Chapter Text
The artificial lights above shown down, doing its best to simulate the time of day outside the dome. It was for that reason that Zanka knew it’s been three days. His pain having stopped around day two when Zanka just stopped moving.
The well was quite big, he could put his feet against the other wall if he stretched. He didn’t though, it’d hurt like a bitch. Maybe he shouldn’t have jumped down the well, but at the same time he deserved it.
This was a punishment, something that was meant to hurt. Granted that didn’t mean he didn’t regret his decision to jump. He landed on his ankle, pretty sure he broke something as the well was fucking deep, and hit his head on the stone wall. He was bleeding, of course he was, and old blood dried in an uncomfortable way.
He wanted a bath. He wanted to go home. Not to the academy, but home. He wanted to walk up that path to those large gates, walk across the courtyard and head to the living quarters where he could curl up in his bed.
His room back home didn’t have much, it wasn’t really allowed, but it was his nonetheless.
All his clothes where he liked them. The academy’s uniform rubbed against his skin too roughly.
His bed, pillows, and blankets perfectly placed and organized. The mattress at the academy was too stiff and the blankets weren’t..right and the pillows were far too thin.
His routine that he kept up for years. He didn’t like how the academy paced things, Goka and Kyouka paced things much better.
The smell of faint incense. The academy didn’t allow incense.
So yeah, Zanka wanted to go home.
His stomach twisted, dry lips splitting open as he grimaced in pain. He gripped the stupid stick that caused all this, it’s harsh wood digging in and causing splitters in his hands.
Three days he’s been in this well. Three days he’s gone without food or water. Three days that all he’s had was the itching uniform and the dumb fucking stick.
He didn’t know why he picked a stick or all things. He could have gotten an actual pole arm or a javolan, but no. This is what he gets, he supposes, for even thinking he was good. That he was nothing more than worthless.
That he was nothing more than just okay.
Second best.
He sighed, fingers rubbing the wood despite the blood droplets and then the small pain from the pricks of the splinters. It was comforting, was that odd to say?
Since day two, when he just resigned to sitting there and waiting, he had this feeling. At first he tried to break the stick, tried to snap it in half, but it was more sturdy than he gave it credit for. He just kept a hold onto it, annoyed and exhausted.
It was comforting in a way. His muttering to himself turned to talking to the stick, because the stick didn’t judge him.
Not in the ways others did.
Not in the way his own mind did.
By day two, he had stopped talking much or loudly but when he did the stick seemed to listen to him. Again, it was probably odd to say. He was probably hallucinating because of dehydration or something. Maybe because he hadn’t really slept in three days.
It didn’t matter to him, part of him was glad it was there. Real or not.
It was day four now, the lights were there brightest so maybe it was noon. Zanka’s mind felt too muddled to truly know. If he wasn’t thinking of nothing then it was a loop; thinking of his uselessness, wishing to go home, thinking of food, then repeating or going silent.
He let out a sound as something fell on him, which was a bit weird because he was sure the well was in a secluded place.
“Ah shit, dropped my fuckin’ philly.” A male voice called, grumbling and talking to someone. Or himself, Zanka didn’t judge.
The smell of food hit his nose. His stomach grumbled, loudly. His eyes moved to the ruined sandwich, the cheese sticking to his hair and dirty clothes. It laid in his lap, basically ruined but still pretty in tacked all things considered due to the fact it was still in the wrapping.
Zanka’s stomach twisted, never having a sandwich like it before, but he moved anyway. He grabbed it and started to shovel it in his mouth. His tongue buzzed, it tasted so different from what he was used to but it was so good.
“Crétin.” A woman said, “told ya you’d drop it.”
Zanka honestly wasn’t paying attention. He was so focused on eating. His stomach knotted, feeling so full yet he knew he could stomach more. That feeling bubbled up in his throat, heart thumping as he leaned over and what he ate came right back up.
He hated throwing up. His throat hurt, nose burning, and he was left feeling exhausted.
When he’d throw up at home, he'd get some time to rest for the day. His siblings said he’d be no use if he couldn’t keep anything down. He’d wake up in his room and find ginger tea placed right where it was meant to be.
“Holy shit, there’s a kid down there.” The male voice spoke again. Zanka assumed it was about him, but he didn’t care. He looked at the puddle of vomit below him, how it slowly spread and started to soak into his pants.
How gross. Zanka shifted, pain shooting up from his ankle. It was definitely broken.
“Hey, kid!” The man called, “ya alive down there?”
Zanka held the stick close, doing his best to ignore the pain. He licked his lips, tasting the bitter iron of blood and the cheese from the sandwich he tried to scarf down.
Should he call out? Should he say that yes he was alive?
What would be the point?
He was a failure. He couldn’t go home, no matter how much he wanted to.
It would be better if he died.
The final punishment in his life.
“Kid?” The guy called again, “hey, come on now I heard you throwin’ your guts up.”
Zanka looked up, seeing two shadows above the well. He could see their outlines, noticing they had traditional hats. He wondered if they were local, someone from town.
“Are you hurt?” The girl asked, “how’d ya even get down there?” She sounded nice.
Zanka looked back down, hands still on the stick, and for the first time in three days he felt like speaking. He was going to die anyway, might as well get this weight off his chest.
So, he talked.
He spoke about his family.
He spoke about the academy.
He spoke about Hyo.
He spoke about how he wasn’t good enough.
Strangely, the people listened. At least they didn’t leave. Zanka doesn’t know the last time he was able to just talk, maybe he’s never talked before. Wasn’t his family's whole thing.
“And that’s the weapon you chose?” The male asked after Zanka had finished, “but then…what are you doing down there?”
Zanka was considering calling this guy stupid. It was obvious why he was in the well. It was a punishment. A punishment for chosing a fucking stick over everything else.
“Hang on.” He cut through Zanka’s thoughts, “didn’t you say the class was three days ago?” yeah, Zanka thought, this guy is stupid, “you’ve been in that makeshift well without food or water all that time!? You’d be dead right now if we hadn’t passed by!”
That was the point.
Zanka was meant to die.
Slow and painful.
How else was he meant to make up for his mistake?
His failure?
“I saw a hole, so I felt obliged to crawl into it.” Zanka’s voice wasn’t as raspy as it was when he was telling them the story, but it was still weak. It wavered and he had to pause, throat dry and feeling like it was cracking.
“I can’t get out now.” He didn’t want to get out.
“I hear you,” The guy called after a beat of silence, “Guess we’ll just sit here and enjoy some of your local leaf-shaped manju.”
Zanka’s stomach growled, mouth watering as he thought about it. Though he wasn’t sure if he would be able to keep anything down, not really knowing if there was a point to wanting to eat.
“The others chose the weapons they thought looked strongest.” Zanka said, looking at the brown wood, “I figured Hyo would do the same. So I thought I’d go against the grain.” because of course he did.
Why’d he try to be different?
Was being different going to get him that praise he craved?
Was it going to get his parents to even glance at him?
Was it going to get Goka to even like him?
No. no because he was a failure. He’d never get far regardless of how hard he tried or how different he was.
He was just Zanka.
“I picked up a worn-out piece of crap that didn’t even look like a weapon” He looked down, holding the stick closer and curling up, “it wasn’t even a weapon. The school screwed up the settin’ table, and some random stick got mixed up with the others.”
Why was some stick mixed in with a bunch of weapons?
True weapons.
It had to be a mistake.
“Then came the moment everyone was waitin’ for,” he could feel their eyes on him, “when the ‘real deal’ chose a weapon…” He remembered seeing Hyo there, “it was this ordinary, unremarkable sword.”
Maybe that’s what they had in common? They picked something no one else would. While Hyo picked a sword, Zanka picked a fucking stick. No one would pick the stick because it was useless.
A stick can’t do shit.
Not compared to the beauty, elegance, and strength of a sword.
He felt his eyes sting, his chest getting tighter and like he was going to throw up again. He didn’t like throwing up. Laughter bubbled up, though he didn’t know why he was laughing. Why his body shook and he slammed his head back against the stone.
“Man, I’m shit!” He didn’t know who he was talking to anymore. Himself. The people outside the well. The universe that cursed him with such a life.
“I’m the shittiest piece of shit in this shit heap!” was this a breakdown? “I was the biggest scuzz ball all along, wantin’ people to think I was a natural…” His voice died off.
He was meant to be a natural. He should have been one. He was born and raised in the Nijiku clan. They owned the damn city. The Hell Guard.
He was trained from a young age and had all the help he could want.
He studied day in and day out to keep up grades too when most only focused on the physical shit.
He spent restless nights and peaceful evenings training even when everyone else stopped.
Was that all for nothing?
“Now I know,” What was the point to all of that if someone from the slums could come in and immediately beat him?
“A mediocrity could never become a natural talent!” Someone who was less fortunate and who didn’t have all the shit he did, still beat his ass.
And why?
Because she was better.
Simple.
“Drop dead.” His voice waved and his cracked lips trimbled in the shaky smile they were in, “I just wanna drop dead.”
He gripped the wood, digging the splitters in, “I’m as big as a poser as this stupid stick.” He peeled his head from the stones, blood making its way down his nape, “Just lame as hell.”
The silence stretched for a moment and Zanak wondered if the people left finally. If they decided to leave him to his wishes for death and go on their merry way.
“Huh?” The guy's voice came again, “can’t a mediocrity still get better than natural talents?”
No. Zanka knew the answer to the question…but if there was a way..
“Not that I know what makes a natural talent,” he continued, “but if that’s not something you are, who says you need to be?”
No one. No one but Zanka ever told him to be a natural talent, or at least thought of himself that way.
“Besides, whatever you say, you want to keep at it, don’t you?” Zanka wonders how someone could talk so much, “you’re still holding onto that ‘stupid stick’, aren’t you? Most people would call it rubbish and toss it, but you’re still clinging on.”
Zanka looked at the stick, hands numb from pain and then the brown wood soaking up the red that came from him, “Not that you should care what a simple passer-by has to say…” He heard the sounds of feet, the crunch of the dirt under shoes, “But you can’t become strong till you know your weakness.”
Hasn't someone told him that before? Maybe in the many lessons Kyouka gave? Or maybe it was during the training with Goka?
“Oh, that’s right.” Zanka looked up toward the top of the well, “we’ll be back in this city to eat more of that manju. I’d like to see you prove one day..that the average can beat the gifted.” He heard the footsteps again.