Chapter Text
The bass strummed, the piano danced, and the trumpet wailed, striking up a tune so swinging that even Zanka couldn’t resist tapping his foot along with the beat. He was holding down a table against a side wall, equidistant between the bar and the band’s small stage, nursing his Negroni and babysitting Riyo’s long-forgotten, half-empty Gin Fizz glass. She was in the thick of the crowd, arms and legs swinging in complicated patterns he couldn’t hope to keep up with. She’d tried teaching him some of the latest moves the first time they’d come here, but after Zanka managed to upend three drinks, knock off a man’s straw boater, and step on Riyo’s toes more times than he could count, they both agreed that he was better suited to the sidelines. It was hard enough for him to relax on a normal day–trying to cut loose in a crowded club, especially when they were meant to be working, was simply too big of an ask. Riyo, however, thrived on the dance floor, now Charleston-ing away like her life depended on it–and in a way he supposed it did.
The Den had opened a few weeks back, a black-and-tan club that quickly gained popularity. This would make the third Saturday night in a row they’d spent at it, trying and mostly failing to gather any information about the up-and-coming gang they believed owned the place. The Raiders had appeared nearly a year ago, starting with petty muggings and working their way upwards to where they were now–trafficking drugs and weapons, running protection rackets, and extorting local businesses. And operating juice joints, apparently, if the tip-off they’d received was true. Unlike a lot of the gangs around the Ground, the Raiders kept a low profile—members didn’t publicly proclaim themselves as members, all crimes were committed with faces covered, and their inner circle was small enough that no stool pigeons had sung yet. It’d certainly made the Cleaners’ job harder.
Then again, their jobs were never easy. The police didn’t approve of them sticking their noses where they didn’t belong, but everyone knew the fuzz were dirty, paid off by every gang in the city to look the other way, which left civilians to fend for themselves. So the Cleaners had stepped in.
Goons threatening to torch your business if you don’t pay for their protection?
Your friend bumped off and flatfoots won’t investigate the murder?
Old lady’s cat stuck in the tree again?
Whatever needed doing, the Cleaners were there. No job was too big or too small for them to handle.
Corvus had managed to get most of the local gangs under relative control over the past few years—all except the Raiders, who rejected any and all offers to meet and negotiate, regardless of terms. So the Cleaners had dedicated the last couple of months to tirelessly gathering information on their enemy, long nights spent hunting the streets, poking around crime scenes, and wringing their informants dry. All they’d learned was that their leader was Zodyl Typhon—supposedly at least, no official records of anyone under that name ever turned up in their research, so either the info was bunk or it was an alias—and that he always donned a black trench coat that he wore open in the front, though in the colder months, so did every other mac in town. All that work and they still didn’t know beans.
When they’d gotten the anonymous tip that The Den might be connected to the Raiders, they’d jumped at the opportunity. Enjin had nominated Zanka and Riyo for the job, claiming they knew how to handle themselves and would be the best at blending in, and the boss had agreed, to Zanka’s surprise. Rudo wasn’t too happy to be left out, but when Enjin explained he’d have to play nice with strangers and spend his night in a three-piece suit, he changed his tune. Rudo was a little too baby-faced to have gotten away with entering a speakeasy anyways, but Zanka was surprised Enjin wasn’t going with them.
“You know I’m too much of a cake-eater—I show up and the dames’ll be all over me. Can’t have me drawing all that attention to us,” he’d joked when pressed about it. Zanka suspected either Enjin knew his smart aleck attitude would have him running his mouth, or that his tom cat past would catch up to him and he’d run into a sore former girlfriend, all of which would end in him blowing their cover.
With the boss’ permission given, they plotted their reconnaissance mission, coming up with pseudonyms, corroborating backstories, and an outline of their objectives. August was commissioned to whip up new glad rags for them, and in typical August fashion, had gone overboard with it, nearly drowning him and Riyo in outfit options.
Tonight found Zanka donned in a light grey suit with matching vest, light-blue-and-white striped dress shirt, navy tie, and navy homburg perched atop his head. He was thankful August insisted on curating each outfit–Zanka didn’t pay much attention to fashion trends, much less Western ones, but fitting in on these outings was of the utmost importance, and left to his own devices, he would’ve stuck out like a sore thumb. As he scanned the dance floor, he noticed Riyo cutting her way through the crowd and heading back toward their table, the black chiffon of her sequined dropwaist dress swaying around her legs as she made her way over.
“Well, that was a bust,” she groused, plopping down in the chair next to Zanka and retrieving her previously abandoned glass. She chugged the watered-down remnants of her drink before continuing. “Thought I had a lead, but pal was just feeding me banana oil. Any luck on your end?”
“No dice. Listened to a real mustard plaster fail at flirtin’ with a girl for 20 minutes, and overheard a couple bump gums, but nothin’ important.” Same as the last two weekends they’d patronized The Den, any information gathered was your run of the mill gossip. He was beginning to think there weren’t any connections to the Raiders after all. That, or he and Riyo weren’t as crackshot at espionage as Enjin believed. Although Zanka could believe that about himself, Riyo had an uncanny ability to get people talking—if their mission failed, it wouldn’t be because of her. He needed to stop futzing around and put more effort into this. He couldn’t let Enjin down, not after he vouched for them to be here in the first place, had to prove that he was worthy of being entrusted with something so important.
Riyo blew her bangs off her sticky forehead, reaching into her little handbag and retrieving her folding fan. She cooled herself with it, cleverly angling it so that no one in the crowd could see her lips as she spoke. “Might draw some attention, but why don’t we try talking to the musicians after this place closes for the night? They’re the same ensemble as the first night we came, could be worth seeing who hired ‘em on.”
“Sounds swell.” Zanka fished his pocket watch out from his vest: about an hour and a half until closing time. “I’ll see if I can chat up the bartender, get a feel for ‘em. You want another?” He nodded at her empty glass.
“Posilutely! Get me a Hanky Panky?”
Zanka’s nose wrinkled. “I ain’t orderin’ that. Get it yerself or pick somethin’ different.” He’d do a lot for this mission, but he drew the line at ordering drinks with smutty names and publicly embarrassing himself.
“Fine, a Clover Club then, if that’s acceptable, killjoy.”
“Funny way of thankin’ the guy gettin’ yer giggle juice for ya.” Technically, everything was going on Arkha’s dime, giving them $1.25 each for drinks with the explicit warning to have no more than two—turning up to a gin mill and not ordering anything was a surefire way to attract the wrong kind of attention, but getting plastered would only make their jobs harder.
Riyo snapped her fan shut with a clack, waving him off with it. “Get a wiggle on then, we don’t have all night.”
He downed the last of his Negroni and gathered both glasses in one hand, using the other to tuck his cane under his arm, then stood to make his way towards the bartop. Other patrons, already pickled to the gills, made the journey more difficult than it needed to be, swaying erratically into his path and flailing their limbs in time to the music. He made it to the small line forming in front of the counter, glassware miraculously unshattered, and surveyed the room again while waiting, eyes and ears open to anything out of the ordinary. There was a couple necking in the shadowy doorway of the STAFF ONLY door near the bar—Zanka’d love to go poke around in there, though the risk of getting caught was too high. Maybe if they got desperate enough, he could have Riyo cause a distraction while he slipped in. A trio of college boys were razzing each other over something stupid, a canceled stamp hung back near the entrance, a flapper eschewed the advances of an old fogy. All par for the course, the same scenes he’d seen play out dozens of times each night they were here.
The line crawled up enough that it was finally Zanka’s turn to order. The bartender was a short woman he hadn’t seen before, tomboyishly dressed in tweed trousers and vest, a bright blue page boy hat covering her close cropped hair. The barkeep he’d usually see, a young man named Fu, was holding down the other end of the bar, sweating profusely as he stirred up cocktails. Riyo had dug into him at their first visit, but they quickly ruled out Fu having any relation to the Raiders after getting to know his perpetually anxious and eager to please personality.
The new bartender fixed him with a lackluster stare. “Whaddaya want?”
Zanka’s mouth nearly quirked into a frown before he schooled it back to a pleasant smile. He placed the two empty glasses on the counter, sliding them over. “A Clover Club and a Negroni, please.”
She nodded in acknowledgement, retrieving the used glassware and placing it out of sight, presumably in a dirty dish tub for later washing, then grabbed various bottles and a shaker.
“Don’t think I’ve seen ya around. You a new hired hand?” Zanka drawled.
She paused in her mixing to glance over at him, expression unreadable. “Just helping out for now. Been getting busier the past few weeks and Fu needed a hand.” A clever answer that didn’t really answer anything. Could be worth digging in to, but she seemed rather reticent and pushing too much might make her clam up. He’d have to tread lightly.
“Awfully nice of ya…” he trailed off, seeing if she’d fill in the information for him.
“Cthoni.”
“Pleased to meet your acquaintance then, Cthoni. I’m Zenjiro.” He and Riyo had agreed on aliases close to their names, making them easier to remember and more likely to come out naturally than to lead to a goof-up. Riyo became Rita O’Reilly and Zanka Zenjiro Nishida.
Cthoni nodded but didn’t say anything further, returning to making their drinks.
“Gotta say,” Zanka pressed on, trying to get a further response, “All the drinks I’ve had here have been bang-up. Much better than the coffin varnish at other joints.”
That finally earned him a small smile, if the slight curl to one edge of her mouth could be called that. “And how. That’ll be eighty-five cents.” She slid the two drinks over the counter. He’d already forgotten the name of Riyo’s order, but it was shockingly pink.
Zanka held out the dollar bill he’d preemptively freed from his wallet. “Keep the change,” he told her as she took the proffered money. Yet again, she nodded in thanks and remained quiet, already turning to the next patron in line. Damn, this new bartender was a tough nut to crack–small talk was never his forte but he thought he’d have gained something. Maybe Riyo would have better luck with her.
He weaved his way back towards their table against the side wall, trying and mostly succeeding at not spilling anything. The task probably would’ve been easier had he not also had his cane tucked up under his arm, but he hated leaving aibō behind, always feeling more vulnerable without her comforting weight in his hand. Or in this case, armpit. With only a few drops spilled on the cuffs of his sleeves, he slid Riyo’s drink in front of her, taking a seat with his own glass next to her.
“Anything?”
Zanka took a sip of his Negroni, leaving the glass up near his mouth as he spoke. “New girl’s name’s Cthoni. Says she’s helpin’ out, but nothin’ more than that. Not real talkative. You might have better luck chattin’ with her, or askin’ Fu ‘bout her.”
“She makes a mean cocktail, so I wouldn’t mind her sticking around.” Riyo had already chugged half of her drink in the time it took Zanka to recount his exchange, now lazily swirling the coupe in her hand. “I was gonna go shake a leg again, but sure, I can try opening her up afterwards.”
“I’d appreciate it. Somethin’ about her seems shifty, so be careful.”
“Yes, mother.” She rolled her eyes and dug in her purse again, pulling out a lipstick and compact. “Are you gonna do more snooping or be pinned to the table all night?”
“I’m listening and keeping an eye on the place. Don’t make it sound like I’m loafin’ around here.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Riyo uncapped the tube with a sidelong glance his way, then turned her attention to touching up her lipstick, eyeing herself in the mini mirror. Seemingly satisfied, she smacked her lips a few times and returned the items to her handbag, then turned in her seat to face Zanka directly. “It’s okay to cut loose every once in a while, ya know?”
“We’re here on a job—” Zanka began, but she cut him off.
“And we’ve gotten nowhere. Besides, no one says you can’t do both at the same time. Just,” she laid a gloved hand on his atop of the table, “You can have a bit of fun in the meantime. You look too dapper to sit here all night like a poor fish. Find someone cute to chat up, a nice gal. Or guy.”
Zanka blinked. Blinked again. Let the implication sink in. While his brain was still stuttering out a response, Riyo continued, “This doll’s gotta ankle, but think about it! Don’t be a wet blanket!” And with that she slid out of her chair and disappeared back onto the dancefloor.
He took a swig of his Negroni to clear his head, which really was the opposite effect of what it intended, but he needed to do something with his hands. How did she know?
Semiu and Corvus knew about his past, a necessary part of his joining the Cleaners, and he’d told Enjin and Riyo, feeling like he owed them an explanation in exchange for saving his life. They’d found him wandering the streets, cold, alone, and penniless after two weeks of trying to survive in a foreign country where he knew no one, and they’d taken a chance on him, offering an unworthy kid a way forward. And so he’d told them his story: about his family back in Japan, their involvement in the Taishō government, his military academy schooling, his disownment, and his escape to America. He’d sprinkle in new tidbits here and there over the years, like a restaurant in town serving a food that was his father’s favorite, that his sister trained him to dodge bullets or die trying, demonstrating a judo throw that his brother had taught him, but he never mentioned why he’d come here, what caused him to be disowned.
He couldn’t. Wouldn’t risk losing family a second time over. He’d built a new life here over the past few years, doing his best to prove to Enjin that saving him was worth it, to prove to himself that he made the right choice in leaving, and goddammit he’d do anything he could to keep what he’d made. His fingers fiddled with the orange peel wedged on the rim of his glass as he tracked Riyo’s red bob through the crowd of dancers. He’d interrogate her once she came back to the table. Or maybe he’d wait until they headed back to Cleaners headquarters for a little more privacy.
Zanka was still mulling over his options when the chair next to him was pulled out, “This seat taken?” interrupting his thoughts. Before he could respond, a man sat down next to him.
“I was gonna say help yerself, but seems ya already have,” Zanka snarked, regarding the stranger coolly. His suit was pinstriped, and he’d swapped the traditional trousers for Plus Fours, the baggy pants tucked into purple argyle socks, a matching sweater vest poking out from the edges of his jacket, and an aubergine tie rounding out the look. His head was hatless, but whether he had checked a hat or simply gone without was yet to be seen.
The man gaped at him, unlit cigarette hanging from his lip dangerously close to falling out, before turning into a wide grin. “Wasn’t expecting that accent outta you!”
Nothing he hadn’t heard before, almost always inevitably followed by a backwards compliment about how good his English was “for an Oriental.” His father ensured each of the Nijiku children were fluent in at least one additional language, insisting that it would be vital for their future governmental positions, especially with all the wars abroad Japan had waged in recent years, and hired private tutors for all of them—Kyouka spoke Russian and Mandarin, Goka Russian, and Zanka English. It wasn’t until he came stateside and spoke with native speakers, particularly Enjin and Riyo, that he pieced together that his tutor had been a man from the southern states with a rather thick accent. As Enjin had put it shortly after their first meeting, “I woulda thought you were a country bumpkin if I hadn’t seen ya!” It was almost worth writing to his father and rubbing it in his face that his expensive tutor inadvertently taught his son to speak like a hick. Almost.
“Just caught Ol’ Jabber off guard is all, didn’t mean nothing by it, honest. Anyhoo, you got a light?” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and wiggled it between two fingers.
Zanka patted his pockets, trying to remember which one he’d stuck the lighter in—he’d gotten into the habit of carrying one with him everywhere he went on account of how much Enjin smoked and how often the blonde misplaced his matches. Right pants pocket, there it was. He flipped it open and sparked it up, holding it out towards the other man, who placed the coffin nail back between his lips and bent his face towards the flame.
He took a few small puffs, ensuring it was lit, then sat back and pulled a long inhale, exhaling the smoke out over his shoulder after a few seconds. Good. Zanka would’ve had some choice words and maybe a few choice punches had a complete stranger waltzed up and blown smoke in his face.
“So what’s eating you?” The man asked around his ciggy. “It that dame of yours?”
“That—who?”
“Y’know, that redhead here earlier. You got a real sour look aboutcha after she left. Dancing with another man?” He pulled the cigarette out and pointed it out towards the dancefloor. Oh god, he meant Riyo.
Zanka let out a snort. “That bearcat ain’t my girl, she’s like a sister ta me.”
“What’s got you all balled up then?” The stranger leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs. “Level with me.”
“Well, I got a stranger beatin’ his gums at me and stealin’ my chair.” The other man cackled; Zanka partially hoped he’d tip over in his chair with how hard he was laughing, but he stayed upright.
“Got me there,” he dropped the chair down onto all four legs and held out his hand. Zanka shook it, the palm dry and calloused against his. “Jabber Wonger. Now I ain’t a stranger.”
“Zenjiro Nishida.”
“So, Zenjiro, my friend—the music’s swinging, the hooch is flowing, and you’re sat here lookin’ sore. Why’s that?” Jabber sure was an apt name for him, with how readily he struck up conversations and wouldn’t drop them. Zanka sighed through his nose and took another swig of his drink.
“My friend was razzin’ me for bein’ a wet blanket. Struck a nerve’s all.”
Jabber put his thumb and forefinger up to his chin, screwing his eyes up, lip pursed into a pout around the cigarette’s filter, seemingly attempting to look pensive as he gave Zanka a once over. “I reckon you’re more of a damp sheet–not too late to save you from full wet-blankethood if we put some pep in your step.” A grin spread across his face, eyes seeming to glow in the dim light around their table. “What can your pal Jabber do ya for, hm? Another drink? Ciggy? Know a couple Shebas if you’re looking to neck.”
A laugh erupted from his throat unbidden. What irony, first Riyo, now Jabber. “I’m all set, unless ya got another cigarette yer offerin’.” He didn’t usually imbibe, but maybe Riyo was right, he could cut loose a bit tonight. Two drinks and a cigarette wouldn’t impede his ability to investigate.
“Attaboy!” Jabber crowed, digging into his breast pocket and retrieving a slim silver case, popping it open to let Zanka have his pick. He slid one out and lit it, savoring the slight burn in his lungs on the inhale, the kick in his throat that preceded the slight buzz ringing his brain.
Exhaling and letting his smoke mingle with that of others in the lingering haze hanging over the club, he felt himself relax a little, loosening his lips. “Yer awful nice to a guy ya just met. Why?”
Ashing his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, Jabber shot him a wry smirk. “Honestly? Look on your face said you were about to bump off someone or yourself, and I didn’t fancy dealin’ with flatfoots tonight. Now you’re hittin’ on all eight, so everything’s jake.”
Zanka wanted to deny it, but he’d been told more than once he can look…intense when upset. “The night’s still young, I got plenty o’time to ice someone. And here I thought ya were being philanthropic.”
The smirk grew into a grin. “Purely self-preservation. This your first time here?”
“Nah,” he shook his head, pulling another drag, “been a few times. My friend likes dancin’ and didn’t wanna go alone. But it’s not too bad, drinks are nice and stiff. That Fu guy’s a little odd, but he makes a mean Negroni. They must have a good rumrunner.”
Jabber’s eyes darted left and right before he leaned in, cupping a hand around his mouth. Zanka took the hint and leaned in, the other man’s breath ghosting over his ear. “Ya didn’t hear this from me, but they actually make it in-house. I know the guy that distills it all.”
Zanka was glad Jabber couldn’t see the way his eyes widened. He finally had a lead. Now he couldn’t blow it. He pulled away, eyebrows raised skeptically. “No foolin’? Ain’t taste like rotgut.”
“Swearsies. ‘S all bootlegged, but it’s the gen-u-wine article. Seen him make it.”
“Cheers to yer friend then,” he joked, raising his glass for a toast. Jabber snagged Riyo’s forgotten glass and clinged the two together, both taking a sip after. She’d be sore when she came back to find her drink gone, but Zanka needed to follow this lead and he’d do whatever it took to keep Jabber jabbering, even if it included letting him poach drinks. She’d forget all about it when Zanka told her what he’d learned.
“You wanna see his setup? It’s not far from here, could be there and back in a jiffy.” Jabber looked at him expectantly from over the rim of the coupe glass.
Holy shit, this was it. This was his break. Play it cool, can’t be too excited or he might get suspicious. “Dunno, don’t think yer friend would appreciate a stranger turnin’ up uninvited.” A guy involved with shifty business like bootlegging was probably quick on the trigger too, wouldn’t want to surprise him enough that Zanka ended up shot.
“Nah, as long as you’re with me, it’s fine. He and I are pals. But no skin off my nose if you’re not interested.” Jabber’s gaze shifted out to the dance floor as he sipped from his pilfered glass.
Zanka pretended to give it some thought, swirling the contents of his glass around in faux contemplation. He really shouldn’t leave Riyo alone, but she knew how to handle herself, and they’d be back quick, just a peek at the distillery operations, maybe talk to this bootlegger a bit and feel him out. Besides, if he didn’t jump at the opportunity before him, they might never get a chance like this again. He couldn’t wait to get back to headquarters and share what he’d learned. He thought of Enjin complimenting him for a job well done and had to hide a smile in his drink. Downing the rest of it, he slammed the now empty glass on the table and announced “Why the hell not? Let’s go see ‘im.”
“Lookee there, wet blanket gone!” Jabber smacked him on the back with gusto. “Alright Mr. Bee’s Knees, let’s ankle!” He stubbed out his cigarette butt in the ashtray, pushed his chair back, and made his way towards the exit. Zanka scrambled to follow him, grabbing aibō and tucking his own cigarette between his lips. He searched the crowd for Riyo as he trailed behind Jabber, but didn’t catch sight of her.
Once out on the shadowy streets, they turned East, making small talk for a few blocks as Zanka polished off his cigarette. He crushed the butt out under his heel at an intersection where they turned North, shops and houses giving way to industrial warehouses and street lights growing fewer and farther between. The late hour and dim lighting seemed to be getting to him as he smothered the third yawn of their walk underneath a hand. Two more blocks and Jabber finally stopped in front of a nondescript building, ducking into a small alley and gesturing at Zanka to follow. He rattled open a small metal door, entering and holding it open behind him. Zanka stepped through into an inky darkness as the door shut behind him.
“Pretty spooky, right?” Jabber’s voice emerged from the darkness, whispered. “Might take a second for your eyes to adjust. We’re goin’ down, stairs are to your left. There'll be lights once we get there.”
Sure enough, after a few seconds Zanka could make out a faint glow off to the side and a dark blob in front of him that he assumed to be Jabber. A hand grabbed his wrist and hauled him over to the stairs. Zanka clung to the handrail he found there as he walked, but from the sound of Jabber’s feet, he was bounding down the steps. The light grew with every step as they went deeper beneath the warehouse, down two floors until the stairwell opened into a large room.
Large copper stills lined the back wall, complex amounts of tubes snaking in and out of them, barrels set up in front of each one ready to receive the freshly brewed hooch. More barrels and crates of glass jugs took up the left wall, stacked nearly to the ceiling where dim bulbs were strung haphazardly. The center of the floor held numerous large tables shoved together, scattered with papers, broken glass, empty bottles, rogue piping, metal bits, and even more that Zanka couldn’t identify. Another door led to a smaller side room, but he couldn’t see anymore past the half ajar door. This place was a jackpot of information.
Zanka craned his head around, taking it all in. “So where’s yer buddy?”
“Not sure, must be out somewhere.” He wandered over to the nearest table, fiddling with something he found there. “Feel free to look around, Zanka.”
Icy dread hit his stomach like a bomb. The stairs were behind him: he could still run. But Jabber was even closer, back still turned, and Zanka never claimed to make rational decisions when angry.
He flipped aibō in his hand, wheeling her around and slamming her down onto Jabber's head. A resounding crack filled the air, but one of wood on wood, not the satisfactory skull shattering he anticipated. Jabber had dodged, twisting to the side along the table’s edge, a wolfish grin plastered on his face.
“Oops, did I let the cat outta the bag?”
“How the fuck do ya know my name?” He snarled, taking a step back and readying his cane for another strike.
Jabber shrugged. “You Cleaners aren’t that good at bein’ secretive. I seen you around even before you started snooping.”
Zanka spun for another overhead swing, drawing it down even faster. Jabber tried to dodge again but couldn’t fully skirt it, avoiding another head strike but catching a glancing blow off his shoulder. He slumped forward, hand grabbing at the injured joint, chest shaking silently. Zanka lowered his cane. Good. That oughta show him. A hit like that surely caused some damage.
A quiet sound escaped from Jabber’s hunched form, then another, and another, until he threw his head back with a guffaw. “Oh man! Oh man, oh man, oh man, you got some spunk!” His smile was deranged, eyes alight and pupils blown wide. “I love it when they fight back, makes this even more fun!”
Jabber rocketed towards him, leaving barely enough time for Zanka to throw aibō up with both hands to block the hit as Jabber collided with him, each of their hands locked around the cane and fighting to shove the other away. They were so close together Zanka could smell the smoke on Jabber’s breath, see his own angry face reflected in his eyes. With a heave, Zanka shoved him off and threw a kick to the other man’s torso, sending him clattering back against the tables. Shit, either Jabber packed a wallop or he was rusty—his arms felt heavier than normal, body not responding as quick as he was used to. He moved into a defensive stance, readying himself for another attack that he knew would come, if how quickly Jabber recovered from that shoulder hit was any indication for his endurance.
A low groan sounded from the table as Jabber sat up, rolling his neck with a pop, that crazed smile having never left his face. “Now that’s what I like to see! C’mon Mr. Wet Blanket, show me what you can really do!”
Rather than launching himself again, Jabber prowled around Zanka in search of an opening. He’d strike out at random, swipes always met with an answering smack from aibō. Zanka couldn’t figure out what his angle was—he attacked open palmed, like he was trying to slap him, and wasn’t wielding any weapon that he could see. His answer came when Jabber attacked his left side, near the crook of his cane, providing Zanka the opportunity to snag his wrist with it and hike it into the air, exposing his hand. Two rings wrapped around the pinky and forefinger, a metal bar with four sharpened claws extending between them, allowing Jabber to conceal them in his palm.
“So that’s what ya’ve been hidin’.” He yanked the cane down and brought his knee up, intending to break Jabber’s elbow, but the other man was quicker, throwing a hooked punch at Zanka’s unprotected right jaw, letting his grip slip enough for Jabber to dance away. Dammit, he should’ve been able to take that hit—had taken worse before and not allowed his enemy to get away like this.
“Pretty, ain’t she?” He held his hand up, wiggling his fingers as if his weapon was saying hello. “I call her Mankira.” A close range weapon then. Zanka had the advantage on reach, but Jabber was fast. At least the claws weren’t that big, so unless he managed to get him in an artery, it’d smart, but he’d live.
“Didn’t ask, ya bastard.” It was Zanka’s turn to circle, trying to surreptitiously move closer to the stairs. Maybe if he got a good hit in, he could make a run for it.
The manic smile finally dropped from Jabber’s face, replaced by a frown. “That’s no way to treat a lady. What about your girl, what’s her name?” It took Zanka a second to realize he meant his cane.
“Aibō. What’s it to ya?” He crept closer to the stairwell again. If keeping up conversation gave him an edge, so be it, he’d keep talking. A heaviness was settling into his limbs the longer this went on. He needed to leave.
Crazed smile returned, Jabber spoke to his cane rather than to Zanka. “You sure do pack a mean punch. Too bad I gotta bump off your man, but boss’s orders.” He threw himself back into the fight with renewed vigor, swipes coming faster and faster, and it was all Zanka could do to block each one. The ring of metal meeting lacquered wood rang throughout the empty warehouse. A couple blows snagged at his suit jacket, though thankfully didn’t break skin. August would surely be upset about it later, but Zanka didn’t have time to worry about it right now, too busy keeping himself alive.
Jabber feinted a punch with the hand not wielding Mankira, then ducked, slicing across Zanka’s calf. The cut stung and he repaid it with a strike to Jabber’s jaw, the force of it flinging him sideways and skidding across the floor. When he touched fingers to the wound, only a few drops of blood came back—just a nick then.
Laughter bubbled up from Jabber’s prone form. “Oh man, you got me good! But I gotchu right back.” When he raised his head, his teeth were bloodstained. “Let’s see how long you last, my friend.”
“Awful big talk from someone I just laid out,” he bit back. Fuck this, he was going on the offensive while Jabber was down, screw fighting clean. As his foot hit the ground, his heart stuttered and seized, fluttering before launching into overdrive, hammering against his ribs like it wanted to escape. Zanka stopped in his tracks, hunched over, hand clasped to his chest, desperately trying to suck in air that resisted his every inhalation. “What the fuck,” he ground out, “did ya do ta me?”
Jabber rolled over and sat up, grin growing impossibly bigger. “You mean earlier? Let’s see, slipped some Veronal in your drink when you were walkin’ back to your table, didn’t even notice me in the crowd, and those cigarettes were laced with opium. Should’ve had you all nice and sleepy, real easy to convince ya to come out here all by your lonesome. Surprised you were even able to fight against it with how heavy a dose I gave ya. You sure are strong Mr. Wet Blanket!” His eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, you meant just now with Mankira! My own special cocktail I cooked up right here. Little bit of mercury bichloride, little bit of taxine, couple other fun things, but I can't go given’ out all my secrets now, can I?”
It was getting harder to breathe and the urge to vomit was growing. But goddamit, if Zanka was gonna go down, he was going down swinging. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and readied himself, coughing out, “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill ya, ya bastard.”
“Fighting to your last breath, huh?” Jabber climbed to his feet, arms spread as if welcoming the attack. “I knew I liked you, Zanka!”
Zanka flung himself at the Raider. They traded blows, each strike from both sides deflected by the other, but Zanka was lagging, panting for breath after each hit. He swung high with aibō, hoping for a fight-ending headshot, but Jabber ducked it, tackling Zanka to the floor. He pressed Mankira into Zanka’s shoulder, the sharp pain making the Cleaner’s vision go white at the edges.
“Shame I gotta kill ya,” Jabber goaded as he kept Zanka pinned. “This was fun, most fun I’ve had fightin’ someone in a while.”
Fun? Like fighting Zanka was just a game? It had him seeing red. His grip re-tightened around his cane and he swung her with all his might, stabbing it into Jabber’s ribs, delighting in the way it caught the Raider off guard and knocked the air from his lungs. When he remained seated on top of Zanka, he wound his fist back and rammed it into the same spot, finally toppling Jabber but ripping the claws out of his skin in the process. Their simultaneous groans echoed around them.
Zanka tried to sit up, but his arms were leaden. His heart had switched gears and was now beating slowly, reverberating in his ears with each pulse, lungs rattling with each breath out. Shit. Even if Jabber didn’t finish him off, he wasn’t gonna last long like this. God he felt so stupid. Stupid for not paying more attention in the bar, stupid for taking things from a stranger, stupid for following a stranger to an abandoned building, stupid for not telling Riyo where he was going. For not saying goodbye. For being mediocre. For ruining their mission.
Through his blurry vision, he could see Jabber leering over him. He was saying something, but Zanka’s hearing was starting to go, only catching bits and pieces that made no sense, damn, sadist, ribs, hurts. Whatever. He was tired. Jabber could keep on yammering, he wanted to sleep.
A gunshot rang out, making Zanka flinch involuntarily. That was it—Jabber had finished him off. But the pain never came. Another shot, then another. And still the only pain Zanka felt was the scratches in his shoulder and leg. He cracked his eyes open, a concerned face hovering over him. Red hair. Riyo. Her relieved exhale washed over his face and his lids fluttered shut again. A tap against his face, light, then another, harder.
“Zanka, hey, stay with me, you asshole. Gotta stay awake. I’m getting you outta here.” He tried to respond but was lurched up before he could, slung up and over Riyo’s shoulder. His head bobbed as she took him away. He could distantly make out Jabber on the ground, clutching at his leg. Laughter vibrated through the air, following him as they disappeared up the stairs. Ha. Hahahaha. He wasn’t sure what was funny, but the laughter stuck in his head.
The cool air outside felt nice on his skin. He’d been hot, still was hot, really. His throat ached. The screech of car tires did not feel nice on his ears. Neither did the slamming car door.
“Holy shit, kiddo, what happened?” That was Enjin’s voice. Enjin’s voice was nice on his ears. When did Enjin get here? He was jostled again, then sat down against cool leather. Another smack against his cheek peeled his eyes open. Riyo was staring at Enjin who was staring at him. Zanka tried to give a thumbs up.
“I’ll explain on the way. I think he’s been drugged.” Riyo snapped her fingers in his face. “Zanka, hey, do you know what that purple freak gave you?”
“Veronal, opium, uhm,” he cleared his throat to little success, still feeling inflamed and irritated. “Taximine? Mercury somethin’. An other stuff I dunno.”
“Fuck, okay, we gotta get him to Alice and Eisha. Get in, Riyo.”
The door shut and the car started, the seat rumbling beneath him. The window glass felt nice pressed against his cheek. He could take a little nap here, just like they always did when Enjin drove them around. A nap sounded nice. That strange laughter still echoed in his head. Ha.