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Zanka hadn’t heard from Jabber in weeks.
It was coming up to being the longest they’d gone without contact since their first encounter, not that Zanka had been keeping count. Even the peaceful, dull period of silence after the trash beast had been infested by Jabber in some way, his name being brought up in passing by one of the other cleaners, a bitter, metallic odour burning Zanka’s nose seeming to come out of nowhere from time to time, the lingering ache on his body from where Mankira had pierced his skin.
Jabber had been the one to find him again after their second fight, cornering him in an alleyway on his way back after a long mission. He claimed that he was just passing by, his voice barely even trying to conceal the sickening mix of giddiness and anticipation as he rushed through some quick explanation of why the boss had sent him over to the edge of a No Man’s Land in the middle of nowhere. How he just happened to be taking the same route home, walking through a town they both knew neither of them had visited before.
Zanka wasn’t listening, only focusing on the fact that the lingering feeling he’d had on the back of his neck all day telling him that something was just off had finally been lifted. That, and activating Lovely Assistaff before the small glow in Jabber’s eyes could mean anything more.
He was alone, of course, Jabber had made sure of it.
That fight ended much too quickly for Zanka’s liking. He had the upper hand initially, making sure he got the first hit, using an opening to strike Jabber in the side, feeling a lingering sense of satisfaction that he hadn’t achieved in months upon hearing the sickening crunch as Lovely Assistaff made contact with the other’s ribs. The grin that had been etched into Jabber’s face only grew as he fought to even it out, Mankira narrowly missing Zanka’s neck as he swung her about in wild but precise movements.
There was a moment where Zanka let his guard down, a moment that replayed in his head for weeks afterwards, haunting him every time he closed his eyes in the hope he’d finally get some rest. He realised his mistake, of course, but it was too late, Mankira had already pierced his side.
“Not bad, Mr Bad Attitude,” he’d heard from somewhere to the left of him, using the last of his fading strength to turn his head towards the source of the noise.
The look on Jabber’s face was one that would also prove to be an unwelcome source of torture for his brain to provide him with. The other’s smile had not yet faded, in fact he seemed to be smiling even more elatedly than usual, but there was a small yet unmistakable trace of something else there which was much worse than the poison now flowing unforgivingly through his veins.
A look of something much too close to disappointment.
“Shame it had to end so quickly though, I thought you’d finally go all out on me, it’s been a while after all.”
The blood leaking out of Zanka’s side suddenly didn’t matter anymore, he twisted his body in a painful attempt to reach out to Lovely Assistaff. She was right there, still activated- it wasn’t over. His chest felt like it was on fire, burning him from the inside with an all-too-familiar emotion, one that had come to erupt over his entire being far too many times for him to count.
He couldn’t help but think back to Jabber’s words in the trash beast, lamenting that he should have picked one of the other cleaners whilst Zanka was writhing in pain on the floor. Jabber, who had seen something in Zanka, who had begged him to show him the brutality inside of him, regretting his decision for what? Because Zanka hadn’t lived up to his insane expectations? Even so, Jabber had found him again. He had waited until Zanka had finally made it out of that hospital bed, until he had trained even harder, until he had taken up more missions than ever before to prove him wrong. Jabber, who had waited until the perfect moment to strike so they could fight uninterrupted
And here he was, left with a sickly sense of deja vu, unsatisfied because Zanka didn’t do more, couldn’t do more.
“Too bad, Zanka, too bad,” were the last words he heard before his hand betrayed him and gave up on its mission to reach his jinki.
Despite it all, Jabber had started showing up more and more frequently.
Their fights became somewhat of a regular occurrence, Jabber intercepted him after missions more often than not and Zanka found himself seeking Jabber out almost as much.
There were times when Jabber failed to appear for a while, and the choking feeling rose in the back of Zanka’s throat- what if he’s bored? What if he’s found someone else worth fighting? What if he’s realised how average I really am? Jabber always showed back up, however, and their fights continued on as normal.
Zanka knew he was getting stronger. He saw it in Jabber’s face, the emotions that rose to the surface in the midst of the fights which were much more evenly levelled than ever before reflecting the reality Zanka worked so hard to achieve.
Although the anger that flooded Zanka’s veins every time he saw the other never subsided, it transformed, and began to merge with the almost unexplainable feelings he experienced whenever they fought. As much as it pained him to admit it, he looked forward to their encounters.
There would be times they slipped up every once in a while.
A hand creeping towards the others on the ground after they fought, a shared glance which lingered far longer than what could be considered casual, loaded with things neither dared to explain, a certain gentleness to Zanka’s movements which Jabber never yet moved to accept.
Things that weren’t normal. Not for them.
After they fought, or even occasionally before if the need to attack wasn’t consuming, they’d sit and talk. At first, Zanka didn’t want to hear anything the other had to say. He’d leave faster than he came, frustration boiling over him in heavy waves as the fulfillment he felt after landing hit after hit quickly wore off. It wasn’t enough, and sitting in the aftermath would only lead to the production of more of those seething emotions which polluted his body even more than Mankira’s toxins.
By some unexplainable turn of events, and maybe through a slight lack of his ability to choose otherwise in the wake of a particularly harsh clash of jinkis, he found himself listening to what Jabber had to say, and even worse, he found himself eager to reply. It was surprisingly easy to talk to the other, words falling freely in a way they couldn’t elsewhere. He found Jabber was right, he didn’t need to hold himself back.
Certain topics remained untouched, the times Zanka dared to venture for more were met with deflection more often than not.
Jabber’s voice continued to dance around his head long after he had returned back to his room, remnants of their lengthening conversations on repeat as he cleaned Lovely Assistaff. He gravitated towards the sound of his voice, the way it easily began to engulf all the usual noise so persistent to swarm through his head. He grew used to the constant stream of sound, the comfort that could be brought with only a few words.
But then, there was silence.
At first Zanka didn’t pay Jabber’s absence any mind.
It wasn’t unusual of him, after all, to disappear without a trace. He didn’t owe anything to Zanka either, he was just another enemy, a raider at that, someone whose meetings with Zanka were running on borrowed time as it was.
Zanka would have had to be stupid to think it was anything more.
Being in the headquarters suddenly felt asphyxiating.
Zanka didn’t care.
Despite what he had previously thought, what he imagined he had felt, he didn’t have time to waste thinking about Jabber of all people. If he wanted to spend time fighting other people then Zanka was glad, thrilled even. He didn’t need to see him again in his life, and he would be more than happy if he didn’t. His only regret was that he wasn’t the one to kill the other himself, that he wasn’t there to see the light drain from Jabber’s eyes as he finally got what he deserved.
He threw himself into more missions than ever before, the number of trash beats he killed piling up. Each day he found himself training before he even had the chance to come fully into consciousness, his body already aching from the effort, his hands already gripping Lovely Assistaff in a way which was borderline painful. His visits to get food became less frequent. There wasn’t time, not when he could be out there getting stronger instead.
Praises from the other cleaners fell on deaf ears. Every time someone stopped him in the hallways it left him gritting his teeth, a sour taste rising in the back of his throat that took days to be pushed back down.
What did it matter anymore? What was he doing this for, truly? How much more would he have to do before it was smothered? The anger, the spite, the uncontrollable feeling that had been threatening to swallow him up for as long as he could remember, the fate of somebody cursed with inadequacy.
He didn’t need to be reminded of it everywhere he went. The fact that he had finally been chosen, repeatedly hunted down, seen for who he truly was, and even that wasn’t enough. Jabber had still left, got his fix of entertainment in watching Zanka fight to keep up before realising he too was boring.
Average.
Whatever it was that Jabber had claimed to see in Zanka, lighting his features up with excitement every time they clashed clearly had been nothing but a lie. Did he think Zanka was a waste of time? Was he simply somebody fated to leave everybody who had the displeasure of witnessing his sorry excuse at becoming good enough with a deep sense of regret?
Although he didn’t make any comments outright, Enjin began to throw strange looks in his direction. He had seen him at his worst, in the well with only Lovely Assistaff to keep him company, and later when he joined the cleaners and hadn’t quite yet adapted to change, before he had any vision at all of what he hoped his future would hold. And again now, when his ideas once again began to slip, when all the training he put in began to blend into one more burden weighing down his soul.
Zanka became careless.
Riyo visited his room frequently at night, pushing his door open whenever he found himself in the midst of falling too deeply back into the noise flooding his mind. This had been their norm for as long as they had been friends, speaking into the darkness about anything and everything, or simply sitting there with the reassuring comfort that was each other’s presence.
Now, however, after Riyo inevitably slips back into her own room, the guilt which has clawed a permanent hole in the depths of Zanka’s chest only returns tenfold.
How was he worthy of this patience? He knew Riyo wasn’t doing it because she felt bad, he didn’t need anyone’s sympathy, but the thought that he had friends who were willing to pull him out of the hole he was slowly becoming a permanent resident of only added to the nausea threatening to smother him.
He couldn’t help but become stuck on the futility of the situation- surely they realised they were beyond fighting a losing battle? How long would it be before Zanka didn’t make it back from a fight, before the dust in his room piled up, his belongings abandoned in the neat piles he had once taken such pride in, before his room was unavoidably cleared out for a new recruit, maybe somebody else Enjin had found. Somebody would take his place, make a name for themself, wipe out the need for Zanka’s short time with the cleaners to even be remembered.
Zanka began to take risks.
He had always been one to throw himself into every battle, to keep fighting until he physically couldn’t. His fights with Jabber had proved that, the unforgiving grips of the other’s poison being the only thing to rip him away from getting up and trying again. However, now he was reckless.
The mistake he inevitably made was something he knew he’d receive no end of teasing for if he got back to the other cleaners.
Admittedly, he would be laughing at it himself if not for the piercing hole in his side and the broken ribs that had undoubtedly punctured his lung. An unstable, shaky noise filled the air instead, which he could only identify as coming from his own painful attempt at taking a breath sufficient enough to stop the suffocating feeling clawing at his throat. Blood dripped from the corners of his mouth, leaving a trail down his chin that he wished he had the strength to wipe away and stop in its tracks. His right arm was definitely broken, the unnatural angle of it twisted out beside him causing a fresh wave of repulsion to form. A single twitch of his finger, a movement small enough only to point vaguely in the direction which Lovely Assistaff currently lay abandoned in, caused more than enough pain to make Zanka feel even more lightheaded. He tried lifting his other arm over his body, the sight of her lying in mud and what was presumably his own blood sending a spark of motivation through him, but the motion only caused his ribs to push deeper, blood running more steadily out of the puncture.
His vision swam as he attempted to make sense of what happened.
He thought it had been safe, that he had taken down the trash beasts no problem. He was ready to leave, to begin the long journey back to the headquarters, but a flash of movement caught suddenly in the corner of his eye. Usually, this sort of thing meant nothing to Zanka. He’d get back up, take it out, be on his way- this was his job after all. However, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten enough sleep, or the last time he’d eaten a meal consisting of more than a few scraps Enjin or Riyo, or even Rudo for all his problems with sharing food, had forced in his direction. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d made a quick movement without a dizziness swarming his head in the aftermath, or the last time his every motion didn’t feel sluggish despite his efforts to train even harder, even more relentlessly.
Zanka misjudged its movement.
A trash beast, something he had long since begun to mindlessly take out. Something laughable, not even a real opponent.
He didn’t have time to react appropriately, his mistake had already been set in motion.
Now, he could still hear it’s mindless noises as he lay bleeding out on the floor, his own wheezing breath the only thing to distract himself from the sound. He didn’t know what he had expected really, a pathetic end like this couldn’t be more fitting. He would remain nothing but average until his final breath, and who else was to blame but himself?
In the rapidly increasing haze of his mind, Zanka realised he could lift himself slightly, however it wasn’t worth the effort. The slip of his unbroken arm against the dusty floor wiped out any remaining strength he had gathered as his back once again hit the ground. He no longer had the energy to keep his eyes open, the brightness of the sky growing increasingly painful the longer he lay underneath its harsh rays.
Zanka could feel the last of his consciousness slipping away from him as the light was suddenly blocked by a shadow.
“I guess that trash beast has finally come to finish me off,” he thought to himself, finally relaxing his body in acceptance of the inescapable.
However, the blow he had been expecting never came. In fact, he could do nothing more than lie there as his head was lifted slightly off the ground, and the almost gentle touch that came with it caused his body to flinch in shock. He could clearly feel fingers running their way through his hair, pushing it back from where it was matted against his forehead.
Impossible.
Nobody was scheduled to be around for miles. Surely none of the other cleaners would’ve reached here this quick, they wouldn’t have even known-
“Zanka,” a voice abruptly cut through the air.
Zanka tensed up. His mind was only just lucid enough to form any coherent thoughts but he would have recognised that voice anywhere.
For the second time since he was taken out, he had the overwhelming desire to burst into laughter. Out of all people, it was Jabber who had to find him in this state. Jabber, who Zanka hadn’t even seen for who knows how long, who hadn’t been there whilst he was getting even stronger, who Zanka was almost certain he could now finally beat in a fight. Well, not in his current state of course. The universe must truly have it out for Zanka, maybe he was always fated to die at the hands of the other, and now he had only been delivered the opportunity on a silver platter.
Jabber, whose touch Zanka couldn’t help but relax into even whilst lying there in the dust in anticipation of his end. Whose voice danced through the air once again as he spoke words undecipherable to Zanka, and yet those words managed to alleviate the pain consuming him even so.
With the last of his remaining strength, Zanka forced his eyes open as far as he could bear. Dull pink eyes stared back at him, yet below the surface there was an unmistakable trace of something that looked so unnatural on a face so familiar, something he’d never thought Jabber was even capable of possessing. Zanka felt the corner of his lips twitch slightly, but whatever intention he had wanted to place into the movement was lost as soon as it appeared. He felt his eyes drooping once more. He knew his time was up.
However, despite the moment stretching unnecessarily long, the sharp claws Zanka had become so hopelessly addicted to never pierced his skin.
Instead, an arm slid under his back as he finally faded out of consciousness, his position being changed with a sudden frantic haste as he felt his feet lose contact with the ground. A final jumble of words attempted to make sense in his brain, but they were swept away before they could land.
Jabber’s voice grew louder until it was all he could hear.
At least there was peace at the end.