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They'd been at it for less than two minutes.
Jabber moved like he always did—unpredictable, chaotic, grinning that sharp-toothed grin that made Zanka's blood boil. This wasn't their first fight. Wasn't even their tenth. Zanka had lost count of how many times they'd done this dance, how many times he'd walked away with new bruises and Jabber's mocking laughter ringing in his ears.
He was better now than he'd been at the start. Faster. Stronger. More experienced.
But Jabber was always one step ahead, always had some new trick up his sleeve.
Like now.
Zanka parried the first strike with Lovely Assistaff, his Vital Instrument meeting Mankira's activated form with a screech of metal. He countered with a sweeping arc that should have connected with Jabber's ribs.
Should have.
But Jabber twisted away at the last second, those claws slicing through the air where Zanka's head had been a moment before. The blades were sharp enough to bisect stone. Zanka had seen it happen to more than one unfortunate wall. To a human body, they'd cut through like butter.
He couldn't afford to get hit.
Except he did.
It was barely anything—a glancing blow across his forearm as he dodged another strike, Mankira's right-hand claws catching his skin. A scratch. Shallow. Hardly worth noticing in the chaos of combat.
Then the burning started.
"Aw, what's wrong?" Jabber cooed, dancing back out of range. His right hand flexed, Mankira's claws dripping with neurotoxin. His magenta eyes were bright with malicious glee. "Ya lookin' a lil' pale there, Zan-zan."
Fuck.
The realization hit the same moment the poison did, spreading through his bloodstream with alarming speed. His vision swam at the edges, his limbs growing heavier with each passing second. He could feel his strength draining away like water through cupped hands—fast, inevitable, impossible to stop.
Fuck.
He didn't have time for this. Didn't have the strength to draw this out, to fight properly, to do anything but end it now before the neurotoxin finished what it started.
Fine. He wouldn't fight properly.
Zanka moved with Lovely, using the environment like he'd been trained to—using everything. Debris became weapons. Narrow alleyways became tactical advantages. The crumbling infrastructure of their surroundings became an arsenal. His movements were sloppier now, less controlled, but desperation made up for precision.
Jabber followed, laughing, taunting, treating this like it was all some grand joke.
Right up until Zanka led him exactly where he needed him to be.
The impact sent Jabber crashing into the old brick wall with enough force that the entire structure shuddered. For one suspended moment, nothing happened.
Then it came down.
Bricks tumbled like an avalanche, decade-old mortar turning to dust, the whole wall collapsing in on itself with a sound like thunder. Jabber disappeared beneath the rubble, swallowed whole by the debris.
Zanka had just enough time to feel a grim satisfaction before his knees buckled and the world went dark.
When he woke, his head was pounding and his mouth tasted like copper and ash.
For a moment, he just lay there, trying to remember where he was, what had happened. Then it came back in fragments—the fight, the poison, the wall.
Whatever resistance he'd built up from Jabber's previous murder attempts was probably the only reason he was conscious at all. The only reason he wasn't still paralyzed on the ground, easy prey for anyone passing by.
His body felt like it was made of lead, every muscle protesting as he tried to move. The neurotoxin had run its course, leaving him weak and shaking but functional.
When he turned his head, he saw the pile of rubble. Saw a flash of color among the broken bricks, fabric, skin, and the glint of silver.
Jabber was still under there.
Good.
Zanka forced himself up, using Lovely Assistaff as a crutch to lever his weight. His legs shook with the effort, barely able to support him. Every part of his body screamed in protest, demanding rest, demanding he find Eishia and get proper treatment before the neurotoxin's aftereffects killed him anyway.
He should leave. Should drag himself back to headquarters, get patched up, report another inconclusive fight with Jabber to whoever was asking. That was the smart play. The logical play.
Jabber had poisoned him. Again. Used Mankira's neurotoxin to paralyze him, left him to die in the street like garbage. There was no reason to check if he was breathing, no reason to care, no reason to do anything but walk away and let the rubble be his grave.
Except.
Zanka's feet weren't moving toward headquarters. They were moving toward the collapsed wall, one agonizing step at a time, Lovely Assistaff taking most of his weight as he hobbled closer to where Jabber lay buried.
He didn't know why. Couldn't articulate the pull that made him move forward instead of away. It wasn't concern, he felt none of that for Jabber, had never felt anything but irritation and grudging respect for the bastard's skill. It wasn't guilt, either. Jabber had brought this on himself.
It was something else. Something that didn't have a name, something that made his chest tight and his thoughts fuzzy and his feet carry him to the rubble pile even when every rational instinct told him to leave.
When he reached the edge of the collapsed wall, he could see more of Jabber now—an arm visible among the debris, half his torso, his face turned toward the sky. And he was...
Moving.
Jabber's fingers twitched first. Then his eyes opened—those bright magenta eyes that seemed to glow even in the dim, dusty air. They were startling in their intensity, made more so by the tranquility in them. No pain, no fear, no mocking laughter. Just... calm. Serene, almost.
It was wrong. All wrong. Jabber was never calm, never tranquil. He was chaos and sharp grins and violence barely contained in human skin. The masochist probably got off on the pain of being crushed, would crawl out of this laughing about broken bones and how good it hurt.
But looking at him now, buried in rubble and staring up at the sky with those too-bright eyes, he looked almost peaceful.
Zanka stood over him, Lovely planted in the ground to keep himself upright, and just... looked.
That's when he looked at Jabber's hands properly.
Silver rings glinted on every finger, catching what little light filtered through the dust. Jabber's Vital Instrument, the physical manifestation of his soul given form. A piece of him, made tangible and beautiful and lethal.
Without thinking, Zanka crouched down. His legs protested the movement, threatening to give out entirely, but he managed it. Got low enough to see the rings properly, close enough that he could reach out and—
He touched them.
The metal was cold against his fingertips. Colder than it should be, colder than metal had any right to be even in the cool evening air. It sent a shiver up his arm, but he didn't pull away.
"Beautiful," he heard himself say, voice rough and quiet, barely more than a rasp.
Jabber's eyes shifted, focusing on him now instead of the sky. Still that same eerie calm, watching Zanka with an intensity that should have made him uncomfortable.
Zanka met his gaze, fingers still resting against the silver rings. His head felt fuzzy, thoughts moving through mud, words forming without his permission. The poison, probably. Had to be the lingering effects making him say stupid things, making him stay here when he should be gone.
"When I kill ya," Zanka said, voice low and deliberate, "I'll take her. My spoils of war." His fingers traced one of the rings, feeling the intricate metalwork, the unnatural cold. "I'll wear some on my hands. Tie 'er up and drape the rest over Lovely."
The words hung in the air between them, heavy with promise and threat and possession. He didn't know why he was saying this. Didn't know why the image of Mankira adorning his own Vital Instrument felt right, felt like something inevitable. But it did.
With effort, he pulled his hand back and stood. The world tilted dangerously, but he locked his knees and held his ground. Used Lovely Assistaff as a crutch again, turning away from Jabber's too-bright eyes and too-calm expression.
He didn't look back. Didn't see if Jabber was trying to move, trying to free himself, trying to do anything at all. Just focused on putting one foot in front of the other, his silhouette growing smaller against the horizon as he limped toward headquarters.
He was hungry. And he needed Eishia to look at the neurotoxin before it killed him in his sleep.
Jabber watched him go.
Couldn't do much else, really, pinned under several hundred pounds of brick and mortar. But his eyes tracked Zanka's retreating form with laser focus, taking in every stumbling step, every time he had to stop and lean harder on Lovley Assistaff, every sign of weakness the poison had left behind.
His heart was pounding.
Not from pain—though there was plenty of that, ribs definitely broken, maybe his left arm too, hard to tell under all the rubble. The pain felt good, mixing with the shivers of pleasure crawling down his spine.
Not from fear, either. Jabber had never been good at fear.
No, his heart was racing because of what Zanka had just said.
When I kill you, I'll take her.
The words echoed in his head, playing on repeat. The way Zanka had touched Mankira, reverent and possessive all at once. The way he'd looked at Jabber with those cold eyes and made a promise that sounded more like a vow.
I'll wear some on my hands and drape the rest over Lovely.
Jabber's grin stretched wide, manic and sharp and completely inappropriate for someone buried under a collapsed building. His cheeks felt hot, flushed despite the cool air and the pain radiating through his body.
He could feel it—that wild, exhilarated rush that came from finding someone like him. Someone worth the hunt.
"I fuckin' knew it," he breathed out, voice rough with dust and laughter. His fingers twitched against the rubble, Mankira's silver rings clicking together. "I knew you had it in you."
Zanka standing over him, touching Mankira like she was already his, making promises about killing and claiming her—that was real. That was honest. That was the Zanka that existed underneath all that control.
His heart hammered against his broken ribs, sending sharp spikes of pain through his chest that only made his grin wider.
Zanka's silhouette had almost disappeared now, just a dark shape against the evening sky. But Jabber kept watching, grin never faltering, eyes bright with something between admiration and obsession.
"Yeah," he said to the empty street, to the rubble pinning him down, to Mankira and the promise Zanka had made. "You're definitely worth it."
He'd get himself out of this eventually. Dig himself free, drag his broken body back to base and patch himself up enough to function.
And then he'd find Zanka again.
Because this? This wasn't over.