s mouth.
“…You okay?” Zanka muttered after a long pause.
Jabber grinned. “Were you concerned?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
Jabber lowered himself back onto the mattress, closer now, almost tipped toward the edge, face level on the pillow beside Zanka’s chair.
“You look terrible,” Zanka muttered, his gaze following the faded black veins along Jabber’s jaw.
“You look better injured,” Jabber said fondly. “Brings out your cheekbones.”
Zanka glared, but the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying him.
“…Just sleep,” he breathed, voice carrying the weight of both exhaustion and something unspoken.
Jabber let out a faint chuckle, eyelids drooping as drowsiness tugged at him. “Only if you do too,” he murmured.
He adjusted again, this time curling toward Zanka, careful but trusting. Zanka’s eyes drifted involuntarily to Jabber’s arms, tracing the dark, poisoned veins that had spread across his skin.
They were fading now, the black streaks fading back to normal, like smoke retreating into the ether. Relief and something heavier, tightened in Zanka’s chest.
Wordlessly, he leaned forward, just enough to brush a finger along Jabber’s forearm, careful, a gentleness reserved only for a lover, feeling the coldness of his skin and the faint tremors beneath.
Jabber’s other hand suddenly shot out, iron grip curling around Zanka’s wrist. Zanka tensed for the grin, the teasing, the words that would follow.
But there was nothing. No smirk. No comment. Only the slow, steady rise and fall of Jabber’s chest, the soft, rhythmic sound of sleep.
The hand in his felt warm, heavy, and insistent. Slowly, almost instinctively, Zanka let his arm relax, letting Jabber pull him closer. The tension in his shoulders began to unravel as the harshness of the night ebbed away.
Minutes passed in silence, broken only by Jabber’s quiet snores. Zanka let his own eyes droop, the exhaustion of weeks, months, years of training, of fighting, of surviving, finally catching up. He adjusted just enough to let his head rest lightly against the chair’s back, Jabber’s heartbeat warm and steady beneath his touch.
And finally, Zanka let himself rest.