Chapter Text
It was supposed to be just a mission.
Nothing more.
Not some life-changing event. Not some dramatic turning point destined to haunt him for months afterward. Not a battle that would leave his thoughts tangled together like barbed wire every time he tried to sleep.
Just a mission.
A simple assignment.
At least, that was what everyone had called it.
Enjin himself had personally entrusted it to him, and that fact alone had been enough to keep a small, stubborn flame of pride burning somewhere deep inside his chest during the entire trip toward the outskirts of Canvas Town.
Afterall, Enjin did not hand responsibilities out lightly. He evaluated, observed, calculated. Every assignment had a purpose behind it, every choice carried intent. The fact that he had allowed Zanka to handle the situation accompanied by only a handful of Supports and nobody else spoke louder than any compliment ever could.
It meant trust.
Or at least, that was how Zanka wanted to interpret it.
Not that he would ever admit that out loud.
Not that he had spent half the journey trying—and failing—to suppress the satisfaction that came from knowing Enjin believed he, alone, could handle the situation.
Of course not.
That would be embarrassing.
Still, the feeling lingered.
The kind of warmth he pretended wasn't there.
The kind that somehow remained anyway.
The trip itself had been uneventful. The supporters spoke occasionally among themselves, but Zanka paid little attention. His focus remained fixed ahead, his thoughts occupied with finishing the mission as quickly as possible so he could return to HQ. He hated wasting time.
So when they finally arrived, he immediately searched for signs of the target.
And found them almost instantly.
The thing wasn't exactly subtle.
Its presence contaminated the surrounding area like a stain spreading across cloth.
A Trash Beast.
Ugly.
Violent.
Predictable.
Perfect.
Something simple to destroy.
Something that would allow him to finish his assignment and go home.
Without hesitation, he stepped forward.
His fingers wrapped around Lovely.
For a brief moment, his expression softened.
Just a little.
Almost imperceptibly.
He leaned forward and pressed a kiss against the wooden surface.
The gesture looked strange to anyone unfamiliar with him.
Intimate.
Personal.
Reverent.
Like a knight greeting an old friend before battle.
Or perhaps a warrior placing faith in the one companion who had never betrayed him.
His voice emerged in a quiet murmur.
“Let's do our best.”
Immediately, the wood began to shift.
The transformation traveled through Lovely's frame like liquid silver flowing beneath bark.
Wood became steel.
Warmth became weight.
Familiarity became power.
Zanka felt the change travel through his hands.
Felt the reassuring pressure.
Felt the promise of violence.
A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Now they were ready.
The simple realization settled between them without needing to be spoken aloud. There was no ceremony beyond that quiet understanding, no dramatic declaration that the moment had arrived, because both of them already knew. Zanka could feel it in the subtle shift of Lovely's weight as the weapon rested comfortably in his grip, the familiar heaviness becoming almost reassuring against his palm.
The steel felt alive, humming softly beneath his fingers as though answering the determination coursing through his own veins. His breathing slowed into something measured and deliberate, every inhale filling his lungs with the dusty scent of shattered concrete and rust that lingered around the outskirts of Canvas Town. Somewhere behind him the Supports exchanged nervous glances, speaking in hushed whispers they probably believed he couldn't hear. He ignored them. Their fear wasn't his concern. His world had narrowed into something wonderfully simple. A target. A mission.
"Let's get this over with."
The Trash Beast answered with a shriek that scraped against the air like twisted sheets of metal dragged across pavement. It lurched forward without hesitation, an impossible mass of trash stitched together by force rather than anatomy.
Violent.
Mindless.
Desperate.
Exactly as the reports had described.
Every movement was instinct stripped of reason. It didn't analyze. It didn't predict. It simply lunged with overwhelming force, swinging enormous limbs composed of crushed vehicles and splintered concrete, hoping raw brutality would compensate for the complete absence of strategy. Against inexperienced Givers, it probably worked. Panic had a way of making even trained fighters hesitate.
Zanka didn't hesitate.
Not once.
The instant the creature crossed into striking distance, Lovely met it with enough force to split the air itself.
Steel collided against trash.
The sound exploded across the empty streets like thunder.
Fragments of rusted metal scattered in every direction, embedding themselves into nearby walls while clouds of dust erupted beneath their feet. The impact traveled up his arms, familiar and satisfying, but nowhere near enough to force him backward. Instead he stepped forward, driving another strike into the creature's torso before it could recover. Then another. Then another.
Every movement flowed naturally into the next.
There was no wasted motion.
No unnecessary flourish.
His style had always reflected who he was.
The ground fractured beneath every swing. Cracks spiderwebbed through the asphalt as Lovely Assistaff carved enormous gashes into the battlefield, each impact launching chunks of pavement high into the air before gravity claimed them again. The Trash Beast roared, though whether from pain or instinct Zanka couldn't tell. It probably didn't know the difference.
"Disgusting..."
His muttered irritation vanished beneath another deafening collision as Lovely sheared through the creature's limb entirely.
Too slow.
Too predictable.
Too weak.
This was already over.
He could feel it.
Veteran fighters developed an instinct impossible to explain. There came a point during battle when victory stopped being a possibility and became a certainty. The exact moment varied every fight, but once that sensation settled into his bones, he had never been wrong.
The Trash Beast had reached that point.
Its balance collapsed.
Its attacks became sloppier.
Every desperate attempt at retaliation opened two more opportunities for him to exploit.
One final strike.
That's all it would take.
He tightened his grip around Lovely.
His muscles coiled.
Steel rose overhead.
The world narrowed to a single movement.
Then—
Someone entered his vision.
Bronze skin.
Long dreadlocs.
Eyes the color of expensive wine catching the afternoon sunlight.
Everything stopped.
Not literally.
The Beast still moved. Dust still floated through the air. His heartbeat still thundered against his ribs.
But something inside him froze long before the rest of his body did.
Jabber.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
The warmth that bloomed somewhere beneath his sternum was immediate and deeply unwelcome, arriving before logic had any opportunity to intervene. It wasn't relief. It couldn't be relief. It certainly wasn't happiness. He refused to give the feeling a name because acknowledging it meant accepting that seeing Jabber affected him at all, and that thought alone irritated him almost as much as the man standing twenty feet away wearing that same infuriating grin.
God.
He hated that grin.
Didn't he?
It stretched effortlessly across Jabber's face, equal parts confidence and amusement, as though interrupting missions had somehow become a hobby. His posture looked almost lazy, shoulders relaxed. There wasn't a single hint of urgency in him despite the battlefield surrounding them.
Like he'd simply wandered into the middle of a neighborhood barbecue.
Like Zanka hadn't been milliseconds away from ending the mission.
"Hey, Mr. Bad Attitude!"
There it was.
That voice.
Easygoing.
Warm.
Playful enough to make Zanka's eye twitch before another word had even been spoken.
"Sorry 'bout interruptin' yo' fight," Jabber continued, scratching the back of his neck almost sheepishly despite sounding anything but apologetic. "Boss told me ta protect his lil' experiment. Sooo... guess I gotta throw hands wit' you now. Ain't personal."
"The hell?!" Zanka barked, lowering Lovely just enough to glare directly at him. "'The hell did y'all expect was gonna happen? Cleaners were obviously gonna take care'a this thing!"
Jabber shrugged.
Actually shrugged.
Like discussing tomorrow's weather.
"Look, don't be thinkin' too hard 'bout it. Boss-man complicated as hell."
"Complicated ain't the word I'd use."
"I know."
"Crazy fits better."
"...A lil'."
"A little?"
"'Kay, a lot."
Zanka pinched the bridge of his nose.
"Then why're you listenin' to him?"
"'Cause he said he was gonna give me a reward."
"..."
"..."
Jabber laughed.
Bright.
Genuine.
The sound echoed strangely against the destruction surrounding them, somehow managing to feel completely out of place while simultaneously fitting the moment perfectly.
Then his expression shifted.
Only slightly.
Enough for Zanka to notice.
"But..." Jabber's eyes started becoming a bright pink, and now Mankira was activated. "Maybe stop worryin' 'bout Boss..."
His smile widened.
"...An' start worryin' 'bout me."
"I didn't even agree t—"
The sentence never finished.
Mankira crossed the distance between them in a blur.
Lovely intercepted it instinctively.
Steel met steel.
The collision detonated like artillery.
Sparks erupted between their weapons, scattering through the air in brilliant orange arcs while the resulting shockwave tore across the abandoned street hard enough to shatter every remaining window within several blocks.
Neither of them moved.
For half a heartbeat.
Then everything exploded into motion.
Later, the Supports would tell everyone they had witnessed a fight.
They were wrong.
Calling it a fight implied chaos.
This...
This was choreography.
Violent.
Elegant.
Perfect.
Every movement naturally birthed the next as though both men had rehearsed this sequence a thousand times before despite never discussing it once. Jabber slipped sideways before Lovely's second swing completed its arc, already predicting exactly where Zanka intended to follow through. Zanka answered by twisting his wrists halfway through the strike, abandoning the original attack to intercept Jabber's counter before it fully developed.
The rhythm refused to break.
It evolved.
Every exchange forced another. Every step demanded an answer, every answer birthed another attack before the previous one had even finished. Time itself seemed to stretch beneath the relentless cadence of steel striking steel, each collision ringing across the abandoned streets. Dust hung suspended in the afternoon sunlight, refusing to settle, transforming the battlefield into something dreamlike where every silhouette appeared blurred for only a fraction of a second before another explosion of movement scattered the haze again.
The Supports couldn't keep up anymore.
None of them could.
Their eyes darted frantically across the battlefield, constantly arriving a heartbeat too late. One moment Zanka occupied the center of the intersection, Lovely carving a brutal silver arc through the air. The next he had already crossed twenty feet, intercepting Jabber before the other man could capitalize on what should have been an opening. Every impact produced another burst of sparks, another tremor beneath their feet, another reminder that neither of them fought like ordinary Givers.
"God..." one of the Supports whispered, unable to lower his voice despite himself. "...They're readin' each other."
"No..." another answered quietly, unable to tear her eyes away from the exchange. "They're predicting each other."
There was a difference.
Prediction required observation.
This... this looked older than observation.
It looked like memory.
Jabber ducked beneath Lovely's sweeping strike by the smallest imaginable margin. Wind generated by the massive weapon ripped through his locs as steel passed inches above his head, close enough that he could feel the displacement of air across his scalp. Before the blade completed its arc, Mankira was already climbing upward in a tight spiral aimed directly toward Zanka's ribs.
Lovely intercepted it.
Again.
The clang echoed like a church bell.
"Damn," Jabber laughed, the sound escaping between uneven breaths. "You ain't lettin' me have nothin', huh?"
"Ain't my job ta make things easy fer ya."
"Oh, so you admit you think 'bout me."
Zanka's eye twitched.
"Don't push yer luck."
"Too late."
Their weapons locked.
For a heartbeat neither gave an inch.
The pressure between them built until fractured asphalt beneath their boots began collapsing into itself. Fine cracks radiated outward in widening circles while loose debris bounced across the ground from the sheer force pressing through both weapons.
Up close, the grin still hadn't left Jabber's face.
It should have.
There were fresh cuts tracing across his cheek. Blood dripped lazily from the corner of his mouth, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His breathing had grown noticeably heavier than it had been only minutes ago, each inhale carrying the subtle hitch of bruised ribs protesting every expansion of his chest.
Yet his eyes...
Those impossible pink eyes remained bright.
Alive.
Curious.
Like every exchange only convinced him further that he'd made the right decision by stepping between Zanka and the Trash Beast.
"Y'know..." Jabber murmured, muscles straining against Lovely. "You always get this serious when it's me."
Zanka shoved forward hard enough to throw both of them apart.
"I get serious when somebody gets in my way."
"Mhm."
"I mean it."
"I know."
The answer came without mockery.
Without sarcasm.
Simple.
Matter-of-fact.
For reasons Zanka couldn't explain, that irritated him even more.
He surged forward before the distance between them could widen, refusing to give Jabber another opportunity to dictate the pace. Lovely descended in a brutal overhead strike that carried enough force to split the street apart if it connected. Jabber pivoted at the last instant, boots skidding across broken concrete as the enormous weapon slammed into the ground beside him.
The impact erupted like controlled demolition.
Concrete shattered.
A crater bloomed beneath Lovely's tip.
Fragments of asphalt shot skyward.
Jabber used the explosion itself as cover, disappearing behind the expanding cloud of dust.
Too obvious.
Zanka twisted before instinct had even fully formed into thought.
Mankira flashed through the dust toward the side of his neck.
Lovely met it sideways.
Steel shrieked.
Jabber clicked his tongue.
"Aww, almost."
"Yer habits ain't changed."
"And yours have?"
For a brief instant they circled one another instead of charging.
Slowly.
Measured.
Neither willing to waste energy.
Neither wanting to be the first to commit.
The silence that settled between them contrasted almost painfully with the destruction surrounding them. Buildings stood scarred from stray impacts. Sections of road had collapsed into jagged trenches. Smoke drifted lazily upward from ruptured utility lines somewhere farther down the block.
Even the Trash Beast had stopped advancing.
Not because it had chosen to.
Because both men had unconsciously driven it backward throughout their duel, forcing it farther and farther from the center of their attention until it now lingered at the edge of the battlefield, damaged enough that it struggled to regain its footing.
Neither fighter spared it so much as a glance.
Jabber rolled one shoulder, wincing almost imperceptibly before hiding it beneath another grin.
"Damn."
"What?"
"You really do hit harder every time."
"You oughta stop givin' me reasons."
"Oh?"
"'Cause one'a these days, Lovely's gonna finish what she starts."
Instead of taking offense, Jabber chuckled under his breath.
"I'd expect nothin' less."
Something about that answer lingered.
Not as a challenge.
Not as bravado.
As certainty.
Zanka hated how easily he recognized it.
The realization unsettled him far more than he wanted to admit. Somewhere beneath the banter and constant provocation, Jabber never fought as though he doubted Zanka's strength. He never underestimated him, never treated him like someone who needed to prove himself. Every strike Jabber blocked carried the assumption that it had been capable of breaking him. Every dodge acknowledged the danger before it happened.
There was respect hidden beneath the teasing.
Mutual.
Unspoken.
Dangerous.
Before either of them could speak again, both moved at once.
Neither knew who initiated it.
Perhaps neither had.
The distance vanished in an instant as their jinkis collided once more, sparks exploding into the dusty afternoon while the rhythm that had briefly slowed returned stronger than before, carrying them back into the relentless dance that neither seemed capable of ending.
Another exchange came and went before either of them could find the advantage. Lovely carved through the air with enough force to leave visible distortions in its wake, every swing threatening to level another section of the already ruined street. Jabber refused to meet that strength head-on for longer than necessary. Instead, he slipped around each strike with practiced precision, boots scraping over fractured pavement as he continuously repositioned himself just outside the path of Lovely's overwhelming reach.
"You gettin' predictable," Jabber teased between uneven breaths.
"The hell I am."
"Mm-hm."
His grin widened.
"I know that look."
Zanka answered by driving Lovely downward, hard enough to split the asphalt from curb to curb.
The street exploded.
Concrete burst upward in jagged chunks, dust swallowing both fighters almost instantly.
For half a heartbeat, neither could see the other.
That was all Jabber needed.
He vanished.
Zanka's instincts screamed before his eyes ever found him.
His shoulders twisted.
Lovely came around defensively—
Too late.
A heavy impact crashed into his abdomen.
Jabber's boot connected squarely beneath his ribs, the force folding Zanka forward as the air was driven violently from his lungs. His boots tore long trenches through broken concrete while the momentum carried him several yards across the intersection before he finally managed to dig Lovely into the pavement and stop himself.
For one miserable second, breathing became impossible.
His chest locked.
His vision blurred around the edges.
A sharp ache radiated through his entire torso with every desperate attempt to inhale, forcing him to grit his teeth until his jaw hurt almost as much as the rest of him.
"...Damn..." he muttered under his breath.
Across the battlefield, Jabber wasn't in much better shape.
His own breathing had become noticeably uneven. One sleeve had darkened with blood where fragments of debris had torn through the fabric earlier in the fight, and every deeper inhale made one side of his chest tighten almost imperceptibly. Even so, the familiar smile refused to disappear.
"You still standin'," Jabber called, brushing dust from his shoulder.
"'Course I am."
"Kinda figured."
Before the last word had completely left his mouth, he was already moving again.
Mankira flashed forward.
Zanka intercepted the first strike.
Then the second.
The third slipped past Lovely's guard by inches.
The blade skimmed along his side before its sharpened point pierced through his jacket and nicked his skin.
It was barely more than a scratch.
Jabber noticed immediately.
"There we go."
He sprang backward instead of pressing the attack.
The venom would do the work.
Or at least...
It should have.
One second passed.
Then another.
Zanka rolled one shoulder.
Adjusted his grip.
And charged.
Jabber blinked.
"...Huh?"
Lovely slammed into Mankira hard enough to force him back several steps.
Another strike followed immediately after.
Then another.
Each one carried exactly the same weight as before.
Exactly the same speed.
Exactly the same relentless pressure.
No hesitation.
No slowing.
No paralysis.
Jabber narrowly avoided a sweeping strike that demolished the remains of a nearby traffic light.
"...Hold up."
Zanka didn't answer.
Lovely came down again.
Jabber deflected it, though the impact rattled through both of his arms.
"...Nah..."
Another exchange.
Another block.
Another impossible notion settling into place.
The venom wasn't working.
His expression shifted from confusion to curiosity almost instantly.
"...You serious?"
"What're you babblin' about now?"
Jabber's eyes lit up.
Not with mockery.
With genuine fascination.
"...You built up resistance."
Zanka frowned.
"What?"
"The last two times..."
He laughed softly to himself.
"...You adapted."
The epiphany settled between them even as their weapons continued colliding.
Repeated exposure.
A body learning.
Changing.
Overcoming.
Jabber couldn't stop smiling.
"Ain't that somethin'."
Zanka clicked his tongue.
"Quit starin' an' fight."
"Oh, I am."
Neither of them noticed the Trash Beast behind them.
Its body had stopped attacking altogether.
The unstable mass convulsed violently, pieces of rusted metal and broken machinery folding inward as though something beneath the surface was forcing itself free. The creature trembled harder with every passing second, strange pulses of white light escaping through widening cracks scattered across its misshapen frame.
The Supports were the first to notice.
"Wait..."
One of them pointed toward the creature.
"Something's wrong!"
Another pulse.
Brighter this time.
Neither Zanka nor Jabber looked away from each other.
Not yet.
The rhythm of their duel still held them captive.
Then the battlefield itself shuddered.
The creature arched backward.
A blinding white light erupted from its core.
Brighter than the afternoon sun.
Brighter than lightning.
The expanding radiance swallowed the ruined street in an instant, washing away every shadow, every color, every detail until nothing remained except an endless sea of white.
For the first time since Jabber's arrival—
both of them stopped moving.
—
The first thing Jabber realized was simple.
This ain't my room
The thought drifted through the haze before he even bothered opening his eyes completely, surfacing with the quiet certainty that comes from habits repeated so many times they become instinct. Every mission ended the same way. Every disastrous experiment, every reckless mission, every fight that left him barely standing followed an almost comforting routine.
Cthoni would inevitably find him—whether he was unconscious, bleeding, or stubbornly insisting he could still walk—and haul him back to the base. Cthoni would patch him up while complaining that one day he was going to push his luck too far. He would wake several hours later in the same familiar room, greeted by the same cracked ceiling, the same chipped paint along the walls, and the same lingering smell of antiseptic barely managing to overpower the permanent scent of rust that clung to every corner of the building.
It had happened so many times that waking anywhere else immediately felt wrong.
This wasn't his mattress.
These weren't his blankets.
There wasn't even a ceiling above him.
Instead, something uneven pressed awkwardly against his back, shifting beneath his weight every time he breathed. It rustled faintly beneath him, producing the unmistakable sound of loose metal scraping against plastic.
Trash.
He was lying on trash.
"...Huh."
His voice came out rough, a little more than a whisper, scratched raw by exhaustion. He blinked several times, waiting for the lingering haze clouding his vision to disappear, but the unfamiliar surroundings remained exactly where they were. Crumbling brick walls rose on either side of a narrow alleyway. Overflowing dumpsters leaned against one another as though someone had shoved them there carelessly years ago and never bothered to move them again. Piles of discarded furniture, dented cans, broken electronics and countless things too damaged to identify surrounded him in every direction.
Oddly enough...
It didn't smell nearly as bad as it should have.
That realization came second.
His nose wrinkled almost automatically as he took another careful breath, expecting the usual overwhelming cocktail of rot, stagnant water, chemical waste and decay that accompanied places like this back home.
Instead...
The air felt...
Clean.
Uncomfortably clean.
Every inhale filled his lungs with cool night air carrying only the faintest traces of damp pavement and distant smoke. There was no heavy pollution lingering beneath it. No metallic taste coating the back of his throat. No familiar layer of dust settling against his tongue.
It almost made him cough.
"The hell..."
He actually found himself missing the air he had spent his entire life complaining about.
This felt wrong.
Like drinking water that had been filtered too many times.
Like silence stretched just a little farther than it was supposed to.
His chest expanded again.
Clean.
Again.
Still clean.
It was so unfamiliar that his body didn't quite know what to do with it.
Then came the third realization.
He remembered.
Steel crashing against steel.
Lovely.
Mankira.
Zanka's expression growing increasingly irritated every time Jabber laughed.
The white light.
Then...
Nothing.
His eyebrows slowly knitted together.
"Nah."
His hand instinctively wandered toward his ribs before he consciously realized what he was doing.
The ache answered immediately.
Bruises protested beneath his fingertips. Fresh bandages pulled lightly against his skin. Countless smaller cuts stung as his muscles shifted beneath torn fabric. Every injury served as quiet confirmation that the fight had happened exactly as he remembered it.
Such lovely wounds Zanka gave him.
He hadn't dreamed any of it.
Those hits had been real.
Zanka had absolutely done a number on him.
"Heh..."
A tired chuckle escaped despite himself.
"Still swing hard as hell..."
The sound faded almost immediately as another thought forced itself forward.
If he was here...
Where was—
His head turned.
There.
Several feet away.
Blond hair.
Broad shoulders.
One arm awkwardly thrown across his chest.
Zanka.
For a heartbeat, Jabber simply stared.
His thoughts stopped moving altogether.
"What?"
Nothing about the picture made sense.
Even if the fight had somehow ended without a winner, the weaklings traveling alongside the Cleaners should have recovered Zanka immediately. They weren't particularly useful during combat, but surely they could manage carrying one unconscious man back to Headquarters.
So why...
Why was he here?
Why wasn't he surrounded by fellow Cleaners?
Why was he lying in the same alley instead of a medical bay?
"The hell happened?"
He pushed himself upright with a quiet groan, every sore muscle protesting the movement. The world swayed briefly before settling back into place.
Jabber froze.
His pulse lurched before his mind caught up.
For one brief, unwelcome instant, a thought flashed across his mind.
No...
No way.
He leaned forward instinctively, eyes fixed on the motionless Cleaner.
"C'mon..."
Silence.
Another second.
Then he noticed it.
The slow, steady rise and fall of Zanka's chest.
Breathing.
Relief slipped quietly through him before he had time to question why it mattered.
"...Yeah."
He let out a slow breath of his own.
"'Course you still breathin'."
His grin returned, smaller this time.
"What was I even worried for..."
If anyone could survive whatever had happened after that blinding light...
It would be Zanka.
The man was just, built different. Bruised ribs, deep wounds, dangerous venom—none of it ever seemed enough to keep him down for long.
This...
Whatever this was...
Wouldn't be either.
Only after reassuring himself that Zanka remained alive did Jabber finally look upward.
The alley opened toward the sky.
And for a long moment...
He forgot to breathe.
Stars.
Hundreds of them.
No...
Thousands.
Tiny points of silver stretched endlessly overhead, scattered across a darkness so deep it almost seemed impossible. Between them hung a moon so bright it painted pale outlines along rooftops and overflowing dumpsters alike.
He had heard stories.
Everyone had.
Old rumors drifting through Ground about places untouched by the smoke where people claimed the sky looked different.
Cleaner.
Brighter.
Some even swore you could see constellations.
Others claimed the moon wasn't hidden behind pollution every night.
Jabber had always assumed those stories were exaggerated.
Now...
He wasn't so sure anymore.
"...Damn..."
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
"Either I'm high..."
Another glance upward.
"...Or I'm at the Sphere."
Neither explanation sounded particularly believable.
Yet one of them had to be true.
He remained perfectly still for another minute, simply listening.
Only now did he notice the sounds he had ignored until then.
Voices.
Laughter.
Music carried faintly by the wind.
Vehicles passing somewhere beyond the alley.
Doors opening.
Footsteps.
So many footsteps.
Far more people than should have existed anywhere near Ground after dark.
It sounded...
Alive.
Whatever this place was, it wasn't abandoned.
Slowly, with considerably more effort than he cared to admit, Jabber climbed to his feet.
Every movement reminded him of the battle.
His ribs tightened.
His shoulders complained.
His legs felt heavier than usual.
Nothing unexpected.
Nothing he couldn't manage.
His attention immediately returned to Zanka.
"...Can't leave you out like this."
Whatever had happened after the light, the venom in Mankira still lingered in the back of Jabber's mind. Zanka had resisted it during the fight, but resistance wasn't immunity. The effects could still emerge later, especially after everything his body had already endured.
Jabber crouched beside him.
"Sorry 'bout this, Mr. Bad Attitude."
With surprising care, he adjusted Zanka's position, pulling him farther into the shadows where the stacked piles of discarded furniture and broken appliances concealed him from anyone who might happen to glance into the alley. It wasn't comfortable, but it was hidden, and hidden was good enough for now.
"There."
He stepped back to inspect his work.
"That oughta keep folks from botherin' ya till I figure out where the hell we landed."
One final glance toward the unconscious Cleaner.
Then another toward the impossibly clear night sky.
"...Guess I better go find some answers."
The moment he stepped beyond the mouth of the alley, the world exploded into color.
Jabber instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, blinking several times as they struggled to adjust to the overwhelming brightness stretching before him. For a brief, disorienting second, he almost retreated back into the comforting darkness behind him, where the piles of trash and narrow brick walls felt infinitely more familiar than... whatever this was.
The Ground had never looked like this.
The Ground couldn't look like this.
Even during its brightest days, the sky remained dulled by layers of pollution and smoke, every light struggling to pierce the permanent haze hanging above the cities. Neon signs existed there too, sure, but they fought desperately against darkness instead of overwhelming it.
This place...
This place drowned in light.
Towering buildings rose above him like colossal slabs of glass and steel, their sleek surfaces so clean and polished they seemed almost unreal, each one stretching higher and higher until the tops vanished into the dark sky. Rows upon rows of windows burned with warm gold, icy white, and soft amber light, while entire walls flashed with enormous advertisements in electric pink, neon blue, vivid lime, and sharp crimson, the colors so bright they seemed to spill across the air itself.
Light poured from every direction, wrapping around the streets in glowing bands and reflecting off the pavement in shimmering streaks of violet, turquoise, and silver, turning every surface into something glossy and alive. The buildings looked impossibly modern, all sharp angles, mirrored panels, and smooth edges, with illuminated signs hanging from their sides and bright strips of light tracing their outlines like they had been drawn by electricity. Everything felt huge, new, and expensive, as if the entire city had been built only moments ago and then polished until it gleamed. Even the windows seemed too clean, too perfect, catching the neon from across the street and throwing it back in fractured colors that danced over the sidewalks.
Cars moved through the roads in smooth, silent lines, their headlights cutting through the night like blades, while the sidewalks below were crowded with people who looked like they belonged here in a way Jabber absolutely did not. The whole place hummed with energy, with motion, with a kind of effortless wealth that made his own battered clothes and bruised body feel even more out of place than they already were.
It almost hurt to look at.
"Damn..."
His voice disappeared beneath the endless noise surrounding him.
There were so many people.
Far more than he had expected.
They flowed through the sidewalks in organized streams, weaving around one another without collision, carrying shopping bags, talking into strange little devices, laughing with friends, hurrying toward destinations only they understood.
Nobody looked frightened.
Nobody looked hungry.
That alone felt wrong.
Jabber remained frozen near the alley entrance, watching the crowd pass by him as though he had accidentally wandered into someone else's dream.
Then he actually started looking at them.
And the confusion only deepened.
"What the hell..."
One woman walked past with elegant white feathers folded neatly against her back, disappearing beneath a long coat that had clearly been tailored to accommodate them. The feathers shifted slightly whenever she moved, catching the neon light in soft flashes of silver and blue before settling again against the dark fabric. A child skipped beside what appeared to be his father, both sporting small fox ears twitching every time they laughed, the boy tugging at the older man's sleeve while pointing excitedly at something Jabber couldn't see.
Across the street someone with a long reptilian tail casually waited for the traffic light to change while swiping his thumb to a small rectangular device, the tail swaying lazily behind them as if it were the most ordinary thing in the world. A pair of people with matching horns passed by a moment later, talking animatedly in a language he didn't understand, and for a second Jabber realized he had stopped trying to make sense of the crowd altogether.
No one stared.
No one pointed.
No one reacted.
It was...
Normal.
That unsettled him more than anything else.
In the Ground, stuff like that would make questions follow. Someone would inevitably assume they were looking at an Giver.
Here...
They blended into the crowd so completely that most people barely acknowledged one another.
"Ain't Givers..."
he muttered under his breath.
"Can't all be."
His gaze continued drifting from face to face.
Horns.
Tails.
Wings.
Animal ears.
Entire animal heads.
Eyes glowing faintly beneath the city lights.
Every few seconds he noticed something new.
His stomach tightened.
For the first time since waking up, genuine unease settled inside him.
He didn't understand this place.
Not even a little.
That realization weighed considerably heavier than the injuries aching beneath his clothes.
He was alone.
Somewhere completely unfamiliar.
With no idea where that somewhere even was.
"Okay..."
He inhaled slowly.
"Don't panic."
Easier said than done.
His heartbeat refused to cooperate.
The brightness surrounding him became almost oppressive, every illuminated storefront making him feel painfully exposed, as though the entire city had been built to spotlight him specifically.
He caught himself unconsciously searching for darker streets, quieter corners, places where shadows gathered naturally, where the glow from the signs thinned just enough for him to breathe without feeling watched.
Even the reflections in the polished windows seemed too sharp, too clear, turning every movement into something visible and immediate. He hated how quickly his instincts dragged him toward the dimmer edges of the city, but right now that was the only place that felt even remotely safe.
His ribs complained.
His shoulders burned.
Every reminder of the earlier fight lingered beneath his skin.
Right.
Medical supplies.
He needed those first.
Zanka still hadn't woken up, and while the blond had somehow resisted Mankira's venom during the fight, Jabber knew better than to assume that meant the effects had disappeared entirely. Bodies reacted differently over time. Delayed symptoms weren't impossible.
"Need bandages..."
He rubbed absentmindedly at one of the cuts along his forearm.
"Medicine too."
His eyes wandered across storefront after storefront.
Restaurants.
Clothing stores.
Electronics.
Cafés.
Places selling things he couldn't even identify.
Then...
He stopped.
A pharmacy.
Hope flared inside him immediately.
Until he looked closer.
Every word decorating the sign had been written in unfamiliar symbols.
Not distorted English.
Not another dialect.
An entirely different language.
"...You've gotta be kiddin' me."
He stared upward for several long seconds as though the letters might suddenly rearrange themselves into something understandable.
They didn't.
His shoulders slumped.
"For Ground's sake..."
He really was lost.
He continued walking, reading every sign he could find despite understanding almost none of them. Strange characters covered glowing billboards and storefront windows alike, occasionally interrupted by numbers or logos he recognized.
Minutes slipped by.
Maybe longer.
Then, tucked between two brightly lit buildings, he finally saw something familiar.
English.
Not much.
Only two words beneath another line written in the strange script.
お得薬局Economic Pharmacy
Jabber blinked.
"...I'll take it."
Before approaching the entrance, he pulled his hood over his head. His fingers quickly adjusted his dreadlocks, letting them fall forward enough to cast shadows across most of his face. It wasn't perfect, but it was better than walking around completely exposed in a city where he understood absolutely nothing.
The automatic doors slid open.
He flinched.
"...Fancy."
The inside proved just as spotless as the streets outside.
Everything sat perfectly organized on neatly labeled shelves stretching across the brightly lit store. A faint medicinal smell drifted through the air while soft music played somewhere overhead.
Small baskets rested beside the entrance.
After a brief moment of watching another customer take one, Jabber copied the gesture.
"...Guess that's what these for."
Navigating the aisles became easier than expected.
Different language or not, certain products remained universal.
Bandages looked like bandages.
Disinfectant looked like disinfectant.
Pain medication looked close enough to what he recognized.
He carefully filled the basket, mentally separating what would help him from what Zanka might need if the venom eventually started causing delayed symptoms.
"Let's hope this works."
By the time he reached the counter, the basket had become considerably heavier than intended.
The young cashier greeted him politely.
Jabber answered with an awkward nod before reaching into one of his pockets.
Galla.
Of course.
He placed several coins onto the counter with complete confidence.
The cashier looked down.
Then back up.
His polite smile became noticeably more apologetic.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we only accept yen."
Silence.
"...Ah."
Right.
Different place.
Different money.
That actually made perfect sense.
Jabber stared at the unfamiliar bills displayed inside the register before slowly looking back down at his own handful of Galla.
Worthless.
Every last coin.
He let out a quiet sigh.
"...Figures."
He really had wanted to pay this time.
For once.
Apparently fate wasn't interested in rewarding good intentions.
"...Sorry 'bout this."
The words barely left his lips before Mankira appeared in his hand.
The weapon's glow reflected faintly in the cashier's widening eyes.
He didn't even have time to call for help.
The paralysis took hold almost immediately, locking his body in place while leaving only confusion behind his frozen expression.
Jabber caught him before he could fall.
"There."
He gently lowered the young man into his chair.
"You'll be alright."
The lingering hallucinogenic effect would leave fragmented memories at best. By the time the paralysis wore off, whatever image remained of the hooded stranger standing before him would likely be too distorted to identify.
Working quickly, Jabber opened the cash register and gathered the bills inside.
Not all of them.
Just enough.
Enough to cover the supplies.
Enough to survive until he figured out where he was.
The money disappeared into his pocket.
He picked up the basket.
"...Appreciate it."
Then he slipped back into the night.
Finding the alley again proved considerably harder than leaving it.
Every street looked cleaner than the last.
Every intersection resembled the previous one.
Twice he became convinced he had taken a wrong turn.
Three times he doubled back.
By the time the familiar alley finally came into view, relief settled into his chest before he even realized he'd been holding his breath.
His eyes immediately searched the darkness.
There.
Exactly where he'd left him.
Zanka hadn't moved.
A long, quiet sigh escaped Jabber.
"...Thought I'd lost ya."
He hadn't realized how tense he'd become until that moment.
The bags were carefully lowered onto the ground before he crouched beside the unconscious Cleaner once more.
The blond still breathed steadily.
Still hadn't woken.
Jabber studied him for a moment, then glanced toward the supplies he'd managed to gather.
"...Guess..."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"...Guess I oughta try patchin’ you up."
Jabber got to work.
The small pile of supplies he'd managed to steal were spread neatly beside him, a strange splash of sterile white against the heaps of discarded metal and cracked plastic surrounding them. For a brief moment he simply looked down at everything he'd gathered, mentally sorting each item before reaching for the antiseptic.
"...Guess we start here."
He crouched beside Zanka once more.
Zanka's uniform hadn't survived the fight nearly as well as he had. The heavy fabric was torn in multiple places where debris, Mankira, and Lovely's own impacts had ripped through it, exposing scraped skin beneath. The sleeves had been shredded around the forearms, one shoulder hung partially open where a seam had split, and several cuts were visible through jagged tears across the jacket. Most of them weren't particularly deep, but left unattended they could easily become infected.
"...You really don't know when to quit."
The words escaped almost absentmindedly.
Not an insult.
Not really.
Just an observation.
Carefully, he began cleaning the first wound.
The antiseptic soaked into the cotton pad before he pressed it against one of the cuts running across Zanka's forearm. The wound was shallow but ugly, a thin red line split open by grit and dried blood, the skin around it swollen from the impact. Jabber held the arm steady with one hand while the other worked in careful strokes, wiping away the crusted blood, dust, and tiny flecks of concrete that had lodged near the edges
Then he folded a fresh strip of gauze over it, wrapped it snugly enough to protect it without cutting off circulation, and secured the end with practiced fingers.
One finished.
Then another.
Whenever he found a wound hidden beneath intact fabric, he simply rolled the sleeve back or loosened a torn section enough to clean it properly before wrapping fresh bandages around it.
A scrape along the shoulder. A split knuckle. A shallow gash near the eye. Each one got the same treatment: antiseptic first, then a careful wipe to lift away dirt and dried blood, then fresh bandage or gauze depending on how much the skin needed to be covered. Jabber checked each injury twice, smoothing the edges of the wrappings flat so they wouldn't peel loose later, tightening them only when necessary, loosening them again if they looked too tight.
The process settled into a quiet rhythm.
Clean.
Wrap.
Tie.
Move to the next.
For someone whose life revolved around fighting, he was surprisingly gentle whenever precision actually mattered. His hands, capable of wielding Mankira with frightening speed only hours earlier, now adjusted each layer of gauze with patient care to make sure it stayed secure without restricting movement.
"...There."
He sat back slightly, scanning over the work he'd already done.
Most of the obvious injuries had been taken care of.
Then his eyes drifted lower.
His ribs.
Even through the clothes it was obvious something was wrong. One side of Zanka's torso rose just a little differently with every breath, subtle enough that most people would've overlooked it, but impossible to miss after spending so much time fighting him.
"...Yeah..."
Jabber scratched the back of his neck.
"...That's definitely broken."
Courtesy of yours truly.
A tiny grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"...Heh."
It disappeared almost immediately.
Bandaging ribs properly meant checking the injury first, and that wasn't something he was willing to do while Zanka remained unconscious.
"...Nah."
He shook his head.
"You can wake up for that one."
For a second he simply stared at the unconscious Cleaner.
"...Wonder what's gonna work..."
A pause.
"I could shake ya."
Another pause.
"...Or yell."
His grin slowly returned.
"...Both."
His hands hovered over Zanka's shoulders for a second before he frowned.
“…Actually, that's probably a bad idea."
Broken ribs.
Shaking him would only make things worse.
"My bad, Mr. Bad Attitude."
He crouched lower and lightly nudged Zanka's boot with his own.
Nothing.
"...Seriously?"
He nudged him again, this time a little firmer.
Still nothing.
Jabber sighed, leaned closer and cupped a hand around his mouth.
"WAKE UP!"
The sound echoed violently through the narrow alley.
Somewhere nearby, a startled cat bolted across a dumpster.
The corners of Zanka's eyelids twitched.
His brow tightened into a deep frown.
"There we go..."
Another faint movement.
His breathing changed ever so slightly.
"...That's it..."
The instant he became certain Zanka was waking up, Jabber released him completely.
Without his support, the larger man slumped unceremoniously back onto the pile of trash beneath him.
The resulting thud echoed embarrassingly loud.
"...Oops."
Blue eyes slowly opened.
At first they lacked focus, staring somewhere beyond the alley as though trying to remember what reality looked like. Confusion clouded every movement. His breathing remained uneven, his expression caught somewhere between exhaustion and irritation while consciousness gradually returned piece by piece.
Jabber couldn't help smiling.
Those eyes...
Even half-awake, they somehow carried the same intensity they always did.
Bright.
Clear.
Impossible to ignore.
Jabber just stared, completely caught by them, like his thoughts had gone soft around the edges and all the noise in his head had been quietly switched off. Those eyes had a way of pulling him in and holding him there, leaving him oddly dazed, almost stupidly mesmerized, as if he’d forgotten for a second how to do anything except look.
They weren't just blue—they were the kind of blue that seemed to shift depending on the light, deep as polished glass one moment and sharp as a winter sky the next. There was something almost electric in them, a vivid, restless color that made it hard to look away once they locked onto you. Even dulled by exhaustion, they still held that strange, piercing brilliance, like twin shards of color cut straight from the horizon itself.
For a brief second they searched aimlessly before finally settling on the figure crouched beside him.
Recognition arrived almost instantly.
"...Wh..."
His voice sounded rough.
"...Where..."
He swallowed.
"...Where am I?"
Jabber lifted one hand in an almost cheerful wave.
"Howdy, Mr. Bad Attitude."
Silence.
Recognition sharpened.
Confusion vanished.
Pure disbelief replaced it.
"...Jabber?"
Another blink.
Then—
"JABBER?!"
Zanka lurched upright far faster than his condition should have allowed.
"DID YA KIDNAP ME?!"
The sheer accusation caught Jabber so completely off guard that he actually leaned backward.
"Okay— WHOA!"
He threw both hands into the air.
"Why would I do that?"
"I don't know!"
Zanka looked around frantically at the unfamiliar alley before glaring right back at him.
"Raider stuff!"
"...Raider stuff?"
"YEAH!"
"What kinda explanation is that?"
"The kinda explanation that involves YOU!"
Jabber rubbed a hand over his face.
"...Damn, y'all really got trust issues."
"'Course I do!"
"I literally patched you up."
"I DIDN'T ASK YA TO!"
"...Fair."
The brief silence that followed allowed reality to settle back in.
Jabber's smile softened.
"...Nah."
He gestured vaguely toward the alley entrance.
"I ain't kidnap you."
Zanka narrowed his eyes.
"Then explain."
"I... honestly don't know everythin'."
That answer immediately stole some of the certainty from his voice.
"The last thing I remember's us fightin'."
"..."
"Then there was that bright light."
"..."
"And now..."
He pointed toward the city beyond the alley.
"...We're here."
Zanka frowned harder.
"I figured maybe it was t’Sphere at first."
"...Because?"
"'Cause the air."
Jabber inhaled deeply before continuing.
"It ain't like Ground."
"It ain't dirty."
"It don't choke ya."
"I thought maybe we'd somehow ended up there..."
His shoulders lifted into a helpless shrug.
"...But then I went explorin'."
"And?"
"...Pretty sure we're somewhere else entirely."
"What d'ya mean?"
"I guess you could call this place a different universe."
The words lingered between them.
Neither spoke.
Neither seemed particularly eager to be the first to acknowledge how absurd they sounded.
Zanka's thoughts spiraled faster than he could organize them.
Another universe.
Ground.
Sphere.
That impossible flash of white.
Jabber.
Out of every person in existence...
Jabber.
His head suddenly throbbed.
He squeezed his eyes shut as a sharp ache pulsed behind them, he rubbed at his temples with one hand while the other remained unconsciously pressed against his ribs, more to brace them than anything else.
His ribs protested every breath.
His entire body felt heavy.
And somehow...
Somehow...
He had ended up stranded in an unknown world...
With Jabber.
Of all people.
"...Why..."
He exhaled slowly through clenched teeth.
"...Why's it always me?"
Zanka slowly lowered the hand pressed against his forehead, one eye cracking open just enough to glare at Jabber from beneath furrowed brows.
"...The hell's that supposed t' mean?"
Jabber blinked.
"Hm?"
"'Why's it always me?'"
The blond let out a long, exhausted sigh. The sigh ended in a tiny grimace as the movement tugged at his side
"I mean..."
He motioned vaguely toward... everything.
The alley.
The unfamiliar skyline peeking beyond it.
Jabber.
Himself.
"This kinda stuff always happens t' me."
His shoulders slumped a little.
"I swear my life's turnin' into some kinda comedy."
Jabber tilted his head.
"A comedy?"
"A bad one."
A dry chuckle escaped him before it immediately dissolved into a sharp wince that made him stop halfway through the laugh. His ribs protested the movement with a dull, grinding ache, forcing him to exhale carefully before continuing rubbing his temples again.
"Normal folks get assigned missions."
He pointed at himself.
"I get assigned missions, fight Raiders, get blasted by some weird light, wake up in another damn universe with the one Raider I'd least expect ta be stuck with..."
He paused.
"...Actually..."
Another pause.
"...Scratch that."
He looked directly at Jabber.
"You are exactly who I'd expect."
"...Damn."
Jabber placed a hand over his chest as though he was genuinely wounded.
"That kinda hurt."
"It was supposed ta."
"I ain't even done nothin'."
"You exist."
"...Cold."
"'M honest."
For a second neither spoke.
Then Zanka continued, voice quieter this time.
"Feels like every time somethin' can go wrong..."
He laughed under his breath.
"...It somehow finds me."
The words weren't particularly dramatic.
If anything, they sounded tired.
Like someone who had accumulated one ridiculous situation after another until frustration had eventually replaced surprise.
Jabber watched him for a few seconds.
Then smiled.
Not his usual teasing grin.
Something softer.
"C'mon."
"I know I ain't exactly five-star company..."
His smile slowly widened into something much more familiar.
"...But I ain't that bad."
Zanka raised an eyebrow.
"You sure 'bout that?"
"Absolutely."
"I've known serial killers with better first impressions."
"See? You jokin'."
"I ain't."
"Point is..."
Jabber spread his arms dramatically.
"I got information."
"..."
"I explored."
"..."
"I survived."
"..."
"I even got supplies."
He pointed proudly toward the neatly organized medical items stacked beside them.
"I'd say that's worth givin' me at least one chance."
Zanka stared at him.
Then at the supplies.
Then back at Jabber.
"Augh... okay," he muttered, pausing halfway through the sentence to draw a slower breath. Talking too quickly pulled at his abdomen in ways he'd rather not acknowledge.
"We're in another universe."
"Mm-hm."
"Apparently."
"There're weird people."
"Mhm."
"The air's clean."
"Yep."
"What else?"
Jabber immediately perked up.
"Glad ya asked."
He shifted into a crouch, clearly delighted to finally share everything he'd spent the last hour discovering.
"So."
He held up one finger.
"Folks here speak a completely different language. I couldn't read damn near any sign."
He held up another finger.
"But."
"I eventually found one with English underneath."
"Lucky."
"Real lucky."
Another finger joined the others.
"They also use different money."
Zanka frowned.
"...Money?"
"Yeah."
"I tried payin'."
"...You?"
"I know."
Jabber nodded solemnly.
"I was surprised too."
"You actually tried?"
"I genuinely did."
"..."
"..."
"...Didn't work."
"'Course it didn't."
"They use somethin' called..."
He snapped his fingers repeatedly.
"...Aw, what was it..."
Another snap.
Then another.
"Oh!"
His face lit up.
"Yen."
Silence.
Zanka's expression changed.
Only slightly.
But enough for Jabber to notice immediately.
"...What?"
The blond didn't answer right away.
Instead, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as though the single word had reached into a corner of his memory he hadn't visited in years.
"...Yen..."
he repeated quietly.
Jabber nodded.
"Yeah."
"You know it?"
A strange feeling settled inside Zanka's chest.
"...I..."
He frowned harder.
"...Yeah."
Another pause.
"I think I do."
His gaze drifted away from Jabber entirely.
Back home...
The word wasn't unfamiliar.
Quite the opposite.
Growing up in the Nijiku clan meant growing up surrounded by history.
His family had been obsessed with preserving what remained of the old world.
Ancient books.
Photographs.
Maps.
Coins.
Currency.
Objects whose original purpose had disappeared centuries ago. Whose existence still mattered because they represented where humanity had once come from.
As a child he'd spent countless afternoons sitting through lessons he never wanted, listening to older relatives explain traditions that no longer existed and countries that had long since vanished beneath the chaos that eventually became Ground.
One lesson returned now with startling clarity.
Paper bills.
Foreign currency.
He remembered carefully holding one between his fingers while his father explained that this had once been everyday money.
Not a relic.
Not something locked behind glass.
People had actually bought groceries with it.
Paid rent.
Lived entire lives around tiny pieces of decorated paper.
"...Show me."
Jabber blinked.
"Huh?"
"The money."
"..."
"Show me what ya stole."
Jabber immediately gasped.
Actually gasped.
His hand flew dramatically to his chest.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"How dare you accuse me of such criminal behavior."
Zanka simply stared at him.
He crossed his arms out of habit before immediately uncrossing them with an irritated click of his tongue.
"...Jabber."
"I am deeply offended."
"Jabber."
"I risked my life gatherin' resources."
"Jabber."
"..."
"..."
"...Fine."
He sighed dramatically enough to deserve applause.
"Ruinin' my reputation..."
Reaching into his pocket, Jabber pulled out a folded stack of unfamiliar bills before handing them over.
Zanka accepted them carefully.
The instant the paper touched his fingertips...
He knew.
"...Yeah."
His voice came out barely above a whisper.
"It really is."
The texture.
The colors.
The unfamiliar faces printed across them.
Everything matched the illustrations he'd studied growing up.
Except...
These didn't look ancient.
The edges were crisp.
The paper remained smooth.
No folds.
No discoloration.
No careful preservation behind protective sleeves.
They looked...
New.
Like they'd been printed yesterday.
"...Impossible..."
Jabber leaned closer.
"So?"
"So these're definitely yen."
His thumb slowly brushed across the corner of one bill.
"...Just..."
He frowned.
"...Not the kind I've seen before."
"What d'ya mean?"
"The ones back home're relics."
He glanced down again.
"They're old."
"Worn."
"Fragile."
"My family kept 'em locked away with other stuff from before Ground."
He couldn't stop staring.
"But these..."
Another pause.
"They look like they're still bein' used."
Jabber quietly watched his expression shift between disbelief and fascination.
"...You really recognize 'em."
"More or less."
Zanka nodded slowly.
"My folks made me study this kinda thing growin' up."
"They always said if we forgot where our ancestors came from..."
His lips curled into the faintest smile.
"...We'd eventually forget who we were."
Jabber stared at him for another second before chuckling.
"...Right."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I keep forgettin' you're one'a them rich Nijiku kids."
The sentence landed.
Zanka looked up.
"...I don't remember tellin' you that."
Jabber's smile became immediately more mischievous.
"Course you don't."
"...Then how—"
"You told me."
"I most certainly did not."
"You absolutely did."
"When?"
Jabber pointed toward Mankira, still resting beside him.
"Remember that Trash Beast situation a while back?"
"..."
"The one where I got ya with the hallucinogen."
Zanka's face slowly went blank.
"..."
"..."
"...Oh."
"...Yeah."
"You talked."
"..."
"A lot."
"..."
Silence settled between them again.
Not awkward.
Just… heavy.
The kind that didn’t feel empty so much as full of everything neither of them had said out loud. It hung in the narrow alley with them, pressed in around the cracked pavement and the dim spill of neon from the street beyond, and made even the distant hum of the city seem softer than before.
Zanka stood there with his shoulders still tense, one hand lingering near his side like he wasn’t fully convinced the world had stopped trying to kill him yet. Jabber, for once, didn’t fill the space immediately. He just watched him, expression unreadable for a moment, the usual grin not quite gone but quieter now, like even he understood that some silences weren’t meant to be rushed.
The air between them felt charged in a way that had nothing to do with the strange city around them and everything to do with the fact that both of them had heard things they weren’t supposed to hear. Zanka looked away first, jaw tightening, as if staring at the ground could somehow make the last few minutes disappear. Jabber scratched at the back of his neck, shifting his weight, clearly deciding whether to joke, deflect, or pretend none of it had happened.
Eventually, Jabber broke the silence first.
“…So.”
Zanka sighed instantly.
“What now.”
Jabber gestured toward the city beyond the alley.
“Well…”
A grin returned, softer this time.
“We did the whole ‘don’t die in a random alley’ part already.”
Zanka gave him a deadpan look.
“…Barely.”
“Hey, progress is progress.”
“…Go on.”
“So now we figure out where we are for real.”
Zanka glanced toward the glowing skyline again.
Then back at Jabber.
“…And how long we stuck here.”
“Yup.”
A pause.
“…And food.”
Jabber nodded immediately.
“Especially food.”
Another silence.
This one slightly less tense than the others.
Zanka slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position, wincing slightly as his ribs reminded him of their existence in the most unhelpful way possible.
“…This is ridiculous.”
Jabber chuckled.
“You say that like it’s new.”
Zanka didn’t respond.
Because it wasn’t.
Not really.
After a moment, he looked down at his bandaged arm.
Then at Jabber.
“…You did all this.”
Jabber blinked.
“Yeah?”
“…Why.”
That question landed differently.
Not accusing.
Not sarcastic.
Just… genuinely unclear.
Jabber hesitated.
Then shrugged.
“Woulda been annoying to travel with you dead.”
Zanka stared at him.
“…That’s your reason?”
“That an’ you fight too good to leave on the floor.”
“…Unbelievable.”
Jabber grinned.
“What? I’m honest.”
Zanka shook his head slowly.
“…You’re a problem.”
“Yeah.”
A beat.
“…You’re also stuck with me.”
Zanka muttered it like it tasted bad coming out.
Jabber, of course, smiled wider.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way, Zannie.”
Zanka groaned.
“…Don’t call me that.”
“No promises.”
And for the first time since waking up in this unfamiliar city…
Zanka didn’t immediately argue back.
He just sighed.
“…Let’s find a place to stay.”
Jabber nodded.
“Now that’s the spirit.”
They stood together.
Zanka pushed himself upright, only to freeze halfway as pain flared through his side. He muttered something under his breath, waited for it to settle, then finished standing more carefully.
The alley behind them stayed dark.
The city in front of them stayed bright.
And neither of them had any idea yet…
Just how long “staying for the night” was actually going to mean.