Chapter Text
Zanka Nijiku was a simple man.
“I know you can handle this one, kiddo. It's a retrieval task. You won’t need to fight any trash beasts.” Enjin grinned outwardly, a hint of worry behind his eyes. He tore his hands through Zanka’s hair, letting the strands rearrange themselves over his face.
If Enjin asked him to go on a mission on his day off…
…He would!
Zanka tucked his head in the nook of his elbow, attempting to cover the stupid beam occupying his face. He threw out a noise. Faking a cough. He just needed a second to shift his expression back into his cool neutrality. He glanced to the wall – acting like he was considering the offer.
“I told ya to stop callin’ me a kid.”
“Right, right. Zanka, would you be so kind as to go out there?”
Just stay calm. Just smile.
Zanka pushed the hair back, his earrings swaying with the motion. A steady pink filled his cheeks. The praise went straight to his head. Enjin thought he could handle it. The Enjin thought he could handle it? His mentor unknowingly fed the unspoken need of his, filling the absence, the void in him.
Of course, he would go on the mission! It wasn’t even a question if the right person asked. And after spending years by Enjin’s side, years grabbing into a helping hand offered to him.. well you could say Zanka had a hefty debt he needed to repay. That was all it was.
“Ya well- I guess I could spare a day.” Zanka crossed his arms over his chest, pretending like he didn’t agree the second Enjin opened his mouth.
Enjin wasn’t the one to communicate missions, let alone arrange them. He often avoided doing anything at all if he could help it. Team Akuta and their never ending list of child recruits. There were three of them. It would be normal if it happened once, maybe a bit funny that it happened twice. But three?
Zanka would never even dare to think anything bad about the man, he mentally chastised himself. Cutting that thought right off.
Okay so… if Enjin was telling him to go on a mission… that meant one person behind the scenes. Right. Ugh.
Semiu had him all figured out.
Zanka thought he was more discreet than that. The glasses must let her see right through him. But still, his weakness to Enjin’s requests shouldn’t have been that obvious. He groaned internally at the thought.
“Perfect! And one more thing…take it easy, alright?” A steady arm wrapped around his shoulder, featherlight and reassuring… and… meticulously avoiding his lower torso. “You’re still recovering from the Doll Festival.”
“Ya worry too much. ‘m fine.” Zanka tilted his head. “I will finish this ‘ere off in no time.”
“I’m just putting it out there, yeah? Eisha couldn’t heal you all the way. She had to stitch you up after, so your stomach is healing naturally.”
Deep down, Zanka was aware Enjin knew. Knew that he was itching for a mission, that he couldn’t lie around healing for much longer — wasting valuable time when he could be training. Each session lost to his ‘recovery’ time left an uncomfortable feeling crawling around in his veins. Naturally, after spending years dealing with him, Enjin would have known that. Known that Zanka would have taken matters into his own hands if he didn’t give him a mission soon.
Enjin had deliberately given him an easy task. Zanka wasn’t stupid. Enjin’s worry for his team had shown on his face in the form of dark eye bags, not to mention the permanent cigarette in his mouth. It was very likely that Enjin had given him a solo task not out of carelessness for his well-being, but to help him regain a sense of normality and routine. And to ease Zanka off his obsession with training.
“It's fine! Wouldn’t have expected her ta have the energy,” Zanka commented. “I heard ‘bout the number of people she was lookin’ after.”
He may have been unconscious while getting, embarrassingly, carried out by his brother, but he saw the aftermath of it all. He saw the cleaner’s half-healed wounds, just getting each of them out of danger. Saw the tension left in Riyo’s shoulders. Saw a new rage bubbling in Rudo’s eyes. He had to notice these things, as his mentor and the eldest in Akuta.
“Don’t strain yourself.” Enjin paused, clearly knowing his advice would go in one ear and out the other. “She wants you to visit her as soon as you're back to check on the stitches.”
And with that note, Zanka was off. Enjin gave him a simple mission. He just had to retrieve a book that the boss wanted, apparently it contained information about the Sphere. Literally, how hard could it be? Zanka awaited the moment when he would march through the door and hand the diary back to Enjin. Of course, he wouldn’t stop him as his praises were sung. And! He will be cleared to go on harder missions.
A small building existed towards Mono, the No Man’s Land. It wasn’t in the death zone, but just slightly off from the border. His finger trailed the path he would take. The paper map crinkled in his hands as he studied it. Blotches of ink meeting scrunched carelessness. It should only be a couple of hours travel from the Cleaner’s HQ.
Everyone on the Ground knew information was a rare commodity, valuable enough that people faked it for their own gain. This tip was one of those risks.
Semiu, with all her diligence, validated the existence of said building. Added her background research about the diary’s journey. At least, Zanka wouldn’t be driving all the way out for yet another empty stretch of junk. The organisation had grown more weary of tips after the raiders sent them chasing nothing. Rudo’s hopeful expression shot straight through his head, the flooding eagerness morphing into a pool of resentment when he learned what really awaited them.
Zanka flicked the keys and the engine buzzed to life. He reached over to the passenger seat, the wound on his stomach aching with each movement. But that didn’t stop him from carefully dragging the belt across Lovely Assistaff, the belt caressing her like a lover.
He pressed a kiss against her ridges, just below where the prong forked into two. Feeling the grooves of the wood under his lips before moving on to do his own belt. He hadn’t been driving for long, having begged Gris to teach him after yet another road trip with Enjin pulling out his guts, stringing them together and playing jump rope.
Being older than when he first joined, he had been allowed to learn. There were, naturally, minor setbacks with his progress after he tried ramming into Rudo. Ignoring that, he was basically better than Enjin already! Not that it was a fair comparison but (he says this with all his love) he would soon let Dear take the wheel before he entrusted his life to his mentor.
Zanka found peace in these solo missions. It was basically more quality time with beloved stick, but he wasn’t afraid to admit that he missed the smell of smoke clouding the air from Enjin’s cigar, the noise of Riyo’s soft snores from the backseat and Rudo’s teeth grinding as he thought about who knows what. He threw a final glance over Lovely’s way, deeming her secure enough before he left.
Zanka kicked up the dust on the ground as the car hummed. Only 4 hours left. He fiddled with the radio knob, feeling the need to fill the rare moment of silence without the others. As he turned the knob to adjust the volume, Too Lily’s delicate singing caressed his ears.
Oh.
Flashes of lifeless eyes and crowds. Of chokers colliding with bodies, consuming each of their thoughts, turning them into mindless puppets.
He exhaled.
Zanka fidgeted with his earrings, feeling the threaded tassels. When that didn’t work he pressed a thumb into his wounded torso, specks of pain grounding him – bringing him back to the noise. He immediately flicked the knob back, not daring to listen to another second of the reminder.
You seek strength but keep losing to Jabber Wonger.
Mymo’s voice spoke to him from the grave. It seemed the universe wanted another laugh. Visions from his time in the trash beast filled his head, a certain glimpse of fuchsia flashing through his soul.
The magenta mixing with the crimson, his world slowly painted scarlet as he grovelled against the harsh grime of the floor. The burning sensation in his lungs couldn’t even be attributed to the toxic air – it was the raider and the fire he injected into his veins. He recalled the eerily calm expression as Jabber hovered over his face, asking if Zanka wished it were shit. His tone gave way to underlying anger. His gaze flickering between amusement and another emotion he couldn’t understand.
The man reminded Zanka of wolfsbane. In his hometown, they called the plant ‘Japanese monkshood.’ It was more than its appearance. More than the deep purple exterior matching his Raider uniform. The flower demanded that he keep his distance. It was something to be admired, never touched, for its aconitine was fatal. Jabber stood on a pedestal that Zanka could see, maybe graze his fingers against the base, but never reach. Jabber was leagues above him. Zanka wasn’t afraid to admit it.
One day, Zanka was going to make him bleed.
It would be his turn to watch how his hits bloomed purple onto his skin, to watch his eyes swell shut. Maybe that would be enough to keep Jabber from staring at him. The being that rested under his skin woke up to the thought. The thought of violence and pain.
Zanka wanted to pull his tongue out of head — stop him from speaking to him altogether. Trying to fill his head with garbage about how they were the same. They weren’t the same. An average Joe and a genius were so, so different.
Zanka was going to kill Jabber and tear down the shelf he perched upon.
Cleaner’s rules out the window, and he found he wasn’t ashamed as he ought to be. The sight of his waist-length dreadlocks, cuffed in gold, and his smirk seemed to bring out the rage he thought he had buried.
Jabber asked him to stop holding back. Not asked, demanded, his expression telling Zanka that he would crawl into his flesh and pull out the hidden strength he was disguising under the layers of skin. He wondered what would happen to Jabber’s obsession with him after he pulled aside his poison-filled veins and dissected his organs, not with a scalpel but with his own vital instrument. Would Mankira disappear as he reached into his body to rip out his still beating heart? Or would he let her pierce all the way through when he realised?
Realised he was reaching in to find nothing.
Zanka, too, found it laughable. There was a certain humour found in lying on a cool, unsterile table, gazing up into Jabber’s lit animalistic eyes and telling him that his mediocre display was all he was capable of.
He was the joke. The quip. The punchline.
His knuckles gripped the wheel, white bleeding through. A delicate red drizzle dripped down from his mouth. He tasted the copper on his bitten lips and kept his gaze on the road.
Zanka remembers his rock bottom – he imagines pulling a brick out of the well’s wall and shoving all his thoughts behind it. It was the only way he knew how to bring himself out of his self-inflicted mental space.
Eisha had one on one sessions with all the Cleaners. It was mandatory as part of their health check ups. Each month they were to visit her. Something she said echoed through his head.
“Zanka, you know that mental health is just as important as the physical, ri- right?”
“Ya, ‘course I know. ‘m fine.”
“Enjin mentioned… that he thought you might be avoiding your… problems.”
“Enjin is mistaken.” Zanka felt his lips tug, he knew he was wearing his sister’s smile, kind and deceiving.
“Avoidance is just a form of self sabotage, you- you know.” Eisha spun her thumbs around in circles, not lifting her gaze off of the floor.
“Why would I do that?” The smile sweetened further. “As I was sayin’, ‘m fine.”
Eisha would never push more than that. Just accepted his answer each time they had these sessions. He would make sure never to give her a reason to call him back outside their mandatory monthly appointment.
He forcefully put the thought of Jabber away, covering it with the bricks and sealing the cracks before climbing out.
──・ ⋆ ⋅ ೱ ⋅ ⋆・──
The brightness reached its peak in the sky, the light being covered by layers of cloud and smog. As Zanka stepped out of the vehicle, he clutched his stomach, ensuring his wound wouldn’t be irritated from the stretch of muscle. A breeze danced over his face, stroking his tassel earrings as he closed the door.
He cracked his knuckles, relieving the stiffness his fingers had built up from holding the wheel. He still wasn’t fully used to prolonged driving.
The shadow of the building loomed over his parked car. Parked was definitely a word that shouldn’t have been used for what he did to the vehicle. He may be a better driver than Enjin, but he wouldn’t say a better parker than him. Not yet, at least! Give credit where credit is due.
Lovely hummed as he clicked her into her usual spot on his belt. A sense of ease filled him at the familiar weight pushing on his back, resting on his spine. He lifted his arm, his wrist hovering beside his mouth before he spoke.
“Semiu…?” Zanka awaited her reply.
“Zanka! You got your ass over to mono?” Her voice spilled into the air, accompanied by the sound of fingers flickering through pages, then a rustle of paper being set down. Zanka pinched the bridge of his nose; he knew it was the raunchy magazines.
It was shocking how no Cleaner minded her personal business at work. Why did nobody comment on it? Maybe Zanka grew up too sheltered – too modest in the Kamutari district. Even August was always begging him to change up his uniform.
“I jus’ got ‘ere.”
“That was quick. I’m sure Enjin would say how efficient you are!” He heard a chuckle through the choker. “Good work, keep up that pace and we’ll see you back once you get the diary.”
Yeah, Zanka knew she knew his weakness. His mouth arched at an odd angle at the mention of his mentor. A smile that was still recognisable as a smile, unlike whatever hell spawn manifested on Rudo’s face.
Zanka turned his body, facing the building that had long been abandoned. Its facade stained with filth from trash storms and neglect over the years. Tall, empty windows reflecting nothing but grey. The entrance was boarded up at one point, the nails holding the wood having rusted and lost their strength to keep protecting the information that lay within. There was a still, stagnant atmosphere, as if a living being hadn’t dared to pass through the place despite the now unboarded door.
Had the owner passed? Or did they pack up their treasures and leave?
He shivered as he stepped inside. Not even two seconds after clipping Assiststaff away, he brought her back out, choosing to stand ready. The long hallway would be easy to lose someone in, the only light present in the dark space was the glow of his icy eyes. Zanka really did love solo missions; it meant he didn’t need to catalogue his teammates’ every move, making sure they were safe.
Zanka peered down at the floor, assessing the material’s suitability for carrying tremors. He gave it an approving nod before slamming his vital instrument against the rough surface, a loud thud echoed off the walls. Cracks covered the ground, the epicentre being his staff. A buzz jumped up from his wrists to his arms, feeling the vibrations travel out and map the hall.
The building was unmistakably empty. There weren’t even any signs of a trash beast accidentally finding their way in. He thanked the universe, there was no shattered glass or trash goop. Extra thanks to the latter, he was not planning to relive those events.
He determined the layout of the building, feeling that its roots ran deeper than expected from viewing it from the outside. A wave of decisiveness washed over him as he brushed past room after room, using his hands to guide him along the reality he knew was true in his mind. He headed towards the back, where a staircase led him down.
After what felt like months of stepping, navigating and feeling deeper underground, he found the one room that had a steel lock on its door. A dim light seemed to exist in the basement, likely powered by a generator coming to the end of its life. Zanka had detected this room from above, a heavy piece of metal guarding a small office. His Lovely Assistaff whipped through the air, snapping the lock which had managed to avoid rusting over time. The prongs pressed against the wooden door. Staying on his guard, he shoved the door open.
Zanka analysed the room — the way he was taught by Kyouka in his training. Moving from the corners of the room to the centre. Checking for any cupboards, any place an enemy could jump out at him. But there were no cupboards, no curtains, no spaces to hide under. With no signs of movement, he entered. Creaks followed his every step as dust and aged papers were blown up from the ground. He scanned the area, papers scattered over the floor, as if creating a path towards the main desk in the room.
This place was long abandoned. The room held a quiet presence, as if it dared Zanka to disturb the unsettling peace. Chills ran down his spine, a strong feeling overcoming him — telling him that he wasn’t welcome.
He ignored the warnings, mentally listed out the three main methods people used to hide: by camouflaging, using their environment and by misdirection.
The methods were taught to him from his classes in the Academy; he was coached on hunting for people. Zanka had drilled the teachings into himself through his own study; he needed to pretend he was a natural who could remember these things on his own, obviously.
The same studies could be applied to treasured objectives. Psychologically, people are likely to attempt to hide themselves their precious belongings in plain sight, staying still and hoping their pursuers don’t check the most obvious places. It was basic freeze or flight. Or whatever the saying was. He marched over to the bookshelves nailed into the wall, cataloguing each of the yellowed books one by one with precision. They weren’t the diary he was looking for.
Zanka caught notice of a pocket watch hanging by its silver chain from one of the nails. The hands were inert. Clearly, it had been here for too long. Letting time anchor it down. The glints of metal flashed in the dim lights. It would probably sell for a hefty amount in the markets. It was likely worth a month of his pay. But again, not what he was looking for.
The next way of hiding oneself was to strategically use one's environment. The most optimal place is the back of the room, furthest from the entry point and where one can feel the security of a wall pushing against their backs. Zanka roamed towards the corners of the room with purpose. He pushed against the bricks and listened for any mechanisms popping out to him. He pressed his staff against each of the wooden floorboards, waiting for one of the panels to open a spot.
He found nothing amiss. There was, however,still one more technique.
People liked using a distraction to make their escape. He made his way to the final piece of furniture in the room, the main desk. As he rummaged through the papers in the drawers, he saw glimpses of the Watchman Series symbol. He had to be getting close. Zanka felt the fabric of a small pouch; he carefully untied the rope that was keeping it closed and tipped the contents onto his palm. The cool metal of the various keys settled upon his calluses. Some were petite enough for a tiny lock. This was the distraction – he knew it.
Zanka stared at the grime sitting on the desk’s surface and he would wipe it clean, but he didn’t want his gloves getting unnecessarily dusty. He simply liked his own things tidy and orderly.
He threw the pouch and keys on the desk, starting to pile the papers on top of it as he emptied the drawer. A faint shadow on the inner wall of the draw caught his eye. The small black outline seemed to appear bigger on one side. He pushed and found the crappy attempt of a false bottom.
There lay the troublesome diary. He scooped it into his hands. Turning it over in his palm. It wasn’t as thick as he thought it would be. The boss wouldn’t be happy if it turned out there was nothing interesting written in it and he wasted all this time making the trip.
Years of training in the Hell Guard Academy built up his instinct. Carved crude instructions into his body. Buried skills he would never forget under his bones. A sharp sensation of danger kicked in…
And… Zanka knew a predator was observing his every move.
He had cleared the area and logically knew there was nobody there before his arrival. Perhaps someone was waiting for him to find the book for them? Zanka gritted his teeth, heat rushing through his veins, as if he would let some wannabe take all his credit waiting for him in Cleaners HQ.
There was no way his choker would be connecting from this depth. No way to call Semiu or Enjin to warn them.
Fear is just physical reactions. Your heart racing, your lungs burning, your palms sweating. It's not real. You can choose not to give into it.
Kyouka’s voice echoed into his head.
“Show yer damn face. I know ya out there.” He called towards the halls.
Calling out, telling them he knew about their existence would only benefit him. The enemy wouldn’t try for a sneak attack.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
The sound echoed from the pocket watch that hung from the bookshelf, the one he had torn apart early. The delicate chain suspended the watch in the air, pulling outwards as if a ghost tugged and pulled. The pit in his stomach grew bigger as the face of the watch slowly turned towards him. With the flash of metal, the steel threw itself across the room. Zanka nearly snapped his neck in his attempt to follow where it went.
Where it sank into the waiting hands of a man.
“You seem to have something…” He threw a smile to Zanka, revealing gold caps on his teeth. “Something that I want.”
He ain’t taking his praise his hard damned work.
“That’s jus’ too bad then, ain’t it?” Zanka placed the book into his satchel with care before reaching behind his back for his vital instrument. “Looks like yer not gettin’ it.”
A playful glint flashed in the stranger’s eyes, “We’ll see about that.”
The reflection of light shone against the steel pocket watch clasped in his hands. His eyes were ablaze in a burning orange, a giver then. He hooked the chain around his neck, freeing his hands.
Was he going to fight Zanka empty-handed?
The room was too small to make use of Lovely’s long range and wide arcs. He would have to make do. He shifted his grip on her, the wooden grains tingling under his skin, begging to be activated. Naturally, he listened. The familiar hints of blue and gray coming to life once more.
Zanka didn’t hesitate. He used his staff to bounce off the ground, kicking up more papers, soaring across the room. His weapon cut a sharp arc, just enough that he wouldn’t collide with the narrow walls of the enclosed space.
But the man wasn’t there.
Zanka’s strike hit the floorboards, whistling as it missed completely. The wood splintered under his downward hit.
“That's all you got?” The unknown giver smirked, “You’re gonna have to try harder if you want this back.”
As much as Zanka tried to act like nothing ever bothered him, it was all a lie— much to his own dislike he had inherited his brother’s temper.
And he was not letting this dickhead look down on him like that. The burn continued to simmer within him.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Zanka didn’t expect it to be easy – nor did he want it to be. But he was holding a burning match, one that would extinguish if he didn’t hurry the hell up. There was only so much strain he could manage with his wound. Only so much struggle he could pull out of himself while still healing.
As Zanka recovered from his crash, he noticed the book was in the man’s hands.
“...Tch.”
A fist shot towards Zanka’s ribs.
He twisted, letting Lovely bear the force of the blow against the shaft. He wasn’t going to let himself play defence. Classic Hell Guard motto. He raised his knee, ready to knock the guy’s stomach in on itself.
But he jumped out of the way, a second before Zanka had even played his counterattack.
Tick.
It was… too early.
“Yer ability can read my moves, can’t it?”
“Close, sharp thing you are!” He grinned as he landed back on the ground. “Not reading, though. Seeing.”
Zanka paused, composing himself as he digested the new information. All these geniuses with their stupidly overpowered abilities. All their yap about him holding back when he was out here giving it his all.
“Jus’ means I got ta be faster than ya can see.”
He rushed at him again, rapidly gaining speed. Lovely Assistaff blurred in his hands. Spinning, striking, feinting. He swung high before ducking down and thrusting forward. He snapped it into a backhand strike. The weapon extended his reach. Forcing distance. Controlling the rhythm.
Zanka twirled her again, snapped it into a low sweep towards his legs— aiming to knock him off balance.
But every time-
The man was already moving.
He vaulted out of the way. Jumping as if it were a child’s game of hopscotch, hopping with ease.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Zanka went for a slice this time, attempting to use Lovely's sharp blades and aiming for his body while he was stuck mid-air. He bit down on his tongue, refusing to make a sound about his stitches coming undone. He couldn’t show weakness. Couldn’t give the enemy an advantage.
The man glanced over him, a bored expression occupying his face. He pivoted, twisted his body before the punch could land, taking advantage of Zanka stepping into his space to throw his own hand.
His fist slammed into Zanka’s collarbone.
Shit.
“Ya- damned bastard-,” he cursed, eyes narrowing.
He didn’t reply – instead, he closed the gap once more, aiming for his face. Too close for Zanka to be able to wield Lovely effectively.
He never thought he would do something this treacherous. Her wood clattered against the ground. He had… dropped Lovely Assistaff. God. He chanted mental promises to her. Zanka swore he would take extra care of her in their nightly routine.
The rhythm shifted. Zanka caught his wrist mid-strike. The man’s expression flickered, body tensing up. He pulled him towards him and met him halfway – crack – his forehead slammed against his. Zanka followed up his onslaught with his free hand by driving his fist into his sternum, only grazing his chest.
Tick. Tick.
They separated. Zanka plastered on a shit-eating smirk as he reached for his instrument off the ground, still holding his ripped stomach with his other hand. The crimson soaked through the fabric of his uniform.
“... If ya can see into the future, why’d the hit land?” He asked as he carefully wiped the grime off her metal beam, letting her shine peek through the dirt.
The man exhaled, smiling as if putting on a brave face, “I can see glimpses, small moments into the future.”
Zanka’s smirk only sharpened. His anger only burned hotter. “Then, I need ta make too many.”
Zanka resumed. Falling forward as if a puppet master cut his strings. He surged, moving more erratically this time, ignoring the burn of his wound. He practically danced with his staff, imagining himself in a ballroom. He hadn’t been in one since he left his family. Half-completed spins. Strikes that paused halfway. Snapping Lovely into different angles. Changing his range. Playing with his timing.
For someone who could only see moments into the future…
It was pure chaos.
The man tried to make sense of time, but his movements lagged. Too many variations. Too many possible futures splintering apart.
As Zanka’s imaginary orchestra came to a crescendo, the man made a blunder, hesitated for a fraction of a second. Zanka reversed the direction of Assistaff, driving the blunt end into his side. The man crashed into the wall, books falling around him, arranging themselves in a sort of zig zag pattern.
“There really ain’t any competition here. Nothing you can do against a hardworking mediocrity,” he boasted as he reached down to his slumped form, taking the diary back once again.
Zanka grinned to himself as he rested his palm against his cheek, Lovely Assistaff in his other hand.
He pressed her to his cheek, closing his eyes and listening to her hum her undeserved forgiveness for him. He had to make it up to her for throwing her on the ground. He stroked against her length, tracing the grooves and hidden rings, ones he had memorised months ago.
Thank ya for staying by my side. I have no regrets choosing you that day.
Zanka pressed his lips against her prongs.
“...Uh—”
Zanka let his gaze fall back on the man, now standing but wobbling shakily. Clearly, he didn’t understand that Zanka had the superior relationship with his vital instrument.
“Look, I can see glimpses and all. But– sure wish I didn’t see all that.”
Zanka barely paid attention to him. He was just below him, easy pickings. Not even worth replying to the insult directed towards him.
“I’ll admit you caught me off guard. I didn’t expect you to be this damn strong.” The man babbled on, lovingly stroking the streaks of crimson off his watch’s surface. “Haven’t been forced to use this trick in years.”
The pocket watch buzzed in the air once more. He unhooked it from around his neck, holding onto the form floating in the air with the chain. Without any notice, its metal accelerated. Zanka had time to watch it approach. He had time to cover his organs. He did not have time to react to the clock slamming him into the desk.
What would Kyouka do?
He asked himself, knowing he wouldn’t live up to her expectations anyways. Zanka was purely a mix of the worst traits of his siblings.
Deceit. Envy. Wrath.
Where they were gardens of lush foliage and fertile soul, he was just nothing but dirt.
His palms pushed up from the floor, supporting his upper body weight, letting him stare daggers into the man’s skull. He watched as the other man fidgeted with one of the charms hanging off the main clock. It was a tiny hourglass, no bigger than a fingernail. Its glass casing caught the light with each restless movement. Inside its body, the sand split off into multiple streams, threading downwards into delicate, uneven ribbons. It slipped past itself in a way that felt wrong, like time stuttering instead of flowing down.
Zanka's gaze was caught by the start of the hand’s movement. The needle spun out of order, the minute and hour hands moving in opposite directions, crossing and recrossing with no pattern. Sharp aches drew his attention away.
Bruises decorated Zanka’s knees from the impact on the ground. Various shades of purples and blues peppered kisses through his body. Blood and sweat mixed together as it rolled down and off his face. He shifted the book away from his body, refusing to let all his hard work be ruined by bleeding through the pages.
Zanka used Lovely to fully stand again, even if his body and torn stitches protested. He was still conscious; he could still fight. He opened his mouth, but instead of words – a pained groan.
He was going to show him.
Show him what he could do against their genius.
Fuck, he had to stop saying that…
… was his last thought as he drifted off into unconsciousness.