Chapter Text
The open window lets in an uncomfortably warm breeze. Zanka sits, half limp in his chair, trying to focus on the light buzz failing to envelope him. He groans, the empty bottle clattering on the floor as it falls from his loose grip. Another failure. Zanka scribbles what the pills were in the notebook he kept hidden in his desk, pauses, then picks up the bottle again to check the amount. 10 mg tablets, 30 per bottle. It's not enough. He curses his family for building up his endurance to, apparently, every damn drug on the Ground. He took a dosage that would probably kill a grown man, and it's hardly even doing it's medical function: relaxing, relieving pain. He's had a headache for weeks that's shown no sign of easing up.
Zanka glances outside the window. Even on the third floor, he can hear the amusement and chatter flowing from the common rooms' open windows. For many of the Cleaners, the night had just begun, with over half of them having the weekends off. Being a Giver, scarce even among HQ, Zanka may be "off duty," but he can be called in at any time if something urgent comes up. Recently, though, Enjin takes on jobs Zanka would typically be needed for. Something about "recovery" and "healing and resting aren't the same thing." Still, he has no doubt Enjin is down there partying away despite his early mornings. Stupid. That man doesn't rest either. Bitter, but Zanka would never tell him that.
The breeze picks up outside. Zanka sighs and grabs Lovely Assistaff to strap to his back, getting ready to head out. The night has just begun, after all.
The city is as bright and noisy as always. Zanka used to avoid it, but he's grown to find comfort in the casual bumps and jokes of nightlife that extends from bars onto the streets. A large, well-known club is blasting music that it's thick walls hardly muffle. Zanka considers sneaking in as he's done a few times before just to get some random pills to take home, classify, and try back in his room, but he stopped by HQ's rec rooms on his way out to steal a few shots of whatever alcohol was poured. He doesn't get drunk, but he can at least verge on "tipsy." He passes by the club and heads for the night market.
Despite it's name, the market shines from a mile away. It takes up a whole street, vendors lined along the edges of closed shops and open bars. There's never not a crowd for Zanka to slip into and end up spending half of his last paycheck on something tempting in one of the back alleys, hidden beneath a fabric mask and a hood. Still, he doesn't mind the loud environment, something that Kamuatari lacked. It was a reminder that he was far away from all of that. His own, small little rebellion, despite being disowned.
What brought him to the market in the first place, though, was his shaky hands and short temper driving him half-insane after the giant hole in his stomach finally healed. One of Enjin's cigarettes twists between his fingers in his pocket. He feels a little guilty about it.
After a bit of wandering, Zanka ends up buying a bracelet with a Too Lily charm for Riyo, a black and red lighter for Enjin who manages to go through at least one a month, and a small pack of candies he briefly recognizes from his hometown for Rudo to probably devour without even tasting. And, for himself, a psychedelic powder he'll run a quick test and probably end up disappointed with. His fingers twitch, shoving the tiny bag into his pocket. The typical emotions race in his mind, flare in his pulse; guilt, irritation, self-hatred, misery, whatever else he buries down.
He just wants to stop thinking. To be lost somewhere in his mind, laugh maniacally until his ribs feel bruised, then throw it all up for a total reset. Claws laced with poison flash through his head as they have hundreds of times before.
Zanka sighs, escaping the crowd of the market and scouting out a building. He might as well make use of that smoke. Enjin would rather he do that than throw it away.
On top of the tallest building he could find, Zanka takes the lighter he bought, brings the flame to the cigarette, and inhales. Finally, he doesn't cough. The smoke settles and wraps around his tongue until his exhale pushes it out where it floats to the sky, snitching on his location. Thankfully, there's no one on this side of the city that cares. Another drag. The placebo effect is enough to help him relax, just a bit. He leans on the railing and taps the ash off.
Everything is so much smaller from up here. Zanka wonders why he hasn't come here sooner to get away from it all, and understands why he's found Enjin smoking on top of HQ so many times. The world seems trivial. The stress of training Rudo while making sure not to fall behind himself and entertaining Riyo's random escapades finally feel less prominent in his mind, drowned out by the warm breeze.
Within an instant, his peace is shattered. Footsteps, the sound of someone landing behind him snaps him right out of it. Lovely is in his hands less than a moment later, anima flaring. "Hey, Mr. Bad Attitude!"
Jabber. His eyes rush to land on Mankira, inactivated but glimmering with some faint light of a nearby apartment building. That sick, wide grin, locs falling to the side as he tilts his head to stare directly at Zanka. Zanka, however, can't stop imagining those claws. The burning feeling in his shin, the still sensitive scar on torso, the way it hurt. The poison. Jabber fucking Wonger. Lovely Assistaff comes to life in his hands, and she somehow seems just as eager.
Not that Zanka's eager. Not that he's been itching for a fight where he can break some bones and nearly throw up from the adrenaline and finally stop thinking about anything else. Not that he's needed this.
Jabber's smile widens, canines glimmering under the light of his eyes as anima erupts from his rings. "Ooh, you're already down to fight? A man after my own heart, Zanka!"
Zanka's at his throat in a split second. The winged blade on Lovely's edge manages to nick him, but Jabber jumps back and lands on his hands and feet, claws cracking the cement of the rooftop. There's a bright look in his eyes that Zanka doesn't want to say he misses, but he can't think of any other word. With his next swing, Jabber laughs and swipes back, but Zanka blocks with Lovely's long handle.
He's glad Jabber isn't tired of him after last time. He cuts through that sick thought after pushing Jabber back and freeing his weapon.
The movements just happen. It's instinct, a dance he finally knows as he predicts Jabber's sporadic maneuvers, evades and counter-attacks like he's done it a thousand times before. He recognizes a slight miscalculation, adjusts, and manages another hit. Jabber hisses in pain through bared teeth that instantly curl up. "Woah, you're pissed today!"
Zanka rolls his eyes and catches those claws, but he stares a moment too long, wondering what poisons they're laced with now, and Jabber breaks free. He loses his balance but barely manages to avoid getting his and slips away, making some distance and catching his breath. Jabber whistles. "Something on your mind?"
"No," Zanka spits back, gripping Lovely a little tighter when Jabber rushes forward again. His stance is always ridiculously open, but it's too risky to take the chance when a single scratch can put you out of commission. Depending on the poisons, of course, since the first ones he was nicked with were easier for his trained body to overcome, but if it's anything like the last one -
Stop. Stop thinking of that. Zanka bites the inside of his cheek and manages to knock under Jabber's chin with a blunt, metal edge of Lovely's curve and slip beneath the retaliating claws. Behind him, he kicks at the back of his knees, then slices, his focus strengthened as he twists them around and pins Jabber at the chest where spikes can emerge. Jabber doesn't know that, but his pupils are blown out wide with adrenaline as his chest rises and falls against Zanka's weapon.
When Jabber's hand moves again, it's uncharacteristically slow. Zanka can see it coming from a mile away, dodge it with a brief lean that he starts, but pauses. That need overwhelms him. He knows it might take him out. Jabber doesn't seem to like killing enemies, since he's all for the thrill, but you never know - Zanka doesn't like to be completely vulnerable around allies, much less enemies. But he still doesn't quite move away, doesn't complete the dodge.
He calculates it in those few seconds. Human anatomy has been drilled into his head since he was six; the claws will slice through his triceps, primarily the lateral head, graze the bone above his elbow. An easy recovery in just the injury, even without Eishia's ability. He's ambidextrous, so it hardly matters what arm it is.
He can take it.
Zanka leans back into where it will hit. Watches it slice through the fabric of his hoodie that August made specially for him, feels it pierce through the skin and muscle. He gasps in pain. Something numbing spreads throughout his body, followed by a sharp, shooting pain that seizes him, branches out through his nerves. He feels his mind start to cloud, like all the blood has left his head, before the pain drags him back down and he winces, pushing away from Jabber moving beneath him. His grip on Lovely falters, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side.
A voice floats by his ears. "Did you...?"
But Zanka is laughing. He's not sure why, or when he started, but he can't stop. Even when it starts to die out, holding his ribs that suddenly feel bruised, a few random, breathy chuckles escape his throat, and it starts again.
A surge of adrenaline hits him again. Zanka remembers that he's fighting and nothing else. Somehow, despite how little balance he feels he has, he rushes forward to the blurry figure and snatches Lovely off the floor as she returns to life and swings. He laughs when he misses, brings her back down and cracks the cement open loud enough to alert anyone within the building below. He doesn't care, doesn't notice that Jabber is only dodging. He can't make out Jabber's expression anymore. He bites his lip to try and focus, but when he can't feel it, it makes him start to laugh harder.
The rush he needed. It feels better than he imagined.
Zanka smacks Jabber across the face, but a pair of claws push and hold Lovely away yet in place. He can feel eyes narrowing in on him, a gleaming magenta, as he tries to struggle her out of the grip. His body is trembling. The way his legs feel like they might give out, yet he's still standing, pushing against it - another wave of thrill washes over him and he escapes and hurls himself forward. Their bodies crash together. One, or both of them, yelps, and Zanka presses the interior curve of Lovely to Jabber's throat this time.
He can feel his own breath, heavy both in his lungs and on his lips. He can feel Jabber's, too, beneath him, rising and falling as he's settled on his chest. His vision unblurs as his laughter finally fades. But Jabber's expression isn't what he expected. It's not anything he can quite describe, something swirling in his eyes between furrowed brows and parted lips. The last thing he feels is his own pulse, a realization at how fast it's racing, before he falls forward.
Zanka remembers laying on something soft. A springy mattress. He remembers laughing until he couldn't breathe, heaving and pulled away, off of his side as he throws up. A hand on his head, pushing his hair away. Maybe Enjin's, with how rough the pads of the fingers are, or maybe Riyo's, with how they thread through his hair and comb through the longer bits. He's not sure. He doesn't really care.
He got the rush he needed. He's satisfied with the muddled hours that pass him by and circle back.
Slow, lazy blinks are the first movements Zanka has full control over. His eyes are irritated in a way that makes it feel like his eyelashes are too heavy for his eyelids to hold up. He wants to rip them out. The feeling of his breath on his lips is grounding enough to not do so. Memories flash in his mind of failed drugs and burning shots of liquor and wasting his money on a powder that probably won't do anything and smoking one of Enjin's cigarettes and -
His heart nearly erupts in his chest as he darts up. He's awake now.
There's no one there. Zanka scans the dark room over and over to make sure of it before he can just barely settle. His hand itches, and he first searches for Lovely Assistaff, relaxing when he sees her resting against the wall just a few feet away from him, his hoodie hung up beside her. She seems at ease. His eyes wander again.
The room is a mess. It's nowhere he recognizes, but he can still hear the chatter of a familiar city outside. The sky is still dark, from what he can see, so he hopefully has only been out for a few hours. The mattress he's on, a full or queen size, is firm and old but not too uncomfortable, sheetless but covered in various unmade blankets. Zanka's only under a single thin one which, he just realized, is perfect, because he feels like he's been sweating every ounce of water from his body. He's parched.
He ignores it, only uncomfortably holds at his throat with a single hand. His left. His arm aches, and he winces, but it's tightly wrapped. Someone bandaged it. Someone...
Zanka scans the room again. No one is there. There's a door slightly ajar to what Zanka assumes is a bathroom, then another in the far corner that's completely closed. On a desk across the room, there's hundreds of bottles of various chemicals, a few familiar pill bottles tucked neatly away in a shelf while empty ones scatter across the ground. An old lab coat hangs over the edge of a chair. There's various equipment that he can't quite name on the desk, glassware, syringes, a microscope.
This is Jabber's room, isn't it?
Zanka's free hand grips the blanket on his lap. How is a Raider living in the same city as the Cleaner HQ, is what he wants to think, but all he can wonder is where is he, did he bandage my wound, did he take care of me.
A door opens, and Zanka snaps from his daze violently, his stomach turning. He wants to get up, but his legs suddenly feel numb, and all he can do is meet the figure's eyes. "Oh. You're awake."
Well. That's a tone he's never heard. He can't find the words to reply. His mind is still jumbled, but he no longer appreciates it.
"Good morning to you, too." Jabber sounds disinterested, or maybe just tired. Zanka is curious, or maybe just unsettled. He watches as the Raider heads to the desk, sorts through some of the bottles, then squats down to reach underneath it. A mini fridge, Zanka thinks, and Jabber stands up with a bottle of water. Two objects suddenly fly his way and despite his current state, he manages to catch them. Water and some sort of supplement. Zanka glances up in confusion. "You puked your guts out. It'll help." Jabber isn't facing him, still rummaging through a desk drawer.
Zanka opens his lips to thank him, but he refuses to let it come out in anything more than a heavy breath. His fingers tremble as he opens the bottle to tap out two capsules, takes them, then downs the entire water bottle. "...Where'd ya take me?"
Jabber glances over his shoulder. "My place," he answers dryly, "well, an apartment I come to sometimes, when I'm in town." He counts some pills, then takes a single orange one and tosses the rest back inside and closes the drawer. While he swallows it dry, Zanka reads the masking tape on it, miscellaneous. Jabber sits the chair backwards, tall enough to rest his arms and chin on the back as he grins, a more familiar expression that strangely eases Zanka's nerves, just a bit. "Imagine my surprise when my favorite Cleaner was smoking at the top of the building!"
Zanka's jaw falls open in surprise, his leg twitches. "I was on top of your place?"
"Yep." Jabber tilts his head, resting on his own forearms. "Great smoke spot, huh?"
"...Right." Zanka watches his own hand, stretching his fingers out in his lap to make sure his body feels normal after mindlessly taking whatever Jabber had thrown his way. "Um... how long was I..."
"Three hours." Jabber is staring towards the wall, and Zanka expects there to be a clock, but there's only a ripped poster of a concert that happened two years ago. Zanka opens his mouth again, but Jabber cuts him off, "my turn for questions." Another small smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "You let me hit you."
Zanka clenches his jaw, looks out the window. "That's not a question."
Jabber frowns, unamused. "Why'd you let me hit you? I saw you dodge, then lean right back into it. Not because you were going easy on me," he leans forward. "You wanted the poison."
In his chest, his heart is racing, but not for the reasons he thinks it should be. Recalling the poison, how it burned, how even now he felt like his spine had been wrung out and eased of all tension and then neatly placed back into his body, his mind finally at ease. "...Sounds like ya already know why."
Jabber hums, eyes wandering like he's thinking, then reaches back to something on his desk behind him to hold it out towards Zanka. The bag of powder. Zanka's breath hitches, and he leans forward like he's going to snatch it back, but it's far out of his reach. Jabber doesn't react. "It's PCP, laced with oxycodone. Would probably kill the average person unless they know the proper dose, but then again, so should half of the stuff I've got you with."
Zanka stares. "...So?"
"Why do you have such a high immunity to poisons?" Jabber grins, tossing the small bag back onto the desk behind him without taking his eyes off of Zanka. "I don't see why Cleaners would need resistance training when you're fighting trash beasts. That, and if you're getting that stuff, you've probably tried the other, simpler shit, and were unsatisfied. Why is that?"
Damn geniuses. Zanka tries to huff in annoyance, but his breath is all too shaky. "...Trained as a kid," he answers. "My family... built up my immunity so that drugs'd be less of a threat."
Jabber actually looks a little surprised. "The hell is up with your family? Are you famous and I don't know it?" He's joking, but it falls flat with his dull tone.
He probably shouldn't confess this, Zanka knows, but he can't shake the obligation to entertain Jabber's whatever for a little bit since he can't get his legs to move properly, and he's pretty sure he'll completely lose a fight right now. "...Hell Guard training. I'm a... was a Nijiku."
Jabber's eyes widen. His expression shifts to something disturbingly unreadable, staring right into his soul. Zanka's eyes dart to Mankira for some reason, and she glimmers lightly in the small, overhead light above the desk. "...Hm." Jabber turns away.
Zanka swallows roughly. His legs, which have felt like they were asleep, finally start to move when he wants, and he crosses his legs to sit up. "My turn for a question," he re-initiates the conversation, "why're you so..."
Jabber spins the chair around now that he's sitting in it normally. "Calm?" He offers, another superficial smile on his lips, and Zanka very faintly nods. "I'm bored. Did you seriously think I'm like that all the time?" For some reason, Zanka feels a little guilty and avoids any sort of reply, looking at the wall. "Also, I took half a bottle of Xanax."
Oh. Okay. Zanka purses his lips and briefly considers trying that himself. He's never taken more than 30 milligrams at a time.
"Another question," Jabber raises his hand like a school kid, "you didn't really answer me earlier. Why did you let me hit you?"
Zanka itches at his hands. "...You already answered it yourself."
"Not really. Why'd you want the poison?" Jabber's wearing another sick grin, but it's starting to look more genuine. "Last time, you almost died, y'know. If your redhead friend didn't come shoot me," oh, so Zanka didn't imagine that, "I would've tossed you right into the trash beast's stomach. That'd deter most people." Jabber tilts his head, somehow locks Zanka into his gaze as he's weakened by a reminder of his shortcomings. "But not you."
Zanka tears himself away, throws his legs off the edge of the bed to feel the floor. He swallows roughly and hunches over himself, hands interlocking and elbows resting on his knees. It's hard to say out loud when he hasn't quite accepted it himself. "...I wanted to stop thinking. Just wanted to... feel... something else." It's as honest as he can manage, staring at the floor to avoid the eyes burning into his neck.
Finally, Jabber lets out a breath loud enough to disturb the silence before it settled, and turns away in his chair. "Y'know, this powder will probably disappoint you, if you're looking for the rush my claws give you."
Reality hits him, then. He's addicted to Jabber's poisons. He's so fucked.
"Buut, I can probably add a little extra to it, make it more fun. More importantly," Jabber holds up the bag in the light, shakes it, "make it so you can actually feel something, even if you take it in smaller doses. Make it last longer."
It's tempting. Zanka doesn't let himself linger on the thought. "...What's the catch?"
Jabber grins over his shoulder. "You gotta fight for it. You know I love a good fight, Zanka..."
Zanka feels his stomach turn, his lips purse. His mind is racing with a single idea that he doesn't want to say out loud, but his lips part anyway. "...If I have to fight you anyway," his voice trembles, and he hates it, "I'd rather just take whatever's in your claws."
The silence that follows reminds him how stale the air feels. He wants to open the window, but his feet are planted to the floor. He can't get up, can't reach for Lovely to calm himself down, can't wrap himself in the familiar hoodie. He waits for Jabber to speak.
He doesn't. Instead, he laughs, loud and sudden and frenzied like he does during their battles. He falls back in his chair, an arm around his stomach. "Zanka, my friend!" he giggles, eyes bright and eager like Zanka's used to, "are you flirting with me? Because it's working! You seriously want to take whatever I have? That's insane, man!"
Zanka stares blankly, briefly reminded of the Jabber that placed his hand into bubbling bile inside the trash beast. "I can take it," he weakly protests, looking to the floor.
"I believe that," Jabber agrees, and Zanka flinches, not expecting a reply, or to be heard at all. A few dying chuckles delay him, but Jabber continues, "why don't we make a deal, then? Come find me, put up a good fight, and I'll give you something to get high out of your mind with." He smiles, then flicks the bag of powder. "I'll throw this in for free next time."
Making a deal with a Raider; meeting up with a Raider on his own terms is probably enough ground to get him kicked out of the Cleaners, labeled a traitor, and executed by Hell Guard within a week. For some reason, Zanka considers it anyway. Turns it over in his mind and, despite how much his body is killing him, brings himself to nod. "...Fuck. Okay. Fuck it. Yeah."
Jabber cheers from his seat and spins in the chair. When he stops, he inspects the powder again. "I've got an idea for something good for this," he says. "Think I'll be able to get it in... three days. Take an extra day to put it all together, and I'll be ready to go."
Slowly, Zanka lifts himself to his feet. He feels light, strangely, though his guilt towards what he'd just done should be weighing him down. He reaches for his hoodie hanging on the wall and puts it on, not before noticing it'd been loosely stitched up where his arm ached. All of the gifts are still in his pockets. "I'm heading home."
Jabber faintly acknowledges as he rummages in his drawers again. Zanka takes Lovely, runs a hand over her wooden surface. She feels the same as always, but he feels like she might be judging him. Zanka opens the window, settles his foot on the frame, and pauses. "...Thanks for patching me up."
He doesn't wait for a reply before he launches himself out, landing skillfully in the alley below. He pulls his hood over his head and stumbles back towards Cleaner HQ, where he avoids all people, all doors, and sneaks in through his window. He collapses on his bed with Lovely in his arms.
...
What the fuck was he doing?