Work Text:
In the main bathroom at HQ, there’s a pole.
It’s next to the urinals, so it’s probably disgusting, but every time Zanka has to stand there and stare at it, the more he thinks. The more he wonders, with a little bit of sanitization, what a good platform it would be.
For, uh, practice.
He was never allowed into the darker corners of the city, but he’s not stupid. He knows what strippers are, he knows what pole dancing is.
And he knows how agile he can be with his Jinki—what would be so different about a load-bearing pole like that.
Zanka pokes his head out the door; the hallway’s empty, save for Semiu reading porn at her desk, like usual, and the coast is considered clear.
He wipes his palms and takes a breath. What’s there to be afraid of? Regular people do this all the time.
With a running start, he quickly grasps the sticky metal rod, kicks his legs in the air and spins. He barely makes it one rotation, before his grip betrays him and he slips onto the floor. Gross.
He tries again, his strides a bit longer this time, and when he grabs onto it, he doesn’t slide—he actually spins. Zanka engages his core to lift his legs into a split, spinning a full turn more than he did last time, before his right hand loses its grip and he goes tumbling down again.
Then a clap echoes through the washroom.
“Nice work, Zanka.” Enjin praises him with a cheeky grin, “We’ll have to get you a flashy outfit now, huh?” He teases.
Zanka’s entire body freezes, flushes, and he wishes Jabber had killed him, back when he had the chance. At least then he wouldn’t be enduring this kind of torture.