Chapter Text
Time passes, and the challengers get worse. The whole wide world seems to be after Rudo, entries to the Watchman Series popping up one after the other, all bearing power beyond Zanka's imagination. Rudo improves as fated, growing stronger and more powerful with every day, his resolve steel and his will unbending. Zanka soon becomes unable to touch him at all.
But so does Riyo.
Semiu, Guita, Enjin—even the Boss looks at Rudo with something akin to foreboding. The Raiders step back when he shows up, their Leader offers an Alliance when their goals keep aligning. The Hell Guard knows his name, his face, his ability. The whole Ground comes to know him, this sixteen-year-old child who saw fit to fight a God and won.
Rudo, Rudo, Rudo. Zanka wants to throttle him, some days.
Which doesn't stop Zanka from dragging him out of bed every day and making him practice fighting stances. Pars and blocks and dodges and kicks and jabs. Zanka puts the kid through all the hoops until it's more or less ingrained in Rudo's brain, until it comes as naturally to him as R3’s power. This orphan child of legend, of prophecy, of victory—Zanka hates him some days, but he refuses to let the world crush him under its heel.
And though he never wins against Rudo anymore, he still fights him. Zanka can't keep up, of course, but he does his best.
Every.
Damn.
Day.
(Some days it even makes him happy, in a twisted shirt or way.)
(He was right about Rudo.)
(Just like he was right about all the geniuses before him.)
(Every.
Damn.
Time.)
But it's not easy. It's not good or nice or comfortable or fine. It's not. It can never ever be fine, it has never even been. It can't be at all. Because Zanka tries, he really does. He tries every damn day, trains every single hour of the day he can spare. He trains his body, he trains his mind, he trains his reflexes and his mobility and his agility and flexibility and his reaction time. He trains his senses, his offence, his defence. He trains with Lovely, with a gun, with a katana, with Lovely again, because no punishment would be worse than his girl feeling neglected; he trains barehanded and using his legs only and with his eyes bandaged, with his hand tied behind his back, with his feet stuck together. He wakes up at four a.m. in the morning and goes to sleep only when he passes out. And he doesn't pass out until he's in his room, door locked and windows closed and both barricaded and bobby trapped, because heaven forbid someone comes in like Kyouka used to do, dragging him out of his bed in the middle of the night and throwing him to the floor with the gun already clocked and the bullet halfway out.
The one time Riyo tried, he almost snapped her neck.
(He sleeps soundly, however, if she gets in bed with him in the first place. If he can close his eyes with Riyo's weight draped over his chest, or Rudo's warmth seeping through the side of his body Mymo put a hole in, or with Enjins' arm curled over his shoulder).
(He sleeps best when it's all at the same time, in the Team Akuta Common Room, sunken pit in the middle of the floor filled with blankets and pillows and the only place in the world Zanka can currently relax in).
Case in point, it's late, very late, and Zanka is bruised all over from a fight with Delmon, one he only just managed to win, and yet. Yet Zanka is here. He's here in the training room, alone. The place is deserted. The lights won't even turn on—because no one else needs this. He's the only one, Zanka. The only Cleaner who is not up to standard. The only one catching up. Years after he first joined, he's still catching up.
Failure, mistake, waste of time little Zanka, weak and slow and average. Over and over and over again, no matter what he does, for how long, how many times. Never good enough, never able to make something out of himself, never surpassing expectations—ever disappointing, pathetic, unreliable. If he didn't have Lovely, he would be dead. He would have been dead, for a very long time. Zanka has become the very thing his family always scorned, a Giver dependant on his Vital Instrument, and yet he's still—
Do you understand?
He still is—
Do not d̴i̶s̸a̷p̶p̷o̷i̷n̵t̵ ̵m̷e̶.
He can never—
Y̷o̷u̶ a̸̬̞͆̏r̶̡͕̹͒̅͋e̷͍͚̓̐̋ p̷̥̥̙̙̦̓͌̄͛̚a̶͓͖̭̩̋̔͒͗̉t̵̡̗̜̎̋͛h̷̛̃̀̎ͅe̴̱̣̮̘͗̀͒̃̾t̸̝̽̄i̵̡̢̛̜̟̅͑̅͊c̵̗̎.
Zanka bites through his lip, there in the deserted training room, unable to scream even when well aware that the paintings of the wall will stop the noise from getting out. Old magic from Gob, because people got tired from hearing the fights that went down in here. But what would he scream for? Nobody can help him. Not with this. Not with anything, because he's so far beyond help, at this point. He's so very doomed, he's—
He. He's curved over the water fountain, gripping its side white knuckled, hands shaking and eyes watering, head drenched from being held under the spray. And then he looks up, and. And he can't scream, no, that's useless.
But he—
Bang!
—can help—
Bang!
—himself.
Bang!
One thing he can control. One single action he cannot suck at. So Zanka bangs his head against the wall until he physically can't anymore.
And then he takes a deep, hiccuping breath, feeling hazy and flat and colorless, no sound, all noise, only warm from the blood falling from his face, and does it again. He hits his head against the wall and—
And then he screams and screams and screams like someone is being murdered because someone is, because Zanka told himself he would prove himself, save himself when he crawled out of that goddamn well, but he hasn't. He never will. He can't. He can't win, and he can't get better and he can't change his own nature and he can't change his fate. He can't do anything, because he's a failure, he's pathetic, he's his family's disappointment and his parents greatest shame and Team Akuta's weakest link. He's a fraud. He has always been a fraud and he will always be a fraud because he can't do it. He can't, he can't, he can't—
He will never be something, never show Enjin, never show Kyouka, never show his mother—
He has nothing to show, because he's nothing. Nothing but a mistake, nothing but average, not unless—
D̴̨̢̢̲͕̩̩̬͍̖̀͒̾̐o̴̢̭̠̯̮̖̬͚̿̽̉̕͠ͅ ̶̛͇̦̘̪̽̔͌̃̃̎͐̕͝ň̷̛̹͕̺̿̈́͒͛̿ͅo̴̟̘̞̮̫̙͇͈̕t̵̻͎̯́ ̴̟̊͌́͝d̸͔̏̽į̷̡̢̧̮̳̞̥͕͎̹̝̅̍s̸͎̻̣̱͎̰͒̃̐ȃ̴͍̹̟̲̜̰̝̐̓̀͐̋́̋͐̕p̷̮̮͙̤͉͖̘̩͔̣̪͒͐̂̇̀̌́̋́͝p̸̫͗̾͑̃ö̴͚̊̆̒̈̉͠͠͝ị̶̑͑̓̀̄̆̈́̐̾̕͝n̸͕̲̳̯̋̀́̇̽͒͒̄̑͆̋͘t̶̖̰͊̉͋̇͌̄̊̔̓̽͐̕ ̴̦̠̪͖͒̈̈́̌͆m̴͍̘̱̙̝͔̗͗̈́̑͛͐̅̂ë̸̯̥̰̲͙̙́̅̋͑͆́͌̚̚͝.
No.
Not—not ever. He will never—he cannot. He's at the bottom of the well, digging. Dirty and starved and defeated and helpless, because that's who he is. Who he has always been. He needs to find his way back up, he needs to climb, need to break his nails on the stone and count his breaths on the deep, narrow hole, or he has to find another way out, digging further and further until he comes out on the other side. He can fall and break his neck, he can dig himself so deep it all crumbles over him until there is no him anymore—
But he can't—
He cannot—
Eishia is not happy with him.
“I just wish I could make you understand, Zanka. That's all.”
But Zanka understands. He understands very well.
(And Eishia does, too, even if she hates to).
I have to change, I have go change, I have to change, I have to change, I havE TO CHANGE I̸ ̶H̷A̸V̶E̵ ̵T̵O̸ ̵C̶H̶A̵N̷G̵E̴ Ī̵̧̥̺̟̗̫̙̤̱̩̰͖̾͗̏̈͌̓̓̔͂̚̕͝ͅ ̷̡̨̢̠̯̊̃̍́͂̚Ḧ̶̫̙̩́́̋͂͛͛͗͐͑̾̄̎͐̑̋͋̕̚Ă̵̛͔̤̝̼̜̱̣͐͐̇̍͑͊̽͝V̵̩̫̣͓̯̣̻͍̗̺̪̰̰͍͊́̑̀́É̴͔̝͙͎̗̌̀̉̂̓͐̂̇̂͠͠ͅ ̷̡͓̺̬̟͍͓̺͔̹͕́̊̿̋͒̉̓̽͆̓̍̚Ṱ̶̤͈͉̝̪̱̭̞̥̅O̸̾̅͜͝ ̵͇̫̜̤̳̙̬́̆͝ͅÇ̷̠͍̹̠̬̾͒̂͋̌̑̿̊̄̑̎̔̇̽́̌H̶̡̫͉̠̼̺̮̠͇̝̠͎̪̺̪͌͆̊̎͗͐̈̇̎̉̿Ạ̸̖͈̯̖͉͂̏̋͋̿͒̄̚N̴̗̫͖͍̞̺̯̝̩͚̤̜̱̼̼̣̻̅̐́́̓̋Ǵ̶̢̛̘̬̝̞̭͚̰̻̿̈́̍͒̊̎̆̅̃͘͜E̷̢̛̳̦͓͕̐̔̿̐͊̽̄̄̂̈͋—̴̛͔̲̐͑͒͛̓̋̑͐̓͗̾̈́̕̚̕͝
He trains with the Cleaners. Enjin and Riyo and Rudo and Follo and Fu and Amo and Guita and Bro Santa and Dear Santa and Delmon and Konri and Tamsy and Semiu and the Twins and Gris and Mildretta and Luce and Meriege. He wins and he loses and he loses again then wins then loses then tries again, again, again. Once, twice, thrice. One more, come at me, don't hold back, don't make it easy for me, don't let me win, don't show mercy, don't try to spare my feelings—
Don't act as if I can't do it. Please please please please please please—don’t tell me it's impossible, don't give up on me, don't leave me behind. I can do it better I can change I can overcome this I can still—
Without becoming that, I can still—
Y̸o̵u̵ ̷a̵r̸e̴ ̵n̴o̸t̶h̴i̵n̶g̷ ̷b̷u̴t̴ ̵a̷ ̷d̸i̶s̵a̶p̶p̶o̸i̶n̶t̵m̸e̵n̸t̸.
I can—
Ș̷̝̌h̶̰͆o̶̦̥̔̾̈́̓w̶̟͑ ̷̪͌̔͊̕͜m̸̮̓̃͆̈ͅe̶͍̘͙̋́̆̇ͅ ̷̢̳͉́͂̈́͘ẁ̸̰̮h̸̫͑͘a̵̛͇̦͆̎̏ṫ̵̘̪͔̤͒̀ ̵̤̺̌̃̆̽a̴̫̹͍̲̓͋́ñ̴̨̝͚̋̓̃ ̵̮̏͐͠A̴̡̹̕͜v̷̛̥̭̕̕ȩ̶͠r̶͙͚͋̃̏̽ã̵̼͒g̸̛̩͉̝̈́͆̎e̵̠͉͠ ̷̟͉̿J̶̧̭̫͗͋̓o̸̞̱̲͊e̵̦̙̙̓̈́͝ ̸̛̟̃c̸̲̥̟̠̓̊á̵͍͋͂͝n̵͇͇̹͛̔̄̈́ ̴̡̆̑d̴̖͔̣͈͑̓̍o̴̬̫̻͐
Of course I can—
Y̵̝͉͓̹̐o̴͔̎͝ũ̶͔̞̌͐̎͝ ̸͔̪͎͇̈̎̀͝a̴̢̻͕̎̇͆́̕ŗ̸͓̗͇̲͋̓̓é̶͎͓̮͔̠̏̑͊͝ ̴̰̌p̴̬̣̱͚̂͗̆̚ͅa̴͕̥̽̅́̿̑t̷͇͙̞̲͠ĥ̴̜̗̓̏͒e̸͓̺̻͕͑̌̈̅t̷̮͈͓͉̖̂̉̚i̵̫̿̎ç̵͉͙̃̽͗.̶̙͗͛
̴̠̺̠͜͝
I—
Ỵ̴̢̛͖̥̜̝̮̲͑͌̈́o̵̞̲͔̊͆͌̀͜͜ͅú̵̢͇̱͍̳̆̀̅̿͠ ̴̣̬͖̑̓́͒̂a̵̞͙̬̻̠̭͑̓̂r̵͔͕̹̞͈̪͔̐́͒͂̑̅̌̇e̴̱̻̩̺͓̮̓̀̈́̋͊̎͘͝ ̴̻̀̍̂͋̂̑͝b̶̨̲̹̰̜͕͆̇̄̍̀͌͒ȧ̴̢̧͍̮̣̝͔̟r̸̮̬̎ͅę̸̮̜̰̠̱̂̃͝͝l̵̺̲͉̩̗̉̋̑̋y̴̤̭̹̖̞̿̑̃̎̈̚ ̸̬̎́d̷̟͌̉̋̀́ǒ̶̙̕i̶̮̮͓͓̊̍͑͑̀̐͐ṇ̷̫̞͚͖̀͘͠͝g̷̖̑̃ ̵̪̘̠͇̭̪̏͒̆́ͅå̷̡̟̫̭̲̖̜n̵̠̼̟̂̽͑y̶̨̱̺͚̞̏̏͆́͂̕͝t̴̡̘̙͈̖͍͙͎̆h̸͓̹̐̍ì̶̡̛͍̪̝̞̓̈́ǹ̴͙̻̫͆̅̓͠g̷͙͎͈̥͈͆ ̸̤̺́́͑́a̷̘̦̣̅̈́t̵͔͙̝̾̄͊͌͊ ̷̛̹̣͍̮̲̓̀͗̈́̇͜͜͠ä̵̹́́̚l̵̻̼̣̲̩̝̖͌͊̃l̸̛̲̰̯͖͚̽͆͠.̴̰̖̩̀́
I…
W̴̛̘͋̆͝e̴̛̮͊̆͑̉̇̆̑̍̆͘͝͠ ̷̛̛͕̮͙̮͎̳͖̀̈́͂́̉̔̀͜ḅ̵͋̆̂̑͌̈ḙ̶̡̣̮̿͛͘ļ̸̡̟̹͎̙̪̻̲̫͇̖͆̐͒̋̾̈́̋͒̀̑͐̕͜ï̷̛̝̥̲̥̻̗͍̰͉̥̘̏̋̓̅̈̅͌͒̉̽͠e̵̗̔̏̀̿͆v̷̨̛͔̪̤̠͔̤̥̗̜̹̱̌͊̾͗͛̈́̐͠͝ẽ̵̡̛͖̝̣̗̦̺̥̞͑̄̂͛̀̒̾͌̚͜͜ ̴̡̗̹̯͈̝̬̳̱̃̈́̽ͅi̸͔̇̒̌͋͝ň̶̰̻̪̺́̊̕̕ ̷̛͕͍̥̻͓͙̤̊̽́̌̐̄͒͋͝͠y̴̮͆o̸͙̬̐̈́̋̄̇u̸̬̟̞̘͓̤̤͑̈́͑͋͑͜͝
I.
Ẅ̶̡̲̥͎̮̔̾̃̚ê̵̗̫̻̯̗̜͔͙̬̖͈̫̬̙̥͆̇̄̊̿̉̓̌͆̈́͗̕͠͠͝ͅ ̵̢̛̥̦̰̲̳̺͎̟̩͍̥̹̳̅̎̎͋̅̾̈́̈͊̀̽̓͋́̈́̓k̷̛̛̳̞̬͎͔͈̘̓͋̀́̍͆̈́ņ̷̛̪͙̹̤̩̖͔̦̙̯̺̍̈̉̑̿͆̂̀͠ͅo̵̧̎͐͌̍̄̌̉̽̎̈̆ẅ̷̧̢̖̬̝͍̲̰͕̫͎͍͕́̎̄͊̉̒̅̇̐͜ ̵̧̯͚̞̫̯͍̝̰̮̳͍̻̖̝̬͒̋̒̆̈́̉̽̾͊́̃͐͊̀ę̴̨̡͚̣͇͕͕̩̗̖̰͙̤͎̱͋̽̑̇̽͒̑͋̽̚x̵̨̘͙̞̰̪͕̘̖̮̉̃̾̑̿̓̋a̴̹̠̦̫͓̥̮̘͈̠̠͔̙̯̅̋̔͂̏̿͑̈́͊̕͝c̷̨̨͓̩̙̣͈̩̬̭̳̻͔͓͔̭̆̓͌̎̏̚͜t̶̨̡̧̨͖̪̺̯̲͕͎̍̌̐̃̌̿̕l̴̡̢̗̦̲̜̹̟͉̱̩̹͎̆͂͘͜͝ẏ̶̖́̑̓̈́̾̎́͂̚ ̸̛̪̺͖͉͇̲̀̋̓͋̀̀̔̏͌̚͝w̶̩͉̘̩̜̪̮͕̺̘̐͜h̸̢̤͓͈͓͉͐̎̾̓͊̕͝͠͝͝͝a̴͙̻͕̥̠͉̲̓̓͐̀͒̀̈̿̚ţ̶̧͔͇̻͙͙̗̰̗̱̰̃̓ ̶̨̢̛̘̜͙̩̘̥̳͙͗̈́͑͂͛͋̾̽̅̀̋̏̾͘͘͜͠ý̴̹̖͈̳̩͈̤͉̳͖͔͗͛̔̌̚͠ͅͅo̸̢̻͔̦̯̘̐͗͒͗̂͆̔̄̅̎̋͒́̍̕͝u̴̡̮͒́̿̽͑͛͗́̅̚͘͝ ̶̨̛͕͍͚̩̤̓̎̃̋̂̓̔͐̀͂͘ą̴̫̮̜͚̞͇͎̩̞̐̓̄͗̌͝ŗ̶̤̣̖̺̫̤͙̰̹̗͚͚̼̙͛̒̃̈́̓̄̈̍̓ë̴͎͈̟̥͚͇̟͍̬̪͙̤́̎́̍̑̾̈͑̃̂́̕̚̚ ̴̛̳͙͚͙̝͎̙͗̅̏̕c̶̨̛̣̏̀̑̀́̅̌͆͑̎͗̎̑́̾̈́a̵̛̪̰̼̩͓̹̱̻͉̱̜̯̭̟̓͋͑̈͗͒̀͂̂͋͗́͐͆̉͝p̶̨̖͇͉̮͎̳̫͙͔̞͎̼͍̀̊a̸̢͈͉͓̓̅͐͋͐̋̓̔̉̐̑̔̒̕b̴̛̲̖̼̫͖̥̯̟̦̠̋̆͊̌̇̀̄͘͜͝l̸̨̛̬̗̪̑̏͆̅̊̀̄̈́́̑̋͛̑̀́ę̶̡͎̰̰̦̙̠̻̝̩̩̖̟̣̊̈̈́ ̶̳̠̗̫̫̬̦͎͇̟͍͙̯͑̽̊́̋͗̚͜ö̵̩̫͖̩̺̬̲͇͇̌͜͠ͅͅf̶͕̏͂͑́̿̽̑͐͆̀̐͘͘.̷̢̂́̓͂̃̔͠͠
̵̨̺̤̣̹̼̮̲̦͉͎̫̦̜̳̬͙̉̐̃̏͂̾́͌͘͝
I could. If I—
But he can't. He shouldn't—
The only thing he can't do is take the rope. Because running away? Just… running away? Turning around and fleeing, throw himself to the floor and beg? That means bullet on the back for sure, a kanabo on his gut—Zanka will be forever the disappointment, the shame, the weak link—he can survive it, he has, he hates it, it feels like it's killing him, but it's not, he can do it, he has been doing it, and he's—he’s—he's not less miserable than he has ever been before, no—what he can't do is live knowing, knowing that he took the rope and yet nothing—No, no, no, no, no, Zanka Nijiku will not take the rope, he will not take the easy way out, he will save himself, he will save himself—if he has to take an easy way out then the only honorable one is to take himself out and be done with the whole embarrassing ordeal already, spare everyone the time and himself the humiliation and just find the highest place he can and throw himself down, squeeze Lovely until she breaks and make her bear his shame for the last time—
Better yet, he can find a not-metaphorical fucking rope and hang his-fucking-self with it, if he wants it so badly, if he's so willing to debase himself, if he really can't—if he's done with it all, if he cant even bring himself to keep trying, can't even to the bare minimum, can't do what literal fucking toddlers do—if he can't even be average right, can't do well by any standards, can't show a single shit to anyone because he's really that bad, he's really so little special, he really what his father and his mother and his teachers and the servants in his childhood home and his brother and his sister said he was—if that's true then fine, okay? Fine, what the fuck ever let him die then let him die already someone who let him be done if he's really done, if there is nothing else he's capable of than this nothingness, this worthlessness, stop telling him he's holding back, talking nonsense about his flame, feeding him lies about his possibilities—if he can't do this single thing right then somebody anybody please fucking let him go—
But no. No. Right. Zanka can't beg. Because begging gets you killed anyway, just in a more pathetic way. And he has changed. He's better than this, now. He is.
Right?
Do you understand?
He does.
Bang!
Of course.
So he clocks immediately when they start to turn him down. Guita, who Zanka depended on for her great adaptability in close-ranged combat, starts looking nervous when he approaches, suddenly always busy, or late to somewhere, or having forgotten something. Delmon becomes quiet, dragging his feet and avoiding eye contact—when Zanka manages to convince him, he sends longing looks to his flowers, like he's already mourning the time he will waste away from them.
Bro and Dear Santa outright refuse him, Bro Santa in a flutter of apologies and Dear with a fulminating, fixated glare. Tamsy smiles at him and accepts to his face, but he disappears the exact moment Zanka turns around, vanishing like he was never there at all.
Semiu didn't often give in to his pleas, but at some point, when she sees him coming, she just calls a court no, closing herself up like the walls of a fortress. Fu, who used to come happy when Zanka commanded him to fight, flees upon seeing him, not even trying to act like he forgot to brush his turtle (seriously, Guita, come on). Follo scratches the back of his head and asks him to do something else, to go grab a bite or go for a ride or take a walk or play videogames, smiling guiltily when Zanka turns him down and shaking his head no when he insists on training.
A̴r̸e̵ ̵y̴o̷u̷ ̸d̷o̷n̶e̵?̷
Amo apologizes profusely, shaking her head and hands, and looking so guilty, Zanka ends up buying her a hot chocolate and begrudgingly telling her what he finds attractive in a person. The knowing look in her eyes as he speaks makes him feel as if he got severely beat up.
M̶a̶y̸b̸e̵ ̷I̵ ̴w̶o̵u̷l̶d̸ ̴h̷a̶v̷e̴ ̶h̸a̸d̷ ̵m̶o̴r̷e̶ ̸f̷u̵n̵ ̶f̸i̸g̶h̵t̴i̶n̷g̶ ̷a̸n̴o̸t̸h̷e̴r̷ ̷C̵l̶e̷a̵n̴e̵r̷.
At the end, the original pattern remains. Enjin, though lazy, agrees to come out with him every once in a while. Riyo is always ready to administer a beating. And Rudo, though he really shouldn't bother anymore, enjoys relieving his frustrations on a moving target. It reminds him a bit of Kyouka, which is both bizarre and horrifying.
Still, Zanka trains. Every day, three times a day, in between missions and meditating and eating. He trains with Lovely, with guns, with a katana. He trains with a sasumata and a cleaver and a tanto and a stiletto and a hatchet and a kusarigama. He trains with a nagamaki and a bayonet and a manrikigusari and a sai and with tessens and with a yari and a sodegarami and a baton, the full Hell's Guard curriculum, because he cannot afford to lose any advantage, because he has to get better, not worse, to except for—
Do not disappoint me.
He bites his teeth and he trains with Lovely and he trains with Lovely and he trains with Lovely, helpless to reach for her ever time after he lets go of another weapon, his hands feeling hollow and fingers numb without her weight on them. Zanka is unworthy of her and he's incomplete with her, too. He cannot sleep without being in contact with her, his only warm comfort in the endless cold of his new, perfected routine; he reaches for her like a child in the dark, he holds her against himself ever time Riyo doesn't come curl next to him in bed, ever night Rudo doesn't barge in, hot chocolate in hand and pissy. He forces her to go along with his training, hour after hour and day after day, despite her being perfect, and him being the failure.
You are pathetic.
He trains his body, and he trains his mind. He runs loops around the HQ, takes on all the logistics and analytic assignments he can, bench presses triple his bodyweight, checks over Team Akuta’s reports and general paperwork. He takes care of Lovely with all he has, in both her forms, to compensate for the extra strain, and throughout all of that he ignores the freezing, hard shard of splintering ice stuck between his lungs, making him feel dizzy and choked and so, so sick, with both anger and frustration and sadness and desperation and cold. But there is nothing he can do about it but train, but grip Lovely tighter, not unless—
No.
Do you understand?
You are a mistake.
You are a disappointment.
You just want people to tell you you are amazing.
You are average.
You are boring.
You are pathetic.
You are weak.
Do not disappoint me.
Zanka trains.
And he tries.
(He's going to change, he's going to—)