Chapter Text
“Why can’t I die... just drop dead.” Zanka hisses into the darkness. “I’m just as big a poser as this stupid ass stick.”
The stick itself drives splinters into his palm where he grips it. It’s barely even worn down, basically fresh from falling off a tree. Useless and inexperienced, just like he is.
“I shouldn’t be alive...”
“That is one perspective.” Replies the man he’s been rambling to, his rumbling voice betraying no emotion to Zanka’s outburst. “But it would be a waste to see hard work never come to fruition. It is my belief, and the belief of many, that the average can outdo even a natural, eventually.”
Zanka’s eyes widen in shock. He’s never heard anyone put it so bluntly like that. Something so obvious he’s surprised that the thought had never occurred to him before.
“I won’t pretend to know what it is that you consider natural talent, but I also can’t imagine that it matters.” The man continues. Theres a shift of clothes that sound as though he’s standing, his voice gets further away. “Even if you aren’t one, I can tell that you have the drive to continue to improve, and become something stronger.”
Gripping the stick tighter, Zanka can feel his hands shaking. This man, his words, are reaching something inside him and igniting it. His chest feels hot, burning and alive for the first time in three days.
“If you’re still holding onto that stick, something inside you must agree that it is useful.” Footsteps pause for a moment. “If you’re interested in further proving my point, we will be in this town for a few more days...”
Zanka’s breath hitches, he draws his feet up to plant them firmly into the ground. He can feel it. He wants to stand up.
“... Come and find us and we can talk more.”
Two sets of footsteps draw away from Zanka’s place in the well. It’s then that he makes up his mind, he can’t let these strangers get away. He can’t let that man’s words go to waste.
Zanka can prove him right. He can be something better than a natural talent. If even a stranger could sense something in him, something with the potential to become strong, then maybe it’s really there.
Maybe there is something within Zanka that will let him be incredible, if given the chance.
He can feel his nails chipping on flagstones as he climbs and ignores it. The way up is more of a scramble, really, but eventually he manages to grasp at the lip of the well and drag himself over the top.
The fall onto the dirt road isn’t by any means graceful, he’s still three days malnourished, but that doesn’t stop him from righting himself using the stick and scouring the surrounding area for whoever had been talking to him. Quickly, he starts limping to the end of the street, hoping to spot literally anyone who might be able to help.
Even if he can’t find them, someone might have seen where they’ve gone. It’s not often they get outsiders in Kamuatari, so a tourist would be memorable to the locals.
Based on the brightness level in the dome, it was around morning when Zanka climbed his way out of the well. It’s not until late afternoon that he feels like giving up. He's been hobbling around all day, asking whoever he can see for any leads, and still can’t find the strangers.
A well-meaning granny had given him some tea when she saw him, lamenting how tired he looked, but that was a while ago, and he still hasn’t had anything to eat. He’s exhausted. The brightness levels are starting to dip, making the many alleyways of Kamuatari appear menacing and deeper than they really are.
The stick he’s been dragging around with him all day is something he’s come to appreciate far more since he left the well, acting as a crutch for him to lean against as he walks. Zanka can feel his legs getting ready to give out on him soon. It’s only getting darker.
He doesn’t want to go home.
It’s then that he spots it, deep behind a local pub, well into the relatively tame entertainment district of the city. Theres a flash of green-yellow swirling light, then nothing.
Zanka follows it. Something in his chest is telling him that this could be what he’s looking for. A weird feeling zips up his hands, like a static shock from him to the stick, and back again.
Odd. Wood is famously not a conductor of electricity.
Regardless, he ignores it and continues, eventually rounding the corner to the back of the desolate pub. There are two people there, talking. When Zanka comes into view, they both immediately stop and turn.
No one moves for a moment. Zanka’s heart beats faster than it ever has before, eyes wide and arms shivering against the cold of night.
A tall man stands in the middle of the alley, dark hair with grey streaks in a slicked back style compliments his intimidating coat and stature. Beside him, clutching a manhole of all things, is a woman. Shorter than him by a mile but no less intimidating, blue hair shading piercing yellow eyes that Zanka can feel analyzing him from her place in the shadows.
If possible, he starts shivering a little more.
“Are you...” He wheezes out, “The people from earlier?”
He’s almost certain that they are, no one in Kamuatari looks like them, and the person talking had mentioned that they were only visiting. But still, it’s polite to ask, no matter how desperate Zanka is to latch onto them.
The man approaches Zanka slowly, his dark eyes weighing heavily against Zanka’s own. He gulps and steels himself, hoping to hide how intimidated he is. Stopping just before Zanka would consider him too close, the man finally introduces himself.
“My name is Zodyl Typhon,” he says, smooth and deep. Zanka feels like this man talks in bold lettering, everything he says is so clear and precise. “I see you’ve kept it,” Zodyl acknowledges the stick still clutched firmly in his hands, “I’m glad.”
Nothing on the man’s face reads as anything close to ‘glad’, but the words are also not a lie, Zanka can tell. For some reason, Zanka can feel himself lightening. A small grin threatens to overtake his face, which he fights to keep down.
“Of course,” Zanka replies, trying for something like casual, “I listened to what you said and... I want to try it.” He settles on, firm and standing straight, “I want to be someone that can become better than a natural talent.”
Zodyl says nothing, continuing to stare at Zanka as though he can see the fire that Zanka can feel in his chest. His eyes flick to the woman who stands behind Zodyl, who remains in the shadows, as if waiting for something. Both Zodyl and that woman look strong. Not just in body, but also in mind.
Zanka decides to be bold.
“Please teach me to be that person.” He asks. It’s more of a demand, but he silently prays that Zodyl won’t say no. He’ll do whatever it takes.
The Hell Guard isn’t enough for him, anymore. Zanka has tried and failed to be what they want for him. Maybe he can be what someone else wants. Maybe he can finally be the person he wants to be.
Someone unbeatable.
Zodyl’s expression flickers for a second, as if deciding something. Then, before Zanka can react, a hand comes down to rest firmly on the top of his head. Zanka sucks in a breath and holds it.
The hand makes no movement, it’s not exactly a hair ruffle, or anything spectacularly affectionate. Its just... there.
Somehow, it still feels like approval. Zanka can feel his neck getting hot and fights down the urge to squirm. He looks up at Zodyl as best he can with the pressure pushing his hair into his eyes.
The hand retracts. Zodyl’s expression hasn’t changed from that impassive stare, but Zanka can see the woman looking to Zodyl in obvious apprehension.
“If you wish to join my cause, I won’t deny you.” Zodyl starts, “But I dislike investing attention into things that aren’t worth my time. You will start on a temporary basis.” He holds up a finger, “I’ll give you one mission to show me what you can do.”
Cause? Mission? Zanka swallows around his already itching throat. He could guess, by the way that they hang around in back alleys and dress like comic book delinquents, that these people didn’t operate on the most favorable side of the law. But still he was willing to join them anyway. Zanka was ready to die in that well, because of the Hell Guard. Being a criminal isn't exactly an ill-fit.
But a ‘Cause’ sounds far more serious. Organized in a way he wasn’t expecting. Zanka won’t lie and say he really cares what it is, though. He’s always been a little selfish. He just wants to get stronger.
Zodyl has a cause and the means to enact it. That, in Zanka’s eyes, makes him incredibly strong.
Still, he should probably know what it is he’s going to be working so hard for, there's no doubt in his mind that he can fulfill whatever mission it is that Zodyl gives him. Zanka wants to be worth his time.
“And what cause is this mission working towards?” He asks, feeling a sort of electric thurm run through his body. The stick in his grasp vibrates with it.
The woman steps forward from the shadows, and with the manhole creates that bright light Zanka had followed earlier. She perches against the edge of it, waiting.
Zodyl takes a few steps back, never looking away from Zanka. He stops before he reaches the light, and Zanka realizes it must be some kind of wormhole device. Something from a Giver. Serious and grave, Zodyl responds, gesturing for Zanka to come forward.
“Help me take down the Sphere.”
Zanka’s breath catches, he stutters in his steps towards the man. Taking down the Sphere sounds like a lot of work. A feral sort of grin creeps against his cheeks...
Zanka has always enjoyed working hard. It’s the only way someone like him can get stronger, after all.
The hot stench of iron permeates the air. It permeates his clothes, too. And his hair. Theres red everywhere. It’s sticky. Warm. The soles of his shoes slide a little on the already dirtied floor.
Jabber knows what it is, of course, it’s blood. He knows that, logically. But for some reason it won’t register in his usually incredibly fast brain. His eyes flicker minutely around the small room of this abandoned shack, stuttering over the source of it. The blood, that is.
Theres a man there, dead. A woman, too. Also dead. One after the other.
One before the other.
One died, and then he killed the other.
Jabber breathes in the smell. He laughs a little. Funny, that the smell is so strong in here, when the reason he’s even in here at all is because there's another, worse smell out there. His fingers twitch at his sides.
Theres some kind of commotion outside the door of the shack. Jabber can’t really turn to look at what it is, too busy being consumed by the red of everything in here. He giggles again. It’s not really that funny, though.
The door to the shack bursts open.
“Did everyone get away oka- Holy Shit!”
Jabber doesn’t react for a second, he can’t tear his eyes away from the woman on the floor. Someone came through the door, though. They could hurt-
Quick as a whip, Jabber turns and slashes with claws he didn’t have ten minutes ago. Unlike ten minutes ago, they’re blocked by a bright and metallic umbrella. The drill-like mechanism on the front drives forward, causing Jabber to crash backwards into the wall. The shack isn’t nearly large enough to get away. He’s cornered.
Jabber’s breath starts coming a little quicker, his heart beats a little faster. His brain finally catches up. He laughs again, real this time. The drill of the umbrella skewers into the wall, just over his shoulder, the webs of the umbrella expand with the threat of further pain.
A thrill goes up his spine. When you can fight back, things like this can be a little exciting. Jabber’s claws clamp onto the edges, metal scraping on metal.
The man doesn’t budge, his bright yellow eyes wide with... not fear, but not anger either. Jabber can’t decipher it at all; no one’s ever looked at him like this before.
“What the hell happened?!” The man, a Cleaner, shouts. “We told you two to take shelter, not kill each other!”
You... two. Jabber freezes slightly. Thats right. They were both told to take shelter. He supposes the Cleaner didn’t know about the other occupant of the shack. Or maybe he did. Jabber doesn’t particularly care anymore.
“Your shelter was already taken...” Jabber muses lightly.
Realization dawns in the man’s eyes. Slowly, he takes the umbrella down from Jabber’s chest, causing him to slump down onto the floor slightly. For some reason, the fight is gone from him now.
He looks back over at the pair of bodies. One on top of the other. One after another. One before the other. His Momma died and-
“I killed that guy.” Jabber tells the man, as he looks into the glassy eyes of his Momma. Her face is painted redder than usual. The color is already crusting against her cheek, rather than sticking only to her lips where she prefers it.
The Cleaner shifts slightly, boots also sticking in the blood.
“And the woman you came with?” He asks carefully.
Jabber looks up to the man. He’s tall. Without his gas mask on, Jabber can see more of his face, too. Theres a scar across the side of his head. He’s making that expression again. The one Jabber can’t read.
“He didn’t like that Momma and I crashed his hiding spot.” Jabber says. He goes to pick at his fingers like he normally does, instead feeling the warm metal of rings. Right. “It got messy.” He finishes.
Neither say anything for the moment. The man scratches the back of his neck harshly, looking for some kind of solution. Passively, Jabber thinks the pained look on his face is a little amusing.
A piercing sound cuts through the air and the Cleaner scrambles to clutch at the choker around his neck.
“Enjin!” A woman’s voice chimes, “Are you done with the job yet? It shouldn’t be taking this long for a report back.”
“Uh... Yeah I’ve killed the trash beast.” Enjin confirms, “It’s just that... things have gotten a little complicated.”
The woman on the other end sighs, “How complicated?”
“Like we might have to involve the Hell Guard, complicated.”
“Fuck.”
“Yeah.”
Jabber listens to the exchange through the static quickly growing in his ears. His muscles lock up, keeping him trapped in his slumped position against the wall. There was always something in him that knew it might come to this eventually.
His Momma wasn’t exactly a very good Momma. The Hell Guard have been a sort of looming presence above his head for most of his childhood. At least once a month, someone would make some manner of complaint about the noise levels in their shitty apartment, calling some bullshit about telling the Hell Guard.
Sometimes, Jabber would hope that they would. That they’d call them and he’d get taken away. That his Momma would be locked up and she’d never be allowed near him again.
Other times, things were different. His Momma would come home with all sorts of gifts from her job. She’d laugh and smile and decorate the apartment with extravagant vases and trinkets that didn’t match the drab and peeling wallpaper at all. Inevitably, the stuff would be sold off within a week, and she’d be hissing at him that he couldn’t tell anyone she’d had it, or the Hell Guard would come and take her away, and he didn’t want that did he? To be taken from his Momma, who gives him a roof over his head and food to eat?
Those times, he’d cry and shake his head. Beg and reassure her that he would never do something to hurt her. She’d hug him then, cry with him and pet his head softly. Jabber didn’t really get why, but of all the things she did to him, he hated that the most.
Sometimes, she’d invite guests over. Those nights, he really didn’t care whether the Hell Guard were called or not. They never showed up, even when he prayed for them to.
He snaps back to the present, the Cleaner is now crouching in front of him on one knee. What had that lady called him? Enjin?
Enjin looks at him now, eyebrows drawn tight and smile watery and fake. Jabber doesn’t know what kind of expression he’s making right now, he can’t really feel his face. Looking down, he sees that one of his claws is scraping against the skin of his thigh.
The woozy feeling that travels up and down his body is reminiscent of the few times he’s been drunk. It feels good, kind of. Not really.
“Hey,” Enjin says, gently moving Jabber’s wrist so he isn’t stabbing his leg anymore, “how's about we put the claws away for a bit?”
Jabber isn’t sure he knows how, really. He tries to flex his fingers a bit. As if sensing his intent, the claws retract once more, and return to their shapes as rings.
Enjin sighs in relief.
“What’s your name, kid?”
“Am I gonna get turned over to the Hell Guard?” Jabber asks in return, not really caring for the answer. He knew it would come to this eventually.
To Jabber’s complete and utter shock, Enjin shakes his head.
“Not if I can help it.” Enjin stands, offering the handle of his umbrella for Jabber to grab onto, “C’mon. You can’t stay here.”
A strange man who doesn't even know his name is offering him to leave his Momma behind and follow him to a location he doesn’t know. With a promise of maybe not going to prison. Any sane kid his age would probably think twice before agreeing.
But Jabber isn’t sane, he doesn’t think, so he grabs hold of the umbrella and hauls himself onto unsteady feet. He lists forward slightly, but is prevented from falling over by strong but gentle hands on his shoulders.
Jabber flinches back, and his claws make another appearance.
“Don’t fuckin’ do that!” He grits out, teeth grinding together in a feral grin, “If you’re gonna hit me, then just hit me! Don’t do none of that soft shit to throw me off!”
Enjin’s hands are up and his face is unbearably calm. Slowly, he backs away to the door, and gestures out of it. Jabber releases his claws. This guy is too confusing, why won’t he fight?
“No one’s hitting you, kid.” Enjin says, voice even, “I just didn’t want you to fall.” Slowly, he reaches a hand into his bag and withdraws another gas mask, similar to the one hanging around his neck. “You should put this on while we make our way to the car, the airs pretty bad this close to a No Man’s Land.”
Jabber stumbles forward slightly, tentatively ready to follow. The thought of something over his mouth and nose makes him feel sick. Far worse than the scent of the outside, or the inside of the shack.
“Don’t need it,” He mutters, shouldering his way past Enjin. “Where we goin’ then, if not to get me locked up?” He can’t be bothered to fight anymore, there's nowhere to go.
Enjin over takes and leads him to a heavy-duty car, parked not too far away. Jabber pays attention to the fact that Enjin is not paying attention to him. If he didn’t know better, Jabber would see it as an opening to attack. This guy has a quiet aura of power about him, though. It’s respectable, at the very least.
Waiting by the car is yet another blond man. This man is even larger than Enjin, somehow, with blue eyes that soften at the sight of their approach. Jabber fiddles with his rings again. The drunkenness swirling through his head is already starting to wear off, and in doing so is bringing forth the jittery feeling from before. This new guy is not helping with that feeling at all.
“Enjin, what took so long?” The man asks, getting up from his casual lean against the car door to walk over to them. “Is this one of the civilians? What happened to-”
Enjin interrupts with a firm pat to the other man’s shoulder.
“Let’s table that question for now, I’ll get you caught up later.” He reassures, then gestures to Jabber, “He’s the priority right now.”
“Yeah, about that.” Jabber chimes in, finally unable to ignore the jumpy feeling in his bones, “You never actually answered my question. Where are we goin’?”
Enjin sighs and runs a hand down his face. The taller man takes this as his cue to get in the car, it seems, taking up the mantle as driver. Enjin rounds the other side and opens both the back door and the passenger seat.
“It’s not a permanent solution, in fact it’s not a solution at all,” He says, fishing a cigarette from his coat pocket and lighting it, “but for now I thought I’d take ya back to HQ and figure out a plan from there. What say you, kid?”
Jabber looks at the two opened doors of the car. It’s confusing. Is he actually being offered a choice, right now?
He looks around himself. To his left, along the horizon is the flickering promise of No Man’s Land. In that direction, Jabber will surely die. He hasn’t had much of a life so far, so it’s not like he won’t fit in with the rest of the trash. But after only so recently gaining the ability to fight for himself, the thought of dying in such a boring way is completely unappealing.
To his right, in the very distance, he can see the walls of a city. His city. The one he and his Momma had been fleeing and the reason they were out in a polluted zone to begin with. In that direction, is also certain death... but not for him. Jabber can’t imagine a version of himself there that doesn’t kill at least ten people, then inevitably get caught by the Hell Guard, tortured, and eventually left to rot in prison. Also not a very appealing option. Jabber wants to use this power he just gained to do something... big. He thinks. Killing a few people then immediately getting punished isn’t enough for his claws.
The rings on his fingers hum slightly. They seem to agree.
Behind him is the shack. He doesn’t look there.
Finally, he looks back to Enjin, still waiting in front of the two opened car doors. The man said it himself, it’s not really a solution... but there’s the promise of one. Eventually.
He doesn’t really trust it, eventually Jabber expects that Enjin will turn just like all the others. But Jabber can defend himself now, so he isn’t scared.
“I want the back seat.” He says in answer.
Enjin grins brightly and nods, “of course!” and jumps into the font, leaving Jabber to make his own way into the car.
Once the door is shut, the vehicle rumbles to life. Jabber grips the edge of his seat, twisting his index finger rings with his thumbs. The rings themselves used to fit him properly, when he was smaller. Now, they can’t get all the way down to the base of his fingers, but also aren’t yet so small that they rest comfortably on the top parts. It makes bending his fingers awkward, the metal digging in right at where they curl. But he refuses to take them off. Jabber thinks he’d still wear the rings even if they completely cut off his circulation.
“I’m Gris, by the way.” The blond man says. His eyes greet Jabber’s through the rear-view mirror, and even though he can’t see the rest of his face, Jabber can tell he’s smiling warmly.
“Jabber.” He responds, voice flat as he adds, “Wonger.”
“Nice to meet you Jabber,” Enjin says, soft and calm, “I wish it could have been under better circumstances.”
The tone sends a shiver down his spine. This guy has to be fake. Jabber can just tell. With guys like him, it always a matter of time before they switch up on you.
Enjin is strong. He’ll be difficult to fight off. But Jabber is strong now, too. He smiles to himself.
Yeah, eventually. Jabber will have to fight this guy.