Archive of Our Own

You: An Achilles’ apple

Blushing sweet on a high branch

At the tip of the tallest tree.

You escaped those who would pluck 

        your fruit.

Not that they didn’t try. No,

They could not forget you

Poised beyond their reach.

Sappho, Fragment 105(a), translated by Anita George

I.

Jabber’s discovery was accidental.

He was in the backyard, mixing a concoction that consisted of his leftover lunch (stale bread and pie), leaves from a tree, raw eggs, and the carcass of some poor, dead rodent that he had spotted at the edge of the forest surrounding the house. His father had not allowed him to play indoor anymore after he set the kitchen on fire a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, Jabber’s parents had neither understood nor supported their child’s newfound pleasure in experimenting with novel, if rather unconventional, materials.

Not that Jabber particularly cared. He laughed and danced gleefully around his newest creation, which emitted a pungent and rotten stench. At that moment, something in Jabber’s peripheral vision caught his attention. The little boy skipped away; the foul mixture temporarily forgotten. 

As he raced to the backyard the following morning, Jabber noticed a deer that had just emerged from the forest and was presently approaching the pot of brewing concoction. It looked like a fawn; its antlers not yet fully developed, peeking shyly from atop the fluff of fur on the creature’s head. Jabber halted and quickly hid behind a bush.

The animal stopped in front of the bowl. It took a few tentative sniffs, then slowly lowered its head.

Jabber held his breath.

The fawn opened its mouth and inhaled the mixture. For a second, nothing happened. Jabber was about to move from his spot when-

Bleaaaat.

The fawn fell to the ground with a deafening crash. The pitiful animal’s body spasmed uncontrollably; its legs quivering and jerking sporadically in mid-air. The fawn writhed and bleated helplessly as the poison took effect, but no amount of resistance could’ve saved it. With a final tiny and pathetic whine, the animal stopped moving.

Jabber watched all of this unfold, enthralled. He replayed the moment the fawn realized its fate in his head, over and over again: the desperation and unconcealed terror reflected in its wide, doleful eyes. Jabber delighted in its hopeless struggle to escape the poison that had spread throughout its entire body and rendered it incapacitated, its futile but nonetheless worthy of applause resistance. The image made his entire body tingle with joy. Jabber felt hot all over, as though he was strapped to a pyre, the thick ropes marring his flesh while flames licked his skin.  

Jabber let out a laugh - a loud, maniacal cackle - that reverberated through his body. He laughed until his sides ached and his throat became sore.

At that moment, six-year-old Jabber knew definitely what he wanted to do in life. 

Eighteen-year-old Jabber sat slumped in a run-down office, legs propped up on the metal table in front of him. 

“Jabber, there’s a new mission for you,” Cthoni said, her voice bare of any emotion whatsoever. She dropped a stack of folders in front of him. They landed on the table with a dull thump.

“Woo-hoo!” Jabber cheered, removing his legs from the table and sitting himself upright (or at least, as upright as a person like Jabber was capable of). “Finally. I almost died from boredom over here.”

Cthoni was unimpressed.

“Whose fault was it that the boss banned you from going on missions for a month straight? You didn’t kill the target when you had been given extremely clear instructions to do so, Jabber. We got into a lot of trouble with the customer for that, and I was the one who had to clean up your mess.”

“He-he-he-he,” Jabber giggled. “But Cthoni, there is no fun in just bumping someone off. That man was stronger than I thought. I was positive that he would die after I injected the venom in him - I had been itching to try that one out - but he actually survived! Oh, I always get so delighted when they fight back: it is not thrilling at all to kill the weaklings. The way the light in his eyes slowly died out; the gaze of pure hatred directed at me and at me only. Ah, just thinking about it turns me on so much.” 

Jabber shivered at the reminiscence. Cthoni looked disgusted.

“You’re messed up in the head,” she said, frowning. “Anyway, this mission is important. If you fail, the penalty is going to be much more severe. It involves the royal family.”

“Does that mean I get to fight the infamous Nijiku family guards?” Jabber’s eyes immediately lit up. His body practically vibrated with excitement. “ I hope they beat me to death!” 

Cthoni’s salary wasn’t quite high enough for her to even attempt a reply.

Jabber’s mission was simple: infiltrate the castle, murder the king, withdraw before anyone finds him, and cause no unnecessary trouble or casualty. The instructions couldn’t have been more straightforward. 

Safely concealed in the shadows, Jabber stood peering up at the domineering castle a short distance away. The Nijiku family bore a traditional taste. Their castle, which stood isolated at the top of a sloping hill, was designed to resemble a fortress with multiple high-rising towers that pierced the clouds. Jabber had no doubt that the piece of architecture looked impressive in daytime, but it was especially daunting at present when set against the dark canvas of the night sky.

“Hmm,” the assassin mused. “Do I follow the instructions, or do I not?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jabber closely monitored the movements of the pair of guards currently stationed at the entrance. The one on the left darted his eyes at his companion to make sure he wasn’t paying attention before picking his nose and rubbing the criminalized finger on his uniform. They both looked bored to death. 

Guess we have to fix that, Jabber thought. He laughed then charged forward, teeth bared and poisonous claws extracted. The guards had one second to drop their mouths open in surprise before Jabber’s claws cut across their faces. 

Jabber was not happy.

The job had been too easy. King Nijiku was a senile, crippled man. He had died almost instantly. In his last moments, the king idn’t even seem to register the fact that he was dying. Jabber knew because he was watching closely, hoping for a sudden burst of strength from the old man, for those wrinkly hands to shoot up and wrapped around his neck. The once formidable king whose name used to elicit tremendous fear from enemies and neighboring kingdoms was surprisingly pitiful in his death. 

Jabber slowly removed his claws from King Nijiku’s chest and watched dispassionately as the king’s blood gurgled and dripped onto the heavily carpeted floor. From the boy who accidentally killed a deer in his backyard with homemade poison, Jabber had grown to become a top ranked assassin, having perfected the art of poisoning with the help of his artificial claws. During the past years, he had traveled far and wide to search for unique and deadly venoms. He had challenged many strong fighters until there was no one stronger than himself (except for Zodyl, which was why he joined the Raiders while waiting for an opportunity to take down the boss. Zodyl always turned down his invitation to a match though, much to Jabber’s disappointment).

Jabber liked violence, had always and would always do. He would never turn down a fight, but this night had proven to be extremely dull. It was due to expectations, he supposed. Because real life rarely ever lived up to them, high expectations always let you down in the end. Everyone he had met had told Jabber that the Nijiku guards were one of the most powerful in the nation and that they had to undergo rigorous training before being introduced into the ranks. That was why he expected them to be tough and give him a hard time. This wasn’t the first instance, however. Many times, Jabber would let his hopes up, would go on a mission hoping to meet someone that could hold their own against him, only to get disappointed. He wanted fiercely to fight without having to hold back just to prolong the fight. He yearned to unleash his full strength and go insane without having to think about assassinations and duty and whatnots.

Jabber sighed. 

“It wasn’t this time either. Pity. I guess I will have to keep on looking for that equal.”

He stepped out of the king’s chamber into the wide, brightly lit hall. Whistling, Jabber skipped along the hallway and past the crumpled bodies of servants and guards littered all over the floor. 

By the time he reached the entrance, Jabber had forgot about his initial disappointment. His mind was already far away. There was a dreamy look on Jabber’s face as he fantasized about all of the places he could go to to extract some new poisons. There is a jungle not too far from here, maybe a day’s trip or two, he could definitely-

Wham.

Jabber immediately whipped around, alert, but he wasn’t fast enough. Somebody had kicked him so forcefully that his body flew upon the impact and slammed straight onto the wall, shaking the entire castle. A staff followed right after, creating a dent on the wall in a spot dangerously close to Jabber’s eyes. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Jabber said. “I appreciate a sneak attack a lot myself, especially one that hurts as hell like this one, but how come I didn’t hear you coming at-”

He faltered. The pair of eyes that were glaring at him was full of pure, unfiltered hatred.

People had looked at Jabber with hate for as long as he could remember, but there had never been a hatred as fierce and unadulterated as the one in the eyes that were currently burning into him. The hatred that he had grown to live with had always been mixed with some other emotion. In his parents’ case, it had been hatred and poorly concealed disgust at their weird, morbid child. As for his victims, perhaps a mix of resentment, fear, and, in some cases, plea. Cthoni looked at him with visible disapproval. These eyes, however…

“Wow. You really hate my guts,” Jabber said in wondrous happiness. He grinned, unable to conceal his glee. He didn’t want to anyway. “What did I do to you?”

The other person gritted his teeth. Jabber examined him. He was tall and slender with piercing navy blue eyes that were very likely cursing Jabber’s entire bloodline in silence at current. A tuft of soft blond hair covered the boy’s forehead, but Jabber didn’t need to see his expression to know that his face was hardened up underneath.

“I’m going to kill you,” the boy seethed.

“Oh, okay!” Jabber agreed good-naturedly. “No need to take it personal, though. I only asked that because I really didn’t know, you see. I made a lot of people angry. Judging by your clothes, I guess you’re part of the royal family?”

“...”

“It fits you, by the way. Personally, I think it’s very chic.”

“Do you always talk so much?” The boy growled. He made a fierce stab at Jabber with his staff.

“Whoops!” Jabber laughed, dodging the hit and slipping out of his corner in the wall. He extracted his claws, sharp and dripping with poison. “This is so fun, don’t you agree?”

The boy didn’t deem Jabber worthy of a response. Instead, he swung his staff around and started attacking relentlessly. He didn’t leave room for Jabber to retaliate. His mastery of the instrument is impressive, Jabber thought.

The boy landed a hit on Jabber’s ribcage. The assassin’s face hardened. His expression turned serious for a split second before breaking into a grin again. 

“I better fight for real now.”

Jabber lunged forward, causing the boy to stagger backwards. He swiped with one of his claws, but the boy managed to sidestep it at the very last second. The boy tightened his grip on the staff and went on the offense again. 

“You know, it’s starting to get really hard to refer to you as “the boy” in my head. Can you give me your name?” Jabber complained, sliding down on the floor to dodge the staff.

“Zanka,” the boy - no, Zanka - answered. “You better remember it, because I’m going to kill you.”

“I like your name,” Jabber said. “My name’s Jabber. Jabber Wonger.”

“I don’t care,” Zanka grunted. “Argh!”

Jabber had managed to cut Janka’s left arm. The former’s eyes lit up. 

“Focus, darling. You might need to step up your game.”

“Shut up,” Zanka said. “Your stupid poison does not do anything to me. I might be an average Joe, but I’ve trained everyday in the past ten years just so I could beat stupid, overconfident gifted bastards like you to a pulp!” 

“Average?” Jabber’s eyes widened. “But I don’t think you’re average at all. You’re holding up against me quite well, Zanka.”

“Ehem,” he continued, clearing his throat. “I’m quite a formidable opponent, if I do say so myself.”

Zanka narrowed his eyes.

“Of course. That’s why it will feel even better when I defeat you!”

Jabber smiled. He saw the moment Zanka’s hands removed their grasp on the instrument. It was a brief, barely perceptible movement as Zanka adjusted his hold, but it was enough. Jabber dived forward and knocked the staff from Zanka’s hand, kicking the latter in the stomach as he did so. Zanka’s body slammed into the ground. 

“That was for before,” Jabber grinned. “Also, I’m so glad you agree. I looove strong opponents. Weak ones are so booo-ring!” 

He advanced towards the figure lying on the floor and peered down. Zanka’s stomach was probably bruised; Jabber had aimed his kick carefully. Zanka gritted his teeth in pain.

“Looks like you lose, sweetheart.” 

Jabber crouched down, cupping his face in his palms and tilting it to the side.

“I don’t really want to kill you, you know. You’re so amusing. I think I have to, though, since you’re a royal. Finish the job cleanly and all that.”

Jabber smiled lazily and lifted his claws-

BAM.

Zanka used his right hand to grab the back of Jabber’s head and forcefully slammed it into his own. Jabber could feel his teeth clacking in his mouth from the sheer strength. Zanka’s forehead was bruised and bleeding, but he didn’t seem to care.

“Don’t underestimate me, fucker!” 

Zanka swiped his leg with one swift movement, flipping their position. He placed his body on top of Jabber’s and immediately restrained Jabber’s hands, crushing the assassin’s wrists with his grip.

“Ah,” Jabber croaked. “This must be heaven. Do you know how many times I’ve dreamed of being beaten up and tied down by a pretty boy who’s also sitting on me?”

Zanka looked at Jabber in disgust. Jabber shrugged. With a grunt, he heaved himself up and shook Zanka off. When Jabber stood up again, Zanka had retrieved his staff and was already holding it, body in battle position.

“That is impressive,” Jabber drawled. “Unfortunately, I think the poison is finally taking place, sweetheart.”

“Argh!”

Zanka dropped to his knees, right hand clutching the injured left arm. He felt the poison coursing through his veins and spreading throughout his entire body, immobilizing him and locking his limbs in place. Zanka gasped, blood pounding in his ears. His head seemed to be on the verge of explosion, but still Zanka tried to stand up. Through his blurry vision, he could barely make out the outline of Jabber’s figure.

“Oh no,” Jabber said. “That was a good fight, though. I had to use the strongest venom I had. It is very powerful and extremely rare - the lengths I went to to collect it! I reserve it for only the toughest opponent. You’re one of the only three people who have been injected it, you know. I also combined it with a neurotoxin as a surprise for you.

It took a while to set in, but once it does, it’s going to hurt like hell. You will probably die in the next 10 minutes unless you’re given the antivenom immediately. Don’t die too early - the fun part is when you feel the pain and can’t do anything about it!

Your grip seriously stings. When I touch my wrists, they hurt so bad, heh heh. Maybe I’ll rub some salt on them when I get back to headquarters, so they will feel even better.”

Jabber droned on with his monologue. He leisurely brushed the dust off his clothes while Zanka, still in excruciating pain, writhed under his feet. Jabber smiled and headed for the entrance.

“If you do survive,” Jabber said. “- though that would be a miracle indeed, but again, human will is stupidly persistent sometime - let’s have another fight. It was very nice to meet you, Zanka.” 

“When. We. Meet. Again. I. Am. Going. To. Kill. You,” Zanka grunted each syllable. He had managed to sit himself upright. Though Zanka couldn’t see clearly, his eyes burned into Jabber’s, following the man’s every action. Jabber found himself instinctively holding his breath. 

“I’d love that,” he shouted back in delight before disappearing into the night.

Once he made sure Jabber was gone, Zanka dropped to the floor like a limp, ragged doll. 

II.

Now the Lord God had planted a garden in the east, in Eden;

The Lord God took the man and put him in the Garden of Eden to work it and take care of it. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to eat from any tree in the garden; but you must not eat from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil, for when you eat from it you will certainly die.”

Genesis 2:8, 15-17

“JABBER!” Zodyl’s scream could be heard from his office.

“You’re in trouble, Jabber,” Bundus grinned from behind his newspaper. “Zodyl doesn’t scream. That’s not a Zodyl thing to do.”

“Oops,” Jabber shrugged, noncommittal. He stretched and got up from his seat. “It’s very exciting when Zodyl gets mad!”

Cthoni gave him the side-eye.

Jabber slouched his way to Zodyl’s office. He lazily raised his hand and knocked.

“Come in.”

Zodyl’s office was clean and orderly. Personally, Jabber found it rather boring. 

Jabber did not find Zodyl’s face boring. Right now, it looked like the kind of face you made when you were either very constipated or very, very mad. It was just a hunch, but Jabber didn’t think it was the former reason.

“Jabber,” Zodyl repeated, his voice dangerously low. “What was your mission?”

“Uhm,” Jabber put a finger on his chin. “Infiltrate the castle and assassinate the king..?”

“Cause no unnecessary casualty and don’t make trouble.” Zodyl’s teeth gritted. “You killed more than a dozen guards, severely wounded half of the castle staff, and wrecked the place inside out. The entire nation is in an uproar, and every single police and secret service faction imaginable is on our ass!”

That last phrase told Jabber that Zodyl was very, extremely, terribly mad. So naturally, this was what he did next:

“It was necessary,” Jabber insisted. “For me to have fun!”

Zodyl dug his nails into his palms so hard it started to bleed. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled.

“Fortunately, the customer is not too upset about it. They’re willing to let it slide if we complete an additional request.” 

Zodyl slid a photograph in front of Jabber. Jabber’s eyes glinted in recognition.

“This is Prince Zanka Nijiku, the youngest in the royal family. According to our intel, he has escaped to a cottage in The Ground. He is apparently paralyzed and has to move around in a wheelchair. It is the perfect opportunity to kill him. Do it.”

Jabber was too excited to speak. It didn’t escape Zodyl’s attention. The boss’ eyes narrowed.

“It should be easy. I would send Bundus instead of you, but he’s very busy right now with his Santa mission. You created this mess, you solve it.”

Zodyl stood up. He towered over Jabber, glaring.

“I prohibit you from making a scene,” Zodyl warned. “Kill him silently and cleanly. You don’t want to know what will happen to you if you still refuse to comply this time.”

“Ooh, boss, that gives me the shivers!” Jabber said. “Will you finally fight me?”

Zodyl kicked him out of the office.

“Why is he so stingy?” Jabber complained. “I have another opponent now, anyway!” 

Jabber kicked a stone in the middle of the road, yawning. Before he set out, Zodyl had sent him another warning glare, and Cthoni had berated him for one hour straight. She had refused to let him leave until he had recited “I won’t drag out the fight and pull a publicity stunt that my very nice and very patient coworkers will end up having to clean up after me” at least five times. Seriously, she should’ve been an elementary school teacher instead of the secretary to an assassin organization.

Jabber was currently in The Ground’s territory - a deserted, barren land faraway from civilization. Trees didn’t grow here, and flowers always wilted. Not many people resided in The Ground except for wild beasts. An interesting choice to hide the young prince. Did the police think this would deter assassins from finding him? They were very wrong indeed.

Jabber kicked another stone and cast his mind back to his fight with Zanka. For some inexplicable reason, he kept thinking about the prince calling himself average. Jabber didn’t quite understand. Why didn’t Zanka take pride in his strength? Jabber definitely took pride in his. He found pleasure in knowing that he was strong, and he liked people who were confident of their power.

Ah, who cares! All Jabber ever wanted was a thrilling fight, and that was what Zanka could give him.

Too caught up in his thoughts, Jabber failed to notice the giant bull charging at him. 

“Oh-oh,” he yelped as he fell flat on the beast’s back. The bull grunted and galloped across the barren landscape. Jabber held onto its horns for dear life.

With a final grunt, the bull screeched to a halt. Jabber tumbled forward and fell face first in the top of the creature’s head. His backside ached from constantly being jostled around. Groggy and disoriented, Jabber looked up.

A small and flimsy-looking wooden cottage stared back at him.

“Thanks for the ride, not very little beast,” Jabber grinned.

Assassination is all about stealth. A good assassin sneaks up on his target and kill them before they even know what’s happening. 

Naturally, because he’s a good assassin, Jabber knocked on the cottage’s door. The door opened a sliver to reveal a pair of wary, distrusting blue eyes.

“YOU!” Zanka screamed. Before Jabber could return the warm greetings, Zanka whacked his head with a stick. 

“You! You! You!” Zanka was on a roll. He rolled his wheelchair forward and continued beating Jabber with his staff. “So you have come back for me to take revenge. Ha, you probably thought I couldn’t fight in my current state. You geniuses, always so confident in yourself. I can whoop your ass just fine from right here with Lovely Assistaff!” 

“As much as I enjoy a good beating, let me explain myself,” Jabber huffed. He didn’t shield himself from Zanka’s relentless beating.

Lovely Assistaff’s unforgiving hits continued raining down on him.

“Alright, alright,” Jabber relented. “If that’s how you want it to be, sweetheart. I will talk anyway. Ehem, so I was sent to kill your grandfather, sorry about that - I’m not really - but you’re welcome. They want me to kill you next, and I accept the job. I’m not going to, though, at least-”

Zanka glared at him.

“What do you mean you’re not going to, fraud?” He spat out. “Don’t pity me because I’m in a wheelchair. I’ve had enough of that.”

“Oh no,” Jabber looked genuinely surprised. “I never even thought about that. You didn’t let me complete my sentence. I’m not going to fight you, at least, not right now. I want you to recover first, and then we’re going to engage in the most brutal, honest fight where both you and I unleashed all of our strength! A battle where there’s absolutely no holding back and the only thing that matters is killing your opponent. Heh heh, I’m getting so excited just thinking about it.”

Jabber licked his lips. Zanka whacked him again before saying:

“Are you saying you want it to be fair?”

“It’s not a question of fairness. It’s about a battle where there’s no going back and no regrets. I want to give my all fighting you, Zanka. You feel the same, don’t you?”

Zanka pursed his lips.

“I’m going to use my deadliest poisons,” Jabber rambled on. “If it comes down to it, I will even knock myself out to go completely insane without having to worry about rational matters. The only thing rationality does is hold people back!”

Zanka looked at Jabber thoughtfully. 

“I accept,” he said at last. “I’m going to use everything I have as well.”

“He-he-he-he,” Jabber giggled. “This day is turning out to be so lovely!”

“If that’s all,” Zanka said, “I’m going back inside now.” 

He rolled his wheelchair backward and prepared to slam the door in Jabber’s face-

Jabber stuck his foot inside.

“What,” Zanka said, annoyed. He pushed the door more viciously, hoping to crush Jabber’s ankle.

“I’m going to nurse you back to health!” Jabber announced cheerfully and wormed his way inside. He gave the inside of the cottage a quick glance. It was small and neat, filled with only the barest of furniture.

“The fuck-” 

“So we can duel at the earliest moment possible,” Jabber explained matter-of-factly. “I also can’t return to headquarters until I kill you, so.”

Zanka’s scream was so loud the cottage almost collapsed.

In the end, after nothing less than fierce resistance from himself, Zanka acquiesced. 

“Alright, you can stay,” Zanka grunted. His face was all contorted as he spoke, like just getting each word out pained him physically. “As long as you don’t disturb me.”

“Whaaat.” Jabber protested. “But provoking you is so fun!”

Zanka ignored him and went into his bedroom. He slammed the door shut, then opened it again a second later.

“Also, you’re sleeping outside. I don’t have another bed.”

“Okie dokie.”

Jabber didn’t mind particularly. He had slept in worse conditions, and the thought of fighting against Zanka made him too energized to think about anything else. 

Thus, very much against Zanka’s will, Jabber became his temporary caregiver. He wasn’t very good at it.

For one, Jabber’s cooking was atrociously bad. The first time Zanka smelt Jabber’s dish, he threw up on the spot. 

(“Is this your new method of killing me?”

“No, I would never do something as cowardly as poisoning your food. I will just poison you directly.”)

After Jabber told him about setting the kitchen on fire when he was six, Zanka officially banned him from setting foot anywhere near a stove. 

(“You want me to give my best, remember? I can’t if I eat the stuff that you make.”

“Aww, alright.”)

For another, Jabber was an incredibly messy person. He threw his dirty laundry everywhere on the floor and never showered.

“You stink,” Zanka said bluntly. He wrinkled his nose. “At this rate, I’m going to die before our battle from your smell. Please do something about your hygiene.”

It’s unfair, Jabber thought. Zanka always held the battle over him. Probably because he knew it worked. After that, Jabber tried to bathe more often.

Slowly but surely, they settled into a routine together. It was not exactly a comfortable or harmonious one, but at least Zanka had stopped attempting to murder Jabber in his sleep. Jabber said he needed to wait until their fight.

In the mornings, Jabber often pushed Zanka around in his wheelchair. It took a while for Zanka to agree to it. Jabber had a tendency to push the chair at such an unprecedented speed that Zanka almost toppled over one time, his knuckles white from gripping on the handles. Jabber was hit with Lovely Assistaff later, but he enjoyed it. Zanka had noticed this and got extremely annoyed.

“You don’t have to risk my life just so I’d beat you,” was what he had said. “I will do it for free. As a matter of fact, I will pay money to beat you.”

Jabber had been positively delighted to hear that.

On this particular morning, Jabber was pushing Zanka’s wheelchair again. There wasn’t much to see in The Ground, but Zanka enjoyed the fresh air.

“You know, I’ve been thinking,” Jabber mused, leaning against the wheelchair and draping his arms over it, hitting Zanka in the process. Zanka slapped his hand away. “You’re the beloved prince of the kingdom. Why are you out here all alone? Where are your servants?”

Zanka’s face hardened.

“I’m not beloved,” he snapped. “Not in that family.”

“Oh ho,” Jabber perked up at that. “Is that a tragic backstory I’m smelling? This is great! I’ve found tragic backstories to give people motivation to fight harder.”

“There’s nothing tragic about my life,” Zanka said, expressionless. “I didn’t live up to the Nijiku’s ideal, that’s all.”

“Ugh,” Jabber made a face. 

“Anyway,” Zanka went on. “I suggested myself moving here. I didn’t want anybody looking after me when all of them would rather do literally anything else. I refused to be weak and dependent.”

“But you’re letting me push you around,” Jabber remarked in a sing-song voice. “I’m so honored!”

Zanka mumbled something under his breath.

“What?” Jabber gestured to his ear.

“Nothing,” was Zanka’s reply. 

“Are you going to get out of your wheelchair soon?” Jabber asked, his face cupped in his hands. Cohabitating with Zanka hadn’t been too bad, but he was getting bored without violence.

“I can move around now,” Zanka replied. “I’ve always recovered quickly.”

“Hmm,” Jabber said. “Hurry up. I can’t wait to fight you.”

Zanka kicked Jabber out of the house, claiming that he was going to practice and didn’t want the other to discover his secret techniques. Jabber thought that Zanka just didn’t want Jabber to see him fall flat on his butt, but he agreed good-naturedly.

Jabber roamed around The Ground for a little while. He contemplated starting a fight by going to the outskirts of The Ground, where gangs and other criminals often congregate, but ultimately decided against it. He wasn’t afraid of Zodyl, but Zodyl might realize that it was him and send someone else to kill Zanka instead. Jabber simply couldn’t afford for that to happen. It took him a long time to find his perfect opponent, and Jabber would have no choice but to destroy anyone who got in his way with Zanka.

In the end, Jabber used his poison on some wild animals, eager to experiment with their effects. He was so engrossed that he didn’t notice the sun setting down on the horizon.

“Oops, better return to Zan-Zan before it’s too late.”

Jabber got up from his position under the tree and stretched. He blinked.

Huh, Jabber thought. What is something like that doing in The Ground?

The “something” in question was a tree. It stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of the barren landscape. The last golden rays of sunlight coated its leaves, painting the tree in a crispy and rather magical glow. Plump, rosy fruits hung from sturdy branches, dipping low like an invitation but remained high enough to stay just out of Jabber’s reach, as if daring him to take them. 

Jabber remembered reading a story, once. In a beautiful garden, there was a man, a woman, and a tree with a forbidden fruit just like the one standing in front of him. The man and woman were prohibited from eating the fruit by the owner of the garden, but the devious serpent tricked the woman into doing it; its venomous fangs dripping sugar sweet but poisonous words. The woman, naive, foolish, having lived an easy life and have never denied herself anything, but above all curious, so, so terribly curious, stood on her tiptoes and reached higher, higher, higher-

She plucked the fruit from the tree and bit into it. 

Plick.

Jabber didn’t remember what happened next. He played with the ruddy fruit in his hands, a widening smile on his face. Satisfied, Jabber dropped the fruit inside his pocket and headed back to the cottage. He couldn’t wait for Zanka’s reaction.

The woman handed the forbidden fruit to the man. Her lips were still glistening, coated in juice. The man took the fruit and ate it. 

When the Lord of the garden found out, he exiled the man and the woman from his haven and cast them to the treacherous ground below. The serpent with its words of poison was not exempt from punishment. The Lord removed all of its legs. For the rest of time, the creature would have to slither on the ground as a cursed and detested being.

The woman’s fault was falling prey to the temptation introduced by the serpent’s poison. The man’s was being led astray by his beloved.

“Zanka, look!” Jabber said, gleefully showing off his newfound treasure to the other.

Zanka’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you giving me… an apple?” He finally said, incredulous. 

“Yeah,” Jabber beamed.

“Did you poison it?” Zanka asked point-blank.

“No!” Jabber was offended. “I told you I would never do something like that. This is my gift for you so you can get better faster and fight me sooner.”

Zanka stared at Jabber as though he didn’t quite understand.

“An apple a day keeps the doctor away, duh,” Jabber said like it made perfect sense.

“Ha ha,” Zanka deadpan. “That,” he took a deep breath, “... is the lamest joke I’ve ever heard.”

“Thanks,” Jabber grinned, holding out the apple. “Will you take it?”

Zanka whacked him with his staff out of habit, but he took the apple. 

True to his words, Zanka recovered quickly. Soon, he was moving around with ease and training with Lovely Assistaff. Jabber whistled from where he sat dangling on a tree and watched Zanka train. 

“Your recovery is impressive,” Jabber said. “The poison should’ve paralyzed you for at least two weeks - I was unable to move for a week after I injected it in myself, it was a fantastic feeling - but here you are jumping around already. This is what I like about you.”

Zanka ignored him and continued taking down the practice dummies. He moved with the fervor of someone who was thirsting for violence. Zanka’s hair plastered to his forehead, slick with sweat. Jabber licked his lips in appreciation. He had always thought that Zanka was good-looking, but the other was definitely most beautiful when his eyes glittered with murderous intent. Jabber felt a little giddy.

“If you’re just going to sit there and laugh at me,” Zanka piped up. “Don’t be disappointed when the fight is over too quickly.”

“Oh no.” Jabber was appalled. “I wouldn’t dream of that.”

He jumped down from the tree and joined Zanka.

That evening, they lied down on the ground together and gazed at the stars. It was not comfortable - the terrain was bumpy, and there was sand everywhere. Zanka had placed Lovely Assistaff between them, glaring at Jabber.

“This is the border. Don’t cross over to my side.”

“That’s so petty.”

They had been lying down for a while now. Jabber didn’t have much interest in astrology, so he decided to turn sideways and study Zanka instead. He looked at Zanka’s weirdly cropped eyebrows, the elegant curve of his nose, the line of his mouth. He thought about how those eyebrows would look crumpled up in pain, how that mouth would twist as it spewed out curses aimed at him, and felt delighted.

“I’m ready,” Zanka said abruptly, breaking Jabber out of his stupor.

Jabber understood.

“Finally,” He said happily. “One week from now?”

Zanka nodded.

In the end, Zanka fell asleep first. Jabber stayed awake for a long time, too excited to give in to sleep. This is good, Jabber thought. Excitement is good. Jabber liked such a feeling because he knew exactly how to deal with it. He understood very well the thrill of stumbling upon a new, potentially deadly venom, as well as the pleasure that shot up his veins when he fought a strong opponent, though the second occurrence had been more rare these days. 

Jabber knew excitement like the back of his hand, but he wasn’t quite so sure about the emotion that stirred in his chest when he was looking at Zanka, just half an hour ago. It was unlike any of the things he’d grown to enjoy - pain and violence, poisons and danger - but it felt surprisingly pleasant nonetheless. There was a vague sense of imminent foreboding that came with it, too, but Jabber couldn’t explain where it stemmed from. He couldn’t explain a lot of things.

Good and evil…

The woman and the man…

Him and Zanka…

Zanka is a seriously strong opponent, Jabber thought as he finally drifted into slumber.

III.

Discord saw that she was not invited to the wedding, and anger bubbled underneath her beautiful bosom. The scheming goddess flew down and tossed a golden apple on the table. On the apple was a single inscription: To the fairest one.

The Apple of Discord, Greek mythology

Five days before their showdown, Jabber gave Zanka another apple.

“Since it seems to work the last time,” Jabber explained, gobbling on a second apple he had conjured out of nowhere. 

“Where does your weird obsession with apples even come from,” Zanka said, exasperated.

“I dunno,” Jabber replied between bites. “There’s a tree south from here. It has the biggest apples I’ve ever seen.”

“Show me tomorrow,” Zanka said. 

“Where does your weird interest in apples even come from,” Jabber mimicked mockingly in his best imitation of Zanka’s voice. 

Zanka ignored him.

“I’m going to train,” he announced and left.

Three days before the fated battle, Jabber took Zanka to the apple tree. When Zanka saw it, he stopped in his track. Jabber grinned.

“It is a fine specimen, isn’t it?”

Zanka gave a barely perceptible nod. He inched closer to the tree, then suddenly whipped his head around.

“Jabber, let’s have a competition,” Zanka declared. “As warm-up before our fight.”

“You know I would never say no to that,” Jabber replied, grinning.

“Alright. Whoever gets the most apples win.” 

“Huh?” Jabber tilted his head. “We’re not going to fight?”

“You’re incredibly obtuse for a genius. Do I have to explain everything to you?” Zanka rolled his eyes haughtily, as if he didn’t just spring a cryptic instruction on Jabber. Fortunately, Jabber loved surprises. “We’re having an apple picking competition.”

True to his merit, Jabber recovered quickly.

“You’re on.”

Jabber jumped straight to work. He scaled up the trunk of the apple tree in a series of quick, flurry motions and started to cut the apples off with his claws. The apples landed on the ground one after the other with loud, continuous thumps. He turned to Zanka for approval.

“I’m going to show you how to do it,” Zanka piped up from his spot on the ground, “Watch closely and learn.”

Clutching Lovely Assistaff tightly, Zanka raised his arms high and made a sweeping motion among the leaves. In one hit, all of the apples that came in contact with Lovely Assistaff fell on the ground at the same time. Jabber stared, flabbergasted. Then he threw back his head and laughed.

“That was good,” he offered. “You win! I’m even more excited for our fight now.”

“Ehem, it was nothing,” Zanka coughed into his fist. He tried to hide his intense pleasure at winning against Jabber, but the way his nose grew to double its normal size revealed his true intention.

“That felt great,” Zanka said after he had composed himself and regained his usual demeanor. “The feeling when I beat you in a real fight is going to be even better than I imagine.”

Jabber was not paying attention. Out of the corner of his eye, something else had caught his attention. 

A single shiny and golden apple twinkled, half concealed behind the leaves. That was why Jabber had never seen it before, despite having come here several times now.

“Hey, Zanka,” Jabber called out. 

“What- Ouch. Jerk! Why would you do-” Zanka’s curses faltered off. He knelt down and picked up the object Jabber had just thrown at his head.

“It’s for you,” Jabber grinned, “Since you are the winner.”

“A golden apple,” Zanka marveled. “An apple tree in the middle of The Ground is practically unheard off, but to think there is a golden fruit as well.”

He carefully put the apple away in his pocket. 

“Pick up the apples, Jabber.” Zanka ordered. “We need to go back. It’s time for me to train.”

As he carefully inspected the golden apple that night in the comfort of his bed, Zanka remembered a story that he read long ago. It involved a golden apple which was to be given to the most beautiful of goddesses. 

A young man was tasked with judging the competition. He ended up giving it to the goddess of love, who promised to wed him to the most beautiful mortal woman. The goddess of family and the goddess of wisdom were unhappy with the young man’s decision. The beginning of a brutal and dolorous war was taking root then, but the youth had been ignorant and none the wiser about it.

Zanka liked the story more than he thought. He found great relish in the idea that the goddess of strife, a minor and insignificant deity, managed to outplay three goddesses much more powerful than herself. He didn’t have much respect for the prideful and vain goddesses who competed, all three of whom relied on their strength to oppose the weak.  

Some people blamed the man. Was the hand in marriage of a woman, no matter how unearthly her beauty was, worth the downfall of a nation, countless tears and bloodshed? 

Zanka didn’t think so, but he also thought that the man didn’t really have a choice. The war was inevitable, no matter which goddess he chose. They were all the same.

“He should’ve just eaten the damn apple,” Zanka grumbled.

(That was Zanka’s moral of the story. Some people said it was a criticism of pride. Others believed the myth reflected humans’ powerlessness to counter the inevitability of fate, which had already been woven a long time ago, and advised that we should all just give up and let destiny play its script. Someone else offered the explanation of a hidden wrath from a forgotten person that could be potentially more damaging than anything. 

Maybe it was all of the above. After all, there is never a single, correct interpretation of a story.)

The night before their final showdown, Zanka poked his head out of the cottage’s window. Jabber was sitting on the ground right underneath the window.

“Doesn’t it get cold out there?” Zanka asked.

“I like the cold,” Jabber tilted his head back and grinned at Zanka. Jabber thought he saw the tips of Zanka’s ears turned pink, but he wasn’t sure because Zanka turned his head away.

“I’m not asking because I care about you,” He babbled. “So don’t get the wrong idea. You can freeze to death for all I care.”

“Hmm,” Jabber hummed in answer. A companionable silence hung between them. 

“Hey,” Zanka broke the silence after a while. “Do you like poisons?”

“Very much!” Jabber replied cheerfully. “My favorite kind of poison is one that takes over you slowly. The kind that makes your blood run cold and your toes curl up.”

“You’re very good at poisons,” Zanka phrased it like a statement rather than a question.

“Yeah,” Jabber agreed, cocking his head to one side. “Poisons come natural to me.”

“Natural,” Zanka repeated. He suddenly laughed -  a loud, hearty laugh. Jabber’s eyes lit up.

“No fair. I want to have fun too!” Jabber exclaimed loudly.

“Natural,” Zanka said again. “Because you’re a genius. Ha-ha. Do you know what it’s like to be an average Joe, Jabber?”

That phrase again, Jabber thought. He didn’t leave Jabber time to answer. Zanka droned on.

“Being average… Not a genius, but not completely a fake either. Being just a little bit better than the other fakes, yet never will be able to beat true talent. Do you know what it’s like to be such a person? You see, most average people actually start out gifted. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is a king. Until the man with two eyes come along, and then everybody realize you have been a fraud all this time. They say “What a surprise!” It’s not a surprise. The fake genius has always known the extent of his ability. That’s why he worked hard to make up for it. He tried so desperately to chase after the genius that in the end, he had no personality of his own. He imitated the genius, thought about what the genius would do and acted accordingly. But here’s the catch - geniuses don’t often function in a pre-existing frame.”

Zanka huffed, his breathing frantic and ragged.

“So a loser was born. A loser with no mind or goal of his own that isn’t tied to his one-sided obsession with the genius. A loser whose smallest of failure would take him apart completely.

Do you know what it’s like to be average? It’s knowing that you’re the worst so you act like you’re the best instead. It’s being a goddamn hypocrite, looking at the other fakes and judging them because they’re not trying hard enough. That’s why they will never be able to do anything, but also who am I to decide what’s best for them? In the end, there is no hierarchy between fakes. We’re separated into two categories only: people who are gifted and those who are not.”

Jabber blinked.

“Frankly, I don’t get all of that stuff about fakes and geniuses. To me, the world is filled with either weak or strong people, and I don’t like the first type.”

“I hate geniuses,” Zanka said. “I know I’ll never be as strong as them.”

His eyes hardened.

“I will be stronger than them. If my efforts are not enough, I will just try harder. The look on the genius’ face when they realize an average Joe beat them will be my sweetest reward.”

Jabber threw his head back and cackled maniacally.

“Glad we agree!” He guffawed with delight. “Stronger people are so fun to fight! I like the moral of your story, even if the middle part was really dramatic.”

“You didn’t get it, did you?” 

“Nah,” Jabber grinned. “Should I have?”

“I didn’t expect you to,” Zanka replied. The corner of his mouth lifted up, just barely. “That’s why I told you.”

He gazed down at Jabber for a while more, then retreated back inside.

“Get ready to get your ass beat tomorrow, Jabber.” 

Jabber loved it when Zanka talked dirty to him.

The day of the battle was anticlimactic. The sky was the same dull and lifeless gray color as it had been all week. There was absolutely no sign marking an important, life-changing date of two individuals.

Zanka had polished Lovely Assistaff the previous night, but he woke up early and carefully cleaned the instrument again. He frowned, deep in thought.

“Good morning, Zan-Zan,” Jabber greeted cheerfully. “Let’s start already!”

They stood facing each other. Jabber’s fingers trembled from excitement. Zanka still looked preoccupied. Jabber noticed, and he was displeased.

“Focus, Zanka. You’re not going to ruin something I’ve waited so patiently for,” he said, “The battle has already began.”

“I know,” Zanka replied curtly. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an apple. It wasn’t just any ordinary apple. Jabber recognized it right away.

“Jabber,” Zanka raised his voice, “do you remember this apple?”

“Of course I do,” Jabber grinned. “The golden apple.”

“That’s right,” Zanka said cautiously. “Let’s share it, for old time’s sake. It’s going to be the last thing one of us taste before his death.”

Jabber laughed. 

“You’re really dragging this out, sweetheart. Alright, since I’ve waited until this moment, I guess I can do it for a few more minutes.”

Zanka motioned for him to get closer. Jabber obliged. 

“Aren’t you going to split it into two?” Jabber asked, staring at Zanka curiously.

“There is no need for that,” Zanka replied hotly, placing Lovely Assistaff on the ground with care. Suddenly, his hand reached out and grabbed the nape of Jabber’s neck. He used the other hand to shove the apple in Jabber’s mouth, then yanked him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. Breathing hard, Zanka spared a quick glance at Jabber’s bewildered expression, grinned when he saw it, and resolutely wrapped his mouth around the other half of the apple before biting it.

Jabber’s jaws went slack. The apple fell out of their mouths and rolled away. With a look of determination on his face, Zanka steeled himself and closed the gap between them. He cupped Jabber’s face in his palms and placed his mouth over Jabber’s.

Zanka tasted like apples and everything sweet. Jabber normally liked spicy food -the kind that seared his tongue and burned the roof of his throat - but he thought that he could get used to this kind of taste too. Zanka’s mouth was wet and hot against his. It was a clumsy and messy kiss; Zanka’s lips would slip off now and then and the next second he would be all over Jabber’s mouth again like he could never get enough. 

For once, Jabber didn’t know what to do with his hands. He never thought such a day would come. His trusty claws, where he stored all of his precious poison… now slack by his sides, unable to move.

Zanka bit Jabber’s lips, hard. Jabber felt the blood seeping out, could taste its metallic constitution. Thrilled at the unexpected but nevertheless welcomed pain, Jabber sought to reciprocate the kiss. Zanka’s breath hitched.

Then he stepped away, dazed. He wiped his mouth and picked up Lovely Assistaff. Thereupon he sprinted towards Jabber like whatever just happened was nothing worth expounding on. Jabber instantly recovered as well. He took a step back, tried to raise his claws and- fell.

Jabber’s hands wrapped around his own neck. He felt his throat closing up, the piece of apple lodged deep inside and blocking his access to air. Jabber tried to cough it out, but the fruit was stubbornly stuck in place. 

Jabber looked like a wreck flailing on the ground, spit and blood foaming around his mouth and flying everywhere. Zanka stood above him and smiled, the perfect picture of composure.

“How does it feel to have a taste of your own poison, Jabber?”

Ah. So that was why he couldn’t move his arms. Darn it. Jabber was so turned on right now from the condescending smile on Zanka’s face. He wanted to do something about it, maybe with his lips. Preferably with his lips.

Zanka didn’t seem aware of Jabber’s inner turmoils. He finished injecting the antivenom into himself and threw the syringe away. 

“That is the only antidote, by the way,” he said, smiling brightly. “I guess that’s too bad for you.”

Jabber made an attempt at getting up and slashing Zanka with his claws, but the latter deftly moved out of the way and returned the attack. 

Jabber’s pupils dilated. He lashed out at any opening in his field of vision, attacking with unprecedented frenzy. His effort was matched by Zanka, who wielded Lovely Assistaff like the item was a part of his body. They parried for a hot minute before Zanka hit Jabber’s stomach so hard he went flying back and slammed on the ground.

This time, Jabber couldn’t get back up. He knew this too, and exerted any energy he had left to let out a wheezing laugh.

“How?” Jabber gasped.

Zanka stood breathing hard.

“I’ve studied you silently all the time you’ve been here: how you choose your poison, what you do with it. I did what I promised to do: fight with everything I have. You kept saying that this fight was serious to you, but I already started drawing the battle plan in my head when you showed up at the cottage. You probably don’t know, but if there’s something that an average Joe is very good at doing, Jabber, it’s picking up a new skill. We don’t excel at one thing like you geniuses, but we’re pretty well-rounded.”

“Hah,” Jabber let out laughs between fits of choking. “Hah, hah. Well-played, Zan-Zan.”

“Thank you,” Zanka said. “I think I get you, Jabber. This view is really amazing.”

Zanka watched Jabber for a bit. He watched as Jabber’s face turned green and his eyeballs rolled back inside his head, then slowly walked away. He turned his head at the very last moment and said:

“I will give you the recipe for the poison I brewed, Jabber. That is, if you survive, obviously.”

Well, when Zanka asked so nicely like that, Jabber would just have to fucking live somehow.