Chapter Text
His fingertips tap repeatedly against his dusty pants, absentmindedly fiddling with his jacket’s zipper.
A growing distaste to his unzipped jacket was starting to fill him from within, so with a defeated sigh, he gripped the silver zipper and slid it all the way up to his sternum, folding the hood over his head.
Zanka’s exhaustion was beginning to possess him – along with the internal stations inside his brain with their own thought-trains leaving at the same time to the capital of his mind: overthinking city.
He could not stop thinking about his teammates, (his friends), his colleagues. It is already clear that they know, and they know that he knows about them knowing, so what was he supposed to do? He was not going to make some bitchy excuse about it, because he was, one could argue he wasn’t – but he wholeheartedly knows he really was, in control.
Screams of terror and begs and cries and curses blares inside his cranium, and Zanka feels nothing at the recollection, other than that they deserved it. One would feel sick at this, sick of their own actions. Yet, as much Zanka knows he should, he feels nothing. Not a lick of anything. It feels like old news at this point, why bother going over that?
He can’t help but miss feeling anything other than nothing. Therefore, he tries to convince himself the vacant pit in his stomach is actually the disgusting sensation of realisation of what he did, and consequently guilt.
Ba-dump, ba-dump.
His heart continues to beat in that rhythm. Oxygen-poor blood enters from the left side, the vena cava, and into the respectable valves until it branches to the lungs, where the blood’s quality refreshes from poor to rich with the assist of the oxygen in his lungs. From there, the blood travels back to the heart through his left atrium through the blood veins, through the valves, and back into the rest of his body through his aorta. It pumps out with high pressure. It continues.
Even his heart knows guilt; self-deprecation and such tedious feelings have no place there, inside him. He has no chance of feeling normal again, and his heart shows that by pumping blood like nothing’s wrong. Unrest rolls off his shoulders and Zanka curtly huffs.
From the passenger’s seat, there is nothing admirable to view outside the car window, but it grounds him and the sight distracts him just enough for him to not realise they’re right by the base.
He closes his eyes.
In his hands, his fingers roll the (diagnosis) paper Alice handed to him between his index and thumb.
There is subtle conversation in the back, and Zanka ignores the occasional glance from Bro.
He lets himself think.
His hand ghost over his choker when he hangs up, the repeated sounds of bird sounds echoing loudly in his head before he grips it, snaps it off, and discards it on the ground. His other hand flies up to his face, and Enjin believes that his knees would buckle if he didn’t sit down any moment now. He settled for a deep squat right there – where a bench was conveniently beside him and a wall behind for him to lean against.
“Oh, thank you,” he swallowed thickly, voice wavering.
In the distant of the courtyard where graffiti and style covered most of the area, Rudo and Riyo were supposedly fighting. More like bickering if you asked Enjin himself.
“Thank you, oh, shit—thank you.”
Relief. Just pure, cold wash of pure relief loosened up his tight shoulders, and he could feel himself go weak at the strong emotion he was feeling. His heart was pumping fast and his lungs felt lighter than he’d ever felt in the past two weeks. His fingers ran through his blond locks and Enjin rose up to his feet, straightening his legs. He was unsure who he was thanking—perhaps Zanka for getting out of that horrible place—but strings of thank-you’s rolled off his tongue like a prayer.
His big palms covered his face entirely, but the spaces between his fingers allowed the words “thank you,” to spill between the digits.
Thank you. I can’t thank you enough. Oh, thank you. Thank you.
He glanced to the others. Both teenagers were just staring at him, caught off guard.
Enjin cracked a smile, a genuine one, and mouthed the following sentence, because at that point his voice was non-existent.
We found Zanka.
(“Zanka,” a masculine voice carries his name. “If ya ever find yerself in a situation neither of us can save ya from, ya must save yerself. If ya do not know how to act, act either way.”)
His irises, pitch black as the glowing anima particles that once brightened it had blown out like a flame on a candle, stare ahead as Bro parks into the garage, turning the ignition. Guita and Dear exits the jeep first, but Bro stays.
(“Wha’ if I can’t?” He responds, small and meek, nothing compared to his big brother who shares a shred of contentment to him, a rare moment. He was a shy child back at Kamuatari District. It was cute at first, but now, at the age of eight, he cannot spare to be timid. No way of a Nijiku, yet his brother holds him close in his arms, and Zanka wraps his around Goka’s shoulders, feeling the subtle vibrations of his heart beating.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
“Trust everything to your senses, and act like a Nijiku would. Do ya promise me that, Zanka?”
He nods, and Goka lets go off him, allowing him to run off throughout the household.)
If Bro could listen to the way his breathing was struggling to shift back to normal, he didn’t comment on that. Instead, his steady voice carried the conversation for the both of them. “Zanka, before you leave the jeep, just know your Team and the Boss is standing by the elevator.” He cupped his palm over his left shoulder, and the overthinking ceased for a moment. “You are not in trouble, I hope you know that.”
“I…” his voice comes through, then it fails him. He has failed them. He can’t feel sorry for it.
“I know.”
“Good,” Bro replies, not unkindly. His eyes are gentle. The skin around creases and Zanka tears his gaze to the dashboard, not because of the smile sickly reminds him of Goka, of course not.
(“Will you look over me?”
“I will.”)
Yeah, right.
By the time he turns to face Bro, the seat’s empty, and the Team Leader is looking at him, hand holding the car door open. Voices reverberate outside in the echoing garage, but the focus to narrow into which voice belongs to who melts away. His focus is on Bro instead, who can’t stop smiling at him, exactly the way Goka would back then.
“Take the time you need to get out of the jeep, Zanka. None of us are forcing you.”
He nods, because that’s all he can do, and the man closes the car door, leaving Zanka to his thoughts.
It takes him 13 minutes and 24 seconds to get out of the jeep.
As the soles beneath his boots grip the smooth concrete and he closes the vehicle’s door with a slam, arms wrap around his figure with suffocating tightness. It surprises Zanka as a head of red fills his vision, blinded by the thick strands of hair smashed up on his face.
A refreshing scent of nothing fills his nostrils; it’s like a fresh of clean air amongst the smell of dirt, toxin and another musty scents that he’s been forced to get familiar with.
Zanka’s quiet. He’s stiff, as still as a wall as Riyo’s face continues to bury into his collarbone. He’s still out of it – it takes him a moment to actually hug her back, and the moment his arms snakes around her figure, she softens into it.
“Ri—” “Zan—”
They interrupt each other, and that does it.
Her facial expression cracks. Zanka’s met with such strong emotions he has seen once or twice throughout the years of him being friends with Riyo. A pang of shame fills him as he properly reciprocates the embrace and feels her shakily inhale.
The Nijiku is so focused on her that he hardly notices Enjin walk up to him, his footsteps echoing subtly in the vast, semi-dark garage. Riyo’s arms tangles behind his back, Zanka doesn’t want to let go of her either, like matted necklaces refusing to come undone.
The redhead eventually loosens her trembling arms when she becomes aware of the tall presence behind her, and she side-steps to the left to allow the man forward.
Zanka takes a moment to look up, and when he does, it’s an unfamiliar view. It is nothing like his mentor. His hands are at his sides, clenching and unclenching like he doesn’t know what to do with them as an exhale of the other’s name comes out pathetically. “Zanka...”
He stares at Enjin (his leader, guardian, his damn older brother) and he, too, becomes awkward. The man probably knows. Knows about that, about his actions—what he has done.
What his insanity has done, his pure wrath and anger and desire. His bloodthirst for revenge, justice for Lovely Assistaff. What he had done to gain Zento.
I’m sorry.
Please don’t hate me.
Enjin, I can explain.
Don’t look at me any different.
Don’t abandon me, please.
Enjin.
I’m sorry.
His face twist and he swallows a pit as he looks down to the ground, unable to keep eye contact. He can feel his face get red, slitted eyebrows curl upward as pressure gathers at his waterline. He can feel himself choke. Zanka steers his gaze to the right, a disrupted line of jeeps in a straight line, some missing, most of them remaining.
He can’t meet Enjin’s eyes. He can’t. He can’t bear for whatever is to come.
Don’t abandon me, please.
“Pleasedonthateme, imsosorryenjin—”
The last thing he sees is a shadow rapidly coming in from his peripheral vision as Enjin interrupts him- He wraps his arms around his back and grips the back of his head to stuff his face into the other’s shoulder, silencing him. The sudden surprise, his second hug in under four minutes, takes him aback—especially a hug from the Enjin. Zanka can’t get himself to say anything, too much in shock to even move.
“Zanka. I won’t ever hate you, ever. Get rid of that thinking.”
Wh—what—
“As long as you’re here, I’m here. You’re under my watch, under my wing, under my care. Don’t let your thoughts think otherwise.” Zanka’s still, very still in his arms. He feels tears prick at his waterline. They don’t fall. “I’ve been worried sick ever since you didn’t return from that last mission, I was insanely worried I thought I was going to throw up. You got a value here, kid, and I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”
Enjin rested his cheek on top of Zanka’s ash blond hair, and dropped down, a couple centimetres shy from his ear. “I don’t blame you for what you did. I would never. I don’t hate you. You did what you did to survive and get back Lovely Assistaff. Any of us would’ve done the same thing.”
(“—don’t beat yourself up, Zan. Any of us would’ve done the same thing.”)
A voice he used to know overlaps with Enjin’s, and he flinches hard.
Zanka’s eyes widens, and a choked sob escaped him. It startled even him, but Enjin held him through his cries as relief washed over him and his arms wrapped around Enjin’s middle, tears streaming down his reddened cheeks, his big brother holding him through the pain.
He doesn’t hate me, I thought he—he doesn’t hate me.
“I would never hate you, Zanka. Never.” Enjin reassured, and Zanka never knew that was all it took for him to finally break down, crumble bit by bit till the breeze could send him flying away.
He has never felt so thankful before in his entire life. It’s an overwhelming feeling. Zanka feels Riyo’s body press against his back as she hugs her too, and the older teenager adjusts slightly, looking over Enjin’s shoulder as arms join around him.
By the garage’s exit he sees Corvus and Rudo stand beside the elevator, the adult’s arms crossed over his chest with an unexplainable expression, and Rudo looking his way before turning on his heel, heading back into the lift.
His red eyes were obscured by shadow provided by his white bangs, but the scowl his lips shaped after was as clear as day. Along with his tense shoulders and body language that screamed ‘freaked out’. Zanka sniffled and wiped his tears with his index and let his almost black eyes look at the Sphereite till the elevator door closed and the people left behind was the Boss and his two teammates (his friends, his family).
He doesn’t know what to think of Rudo yet. He can’t.
The texture of paper still in his grip reminds him of his current objective.
The hallway is still the same.
Beige wallpapers peeling at some corners, spots of dried dirt at feet level and murals graffitied across the corridor. It’s as he remembers it. He ambles down the hall with his fingertips pressed against his palms, pulsating anxiously. He had previously stuffed the diagnosis note in his pants, feeling that one more wrinkle would be the end for the paper. With no comfort to soothe his unease, he hurries to the infirmary.
He hates the feeling of familiarity that drowns him with the path he takes. The path he’s so used to – because of his weakness, his lack of strength, lack of anything. He can’t do anything, and his brain punishes him by bringing out each and every moment his feet has guided him to that forsaken room to be coddled and patched up, for being a failure. For being such an average—no, less than average. Less than anything.
Less than.
It doesn’t matter that the other category is, for Zanka is worth less than.
(“It hurts so good!”)
His feet still in his spot. His hand is brought up level to the door handle, but he doesn’t touch it.
The memory paints a clear picture in his mind. Jabber, bleeding beneath him as his new piercings catch the lamp post’s lights. A clear hue painted across his cheeks. Clear pleasure and gratification that fills him whole.
Lovely Assistaff pulses on his back. He can feel vibrations on his hip—coming from Zento.
That’s right. He’s not weak.
What had he been thinking of earlier?
(He recalls the strong emotions he felt when Jabber met him in that skatepark almost three hours ago. He wanted his wants to be filled, wanted to fill Jabber’s as well, because they both were equal. They were as strong, as willed, as each other. The same. His overwhelming need to win.)
Well, it was a shame that neither of them won. Zanka had to have that in mind, at least.
The door’s handle is cool and smooth as he opens the door, forgetting the basic manner to knock before entering the room when he catches Eishia off guard. She whips around, alarmed, with a bunch of delicate medical instruments in her grasp, unbalanced on her feet when she turns to look at him.
The distinctive scent of cleaning agents of the infirmary takes him involuntarily back to the laboratory.
(“—surrender and listen to whatever I have to say. If I tell you to—”)
“O-oh! Sorry—let me just put these down, it’ll take a moment.”
(“Inside these walls, you’re ours. You don’t have any rights in here.”)
He quickly abandons the train thought and instead, swallows the heavy pit in his throat as Eishia puts the items down. It had surely been some time since he last saw her, since he didn’t think she had eye bags before. Perhaps not, maybe she had always had them. He can’t tell these days. “No, it’s fine. It’s my fault for forgettin’ to knock before enterin’,” he tells her, and takes several steps forward to stand by the hospital beds but not quite being close enough to sit on them. Eishia notices his strange getup—not quite strange, unlike the teenager—but doesn’t say anything.
In lieu, she speaks. “It has… been some time. The others came to me earlier to tell that you were found, and... I was told that you would come here sooner or later.”
Zanka blinks. “They did?” He believed that Bro would say anything, and he’s grateful that he didn’t. Guess my team’s good at readin’ me. He was unsure if that was a good thing or not.
“…did they tell ya for what?”
Eishia shakes her head, holding her elbows and resting them over stomach. “No, they didn’t. Are you injured? If there’s anything I should know, please—”
“There is.” Zanka interrupts. “It’s…” his eyes glances to the ajar door. The note in his pockets weighs more than anything.
He sighs, an acidic curl spreading throughout his stomach.
“I was gettin’ treated by yer grandmother at her clinic when she told me somethin’,” Zanka settles down on the duvet of the infirmary beds,” and she told me to pass this to ya. Somethin’ about ya having more information than her.” He takes out the crumpled paper and throws it over at an angle.
On the wheeled stool Eishia sat on, she caught the paper before it could fly past her head and read the contents.
Patient name: Zanka Nijiku
Eishia, this boy has the visible signs of VIDS, but I trust your second opinion given you’re more experienced in this area than I am. Prove me wrong with this diagnosis, because if not, I only feel bad for this fella. After all, it didn’t end well the first time.
- Alice Stilza
Eishia’s face dropped and her gaze flickered to Zanka’s eyes. She hadn’t realised it, but they seemed so dark and full of exhaustion and nothing more. She considered his eyes to be a cool shade of cerulean, a deep accent that’s key in his Cleaner uniform, but they look nothing like the shade.
Instead, a midnight hue takes the crown and the light that’s never present in a Giver’s eyes makes it look even emptier. She heard, weeks ago, that Zanka went missing, and coming out of that looking like this?
It must’ve felt so lonely.
“You…” She couldn’t speak.
VIDS. Vital Instrument Deprivation Syndrome. What did you go through?
“Zan… this is…” Words couldn’t form how bad she felt for him.
She heads for the door and shuts it, and from an outsider’s perspective, you could see Eishia settle once more on the stool, speaking to Zanka.
And if you were peeking from the window, you could see Zanka’s expression shift into something reminiscent to betrayal.
I’m sorry.
In the passing days where the world continued its cycle, people occasionally came up to Zanka. For those who didn’t, they stared during lunch time, annoying the living shit out of him. Goosebumps would spread across his arms and back, ticking him off, and Enjin and/or Riyo would stare at those looking at him to tell them to knock it off.
Additionally, he presumed that things would go back to normal. That his mornings would consist of rewrapping and tending to Lovely, scent his room with his favourite incense, work out in the mornings, train Rudo, take up missions and more. But now, his routines are messed up. For one, the thing he doesn’t complain about, his staff accompanied by his katana. He had forgotten that he ran out of incense right before taking up his last mission, which resulted in his kidnapping. Thirdly, his focus is so shattered that he cannot find the rhythm to work out in peace anymore. He doesn’t train Rudo anymore.
Not that he doesn’t want to, but the other is avoiding him.
(It somewhat hurts to think about it, but Zanka ignores it. He’s good at ignoring issues, has been doing it for a long time.)
And now, after leaving the Boss’ office, he can’t rely on his straight-up horrible stress management now that he has learned that his siblings are coming soon.
He ignores the clawing sensation in his airways.
(He recalls the way the dagger went in so easily into the assistant’s throat, feeling the resisting cease over the minute he held it there.)
The sensation melts away into nothing. A rocky steady sigh comes out his nostrils, and he doesn’t relax until he’s in his room, where all his air from his lungs comes out in one smooth wobbly breath.
He doesn’t feel good.
He doesn’t feel good.
His brain cruelly reminds him of his siblings—not the kind, caring ones from years ago—but the Hell Guards. The second-in-command and the captain of the 1st Red Horn Squad.
He feels sick.
He doesn’t feel good.