Chapter Text
“Yeah, I believe it.”
Words so miniscule, so small, rips something within Zanka’s soul. His eyes relax, a shift in the moment—right before they sharpen and he raises Lovely Assistaff with one hand, the other resting on Zento. Was it restraint? The one sentence he had been wanting to hear from the other? Someone, anyone—no, not anyone, Jabber, Jabber alone—to believe in him, believe in Zanka? He shouldn’t seek validation from the enemy, honestly, how low has he gotten? So low that he feels such strong emotions inside him tangle and loosen and knot and split—his patience snap, his wants to be fulfilled, his Vital Instrument to taste an equal opponent—because trust, Zanka is an equal to Jabber.
Jabber is equal to Zanka as Zanka is equal to him. They are worth the same now, no longer imbalance between them. Beneath his fingertips he feels the anima within Assistaff stir up—no doubt out of unrepressed excitement.
A single thought possesses him.
He needs to show Jabber his improvement; proof of his profound strength, (proof that he is no longer holding back).
He needs to bash Jabber’s head into the concrete and paint the whole skatepark red with his blood.
He wants Jabber to slash him up with Mankira, show him the latest toxin she’s pumped full of.
He needs to trap him over a flat bar and hit him repeatedly, feel the other defend himself.
Most important of all; he needs to win.
Jabber watches with enjoyment to Zanka’s clearly unfocused self, seemingly stuck in his thoughts. He wondered as to what the other was so preoccupied of, but the intense eye contact and grin growing more unhinged answered his question. The breeze swooshes between them, a leaf flying in the air.
“Glaring at me like you haven’t eaten in days,” Jabber tilts his head as a subtle red hue paints his cheeks. “You excited?” Like me?
Zanka shoots a look, setting Lovely Assistaff’s end down on the skatepark’s shotcrete. A few seconds go by till the Cleaner’s expression moulds into narrow eyes and a smirk. “Who wouldn’t be this excited?” I’ve gone through hell before I could experience heaven with you.
The unsaid words were picked up by the two of them, and neither wasted another second. Both leapt forward in a synced blur, and the loud clashes of steel meeting steel rang only seconds after the first contact. Zanka hurdled back, over a c-ledge, to slam Assistaff’s spikes into Jabber’s middle, which he dodged with a parry. The current location of their fight made it enthralling to combat in, the unfamiliar areas and sudden obstacles that granted them a drawback or benefit. Jabber came down at him from above, aiming Mankira’s claws at his face. “Show me—show me what you’ve got!”
“Ya can just shuddup!” Zanka cussed, weaving back and pushing down his staff’s outer prongs at Jabber. Zanka catches him on top of Assistaff—grinning as he spins on his heel and flings him down on the flat concrete, smacking him on his back. A flash of surprise and delight washed over the Raider’s face as he heaved, air knocked out of his lungs. Before anything else happened, Jabber kicked into Zanka’s chest and hauled him back, getting back on his feet once more.
Blood ran down from his nostrils which he smeared away with the back of his hand, elated. “Sickkk move, like a moose pinning down its prey with its antlers. That was gooood.”
Pressure started to build behind his eyes. Zanka got up before holding his weapon behind him like a sword, leaning down low. Jabber raised his brow in confusion mixed with caution; he knew better than to underestimate the other.
The cold air shifted directions for a single moment, trees rustling rougher in the background. That was all it took for Zanka to dash forward with a deranged expression; lips pressed into a fine line as steel thorns dug into Jabber’s side. He caught two with one hand, his pain meter reaching beyond its limits as his other hand grabbed the others that threatened to pierce his stomach. His right side was a lost cause – nothing he could do there – as his black undershirt was torn up, soaked in crimson. He couldn’t look away from Zanka’s wild eyes, bright saturated azure irises glowing in his face; almost overpowering his vibrant magenta eyes.
It felt like a showcase of power.
More barbs dug into him painfully and a shameless grunt slipped from his throat. He didn’t miss the way Zanka’s split eyebrows furrowed in focus as more pressure were applied to the spikes stabbing him. As much as he wanted more and more pain from the other—like the masochist he was—he had to dish some to Zanka as well. To balance it out.
“You’re growing cocky, hah?” Jabber said lowly, half-lidded eyes gazing into the other Giver as he leaned back and headbutted him, catching the other off guard. “Ya didn’t expect that, huh!”
“Yer a damn—” Jabber threw Assistaff’s spikes off of him and jumped back, spinning on his open palms as he struck hard into Zanka’s stomach. “No rules in a fight, Mr. BA!”
Blood flowed from his mouth like a disturbed fountain, and Zanka was sent into the alleyways by the powerful kick—stabilising and catching himself before the edge of a dumpster could’ve destroyed his spine. Seconds later and Jabber’s already all up in his face. The urge to punch the fuck out of him was greater than anything else.
Zanka set Lovely aside to rest on the wall as he raised his clenched fists, immediately lunging for the other’s face. The unexpected change stunned Jabber—but not long enough. Mankira’s talons vanished with a flick of his wrist, fuchsia glow dissipating as he sidestepped, pushing away the jab that would’ve been undoubtedly excruciating. There was no light source in the sombre alleyway as the sky above offered little to no visibility. That didn’t matter much as the two struck each other with devastating blows, Zanka manoeuvring on the damn walls just to gain the upper hand in the combat.
Knuckles were getting raw with each hit eating away a layer of skin, and Zanka admittedly wanted more. Each crack and pop they heard fuelled his desires to no end. And eventually, Zanka’s punches and blocks started to overpower Jabber’s blows and deflects. It was getting to the point Jabber’s hands shook, fists bloody with his and Zanka’s.
“It hurts so good!” Jabber cried, his laughter echoing throughout the alley. “Does it now,” the Nijiku smiled. “Then I gotta show ya more. I gotta show ya Assistaff.”
Jabber’s laughter faded into exhales. The end of the alleyway allowed some lights to spill in, casting a shadow over Jabber’s back as a shudder ran throughout him. “You gonna show me your true self?”
“Oh, I’m doin’ more.” Zanka promised, glaring into Jabber’s wild eyes. “I’m goin’ ta kill ya.”
Zanka knew how much he had changed as a person when those words came out. It was a typical threat, but they carried an unfathomable heavy weight. As expected, Jabber absolutely melted at those words, a dumb grin on his face. “I’m goin’ ta pummel you with Lovely Assistaff till ya can’t even stand up anymore. Mark my damn words, Jabs.”
He caught the way the other froze.
“Yer not getting away.”
Strolling down the sidewalk with two skateboards in hand, Bro didn’t have much thought of the next few minutes that would occur. Instead, his attention was on Guita and Dear as the older teen ran ahead with a giggle, Dear walking down beside Bro. It was evident in Dear’s pleased expression behind the pacifier.
The short trip to Andio to play in the local skatepark had been Guita’s original idea before it changed into heading over to Canvas Town for bowling and more, but Dear perked up at the first idea and Bro thought a small break was best for the children. Additionally, it had been a while since he had been in town. He had some people he wanted to greet during his time here before they all had to dip back to the HQ, so it wasn’t a terrible idea.
Passing by a particular store, Bro called Guita over as he gave Dear his skateboard. “Alright, the skatepark is just ahead. Guita, take Dear would you? I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Roger that! Aye aye captain!”
The ten-year-old held up his skateboard, letting go of Bro’s baggy pants as he threw the board on the ground and jumped on it, skating skilfully ahead. Woah—when did Dear get so good?
“Oh—hey! Wait up Dear!” Guita scrambled to run over and snatch the other skateboard from Bro before rolling over to kid up in the lead. Bro cracked a fond smile and turned to pull the store’s front door when a loud yelp, high-pitched, pierced through the wind. Bro snapped back at the street ahead, and surely enough, Guita and Dear was fixated looking at whatever was happening in the park—obscured from where he was standing.
“Guita? What’s wrong!” he shouted.
Her face snapped to his, unsure red eyes turning to the park before turning to him again. She stammered, no words coming out. Dear tugged at her onesie with urgency and that was the one action that broke the dam.
“It’s Zanka! A-and a Raider! They’re fighting!”
Bro froze, hand still over the door’s handle. Until the name of the missing teen everyone in the HQ had been stressing over rang once more in his head.
Zanka.
He sprang forward, running ahead. His hand unwrapped the headband around his forehead, eyes brightening in a sunstone orange gleam. Cross unravelled and stretched into a formidable cloth, and leftover anima bounced off of the Vital Instrument like sparks.
Zanka has been found—Zanka has been found!
It had been two weeks since anyone had heard of him!
So, as Bro rounded around the corner and caught the two figures battling in the skatepark, he charged forward and readied Cross—slinging it to wrap around Zanka’s middle.
Zanka had grown very accustomed to the way blood sticks to you, drying uncomfortably against your skin and the way the crusts on your clothes.
The more Assistaff parried and slashed at Jabber, the more he was given the same rough treatment back, with either a heel to his stomach (an obvious preferred move of Jabber’s) or deep gashes to his forearms. Zanka knew his body was hot, incredibly so, so much that each exhale was visible in the cool air. No snow on the ground yet his respires were visible. His face was flush, grin wide and open as he ducked low and aimed Lovely Assistaff’s cerulean blade at Jabber’s leg, using it as a spear as Jabber sidestepped by a hair’s width, controlling Mankira’s larger claws to catch Zanka’—intending to slash him all up—but a narrow hop away saved his life. They’re both fighting with the intention to kill but move around like a choregraphed dance. It’s beautiful, like a duet in a song. They complete each other so well.
Zanka would’ve never thought that he would have this much fun fighting Jabber, considering their other previous fights that were nothing compared to this. So much suspense, so much anticipation. He would’ve never though that he understood as to why Jabber loved fights and strong opponents. It was a damn thrill fighting someone, especially someone who can kill you as much as you can kill them.
It’s a risky gamble of their lives, and it’s at its highest peak as wind picks up, scent of heavy iron swirling in the air.
Just as readies his stance, heart hammering in his chest, Zanka spins Assistaff around his wrist, catching her around his back with a dash forward, he’s met with sudden resistance—then jerked back. His focus rips apart, caught off guard. He glowers down at his torso and sees some type of cloth wrapped around him, then over his shoulder.
“What—just what are yer—”
“Zanka! The hell’s going on?!”
He’s hauled back by the leader of Team Child as the members stand by his sides, equally surprised and shocked at the scene. Or at him. He doesn’t care—he has to fight Jabber; he has to defeat him.
He looks back, and Jabber’s on top of a lamppost, watching down at him with glowing, pink eyes and a wide grin, showing red teeth. Blood spills from the sharp corners of his mouth but he doesn’t bother wiping them. “This was fun,you’ve definitely gotten stronger, Zan∼”
His heart skips a beat.
Either at the praise or the nickname. He can’t decide. Maybe both?
Then, Jabber’s crazed expression softens, wicks moving around as he smiles with gentle eyes. “Aight, see you later,” he utters, tapping on his choker before becoming nothing but a blur, vanishing from the skatepark.
Zanka’s eyes are wide—and once he registers the cloth around him is gone, he fumbles to face Bro and shout at him, beyond infuriated at the intrusion. “What’s wrong with you! Why the hell would you do that!” He screams, Lovely Assistaff dematerialised into her original state as he throws a tantrum. Bro’s startled by the outburst, Dear and Guita even more as they glance at each other awkwardly as Zanka proceeds to yank at his hair, furious.
Neither of them lost nor did either of them win.
“Zanka, you’re bleeding—c’mon.” Bro tells him, ignoring Zanka’s angry shrieks – used to this as a father.
“Y-yeah… Zanka, we gotta get you to the clinic.” Guita stumbles, clearly out of her element. Seeing him like this, loud and snappy after weeks of being missing, has her feeling off. It’s just that she’s so used to seeing Zanka collected and calm, not… not like this.
After a minute and half, Zanka stops. Bro and the two others brace themselves for another fit, but it never arrives. Instead, the teen deflates and glances over his shoulder – back at that lamppost, then at the different obstacles where he and Jabber fought at, then the alleyway before he turned to Team Child, utterly crushed.
He didn’t lose nor did he win.
It ended at a draw.
Dear doesn’t say much, nor does he ever, as he walks ahead of the group.
And as Bro comes around and holds his back, helping him walk as Guita comes at his other side, Zanka thinks that is worse.
Being forced to lay down by a screaming old lady as said screaming old lady assesses over your injuries feels like beating on a dead dog.
Every gash or blooming bruise here and there to the point he has to take off his shirt—only to reveal more has the woman yelling. Zanka wouldn’t had thought that he would be the one to be yelled at in her clinic, so everything that has happened within the 24-hour window slows down and a sense of tranquil washes over him. “Just what the hell happened to you, boy! You look like you’ve been used as a rag doll!”
Guita would’ve stifled a laughter, but not a peep of noise comes out of her. Only disturbed seriousness as Dear stands beside her by the door frame, letting in cool breeze into the room. “Just a fight, ma’am,” he states, quiet now. He reallywanted to win…he should’ve been more aware of his surroundings.
That just ruined his high.
“A fight!? You sure it was only that!” Her piercing, unsettling gaze that he sometimes sees in his dreams (nightmares seems fitting) stares him down, hands flying to dab at any bleeding wound with a cotton swab. “More like a duel to the death!”
Zanka opened his mouth then closed it, looking at the ceiling with pursed lips. Well, it was kinda that.
She lets out a sigh, before her raspy voice booms in the otherwise quiet room. “Kids these days! Is there anything else I should need to know?”
“Nah,” Zanka mutters. Nothing that’s useful.
She takes the tray full of bloody wipes and cotton swabs and disposes of them, returning with a half-empty bottle, gauzes, and bandages. Zanka takes a deep breath and looks over to Assistaff, longing for her touch.
The first wipe of isopropyl alcohol on his fresh wounds feels like a disconnected slap. As if he’s underwater; he doesn’t react to the sting as much as he probably should be. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Alice as she wipes over the wounds and bandages him up, having to go over with some sewing at some spots. In the silent minutes she works with Zanka’s injuries, Bro comes back into the room, where tension follows closely after.
“I just called the others regarding the situation, along with your team leader. I told them that we’re heading over to the HQ in a bit after we get you fixed up.” Bro explained steadily, before his voice eased into an apologetic tone. “Zanka, we were worried of your disappearance. You were classified as MIA, and nobody knew where you were—what happened?”
As the man spoke on, Alice looked at Zanka, then paused.
Huh.
“Hold on—I just have a few questions, young man!” She said, interrupting Bro as she adjusts on her wheeled stool, turning to face the two weapons that rested alongside her wall. “The stick’s your Vital Instrument, yes?”
His ears twitched. “Uh—yes, ma’am.”
“And the sword?”
Silence.
Right.
“Tickle me silly if I’m wrong but your eyes have not stop glowin’ since you and your crowd stepped in and even more so—” she pointed to Zento and Lovely Assistaff, “—your stuff is illuminating anima like a bioluminescent jellyfish!”
Everyone’s eyes snap to the said weapons and widen. It’s true, they are exhibiting blue anima, the shade that belongs to Zanka. Even the sword. The Cleaner’s expression is void as his focus tears away from his Vital Instruments—instruments? Has he accepted Zento already? That easily? —to the lady. His eyes narrow in caution. “Ya sound concerned. Is that a bad thing?”
“Have you been separated from them for a while?”
Zanka freezes on the bed, alarmed by the spot-on question. “H-huh?” What did you say?
“Now, boy, this is a serious question. Have you been separated from your Vital Instrument for a while? You’re showcasing a symptom and I want to make sure I know everything before I take any next steps.” Her tone drops to a calculated one, her orange piercings catching light.
In the background, Guita clutches around her onesie in discomfort. Bro looks at the boy on the bed, barely an adult—having faced a ton of stuff he has no knowledge of. Dear tugs on his pants and Bro looks down, before pursing his lips and sighing through his nose.
“Alice, we’ll wait outside.” Is all he says. The woman looks over her shoulder and nods, only ordering them to close the door.
Then it was just her and Zanka in the clinic, alone. “Now, answer the question,” she repeats.
He blinks, shuffling in unease. “Y-yes. Yeah.”
It’s still a delicate topic for him. Her gaze is intense; he feels exposed under her stare until she bandages the last wound and washes her hands—the silence and the tension suffocating him from within.
Why is his anima glowing a bad thing—how did she know about that? Another minute stretches over as Alice sits back on the chair and looks at him with a concerned look.
“Now, boy. I’ve have never ever seen this case in several years, and I’ve been damned to diagnose a boy with this.”
Oh no, is he mentally sick?
That would rattle just anybody whether Giver or not, pops up in his mind. Yeah, yeah, that makes sense. Zanka agrees with it.
“Did you experience any mood swings or outbursts of violence?” Alice asks, and the instant look to the wall instead of her eyes explained it all.
No, it was way more than that. But Zanka can’t expose the fact that he… ahem, murdered thirty-four people. No way.
The sigh that leaves her is heavier than the previous ones, and that has Zanka return his gaze back at her, shrunken and full of vary. “I would be a fool to do this, but this is something that will get worse the longer it goes untreated.
“You have VIDS. And I doubt that you know what it means.”
He doesn’t, but it nevertheless doesn’t stop the nauseating sensation that gnaws inside him. He has VIDS. He doesn’t know what that is, but it’s bad enough for Alice—the Alice Stilza to stop screaming and talk at a moderate volume.
She leans back on her stool and stands up, grabbing a few bottles and stuff off from her shelf. “It stands for Vital Instrument Deprivation Syndrome, pretty straight-forward.” She sets the bottles aside and goes back to the shelf, pulling out a dusty book from the very back; clearly hidden.
“It only occurs when a Giver experiences heavy psychological distress or abuse due to the loss of their Vital Instrument—let’s see…” the book opens and Alice flips through the pages. “It is very uncommon and increases the chances of vulnerability within the Giver. The last one to be diagnosed with this was a man for seven years ago.”
Zanka can’t speak. His voice doesn’t come through as his mind runs on several thought tracks. “With your line of work, I can only safely assume you were taken and separated from your Vital Instrument.” She says, knowing full well she’s correct.
How—how is she right? How does she know?
As his brain runs on a tangent about three different questions, the Stilza writes a note and tears it from another notebook, handing it over. “UhH—”
“Hand this over to my granddaughter, would’ya. She has more notes about the topic than I do.”
Eishia.
Now, Zanka can’t even think.
In the passenger seat of the jeep, Bro drives in a controlled manner (in contrast to Enjin’s reckless driving), as Guita and Dear bicker and talk in the back (similar to Riyo’s and Rudo’s banters). Zanka leans back on the headrest of the seat in exhaustion, fatigue hitting especially hard.
Flashes of blood, guards, Jabber’s, his own crosses over his mind.
He has VIDS.
Zanka tilts his head and looks at the dry, dusty scenery the jeep’s window has to offer.
He can’t think.