Chapter Text
It’s not that he got injured so badly that he was forced into a week’s bedrest, nor the fact that no-one seemed to commend him for the sheer amount of poison he was able to endure for the size of his body– though maybe, that gratitude is extended towards Kyoka and her fool-proof conditioning methodology. Those are both things that Zanka isn’t really bothered about. Shit happens, after all.
No, what's currently bothering Zanka is the fact that Lovely Assistaff has a tiny, near-unnoticeable scratch.
He knows who did it, and he knows how that person did it, but the fact stands that that person did it, and he’s pissed.
Assistaff isn’t human– it can’t walk things like that off. It can’t heal itself nor bandage its own wounds. Jabber surely knew that when he aimed not for him but for his vital instrument, and that fact alone has Zanka wanting to string the guy up by his ankles outside the Hellguard’s headquarters in Kamuatari. Zanka would love to do a lot of things to Jabber Wonger, if he’s really honest with himself, and the list of things he has in mind would probably be better off not written down, lest someone find it and send him straight to a psychiatric ward.
Zanka is finally free from bedrest and back into rehabilitation, and that means a hell of a lot of bulking and a hell of a lot of training.
Eishia said take it easy– Zanka is, of course, taking it easier than he normally would. He’s not stupid. But if he doesn’t push himself, then he won’t see any improvement, and if there’s no improvement, then who’s to say he won’t get utterly destroyed by Jabber the next time they meet? He has to get stronger if he wants to survive.
Even after sparring with Follo, who seems to be improving in his combat abilities somewhat, Zanka finds himself still with an uncomfortable amount of tension in his body that he can’t seem to shake. He did go hard on Follo, and the other is a good match for him when Zanka doesn’t have his vital instrument, but it wasn’t quite enough. He needs something more.
He goes to dinner with that sort of hunger burning low in his stomach and eats two entire portions. Beside him, Gris wordlessly passes an extra serving of vegetables, and Zanka takes it with a short thanks. He eats, and he’s fed, but he’s not satisfied.
Jabber probably doesn’t eat as much as he does, but he’s still stronger than Zanka. Jabber probably skips meals sometimes, because Zanka remembers how he felt under Assisstaff and he knows that he was freakishly light. Is that what made him a better fighter? But Zanka was faster than him, he knows that, and he had better agility– it was just the poisons that were a bad matchup.
Zanka has been trained to take hits in order to achieve a strategic advantage. But when you’re up against someone who only needs one hit to knock you down for several hours, that sort of strategy is useless.
“I bet I would’ve had more fun if I’d picked a different cleaner instead.”
Zanka’s grip on his chopsticks tighten. I’ll kill him next time, he thinks furiously, I’ll kill him, slowly and gently, and make him cry whilst I tear his guts out.
“Zanka?”
In his hand, the chopsticks snap, and subsequently is Zanka jolted out of his brooding and back into the real world. Gris and Follo stare at him with equally worried looks on their faces, and when Zanka looks between them, they share a glance. They’re definitely judging him. Zanka puts the broken chopsticks down and goes to collect another set from the front wordlessly.
He can feel his ears reddening out of embarrassment, but it’s fine. So long as they don’t ask intrusive questions, Zanka can deal with it. After all, the elephant in the room with “nearly died” written on its side keeps most people quiet.
Zanka sits back down, and picks up his half-finished bowl of vegetables, generously donated by Gris. He’s nearly done with his food, but every time he thinks of Jabber, his stomach empties and he feels like he has to fill it up all over again. It’s not enough.
The vegetables crunch under his teeth. They are light and relatively fresh and undoubtedly nutritious but Zanka wants something more. Meat would be good, or tofu, but such simple proteins aren’t enough. No, he needs something that he can crush in his jaw, wants something hot and squirming and fighting back. He wants flesh, he wants the taste of blood thick on his tongue, and he wants hands with rings tangled in his hair and attempting to pry him away as he forces his way into him deeper and harder and faster–
“Zanka!”
Zanka loosens his grip on his chopsticks so suddenly that they fall to the table with a loud clatter.
“Fuck me dead,” Zanka mutters, picking up the cutlery and ignoring the looks from the people around him, “Fuckin’ butterfingers.”
“Uh, Zanka, are you sure you’re…?”
“I’m fine,” Zanka mutters quickly, shovelling vegetables into his mouth and keeping his head down. He needs to get over this obsession, quickly, or it’ll start to really consume too much of his conscience. If that happens–
“I want to see that animal side of yours.”
“You don’t really look–”
“I’m doing great,” Zanka interrupts Follo before he can dare ask what’s wrong with him or why he’s acting like a startled ground-horse, “Just– just tremors. Or somethin’.”
He finishes his food and, as he predicted, it’s not satisfying. He mutters his thanks and grabs his tray to place it up the front, and then walks past his bewildered co-workers back to his room. He thinks Jabber would laugh at him if he could see him now, and maybe he’d wonder how the hell he ever thought Zanka was worth fighting.
Zanka will just have to prove it to the bastard. He’ll prove it to him and watch that stupid grin fall from his face when he realises that if he’s a big fish in a small pond, then Zanka is the one with the harpoon. Zanka will be the final victor, even if it costs him everything.
He licks a bit of salt from his lips. He’s still hungry.
He looks in the mirror, inspecting his face. It is familiar, and yet he feels as if he doesn’t recognise it at all.
There’s a bit of stubble he needs to shave off, and his eyebags seem permanent these days, but what’s really eye-catching is the nasty, bloody gash still trickling wet down his cheek.
“Ah, you bastard,” he mutters, tracing a finger along the edge of the wound, “Lucky you missed my eye. This just hurts like a bitch.”
He looks down, and sees various medical supplies scattered over the bench, lining the sink. There’s a few bloody tissues and wrappers from adhesive bandages, but otherwise, most of the items seem to be untouched. How courteous of the person before him.
Sighing, he plucks a tissue from the near-empty box and dabs it along the edge of his face to mop up the coagulated blood. Maybe a towel would have been better, but he’s a bit too tired to care.
His hands find a strip of sealed alcohol swabs, so he tears off two and rips them open, wiping over his face with them. The alcohol burns, but the burn is good and grounds him a little. He groans in relief when his face is a little bit cleaner, allowing his thoughts to flow a little clearer.
His gaze flicks back to the mirror. Dull, magenta eyes stare back at him. They don’t look quite right. He bites his lip with white teeth and pretends that he can’t still taste the blood of another on his tongue.
Then, someone slams their fists repeatedly on the door.
“Jabber! Hurry the fuck up!” A familiar, heavily-accented voice screams. He rolls his eyes and ignores her, leaning in close to the mirror in order to better line up the adhesive bandages over his cheek.
“Jabber!”
His scarred fingertips smooth over the sticky, white plastic onto his skin. He opens and closes his mouth a few times to check that it sticks without peeling off, and after a few adjustments, he’s successfully patched up. It’s not perfect, but it will do for now.
“Jabber! You open this door right now, or I’ll skin you like a dog and roast your pathetic ass over a–”
“Shut the hell up!” He screams in response, and the responding voice falls silent. He sighs, looking back at his own reflection.
Something’s really wrong with him. He needs a drink, and maybe to inject himself with something good. Maybe both. He’d smoke, but he’s found that recently he’s too short of breath, and it’s making his fights last only half as long. A shame, really. He can’t have his cake and eat it too.
He stares at the mirror. It’s glass, not just sheet metal. If he wanted to, he could break it. It wouldn’t be too difficult, given the fact it looks to just be a frame hung on the wall of this shitty bar’s bathroom. He could do it with Mankira, or his fist, or that heroin needle someone left on the floor, or–
Without thinking he slams his forehead into the glass, and it shatters on impact.
Ever since his first encounter with Jabber, Zanka’s had plenty of nightmares with that manic stare as the central theme. Honestly, the amount of times Zanka’s found himself impaled by metal claws in his dreams would be enough to get him suspended from work if anyone found out, but the best thing about dreams is that no-one has to find out if you don’t want them to. Zanka’s good at keeping secrets.
Today, though, it seems Zanka’s nightmares have decided to follow him into the waking world.
When he blinks awake slowly, he’s met with curious, magenta eyes staring right at him, and two ring-laden hands holding onto the edge of the mattress. It’s a familiar enough sight that Zanka doesn’t even question it before he opens his eyes fully, realising he’s awake and those eyes belong to someone who should not be in here.
He can’t help the shout of alarm that escapes his throat as he scrambles back on the bed, immediately reaching for Assistaff and activating it the second his fingers grip around the staff. His heart rate has spiked and the sudden rush of adrenaline and subsequent cortisol has him on high alert and ready to fight if need be.
“What the fuck are ya doin’ in here?!” Zanka gasps, his weapon aimed at Jabber’s throat, “How did ya get inside?!”
Jabber’s eyes are wide and his jaw is slightly open, as if he’s the one who deserves to be stunned. Zanka hasn’t the slightest idea why– breaking into the Cleaners HQ is extremely difficult; so difficult, in fact, that in the three years that Zanka has been here, there has not been a single successful break-in. Semiu is very adept at dealing with intruders, after all.
So the fact that Jabber made it as far as Zanka’s room on the third floor is absurd. The fact that Jabber made it here without disturbing Riyo in the room next to them is equally ridiculous, considering her fantastic hearing and ability to recognise anyone’s footsteps.
When Jabber breaks into a relieved sort of grin, Zanka knows that there’s something terribly wrong. Has HQ fallen to the Raiders? Surely not. Why wasn’t he woken up? Zanka isn’t exactly a heavy sleeper. Why is Jabber–
“So you can see me,” Jabber grins, propping his chin onto the mattress as Zanka follows his every movement with the opened end of his weapon, “Wonder why that is, Mister Bad Attitude…”
Zanka blinks, before he shoves his weapon and watches as Jabber barely flinches. “The fuck do you mean? How did you sneak past the others?”
Jabber hums. “Now that’s a good question. Wanna take a guess?”
There’s no time to be playing these games, and Zanka knows that, but Jabber’s eyes are crinkled into a smile and that deadly grin of his seems so innocent and playful that maybe, something in Zanka becomes a little lenient. Or maybe he’s starting to second-guess himself– it’s uncanny that Jabber would be here, specifically in Zanka’s room, only seconds after having woken from a nightmare about him. This could be just a dream.
Zanka reaches up a hand and bites it. There’s a little bit of pain, which means this is real. It doesn’t seem to do any good for Zanka’s racing mind, though.
“Yer in my room, of all rooms,” Zanka begins, watching Jabber’s face carefully for any signs of movement, any twitch that would reveal his ill intentions, “Yer here because– ya said I was too weak for ya, though. So…”
“Oh, you’re not the first person I visited,” Jabber grins, and Zanka’s blood runs cold.
Riyo’s room is next door. Jabber said that Zanka wasn’t the first person he saw. If Jabber came up the stairs then Riyo’s room would be first and that means–
“You bastard!” Zanka screams, “What did you do?!”
Jabber blinks, smiling blankly. “Nothing. Why?”
“Don’t lie ‘ta me!” Zanka growls, swinging his staff suddenly and violently at Jabber’s head– the other barely misses it as he ducks, dissolving into giggles. “Who did ya kill?!”
“I’ve killed a lot of people, Zanka, you’re going to have to be specifi– woah!”
Zanka hates using his weapon in a confined space. Restricting himself takes so much extra effort, and it’s effort he can’t afford to spare when Jabber is so dangerous and Zanka isn’t even back at his peak fitness yet. But he has no choice– he cannot allow Jabber to run amok when he has no idea what’s happened to the people he loves.
He can’t panic. He can’t panic. Fuck, he’s panicking.
The door slams open, and Zanka whips his head around, terrified. If anyone else comes in, they could get seriously hurt, and Zanka doesn’t want anyone else to be killed by this sick, psychotic piece of shit that calls itself a human being. He might have killed Riyo, and now he’s here to finish off Zanka but Zanka won’t let that happen.
“Zanka!”
It’s Riyo.
Standing at the door, her hair a mess from the early morning wake-up, her vital instrument clutched in her hand, Riyo is wide-eyed and just as startled as Zanka feels. The entire room freezes for a moment, Jabber included, as Riyo seems to take stock of the situation.
“What the– Zanka, are you okay?!” Riyo asks, stepping into the room as if she can’t see the serial killer pinned to the wall at his neck by Zanka’s weapon, “Zanka?”
“Riyo– He’s here, Riyo, you have to leave before he–!”
“I told you, Zanka, you’re not the first person I–”
“Who’s here?” Riyo asks, blinking at Zanka worriedly as she glances around the room, “Zanka, there’s– there’s no-one here.”
Huh?
The silence that follows is deafening. Zanka looks at Jabber, then back at Riyo, then back at Jabber and then to Riyo again, and he’s more confused with every look. He gives Jabber a quick shove with his weapon, and he grunts, but he’s stopped fighting to give Zanka a disgruntled look.
“The fuck d’ya mean there’s no one there?” Zanka laughs, fear rising in his chest, “Riyo, right there, there’s–”
“There’s no-one in the room right now,” Riyo repeats, reaching for Zanka with a shaking hand, “There’s no one here except us.”
Jabber grins. “That’s right, Zanka. I’m not real.”
Zanka knows he’s been on edge lately, but this is… different. He’s never hallucinated with such clarity before– not even on Jabber’s cocktail of narcotics were the visions this lucid. He swears he felt the way Assistaff hit Jabber, and Assistaff never lies to him.
“That… can’t be right,” Zanka says, stepping back, “What?”
Riyo bites her lip anxiously. “I think we should go see Eishia.”
Zanka bristles. “I don’t think we should.”
“Why not? It’s just a checkup, I mean…” she trails off as Zanka’s gaze returns to Jabber and he scowls at him, and her grunt tells Zanka that she is upset. She won’t ever tell him explicitly– that is far from her style– but she clearly thinks there's something not quite right about him.
“No, no,” Zanka says, shaking his head, “No– you're right,” he agrees, “I must've just been seein’ things. Isn't that funny?”
He tears his gaze away from Jabber and fixes it on Riyo. He smiles at her, and she hesitates before daring to smile back.
“I still think you should go, Zanka.”
“I'm fine,” Zanka refuses, “It was just– just a nightmare. Give me a few minutes to– to just, ah, think on it?”
Riyo falters when Zanka throws her a pleading look. He hates weaponising her sympathy for him, but there's a reason this spectre of Jabber is in his room and he needs to find out why.
“Alright,” Riyo says, shifting anxiously, “But– if this happens again, we're going to Eishia. No questions asked.”
Nodding, Zanka echoes, “No questions asked.”
“Then… I guess I'll leave you to it,” Riyo mumbles, backing away to the door, “Don't forget to eat, Zanka.”
“I won't. Thanks, Riyo.”
“...Take care.”
The door clicks shut, and Zanka releases a breath he hadn't realised he'd been holding. Between him and Jabber, there is a long, tense pause, before the bastard finally finds the audacity to speak.
“Look at you,” he snickers, biting off a hangnail from his thumb, “You’re losing your mind, apparently.”
Zanka is certain he is not. Jabber is real, here, or if he isn’t then there’s something else other than his mind making him appear as if he is. There is no haziness in Zanka’s vision, nor blurry edges to Jabber’s pretty curves. He can see Jabber as clear as day. So what the hell is going on?
He can’t afford to get angry again. He knows Riyo is standing outside the door and listening– no way would she leave so quickly when she’s worried about him. Unless he gives her something to stress about, she’ll leave in the next five minutes. All Zanka has to do is keep his mouth shut (or his voice below a whisper) until then.
It’s hard when he has Jabber Wonger, of all people, sitting on his bedroom floor like he belongs there.
Jabber notices his gaze, and his eyes glimmer. “Isn’t it fun? I’m right here, all for the taking, you know. Don’t just stand there.”
Swallowing down his anxiety, Zanka asks quietly, “What are ya? Yer not– I don’t know what ya are.”
A grin. “Wouldn’t you like to know, big boy?”
“Don’t call me that.”
Jabber sighs, getting to his feet. “No fun, really,” he says, “I’d leave, but you’re the only person who’s been able to see me so far. I thought maybe that little boots-girl and our friend Rudo might have been able to, but no dice.”
Zanka shuffles back to sit on his bed, Assistaff held against the floor. This way, so long as Jabber doesn’t move too much, he should be able to sense when Riyo leaves. “That doesn’t make sense,” he whispers, “Just say it straight.”
When Jabber steps towards him, Zanka’s stomach drops. He can’t feel the vibrations through the floor at all, but he can see Jabber’s bare feet touch the floor. At this distance, not even someone as nimble as Riyo could escape him completely, so why is Jabber– someone who is not likely a trained mercenary– perfectly silent? It’s almost as if he’s a ghost.
“Noticed it, huh?” Jabber says, and Zanka might not know him very well but he can tell that there’s something within the other’s voice that is a little pained. Something is not right and both of them know it and that has Zanka scared it will be a problem that concerns the both of them.
“Don’t play this game,” Zanka mutters, hearing Riyo’s footsteps pad away, “What’s wrong with you?”
Jabber giggles, and brings a hand in front of Zanka’s face. Zanka isn’t sure why he doesn’t attack him, why this moment hasn’t broken out in violence, but he gets the feeling that there’s something he’s missing. He wants to follow the trail of curiosity Jabber leaves behind him.
“Look,” Jabber says, “Mankira’s chipped.”
Zanka pushes Jabber’s hand away, shaking his head. “And what does that have ‘ta do with me?”
Jabber chuckles as he skips back, shaking his hand as if it has been burned. “It’s because of you, Zanka,” he says gleefully, “You chipped her, didn’t you?”
Zanka is suddenly reminded of the scratch on his own vital instrument, the one he’s yet to file down and ensure doesn’t compromise the structural integrity of Lovely Assistaff, and he balks.
“Did I?”
Obviously, this doesn’t forgive the fact that Jabber damaged his vital instrument, but Zanka can’t help but feel a sharp sense of glee run through him as he realises that Jabber isn’t invincible. No, Zanka left his mark on Jabber just as Jabber left on him, and isn’t that exciting? Zanka isn’t completely useless and Jabber isn’t completely indestructible– both of them have revealed cards, and there’s something about it that is undeniably thrilling.
Jabber rolls his eyes, giving Zanka a look. “Were you not paying attention?”
Zanka bristles. He hates it when he’s patronised. “I was drugged outta my fuckin’ mind,” he mutters, “And– How the fuck are ya here, anyway?”
A shrug. “Guess.”
“Fuck you, seriously.”
“You wish.”
Zanka doesn’t fall for it. Instead, he finds his hands gripping Lovely Assisstaff tight as he pushes the weapon to Jabber’s throat with a scowl.
“Tell me,” he demands, “Or I’ll sic every last cleaner onto yer filthy ass.”
“Tried that,” Jabber sighs, holding his hands up in some sort of lazy surrender, “I’ve tried everything. You’re my last resort…” he trails off, his eyes tracing the outline of Lovely Assistaff’s shaft, and then he breaks out in a devilish grin.
He taps the scratch. Zanka tenses.
“What’s this?”
“None of yer fuckin’ business,” Zanka retorts, but he knows that Jabber has noticed the same thing that Zanka has, and he– the ethics and morals of colluding with the enemy aside– wants to hear what Jabber is thinking. Whatever Zanka’s thoughts on Jabber, he knows that he’s a ridiculously clever genius, and the only thing that geniuses are good for are leeching off of. “It’s just a scratch.”
“‘Just a scratch’ my ass,” Jabber sneers, “I did this. I remember it.”
“Then why’d ya ask?”
“Because it’s funny to watch you squirm,” Jabber replies without missing a beat, “And you’re the only person left in the entire world who can see me. Of course there’s something special about you.”
Zanka grits his teeth. “Tell me what you are, Jabber Wonger.”
“I’m dead,” Jabber replies simply.
“...What?”
“I’m dead as a doormat, pretty boy,” Jabber coos, “And for some reason, I’ve come back to haunt you.”
What the fuck.
No, seriously, what the actual fuck? Zanka must be losing his mind. Forget what Jabber’s saying, if he looks at it from Riyo’s perspective then he’s definitely a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Maybe his paranoia consumed the last few shares and it’s rendered him a hallucinating mess of a man– maybe he needs to put the stick down and go find Riyo again.
“Okay, not funny,” Zanka says, glaring, “I’m not fuckin’ laughing.”
Jabber shrugs. “Believe what you want. I’ve tried everything.”
“Have ya tried leavin’ me the fuck alone?!”
Jabber opens his mouth. Zanka, knowing he’s not going to like whatever’s going to come out of his mouth, makes a split second decision. Two of his hands are still on Lovely Assistaff, so he unfortunately has to let one of them go in order to slap a palm over Jabber’s mouth before he says something that gets Zanka really pissed off.
“Do not,” Zanka hisses, “No, shut up.”
He needs to think.
If Jabber’s lying, then Zanka’s currently got his hand slapped over the mouth of one of the most dangerous people on the Ground, and there’s no doubt that he’s going to get killed within the next hour or so. If Jabber is lying, then Zanka’s got no hope and he has no idea why Jabber would come here just to kill him. It doesn’t really make sense. If Jabber is lying, then how did he get past everyone here without either Semiu nor Shikage noticing? How could Riyo look right at him and still not see him?
Jabber’s licking his palm. It’s absolutely disgusting, but Zanka’s not letting him go that easily. Letting Assistaff drop beside his pillow, he uses his other hand to drag Jabber by the collar of his outer jacket and forces him down on the bed beside him with a scowl. Jabber makes a surprised sound, muffled by Zanka’s hand, but Zanka couldn’t care less.
He pushes Jabber’s back down against the mattress and swings a leg over him to keep him pinned whilst his mind races.
If Jabber is telling the truth– if he is a ghost and he’s dead, then it would make sense how no-one saw him, right? It would line up with everything that Jabber has done and why he’s making no move to activate Mankira and kill Zanka right now; it might be something he’s unable to do, now that he’s… detached from the mortal plane.
Thus begs the question: how is Zanka able to see him?
Zanka withdraws his hand. He winces as a string of saliva stretches as he pulls away. Disgusted, he wipes his hand on Jabber’s patchwork jacket and gives Jabber a nasty glare.
“Why the fuck are you here?”
Jabber licks his lips and rolls his eyes. “How many times do I have to say it? I–”
“No, no, not that,” Zanka clicks his tongue, “I mean, why the fuck are ya still here? Yer dead, aren’t ya?”
A beat of silence passes between them, and then Jabber begins to squirm restlessly.
“Get– get off–!” he whines, and as Zanka holds him down, the question of why Jabber isn’t using his vital instrument becomes of considerable concern. Zanka hardly knows Jabber, but he knows Jabber is bloodthirsty and a thrill-seeker. No matter how badly he ‘wished he picked another cleaner’ to fight back then, Jabber would have tried to fight him again– or killed him outright. So whatever this is, it just doesn’t make sense.
“Stay down,” Zanka orders roughly, managing to pin Jabber’s hands above his head, “Yer a damn menace, I’ll tell ya that.”
Jabber’s playful expression is gone; in its place is something like fear and anger. Where did Zanka overstep, he wonders?
“I don’t know how I died and I don’t fucking know how I’m still around,” Jabber growls, attempting to kick at Zanka’s back but to little effect, “Let me go!”
Zanka notices that whatever hits Jabber manages to land on him don’t hurt half as bad as they should. There’s something different about this Jabber for sure, and that theory– that he’s only a whiny poltergeist– seems to line up with every new piece of information he gets.
He knows, deep down, that this powerlessness is going to drive Jabber insane. Jabber is going to have to learn what it feels like to be weak and inadequate like how Zanka has been his entire life, and Zanka is going to relish in it. Not that Jabber is going to be privy to Zanka’s personal feelings. Those are for people who earn his trust.
Rolling off of Jabber and listening to the other get to his feet, Zanka ponders. Zanka is the only person who can see Jabber, according to him, and why is that?
This whole situation is a mess. He needs a drink. Preferably, a swig of something from Enjin’s closet would be great, but he knows he’d get caught if he went in there. If only he could turn invisible, that would be–
He looks at Jabber, and he stifles a laugh.
Jabber glares. “What’s your problem?”
Zanka coughs. “Nothing,” he says, and Jabber kicks him. It doesn’t hurt a bit. It doesn't make sense at all. He wonders what evil spirit decided to bond the two of them together even after death, or what kind of supernatural force may have–
“Spirit!” Zanka says, clicking his fingers and grabbing Lovely Assistaff, “Yer damn– Ya left a mark with Mankira on Lovely, right? That’s– maybe it’s the Anima mixing?”
Jabber sniffs, crossing his arms. Zanka’s never seen the guy like this, and it’s jarring. It’s like he’s a completely different person. He gets the urge to poke at him a little bit, to see where he gives into that sadomasochistic personality, but how far he’d have to push he has no idea. He just doesn’t know Jabber enough. Maybe he’ll have to keep him here and study him a bit.
The thought is a little morbid, but Zanka is curious and Jabber has nowhere else to go. What other option does he have? Jabber doesn’t seem like the type of person to make friends easily, after all.
“I don’t like that look,” Jabber grumbles, “Stop looking at me like that.”
“Ya don’t have another choice,” Zanka says, “Ya stay with me, and I’ll figure out how ‘ta fix ya, or ya can go back out alone and try ‘ta figure this shit out on yer own.”
It’s Zanka’s ultimatum for Jabber, essentially. Jabber knows the stakes but Zanka does not, but Zanka is deadly curious and horribly bored since he’s started rehab from his last clash from Jabber (whilst he was still allegedly ‘alive.’) He wants something to do, dammit!
Jabber gives him a nasty look, and Zanka’s heart skips a beat. No wonder Jabber seemed to have so much fun when Zanka was mad at him. Being on the other end of that anger is nothing short of exhilarating, like he’s playing with fire and watching it dance across his fingers.
It might burn him. It’s not Zanka’s first rodeo. He watches as Jabber clenches his fists in frustration as he caves.
“Fine,” Jabber says, “You make me stay dead. But I’ll let you know now that there’s nothing you can fucking ‘fix’–” he punctuates this with air quotations, “–about me. I’ll make you hurt real bad if you try anything.”
“I bet you will,” Zanka says, entirely certain that whatever Jabber wants to dish out, none of it will be as bad as that mud-cobra venom mix he received earlier. “It’ll be fun ‘ta see ya try.”
Jabber bares his teeth, furious. For once, Zanka finds it in himself to grin.
“If I ever get corporeal enough to kill you, you’ll never even get to know.”
“Understood. I’m going ‘ta take another nap now, alright?”
“Fuck you, Zanka Nijiku. Don’t play this shit with me now.”
The use of Zanka’s full name is strangely endearing. Zanka feels the back of his neck warm a little, and a short zip of excitement runs down his spine. “It’s only fair,” he says, mimicking Jabber’s raised hands of surrender from before, “Prove ‘ta me that ya should be my priority, if ya want me ‘ta take this more seriously.”
It’s a low blow. It is, also, Zanka’s revenge for Jabber brushing him off so easily at the end of their last fight. He’s completely aware that any effort to help Jabber’s snarky little ghost pass on may backfire, but, well. Revenge can be quite sweet.
Jabber knows he has no leverage over Zanka here. In fact, Zanka is less inclined to help him because of his past actions, and both of them know it. It’s only because Zanka is curious to a fault that he’s even remotely interested in this case at all.
“Watch your mouth,” Jabber mutters, “Just– Do your job and get me out of this mess you put me in.”
“I did what now?” Zanka laughs, admiring Jabber’s audacity and refusal to be vulnerable, “This isn’t my job to fix.”
“You’re a cleaner, and you said you fix shit like this,” Jabber says, miming a slicing across his throat, “You said you wanted to prove yourself, back then? Prove it now by making me stay dead.”
Zanka has quickly realised that Jabber is not interested in owning up to his own mistakes or issues. It’s a little embarrassing, Zanka thinks, considering how normally self-assured he is. His not-quite-death must have really thrown him off, and now he’s scrambling for answers. Now, he’s coming to Zanka and expecting help.
It goes without saying that Zanka is an idiot for offering Jabber help. He can’t help it, though– a part of him that he’s tried for many years to suppress is delighted at the prospect of being ‘special’, of being chosen by Jabber’s remaining spirit. They have a mutual interest, even if both of them struggle to admit it.
Maybe this is all just another hallucination, and he’s losing his grip on reality as his brain makes up stories for him to soothe the pain of losing yet again to the same fighter. If it is, Zanka deserves whatever comes next. If it isn’t, there’s no harm done, right?
“Alright,” Zanka says, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of the situation, “I’ll help ya. Ya better not leave this debt unpaid, though.”
Jabber’s eyes narrow. “You’re greedy.”
Zanka shrugs. “Runs in the family.”