Chapter Text
Old dust had stilled beneath Enjin's heels fifteen minutes ago. The training hall lay in silence, after-hours, having seen the share of sweat for the day. With no light but the dying sun shining in through gaps between its vaulted ceiling, half the place was veiled with shadow, no sound echoing in the large space of sand and flagstone. From between the pillars, a breeze ruffled his hair, coming through the arches, always exposed to the elements to one side, always freezing in winter. Second cigarette dangling from his lip, he finally turned to look around the space, finding the hall empty, save for the shelves by the door holding training armour and blunt weaponry. No human, no steps on the carved stone nor the rattling breath announcing Zanka's presence.
Being late was odd, being late after promising to disclose his new fighting style mere hours ago, at the time he had set himself... that was disrespectful. The butt of his cigarette dropped to the ground, embers crushed into the sand underneath heavy soles. That'd give an earful later, once Semyu would inevitably notice, but damn was he starting to be irritated after twenty minutes of being left standing around like an idiot.
A rustle in the breeze, for a short moment, but the brief anomaly in sound was sufficient for Enjin to whip his head around, fixating on a pillar ten yards to his left. Maybe that were his five hours of sleep talking, he could have sworn that for the blink of an eye light had reflected from the pillar. He narrowed his glowing eyes when nothing was to be seen, except grey stone sprayed with a few tags. Boring. Nothing out of the ordinary. He'd seen them a thousand times, and yet, tattooed fingers tightened around his umbrella.
Not quick enough, as Enjin soon noticed. One split second the hairs in the back of his neck raised, he spotted a whisk of black, followed by the impact of force to his chest. Not fast enough, his own voice yelled at him when he dodged, and then the crush of sand and a disgusting thud echoed through his skull when his back crashed into the ground. Vision whited, limbs went slack, and the blonde found his mouth agape once light returned to his eyes. What. The. Heck.
"Fuck!", he spat, unable to move where he was held down. His throat ached, obstructed by Zanka's left forearm that hindered him from pushing his frame up. Within seconds his chest began to hurt, tight from the weight atop his ribs. Hell, he was even held down by his waist, caught against the floor in assistaff's mancatcher end. Apparently, Zanka was not all hellbent on holding him down, allowing Enjin to raise his palms up to his face in surrender. "Now, where the heck have you been?"
His confusion seemed to have worn off, judging by the languid pace in which Enjin uttered his words, unhurried at best and irritating at worst, voice croaky from years of smoke. "And why do you look like a backstabbing lil' gutter rat?"
He lifted one hand, tugged the black hood down from Zanka's head and revealed brown and greyish-blonde hair. At least, his hood was still held together by their sigil just above the dip between Zanka's collarbones, forged as a clasp and tinkered from dulled metal. Enjin rubbed the dark cloth between index and thumb, brows shooting up into his hairline at the feel. Durable, and oh-so-simple. Dare he say scratchy?
"You've been pulling a nobleman-going-on-Cinderella, or what's with the rags... didn't even recognise ya. Well, safe for yer stick."
He wiggled his brows victoriously, and indeed, Enjin's observations proved correct: Zanka had traded his uniform for clothes befitting a assassin rather than an honourable warrior. His face was covered by a tight scarf, dark grey and reaching up to his eyes, which had been shadowed by his hood just moments ago. His fine gowns had made way for a tunic that reached to his thighs, held together by two belts around the hips and waist, one more narrow, clasped around a broader sash. Tight black sleeves covered skin down to his hands, leaving only his fingers exposed now, any silver lacking these days. His long pants ended in dark boots, bandaged with grey stripes like the rags around his wrists, the fabric barely rustling even while he moved to retrieve his arm from Enjin's throat. Air flowed in, a mercy after being held down.
Fabric over his nose and mouth served to swallow the deep rattle Zanka's lungs emitted with every breath, Enjin noticed, when from up close he could still heard the faint sound.
"Wouldn't have wanted to spoil the surprise - 's why I don't wear this around here. Normally." Upon yanking his scarf down from his face, Zanka's voice came out clearly instead of muffled, crooked around the high vowels and raspy around the rest.
"You ambush your superiors, now?" Finally, Enjin felt his ribs freed as well, enabling him to sit up and rub the part of his back where his spine had connected especially violently into the floor. "Didn't think you'd be dishonorable enough for that, not gonna lie."
Zanka crouched next to him, his face twisted into an expression of guilt when he noticed how Enjin winced while he rubbed his back. "Dishonorable or not, that's the sole way to keep up, for now. Bet your head I'm gonna use it." The edge of his staff dug into the sand, loosening the restraints around Enjin's hips, and only a second later Zanka stood up, right hand around Lovely Assistaff, posture regal despite the unsavoury looks. Truth be told, he had expected a less mature reaction than the low chuckle from Enjin, who brought his umbrella's side down against Zanka's shoulder in retaliation for being tackled into the dirt.
"Pretty solid, seeing ya bridge the distance all of a sudden. You gonna be on outposts again? We've been missing you." He patted himself down, grains falling around him in a sandy rain. " 's long as ya feel ready, of course. Lungs 'n' all."
The distance, that meant Zanka and training. Three years had passed since the accident, and it had taken a year until the man had been able to even try to run again or continue his exercises. Alone. Slowed down. Sprints were out of the question, unless he wanted to trigger a stream of blood down his chin, further the fibrosis in his lung tissue. His former training was out of the question, and after a single incident, Zanka had been forced to find a new technique entirely.
Thus, he trained by himself, after everybody else was done. He would not attack other people, unless emergencies forced his hand, but damn it. He knew Enjin didn't like the backhanded styles, ambushes and assassin techniques. Let alone poison. Hell, Zanka himself had every reason to never touch poison again, but damn it all, if that was what it took to get back into his game? Zanka would hold onto the opportunity.
Two years of biting out his teeth on training sessions, on developing a smoother style that worked better for his lungs. Longer strides, quicker reflexes, sinking into the motions. Allow physics, leverage and aerodynamics to do their parts and take work from his muscles. Two years of regular visits to the doctor who treated him, the best in her field, but not even she could undo the effects of two hours within a contaminated area. It was a miracle that Dr Stilza had halted the fibrosis from spreading further, within the crucial first hours after Zanka had been brought onto her exam table. An almost greater miracle how she'd coaxed his remaining alveoles back to life, managing the feat of getting them to work properly within a mere year. That she was able to maintain them.
She could only do so if Zanka did not overstep, did not voluntarily cause his lungs to scar further when he inevitably pushed himself to the breaking point week after week, in the beginning. Once he had been allowed to train again. He had thought it wise to begin his training, harder than before to make up for an entire year lost to his ailment. It had taken months until, finally, he had accepted that he would never return to his old style with his staff and tried to adapt.
Dr Stilza had made herself clear one day, that he was wasting years of his life when he scarred his lungs. Maybe he had realised what he was doing for the first time when she'd pressed his nose into an x-ray of his lungs that day, displaying a black spot forming. Possibly five years of his remaining years, wasted in the span of two months because once again, he had valued his place within the Cleaners as worthier than his own life.
For the first time in his life, Zanka had stopped his exercises before his muscles ached, as soon as his lungs began to strain. He still wasn't good enough to be leading a team, and the nagging thoughts that he was a dead weight clinging to HQ stuck around even on better days, yet at least...
"Earth to Zanka?" Enjin's fingers snapped in front of his nose, having Zanka pull back from his mind. Glowering down towards the seated man he focused, a hum on his lips as an answer.
"Yeah. Gonna be outside the walls by next month, I s'ppose. Not officially, don't need everybody to snoop around 'n' see my technique yet. I'm gonna work as a single player from now on, ambush 'nd then vanish again."
"Ah. Guess I understand." He snickered and pulled his knee up, heel digging through the sand to leave a canyon behind. "That's why ya wanted to show me your technique alone?"
"Hm-hm. Surprise effects require the element of the unknown. Don't need ya'll to spoil the crucial part 'nd get me in the ground for good if you give me away." Smoke curled in the air between them and Zanka wrinkled his nose. Not that he would ever comment on filthy habits, he had tried cigarettes before, but they tasted like tar and ash in his mouth, leaving his stomach nauseous. Despite himself, despite his damned lungs, even, he had come to love the stink that followed Enjin everywhere he went. A decade and longer of smoking, and his skin reeked of tobacco, the fumes creeping into his clothes and the walls of his room. If anybody asked how Enjin smelled, Zanka still would have opted for 'unique' - leathery, warm. Difficult to describe with words alone, because how the heck did comforting smell other than subjective?
"Smart choice. I ain't gonna shovel your grave before next mission, then." A single wink had Zanka's knees weaken out of reflex. Years and years had passed and still he hadn't gotten over that man. Not even when he did not need to try getting over him anymore, now that they'd sworn loyalty to each other - another one of his weaknesses. Little did he know his colleague was just as mellow to him as well, to his stubborn will and the new harshness of his movements, the lines beneath eyes which evidently did not get enough rest and around his lips, so faint he had to be close to truly notice them. Most would have claimed the stress of injury and the seat of constant infection in his lungs had Zanka looking older, as though the years had been unkind with him.
Enjin's breath caught at times at the sight alone - perhaps for people who expect death every second workday, aging meant survival. He couldn't deny he was weak to this unsavoury version of Zanka, his protective instinct eradicated completely when he knew Zanka could care for himself. That they saw eye to eye, if Zanka believed that or not. Had Enjin been able to sever his pride to tell all that to Zanka, the other man still would not have believed, anyway.
"Your lungs are actin' up again today, aren't they?" The question was asked lowly, almost swallowed by winds howling in through the open side of their hall. From how long Zanka stayed silent, Enjin figured he had not heard him over the elements and his own breath searching for oxygen to find purchase in his lung tissue. But Zanka always understood, always heard even the tiniest remarks, even when he did not answer with more than a gaze averting to the wall.
"Listen, Zan. I got time on my hands. Let's take your walk, 's better when I am there to bug ya. Don't ya think?" His irritating tone already worked wonders, seeing how Zanka seemed to burn him with his stare alone. With his best pout, Enjin tried to beg, which always ended up somewhere along the road from saccharine to pathetic - at least he didn't offer to drive this time. One nod from Zanka, and rusty keys came flying his way. The car was his today.