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They meet at the ragged edge of an old highway, rusty pieces of rebar sticking out of the broken concrete. Husks of ancient cars litter the white-bleached road, long since stripped for parts. Jabber comes up here to smoke sometimes. When the smog isn’t too thick, he can see all the lights of the city, each one a twinkling window he might climb inside one day. This world of his is full of possibilities. He loves it with all his heart.
Mr. Bad Attitude, he’d know anywhere. That guy has a distinctive look. There he is, kneeling at the edge, the big mean head of that staff poking out past a bent knee in her sweet little wooden stick form. Disappointed me twice, but he still wants a rematch? Jabber tisks to himself. Naw. I’ll just put him down this time.
He hops up onto the pitted frame of a hundred-year-old car and crouches there, head cocked. The steel creaks beneath him.
Zanka doesn’t move.
“Yo,” Jabber calls. “I ain’t in the mood today, so you get one chance. If you start walkin’ now, I won’t chase you.”
Zanka doesn’t move.
“But if you stay,” says Jabber, “an’ you lose—an’ let’s face it, you gon’ lose—then I kill you this time. For real. No more chances.”
Zanka doesn’t move.
“You let me down, man,” says Jabber. “I thought we had somethin’. But you couldn’t keep up. It’s been, like, three weeks.” Give or take. “You really think you that much stronger now?”
Zanka doesn’t move.
“Okay, now you startin’ to creep me out,” says Jabber. “You alive down there? He-lloooo~?”
Nothing.
“Okay, if I turn you around an’ your face is, like, jus’ a skull or somethin’, I’m gonna scream like a little girl,” says Jabber. He hops down from the car and creeps closer.
No response, just the wind blowing through Zanka’s hair. Jabber hovers a paw over his shoulder, and when nothing happens, he clamps it down.
Warm, alive.
“Phew! I actually hate skeletons, like, a lot,” says Jabber. “Dunno why. They jus’ give me the heebie-jeebies. Okay, so you still breathin’ an’ all… Man, what is up wit’chu?”
He grabs Zanka’s head and swivels it around to face him.
“You are not helping,” he says to the totally blank expression he finds. “Did you take something? Oh, man, did I get you into drugs?! Did I peer-pressure your ass? Or did you jus’ really enjoy it when I stuck you last time? Are you gonna answer a single one of my questions? Okay, great. I love talkin’ to myself. This shit ain’t boring at all. Man, if you’re gonna steal my smokin’ spot, at least gimme somethin’ interesting to work wi-”
His grip on Zanka’s hair relaxes.
“Hey, man,” he says. “Why is your Vital Instrument in three different pieces?”
The very softest inhale inflates Zanka’s lungs a quarter of an inch, and his whole body slumps, shoulders dropping. His arms remain limp at his sides.
“So she’s broken broken,” says Jabber.
Zanka doesn’t do anything.
“Man,” says Jabber. “Aw man, that SUCKS!” He releases Zanka’s head and springs to his feet, throwing his hands in the air. “Now you can’t even fight me anymore! That blows, man! That’s really- Ugh.” He slaps his hands over his face and drags the pads of his fingers down over his eyelids. “Man. That sucks. That really sucks.”
A shivery breath.
One baleful pink eye pops open. “I had hopes for you,” Jabber complains. “You were gonna train hard to fight me, an’ then we were gonna fight, an’ you were gonna win. You were gonna paste me with that thing. You were gonna cut me in half. You were gonna drop me to my knees and ram the pointy end down my throat, make me choke to death on my own blood. It was gonna be magic.”
One twitch, in the right shoulder. His fighting arm.
“Now look at you,” says Jabber. Tisks. “Can’t do nothin’.”
A shuddery exhale, and Zanka slumps the last little bit he can go.
Jabber tracks the motion with an equally minute shift of his eyes. There’s a sour feeling all up and down the length of his esophagus, the type he hates, hates, hates. It’s not fair. It’s just not fair. Like looking at the lights of the city and each twinkling one goes out.
“‘Kay,” he says, flat. “Guess it’s time to kill you now.”
He kneels by Zanka’s side and summons Mankira. His girl comes when he calls, ‘cause he takes good care of her, not like whatever happened to Lovely Assistaff. Long claws sharp by Zanka’s neck. Silver looks good on him. Maybe red will, too. Thin lines appear in the flesh. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t even swallow.
This is so lame, thinks Jabber.
He’s mad. He’s really mad. It’s no fair that he’s mad, and Zanka isn’t, stuck in whatever zen state he’s decided to put himself into for his last moments in this beautiful world. He’s going away, and no one will ever see him again, and he doesn’t even care. He’s silent and still like a statue. Jabber’s least favorite kind of person—the ones who don’t fucking do anything. “I hate you,” says Jabber, and grabs the broken head of Lovely Assistaff, drawing his arm back, ready to pitch her down into the wastes below.
A hand clamps down around his wrist like an iron manacle.
Jabber turns to look.
Deep in the pits of Zanka’s wide, furious eyes, there burns a faint blue glow.