Chapter Text
There is no wind in this land. The trees and their flimsy arms remain statues in the barren town, an eternal sunset hanging over the horizon. The maple sight, only partially viewed through the edge of the glass dome above, melts across a naked sky and has done so since time could tell. The houses in this town—in this realm—belong to no one, and all that breathes are the sound of soft, meandering footsteps, curious in their exploration of the lifeless space. They slide and skip, stomp and scuff at random to create the only change this town has seen in millennia, leaving behind thin trails of footprints from the bottom of worn-out boots hidden in the shadows of an oversized coat. Eventually, they slowly come to a halt before a run-down structure made of moss and stone wedged within the soil, a nearby tree marking its mundanity.
It isn't the structure that causes the footsteps to stop. Rather, it's what's within. With all of Jabber's work experience, he's had yet to meet a soul stuck in the bottom of some musty well.
Though, he hasn't been at work for long—as much as he'd like to boast his expertise with the nonchalant sauntering he enacts throughout this realm like its vastness had already become his home. He has only been Death's servant for around a year, but his boss has no qualms about how he carries his job out, so there's not much he ought to change in his style of work. It's fun to walk around in this gloomy get-up anyhow, hood hanging over his head with an abnormally large scythe at his command; he's glad his boss allows him this much fun and freedom in his job.
Jabber looks into the well, a fatal premonition being cast in the shadow of his hooded stature, and takes a good look at the soul inside. They sit against the stone wall, knees up to their chest with dangling arms that are crossed over some random object. Something like a really long tree branch: Jabber doesn't care too much about the details. He's much more interested in the person holding said tree branch, still unaware of Jabber's presence. A smile creeps its way onto his face. He would love to try fighting from the confines of a well; the idea, which is way more interesting than all of his previous encounters with other souls, beckons a hearty giggle to bubble in the pit of his throat, one which threatens to emerge and spoil the surprise.
Yet the soul, before Jabber even has the chance to say anything, slowly traces their head up and looks at him. Jabber's head tilts to the side, analyzing the soul's appearance, and he immediately takes note of the dull, bottomless pits that are his eyes. They stare at him as an ocean that had suddenly ceased all its crashing waves and laid out as a blanket of absorbent darkness, silent and damp as the night it confines. There is not a flicker nor a breath in those pale blue irises, and despite the distance between them, Jabber's reflection is surely swallowed in that hollow mist, drowned at the seafloor of a lifeless glare. The rest of his body is ever unmoving, still holding that wooden object close to his body, and it takes minutes for him to even blink.
An expectant hum comes out of Jabber, still holding out hope for an exciting encounter. Without wanting to waste more time, he hastily manifests a pair of dark, feathery wings from his back, using them to hop into the well and gradually float to the bottom.
Though, since his wings are restricted by the compactness of the walls and his scythe is inconveniently large, he struggles in making his landing an elegant one. But do formalities really matter when the servant of Death comes to reap your soul? Jabber doesn't think so at all, and perhaps the soul doesn't either, as noted by the way that void of a stare follows Jabber's form in his awkward descent. Jabber retracts his wings as he plants his feet on the grimy floor and, with a toothier smile, breaks the tense silence with a sinister, "Hello."
The soul does not react, and now can Jabber better witness his physical nuances. He wears a martial arts uniform and some black boots, but what Jabber's most drawn to is the glitchy pattern surrounding the soul's forehead. It covers the entirety of his head, in fact, looping around like a halo as it statically stutters like a living being. Thin trails of dried, crushed raspberries spill from sides of his head, decorating it like plant roots.
"Certainly a place to end up," Jabber continues despite the lack of response, hoping to prod the silent one further. "How'd you find yourself here?"
The soul remains still, but he drags his eyes to the floor beneath them. His face is as stagnant as ever, but eventually his dry lips part. Nothing comes out of them, though, and another prolonged minute rolls by with Jabber thinking that this soul might just pass off on its own.
"What good is it ta say?" The soul mumbles, his voice imitating soft writings on a tattered chalkboard. Jabber tilts his head, about to quip in until the soul continues with, "Looks like ya already know."
"Nah, you got the wrong guy," Jabber shakes his head, propping his scythe on the wall so he can join the soul on the floor. He crosses his legs and leans back on the aged surface behind him. "I'm just one of Death's lil' workers—I ain't the man himself. Got no clue how ya got here."
Jabber stares right into the glitches on the soul's head. The dried blood on his face and the sturdy soil they sit upon stare back. "But y'know, I can make an educated guess or two."
The soul twitches this time—a jolt so thin Jabber could've mistaken it entirely if his gaze wasn't pinned straight ahead. With a slight scowl, the soul takes a hand to the stick he has, grasping it like a lifeline. "Jus' go ahead," the soul murmurs. "Get it done an' over with."
Jabber can't help the short laugh that bubbles out. "Think ya got the wrong idea 'bout me. Reaping souls left an' right just ain't my style, so I'll give ya a deal instead." Jabber leans forward, resting an arm on his knee to prop his head on an open palm.
This is his favorite part: the choice. The proposition that he shouldn't give but the one he does anyway. "Ya fight me," Jabber says, the exuberance that emanates from those words still as potent as the first time he's said them. "Lose, and I reap ya soul as planned. Win, and I'll return ya back to your body."
The soul sits, and sits, and continues to sit. Then, he drags his eyes over to Jabber's scythe. "With that thing, I take it?"
"Nah, I don't fight with that guy," Jabber waves a hand, where the rings slowly secrete a soft, magenta glow. The aura materializes in the form of sharp claws, and Jabber gives another teasing wave to the dismissive soul before him. "Fight with these babies right here. I'on tell people that usually. I like the look on their faces when they realize that guy's just for show."
Another draw of silence. Then the soul exhales, as thin as the nonexistent wind, and mumbles, "Not interested."
Jabber, unfortunately, thought that might be his answer. A vast amount of souls will turn ambitious in the blink of an eye at the prospect of revival, and while very few souls do not care for Jabber's proposal and simply wish to accept their fate, the rejection scenario is not new to him. Oh well. This soul isn't the first of its kind—Jabber just thought that, with a unique situation as this, he could get some real fun out of this encounter. All that's been occurring so far is a stupidly insipid conversation: one so lethargic that it'll practically kill Jabber first before this soul could ever pass on naturally.
Whatever, whatever—it's just a minor disappointment, that's all. Jabber will do with his job here and move onto the next soul as he has for the past year. "A'ight, I get it." Jabber's claws dissipate. He extends the same hand, palm up, towards the soul in silent instruction. "I'll let'cha pass on. Gimme ya hand."
The soul finally brings his gaze up, the whirlpool of dusk peering right into Jabber. "Why?"
"C'mon, ya don't know?" Jabber frowns. "Quit playin' an' grab my hand already."
A blink. The soul stays there for a moment, then finally relaxes his tense shoulders and slowly holds up a hand, his other still firm around the base of the stick. Looks like he'll take that thing with him to the grave—but as his ringed hands lightly flinch at the detail, Jabber's certainly not in any position to judge.
So much for an interesting interaction. At least he'll get to settle the itching sensation wracking his body by searching for the next unfortunate soul. Jabber's hand stays still as the soul's hand inches forward until their fingertips meet. When this soul passes on, Jabber will be alone, as usual, to report back to his boss on yet another job well-done. Another grin slithers onto Jabber's face; he certainly can't forget about the reporting stage of his job. The thought protrudes his mind and nulls that itching boredom scaling his body. Jabber just has to wait for the soul to disappear as he was meant to and he can finally get that reward from the boss.
Jabber is surprised, though, when such a scenario does not occur.
They stay there in this strange position, hands outstretched and fingertips connected inside of a well, and nothing happens. Jabber wouldn't mind if this soul were slow in phasing into the afterlife, but it certainly shouldn't take any longer than a minute. Yet a handful of minutes thick with silence pass by without a single change occurring, the glitches around the soul's head still staticky as they're meant to be and his eyes still as dull as ever.
This is weird. This is…this is very weird. Jabber has never touched anyone for this long; aside from the boss, everything he'd ever touched since his recruitment would die and wither away. His mind quiets as he contemplates what exactly he should do. Laugh it off like a joke? Try to kill him with his claws? Just run away?
None of those are what he actually ends up doing. Rather, Jabber leans further in, slotting their palms softly against each other. The soul looks at their hands with that ever-stale gaze as Jabber's fingers slide all over the soul's palm, tracing patterns as if to map out the surface and commit it to memory. The feeling is too new, too foreign for Jabber to fully comprehend beyond a single thought: he isn't dying. His nails tenderly paw at the skin as they waft around, movements eccentric and practically quite trivial.
There is no reason to be doing this—no reason why Jabber should be lingering around dragging his fingers all across a soul's hand instead of relinquishing their essence. Yet the sensation of physicality is so visceral that it drowns him and holds his breath hostage, a hunger keeping him from tearing this moment apart. Touch, if not the abrasive impact of a raised fist, is too abstract for Jabber to decipher. What he holds here is not warm, but it's also not cold: it's something entirely abstract, and Jabber takes his time in trying to decode what exactly this whole scene is. His fingers trail up to the soul's wrist in search of something other than a faux pulse or illusioned mortality, but he ends up with nothing still. A pout stains Jabber's face. He needs to get closer.
Jabber draws back his hand to reunite their palms, this time leaning their hands upright. He pokes his fingers through the gaps of the soul's hand, grasping at it through their entwined fingers. The soul, though, doesn't mimic the movement, which was expected: yet what wasn't is the way his eyebrows furrow and twitch. The emotion is shallow, a dull light sparking to life in the midst of heavy fog, yet it's evident to Jabber with the way the soul now blinks in repeated beats. The soul's hand tries to remain still, yet it flickers with brief, hesitant twitches. Jabber sits up to crawl even closer.
His other hand comes up to grab at the soul's arm—the one still holding that stick. Jabber keeps exploring through his fingertips, dragging his hand up the soul's arm and back down in peculiar motions with bloated eyes. He trails his hand up to grasp at the soul's shoulder and the soul's lips tense. Jabber's hand keeps navigating these odd emotions while his hand slides up onto his neck. His pointer finger picks at the skin like he's trying to unravel a sealed present, and the soul flinches at the touch. At this distance, Jabber can feel how the soul's breath hitches with each scratch upon his neck, right on the underside of his jaw. The soul keeps his eyes averted to their hands, still clasped together, and Jabber continues his exploration upwards, trailing his hand to cup his face.
Jabber shuffles the hood off his head with a few shakes, his shoulder-length locs reaching forward just as he does. The soul returns his gaze to Jabber's eyes with wavering breaths that are unsuccessfully concealed. Their foreheads are almost touching, a mere toothpick's length apart, and Jabber circles his thumb across the soul's cheek. The touch is still not warm, nor is it cold—yet it is soft, calm like the flowers that thrive in environments Jabber does not occupy. Jabber is infatuated with the sensation—the sharps of his jaw, the divots of his ear, the gaps of his eyebrows—and the hunger to get ever closer roars in his stomach. So he does, tipping his forehead up against the soul's own and peering into those wilted-petal eyes.
The soul, though, finally moves and shoves him away. He looks at Jabber as though he'd narrowly escaped suffocation, yet he still tries to keep some form of composure.
"Is that how ya gotta do it every time?" The soul asks with a quivering breath. "The hell's up with ya? Would'ja hurry up or what?"
Jabber blinks. He looks at his own hands like he's just been born into the world at that very moment, grasping onto the first form of stimulation introduced to him. "You can't," is all that Jabber can really say at the moment, the remnants of prolonged skin-to-skin contact still tingling on his fingertips. The soul tilts its head, and Jabber follows up with, "Die, I mean."
"The hell ya mean I 'can't die?'"
"I'on know! You was supposed to when I touched ya, but you're still here!"
Shit, what does he do now? Jabber never thought he could fail a mission: especially one concerning a soul that so pliantly accepts his death. What would the boss say? What would the boss do?
…But more importantly, how does Jabber just walk away from this? Jabber lowers his hands and returns to the floor, focusing on the eye contact they share. The soul's eyes still retain that peculiar opaqueness, but they move now: from his own emptied hands to the stick leaning on his shoulder and the intensive gaze that Jabber pins onto him.
Those eyes—those eyes that are mucked gemstones living in the mud, wilted petals chipped from their stems, a sky covered by mountains of thunderclouds and rainfall—those eyes are so beautiful.
"Let's go on a walk."
The soul blinks again. "What?" He mutters, and Jabber straightens his posture.
"Join me on a walk," he says. "I'll get us out this hole an' we can walk around town. You from here?"
The soul drags his head to the melted sunset. "Yeah, but…I ain't really interested."
"Aw, c'mon!" Jabber whines. "Ya ain't got nothing else to do."
"But don't you have better things ta do? Y'know, like reapin' souls an' whatnot?"
Jabber leans back, hums in haphazard contemplation, then shrugs. "I can take an off day or two. 'Sides, even if ya say no, I'll be stayin' here with ya."
The soul takes a hand to the stick and caresses the wooden surface. His eyes flicker down briefly before hesitantly returning.
"…Ya name," he says.
"Huh?"
"Gimme ya name. Never said it this whole time, ya know."
"Oh!" Jabber nods. "Yeah, my fault. 'S Jabber. You?"
"Zanka," the soul replies. It totally slipped Jabber's mind to ask for his name! Well, now that he knows, Jabber opens his mouth to say his name and brand it on the tip of his tongue—the name of the one he cannot kill, the one that defies fate in the oddest way—but the soul cuts him off.
"Leave me alone, Jabber," the soul—Zanka, his name is Zanka—says with a firm grip returning to the stick.
"Wait, huh? We jus' said our names—what'da mean leave?"
"It's cramped. Get out."
"Not until you go on a walk with me."
"Who cares 'bouta walk—fly back where ya came!"
"I don't wanna!"
They're like little kids bickering in a playground, what with how they exchange the silliest of reasons to combat the other's words. But the longer they throw more petulant insults at each other, the longer something weird festers in Jabber's chest. It sits there and flops around like a centipede on its back, and—well, wait, when was the last time he'd gotten to talk to anyone like this?
At one of Zanka's retorts, Jabber just giggles. He keeps giggling and, before Zanka is about to rebuke him for his onslaught of laughter, Jabber interrupts by saying, "Y' real funny, ain't ya, Zanka?"
Zanka flinches at the call of his name. A smile stretches onto Jabber's face—one still so weird yet still very much present—and Zanka stares right into it. Then, he looks up at the sky and whispers something.
…Jabber doesn't really catch it, though. "Whad'ya say?" He prompts, and Zanka, nearly shouting, repeats.
"Fine! Let's go on yer stupid-ass walk."
Jabber's grin stretches to the ends of his face, toothy and all. He extends his hand once again, palm up as a way of invitation. "'Kay! You can show me 'round then!"
Zanka takes his time before finally accepting the gesture, reaching out his hand to clasp their palms together. When that weird sensation of touch occupies Jabber's senses, he squeezes the hand and stands, taking the nearly-forgotten scythe with his other. Zanka tightens the grip on his own object as Jabber's wings unfold half ceremoniously, still restricted by the tight walls of the well. Still, they twitch with anticipation as Jabber begins a gentle ascent. The ride is bumpy, compiled of a few stutters from Jabber's wings and some whispered curses when one of them scrape the stony walls, but they return to the open world in one piece.
The world's eternal stasis is no enthralling sight to Jabber—but Zanka's eyes widen when his feet touch the dry soil. He doesn't stare bug-eyed into the vastness of their environment, but the thin movement is prominent to Jabber from where he stands right next to his shoulder. Yet the expression leaves just as abruptly as it had appeared and, with the face of a brick wall, Zanka looks over to Jabber, their shoulders tapping as he does.
"The hell are ya so close for?" Zanka scowls and shuffles away.
Jabber only chuckles again. "I'on know my way around here, Zanka," he says, disregarding the previous question. "You got any tourist sights or somethin'?"
But Zanka's already walking off into the distance, beyond the single tree standing alone by the well and into the town. Jabber skips to catch up, following the easy steps Zanka takes as he seamlessly weaves through the barren streets.
"Or, y'know, like a favorite place?" Jabber asks once again. He does not get a reply; their walk is filled with nothing but the scraping of their boots beneath cracked soil and the jingling of jewelry Jabber emits from dangling his accessories together. He waves his head and lets the clanking of golden cuffs occupy his mind, then looks up at the sky.
Beyond the dome, the sunset still has the sky painted in a orange-gold hue. The puddles of indigo haven't conquered the sky yet—and while they have been trying for millennia, they have continuously failed, marked by their immobility beneath the pool of a more striking vibrancy—and it somehow catches Jabber's attention.
Zanka's voice finally cuts through the air. "Don't have nothin' like that," he says as he carves a memorized path forward, leading them to the foot of a large hill. The stairs carve a path through the trees that devour the landscape, leading up to a building that rests at the top. The structure is ginormous, even from where the two stand at the bottom of the hill, and Zanka pauses just before taking the first step up.
Jabber gives him a smile, but Zanka doesn't look his way. His eyes are pinned to the floor—to the pristine surface of the stony stairs and the dusty dirt coating the bottom of his boots—before he finally says, "I jus' don't know where else ta go."
Then, Zanka finally begins to ascend. Jabber wastes no time in following behind, eyes still keen on Zanka even if it causes him to nearly trip a few times on their way up.
And the way up is pretty long. Jabber takes another peek at the sky. Perhaps he'd been interested in it just because he's not wearing his hood like usual.
He returns his gaze to Zanka, predictably almost trips again at his lack of spatial awareness, and doesn't feel the need to put his hood back on.