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“I won.”
Zanka’s thoughts are a disjointed mix of confusion, excitement, and disbelief. He had won. Against Jabber, a natural talent. He’d proven it’s possible for someone like him to be better than a genius.
Victory is a lot of things. It’s euphoric, it’s satisfying, and it fills you with pride. Most of all, it means you accomplished something. You’ve risen up to expectations, exceeded them, even.
Right now, Zanka is more than an average man swinging a fancy stick against someone with poison in his claws. He’s more than the boy who threw himself down a well and left himself to rot. He’s triumphant.
Zanka is worth something.
Jabber is smiling up at him, torso pinned down by Lovely Assistaff. The tips of her spikes dig into Jabber’s skin, puncturing the flesh beneath his raider’s garments. A beautiful shade of crimson seeped through his clothing, already torn and filthy from the countless blows they had traded.
Beating Jabber was something that seemed out of the question. Every fight had resulted in Zanka on the ground with venom coursing through his veins.
Zanka put in countless hours of training, pushing his body to the limit. He had pulled frequent all-nighters all in the name of success.
Weekly battles with Jabber in the dead of night became the usual. Zanka would observe, pay close attention to each movement Jabber made and what they meant. Still, it always ended the same. Jabber had once told him during their second battle, “maybe I should have picked another cleaner.”
Since then, emerging victorious had been his top priority.
Perhaps it was foolish, seeking validation from someone like Jabber, who’d inevitably get bored of him if he didn’t live up to what he considered “fun.”
But at this moment, Zanka didn’t think he could ever forget the look on Jabber’s face. It was almost worshipful, the way adoration colored those vibrant pink eyes of his.
Zanka wouldn’t let Jabber get bored of him. He’d keep fighting, keep winning, repeating the cycle a thousand times over if that's what it takes. He’s stuck with Zanka now.
•••••
Jabber has never felt better. Sure, the pain was nice, but it couldn’t measure up to the situation at hand.
Zanka beat him.
Zanka, the one who insisted he was “a fraud.”
Jabber knew since their first fight, when Zanka had pushed through the pain of the poison he had injected, that he was special. Not because he was strong (though he obviously was), but because of his unwavering determination. Zanka would never back down, despite the innumerable times he had been pushed to the brink of death.
Zanka always went on and on about being “average” or “weak”, spouting nonsense that made him sound like he’s been doomed to a life of nothing but fighting and losing uphill battles.
Underestimating himself is what Zanka is best at. Seeing Zanka with a manic glee on his face that he made no effort to suppress was the real reward.
Zanka won, of course. But in the end, Jabber’s the lucky guy who got him to unleash his full potential.
Then, who’s the real victor here?