Chapter Text
Zanka wishes he just died in that damn trash beast. He lays in an infirmary bed, his hand mindlessly resting on his abdomen, right above the wound Jabber left him. A sick parting gift, he guesses.
The toxins still flow through his veins, little as they may be. He feels like death. The hallucinogenic venom still blurs the edges of his vision, lights and colors buzzing across his room. Lamp shades float, colors warp and he swears he can hear things. After the four days he’s been bedridden, Eisha refuses to discharge him. She told him that the injections Jabber left him weren’t completely out of his system, and to rest and take it easy till then. Just give it a couple of days, she consoled him.
He sighs. There really isn’t much he can do until the toxins wear off. He could sleep, but he fears the restless dreams, filled with memories and visions that feel just too real. He could go for a walk, stretch his legs, but his joints feel too swollen and sore. Maybe go find something to eat or drink, yet just the idea of eating anything right now with the wound in his abdomen makes him nauseous.
The wound burns, and he grunts in pain as he shifts his laying position. Damn maniac. He curses under his breath. Eisha might have healed it, but Zanka still feels the pain. He still feels the humiliation.
His face burns with embarrassment he hasn't felt in years. Not since Hyo. He still feels light headed, still woozy and emotional from the toxins.
“When I see you again…” He mutters to himself, his words failing. When I see you again. I won’t let you hurt me this bad again.
He knows he’s being emotional. That his feelings are being fiddled with by the fluids in his veins, yet that only fuels him more. The fact Jabber can so easily tick him off, that Jabber can topple over his carefully built ego. He should have just died there in the trash beast.
“I hate this.” He says aloud this time, glaring straight towards the ceiling, hands gripping onto the sheets beneath him. He knows it’s exhaustion talking, but he continues. “I hate you. I hate you’re everything I need to be. I hate how you just walk off from almost killing me. I hate how much this hurts. I hate how I barely hurt you. I hate how I wasn’t strong enough.” He takes a breath, preparing the venom in his words.
“I wish you just killed me.” He spits out.
“Damn, Mr. Bad Attitude ain’t looking too good!”
Zanka’s head spins around, his sight blurring from the sudden movement, just to see Jabber fucking Wonger staring down at him from the windowsill.
“You talking ‘bout me? Couldn’t hear exactly what you were saying, but from the look on your face, must've been good things.” Jabber purrs, jumping down from the window to lounge on Zanka’s bed. The cold air seeps into the room, biting his fingers and burning his lungs. The mattress bends beneath Jabber’s weight, pulling Zanka towards him. Jabber looks at him so casually, like they were friends. Zanka’s heart races, there’s no way he isn’t hallucinating.
Zanka’s eyes dart to Lovely Assistaff leaning against the wall beside him, he needs to defend himself. Jabber’s here to finish him, of course he is. But the second Zanka starts to reach for his vital instrument, Jabber bursts into giggles. He waves his clawless hand, grinning ear to ear. “Woah woah!! I ain’t gonna hurt cha! No fun in kicking someone while they’re down.”
Zanka glares at him, paused. “Then what do you want?” Assistaff is still painfully NOT in his hands.
Jabber keeps smiling, “Can’t see what you've been up to? Let a man be a little curious!” He leans closer, the bed dipping more his weight beside Zanka.
There’s no way this is fucking happening.
“You almost killed me not even two days ago! You got a habit of visiting your victims you fucking freak??” Zanka growls, face burning with humiliation.
Jabber leans back against the wall, crossing his legs over Zanka’s wounded torso, gaining a yelp of pain from him. “Nope. Just you. You really surprised me man, just wanted to check up on you after our little fight.” Jabber responds, like it's obvious. “Not everyday you find someone who’s the perfect opponent.”
Zanka frowns. “Well I’m fine. So you can go, I don’t need you here to keep watch over me. I’m not dying anytime soon.”
“You better not. Not when I still want to fight you again.” Jabber muses.
Jabber then laughs again, and swings his feet from on top of Zanka, swiveling to lay down right beside him. Zanka freezes, silent, facing towards the ceiling, too afraid to look at Jabber. He waits for another witty quip or snide comment from the man now laying beside him, but he doesn’t hear anything other than the steady breathing coming from Jabber. Too afraid to break the silence, he lays there, frozen.
Suddenly, he hears Jabber softly speak. “The poisons are probably gonna kill ya, you know. After I stabbed ya with the goopy goop stuff, I did a little testing with it once I got back to my place. Found out a couple things, mostly that it’s a nasty acid. An acid that’s gonna eat away the tissue in your veins till it reaches your heart.” He turns to Zanka, no more playfulness in his eyes. “And kills ya.”
Zanka doesn’t say anything. He stares at him, looking for any sign of sarcasm or lies. But he only finds the darkness of truth seeping from Jabber’s irises.
Oh.
Of course he’s going to die.
Jabber keeps talking, voice uncharacteristically mellow. “Not that I care too much about people dyin’ from my claws, just annoyed it’s going to be you. Right after I almost got you to show your true colors.” Jabber sighs, “Oh well.”
Zanka can’t breathe. The toxins aren’t still in his veins, the tissue is just dying.
He’s dying.
“Eariler, I heard you say that you wished I killed you, so I guess you’re getting your wish come true. Too bad.” Zanka can hear the smile in Jabber’s voice, but it feels too plastic to be genuine.
Zanka’s limps feel like dead weights. His head feels too big for his skull, and his eyes feel like they’re sinking into their sockets. After everything, after all his training and all his growth, of course he’s going to die alone in his bed. Slowly, and painfully. He would cry if it weren’t for the irony of it. A man who lives for combat, passing away in his, laying next to his enemy? Hilarious.
Jabber props himself up on his elbow, looking over Zanka. His dreads fall over his face, framing his cheekbones and dark magenta eyes. “Don’t go all silent on me now man.” Jabber laughs awkwardly, but there’s an air of pleading behind his words. “I didn’t want you to die this way, it just, sorta, happened, ya know?”
Zanka feels dead already. He’s already dead, and this is hell.
Jabber groans, flopping back down onto the bed, closer than before. “Zan-zan, you really did a number on my moral compass. You know that, right? I’m not really used to this whole… uh… guilt thing.” He spits the words out like they burn. “I’ve never wanted to stop someone from dying before. Never wanted to save them, never wanted to reverse what my toxins have done. But I think that’s what I want to do.”
Jabber leans closer, his face resting on Zanka’s chest, arms draped over his torso. Zanka can’t even feel the pain that blossoms there, not when the buzzing in his ears is too much to bear.
“Zanka, I want to fix this, and I want you to help me. Then, I want to fight you. I want to fight and fight and fight and tear ourselves to shreds.”
Zanka stays silent, this all too much. Just before he fades into the darkness of sleep, he feels a tap on his choker, and a prick on his thumb.
“Let me help you.”
The first thing Zanka feels when he wakes up is the pounding of his head, and the mumbling of Eisha beside him. His bed feels eerily cold.
Jabber left.
“...anka? Zanka?”
He forces his eyes open, the brightness of the room hurting his already aching head.
“Zanka? Can you please drink this?” Eisha asks, bringing a small cup of water into view. She brings it up to his mouth, helping his drink in small gulps. It burns down his throat, and settles heavily in his stomach.
Once empty, she sets the cup down on the table beside his bed. Eisha’s eyebrows are furrowed in worry, yet they always are. Zanka opens his mouth to console her, yet all he manages is a weak cough. He doesn’t need her to tell him his condition is worsening.
“I wish I could do more Zanka. But my vital instrument can’t rid your body of the poisons, so all we’re forced to do is wait.” She looks away, her voice breaks.
Zanka nods. He remembers Jabber’s words. He isn’t going to have to wait long, not if his condition keeps declining so fast. The poisons, no, acids are going to kill him.
After rustling around in a dresser beside them, Eisha retrieves some painkillers, and helps Zanka swallow them with water. Once laying his head back down, he notices the door across the room open.
“Eisha? Is he awake?”
Zanka recognizes Enjin’s voice.
“Yes! You can come see him.” She responds.
Zanka hears Enjin set something down beside his bed, possibly a bag?. The bed beside Zanka creaks under Enjin’s weight as he rests his head in his hands.
“Zanka.” Enjin sighs his name. Zanka’s soul shatters a little at how annoyed he sounds. “How are you feelin’ man?”
Zanka forces the word out of his mouth, scraping up his throat, “Better.” He lies.
Enjin doesn’t buy it, but he doesn’t pry. He grabs the bag and once it’s in view, Zanka can see its a gift bag. He pulls a bouquet of flowers out of it, all different shades of yellow. “Rudo insisted I give this to you, as a get well gift. Some weird Sphere culture thing.” He chuckles softly as sets the bouquet on the nightstand.
Zanka stares at it, comforted. He hates being pitied, he hates people worrying about him, yet he likes to know Rudo’s thinking about him.
“Thank you.” He rasps.
Enjin nods, before standing up. “Get better soon, kid.” He says, walking out the door.
Zanka turns his head back to Eisha, fidgeting with her gloves anxiously. She glances up and notices him staring, her brow still furrowed in concern. “I-I’m going to leave, okay? Please try and get some rest, and ring me if you need anything.” She smiles, motioning to her choker, before turning to leave as well.
Zanka’s alone again. He thinks about how he's going to die like this, laying alone in his bed. Everyone outside hopes and expects him better in just a couple days.
He shudders at how wrong they are.
He imagines Rudo, how he’s going to need a new mentor. He wonders if Riyo would take up the responsibility, she’d take him training every morning, then they’d have dinners and parties every weekend. They’d celebrate every little victory together. Zanka would always stand alone during those celebrations, and only a few would notice him. But eventually, Riyo would notice. She’d drag him back into the center of the room, hand him drinks and food and they’d laugh together. But, she wouldn’t have to do that anymore.
He imagines Enjin. He’d be disappointed, and probably blame himself. He believes all of team Akuta his responsibility, even though Zanka’s loss to Jabber was no one's fault but himself. Enjin’s always been like that, always taking the leader role. It’s fitting. He’s always the first to spot danger, yet always the first to walk into it. He’d laugh off his wounds, and throw around sarcasm like it was an extension of himself. But that would die with Zanka, wouldn’t it?
This wouldn’t hurt so much if they didn’t care about him. If he knew that they would just move on with their lives, if they could just forget about him. But they wouldn’t. They’d remember, and mourn for months.
Zanka grips the sheets.
He won’t die. He won’t be more of a burden to the Cleaner’s lives.
Even if it means working with a raider.
Zanka forces himself up, and almost cries out at the stretch and ache of his limbs. He stands on wobbly legs, his body heavy yet filled with air. With each step, his resolve hardens.
Soon, he stumbles into the infirmary's bathroom, and lifts a heavy arm to click the light on. He looks terrible. The mirror shows a man with unwashed, shaggy hair, eye bags, and chapped lips.
He looks like death.
Shutting the door behind him, sure no one will hear him, he lifts his hand to his choker, placing his fingers on the red. It’s all about intent to direct your call, and the only thing on his mind is the want to live.
There’s static, then a voice that makes Zanka’s already terrible headache worse.
“Zan-zan!” Jabber exclaims through the speaker.
“What do you want? Anything just to keep me from dying, please.” Zanka starts, desperate, voice breaking.
Jabber laughs, and he swears he can hear the grin. “Ooh- someone’s eager! Don’t worry your little head off, I’ll find you tonight and we can talk.”
Zanka sucks in a breath, “Okay.” and the line goes dead. He slumps against the sink, exhausted. He doesn’t know what to expect from Jabber, and frankly, doesn't care. So long as he survives this.
So long as he lives.