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Zanka spends four weeks in hell. Hell is an average-sized room, no windows, one door, and a bed. Lovely Assistaff is pinned to the wall by metal joints directly across the room, just out of reach, purposefully within view. When he calls to her with anima, she strains and strains but starts to creak ominously before the bonds show any sign of give. She's just as trapped as Zanka himself, with his limbs bound to the bed.
Technically, it's just his legs and his wrist. One: chain cuff around his left ankle, with about two feet of give. Two: chain cuff around his right ankle, with twice that. Three: A band around his left wrist, attached to nothing in particular, but its purpose had been clear when it was linked to him: a mark of ownership.
The give around his ankles is just enough that he can pull himself to the foot of the bed, and then to the toilet, if he needs. Not that he needs to much. They feed him hardly anything, and even less to drink; one mouthful of water is all he's afforded in a day. He loses twice that in tears and sweat in the same time, and it's starting to come out of his blood and fat. His skin is starting to cling bare to his bones in some places; the metal cuffs tighten themselves when he's unconscious, but he can tell every time when the pinch is worse than usual.
Hell isn't hell at first. It's a semi-comfortable bed, two meals a day. For kidnappers, they're remarkably generous, is what he thinks for the first three days.
On the third night, he gets his first visitor. They're almost kind at first. They're taking him to bathe, he's told, and, feeling the way the joints around Lovely Assistaff tighten dangerously, doesn't try to fight.
When they reach a new room, a necklace is placed around his neck. They take his earrings from his ears first. He isn't afforded the dignity of taking them off himself, and he isn't able to do anything with the way the necklace sends numbness down his limbs. He stands there dumbly as they undo the delicate half-braid of his hair, begin to unbutton and unzip his clothing, and then maneuver his bare body into a bathtub.
The bath is normal, but something feels gone from him when he stands again. The necklace is stripped from his neck, and the visitor smiles cheerily as they place a hand on his lower back and begin to lead him to the door.
Only, his clothes stay behind on the chair. Zanka opens his mouth, tries to protest, but the visitor only pushes him out of the bathroom, nude. There's no one in the hallway, but he still covers himself, feeling his face burn with humiliation.
Nobody sees them. When he returns, the bonds reattach to his limbs immediately upon sitting on the bed, and then tighten still. He yelps, feeling his legs jerk apart, suddenly only with a quarter-foot of give each.
The visitor watches, smiling. Then they climb on top of him.
Zanka doesn't remember much of what happens next unless he consciously tries to. And he doesn't; he leaves it smoldering in the back of his mind, the ember to a roaring blaze that would burn his self-esteem, his dignity, his will. He had tried to fight, at first, but without Lovely Assistaff, the visitor was stronger. They dragged his wrists above him and they unfastened their pants and they took and they took and they took from him. And he gave, even as his body screamed and he screamed and he bled.
He lies there when it's over, eyes wet with unshed tears, face streaked with shed ones. The chains remain taut, leaving his legs peeled apart, exposing the open wound of his insides to the air. The visitor, still clothed, lights a cigarette as they sit on the bedside. Lovely Assistaff rattles and glows, but the metal bonds squeeze and Zanka yelps out with the last of his voice.
The cuff on his wrist burns. Ownership.
That visitor is the first, but they are not the last. Some are excited to get their hands on a Cleaner. A few are thrilled at the prospect of defiling a Nijiku. Most are men. A few are women. They come in the morning, the afternoon, the night, with no consistency between them. There can be none a day or ten.
Whoever controls the chains loosens them when the visitors are done, allowing him to use the toilet and crawl off the bed in shame. When he feels the warning tug on his ankles, he knows it's time to obey again. It's the same Giver that controls the bonds on Lovely Assistaff, it must be. The cuffs are the same dark metal, with the same sheen and glimmer.
And they must know the pride that he takes in his appearance, because after that first bath, he's not afforded the dignity to so much as wash his hands. Grime and blood builds in the creases of his flesh, and he finds himself spitting what little fluids are in his body onto his fingers one day, desperate to clean them. It does little, and they're just as dirty as before when he finishes scrubbing at them. The odor must be awful, but the only time he catches any kind of other scent is when the door swings open and a delightfully cool breeze comes with his next visitor, so he can't tell.
Physically, his insides heal. Some of the visitors bring oil or lube, and some do without. His body adapts against his will, muscles loosening every day, and it hurts less with every visit. He looks at Lovely Assistaff when his mind struggles to adapt, too, and reminds himself what her smooth surface feels like in his hands.
But he finds himself wasting away nonetheless, losing the strength to even try to struggle against the same kinds of hands that pin his arms to the pillow or wrap around his neck or shove against his mouth.
“Please, I can't,” he begs one day, as one visitor forces him to sit up and tries to get him to ride them. His body feels like it's made of tissue paper, and he finds himself leaning heavily against their stomach, open palms splayed out as he pants weakly.
The visitor huffs and makes do. His muscles, unused to keeping him upright like that, scream and ache afterwards. He finds himself crawling to the toilet, unable to get his dying legs to hold him upright long enough for the few steps.
The first visitor comes back, in the fourth week. He's staring at the wall, as he often does, lying still, thinking. Sometimes he loses himself in memories of his family. Sometimes it's his adventures with the Cleaners, and he imagines them coming to rescue him on a few occasions, breaking Lovely Assistaff free, returning her to his arms.
The visitor turns his head to face them and kisses him. It's the only time in his imprisonment he's been kissed, he realizes, and he melts into it, almost desperate. It feels warm and comforting and kind. They remove the cuffs from his ankles next, and he stares at the expanses of his bare legs, and the dirtied feet at the ends of them, unbroken by the metal that had sunk into his flesh for weeks.
They pull him out of the bed, and his legs buckle as soon as they touch the ground. But they pull him into their arms, and then there's a wheelchair outside the room, and a cloth laid across his lap.
He's brought to a room. There are other people in the room. But he thinks of Lovely Assistaff, and he imagines her in hell, pinned to the wall like a butterfly. And he doesn't notice any of the people there.
Someone grabs his hands and speaks to him. Cold rings press against him, finger-to-finger. He sees a smile, wide and desperate with something, but he imagines holding Lovely Assistaff and he doesn't see the someone at all.
Eventually, he's returned to hell, and he curls up on the bed and stares at her against the wall. She glows invitingly. It's okay, she tells him. You need to go. It's okay.
The next day, someone comes in to visit. Their hands land on his body and he cracks beneath their touch.
Lovely Assistaff hums a soothing tune to him. Go, she sings. Go. He pulls and she cracks too. Every bit of it feels like a stab through his limbs. But he pulls and she cracks and each splintered piece finds itself impaled in a different part of the visitor’s body.
It's almost funny, how their eyes go wide and they go slack. They're still over him when they die, and their blood seeps into the same cracks as everything else. He takes the piece of her in the side of the visitor’s head and he bashes it into the cuff chains, over and over, until they break and she shatters further.
He gathers up her pieces and he makes sure to have every little one, even the splinters that had fallen against the wall, and he runs.
Physically, his legs shouldn't be able to hold him up, but with Lovely Assistaff in his arms, he has the strength to go on. Even broken, she hums invitingly, and Zanka feels her soothing glow numb the pains of his body. He runs and runs and runs. It's only once he makes it out some door and into a vast expanse of desert that he realizes that it's fucked. It's the middle of a polluted zone.
Instantly, the air burns his lungs. He clings to Lovely Assistaff rather than cover his mouth, and forces himself to forge further and further into the dust. At some point, the cuffs still strangling his wrist and ankles snap away and fall off, too, before zipping away somewhere behind him. He'd already deduced that they were a part of some vital instrument or ability, so it doesn't shock him.
Somehow, he doesn't die before it breaks apart and he escapes the polluted zone. He looks down at himself at some point and realizes that he's coated in the dust, all over his still-nude body. Zanka probably looks a sight, dust-covered and unrecognizable. He's still in the middle of nowhere, but there's no one around and no trash dust clogging his lungs, so he finds a tiny overhang in a cliffside and curls up around Lovely Assistaff’s pieces.
In the morning, he finds himself starving. Lovely Assistaff is filling all of his arms’ space, so he sifts through the trash spilling from the polluted zone until he finds a cloth large enough to wrap her in. This, he decides, is much more manageable. He tucks her in close, then finally succumbs to the aches in his legs and crawls along the ground until he's back in his alcove.
As the day progresses, his stomach screams and his mouth burns with thirst. The day is hot and he is weak, too weak to climb from the alcove, even as his body prays for it.
I'll die here, he decides, and hugs Lovely Assistaff close. Better here than in hell, being raped by some bastard visitor where he's separated from Lovely Assistaff. At least here, he has her. She still sings to him, even in pieces.
Zanka shudders and sighs. But then, she speaks to him. Live, Zanka, she says, voice sweet. Live. You can do it.
The first thing he eats after escaping is a roach, in the alcove. Then, a vulture flies down to peck at him and he breaks its neck. With the energy he has, he cleans the pieces of Lovely Assistaff obsessively, scrubbing the dried blood from his last visitor away. The sand actually helps. Water is an issue, until he decides to drink the blood of the vulture. It's disgusting, and he gags several times, but he feels a little better once it's in his stomach. The meat, too, although he eats it raw like an animal himself. He finds a particularly strong, sharp piece of metal, and begins to use it as a knife.
One day free turns into two, and he gets every piece of Lovely Assistaff clean. He makes her bag pretty, uses a bit of wire and the broken-off tip of a syringe to sew it properly. He forces himself to stand and walk, at least far enough to scavenge supplies, and his strength begins to return to him, even if all he's eating are bugs and the occasional animal that strays too far. Zanka’s already hit rock bottom, and his dignity is already shredded, so he feels no shame in digging his teeth into rats and roaches. He fashions a device to collect moisture, too, so it's not only blood he's drinking, even though the air here is so dry that it barely produces a mouthful a day. It's the same amount that he was receiving in captivity, which means that it's more than enough now.
In a shiny bit of intact mirror, one day, he sees himself, and realizes that he's unrecognizable. His eyebrows are the only distinct thing; his eyes are ringed with exhausted circles and his skin barely clings to his gaunt face. His hair, once a point of great care and pride, hangs limp and oily, a uniform black all over now that the sandy bits have grown out.
Zanka fashions himself clothes with the same syringe-needle and scraps he finds, and it's enough for him to finally leave the alcove, staggering along the cliffside. He avoids roads, because he knows he's too weak to fight off any attacker that approaches him, even with his makeshift knife. He searches for settlements, and finds one, soon, though not one he recognizes. At night, when there's no one actively watching, he slips inside the town and into an alleyway.
At least here, he's safe from potential trash rain. And he can beg. Nobody here knows him, but nobody will attack him, at the same time. These places have rules. And he has his knife, if anything, even though he knows it's not enough on his own. It's impossible for Zanka to feel safe here, but it's better than the middle of the desert, out in the open.
Zanka sleeps beside dumpsters, and he still can't bring himself to feel shame about it. It's as if his heart has lost the ability to feel that particular emotion, after having it forced out of him so many times, and so often. Instead, he holds Lovely Assistaff’s pieces, and he sings to her as he tries to sleep, and he makes it through every day.
His begging is enough to afford him a lighter, something that's barely worth shit, but it's enough to give him hope. He has an idea in mind, one that's creative and diabolical and maybe terrible, but it's worth trying. He gathers a cracked pot and all the foil he can find from the trash within the town, and he builds a tiny fire for himself. The foil melts into bubbling, liquid metal. Carefully, so carefully, he digs grooves in the ground, and he lays out the pieces of Lovely Assistaff, exactly as she should be arranged. And he pours.
It's not perfect, but Zanka focuses, and anima shapes the imperfect bits. He can't get the top part quite right, so the topmost fork is left shattered in his bag, but he strengthens the remaining bits until the flimsy aluminum becomes strong as steel. When he leans her against the ground, she holds his weight.
He'll have to get back to the Cleaners to fix the rest of her, probably, but this is enough to make his heart sing. With her almost whole, he feels like he's been fixed in the process. A bit is still missing, but his heart pumps joyfully rather than simply dutifully, and he twirls her around himself in delight.
He feels safer with her, and he travels out to the edges of the polluted zone to scavenge. Some of his scraps sell well, and he gets enough money to put food in his belly. People still turn up their noses at his unwashed body and clothes, but he's still beyond caring. He hears them murmur, though, about a homeless Giver, and realizes he's gathering attention. Too much attention. So he sets out again.
He has to cross a short stretch of polluted zone, and although it burns his lungs, he saves a pair of people from a decently-sized trash beast. Defeating it comes back to him like second nature, and the pair force money into his hands even as he tries to deny it.
It comes in handy, in the next town. Zanka rents a motel room and finally, finally washes the stink and the filth off of him. It feels like months of decay that swirl into the drain below, and he washes himself– and his hair– several times before he's finally satisfied. Lovely Assistaff and her yet-broken pieces receive their own rigorous washing, too, and he realizes that he finds the new metal bits in her frame to be quite pretty. Zanka washes his clothes in there, too, and when he finally steps out, he realizes his mistake. Either sleep naked, or sleep in wet clothes.
The issue with the former, which he picks, is that the shadows rise up around him when he lays down. Phantoms lay their hands over his thighs, his throat, his mouth, and he's helpless to their ministrations, unable to move again. Zanka doesn't sleep that night.
In the morning, he puts on his mostly-dry clothes, takes Lovely Assistaff, and hurries out of the motel as quickly as possible.
Killing trash beasts is easy, and in need. He takes odd jobs for people. Most of the beasts around here are small enough that it's not an issue, and he gets just enough to rent a room most nights. He doesn't make the mistake of washing his clothes like that again, and takes to sleeping on the floor for good measure. The hard surface reminds him of the alcove, anyways.
He changes the way he wears his hair, lets it cover his eyes, long and rough, and chops off the remaining light bits. His voice sounds different when he speaks, rougher, likely a byproduct of the abuse his throat had suffered in captivity. Nobody will know that I'm him, he tells himself silently. When people ask his name, he gives any pseudonym that comes to mind first. Sometimes it's the names of the other Cleaners: Enjin, Tamsy, Rudo, Riyo. Sometimes it's syllables he makes up on the spot: Miri, Chana, Druz. The name doesn't matter; people start to whisper about him anyways. The wandering Giver with the staff.
Word spreads, of course, and one day he finds himself standing across from a familiar face. One that's familiar to him, of course. To them, he's clearly a stranger. But he recognizes Follo.
“That staff,” the young man presses. He takes a step too close, and Zanka spins Lovely Half-staff, as he's taken to calling her, around behind him protectively. “Where did you get it?”
“It's my staff,” he insists. “My vital instrument. I found her in pieces, and I fixed her.”
“You found it in pieces? Where? In a polluted zone?” Follo clearly is distraught by the idea, but Zanka knows the anger isn't directed at him.
He pushes forward with the lie. “Yes,” he says. “I found her pieces out in a polluted zone, and I cared for her, and I fixed her. She responded to me. She’s mine.”
“I wasn't gonna say otherwise,” Follo says, backing off. “And– and there was no one nearby? You didn't sense that it was someone else's vital instrument?”
Zanka scowls, hides the twinge. The boy he's looking for died out in that polluted zone, he reminds himself. He won't find him here. “She wasn't, or I would have given her back to the owner,” he says. “She might have been someone’s, before. There was some residual anima. It might be why she bonded to me so quickly. But whoever it was is long dead,” he insists. “There was no bond left there.”
“I– I see,” Follo says, looking a little crushed, and Zanka does feel bad for lying to his face about his own self being dead, but he doesn't linger. It's necessary. “Sorry to bother you, then. Um– but, we heard you've been killing trash beasts. You wouldn't be interested in joining the Cleaners, would you?”
“No,” he says flatly. “Sorry. I'm not who you're looking for.”
Follo moves on, and doesn't bother him again. He keeps working, killing trash beasts, sleeping on the floors of motel rooms, running from what he's left behind. Zanka Nijiku died in that bed, he tells himself whenever he starts to doubt. Whenever he yearns for the Cleaners, to hear August’s laugh or Semiu’s quick wit. Zanka Nijiku died in that bed and they're never going to find his body.
Zanka finds himself in Canvas Town, eventually. Some delinquents are squabbling by the entrance, but it still lets him in and he wanders inside. The graffiti art across every wall is a comforting presence.
He stays there awhile. It's nice. The people there are kinder. Maybe it's the art that helps with that, he wonders. But they appreciate his work defending the town, and he helps bring merchants in by ensuring their safe passage across No Man’s Land. Zanka even gets enough dough to properly rent out a tiny room, one that's actually his.
Then, Akuta comes to town.
He doesn't really expect it, when it happens. There are always whispers about the Cleaners, around town, but they don't prepare him for exiting his front door one day and seeing Rudo sampling a kebab at a street vendor across the road. But Zanka can't act suspicious, can't do anything except pretend to be normal about it, so he fakes a yawn and carries Lovely Half-staff with him to the bar down the road. They have the best egg sandwiches, and he enjoys one for about five minutes before Enjin himself enters.
Act natural. Act natural. Zanka does not look in his direction at all as he nibbles on the sandwich, selfishly listening for whatever Enjin’s ordering. He orders eggs and bacon and then goes silent.
He's listening so hard that he doesn't even notice the silent approach until Enjin slouches himself into the seat across the table from him. “So,” he says lazily. “Why d’you have Zanka’s staff?”
Keep your story straight. “I already told your other Cleaner guy,” he says, feigning annoyance. “She's mine. I found her. I fixed her. I don't know who your guy is.”
Enjin smiles, and it's disarming. He leans forward. “Zanka Nijiku. Around, say, six feet and two inches. Should be eighteen now. Sandy brown hair, black undercut, though maybe he's outgrown that by now?”
“Never seen him,” Zanka says, using all his willpower to keep his voice steady and his expression neutral.
“He was taken by traffickers six months ago,” Enjin carries on, ignoring Zanka. “They kept him in a tiny room and sold his body to anyone who'd pay. In escaping, he broke his staff into a thousand pieces, brought it with him when he escaped, and then died to a trash beast out in a polluted zone. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Zanka says hoarsely.
“No, it's not. Because Zanka didn't die to some old trash beast. He's stronger than that. No, he survived, and he scrounged until he could fix his beloved staff, and he went right back to being a Cleaner in everything but name.” Enjin smiles, and his eyes are soft. That yearning inside Zanka aches suddenly, that longing to be with the Cleaners again. “Is that right?”
Zanka shudders. He doesn't answer. Instead, unbidden, he feels tears slip from his eyes. “No,” he pleads. “It's not. He died.”
“The only thing I don't understand,” Enjin says, pressing onwards, “is why he didn't try to join the Cleaners again. Why did he, instead, wander from town to town, aimless, and lie to Follo’s face about his identity? Why didn't he want us to find him?”
“Because he's gone,” Zanka says, and lowers his head. “Because the person who he was was broken beyond repair, so he left him behind to die.”
“But he didn't die,” Enjin says, and then sticks out his hand. “Hi. I'm Enjin. What's your name?”
Zanka blows out a shaky breath, and brushes his bangs out of his eyes, to the side. He sees Enjin’s eyes scan his face, and delight lights up his expression. “Hi,” he says, very quietly. “I’m Zanka.”