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You never forget your first. That's a common refrain on the Ground when it comes to talking about the Cleaners. The first Cleaner Follo ever sees is Zanka Nijiku. He's stunned into silence, watching this boy who's got to be around his age wielding a weapon, the sunlight superimposed across him so that for one blinding moment he's nothing less than a star.
This one encounter strengthened Follo's resolve; it gave him the fuel to choose a path that he had once thought could never be his until it irrevocably was. Even despite this, he knows there's still a lot for him to do, effort to be exerted and improvement to be made. It's been a long while since Follo's become a Supporter but he's not yet satisfied with his growth. The fact of this looms over him, a shadow he cannot shake off.
You never forget your first. And Follo likes having a goal, something to work toward. It's probably because of this that he pays close attention to Zanka, admiring his ethic and the hours he puts in. Sometimes Follo goes cross-eyed with all the staring he does, always peeking out of the corner of his eyes, an ache behind his sockets that never seems to dull.
Zanka is a thoroughbred – built for speed and overwhelming utility. He belongs to a family line that's been written, documented in historical records. If Follo wanted, he could go visit the old library and look at the papers, feel the dried pulp beneath his fingertips. The Nijikus were foretold. They're nothing like Follo, not when he always chooses to sit in the shade, turning pale nestled in the underbrush. He's been grown off of weaker stuff, his body sluiced into pond water. Joining the Cleaners was just one step out of many and Follo has developed an itch inside his chest, hungry for an indescribable sense of more. The itch burns now as he's stands in the training yard, aiming for targets that Gris has set up, the back of his hammer puncturing the mechanised targets at the designated vital points. And though he's going through the movements with a great degree of practice, he's still watching Zanka – subtly sure, but that doesn't change the fact.
He's just so good, Follo thinks, his wrist rotating to hit another target. It's true. Zanka spins through the air with his Jinki and lands on his feet like he's more feline than human, grace in every step. His targets all lay severed at his feet, remnants of what they once were. It's hard not to look.
Follo does stop though, directing his attention toward a particularly fast target. He doesn't notice that Zanka's stepped up behind him until he hears the push of a heavy exhale.
"You're picking it up well," Zanka says, leaning on his Jinki like a makeshift crutch as he points across to where the final target lies, victim of a hammer to the head. "It's the same style Gris taught me, right? I didn't think it would translate well to other weapon types but it does."
It's surprising enough that Follo hesitates, unsure of whether it's obvious that he views Zanka as a measuring board, competing with him if only in theory. He presses a smile onto his face and nods. "Gris thought it would be good for me."
"He's right." Follo is suddenly conscious of his appearance. He's been training for a while; there's a sheen of sweat cooling along his back and he's only barely managed to hide the scruff of his hair with the brim of his cap. It's not helped much by how rigidly he's standing, always straightening his spine to overcompensate for the absolute lack of the rest of his body. In high contrast, Zanka cuts a striking picture, being slouched over the way he is, a troublesome habit which gets him reprimanded by their seniors. Didn't they drill that out of you at the academy? is a common refrain that always causes Zanka to frown.
A different sort of overcompensation then, Follo thinks. He's still tall despite it all, taking on the limber features of a willow tree, the kind that's uncommon down here, seeds floating down every so often.
For once, Zanka is the one appraising, at total ease with his hand in his pocket. Follo feels microscopic, a bug under a magnifying glass, one bright beam of light burning up his wings. "Wanna spar?" Zanka asks.
Follo realises that maybe fighting with the object of his– his fixation isn't a good idea but there's no real reason to decline and it would also be a good way to cap off training for the day. So he nods, securing his cap just as Zanka swings his Jinki in an effortless loop. It's sudden enough that Follo almost gets hit, stumbling back to avoid the thump of the dull end.
"I wasn't ready," he protests, kicking up dirt to steady himself and raise his hammer in defense. Zanka's eyes glint, pulled into sharp slits as he grins, and Follo remembers that nobody here is really sane in any right but the boy in front of him is perhaps less so than most.
"There's never any point in battle where you're gonna be ready. The enemy doesn't count you in."
He's right but it's a pointless sort of logic and Follo would say as much if Zanka wasn't swinging his Jinki again. It cuts a deadly arc through the air. Follo would be blinded by it in any other situation, absolutely bowled over by the power in such an elegant move. As it currently stands, he twists out of the way and drops low, ramming the blunt side of his hammer into the junction of Zanka's knee. Follo manages to just about hear his yelp through the loud beat of his own heart in his head, adrenaline muting his senses as he focuses on the task at hand.
He surges forward. It's a little clumsy in its execution but he wraps an arm around Zanka's thigh and yanks. The younger boy slips back, his Love Stick clattering onto the ground out of reach. It's easy from this point for Follo to shuffle up and plant himself on top of Zanka, using the entirety of his weight to keep his arms useless, locked into position where Zanka can do no harm.
It's too easy, actually.
"Did you just let me win?" Follo accuses, his breath coming out wavery from the exertion. And Zanka doesn't hesitate but he does smile, mischievous as the devil.
"No, you must have gotten lucky is all."
Follo is annoyed at the lie. He's even more annoyed at how pleased he feels to have pulled such an expression out of Zanka, unnecessarily proud of the act.
"You gonna get up or are you staying on top of me forever? Follo is suddenly aware of their position. There's nothing inappropriate about the pin. It's a simple hold they've all done before. But he's flustered anyways, his face burns red hot with embarrassment. It takes considerable effort for him to stand slowly instead of leaping away like a child. Zanka follows his lead, brushing dirt off the pleats of his trousers, regal despite his best efforts.
"Rematch?" he asks, not looking up from a particularly persistent smear of soil.
Follo isn't sure that's a good idea, not when the itch in his chest seems to have grown. But again, he nods.
He seems to have a hard time saying no to Zanka.