Chapter Text
Beep beep beep. The sound of the medical gear rings like an alarm to Zanka. It’s a call to action; yet the only action he can commit to is meditating in his infirmary bed. At the very least, he isn’t entangled in IVs and wires that act as a ball and chain rather than life-saving equipment. But in all honesty, he can’t recognize the difference between that position and his current one. He is still ordered to bed rest despite feeling better than he did days ago. Apparently, there is still an unpredictable poison drilling its way through his blood vessels. A parting gift of sorts from a certain maniac who searched him out in their last battle. The thought of that man makes Zanka grind his teeth, yet also leap back in his skin. That man is the very antithesis of everything Zanka represents, and Zanka fears him. He can only pray to destiny that they may never cross paths again. For a genius like him is too much for Zanka to witness.
The infirmary room is quiet. It’s always too quiet these days. Everyone had already made their fuss, wished him well, and left him with words of encouragement. Zanka’s eyes drift to the faux plant Rudo gave him. Apparently, it was a kind gesture to bring real flowers to someone recovering in the Sphere. Rudo attempted to recreate that tradition with a plastic flower.
The gesture was kind, but what was he supposed to do with it? Stare at it? Have it mock him for being beaten by the enemy so badly? This pitiful flower is the last thing Zanka needs—a constant reminder that he fell short when he was needed most. He considered throwing it out before, but the moment that thought even struck his psyche, a harsh guilt throbbed within his chest. Not because it is a gift from a genuinely worried friend, but because he sees a piece of himself within the flower; not good enough to do its job, but trying nonetheless.
A knock interrupts Zanka’s spiral. It can only be one of two people. No one else visits him now. To no one’s surprise, he’s right. Red strands peak from behind the door until they come into full view. Riyo has an aloof expression with a sly smile that permanently lives on her face. She acts as if nothing is wrong. As if Zanka’s fine and in the infirmary bed for no other reason than a routine check-up. Sometimes Zanka appreciates that about the girl; other times, it infuriates him. He’d never express it.
“Heyyy Zanka, how’s it hangin’?” she greets with a careless cadence to her steps. She settles on the adjacent bed, not considering the meticulous setup Eishia worked so hard to maintain throughout her infirmary. Riyo subconsciously took lessons from Enjin in carelessness. Although, to her credit, Riyo has a bit more empathy. By the time she leaves, she’ll have it fixed up so the damage will never be seen.
Zanka grunts with a quiet grimace as he averts his eyes, opting for the blinding light of the window, “Same as ever, Riyo. Nothin’ like sitting in a bed for forever and a half.” Sarcasm lives on every syllable, some words being lost due to his natural dialect. There was little kindness in his response, so much so that to anyone else it can be considered rude. Yet not with her. She smiles with such affection that it’s contagious. Zanka can’t help but lower his guard around Riyo every time. It’s still there, but she’s the one person he lets pierce his walls down just a fraction.
Riyo talks insistently about the rest of the team, keeping him up to date with gossip, silly stories, and mundane missions they’re being sent on. She keeps Zanka entertained like a jester without the intention. Zanka knows that Riyo likes to be around him, and vice versa is true. Talking to her, he can forget how pathetic he feels being cooped up in his hospital bed. Well, he could forget all except one fact. The one who saved him from that maniac was her. A question plagued Zanka’s mind.
“Riyo, how did you defeat… him?” Zanka interrupts the flow of the conversation, even stammering when he thinks of the perpetrator’s name. He can’t help it; it’s a natural cause of his torture.
Riyo’s smile falters for a moment. Her half-lid eyes flicker up and down Zanka’s person. His frame, the way he slouches, the slight scowl on his face, all tell her that her answer holds a lot of value. Yet regrettably, she can only provide him with a sigh and ambiguity.
“Sorry, man, thatsa secret between me and the freakshow himself. I’d be in trouble if I spilled it.”
Quickly, she reverts the conversation to its previous lighthearted nature. Zanka notices how vague her answer is and the excuses within it. He wonders if the answer is so embarrassingly simple that Zanka’s pride would crumble further, and Riyo is trying to protect him from that. Nevertheless, Riyo continues.
“Rudo, y’know, he and Amo have this thing, right?” Riyo sneered like a Cheshire cat.
Zanka scoffs, “Clearly, the whole time in that trash beast, that’s all he wanted to talk about. The kid met the girl once and hit it off immediately.”
“Oop, Zanka… bad word choice.”
The double meaning of Zanka’s quiet mumble is lost to him before Riyo looks at him with a side glance, a chuckle threatening to break forth on her face. Zanka takes a second to think. A moment passes, and they both burst into disgraceful laughter.
“That’s not funny. I didn’t mean it like that,” Zanka shamefully defends himself.
Rudo had hit the girl for playing with the group’s emotions back in Penta. Zanka was indifferent to the situation. The girl had definitely deserved it, but Zanka had an inkling Amo had more going on than she initially led on. Unfortunately, he was right. And yet Amo, after fighting and mentally torturing their cleaner’s group for an hour, had the gall to preach how people use their hands for violence. That wording pissed Zanka off, but both Rudo and Amo apologized to each other because of it. Only people like them can turn violence into a genuine human connection. It is ridiculous and strange, but Zanka can see the sweetness hidden between the lines. It was foreign to Zanka. He shuddered at the thought of bonding over such a dehumanizing concept.
Zanka continues his conversation with Riyo, “What about Rudo and Amo?”
“Right sooo~” Riyo crosses her legs and cocks her head as she rests in the palm of her hand. She feigns apathy, but her hesitation conveys to Zanka that she was picking and choosing her words wisely. “Y’know how you suggested the info broker stuff to find Amo, we’re going through with it.”
A light goes off in Zanka’s head. It’s a call to action, disconnecting from the ringing of his medical equipment. The scowl on his face immediately dissolves into hope, “Really? I’m feeling fine now so-”
Riyo quickly caught on, “Sorry to burst your bubble, but I already asked Enjin.”
“Huh…? And what did he say?”
Riyo’s false apathy transforms into reluctance as she presses her lips into a thin line, “He said it’s probably best for you to continue resting. The info broker is dangerous, and he doesn’t wanna push you too hard.”
“Push me too hard?”
Zanka’s flower of hope soon withers as fast as it blooms.
…𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐𖤐…
Zanka’s pulling his hair out by his roots. He’s like a hog tied to a stick, just awaiting something, anything, to happen. Riyo’s presence was the most stimulation he’d gotten all day. And she and Enjin had just told him that he was denied permission to go on the mission that he suggested, over some poison maniac. He’s been recovering for over a week. Zanka is fine. He’s active. He’s able to move, fight trash beasts, jump, soar; at least go on an intel mission with his team.
Zanka’s nails pierce his skin so deeply that he draws blood from his scalp. His limbs flex against themselves as tension builds within his muscles. He is so angry, so genuinely, deeply enraged. And he has nothing to direct the anger at. He could blame Enjin, the decision maker, or Riyo, the messenger, but that would be dishonest. Zanka isn’t angry at anyone but himself. His multifaceted rage stemmed from one singular fact: he hated himself for not being strong enough.
“I’m so fuckin’ pathetic.” A hand drags down his face as his claws seep into his skin, drawing blood, “They can’t do nothin’ but pity me! Fuck, that genius! Fuck that guy! Why him…?”
Zanka grinds his teeth as he thinks back to his culprit’s words, when Zanka was at the peak of his toxin trip.
“Maybe I shoulda chosen another cleaner.”
Zanka tastes blood pooling in his mouth, “I… fucked it up. He thought I was worth something! I thought I was worth something.”
Foolish.
“Goddammit!” Zanka’s intestine threatened to break forth. He sends his fist into the adjacent wall, leaving a deep indent in the drywall. Zanka made a silent vow to defeat him.
Zanka has to do something, at least train Assistaff to be the best she can be. If he glues himself to the infirmary bed anymore, he’d sooner wallow in blood from self-inflicted wounds rather than sleep. So like a desperate fool, he grabs the carefully wrapped wood of Lovely Assistaff. The stick that lay by his side as he recovered shines in the moonlight. Her wood sparkles from years of Zanka taking care of her. Her bandages are always clean. Her prongs stand tall without a single chip. She is beautiful, Zanka’s precious vital instrument. She can’t be wasted because of Zanka’s incompetence. He leaves his infirmary bed.
Zanka goes to the courtyard, essentially a cement block that’s covered in graffiti. Before it was decorated, it more resembled a jail cell than anything. The cleaners made it their own. Now, Zanka’s blood joined the graffiti to decorate it. He tries to train. He does his usual exercise to help with his dexterity and accuracy, but he can only target still opponents. A training dummy, a window, a specific spot on the wall.
That man is like lightning. Targeting a still target isn’t going to help me defeat him.
Zanka is too used to the slow clunkiness of trash beast. He needs to fight a human who has a fraction of the speed of that maniac. That is the only way he is going to progress his fighting ability. Still, the manquiinn isn’t moving, the window is simply shattering, and that spot on the wall remains stationary. All is hopeless by himself. He can’t even ask anyone on his team to help; they've all left to find Kuro. They abandoned him.
Tired, frustrated, and devastated, Zanka’s training devolves into him punching the cement wall, continually pounding, which breaks nothing but his skin. Not even the cement will move under Zanka’s fist. With every impact, he let out a cry of anger.
“Why-!”
Crack.
“Him-!”
Crack.
“I’m gonna-”
Grind.
“Murder ‘im-!”
Shatter.
“Fuckin’ Jabber!”
Zanka’s fists are no more than paint brushes carrying crimson pigment. The wall is too sturdy to crumble before Zanka, or mayhaps his punches are too fragile and bare. Zanka knows which answer he believes. Zanka takes a deep breath, as if saying that madman’s name released the ghost that haunts him. But it’s still there.
Zanka observes the blood stain he left on the wall–embraces the burn, caressing his knuckles–as he falls into despair. Nothing Zanka will ever do can live up to the potential that man sees in him. Because it was never there to begin with. He will always be painfully average, abundantly mediocre, and Zanka must live with that. He came to the same conclusion when he dragged himself out of that well so long ago, but he found a way to make peace with it back then. Now, being embarrassed by that poisoned freak just dug up an old wound he thought he healed long ago. Zanka’s sigh is sharp and depressing.
Blood trickles down his calluses like dew, collecting at his fingertips until it free-falls to the ground. Zanka’s eyes follow the dripping blood, expecting to see a puddle form under his hands, yet there is something strange. In the dark of night, a copper color glows dimly like a hoard of fireflies. Suddenly, he registers there’s a rusted circle beneath his feet. Before he has the chance to think, the circle–manhole rather–opens up under him and pulls him into a world of gold, yellow, and teal. Zanka’s mind can’t keep up.
The trip into the manhole, so very familiar and as instantaneous as before, last all of a few seconds. Adrenaline, fueled by fear and dread, rushes through Zanka’s veins as he flails about within the portal.
This manhole is the Rai-
Zanka isn’t able to finish his thought. The staff wielder blinks, and suddenly the world makes a bit more sense. There’s a ground under him, and Lovely Assistaff is between his bloodied fingers. At first glance, he can tell he’s in a cave with no exit; illogically, it’s illuminated by some special means Zanka cannot pinpoint. His first listen, all he hears is the quiet echoes of unexplainable drafts. Then, a loud laughter rattles every bone in his body, so scarily familiar that it paralyzes him like a victim asking for a beating.
Please. This can’t be…
No messiah answers Zanka’s prayers as that familiar figure steps out from the shadows. He flinches like an abused dog. Exaggerated wicks hide the magenta glare within the shadowy figure’s eyes, his rings clank together like a church bell, and behind him drags that inconvenient piece of fabric that resembles a scorpion tail rather than anything human. Is he human? Is this hell?
A warm light glints off those silvery rings that lie upon his bruised hands. Beyond his golden complexion, his skin shows years of battle experience through oddly-healed scars and scraps alike. His vital instrument, the rings in question, Mankira looks beautiful, well taken care of, not a single scratch, brimming with anima and vitality. She is the pinnacle of a Jinki. And her owner is a pinnacle as well. A berserker, a warrior, a batteman. Everything Zanka wants to be but is incapable of.
The routine synth of the man transforming his vital instrument breaks Zanka out of his shock. Heavy blades envelop the man’s worn fingers. He walks closer, Mankira’s metaphorical reticle lands on Zanka’s head, and he is ready to strike. His laughter pierces Zanka’s psyche once more, causing him to hyperventilate as his grip tightens around Assistaff. Finally, the man before him speaks coherent words.
“Long time no see. Miss me, Bad Attitude?” Cockiness, snark, and feverish excitement overwhelm the man’s tone. Jabber Wonger is going to drag Zanka into a hell he will never be able to imagine. Zanka isn’t one to collapse over the weight of disbelief and stress, but he may this time.
The buckle in Zanka’s knees becomes heavy as Mankira fills his vision. He is on the verge of collapsing. Yet there is a blood thirsty glint illuminating like a firework within Jabber’s neon irises, fueling a quick spark in Zanka’s instincts. Something about that gaze changes the way Zanka holds Lovely Assistaff, his pitiful stance, the fear running throughout his body. Like a match to a furious flame, the terror develops into urgency and a drive to survive. Zanka doesn’t know where he is, nor how/why he got here. But he does know there is a killer before him, waving a guillotine before his eyes. No matter the reason, it’s kill or be killed. Just like before. Zanka does not waver.
The drive in Zanka’s eyes glistens like street lights in a dark alley, and Jabber reads it clearly. The cockiness in his grin is replaced with a ferocious delirium that reduces him to wide, inhumane smiles.
“Yeahhh, you missed me,” Jabber declares as he swipes at Zanka, Mankira targeting the man’s neck.
“Like hell, asshole!” But Zanka dodges just in time, working around Jabber’s erratic strikes, or more accurately, attempts. Zanka’s eyes are trained on those deadly claws, carrying a possible lethal amount of poison that can incapacitate in seconds. His first thought is to get those hands away from him. He catches Jabber’s claws in the mouth of Assistaff, sending Jabber back a few feet. But like a persistent pest, he comes back harder and stronger.
“Asshole? That ain’t anyway to greet ya, boy. You know my name, man!”
Jabber’s speed increases as he takes slices out of Zanka. Zanka either parries or dodges his attacks by a hair, each time grazing his clothes or skin. Zanka is fighting blind; he blinks, and the glint of Mankira is making another attempt at his life. All the while, Jabber’s laughter echoes off the walls of the cave like a symphony. Zanka is struggling.
“Dammit, Jabber! What the hell am I doin’ ‘ere!?” Zanka curses under his breath, just barely parrying another fatal blow. Jabber fights like he doesn’t think. He only has to move, and suddenly his bloodlust does all the talking. Zanka envies the villain.
Jabber sends an uppercut to Zanka, which sends the staffwielder back towards the rock of the cave, “Zanka, my friend, ain’t it obvious?” He walks towards Zanka, who’s reeling from the sharp pain in the back of his head. Jabber looks tall, threatening, scary even. He lowers himself to Zanka’s level. The glow from Mankira highlights his toothy smile, “Ya here to give me a real good time.” His tone is low, intimate, personal, and swamped in mischief.
Zanka can feel his breath on his cheek. Instinctively, he grabs Assistaff and thrusts her upwards, hooking her onto Jabber’s neck to force some distance. For any normal person, the move would snap their neck. Not Jabber. He’s the farthest thing from normal. Zanka rolls from under Jabber. With Zanka’s posture reestablished and on his feet, he and the maniac trade blows back and forth. They waltz together, Zanka’s scowl is focused and attentive, while Jabber grins like a spoiled child. He’s definitely not taking this seriously.
As they trade blows, they trade words, “Ugh, give it to me, Zanka~ This’ the good shit!”
Zanka fumbles a bit at Jabber’s exclamation, but quickly meets his next blow, “Yer disgusting! You kidnapped me just for this? Where are we?”
“Did I smack you too hard? Ya blind or somethin’? It’s a cave, man.”
“No shit, jackass! But the location!? And the why? Details! Gimme something to work with!”
Zanka exclaims with a blow, intending to push Jabber back, and sends him flying into the rocky walls of the cave. But Jabber catches Zanka’s forearms before he can commit. The maniac turns Zanka’s plan around on him, spinning erratically like a top as he grips tightly onto Zanka’s arm before eventually throwing him back into the cave wall. All the while, Zanka keeps a firm grip on Lovely Assistaff’s shaft.
Zanka hits the cave again with a powerful crash. Yet unlike before, he’s quick to recover. Within the dust of the rock and debris, he finds his feet underneath his body before his brain can process. This causes Jabber to beam like a blinding watchtower, though his expression transforms into something akin to focus, then annoyance. The man clicks his teeth as he walks towards Zanka’s trembling body.
“Damn, I guess I do owe ya an explanation of some sort.” His groans are of a stubborn teenager as he briefly deactivates Mankira. He shoves his hands inside the stitch pockets of his pants, sparing Zanka the tiniest bit of mercy for now.
Jabber tilts his head to the side with a psychotic smile, gawking at Zanka as the man regains his composure. Zanka can perceive every twitch Jabber unintentionally makes as he observes Zanka glaring at him with equally predatory eyes. Zanka can tell the dreadhead is holding back his bloodthirsty urges, and Zanka would rather take advantage of that than question it.
“Damn straight ya do!” Zanka bites back verbally, not daring to make any extreme movements, “Actually, send me back! I’m not in the mood to deal with yer psycho claws ass right now!”
“Really now~” Jabber’s eyes narrow and his pupils dilate, “Cuz I coulda swore you were whining about an opponent. Even punched the concrete bloody while saying my name. Gonna murder me, right?” There is a moan Zanka chooses to ignore laced within that question. Jabber’s masochistic tendencies never fail to disturb Zanka.
“That’s-“ Zanka stammers, blinking for every word that fails to leave his lips. His face is flushed from embarrassment and irritation. Jabber somehow knows the blow their fight did to his pride. Zanka is left to respond the only way he knows how, with snark, “How d’ya know that? Spyin’ and stalkin’ ‘part of the schtick too?” He spat with enough venom to rival Mankira.
Jabber’s eyes drop to the ground, his smile enduring every subtle motion. He gestures towards the choker resting daintily upon Zanka’s wrist. The lifeline of any groundling. With a drop of blood exchanged between one another, anyone can communicate, no matter the distance apart. Why is Jabber suddenly interested in his device?
“Thatsa a helluva place ya keep your choker. Careful, Zanka, the blood of your enemy might spill on it.”
“What are you-?”
“During our fight, I guess som’ of my blood got in your bracelet. For a while there, I could hear ya conversations through my own choker loud and clear,” a disturbing giggle bubbles from Jabber's expanding throat as he tauntingly sneers, “Was planning to use it to track ya down and try out the rest of ya cleaner crew.”
Zanka’s glare intensifies. There are so many things in that sentence that are definitely meant to bait Zanka to explode, but instead, Zanka takes a breath.
“Oh yeah, and what changed?”
“You just kept talking, man.”
Okay, now Zanka’s insulted.
“Yer listening in on my conversations and yer complainin’ bout me talking!?”
“Nah nah, that ain't it. Ya just sound… what’s the word… pathetic? Whiny? Like a loser? Ya get where I’m going with this, right?”
“I have an idea, motherfucker!”
“I thought we had an understanding, Zanka, my friend. We both live to fight, so why do I find you in my ear whining like a bitch!” Jabber punctuates his snarl with a sucker punch to Zanka’s gut.
Saliva escapes the man’s throat as he tries to keep on his two feet, refusing to fall over from Jabber’s blow again. All the while, Jabber cracks his knuckles together, casually walking closer to Zanka, who’s actively wobbling away in pain. Mankira glows again in her transformed state as Jabber winds his fist for another devastating blow. With a manic smile, he sends Zanka to the ground again.
Zanka’s head is pounding loudly as he pries his eyes open. All he can see is the crater under him and the dreaded figure above him. He feels Jabber lock Mankira’s claws around his throat. Zanka’s airborne, suspended from Jabber’s grip like a noose. Zanka claws into Jabber’s wrist, drawing blood with his nails.
“There ain’t never been a lick of an understanding between you and me, ya hear me!” Zanka demands rather than asks, fighting Jabber’s iron-clawed grip around his nape, “Yer wrong about a lot, but I’ll tell ya one thing. I ain’t a bitch, ya monster!”
“Tha'st so, my guy? Then prove it to ya best buddy, Jabs.” Jabber sneers with a mocking smile, raising Zanka’s struggling body even higher.
Blood vessel pulses from Zanka’s knuckles as he keeps up his fight against Jabber, trying with all his strength to pull the fiend’s armored fingers away from him. But try as he might, Jabber doesn’t budge. Zanka is reminded. That moment of weakness, how small and defeated he felt against Jabber, their first major encounter. Suddenly, his body freezes, then goes limp. Fear is injected into Zanka again. He’s quick to surrender this time. Zanka is no fool. He doesn't have a chance of overpowering Jabber. That’s what those last two attempts told him.
“That it?”
Jabber’s smile drops as he feels Zanka’s muscles lax. He hangs limply from Jabber’s iron grip. Zanka disappoints Jabber again, and that guilt ironically eats Zanka up inside more than the possibility of death. He fully expects his life to end by Mankira’s claws digging through his throat. A punishment for wasting Jabber’s hope and expectations. However, the villain's next move shocks Zanka. Jabber mercifully throws Zanka to the ground, allowing air to flow through his windpipes again. Zanka takes a desperate breath of fresh air as he wonders why he’s still alive.
“T-the hell?” Zanka coughs out, “Why-?”
Jabber’s glare is judgmental and cold. Uncharacteristically, he flatly says, “I’m sick of ‘earing all that mediocre crap ya spew. A man who drew that form of Mankira outta her ain’t a bitch, I know that much. And I ain’t gon allow ya to disrespect her like that.”
Confusion is still evident on Zanka’s face as he writhes painfully on the cave’s ground. He still looks to Jabber for answers, “Are ya hearing me, Zanka?” Jabber entertains him, crouching down and yanking his blonde strands from his skull, making Zanka look him in the eyes. Jabber brings his face closer with a crazed look. An underlying intimacy and tension are accumulating between them. Zanka can once again feel the other’s breath on his cheek, yet his body is screaming at him too loudly to push the man away. He cannot even struggle against his grip. A slow sigh leaves Zanka’s nose.
After a few seconds, finally he speaks, reaffirming his beliefs, “Can’t catch the hint? I ain’t worth the dirt on ya shoes,” he wheezes out pathetically, “I tried, and I failed… hard. I can’t beat someone like ya. Kill me if ya must. Lemme die with a bit of dignity, at least.” He concedes.
“Tsk, die?” Jabber sucks his teeth with a scowl. Jabber drops Zanka on the ground again, yet unlike before, Jabber gives him a bit of unbeknownst grace. He raises his left claw and stabs it directly into Zanka’s artery near his neck. A numbing relief rushes through Zanka’s body, and he’s able to move again. Zanka’s even more confused.
“See, ‘dis the shit I’m talking bout. It ain’t fun when you ain’t putting hands on me, man.”
Mankira’s claws playfully dance on the edge of Zanka’s chin, coaxing him little by little to raise his head. The claws lie dangerously on the line of tickling and stabbing into Zanka’s skin. Jabber’s mocking grimace returns as he commands, “Stand the fuck up. We can beat that mediocre outta ya punk ass, yeah?” He speaks as if he’s whispering encouragement into Zanka’s ear; low, smoothing, and delicate. If only the content matched the tone.
Zanka’s eyebrows knitted together, thoroughly unsure of Jabber’s motives, “The hell ya saying, asshole, I don’t speak riddles.”
Jabber grunts, cocking his head to the side as he abandons the grip on Zanka’s chin, “For a guy who only fights trash beasts, you definitely slower than one,” he insults. Yet before Zanka can verbally maul him, Jabber continues, “I got a real good feeling you can rock my shit. So let’s train ya up till you can put old Jabber here into the dirt, whatcha say, Mr. Bad Attitude? We’ll fix that weakass mindset while we’re at it.”*
Zanka upturns his nose at the offer, only returning with a scowl of disgust. Zanka’s not stupid; he knows the masochist, not well, but well enough to assume the pleasure he’d receive as Zanka’s personal training dummy. Immediately, he recoils from the idea.
“Ew… ya think you’re slick or somethin’? No, you freak,” he spat with repulsion.
“Wha?!” Jabber dramatically exclaims, though the freakish smile on his face betrays his theatrical gesture. He loves it when Zanka denies him, “Cmon~ it’ll be fun! For old times' sake, my friend!”
Zanka’s eyes roll beyond his eyelids, clearly irritated with Jabber’s game, “Yer not my friend, and it was two weeks ago! I ain’t gonna be used for your masochistic jerk off material!”
Jabber makes a lot as if he had been caught. The dramatics seep away, revealing a hungry glare through hooded eyes. His irises shine just a tad brighter as mischievousness returns to his expression.
“Hmm,” He hums as a drawn-out moan, “I could just kill ya, I guess. But that’ll be a lame death, and ya not lame, right Zanka?” Mankira’s claw breaks the skin underneath Zanka’s chin. He tenses as he wonders what poison just rushed through his system. Still, Zanka instinctively grips Lovely Assistaff.
Jabber’s sneer widens as the whites of his eyes expand with excitement. The grip on Zanka’s chin hardens as Jabber’s will to control his actions quickly fades, “Yeah… I can see the fire in ya eyes. You talk tha weak shit, but you still wanna beat my ass bloody with cha own hands. I’m waiting! I’m standing right here! Strike me, Zanka!”
“No way in hell!” Zanka declares, pushing away Mankira’s claw. She was lunged so deeply that a harsh, bloody gash was left in her wake. Yet despite his denial, Zanka readies Assistaff to do just as Jabber demands. There’s a drive Zanka has to commit to. For his survival. For no other reason. Desire wasn’t a factor in the slightest. Yet, Zanka feels his lip split as a crazed smile smears across his visage, only matched by Jabber’s lunatic grin. He raises Assistaff to attack his bloodthirsty opponent.
“Then I’ll come for ya!”