Chapter Text
Zanka's first memory of Givers is not of Givers themselves, but of his older sister, Kyouka. It's late at night and they are huddled together in Kyouka's bed, Kyouka's strong arm wrapped around Zanka’s small shoulders as they face each other. Her hair, long and red as blood, falls down to her side and onto her back. She doesn't exactly look soft, because it's Kyouka, but she doesn't look like she does now, either, when she looks at him. No anger, no disappointment, no resentment. Not directed at him, at least.
She looks like his older sister.
Which means it happened a long time ago, before Zanka lost the right to call her that.
When the world was warm.
“They are dangerous, Zanka,” she had explained, one of her thumbs swiping over the high of his still chubby cheek. “Reckless and short-sighted. They rely on their Vital Instruments fer everything, and are nothin' without 'em. Lazy bunch of wannabe stars, burnin' their souls ta crisps just fer a single second of attention—who in their right mind would put their weakness in such a display? No one.”
She had sounded so disgusted, Kyouka. Such abhorrence in her eyes, such disrespect. The mere idea of Givers evoked repudy in her, and Zanka, even young and yet unaware of the fate that awaited him, had felt fear. Because if anything could cause Kyouka such a reaction, so could he.
He had already known he wasn't special back then, after all. Not how much, not yet, but it had been coming.
Hands trembling, he had reached out to her, latching onto the lapel of her sleeping robe and trying his very best to not pull it or wrinkle it too much. Fearing that those sharp eyes would turn his way and twist, like Kyouka did to the people in the empty rooms with her dagger.
“They think they can do anythin' just 'cause they managed ta bend some laws of nature, but da truth is that they are nothin'. Nothin' special. Shoot a Giver down and they will bleed just as any other person, but unlike them, they will cry and beg and whimper fer their lil' object. No amount of stupid lil' powers can save 'em from their foolishness, do ya understand? They have no honor, and no self respect. They put civilians at risk every day—do ya know how many people put themselves in danger with some trinket they fancy, thinkin' the rush will make 'em a Giver? How many people are lost in their battles, 'cause they refuse ta work with others and don' know how ta control themselves? Most of 'em don' have proper trainin' in anythin'. They know obsession and greed only.”
Zanka, who had been very small and couldn't even imagine a life where you didn't rise with the sun to practice your sword forms, where every hour of your day was not accounted for, dragged from one activity to the other, had shuddered, and even then he hadn't been able to discern if it was in horror or in wonder.
“Selfish, the whole deranged bunch of 'em,” Kyouka had spit, shaking her head. Then she focused back on him, and Zanka had seen it, then. The slight softening of her gaze, the minute curl of her mouth, upwards. “Listen ta me, 'kay?” She continued, her voice softer and lower, like when she had to tell him something Mother and Father and Goka could not know. “Never trust a Giver, Zanka. Ya see someone use those strange lil' magic tricks of theirs, ya call me, yes? And I will take care of 'em. Zan-zan, do ya understand?”
She had cradled his cheek, then, firmly but not squeezing, her hand a heavy, toasty weight over his skin. Zanka had leaned into the touch, giddy, and then he had nodded with so much excitement he almost dislodged it.
“Yea'! I promise!” He had chirped to his sister, and Kyouka—serious, formidable, untouchable Kyouka—had smiled at him, a full curl of her serious mouth, all up, up, up! Zanka's breath had caught in his chest at the sight, and he had held his breath as her hand ran through his hair, tucking it behind his ear in one smooth, gentle movement.
And then, to Zanka's absolute shock and complete wonder, Kyouka pressed a kiss to his forehead.
“Good,” she had whispered against his skin, low and warm, the start and the end of an entire universe in that small gesture, in that short word. “Do not disappoint me.”
“I won'!” Zanka had rushed to assure, earning himself another indulging smile from Kyouka. He had been the happiest boy in the world, right there in that moment, no doubt about it. You could have lit a thousand suns with the joy that had filled his chest in that singular frame of time.
Of course, neither of them had known he was lying, back then.
When things start to crack, Zanka doesn't bring attention to it. He watches Enjin fly and raze entire plots of trash and use Umbreaker as a shield, and does so in admiration. He practices his footwork until he's fast and agile enough to fly past his defenses before Enjin can put them up, he lifts heavier and heavier until his swings can count, until he can stand his own.
The first time he puts a bruise on Enjin’s pretty, shocked face, he can't stop grinning the whole day, especially with his mentor hanging from his shoulders, hyping him up and making him promise to spar again soon.
Enjin was probably holding back, but still. Zanka preens. He did that. An average joe, and he pushed Enjin back.
(Crack, crack, crack, goes the ice. Could he have done more?)
(Of course not. He is an average joe, the unremarkable student.)
(One day he will get there, but not today.)
The second memory he has of Givers is, of course, of Enjin. Radiant, confident Enjin, calling out to the pathetic, good-for-nothing kid in the bottom of the well, offering him both encouragement and hope in a simple bunch of words. All of his family had always expressed their disappointment in long, derisive speeches. Rants and punishments and wake-up calls that had left Zanka in shambles over and over again, coming again before he had a single chance of rebuilding—but not Enjin.
It was nothing for him, of course. Enjin said what he thought and did what he said, genuine like no other and strong enough to back up his every belief, all of his resolutions and hopes and promises. But it had made it all the more valuable for Zanka, his words, because Enjin didn't have to protect him.
Show me what an Average Joe can do against geniuses.
Zanka had thought, I can do that.
And then he had done it. He had crawled out, stupid stick and all, nails torn and hands bloody and limbs weak he had made his way back up the wheel, and over the lip, and then out. Step by immeasurable step, weighted down by thirst, hunger and tiredness, with only the stick and his own brittle force of will holding him up, Zanka had made his way back to the Hell's Guard—and not much later, somewhat recovered physically but absolutely destroyed emotionally and mentally, with both his siblings scorn, his father's censure, and his mother's fury burning at his back, he had made his way out of there, too, nothing but the stick, Enjins' words, and his own resolution to prove himself in any way he could to his name.
He had thought he could do it, back then. That he had finally found his path.
Zanka had not been called foolish his whole life for nothing.
There is a shift, undeniable, deeper than his skin, than his muscles, than his bones. It goes on for years, bending him but never breaking him. Zanka does nothing about it. He goes toe to toe with Riyo, sometimes literally. The Ripper weaves between her feet like it's an extension of her, the sharp, gigantic edges falling over him like an executioner's blade. Dodging becomes an art form, especially when he convinces her to whip out her gun, and he has to stop both forms of attack.
He manages, sometimes. Lovely Assistaff becomes a somewhat immovable force before him, his body unstoppable as he closes the distance between them and puts Riyo on her back, forearm against her neck as she trashes. She is a trained killer, though, better at stealth and close combat. Even without The Ripper she could likely take him out in five seconds flat. Still, Zanka keeps at it, and Riyo indulges him.
They both end up exhausted after every spar, sweaty and sore, but it feels like the sun is peeking from behind his chest the first time Riyo, nose broken and bleeding and teeth pink from a solid punch to the jaw, pats his arm and tells him:
“Y'know, I'm sooooo glad we are on the same side.”
“That ws’ nothin’,” Zanka grumbles still, not quite satisfied with his performance. Riyo giggles, but there is an exasperated edge to her voice when she says:
“Why don't you let me compliment you for once, uh? You party-popper.” Zanka blushes, but quiets down. “Better! Good job today, Z!”
Not good enough, though, Zanka thinks. Riyo pats his shoulder, and every little touch feels like it's bringing him a step closer to a calving.
Never good enough.
Too average for that.
Then, of course, there is himself. Himself, Zanka Nijiku, on the day he awakened Lovely Asistaff. His stick. His most precious object. His Vital Instrument—the very incarnation of his soul; its truest, deepest, clearest form.
Zanka loves Lovely Asistaff more than anything else in the whole wide world.
But he doesn't like to think about that day too often.
(The day he failed her).
Ignoring it is part of his routine, really. The feeling of a fist squeezing his lungs at all times, of ice right under his skin, unable to be melted no matter how much tea Zanka drinks or how warm the water is when bathes himself. It's uncomfortable, and it makes him more irritable sometimes—but doesn't everything? Zanka is still the outsider anyway, no matter what weird feeling is crawling around in his chest. Eishia said he wasn't sick, and that's all that mattered. Maybe it was just another manifestation of his frustration, the stress of being the one always keeping up finally cashing its debts.
(The feeling of unending cold, of eternal loneliness, ice spitters digging into his skin from the inside, breaking him into glimmering little nothings until he is nothing at all—)
(It surely is nothing.)
Still, having an idea of what it may be doesn't help. Especially when Zanka is up against Rudo.
Rudo, who is a genius among geniuses, fast and strong, and with an honestly overpowered Vital Instrument. Anything he touches is a weapon, quite literally—he’s the most adaptable Cleaner, and one of the most tenacious, too. Rudo has an anger to him, a kind of violence that's seated deep, impossible to remove, leaking into the rest of his body like toxic waste. It makes it so that defeat is not an option to him. No matter how many times you kick him down, he gets back up. No matter how you best him, he comes back with vengeance.
So Zanka goes for overwhelming him. Rudo is young and vicious, yes, but also hotheaded and untrained. Zanka is his mentor, of course, and he does try to teach Rudo proper forms, how to defend and dodge and attack—but Rudo won't listen. He has a way to do things, a way that works for him, and that's winging it. It's fine—again, Rudo is a genius. One of their newest recruits, and despite that, also one of their strongest combatants all around. He doesn't need to put in more effort, not if he doesn't want to.
But, as it's proper, Zanka has to at least try to show him the consequences of his actions.
Against Rudo, Zanka goes all out. He attacks him like he's not human, because sometimes it seems that Rudo is not. Rudo answers in kind, ruthless fashion. Their Vital Instruments clash over and over and over again, and Zanka can't help but be pleased at it. This great talent, and ordinary little Zanka, armed with just a stick, has him giving it his all. It makes him dizzy, half contentment, half something else. It makes his smile curl too sharp, and his teeth ache for more.
But there is no more to do.
In the end, it's just a matter of time. Inevitably, Rudo gets too frustrated. He slips. He goes too far over his own limits, overestimates his strength, miscalculates his actions. And Zanka uses it all against him: a hit to the jaw here, a disorienting kick there, a quick and efficient disarming—and Rudo is eating dust, flat on his belly and raging against Zanka. It's bittersweet, to huff and pet the kid’s hair to calm him down enough that Zanka can step away without immediate retaliation. He has won this, but he knows it's temporary. Rudo will surpass him, inevitably. This untrained and unrefined brand-new Giver two years his junior.
Soon, Zanka will be catching up to him.
But not yet.
When, then?
Soon.
Crack, crack, crack, sna—
No.
“How did you do that?” Rudo says later, at dinner, looking at Zanka suspiciously. “I didn't even—see you. Move, that's it.”
Riyo croaks a laugh, as Enjin snickers.
“I told ya, didn't I?” His mentor replies, leaning forward and flicking Rudo on the forehead. “Zanka, he's not—” and then he grimaces, giving Zanka a side eye.
Zanka shrugs.
“I ain't a genius like y'all,” he says simply, plainly. It's the truth. “Everythin’ ‘s hard fer me. Nothin’ comes naturally. Whatcha saw today? Pure hard work.” Zanka closes his fist over the table, hands shaking. “I gotta do it over ‘n over ‘n over again, there ‘s always ta next big talent, always on ma face—but I do it. I will do it. As many times as it takes.”
He lifts his eyes, catching Rudo’s blood red ones. There is something there, like there was in the infirmary. A lack of pity, a kind of respect.
Slowly, Rudo nods.
“Teach me.”
“Mn?”
“How to do better. I will—I don't want to be left behind.”
That is extremely unlikely to happen. Rudo will likely get a power up of some kind soon—get over some mental barrier, unlock a deeper power, connect with some higher being. It's what his kind does, held by a different logic than the average man. Than Zanka.
But that's fine. Zanka has always known that would happen. And anyway, if Rudo gets better, then Zanka will just have another milestone to get to and overcome.
(How many will he end up having? Will every single one of his co-workers, his teammates, his friends and his family members become unreachable goals?)
(What right does Rudo have to fear being left behind, when he has all the natural talent, the winning cheating card, and so many people willing to patiently nurture him until he grows into both?)
“I’ve been tryin’, brat. Ya just never pay any damn attention.”
(But what right does Zanka have to resent him for it, when that's just the way Rudo was born?)
“I will!”
(Some things can't be helped, after all.)
“Sure ya will,” he dismissed.
(Some fates are already sealed.)
Do you understand?
Yes, I promise!
Liar. Mistake, disappointment, average, liar—
Next day, Rudo does try. It's hard for him, but he learns. Quickly, of course. A week later he wins against Zanka. Three more and Zanka manages to beat him again. Two days later Rudo picks up a broken broom and absolutely obliterates Zanka with it. With a stick.
It's fine.
Zanka lays there on the floor, contemplating the way Rudo holds that broom, similar to how Zanka holds Lovely. The broom, of course, looks different now, the wood black, gnarly as if possessed and shooting actual fucking laser beams Zanka's way.
It's such a neat magic trick, that for a moment, Zanka is filled with such an all-consuming rage that he feels as if he could just blow Rudo into smithens right there and then. Destroy this great shining star until only the ashes remain. His fists close, knuckles white and bloody shaking, and he feels it, the weird feeling, briefly loosening its hold. Zanka envisions getting back on his feet and going at Rudo like his bones call him to, showing this little genius what a real threat looks like, what a monster can really do. The feeling settles over him like a warm blanket, momentarily chasing off the layers of ice splintering his lungs from the inside—
Except that it seems that Rudo feels it, too, because his eyes widen, and then his stance. He pours more power into R3, and R3 into the broom. His pupils narrow until they are pinpricks, and he looks—
He looks powerful. He looks powerful, more than Zanka could ever hope to be. His hands loosen on Asistaff as the Hold takes over his chest again, stilling him, freezing him in place. He can't—he can throw himself at Rudo weapon first, but he can't win.
A real genius, that kid is.
White hair, flat eyes, a practice knife to his throat. A real genius.
Not like Zanka. Not Rudo, not—
Red hair, blue eyes, a gun to his forehead—or is it a kiss—?
Her.
So Zanka forces his anger to slip away, and gets back up, hands first then knees then pushing until upright, Lovely settling next to him with a final, reassuring tap. Biting, asphyxiating cold courses through him, and so Zanka takes a trembling, painful breath in, does not choke, and then lets it go.
Isn't it just a chair?
He lets it all go.
You just want people to tell you you are amazing.
Rudo frowns, looking confused.
Do not disappoint me.
Zanka's hands shake, so he curls them tighter around Lovely, the warm—always warm, his sweet girl—wood digging into his frigid skin.
“Again,” Zanka demands, taking a stance.
Rudo doesn't hesitate for more than half a second. Zanka notices, but it's okay. It is.
They go again.
The result doesn't change, but he lasts a bit longer. Then longer the next. Then he almost manages it. It's good. It's fine.
Zanka goes steady. He learns. He can only count on himself—no spells, no natural talent, no heritage, no legacy, no genius. Just him and his stick against the world.
You just want people to tell you you are amazing.
He will make it.
You—
And if something rumbles inside him, rattling his bones, making his every step heavy—he ignores it. It doesn't matter: he will achieve his victories anyway. Blood, sweat, tears, time. It's not the Nijiku way, but it is Zanka's.
He strides forward. No matter what.
You are no—
He strides forward. He does. No matter how long it's taking him to recover and how many missions he misses and how bitter it makes him, the way everyone tries to hide from him that Fu—bizzarre, weird, needy, simple-minded, ex-Raider Fu who can't even control his own powers—beat the guy that put Zanka on bed rest for months in two seconds flat.
It's fine. Fu may look like his brain is as smooth as a pebble, but he was recruited by the Raiders for a reason, and that reason seems to be that he can get possessed by his Vital Instrument and apparently obliterate anything in sight. It's fine. So what if Fu is stronger than Jabber, and Riyo as strong as him, and Rudo is in a category of his own, and Enjin for sure has a second Vital Instrument in that pouch his right hand always hovers over when their fights get a little too complicated? Zanka can and will work harder, he will catch up, and he will—he will do it on his own, he doesn't need—he may be average, but he can—he can't, he—
He—
Do not—
He can't… breathe…