Work Text:
Zanka doesn’t talk to his weapon.
Not out loud, anyways.
That’s something Rudo does—muttering under his breath, jaw tight, like the words might fall apart if he doesn’t hold them together with sound. Zanka’s always found that kind of thing… Inefficient. Words are messy. They slip. They betray you.
Lovely assistaff doesn’t need words.
It rests against his shoulder as he moves through the corridor, weight familiar enough that his body adjusts without conscious thought. The balance is perfect. It always is. Not because he’s strong but because assistaff knows him. The way he knows it.
That thought creeps in sometimes, unwanted.
Knows is a dangerous word. Knowing someone—something enough that being with it feels right, that being without it feels wrong.
Zanka pauses at the entrance of the training room, eyes flicking over the targets pinned to the wall. Cracks in reinforced concrete. The room that's more home to him than his actual assigned room. He exhales slowly through his nose, fingers tightening around lovely assistaff’s grip.
The wood is warm, like it's just waiting for his hands to curl around its usual spot. Waiting for him.
“Yeah,” he mutters, barely audible. “I know.”
He doesn’t know why he says it. Maybe because no one’s around. Maybe because the silence feels heavier than usual. The lovely assistaff doesn’t respond, of course it doesn’t but the weight shifts just slightly against his shoulder, settling in a way that eases the tension in his spine.
Zanka clicks his tongue, annoyed at himself.
Weapons aren’t people.
But assistaff has always been lovely. His.
The name wasn’t his choice. Not really, someone mentioned it jokingly once and it stuck in a way Zanka pretended not to notice. He never corrected it. Never renamed it.
Names, too, are dangerous things.
Still.
When lovely assistaff hums faintly as he channels energy through it, the vibration travels up his arm and into his chest, steady and grounding. The cracks in the wall ahead spread outward as he strikes, controlled and precise. The recoil is absorbed cleanly, no wasted force.
Perfect.
Zanka lowers the weapon and breathes.
He takes a moment, his forehead resting against the grainy wood. Anyone watching would miss it. Anyone watching would be wrong to see meaning in it.
But Zanka closes his eyes anyway.
Lovely assistaff doesn’t judge him for his hesitation. It doesn’t ask why his hands shake a fraction longer than they should after missions like this. It doesn’t look at him differently when he chooses restraint over destruction, when he holds back instead of going all the way.
It just stays.
And it's exactly what Zanka needs.
Later, when the others are loud in the common area, their voices overlapping, energy buzzing too high—Zanka sits apart, lovely assistaff laid carefully across his lap. He runs a cloth along its surface, slow and methodical, tracing over old nicks and scratches he knows by heart.
“Still holding together,” he murmurs. Having his own conversation with his jinki.
The cloth catches on a shallow groove near the midpoint. Damage from months ago. He remembers the fight, remembers how close it came to snapping under pressure. Remembers the flash of fear that followed—not for himself.
For his weapon, for lovely assistaff.
His jaw tightens. He finishes cleaning, fingers lingering longer than necessary before pulling away.
The Assistaff is quiet.
But in the quiet, Zanka feels something loosen in his chest. The constant vigilance eases. The weight on his lap is solid, real, unchanging in a world that keeps trying to strip things down to nothing.
If assistaff breaks, he will too. He's sure of that. Who will he be without it? His position in the cleaners was secure because of it.
He exhales.
“Stupid ideas,” he says flatly, standing and shouldering the weapon again.
The Assistaff settles into place, perfectly balanced. As always.
And for just a second, Zanka allows himself to believe that being understood doesn’t always require being seen. That loyalty doesn’t have to speak. That sometimes, the thing that stays with you through every fight is enough.
He walks away the noise, posture sharp, expression unreadable. He waves off Enjin who asks if he's alright.
“I just need some air and quiet.” He responds while eyeing Rudo who's the center of attention again, Enjin nods before walking towards him.
“It's cold, don't stay out there for long, aye?” Enjin spoke while pressing his nose to Zanka's hair, making him freeze up before letting out an exhale.
“Okay…”
“Twenty minutes.” Enjin murmurs, pulling away from the smaller.
Zanka rolls his eyes but nods and heads back down the halls.
The Assistaff doesn’t leave his side.
Zanka slips into one of the narrower corridors, the kind that were never meant for lingering. Pipes hum softly behind the walls. The lights overhead flicker once, then steady. He stops there, back against the concrete, and lets the Assistaff slide down into his hands.
He exhales.
The weapon rests upright between his palms, the end touching the floor. For a moment, he just… stands there. Breathing. Letting the vibration of everything he hasn’t said settle into something manageable.
“I needed time alone,” he says suddenly.
The words come out sharper than he intends. He frowns, adjusts his grip, thumbs brushing over familiar grooves in the wood.
“I was tired, I needed—I needed time alone.” He repeats, as if lovely assistaff will reply. He doesn't know if he wants it to or happy that it can't. “You're the only one grounding me right now.”
He huffs a short, humorless laugh. “Guess that sounds insane, huh?”
Lovely assistaff doesn’t move. It never does unless he asks it to, unless he wills it to. That’s the point. That’s the design. Zanka knows that. He knows it.
Still, his shoulders tense as if he’s waiting for an answer.
Stupid, how stupid.
“They say I gave you a purpose,” Zanka continues, quieter now. “Said you were perfect for me. Balanced. Reliable. Strong enough to handle whatever they throw at me, that I'll always be able to defend myself with you.”
His jaw tightens.
“And if you crack, if you bend too far, I can just… fix you. Or replace you.”
Zanka’s fingers curl tighter, knuckles whitening.
“Not because they hate you,” he adds quickly, like he needs to justify it. “Just because that’s how things work.”
He lets out a shaky breath, tracing his fingers on the grooves of lovely assistaff. “Things are meant to be used, repaired, repeat. Once they no longer function as intended, they're replaced.
The corridor hums softly around them.
He looks down at the Assistaff, eyes tracing its length. Every mark tells a story he remembers in painful clarity—every impact, every moment he pushed too far, every time he trusted it to hold when everything else was breaking.
“But I can't do that to you,” he murmurs. “You don’t deserve that. You didn’t call out to me just to be used and discarded.”
His reflection warps faintly in the parts of polished metal. He doesn’t like the way his face looks there—too sharp, too tired.
“I still wonder, though.”
The admission lands heavy in his chest.
Zanka swallows.
“I think about it all the time. Whether I’m actually doing what I’m supposed to, or just… functioning.” He scoffs under his breath. “Guess that’s the same thing, to them.”
He presses his forehead lightly against the Assistaff again before he can stop himself. This time, he doesn’t pull away right away.
“They look at you and see a tool,” he says. “They look at me and see a weapon.”
His voice drops. “No one asks if we’re tired.”
Lovely assistaff’s warmth seeps through his skin, steady and grounding. Not comfort—not really. Just presence. Just proof that something is still there.
Zanka straightens abruptly, as if realizing how far he’s gone.
“Tch. Listen to me,” he murmurs, laughing a little. “Projecting onto a stick.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no real bite behind it. He adjusts lovely assistaff against his shoulder, movements automatic, practiced to the point of instinct.
“You’re fine,” he says firmly. “You don’t get conflicted. You don’t doubt. You don’t want anything.”
That last part sticks.
Zanka pauses.
“…Right?”
The silence stretches.
For a dangerous second, he imagines what it would be like if assistaff did want something. Not freedom—not escape. Just recognition. Just to be more than the sum of its uses.
The thought makes his chest ache.
He exhales sharply and steps away from the wall.
“Doesn’t matter,” he decides. “You do your job. I do mine. That’s it.”
That’s always been it.
As he walks, lovely assistaff shifts minutely with his stride, settling into its familiar place. The weight is reassuring. Predictable. Something he can rely on when everything else is unstable.
Still, as they re-enter the brighter corridor, voices echoing faintly ahead, Zanka’s grip tightens just a little.
“If you break,” he says under his breath, not looking at it, “they won’t be able to fix me the way I’d fix you.”
The thought lingers, bitter and unwanted.
But the stick remains steady against his shoulder, unwavering, unjudging.
And Zanka keeps walking.
Because that’s what tools do.
And weapons.
And people who don’t know how to be anything else.