Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started in Hole Town after yet another cyclical process of taking on a handful of jobs that debilitates him as the sun sets and finding lingering food stalls to replenish his energy. He couldn't remember what food it was but it was really salty and was on a stick. Zanka had stopped being selective about what goes in his stomach since he started this suboptimal habit of working himself to the bone. It's not as if he was present enough to be meticulous about food anyway. He saves his remaining cognizance and pours it elsewhere before regretting everything later when his stomach lambastes him at the comfort of his home.

Of course, the salted ashtray and dust tasting edibles were barely enough to recharge him physically, but it was enough to give him around eighty percent of brain functionality. By the time he was finished with his third stick, he had stopped leaning against his staff and regained enough coherence to realize he'd been absentmindedly strolling to the town center where people gather around for trades. The sun had already set which means he'd just stumbled upon Hole Town's night market.

This isn't the first time Zanka witnessed the clamorous hustlers and hagglers. Enjin always make sure to maledict Zanka with a hefty dose of people whenever they do jobs together. Which is why Zanka immediately noticed the difference between his previous trips here to the sight infront of him. The usual higgledy-piggledy ocean of vendors and consumers had notably lessened. Some stall spots were vacant and the shoppers weren't bumping onto each other. At first, Zanka assumed it was because it's still early, but when he noticed the queer ambience, he immediately discarded that assumption. Slowly, he noticed how tense people are. Some keep looking over their shoulders with paranoia and wariness while others were downright hostile.

He turned to the nearest food stall vendor who looked disappointed with the dearth of generous customers and asked, "Hey, what's up with this place? The vibe's kinda off."

The old man stopped fanning the coals on the grill and looked at him grimly. "This your first time here?"

"Not really." Zanka didn't bother to explain himself.

"Then you prolly noticed people being a bit edgy." The old man flipped the grilled... whatever that is. "Fuck, business isn't really looking pretty for us sellers."

"What happened?"

"Oh who knows. People just started disappearing. It started off small, but now a third of the town is gone like a fart in the wind."

Zanka's eyes narrowed. A third? That isn't exactly a small amount. "People?"

"Yeah, kid. People. Kids, geezers, men, women or whatever—they all started vanishing." The old man snorts bitterly, "Hell, even my regulars fucked off."

Zanka looked thoughtful for a moment. The case sounds awfully familiar.

He'd overhead some supporters at the HQ talk about some of their relatives suddenly ghosting them for no reason. He normally wouldn't care about their personal lives, but it happened to more than just one person and the numbers kept moving up. Maybe it's related to this.

He should report this to the HQ.

"Any specific areas where they disappeared to?"

The old man gave him a look, then stared at the cleaners logo on Zanka's uniform. "Outer east."

"Thanks." Zanka walked towards that direction.

"Oi, kid!"

"... what?"

"You bring me my regulars back, alright?"

"Sure."

---

The outer east side of Hole Town was the furthest from the entrance and have the least sunlight. Right now, it's the perfect venue to host human trafficking trades if you take advantage of the lack of residents, which was odd since the less sky you see means less trash storm to harm you. Why would people vacate such place?

As Zanka slowly made his way to the darkest parts of the area, he began to wonder why the Hell Guards aren't investigating such a large scale missing people case.

Doesn't matter. Anyways...

Zanka held Assistaff tightly as he stood in the middle of a suspiciously clean alleyway. He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath before turning to his right. "Come out."

His muscles tensed, ready to immediately strike if his newly acquired malignant stalker decides to tussle with him, but also measured enough to avoid serious harm in case they decide to be friendly. Not that Zanka has faith on the latter. He'd been feeling that malicious glare from the moment he stepped into the alley.

So he prepared to coax Assistaff to take her other form.

Light footsteps echoed across the deserted alley. A boy—probably around Rudo's age and as equally malnourished—stepped into the light with faux agita. He had dirty blond hair chopped unevenly between his ears and his neck, cheeks dotted with a litany of freckles and dull blue eyes that couldn't hide his deep-seated animosity no matter how much he try to widen them to look innocent.

Yep.

One strike should be enough.

Zanka let Assistaff abandon her inert form and shift into something heavier and firm, feeling the way the rough wood smoothened into hard metal against the palm of his hand. Though he didn't move an inch from where he's at. Not yet, at least.

"Hey, are you the one behind all this?" He asked in a disinterested tone. "You a giver or something?"

"I... I don't know what you're talking abo—"

"Cut the crap, kid. Are you even a kid? Your voice is too deep. Are you a small guy pretending to be a kid?" Zanka tries to rile him up. Not the brightest thing to do in his situation, he knows, but Zanka just wanted the boy to slip and give Zanka the perfect excuse to attack.

The boy's face turned a bit red, "I am a real boy!"

"Sounds like something an old man would say."

"You—!" The boy's intentions of playing sheep was thrown out the window in an instant and his eyes glowed green. It wasn't like Riyo's bright emerald. His color was light green, almost bordering in yellow. Like decaying leaves. "Srew you!"

How easy.

Zanka braced himself, feeling his nerves light up like flash powder crackling towards his brain. He yanked the feeling of adrenaline that shot up his spine and kept it locked in his chest, relishing on the feeling. It's been a while since he last fought a someone, not a something. Trash beasts are good targets but nothing beats the way a human fights. Maybe Zanka needed sleep. He's not usually this reckless. Ever since he fought that prick—... nevermind.

Zanka was pulled out of his head when the boy held a slingshot and fired at him. It wasn't glowing so that probably isn't the kid's vital instrument. It should be something that causes people to disappear, which means Zanka has to make sure to watch where he's going while parrying the marbles with Assistaff's blunt side. He can't shattered them, who knows what's inside those things.

"That all you got, old man?"

"I'm not an old man!" His eyes glowed brighter and finally, Zanka saw what his vital instrument was. It was attached to his hip inside a small pouch bag. It glowed alongside the boy's eyes. Is he not gonna use it? Disappointing.

Bored, Zanka pushed himself off his spot and rushed towards the boy with his arms positioned to swing his Assistaff.

Then, the boy's frustrated glare twists into an unhinged grin.

That's when Zanka knew he fucked up.

Because the moment Assistaff's blunt side hits the boy, he'd already shielded himself with his vital instrument. A small mirror.

Then, he felt an extreme force pulling him into the mirror.

He really should've reported to the HQ first.

Chapter Text

Not even a minute after the light engulfed him, Zanka found himself stumbling towards a wet, moss covered, brick wall. Out of his innate instinct to avoid soiling his uniform, he used his partner as a prop, her teeth digging into the wall while he tightened his grip to halt his momentum. With a grimace, he pulled her out after regaining his footing, mentally apologizing to her. He gently caressed her length and observes the remnants of moss on her blades before giving her a whirl to shake it off. Once she was clean, he felt her hum against the palm of his hand, satisfied.

Eventually, Zanka managed to gather himself and take a look at his surroundings. The first thing he noticed is the fact that he isn't in Hole Town anymore. If he was, he'd be at one hell of a rich alleyway. Bricks are rarely produced and are hella expensive. Who'd use it on an alley wall? It's pretty solid too. Old, but that's already given considering the thick layer of moss. Definitely not Canvas Town either, those people would burn whoever spray painted that bright blue phallic shape alive.

Some other town then.

He thought about the boy. Was his ability teleportation like that blue haired raider girl? Or maybe Zanka is trapped inside some sort of mirror world?

Only one way to find out.

Zanka looked up, then squints when he saw the unusually tall buildings around him. And by tall, he meant towering, unmarred by even a smidge of filth. They were so tall that they're almost disappearing into the dim sky, as if reaching for the sphere itself. No covers whatsoever to block out the trash storms, yet there was not a sign of blemish on them.

"What the fuck?" He mumbled before raising his left hand, aligning the choker — or in his case, a bracelet — to his face as he tried to contact Enjin. Nothing. It didn't even ring. Zanka tried again. Still nothing. He then switched from calling Enjin to calling Semiu. When she didn't answer, Zanka knew he was alone. He'd contact the others but if Semiu herself didn't pick up, the others probably won't either. There's no need to waste his time standing idly.

"A mirror world it is then." He concludes for now.

Zanka eyed the fire escape of one building — which looks like an apartment building — beyond the wall.

Then, he jumped towards the opposite wall behind him and used it as a boost to push himself up the other, using his arms to pull himself up before going over the barrier, landing silently on the ground. When he landed, he stood straight, whirled his partner back to her dormant form as he walked towards the stairs. As he goes up, he kept looking around for surveillance cameras. There were a few but none directly aimed at his direction. Good. If there's cameras, there's footage and if there's footage, someone is bound to watch them. He doesn't need any creep's eyes on him while he's here.

Finally, he reached higher ground.

The city stretched with way too many buildings packed shoulder to shoulder, reaching up like they were trying to outdo each other in height. Some older structures had statues — winged dogs with wide teeth and curling tails, frozen mid-snarl or mid-yawn — Zanka couldn't tell. He’d seen something like it back in Canvas Town. On a wall.

He looked down to see the broad roads congested with cars dragging themselves from one place to another, people crowding the sidewalks beside oddly compelling shops, the whole place kept in a respectable level of clean that felt faintly wrong as hell. It stirred a dull recollection of Kamutari District, where he wasted his days at the Academy. Just as clean, more or less, though that place was cursed with those perpetually sandy, narrow roads that never stopped being a nuisance to him and his shoes.

Zanka took in how placid the place appeared and found himself wondering if this was what the world settled into when it wasn’t constantly getting pelted by that damned rain of filth.

Doesn't matter.

Great or not, this world isn't his. Who knows. Maybe this whole shit is just an illusion to tempt him to stay here.

Now, Zanka thought, he should probably start figuring out how to get the hell out of this place if it really was a mirror world. There had to be some sort of condition tied to it. Well — it’s a mirror. Mirrors show reflections, or spell out things a person couldn’t see on their own. If this turned into some self-discovery arc, Zanka figured he might as well jump off the damn roof.

Like hell he'd stay here for character development. He can develop fine outside, thank you very much.

Zanka kept turning over every miserable possibility until the whole thing devolved into a long-winded internal rant that eventually circled back to a single, irritating question — why the hell he, of all painfully average people, was the one stuck here? Sure, he’d been monumentally stupid getting caught in that kid’s trap, but still.

Zanka scanned the city and caught sight of several billboards plastered with unfamiliar images, names, and products. One showed a man in a blue suit with an S stamped inside a diamond on his chest, a red cape trailing behind him and — why the fuck was he wearing his underwear on the outside? The text beside him read, Superman. It looked like the protagonist in one of those kid-friendly shows that barely anyone actually bothered to watch.

Fucking focus.

He shook his head and remembered the Academy drills on undercover work. Walking around in uniform wasn’t exactly subtle, and his partner... yeah. He couldn’t help but wonder if people in this world even had vital instruments, or if he’d just end up sticking out like an idiot with a big ass stick.

Undercover was out of the question, then. He’d have to linger in the shadows for now.

His stomach growled. Fuck.

He supposed it would be smart to figure out his limits before he ended up croaking from hunger in some immaculate alleyway no one would bother checking. Not exactly a heroic way to go, but then again, nothing about him had ever leaned heroic. He’d probably miscalculate something simple — timing, distance, how long a body could keep moving on fumes — and just drop suddenly like the underwhelming idiot he’d always suspected he was. Hell, maybe that’s the pattern of his life anyway. Overestimating himself, underestimating everything else, and then whining when reality punched him in the teeth. Probably die alone, half-starved, clutching his partner like a consolation prize for being fundamentally mediocre. Everything he’d done up to this point felt like warm-up exercises for this exact kind of failure, and he wasn’t even sure he’d manage that gracefully. Fuck, he was pathetic. A grown-ass man who couldn’t even keep himself fed without turning it into a tactical ordeal. All his “skills,” all his training, and here he was, shivering on a rooftop, debating how long he could go without eating before he became nothing more than a cautionary tale. Maybe this was exactly what he deserved — stuck in some twisted mirror world, failing at everything he touched, proving once again that the universe didn’t need him — woah.

Calm the fuck down.

... well, his money probably wasn’t even the same currency here, and yeah, he could steal if he really wanted to — which he didn’t. Not because he had morals or some bullshit like that, but because he wouldn’t stoop that low. Maybe if hunger finally fried what was left of his brain he’d reconsider, but for now… focus on the matter at hand.

What was he doing again?

Bitch, lock the hell in.

Right. Find the piece, or the core, or whatever the fuck held this place together, and get out. Flawless logic. Absolutely no chance of it going sideways.

Then, there were screams from below.

Oh whoopie fucking doo.

Zanka looked down from the roof and saw people bolting across the street, yelling, shoving, scrambling for their bags, fumbling with gas masks. From the far end of the street came a warped circus tune, and a steady plume of green gas drifted through the air.

If his time as a Cleaner meant anything, colored gas was a hard no — keep it out of your mouth, away from your eyes, don’t even think about breathing it in. He yanked his support bag toward him and pulled out his Full Face.

Zanka watched the people without masks, their terror so raw it made him want to look away. He reminded himself none of this was real, but fuck it. He scaled down the walls and landed on the road, moving toward the ones who hadn’t gotten away fast enough. The smoke made visibility shit, but he could still hear movements under the circus music, subtle shifts and scrambling that told him where he needed to go.

He made it to an old man wheezing in the smoke. Shit. He hoisted him up and bolted toward where the gas might thin out, but halfway there, the man started trembling, then snickering, and finally exploded into full-on, maniacal laughter. What the hell.

At first, Zanka thought the man was fucking with him, until the sirens blared and a voice crackled through the street speakers.

“Attention, citizens of this sector: a hazardous situation is in progress. Code Joker. I repeat: Code Joker. The Joker has released the laughing gas. Avoid inhalation at all costs. Seek immediate shelter indoors. Keep doors and windows sealed. Gas masks or improvised respiratory protection are strongly advised. Do not engage the perpetrator. Remain calm, stay low, and await further instructions. Repeat: the Joker’s laughing gas is active. Protect yourselves and others. Evacuate only when safe.”

Zanka internally screeched. What the fuck is laughing gas, and who the fuck is the Joker?

He scooped up a child who was on the sidewalk laughing and grabbed an old lady, tucking the kid under one arm and holding the woman by the forearm, keeping the man balanced on his back with a careful grip under the shoulders and around the chest. It was awkward as hell, but the weight distributed enough that he could still run without tripping. He sprinted, with every ounce of energy he had left, away from the scene, heart hammering, lungs burning, cold, exhausted, terrified, and surrounded by people who wouldn’t stop laughing. Their cries mixed with the giggles, eyes wide and begging, and he didn’t even know what he’d do once he made it out of here.

He forced himself to push harder, scolding his own ass for not being fast enough already. Every step felt like he was dragging a ton of bricks instead of people, but he had to keep moving. Pathetic as he was, slowing down wasn’t an option — not while these idiots depended on him, even if he didn’t know what the hell he was going to do once they were out of the smoke. His mind started fraying. He couldn’t think straight anymore. Directions blurred. Left, right, forward — did it even matter? All he could do was keep moving, one sloppy, frantic step after another, praying he wouldn’t collapse before he got them out.

He was scared. Terrified, actually. Every instinct was screaming at him to bail, to hide, to curl up and stop thinking about any of this. But these people — hell, they needed more help. The kid under his arm, the old lady clutching his sleeve, the man strapped to his back — they weren’t going to survive if he slowed down now.

Why won't they stop laughing?

As he kept running, he started hearing other people again, and the green smoke began thinning. When he reached the scene, he saw a cluster of cars and trucks parked haphazardly, some black devices attached to the walls, humming as they sucked in the gas and filtered it out.

Men in blue uniforms were shouting orders, corralling panicked survivors into safer zones, their radios buzzing nonstop. Medics scrambled through the chaos, dragging unconscious people onto stretchers, slapping oxygen masks on the coughing, covering the eyes of those too frightened to move. People pushed and shoved, some crying, some laughing still, some completely frozen, and Zanka had to weave through it all, heart hammering, trying to get the ones he carried into the hands of the professionals without tripping or dropping anyone.

A medic’s voice cut through the chaos.

“Stretcher! I need a stretcher, now!”

Zanka practically dropped the old man and the child into the group’s arms while the medics grabbed them, strapping them down quickly. One of them jabbed a syringe into the old lady’s arm, muttering something about a fast-acting sedative, another pressed a small mask over the kid’s face to help him breathe through the lingering gas.

“Keep him still!” another medic shouted. “We need them stable before they start convulsing!”

Zanka stumbled back, hands still trembling, watching as the medics worked, wishing he had even the tiniest clue what the injections were, but too tired and too scared to ask.

The medics shook their heads at each other over the old man and covered him with a sheet before Zanka could even react.

Zanka’s stomach sank. Fuck. Dead. He had carried him, hauled him, risked himself — and it hadn’t been enough. He wanted to scream, to throw something, but his own lungs were still burning and he was so damn tired.

Zanka didn’t know how long he’d been standing there, frozen, watching body get hauled off, when the speaker crackled to life again.

“Attention, citizens: the Joker has been apprehended. Please remain calm and await further support as the smoke clears. Emergency personnel will continue assisting affected individuals. Do not leave safe zones until the area is declared secure.”

The man had died laughing and crying at the same time. What the fuck kind of gas did that? And the Joker — he was behind it? How could someone be that horrifically, disgustingly cruel? He doubted anyone on these streets had done anything to deserve it, so… why? Just… why? The question hammered in his skull, echoing over the ringing in his ears and the fading sirens, leaving nothing but a raw, empty frustration he didn’t even have the energy to name.

He felt a presence behind him and was too slow turning around to meet it.

A man stood there, weird as hell. Black mask covering only his eyes, red suit, black X-shaped belt with tiny yellow cylinder things strapped across it, a strange symbol at the intersection of the X. A black cape hung behind him, and he twirled a metal staff lazily in one hand.

“Hello,” the man said casually like he wasn’t standing in the middle of chaos. “Cool mask. Where’d you get it?”

Zanka braced himself, ready to shift his partner into her fighting form, feeling every ounce of exhaustion weighing down his arms and legs. So damn tired, and yet he had to be ready.

The man tilted his head. “You Narwhal or something?”

Zanka froze for a second. Narwhal? What the fuck was a narwhal?

Another boy stepped into view, shorter than the first, cloak draped over his lower body, but Zanka could make out the bulk of protective gear underneath.

"tt, obviously he's a Rhinoceros.”

Zanka blinked. Again… what the hell was that?

One of the men in blue uniform approached the two, keeping his distance but moving with purpose. “Red Robin, Robin, we’ve got this area covered,” he said respectfully.

The taller one — Red Robin — nodded without breaking his stance. “We can see that. Thanks.”

The shorter one didn’t even acknowledge him, just let his eyes linger on Zanka.

A medic rushed up to Zanka, holding a syringe. “You’re exposed too — you need an injection.”

Zanka, already spiraling and his brain fried from everything, didn’t even process properly. Didn’t care who the hell it was or what the injection did.

He fucking ran.

Chapter Text

Zanka's figure dissolved back into the green mist.

There was not a single solid reason why Zanka bolted from the scene, other than the fact that those two masked people were setting his nerves unpleasantly on fire, and that he neither had enough mental clarity to deduce their motives nor the physical stamina to afford a fight. He also believed he should get away as soon as possible to avoid any more emotional damage. Seeing that man die was enough, thanks.

He made an arc toward yet another alleyway, where he noticed the fog thinning and little to no presence of people at all. Zanka kept going until all the green disappeared from his sight. Only then did he manage to let his shoulders sag before ripping off his mask.

He leaned against the wall, no longer concerned about whatever filth might latch onto the fabric of his uniform, then ran his hand across his partner’s shaft, pressing her against his forehead and letting her calm him down. A faint hum only he could sense rippled through his skin and toward his chest, easing his erratic heart, then toward his brain, silencing the laughter ringing in his ears. All the excitement washed away, and his vision cleared.

“…thanks,” he whispered to her.

Zanka weighed why he had been in such a state earlier. He normally didn’t react that way — vulnerable and a bit pathetic. Perhaps it was the lack of food, rest, and sleep frying his brain and leaving him emotionally confused.

He should focus on getting out of here.

It’s not like he hadn’t seen death and cruelty before. He’d seen the Hell Guards beat someone to death and corpses crushed by trash storms. This… this was nothing new.

His eyes closed for a moment, then he exhaled and pushed himself off the wall, calmer than he had been in the last few hours. His stomach was still gurgling, but he could manage just fine for a day. He’d gone without food for longer than that before.

Thinking back to the matter at hand, Zanka recollected all the information at his disposal. First was the string of missing people. Those people could also be here if they had come across that kid’s vital instrument. He could locate them and gain more information, which he should have considered the moment he entered this place. Up until now, Zanka had only been thinking about escaping this world by himself. All the fun had made him forget his main objective. Idiot.

Second was this world itself. It was like an actual world, extremely different from his, with its own systems and problems. He would have to treat everything here as if it were real — because it might just be. The chances were indefinite.

The question was: where should he start looking?

“Oh?”

Zanka’s blood went cold and scalding at once when he heard that familiar voice. That tone dripping with amusement, glee, and something he couldn’t name. The way the syllables dragged on for more than a second, as if savoring the taste of the air around the word.

Zanka couldn’t forget that voice if he tried.

Jabber. How the hell was he here?

“It’s Mister Bad Attitude!”

Zanka turned to the end of the alley to face him.

And oh, did he feel the zenith of rage when he saw that disgusting set of wide, glowing eyes looking at him with an unconcealed desire for a fight. The eyes that had always looked at Zanka with erotomaniac thrill, stripping him bare — not physically, but in the sense that he shamelessly gauged what was inside Zanka, as if he wanted to touch it, toy with it, and then pull it out with his bare teeth.

And Zanka fucking hated it.

He didn’t know what happened in the next two seconds, but when he came to his senses, he had already struck the man with Assistaff’s blades. He hadn’t even noticed her shifting form.

Of course, the fucker managed to dodge. Not that he looked particularly fond of dodging. He didn’t seem to care whether he got hit before — in fact, he even looked like he loved it — but both of them knew that hit could have ended it all quickly had it actually landed.

Jabber landed a few inches away from the small crater on the pavement made by Assistaff’s impact, looking even more thrilled.

“Aww! You missed me too, didn’t you?” He licked his lower lip and bit it. “…that look on your face… shit, you look like you want to skin me alive.”

Zanka’s ears rang, and he felt rage overtake his reasoning. His partner felt heavier in his hand as her fangs grew.

“Oh? You’ve got new tricks, Zanka? C’mon! Show me! Don’t be shy! Don’t hold back, ’kay?” Jabber’s Mankira activated, and he hurled himself toward Zanka, who met his claws with the plane of his staff and parried them.

Zanka’s arms jolted by instinct and blocked Jabber’s other clawed hand sneaking toward his side using Assistaff’s lower end, causing the man to snicker.

Just like before, Zanka couldn’t think of anything except beating that smug grin off this asshole’s face.

Jabber moved away before rushing toward him again, which Zanka blocked. He did it over and over until Zanka felt his whole upper body complaining about the constant pressure.

Slowly, Jabber’s grin began to disappear.

Zanka tightened his grip on Assistaff and felt his blood boil at that look of disappointment. It felt like thorns were crawling up his throat and into his head, spikes piercing his brain, threatening to burst from his eye sockets and skewer his eyes. He couldn’t explain it, but Zanka just knew… he had to stop blocking and start attacking.

It didn’t matter if he collapsed.

“What? You’re just gonna block? Man, you got me all worked up for nothing—”

Zanka punched him in the ribs with far more force than necessary. A thrill shot down his spine when he felt something crack against his knuckles.

The impact sent Jabber to the side, creating a crack in the wall as he coughed out blood. He sat there for a moment, then grinned, touching the spot Zanka had injured. The act made him hiss in pain before laughing.

“Shit… for a moment there I thought you’d gone soft. Fuck. You’re toying with my feelings, man. You’re so cruel.” He looked even more manic. “You planned it, didn’t ya? Wanted me to lower my guard and all.”

Not at all. Zanka was barely holding it together. What plan? He was desperate. Fuck this guy and his assumptions that Zanka was more than an average Joe.

“You talk too much,” was what Zanka said instead of showing his discomfort.

Jabber was in front of him in an instant, laughing with far too much glee, and Zanka barely managed to block the attack.

At that moment, Zanka remembered the inside of that trash beast. It hadn’t played out the same way, but it felt the same. When the sound of clashing blades rang across the alley, Zanka’s mind emptied and filled with nothing but Jabber.

Zanka used what little space he had in the alley — a disadvantage to him — and shifted into a striking stance the moment Jabber retreated to build momentum for his next attack.

The man made a decisive swipe for Zanka’s face, which he dodged by twisting his ankle and pushing himself aside. Mankira sliced the air a few millimeters from his eyeball and caught the end of Zanka’s earring, cutting it. Zanka used that moment to slam into Jabber’s side like a ball, Assistaff acting as his bat.

Jabber crashed into the wall, clutching the side Zanka had mercilessly sliced open — though Zanka had made sure it wasn’t deep enough to be fatal.

Jabber pressed an open palm to the wound and shuddered before letting out a shaky moan. “The same spot? Really, Zanzan?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Aww, don’t be like that. You’re making it so much harder for me to resist you.” He lifted his hand to his face and licked his own blood from his fingertips, snickering before cutting his outstretched tongue with Mankira’s blade.

Zanka knew what that meant. The crazy pervert had just numbed himself.

“Really? Using the same tricks?” Zanka mumbled.

Jabber cackled, and they launched into another round of slicing, dodging, striking, and kicking — until finally Zanka managed to cage him between the wall and Assistaff’s teeth.

“Enough,” Zanka panted, breath ragged, blood pouring from the corners of his lips and his freshly broken nose. “How’d you get here?”

“Why are you asking boring questions, Zanzan?” Jabber inched closer to the blades pointed at his throat.

“Answer me.”

Jabber frowned. “Man, you’re killing the mood.”

Zanka punched him in the stomach.

Jabber coughed between giggles.

“Oh, Zanka… only you could tease me like this. Weak punches in the same spots just to make it hurt… it’s not enough. C’mon, just give it to me…” he whispered.

“You fucking freak—”

Before he could finish, Jabber swiped at his stomach, the blades catching skin after cutting through layers of fabric. The man didn’t care when Assistaff’s fangs sank into his throat.

Shit.

Zanka immediately jumped away, clutching his stomach in panic.

No… no, nonono. He couldn’t afford to lose here. He didn’t have any backup. He… he might die.

“It’s been fun, Zanzan… but did ya know? There are lots of strong people in this place. You get me so well, but…” His smile dropped slightly. “It makes me so sad…”

Dread settled heavy in Zanka’s stomach. Even as numbness crept through his body, it was the look on Jabber’s face that made him feel… small. He knew this feeling. He should have been used to it by now. So why did it still…

“I’ve been holding back from the start, y’know?”

Why did this keep happening to him? Why did they expect so much, only to leave him alone with the disappointment when he fell short?

Jabber grinned again. “Oh well. Let’s see how you make it out of this one.”

Jabber came at him with the intent to end the fight. To kill.

Zanka couldn’t move. The poison — whatever the hell Jabber had in that claw — was spreading quickly, no matter how shallow the cut was. In the end, he could only watch as those sharp blades closed in on him.

Then, there was a gunshot.