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Chapter Text

The dagger went directly into the man’s throat, and his struggles slowed and weakened over the lapse of the minute Zanka had held it there for good measure. 

The glint of fear glazed over the man’s irises, now hollow.

Zanka would think over and over again when he was training at the Academy or ambling on his patrols; would his first kill haunt him? He had been taught where exactly the most fatal points on a human body were, how much pressure would be necessary and what methods were most efficient. He would wave off the thoughts and let them gather at the back of his mind, but they remained. How would it feel? Would he keel over with immense guilt? The instructors, back when he was just fourteen, demonstrated with the thick dummies where you would need to cut your knife to take someone out. 

Much like how Kyouka would teach him how to dodge gunfire outside what the Hell Guards offered, Goka would act out a person who wanted to kill him and charge at him, either bare-handed or armed. Zanka would sometimes hesitate—because it’s Goka, he can’t possibly imagine him as a crackhead outside the district—but other times his curiosity would just get the best of him, and he would indulge in Goka’s strange lessons and delve into this teaching method.

Hah, what a nice memory.

Zanka’s eyes hung heavy, staring at the dead corpse at his feet. They trailed slowly up the walls and settled on the clear CCTV camera nestled in the corner, focusing on his silhouette in the dark office. Moonlight spilt across the bloodied table and illuminated his figure; his pale skin contrasted strongly against the tiny droplets of crimson that painted his cheeks. Clothes that are not his own are drenched at the torso portion.

He didn’t even think about doing it. Slitting the man’s throat, that is. 

Three minutes have passed, and no guilt has seeped into his bones. His heart hasn’t started racing at the realisation of his actions. The sick, horrifying sin of red that will never wash away from his hands. Instead, his expression was stone cold as his black eyes looked away from the camera, tilting aside. 

“…”

They narrow ever so slightly as he treads over the corpse and rummages the deathly silent office room for a blade bigger than the one in his clutch. What a nuisance, his voice echoed in his mind. 

“Bingo,” he smiled as the wooden closet past its doors contained a handsome curved single-edged blade with a comfortably long grip. It looks unused, too. Zanka’s weak smile largened and he grabbed the lonely katana out of its cage, bringing it out to the light. 

“Yer a gorgeous one, huh.”

The katana didn’t respond.

“You’ll do fine.” The Nijiku held it and craned his head upwards as his ears concentrated on the sounds of people he could hear booming outside the room. He spared one last glance at the body—his first body—and sighed. The guilt hasn’t settled yet.

“…”

This wouldn’t be hard at all.

He should consider giving the katana a nickname, preferably a cool one, given how good he’s been. Years of being a Nijiku before he left, years of being top of his class across every subject comes back to him startlingly quick. Is it the adrenaline or is he completely calm? He can’t tell, but he can count the four dead men spread out on the hallway floor. Blood is all he sees behind, in front and at all sides. Past, present, and future. He has killed people, he’s killing people, and he will kill more people. No one’s getting scotch free from this shit, not a fuckin’ soul.

Zento slices through the guard’s lungs, and Zanka twists; pure agony flashes across their face before he dodges the next person’s weapon and stabs them too. A few of them he recognises, others he doesn’t. Should he even care? No. 

“You demon—DIE—”

Yet their sentence cuts short because they don’t even have a head anymore. Around twenty meters ahead in the long, ridiculously long corridor, five guys with guns–handguns, all of Beretta models—aim at him with angry expressions. Now that is a face he fully recognises, even in his killing haze, and it momentarily snaps him out of it.

Guilt has no place in his heart, yet.

Yet never will come.

“—o monster! You crazy Giver!” one of them shrieked, and the rounds of shots were fired. “Ain’t he a Cleaner?!—They don’t kill!”

Dumbasses.

Senseless, fuckin’ dumbasses.

Zanka leaps off the wall with a powerful push from his feet, and he ends up on the opposite side of the narrow hallway, holding Zento tight in his grip behind him as his blood-stained clothes flow at his movements. Yellow and white sparks miss him and time slows down. He becomes nothing but a flash of red and blue, a thin grey following after his blurring figure. Blood sprays from the first man’s jugular at the contact, and two men fall shortly after.

“FUCK—STAND BACK!” One of them yells. 

One bullet ricochets off Zento’s blade, and Zanka’s eyebrows furrow in fury. The hallway narrows, and he can hardly breathe; gunfire screams in his ears, and the flashing, sparkling lights are too close for his sensitive eyes—

His mind is in a frantic state as he ditches the gun and crawls towards the exit, gloved hands dragging himself past his colleagues’ bodies. They stare back at him in blank horror, and it does nothing to aid his twisting knot that’s uncomfortably pooling in his gut. He hacks up blood from his lungs, and he’s bleeding out from his stomach. He won’t make it. They shouldn’t have done this at all. He shouldn’t have signed himself for this, it wasn’t—ain’t worth it. 

Just as his fingertips graze the metal elevator doors, black boots crush his hands, and he bites on his tongue. A clear shadow looms over him from behind, and the man feels a cool blade press against the side of his exposed neck. The tip of the sword brushes against the raised hair, and the gentle grasp of Death herself has him in her clutches.

“Ya said… Cleaners don’t kill, right?”

The voice is commanding and low; it makes his shaking worse.

The man—no, he’s not even an adult—fully stands on his hand, audibly breaking the knuckles as he cries out loud in pain. The blade splits his dermis cleanly. Warmth gathers at the damaged area. 

“I’m not wearin’ a Cleaner’s uniform, am I now? And it’s just like yer little scientist said earlier,” the katana pressed further into his flesh, slowly decapitating him. “I’m just a Giver. Nothin’ but a Nijiku. I’ve been taught how to kill. How to neutralise threats. It’s just what that scientist predicted—” The katana dove into his external jugular veins and sliced through the nerves and blood vessels, his head separating from his shoulders.

“—I’m just a ticking bomb on his way to becoming crazy, hah?”

The headless body doesn’t respond.

He has probably lost his damn mind, but…the guilt hasn’t arrived yet.

Zanka makes his way up through the emergency stairs and mentally maps out the head scientist’s labs from what he could gather from the small office. Feet stomp against the concrete steps one after the other at a steady pace. Zento is comfortable in his hold, but he yearns for her.

“Wait for me, darling…’M coming…” he speaks out loud, almost love-sick. His split brows curl, and his eyelids fall halfway, a possessive smile etched on his bloody face.

He hasn’t seen her for a long, long while now.

There’s only so much sanity stored left in a Giver before you separate them from their vital instrument.

And Zanka hasn’t seen Lovely Assistaff in a hot minute. 

Chapter Text

He could hear loud gunshots cracking throughout the building, each one inching closer to his section of the building.  Paranoia and fear crept up his spine as he hurried into the analytical testing room, ducking behind the high, pristine white countertops, grabbing at his shoulders to control his breathing. This has gone too far. Too far. He knew from the beginning this was a risky experiment, but Givers fascinated him greatly—how could he not test them?

Another round of gunshots rang off, painfully echoing in his ears. They sounded more like bells, the kind that only come when the inevitable doom befalls you. The grey-haired elder banged his head back and ignored the hiss that escaped him, a pounding sensation blooming on his occiput. His feet shook outrageously, and the sudden silence did absolutely nothing to calm him down. 

It was quiet. Except for his erratic heartbeat and nauseous thoughts, but it was quiet.

He himself had subconsciously stopped breathing to listen for anything outside of the lab room, and when his ears picked up the unmistakable sounds of heavy footsteps angrily – and oh so cruelly loudly – walking up the emergency stairs just a few doors down from his current hiding spot, the scientist’s face paled instantly. 

He’s…he’s on the third upper floor. The Cleaner should be on one of the lower floors, fourth or fifth. Not on the third so quickly? Did he already neutralise the security guards on every floor?

It had not even been twenty minutes since he first went rogue. 

Stomp.

Stomp

Stomp.

The enraged Giver was coming in hot. Knowing that the rest of his life was numbered, he had to act quickly. His legs kicked as he sprang up, delicate glass items—beakers and conical flasks with liquid still inside—falling and breaking upon contact with the floor as he struggled to hold himself upright. He had to find the laptop quickly. 

Moving as if he were a baby lamb walking for the first time, cutting up his hands with sharp instruments and making a huge mess, he tore the cabinet open, his hands becoming a blur, looking for the damn thing. Anything that wasn’t it: books, his notes, a box of extraction tools, sheets of paper, he threw them out. A part of him scolded himself for being so disordered, but the bigger, human part of him screamed to find it.  

Just as his patience was wearing thin and the stomps were cracking outside, louder than any gunshot, his hands almost yanked the hinges off the closet doors and sighed audibly, taking the laptop and rushing over to the other side of the room, fingers outstretched to grab the corded phone mounted to the wall. Time slowed, and his ears rang high-pitched in his ear, a clear indicator of his anxiety reaching its peak.

The phone rang only for a few moments before it connected. 

His focus was divided into typing in the passcode into the laptop, accessing and immediately going to the building’s system settings and calling for help. 

“Hello, you’ve reached the Cleaner’s Headquarters front desk. How may I help you?”

“I’m so—so sorry—he’s going to kill me—your Cleaner is going to—oh please—” he hiccupped, the daunting realisation that he’s going to die hitting him exceptionally hard.

The receptionist on the phone paused before her voice lowered slightly in seriousness, simultaneously as he enabled some features into the CCTV cameras, turning them all on. “Sir—slow down, what did you say? One of our Cleaners?”

“Yes—please, this was only for research purposes—this wasn’t supposed to go so far, please, I’m going to die—”

“Do you know the name of said Cleaner? Could you also specify what you mean by ‘research purposes'? Please supply us with as much information, Sir.”

“I—please, I’m so sorry. I—We only wanted to know the relationship between a Giver and their Vital Instrument—we didn’t account that he’d go berserk—he has killed my guards—he’s going to kill me!” The corded phone propped against his shoulder as he shoved the laptop on the counter, fingers blurring over the keyboard. 

Yes, all CCTVs throughout the building will be activated and record everything, and yes, they will track his and the Cleaner’s movements every time they’re on camera. And yes, everything will be sent over to the Cleaner’s Headquarters after a period of half an hour has passed. 

He only hopes that the Cleaner will be arrested and dealt with by the Hell Guards after all of this. 

“I—I’ll send everything that’s going on... he’s, he’s a murderer!”

He could feel the sheer presence behind the door, and his eyes shut close, heart beating loudly like a thousand thunderbolts crashing down on him. The sharp scent of copper, blood, fills his nostrils. 

“Sir—who is the Cleaner?”

His face drains of colour once more as the door creaks open, sharing eye contact with the devil itself. He grips the wired phone, frozen in his spot. His teeth clatter and his tongue feels heavy inside his mouth, almost inflamed. 

“It—It’s Zanka Nijiku. He’s the slaughterer with no sense of mercy.”

Before the receptionist says anything more, a long blade severs the cord and stabs into the solid concrete wall – a gush of wind follows shortly after. The phone’s loose, coiled end falls, and he registers seconds later that the line had been cut before the bloodthirsty Giver bolts right at him; eyes zeroed in on him like a predator has its prey. The sight reminds him of something, but the remembrance vanishes as fast as it arrived, as white agony makes itself present in his chest, undoubtedly having stabbed his lungs. Blood streamed from the open wound as he was thrown down, gasping loudly with a constricted throat. Weight pressured even more on the katana, splitting him apart as the Cleaner seized his chin and glared into him with manic eyes, pupils blown indescribably wide. “Where is my Vital Instrument?” Zanka ordered.

The head scientist wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

“WHERE IS IT.”

“It’s in the closet o-over there!” He cried, his left hand shaking in the air from where the katana stabbed his core, pointing past the cabinets and at the said closet, a royal blue coloured closet with gold accents for hinges. The sword tore cleanly and forced deep into the concrete below. Red streaked and pooled into his white clothed back as far as Zento forced into him. 

Pure dread filled him whole. 

He must be suffering from the absence of his dear Lovely Assistaff, yes, he must be. His sight is wavering and his heart is beating loud in his eardrums. It twists and stirs in his chest cavity. It fucking hurts. Zanka grips the railings that lead upstairs with difficulty where he is out of breath, heaving. 

He can feel her crying from afar—he can hear her. His dear Assistaff, her anima desperate to link his energies with her. Their connection is so weak, it’s tearing him apart from the inside. The first he killed, a real annoying assistant that drove him beyond insane from what can only be described in medical books, told him that the head scientist always holed himself in the analytical research laboratory room on the third floor. 

(Even when he was down there, begging for her. Screeching for her touch.)

Zanka stood somewhat hunched over by the time he reached the third upper floor, having walked up from the basement levels — though he could walk a hundred more with no problem. Is it just the loss of his darling that has been draining off his strength, not being in contact with his vital instrument? Oh, how much he fucking missed her. Zanka felt his wobbly legs almost fail him halfway through the corridor, struggling with opening the exit door and pushed through, slowly inching towards the said lab room. 

The assistant died for it. 

He sure as hell should’ve been truthful.

“Maybe I should fuckin’ go back there for a round two...” he grumbled. However, the moment he heard that familiar voice behind the door, talk hushed to what Zanka could only assume was a phone call—a call for help, a cry for help—the absent grin of his returned in full glory. 

(“S-stop, don’t—let her go.”

“Hm. No.”)

His grip adjusted around Zento, a feeling he’s growing more comfortable and confident in it and waited predatorily in silence. A small shutter sound divided his attention momentarily, and his focus flickered upward to a tiny red dot blinking at the CCTV camera, tilted down towards him. The man’s voice past the door sounded panicked, and Zanka perked at whom he was speaking to. 

The door creaked slowly open.

“Sir—who is the Cleaner?” Semiu’s voice bled from the corded phone from where he was standing. The lab room was vast from the inside, with many desks and measuring tools and so much more—past what he could count with the help of four people. Well, he could have some assistance with the deceased just a few floors down. 

(They held him down with no regard for his injuries as one guard stomped on his fingers flat on the ground. He had to clench his teeth shut to stop the grunts from coming out.)

The man managed to slip another sentence out, though quiet and scared—which surprised Zanka, nonetheless. 

“It—It’s Zanka Nijiku. He’s the slaughterer with no sense of mercy,” he said, staring right ahead. One thing Zanka could be merciful for was the immaculate delivery. Mm, straight bars. He launched Zento into the cords, and like the handsome, smooth katana he is, slices the flimsy material and through the wires like nothing. What an incredible blade.

His eyes melted into crescent moons as he dashed forward with a giggle, spilling from him with ease as his hair flowed in front of him. 

(“Remember to bend your knees a little before running up on a target. It serves as a jump boost, and it helps build your speed.” The instructor said and demonstrated in front of the students. “Take a deep breath and…”)

A trick he learned first in the Academy came back to him like second nature. He seized Zento’s handle once more and stabbed the man’s chest, pushing him down to the floor in one swift move. The man fell down instantly and hacked up blood, eyes wide open, eyes full of pain. Flashbacks from the other men, researcher or security guard—they all shared that same glint in their eyes. The sight of their life tearing from their consciousness permanently.

(“Y-you broke my ribs! You broke my ribs—and then you, you punched in it! Oh, you’re a freaking sadist!”)

Perhaps he is.

He should feel guilty about this. Maybe after all of this is done. Maybe… just…

Maybe there’s the possibility he won’t ever feel that guilt he feels obligated to feel?

Though, his anger resurfaces with full intensity the moment the simple reminder of his dear Assistaff is still in her cage. Fury boils inside his gut like none other.

“Where is my Vital Instrument?” Zanka ordered. The weight he has on Zento should be threatening enough. He must know that having a sharp weapon in your lungs hurts immensely.

His patience is running thin, the more the scientist coughs up blood—if it’s not the tiring scene he has been seeing for the past 18 minutes with like, 24 other people.

He presses hard on the katana’s grip. “WHERE IS IT.”

“It’s in the closet o-over there!” The elder croaked, his left hand pointing at the royal blue and gold closet. Zanka grinned gleefully and adjusted Zento—ignoring the mass of blood pooling at his already ruined shoes as he nearly ran over to her. He feels almost rabid, clawing at the closet hinges, tearing it open, and his eyes fall on the most gorgeous sight there is on Ground.

The flickering lights in the room do her no justice for her raw beauty whatsoever. 

His Lovely Assistaff. 

His beautiful, unflawed Assistaff. Fuck, she is as ethereal as the day he was taken away from her. Zanka’s hands fly to grip her handle, but hesitate at the last second, before touching her wooden frame and melting into her exterior. Zanka lets out a groan, his eyebrows twisting with a bite on his lips, trying to shut up—he sounds so depraved. His eyes light up with the object of his love finally in his hands, after ages. 

“Oh, baby,” he babied, trailing his fingers on the old wrappings. “I haven’t seen you in so long, how are you?” His voice dropped sweetly, and he pulled her away from his forehead to look at her clearly, his gaze trailing down his vital instrument. Something new is new about her, and Zanka can read her like a book. He can feel her so, oh so much. 

Her quality has improved so much.

And he wants her to get her first taste of blood right fucking now.

His head unnaturally turns around, catching the off-guard experience of the dying man on the ground as he bends over and grips his ankle, grinning boyishly at the wheeze that comes out of the grey-haired male. A blood trail follows them down the ruined hallway, and they’re surrounded by bodies. Their empty eyes roll to the back of their skulls and are a constant reminder of what will happen to the elder, and Zanka will certainly make sure of it. 

“Ya shouldn’t have done this ya bastarrdddd,” the unstable teen drawls, head thrown back as his dull irises eyes every CCTV they walk under, making eye contact with every camera. “’M not sparing ya. I’m takin’ my timeeeeee~” Lovely Assistaff is weightless in his gentle hold as his other hand grips the man’s ankle so hard, the skin must be whiter than the walls before he shattered in more glass shards than the mess in the lab room. Whiter than the snow up in the North. Ah, if he remembers correctly, Follo mentioned he came from the area. How surprising, he had one of his first missions there!

Mr Scientist grunts with his head leaning backwards on the ground. “N-no, please—have mercy—”
“We’re here!” He interrupts curtly.

Zanka steps inside the empty lobby room (if you ignore the corpses in the back), throwing the researcher a few meters ahead. His head knocks hard against the wooden planks, and his hand folds painfully at the roll of his wrist. His white coat is wet with dust and deep crimson. The sight should make him feel bad, at least make his skin crawl. Nothing of the sort arrives; it’s more the excitement he’s fixated on. The impending death of the one he had been daydreaming about the most. 

His insanity and bloodthirst reach their all-time high. 

Nijiku circles around his prey, laying all of his attention on the bleeding man. “If ya don’t care, fine, but from what ya can’t see ‘m holdin’ up three fingers—my darlin’ is holding up two for me. Wanna guess what they mean?” He grinds his foot on the man’s back, pressing his heel against the other’s spine. 

“G-gahh—pl—please—”

“I DON’T CARE FOR WHAT YER BEGGIN’! I said,” Zanka shouted, pupils dilated from his short fuse. “Do ya know what they mean?”

“n—*cough* n-no…”

“They mean the number of cameras recordin’ us right now.” He smiled, kicking into researcher’s torso to not only dig the front of his shoe into the man’s stab wound but also get him on his back, which he’d succeeded in. 

(“Oh, you’re a freaking sadist!”)

“They weren’t active before, so why now?”

The man didn’t respond from where he was panting, clearly choking on his blood. Zanka paid no mind to it. He spun Lovely Assistaff around his wrist and caught her with his other hand, bringing her close to his face. “It is only she is so marvellous…that’s what ya wanted to research, yes?” His voice fell to a soft tone. His thumb rubbed her old wrappings, and a soft apology rolled down his tongue, truly remorseful. “The relationship between a Giver and their vital instrument… it must seem weird to you non-Givers… I can’t blame ya. “

*THUD*

“I really can’t, well—not anymore. Yer dyin’ and what else can one do to a dyin’ man?” He asked rhetorically.

Both hands gripped the handle, and a burst of blue anime blood from the staff-like stick engulfed both the instrument and the owner. Zanka’s eyes glowed luminously, contrasting his dark cerulean irises by a ton. Lovely Assistaff changed size before him, and the neon blue cracked free, showing her full, true glory. 

She has truly improved. 

She has upgraded.

“Fuckkk, ya gorgeous,” he inhaled deeply, half-lidded. Assistaff’s bottom half had been replaced with a second blade sprouting from the end. A stunning celestial blue is its colour. Her whole shape had become longer last time he’d seen her—and he knows that. Her strength—oh fuck—her strength has grown like crazy.

He feels crazy; he feels so feverish. His neediness, his begs, his cries and demands from the last 9 days have been paid off. Oh yes, they have certainly paid off. 

Zanka has grown because he had been deprived of his vital instrument.

(“C’mon, Mr. Bad Attitude. Don’t you dare be holding back on me.”)

Zanka has given up on holding himself back—he has set himself free.

“I won’t—let you live.”

He won’t ever restrain himself from this day onward.

“The least you can do for me—”

And he won’t ever allow himself—

“—is pay yer damn debts.”

—to feel guilty, ever again. 

That’s the very last thing Zanka Nijiku has on his mind right now anyway.

His hands feel clammy where they have squeezed for the nth time in the past minute. They’re covered in blood, and so much of it. Right from the source of a previously warm body, and Zanka has given himself a moment of silence to process it all.

The blinking of the CCTVs stopped ten minutes ago, around where the scientist finally took his final breath. He has a rough idea where they will be transferred to. He did overhear the old geezer talk to Semiu before he opened the door.

“….” He does not know what to think of it. 

There is a locker room on the current floor somewhere.

“…I fuckin’ reek of blood and sweat.” He says out loud.

He really needs to shower. 

What's more; all he wants right now is to get out.

Somewhere far away, three towns over in the Headquarters, Semiu leans away in her black chair, unsettled. She let go of the desk phone, staring into the dual front doors with obvious uneasiness. The male voice cut off abruptly, but it wasn’t because she got hung up on. 

No.

Someone had purposely severed the wire before she could even get anything out. 

Her gut is telling her. She knows better than to doubt her own instincts. 

Having zoned out in her chair for the past five minutes, her hand flew up to her choker. She let it chirp a few times before the line connected. “Hey, Boss?”

“Hmm? Semiu, hello.”

“Arrange an urgent meeting with the Akuta Cleaners and the Hell Guards—preferably the captain and the second-in-command of the 1st Red Horn Squad.”

Corvus went silent for a moment before he spoke up once more. “Semiu. What is going on?”

“Zanka—it's, his kidnapper just called the front desk blabberin’. Boss—he, it’s—”

“How bad is it?”

She hesitated, clearing her throat with furrowed brows. Once her voice had stabilised, she said the words she had been fearing to say.

“I believe Zanka has snapped.”

“…. How many casualties?”

“I’m betting over ten, sir. Maybe even fifteen.”

The line went silent, uncomfortably so, before Corvus finally replied in the choker before ending the call.

“I will summon Kyouka and Goka Nijiku. Semiu, please get Enjin and the others.”

“Will do.”

Something churned inside of her once she called Enjin, letting the choker ring longer before the familiar tone of her friend came through. “Heyy, Semiu. What’s up?”

“Come to the front desk.”

“!?—uh, is it a mission? —“

“It’s Zanka. Just…please,” she bit her lip. Enjin went completely silent on the other end.

“Just come to the front desk.”

The Akuta doesn’t spend another second on the call as he hangs up, and she leans back on her chair, the discomfort in her gut only building.

Rain hails outside. It echoes in her mind as she sits alone in the deathly quiet lobby. 

She can only imagine what the caller meant by ‘he will send everything over’ and his ‘research’.

Chapter Text

Once Enjin had gotten off the call; everything felt wrong. His fingers pressed the smooth metal over the choker’s front and hung up. All seemed to go fast and slow simultaneously from that point onward. He didn’t let that show, though, as he pretended he hadn’t heard what Semiu informed him and called his remaining team over, dragging them to the front desk where the receptionist stood with a tense expression. Her deep golden irises locked with his dandelion yellows and shared the identical stiff smile.

He couldn’t tell Riyo and Rudo.

He would have to sit on the new update on Zanka till he can tell Eishia and Shikage.

“Well,” he respired, hands fidgeting inside his coat’s pockets. “What do we…”

Semiu turned on her heels. “We’re heading to Boss’ office. Zanka’s siblings has been summoned and will arrive soon.”

Riyo recoiled and Rudo’s eyes widened, brows furrowing.

“Are you sure it was him?” Enjin pressed.

Semiu’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m positive.”

“Wh—huh? Wait—Zanka? What of him—did’yall find him?” Rudo spluttered, wide crimson eyes staring into Enjin’s shoulder from where he stood at his side. The Akuta leader’s expression was firm, eyebrows twitching at the ends with uncertainty.

This is what they’ve been called for.

“Enjin, why didn’t you tell us—”

“I just found out,” he interrupted, cutting Riyo’s sentence short. “I was just… found out about it. Anyway, let’s head to the office.

I’m sure more questions will be answered.”

Once again, Enjin couldn’t imagine the direction the afternoon was heading at. He sat on the soft cushions of Corvus’ couch with a tense expression, mirroring everyone else’s in the room. Rudo sat on the very edge of the sofa with his gloves digging into his baggy pants, head low in deep thought as Riyo sat upright with the leg crossed over the other, face impassive. If Enjin hadn’t known her for a long time, he would assume she didn’t care about the updated news; but that’s not it. One of her rich emerald eyes were squinted more than the other and she was undoubtedly caught in a train-thought-wreck. Enjin was suffering one of those too.

His memory takes him back to that day, and he blinks to forget it.

It’s not that he had lost all hope in the teenager so fast but please understand that it had been almost two whole weekssince he last saw Zanka.

His hope and patience were there, but it was wearing thin. Not too thin, but too thin. Two weeks since he shrugged that solo mission he was originally going to take but made Zanka do. Two whole weeks since his guilt had first started eating at him.

The sound of a TV starting up brought him back to reality and focused on the grey static screen, waiting to be cabled up or connected with a unit. (Zanka would’ve put on something to distract himself from his troubles. Maybe a comfort show Riyo introduced him he didn’t have the fortune growing up with, or movie recommendations from Follo and Tomme. Personally, Enjin would influence Zanka to listen to his genre of music. Kids these days don’t know good music. He gotta at least save Zanka from that.)

He feels fucking horrible.

It’s eating him up from the inside.

He thinks he’s doing a good job supressing it.

Semiu grabs one of the four other cables dangling from the TV’s outlets and connects it with the laptop on her lap, sitting on Corvus’ desk. Pressing on the keyboard, her fingers glide over the trackpad.

Now that everything’s set up, her eyes occasionally look up and catches Enjin’s before looking back to the laptop’s screen. After a few good minutes, she jumps off the desk and stands up, placing the laptop on the wooden office table. Her hoop-like belt shifts around her hips.

“What is this about.” Rudo voices, after what feels like ages. Semiu’s eyes snaps to his and at first, she’s quiet.

After a long, stretched out minute, her lips spread. “It’s about Zanka.”

“I know that, just—what else? Did you find him or—or is it somethin’ else?” His volume rises ever so slightly, not that either adult could blame him for. Riyo’s hand cups over his shoulder and Rudo backs off, leaning into the sofa. “Rudo, I get you’re worried. We all are. Just wait a bit till the boss can tell us,” she says.

Once more, Enjin would’ve thought Riyo didn’t care if he didn’t know her for as long as he has. Her red bangs cast a shadow over her eyes, and the tone of her voice is forcibly serene.

His gut twists and his heartbeat is too loud in his ears. Every time he swallows spit, his Adam’s apple knocks up too high and he’s too aware of it. He can’t fucking deal with it. He feels so, so fucking guilty.

Can someone die of too much guilt?

The door opens wide with a swift push, and their heads turns at the sudden intrusion. Corvus’ grey-steel eyes are the first Enjin sees.

The second is the company following closely behind. If the room wasn’t tense enough, the two guests carried a tenfold of pressure the Cleaners wasn’t aware was even possible. Enjin’s right leg might’ve stiffened up, his lungs squeezing impossibly tight. A droplet of sweat might’ve rolled down from his temple.

“This is where we will be reviewing the tape we’ve received by the caller,” Corvus said, moving aside to allow the Hell Guards walk past. “This must be difficult to tackle, I’m sure.”

“What I’m sure of is the blonde’s incompetence,” retorted the older. She trudged across the room, her second-in-command few steps behind before sitting on the spare chair to the left of the room. At the end of the couch to her right sat Rudo, who had straightened up and looked ahead – menaced.

Once Kyouka had seated, visibly furious, her brother stood behind with a tall frame. His face, too, carried an expression a child would’ve cried at due to how vexed he was.

“May I remind ya how Zanka got seemingly ’abducted’ in the first place?” Kyouka hissed, glaring daggers at Enjin. “Beli—”

“Due to yer negligence.” She bellowed (her shoulders shy away from shaking from pure anger). “For bein’ the reason Zanka left home, yer influence has only proved to be bad. Ya were bein’ careless. Yer damn lucky he had been found, because I would’ve turned yer leader in.”

“On what charges, may I ask?” Corvus inquired, ambled his way to Semiu by his office table, leaning on the wooden edge. Kyouka’s blatant glare drilled into him, along with Goka’s.

It is clear from the Boss’ perspective that the Nijikus care for their youngest.

In their own way Corvus wouldn’t approve of.

“I doubt this is the first time,” she responds. “Diggin’ into his past reports and missions would be very easy, trust me.” She leans into her chair, hands over her lap. Under the big sleeves, they clenched, -dull fingernails digging into her palms.

The receptionist’s hand ghosted over the trackpad and met Corvus’ eyes. “I’ll turn the CCTV footage on before the laptop dies on me,” she cleared her voice, taking everyone’s attention. “Eyes upfront, I’m starting the video file I was sent by Zanka’s captor. Just a heads up—”

Her eyes wavered, looking aside.

“It’s bloody.”

Everybody's faces distorted between the lapse of her words and her finger pressing the paused screen.

It was not what they had initially imagined.

Rudo’s gloved hand flew to grip the sides of the cushions, mouth ajar. Riyo stared at the screen wide-eyed in shock. Enjin’s concern and apprehension melted away into something he himself wasn’t able to describe.

Kyouka’s tense eyebrows softened and her eyes grew larger. Goka’s straw hat couldn’t provide enough shelter from his startled expression, truly caught off guard. At this time around, Semiu and Corvus had walked behind them by the sofa to look at the horror themselves, and disbelief fell on them too.

On the TV screen, dating a little over an hour ago at the top left of the CCTV videotape, Zanka’s blown pupils and impossibly dark eyes stared into the camera, his whole attire blood-soaked. Gore clung to pretty much everywhere, more prominent in the torso portion, just a few splatters at his neck and face. His legs were doused. Shoes beyond defiled. In his grip was a foreign weapon, a katana. But it was covered in bloodshed, so it wasn’t entirely foreign to Zanka.

(It reminded Goka from a time ago when Zanka would swing a katana or his staff around in training, eyes shining from the happiness it brought him.)

The Nijiku shifts his gaze and the camera snaps to another angle inside a room where a man in clear distress held a wired phone, typing on a laptop on the countertops.

“It-it’s Zanka Nijiku. He’s the slaughterer with no sense of mercy.”

Zanka’s entrance is predatory and he immediately throws the single-edged blade into the cord, severing the flimsy material with ease. So, it was him who cut the line, Semiu concluded, speechless.

“Wh-what is this…what the fuck is Zanka… doing?” Rudo muttered, his small voice failing him. Enjin’s own were not believing what he was seeing. The raw data that were being fed into his eyes and processed in his brain must be wrong. No, this isn’t Zanka.

“Where the hell is my Vital Instrument?”

Oh.

Oh.

The Givers present in the room tense up and it goes deathly silent. No one says anything as Zanka brutally mutilates the man in the white coat, seeming so casual by stabbing his lungs and screaming at him.

“WHERE IS IT.”

“The hell…” Goka murmurs under his breath, stupefied. Kyouka could only watch as her little brother pressed the katana deeper, torturing the elder further.

“—it’s in the closet o-over there!” he choked.

For the nth time, Enjin couldn’t fucking believe it. In a state of dumbness that didn’t usually find him, he watched as Zanka skipped over the closet—the angle shifting once more to catch Zanka’s accurate expression. He was happy, very much so. His grin was uncharacteristically wide and his grip halted before gripping his Assistaff, melting into her touch.

He moaned, bringing her wooden figure close to his own, head thrown back. It was an unsettling sight. Intimate and personal. Enjin and the others was perturbed to say the least. Though, not as much as Zanka’s siblings, who did not know how it must feel to be missing your beloved item like Givers do. Rudo’s eyes narrowed at the state of the older teenager, teeth visible in his frown as more of Zanka’s abnormal behaviour came through.

His mood had improved, head jerked as he fondled with the staff, whispering sweetly to it. It was a… a sight to say the least; any Giver understood what this must feel, but even this is too far…

By the end of it, Zanka snatches and drags the injured senior by his ankle, the camera’s changing to the ones outside in the hallway. It’s when the two are further down the corridor the hallways wrap into red, a redder and a whole lot of red when someone audibly gags in the room.

Corvus’ jaw is clenched where his eyes are heavy, arms crossed over his chest from where he’s standing. Semiu’s expression is twisted with one hand on her hip, the other holding her chin up, muttering under her breath.

Rudo swallows the urge to retch and throw up.

The more Zanka makes deliberate eye contact with the cameras, the less Goka’s sure this is his little brother’s doing. He looks so…he’s acting like a…. he just….

He’s a lunatic.

Her hands are on top of each other over her kneecap, still in her fixed position as Kyouka is eerily silent. Her deep azure eyes, an exact match to Zanka’s own, stare into her image in the TV screen.

She would have to use her judiciousness and rationality, and the common sense the Ground has to offer, to know Zanka is undoubtedly guilty, dangerous, and has to be restrained or killed on sight once he’s out in the streets.

The older sister in her wants to shelter him from the consequences.

She is conflicted about her brother’s future, but for now, watches with a hidden sense of satisfaction as her brother drags the man into an empty lobby room. By the blood on Zanka: the splatter and blots on his stomach and legs, she estimates twenty-four people has died by his hands. She is much aware Zanka has always been the clean freak of the family; so, he wouldn’t get very dirty unless it was inevitable.

He must be apprehended on sight.

(She’s sitting on the tatami mats, surrounded by toys as she coddles her baby brother in her arms, his chunky fingers coiling around her red hair. A rare smile spreads across her face, and Zanka giggles, arms flailing around.)

‘Is that what I want?’, blares at the back of her mind. She is genuinely uncertain.

His voice droops to a softer, gentler tone, and it’s almost quiet. The gruesome scene, gore all over the footage has dropped to a more casual vibe. Enjin wouldn’t think that as Zanka holds Assistaff tighter to himself. “The relationship between a Giver and their vital instrument … it must seem weird to you non-Givers… I can’t blame ya. “

The dull loud thud of Assistaff’s end hitting the floor echoes.

“I really can’t, well—not anymore. Yer dyin’ and what else can one do to a dyin’ man?”

Riyo’s eyes widens. Her breath hitches. No, no—no fucking way—

The strong, vibrant gorgeous blue hue that swallows both the Cleaner and Vital Instrument up isn’t what surprises them. It does make the Nijiku siblings pause, eyes watching the bright cerulean glow blanket Assistaff’s figure, lighting up Zanka’s own eyes, no.

No.

It’s her changed appearance.

“Did Assistaff fucking evolve?!” Rudo curses, gloves digging into his khaki pants. A curt sigh, deep nonetheless, escapes the Boss. “Zanka has grown much stronger during his captivity, most likely against his will,” his frown broadens.

“Fuckkk, ya gorgeous…” Zanka sniffs.

He looks downright out of it!

The second-in-command cringes, pulling a face that vanishes in a blink of an eye as he turns to the white-haired receptionist, thick slitted brows furrowing. “How long is this?”

Her concern and worry contrasts (matches) his steady expression, and she looks away with an uncomfortable look. “Around half an hour. I better hope the last ten minutes ain’t him mauling the poor man’s body.”

“Okay, okay—Semiu, that wasn’t cool.” Enjin interfered, having been silent all this time. Her head snaps sideways, staring into the back of Enjin’s head. He feels her glare. He chooses to not acknowledge it.

“That wasn’t—Enjin he’s killing him.”

“Yeah, I can see that. And I believe buddy has a good explanation for it.”

Comedically, Zanka says: “I won’t—let you live.”

Good timing. Good timing.

Riyo’s still, very, very still. She doesn’t react to Enjin getting up from the couch, relieving the sofa from his weight as he storms over to Semiu to argue further, equally startled and conflicted, but trusting of the Cleaner. Rudo can’t look at the TV any longer, too disturbed and freaked out to continue. Zanka says something else, but it’s all a tangled mess in his ears. Disgust pools a knot in his gut and he’s facing away from the screen, physically unable to watch.

Kyouka’s attention never drifts from the recording. The murder becomes so vicious and – she has seen a lot of stuff in her life, but she can’t think of any other word than – inhumane, thick globs of blood sprays all over one of the cameras, resulting in another camera’s angle being used. Even that one’s vision gets drenched in the man’s torn flesh, and Kyouka sees no use in watching Zanka tear the man apart. She raises her left hand, tearing her eyes away from the screen.

“I’ve seen enough.”

Goka springs into action and clicks on the laptop’s spacebar, pausing the footage. Lovely Assistaff’s a blur where her elongated frame is a few inches shy from cracking the dead man’s skull open, an infuriated yet relaxing expression on Zanka, as if this is freeing to him.

It must be.

They don’t have an idea how to handle that, though.

Nevertheless, the screen is paused and in the upper left corner of the monitor, a good eight minutes is left. They don’t need to review the rest.

It’s quiet, jarringly so.

After all of the scenarios each one of them had pictured of what was happening to Zanka, none of them expected this animalistic slaughter. A massacre judging on the bloodshed on his stained, ruined clothes. Another minute stretched into three, and a throat clearing and cough kickstarted everyone’s minds.

“The fuck did I just watch?”

“He just—he just tore that guy to pieces!!—"

“—e needs to be locked up.”
“We need to find him, quickly—”

“’Locked up’? He’s not getting arre—”

“You just saw him sadistically murder a man! Of course he’s getting locked up!” Semiu argued, getting heated. “Do’ya think he’d do that to us?” Enjin’s tone dropped low, glaring into the woman. “Enjin—he’s a danger—just look at the damn screen! Look what he just did!” She raised her voice.
Rudo spiralled, slowly curling into himself. “What the fuck… no, no what the fuck…”
The redhaired teenager blinked, fingers gripping her loose grey sleeves. “Zanka… the hell did you get yourself into?”

Goka bent down to reach Kyouka’s ears, his expression hardened. “Sister, ya must know what this means.”

Her gaze met his, and she nodded, her black, triangle-shaped earrings flowing with her movement. “Of course.”

She rose to her feet, making heads turn to her sudden movement. Both Semiu and Enjin stops and watch as Kyouka walks over to Corvus, stopping at a respectable distance between them.

“I wouldn’t allow this if the circumstances were different, but I don’t trust the Hell Guards with my younger brother in his delicate mental state. I entrust ya with him this last time.”

Corvus’ thick round eyebrows raises, having not expected this reply. Semiu’s eyes are wide, but Enjin holds her shoulder, a matching frown on his face as everyone replays the Captain’s words in their minds.

Goka’s eyes are big, but he doesn’t argue. (Maybe it’s because he knows, too, this is for the best.)

(He still has an obligation to look over his flame.)

“I see…” Corvus finally answers and nods, watching Kyouka’s frame stroll to the doors. She stops momentarily, her vice-captain stopping smoothly at her stance, and she turns her head with a piercing glare. More tension bleeds into the room.

“Although if we get word anythin’ like this repeats in the future, we will act. Not a single word of this will leave this room, or ya will be arrested for obstructing justice. The Hell Guard’s criminal department will investigate the murders and the nature of this kidnappin’. We better not hear a peep of it.”

“I assure you, ma’am, no one will talk about it.” Corvus promises. His steel irises meet her stone-cold blues, and a silence stretches between them.

It weighs heavier than anything on this Ground.

“Good.” Her glare lifts. “I entrust yer word on that too.”

Goka holds the door open, allowing her to walk through. He, as well, sends a glower that serves as a warning as the door shuts behind them, shutting the rest of them in to process all of this in the suffocating silence.

Enjin, for the umptieth time, can’t fucking believe it.

Departing from the building with clean clothes and a clear mind, Zanka marched down the stairs. There wasn’t much he could do with his ruined uniform, he never found them — plus August could always make more. Although his shoes — the boots — were still good, so all he did after he had taken a hot shower (to take his mind off things) was to clean them up. Everything else was beyond repairable; so, he snatched some loose fitted pants along with a long-armed grey tee, finishing it up with a slightly too big wine-red jacket that stopped at his waistline, adorned with a hood as well. For not being his usual style, Zanka considered changing his wardrobe after this.

The red jacket reminds him of his mentor, bringing some familiarity inside his otherwise fogged up brain. The aftermath of all… this is something. He can’t figure out why he’s feeling this.

(Of all the sensations that ghosts in- and outside of him, none of them is guilt.

He can’t stand not feeling guilty for all the awfulness he has done.)

He has two weapons in each hand, his Lovely Assistaff and his Zento. Zanka wouldn’t leave him behind in that rotting, now abandoned building all on his own. No, Zento deserved more than that, and Zanka had taken a liking to him.

Zanka took a deep inhale, filling his lungs with filtered air.

The view is nothing impressive, but he can’t help but smile.

It feels good ever since waking up for the first time.

Chapter Text

Without a real plan in mind as he travelled through the wasteland, a region he vaguely recalls but doesn’t fully recognise, breathing evenly through his gas mask, Zanka reflects.

Assistaff serves him a comfortable weight on his right hip and their new companion, Zento, is strapped to his left. The sky is ashy orange, and his footsteps drags across the sand path in front. The road stretches ridiculously far and goes behind a boulder, and his surroundings blends into each other the longer he focuses on them.

The deadly air that turns clean with each suspire he takes makes him remember. His eyebrows furrow, dismissing the memories immediately. His footsteps grow sluggish, and his breathing laboured. Assistaff’s subtle anima flutters on his hip; reassuring him.

Though the human brain doesn’t forget what it’s been through, especially the stronger the impressions are. The air he breathes brings him back, and Zanka’s focus slips. What he sees is not the looping road stretching for miles.

It’s the abandoned neighbourhood, fences destroyed by trash beasts — as he’s fighting the last one.

His vision clears up after the gush of wind dissipates, the whole area trashed with various parts of discarded litter and junk with no anima energy controlling them. There, Zanka wiped his sweat-slicked forehead with his forearm, leaning more on his left leg as Assistaff reverted back to her original state. The mission’s complete and he can finally head back. The sky above, lightly clouded with a yellow scenery, darkens; the only warning Zanka’s got before he has to leave. It’s starting to get cold, too.

Wind picks up and scrap scatters around, the clatter of empty tin cans and swooshing of dirty plastic wraps flowing through the air. The Cleaner turns on his heel and brings his hand to his mouth. Trash continues making a loud mess behind him cause of the sudden wind. His wrist choker chirps, and he waits.

“Cheep….cheep…” His choker goes, ringing some more. It sounds like a whole storm is brewing behind him, and Zanka impatiently taps his boots into the ground, turning around. “The hell’s takin’—”

A flexed arm slams into his gasmask, the blow amplifying with the straps cutting into his cheeks and tightening around his head as he’s thrown backwards, caught horribly off guard. Someone catches him, two hands cupping his shoulders as they kick into the back of his knees, forcing him down. He hadn’t gotten the chance to strap Lovely Assistaff on his back, so she lies on the ground beside him, equally disarmed as he was. But Zanka ain’t no bitch, hell no. He’s a fighter, a damn good one, and he won’t go down that easily. The moment the pressure on his shoulders stabilises, knees caked into the damp mud beneath him, his elbows fly behind him and digs into the person’s stomach.

“HUhgh—!” They grunt, gripping his uniform. Zanka is just about to do more, in the middle of getting up when the first guy comes up to him in a flash, tears off his gas mask and replaces it with a wet cloth; forcing Zanka’s face into it. The guy holds his head still, trash clutters behind them, knees press into the mud once more, his ears rings inside his head.

“chirppp… chirpppp” his choker goes.

He gasps and feels woozy, panic surging throughout him. “MMGHKKKK—!! MHGHHH!!”

Zanka’s fingernails quickly turns red the more he claws at the man’s grip, thrashing around. His sight wavers. His strength wanes. The choker finally connects. “—ey, hey. My bad, Zanka, I was busy doing something. You callin’ for a pickup?”

Enjin asks, then repeats, then goes silent. “Zanka? Hey, Zanka, you there?”

Zanka is thirty meters away, thrown over someone’s shoulder with his gas mask poorly adjusted around him, eyes rolled to the back of his skull behind his eyelids. The choker continues to make sound, a muffled noise to his soundproofed mind as his consciousness slips, taking him under.

The horizon’s a bitch to his eyes, but far, far, super far away, he sees the unmistakable silhouette of a town.

His exhaustion vanishes and with a deep jaw, Zanka’s good to go. He can handle a couple extra kilometres. This is nothing.

Nothing like what he had been through—and the seventeen-year-old shakes his head trying to put his mind off of it.

“….”

He doesn’t need to think about it. What he needs to do is get the hell back to the Headquarters, but first, get himself some real sleep.

It feels like he hasn’t gotten any of that in weeks.

His stomach hurts and his back aches. His legs and arms sway side to side at each step of whoever’s carrying him, making him nauseous. He feels so faint, hell, even wrong. He’s not wearing his gas mask now, and the uncomfortable dripping of his overfilled bloody nose streaming down around his nose bridge and further into his hairline, some dripping onto the ground and making a blood trail. It is a sensory nightmare. It feels like he’s mildly drowning in his own nosebleed. His eyelids close shut on him, too tired to keep them open. He perks his ears to listen, but the next second he’s out cold.

The town’s familiar trash-shield makes him sigh of relief, legs vibrating under his soles. “Thank fuck, oh man...” Zanka grins, baffled he didn’t recognise Andio earlier. He’s been here more times he can count with the help of four other people. How he didn’t figure it out the second he saw it twenty minutes ago; he has no idea.

The next time he wakes up, he has no idea where he is. His lips are chapped like crazy and his face feels dry. He’s chained to a wall, his wrists and ankles shackled with thick chains. Zanka instantly knows it’s meant to restrain bigger dangers, animals or criminals, because the tungsten is loose around him. It’s still a heavy, tiring weight to deal with, but he’s fortunate enough getting chains that weren’t filing away his skin. He’s in a foetal position, and the joints in his legs cracks once he finally moves.

The concrete floor is cruelly cold, and his throat is painfully parched. Swallowing pits of spit that isn’t there and licking his lips, Zanka settles on his knees at the pace of a tortoise. The door to the four-walled room, grey and bland, opens with a click. The Cleaner’s head snaps forward, his neck popping at the sudden shift.

In front of him stands a person.

“Hello, it’s quite good to see you after all this time,” a soft-spoken elderly man in a white coat steps closer to him, stopping at around two metres away. His attire is pristine and free from any dirt, pure in comparison of Zanka’s torn, filthy uniform. His baggy pants have dried up mud at his knees, his cerulean sash tied around his waist has holes and probably ants crawling at the backside – in which he shudders at the thought of it, and a killer headache tearing his brain apart from within. It hurts to glare at the man given his kneeling pose, eyes full of anger glowering through his eyelashes. The man’s face looks down at him with serenity, but he sees the pity from a mile.

“Seems like our staff was a little …rough while transporting you here, and I am sorry for that. We are just so thrilled because this is a new—” he bends down in front of him, bringing his aged, veiny hand to touch Zanka’s hair, moving it back. “—project we’ve only now launched. So please, forgive our guards.”

He is so revolted by the man’s audacity that Zanka sits up on his ankles, ignoring the shackles digging into his boots and wrists as he leans away from the touch. “Get yer hands off of me! The fuck?!”

Zanka spat, clearly not amused. The elder shuffled backwards, surprised. The actual nerve to look surprised by his action as he stands up, placing his hands into his coat’s pockets. “Ah, so reactive.”

He twitched. Reactive. He might’ve leapt at the man hadn’t it been the chains—reactive? He called him reactive. Yeah, right, as if he didn’t get fucking kidnapped by them and seemingly wanted to be offended by the unexpected head-patting.

He almost spewed a line of curses that would have gotten him smacked over his head back home when he paused, whatever he was saying dying on his tongue. His glare melted away; his frown dropped from his face.

The elder smirked, signalling the guard behind him to step forward. The object in their grasp, his object, being handed over to the elder wordlessly. There was no air in his lungs, none were being breathed in.

A constrictor knot tightened in his gut.

“You’ll surrender and listen to whatever I have to say. If I tell you to stand up, you do that. If I tell you to sit, you do that.” The modest smile on the elder was gone, replaced with a cold expression. “A Giver is nothing without their Vital Instrument, yes?”

“Don’t... don’t fuckin’ touch her.” Zanka stutters, vulnerable as he cracks. It does nothing but enlighten the man. “Good,” is all he says, before he turns around, still holding his Lovely Assistaff. “The project starts now.”

“no—no, waAIT! NO!” Zanka leaps from his sitting position, gasping as the chains stops him, sending him face-down at the cold, concrete floor. “DON’T FUCKIN’ TAKE HER—HEY! BRING HER BACK!” He screams, catching the older man’s gaze right before the door closes. And right before it does, the elder mouths to him.

‘Day Zero’.

Zanka doesn’t wish to know what that means. He only shouts and screams till his voice goes away and even then, his head is on the floor, heaving at the implication of the words.

He continues to wail for Assistaff.

The streets of Andio are as lively as ever, handlers and possible traffickers at every end of every road, some nestled into tiny narrow alleys. He has already asked a few locals of directions to the Headquarters, not yet sure if he could make it there by himself. By the number of times, he’s been here front to back, he should have an idea how to walk from here to the HQ by foot.

Although, Enjin’s driving was a hazard to anyone inside the same car as him, making it impossible to focus on the bland scenery outside. Gris’ driving always made him too weary, combined with his conversations with Riyo.

In short, he has no idea how to get to the HQ by foot from town. He wasn’t planning on heading over there now though, so he shouldn’t stress. He’s okay.

He’s fine.

The days stretch into two and add on. He’s suspecting he’s being watched somehow, paranoia seeping into him like a close friend. Assistaff is fine, she’s okay. She isn’t hurt nor broken, which doesn’t not help with his nerves as much as he thought it would. He’s also suspecting that something’s wrong. He knows something is wrong. Something wrong will happen. He doesn’t want it to happen. What is it that will happen?

Fuck.

A guard, armed and concealed, comes inside his chamber and places down perfectly folded clothes within his limited reach. “Change as soon as possible.” They command, before turning around and locking the door. Zanka’s dark blue eyes looks over to the clothes and turns around, curling into himself with an impassive expression.

The next time he wakes, he’s wearing the clothes the guard had set down, and he sits up, alarmed, glancing around the room. His old clothes, dustier than he had expected, sits bundled up in the corner furthest away from him.

Unsettled is an underwhelming word for what he’s feeling. He’s creeped out, and the clothes doesn’t even feel nice to be in.

Something will happen.

It gnaws at his core.

Zanka picks up this sloppy, toasted chicken cheesesteak, mouthwatering at the sight. The ciabatta bread is delicious as he takes a fat bite into it, flavours bursting on his tastebuds.

The chicken covered in spicy mayo and melted cheese gets bitten into what can’t be considered bite-sized pieces and swallowed.

He ordered water with ice, not wanting soda to try and destroy his ability to speak nor anything else. One sip, and Zanka sighs, before digging into his meal.

If he gets any weird looks to his one-seat booth, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

His internal clock is fucked, and he can’t tell how long he has been here. Only the effect it has on him, an impending sense of doom. It eats out of him and has his heart race. He spends his days pathetically lying on the floor of his cell, fingers digging into his chest. He feels useless, so damn useless. Minutes feels slow but hours feel fast. Time goes on by with and without him, including him one time then excluding him the other times.

Whenever he needs to use the restroom, armed guards show up. Whenever he needs food, his stomach not even grumbling, armed guards show up. Whenever he feels down, no armed guards show up. Why should they? Nobody shows up outside of what is necessary for him to survive. The most he does is stretching his limbs and standing up, not looking forward to getting more back aches and/or pain in his sore body.

Yer so damn pathetic.

He is.

Assistaff got taken and yer not doin’ a single thing.

He knows.

What’s to expect of ya? Yer a mediocre—no, yer below that. Ya just love to say yer average, but even average folks put up a fight when it comes to their Vital Instruments. Ya haven’t done shit.

He... he knows.

So why the fuck aren’t you fightin’?

Zanka shifts slowly, sitting upright. The cold flows though his fresh pants, but he pays no mind. He doesn’t dare to use Assistaff as an excuse of not fighting, because he knows that head scientist and his subjects won’t do anything to it. All they want is deprive him of her, not touch her. She’s probably locked behind a safe that’ll only collect dust, not his touch and anima that should always fill her.

He doesn’t know.

What’s holdin’ you back?

“Nothin’ at all…”

Absolutely nothing at all.

It feels like having four dull serrated blades saw at your organs, blood streaming out at the fifth slicing motion whilst being unable to do anything about it. As if two people are pinning you down, one doing the act, and Zanka, the victim unable to stop it. He has had the misfortune witnessing how the heart beats outside of the body, a lesson being taught in the Academy.

He doesn’t remember what subject was about, but the everlasting impression of him seeing the persistent heart continue to beat, bloody on the metal tray going “ba-dump, ba-dump,” in a steady pace; Zanka would think he’d never forget the sight.

Nonetheless, it hurts. His hands choke himself, easily encircling his throat as he squeezes. It hurts so much, he needs a distraction. His heart is rapid and pumps out more blood throughout his body. Everything from the neck down is red except for his head, his face pale. He doesn’t realise guards flood into his room when his shackles are tugged harshly on and he’s face down on the floor, his only place the last gruelling days.

“Don’t—the attempt—isn’t it right to—idal tendencies?”

Footsteps near him and a grunt escapes him. “The fuck you tryna do, Nijiku? You worthless shit.” The assistant growled at him, hands gripping at his scalp, strands of ashy blond and browns between each finger. Zanka’s eyes clenched shut, and the man stood up, picking him up by the scalp till they were standing, and even then, the man didn’t let go. Zanka hated him the most out of everyone.

“Inside these walls, you’re ours. You don’t have any rights in here.” The assistant’s other hand flies to his head and punches him, watching as Zanka crumbles down to the floor with a dazed expression. “Hurting yourself means ruining the project—which we can’t fucking afford. It’s like you’re going stupid now, aren’t you? You going crazy, buddy? Did you decide you can’t handle it?” He mocks. “Awww? Did our wittle baby Nijiku grow tireeeed?”

Pure resentment and hatred darkened his bleeding heart. If there would be anyone—there will—he would murder, this guy’s number one. He can just fucking wait.

Yet, the pain remains, and it claws at his lungs, working its way up. It hurts so bad he wants to vomit. He wants to die.

He thinks he does.

“Thank you for the meal,” Zanka mutters under his breath as he pays for the food and heads outside, somewhat in discomfort by the sheer amount of food in his stomach now.

He hasn’t felt this full in ages, and honestly, he understands why.

He walks outside and the first thing he feels is the breeze, before the icy cold temperature. It’s a little harsh, but nothing too bad. Nothing he can’t handle.

He takes a big, greedy breath and holds it, liking the way it feels inside his puffed lungs before respiring, emptying it before breathing normally, heading down the streets.

The desire to murder has never engrossed Zanka’s soul so bad before. It clung to his every thought, each fucking second that he spent chained to that damned cell, motionless on the floor. The longer he had to deal with that ancient fuckward, the longer he had to take listening to that insufferable assistant who thought he was hot shit. The longer he was away from Lovely Assistaff.

He could vividly imagine it, the heavy iron odour it would leave behind, a spilled mess of crimson against pure white. Every scenario led to him reuniting with her, like the light beacon in the shrouded darkness he was linked to. Murder has never tasted so good on his tongue before. He needs to indulge in it, now. Now.

He has to kill now.

Freedom has never felt this good before. He passed by a flyer stapled to a standing pole and slowed, before passing by another and looking at the date. 7-9 days after his last mission. Some flyers were newer with the latest showing 10 days after, and no other flyer had any date later than that.

Had it really been that—long? —short? —much time since he saw any of the others? The flyer gets ripped off and in his weak hold, the thin paper flies away wherever the wind takes it. Zanka grips both of his weapons, clutching onto them like an anchor while he strides through the crowd of people, flowing along the mass like a wave in the sea.

Perhaps there is a clean sea somewhere, uncontaminated from the filth humans has bestowed on it, pure from what the Sphere has to punish them with. Free from the blood-soaked sins Zanka has committed.

He continues on walking, his hood hiding his face as he keeps a low profile. He avoids two drunk people from bumping into him, sidesteps for a child and maneuverers around slow people. He keeps on walking and wandering, as fast as his legs grants him in the limited space he has, until the wave of people decreases and he’s somewhere in the far north of Andio. He slows down, till each step can’t be qualified as one, and lets himself think.

It’s time; he needs to think about it after all.

Zanka needs to recall how his first kill went down.

It was wet. He was throbbing, wrists bleeding from where the sharp edge of the shackle cut him. Zanka bit his bottom lip and jerked as hard as he could, using his blood as lubrication until his left hand slipped out, sending him falling on his ass.

“Ah.” He sat there, stumped, before trying it with his right, taking a little time before the blood-coated cuff slid off his free hand.

He glanced down at his ankles, cuffed around his boots. How would he be able to do that one?

A blood path follows him behind where Zanka drags his legs behind him, hurrying along. The clock etched into every hallway indicates it is hours after midnight, and surprisingly, no one’s guarding the corridors. He wonders if it’s because it is in the middle of changing shifts between guards. Perhaps. Zanka holds his boots to mask his footsteps as its deathly quiet, except for the loud ringing in his ears. His fingers down to the first knuckle are bloody, but the pain hasn’t hit yet. He feels only dull ache, and he’s at least thankful for that.

But he’s needy. His clothes are dirty, damp with sweat. He feels so unclean. His hair hasn’t been washed since he got taken. His face is clammy is dry. His stomach is grumbling, unsatisfied from this morning’s sad breakfast consisting of basically nothing. He’s in desperate need of his Vital Instrument.

He fucking needs her, he needs Assistaff.

Stepping into another hallway, he sees it furnished with a single desk by the wall. As Zanka gets closer, he could see a black item—but not quite what. The freezing temperature beneath his feet were starting to hurt, so he stopped to put on his boots. In the distance, his ears perks up and his heart momentarily stops.

Deep into the hallways, he could hear the sounds of marching as clear as day. “…gone missing…. subject 003-N is MIA!!”

Before he even questions it; a voice booms into the microphone tucked away in the corner, making Zanka flinch as he finishes putting on his boots. “SUBJECT 003-N HAS GONE MISSING! PERSONNEL, ACT WITH CAUTION. SUBJECT 003-N HAS GONE MISSING! PERSONNEL, ACT WITH CAUTION.”

“Fuck…fuck—” Zanka curses, ignoring the throb and warmth in his soles and wrists as he bolts, passing right by the desk within seconds and snatching the object. It was a little heavier than expected, and he glances down on the item in his hands.

A dagger in its scabbard.

He looks up, eyes as black as night running through the hallways, running for his life. Gradually, the corners of his mouth curls upwards into an eerie smile, a thought blooming in his head.

All those sick, obsessive scenarios and thoughts of murder, killing everyone in this fucking building will come through. Overlapped loud voices nears the opposite end of the hallway, too close for comfort, in which Zanka has to act fast.

“Here’s a blood trail! He must be close!”

His lungs tighten in his chest, and his legs picks up speed. He grips the scabbard and heaves, sprinting down the corridor with all his might until his eyes catches the sight of a door, adorned with brown wood—different from all the locked, steel entries. Zanka, nevertheless, forces the door open and closes it behind him, narrowly escaping the incoming guards. Their stomps get closer and closer and quite literally passes by the room, before becoming nothing but noise. He finds a moment to breathe, before a voice – not his own – sputters.

“H—how the fuck did you get out!” the voice of the assistant makes his head face forward, and patience has never snapped so quickly as of now. Zanka sees the object in his hands, a small choker, and instantly charges. He slides over the office table, sending important documents and glass crashing to the floor as he smacks away the communication tool and grips the man by his coat, hurling him into the wall.

“How—what are—let go—”

“Oh,” Zanka breathes, huffing as laughter bubbles up his throat. “Now doesn’t that sound hella familiar.”

His fingers skilfully spin the scabbard in his hand till he grips the dagger’s handle. All the man sees is the crazed-eyed Giver holding him against the wall, flicking the scabbard off of the dagger with a simple move. The daunting realisation hits him, and fear makes his pupils dilate.

He grips Zanka’s hands. “No—shit—Nijiku DON’T!” he tries to tilt his head, throw the kid off of him.

The dagger drives directly into his throat, and pain explodes, blood spills from everywhere.

The pressure of the sharp item drags across the wound, and his punches and yanks are weak in contrast of the Hell Guard-trained Giver. Not even his eyes, completely pitch black—even in the dark, spares him mercy. They glower into the depths of his souls and does nothing but make his last heartbeats race faster.

After a few arduous, merciless minutes, his strength wanes and his eyes glaze over. Pain becomes dull, then nothing as his weightless body is discarded on the ground, left to bleed, free for insects to gnaw and eat at his corpse.

In their captivity, they have given birth to a killer.

The project… has gone sideways. Out of every hypothetical, none of them was anything like this.

But the man can’t warn any of them, for Zanka Nijiku has officially gone insane.

As he makes his way through the alleyways, he accepts the fact he enjoyed taking their lives. They deserved it. He doesn’t need to add nor remove any words from the truth he had spoken; they deserved it. All thirty-four of them, from what he remembers.

Nor is he guilty for what he has done. That is another thing he has accepted. He has made peace with it.

The air, once a reminder of his actions, serves as a mnemonic of what he has been through. It is still a hazy and foggy memory; he wasn’t entirely conscious during his abduction form start to finish. Not conscious, no, ‘course he was. He wasn’t…. he wasn’t mentally present. He was physically bound there, yes, by shackles ‘n chains and all.

But there were times he felt like this wasn’t real. That it wasn’t happening at all. As if he was still at the Headquarters eating breakfast with Riyo, Enjin snoring in his toast. Chatting with the others or heading to the courtyard to train Rudo how to use his Vital Instrument. Tending to Lovely Assistaff, rewrapping her bandages, praising and showering her with love. Lying in the infirmary after an encounter with a certain pain-in-the-ass Raider, growling as the loser of the fight. Being there.

He takes another deep breath, something that’s becoming a frequent thing for him. He throws his head back. His clothes are newly washed. He feels clean. His hair is smooth and free from oil-buildup. His face is moisturized. His stomach is no longer grumbling, beyond satisfied from his chicken cheesesteak consisting of pure heaven. He’s clean.

(He’s staring into the mirror of the locker-room, dried-up blood in his clothes. He slowly looks down and sees his blood-stained hands. His fingers tremble under his fierce gaze. What has he done.)

He feels clean.

As Zanka ambles down the alleyway, making his way into some skatepark, the trees rustle and the wind bears a scent that makes him halt. The trees continue to rustle, even harder now due to the rough wind that has started to pick up, and a shiver runs down his spine. Not cause of the cold but cause of the elation that has subconsciously been brewing inside of him. Zanka’s eyes, wide with the tiniest amount of anima lighting them up, catches the figure in the shadows leap from one tree to the next.

The familiar, soothing strong smell of toxicity, metal and coconut fills his nostrils, and Zanka audibly sighs to respire suspire, to breathe it all in. The air shifts directions like the unpredictable nature of a tornado, and the figure dashes forward, claws aimed at him.

Zanka does not even turn around as Assistaff transforms in the blink of an eye and uses her as a pole vault to avoid the devastating nails of poison, dodging and landing handfuls of feet away.

The skatepark is empty, spared from the two of them. Six metres away stands Jabber, in his capricious glory, Mankira already out. She, as well, glistens the way her talons catch the streetlamp’s lights. Lovely Assistaff hums eagerly beneath his fingertips, and Zanka feels the same way about the other Giver.

He smiles and stands upright, his hood sliding off the back of his head. He didn’t mind the cold; his jacket was unzipped, showing his grey tee underneath. The fight that would happen any second now would warm him up good. No, run his body a fever, make him sweat and feel like the inside a volcano.

Zanka positions Assistaff behind him, his signature move. His voice is loud, yet feels quiet in the silence as he says, “Jabber.”

Jabber grins wider, head tilted far right, his wicks lolling to the side. Zanka realises he has pierced himself, now that the Raider’s face is adorned with piercings that undoubtedly fits him well. Extremely well.

“Heeeeeeeeey, Mr. Bad Attitude. You’re looking brighter than most days!” He exclaims, the gold accessories in his hair clinking against each other as breeze flows through them.

Zanka shifts, still smiling. It’s a little unhinged, a bit creepy too.

He feels his anima overfill out of control as pure exhilaration warms up his face.

“Yeah,” his eyes narrow. “A lot has happened.”

Before he rushes forward, Jabber’s keen focus latch onto the subtle change in Assistaff’s appearance. The thick ropes that bound the staff-body and the U-shaped upper part were tied around differently. In a way that did not cover Zanka’s name over the Vital Instrument. The small change, perhaps insignificant even, has Jabber’s already wide grin stretch even wider.

“Yeah,” he inhales. “I believe it.”

Zanka has gotten stronger, and Jabber wants nothing more than to get a taste of it firsthand.

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.