Chapter Text
A flash of light, of flesh, like a comet. The dull, heavy sound of impact. Roaring, ringing static-- the ocean? No, maybe a jet engine. A screaming crowd.
Then-- pain. Bright red and booming. It exploded across Zanka's jaw. He felt his incisor cut into the side of his lip and tasted blood. His knees buckled, and he staggered backward. The room spun, and the animated, yelling faces of the crowd morphed into a monstrous blur as Zanka's vision tilted, sank, and eventually darkened for a moment.
"Get up! Come on, man, get up!" A familiar voice called.
Up? Had he fallen? Embarrassing.
Zanka's eyes refocused just as a body appeared above him. Reflexively, he twisted away, but not fast enough to prevent an elbow from plunging directly into his solar plexus. A gasp caught in his throat, suddenly choked out by an intense stab of pain.
Zanka was no stranger to getting his shit rocked.
He assumed the same went for any youngest sibling. Never mind the fact that his siblings grew up fighting for attention, for approval, for love. His family was a machine that turned carefree kids into ruthless adults, steeled against the chaos of the world through violence and power play. Nijikus grew up fighting each other, and when they were grown, they went on fighting the world. It was their way of life, of relating. He didn't just get his shit rocked by his older siblings on the playground like a regular kid. The three of them were constantly trying to kick each other's asses, and it was not a game. As the youngest, Zanka found that his older siblings took it upon themselves to make him stronger, to help him toughen up. And he desperately wanted to be strong like them. Winning came naturally to Goka and Kyouka. Zanka couldn't say the same for himself.
"Get up."
Suddenly, he was a kid again, nine years old, writhing in pain at his brother's feet. Goka had decided his baby brother ought to learn how to take a hit, and they'd been "training" on the beach for hours. The Okinawa sun beat down, blinding, as sweat trickled into his eyes and mingled with hot, shameful tears. Waves crashed to the shore in the distance, like the blood rushing in Zanka’s ears. A shadow loomed in his vision, and he heard an indignant sigh as his brother roughly grabbed his arm and dragged him back to his feet. Zanka hiccuped a little, dutifully blinking away his tears and squaring up.
"You still don't get it, do you? There's a right way to take a punch. Again."
A left hook to the gut. The crowd wailed and cheered around him in equal parts. This was bad. He had to get it together, or he was going to lose. He couldn't lose. Literally couldn't afford to.
As his opponent skirted him, he saw an opening. Ignoring the twist of nausea that gripped his core, he surged up onto all fours, then up a little further and forward, staying low and going for a double-leg takedown. His shoulder made contact with the other man's thigh, and both stumbled, robbing Zanka of the opportunity to lock his arms around the guy's legs and use his weight to bring him to the ground. They broke apart, and the crowd groaned in anticipation.
Zanka turned and spat a bit of blood onto the mat. The taste of it seemed to sharpen his senses, and he refocused just in time to jerk out of the way of another punch.
"That's right, Zanka, dodge!" That same voice urged.
Dodge. Right, super helpful. There he was, letting a guy called Dirty Mike beat the shit out of him, and someone had the bright idea to suggest not getting hit. Incredible.
"Move your ass, Zanka!"
And then he was transported back in time once more to a barren patch of Texan desert. His heart hammered in his chest as Kyouka reloaded. The clicking of the pistol's mechanisms made his stomach backflip. Blood seeped into the shoulder of his T-shirt, but the adrenaline in his system numbed the pain to a dull throb. He'd only been grazed. A military jet passed overhead, the roar of the engine momentarily distracting Zanka from the gauntlet of his sister's lesson. Slowly, gracefully, she straightened and raised her arm, training the gun steadily on the boy.
"Alright, Zanka," she called out, quiet cruelty hardening her voice. “Prove you’re worth more than just target practice.”
Boom.
Not so lucky this time. Dirty Mike's fist connected with Zanka's cheek in an overhand. Zanka recoiled, which gave his opponent the opportunity to scoop up his front leg and throw him down. He landed squarely on his back with a loud smack, Dirty Mike grappling him in a clear attempt to pin him and end the match. I can't lose, Zanka thought. Not to some untrained, uninspired dive bar brawler. The crowd was chanting something, but Zanka wasn't sure he still knew English.
私は負けません。私は失敗しません。
"Come on, buddy! Don't let him keep you down! You can do it!" The fog in his brain lifted, and recognition washed over him. It was Enjin's voice. Enjin thought he could do it. And if Enjin thought he could do it...
Fragmented memories flooded his mind, filling him with warmth and purpose. Enjin, adjusting Zanka’s stance, hands firm yet gentle. Enjin, kneeling next to him on the sparring mat and laying an arm across his shoulders. Enjin, methodically showing him how to properly wrap his knuckles before his first real match.
Pain had been Zanka’s teacher for as long as he could remember. And he'd worked hard to become Pain's star pupil. He trained until his hands bled, until his vision blurred from exhaustion, until his body was bruised and scarred and broken. Until he had to be patched up and stitched back together. And then, under cover of darkness, he’d sneak out of the infirmary bed and train more.
自分の力を証明してみせます。彼らに思い知らせてやる。
It worked for a while. He had everyone around him convinced he possessed the same insidious gift that had been bestowed upon his entire family. They thought he was a natural. Everyone except Goka and Kyouko, of course. They saw him for the fraud that he really was: A talentless nobody who had seemingly been born into their family of geniuses by some divine mistake. And when the whole house of cards came tumbling down, Zanka had no choice but to run.
He didn’t like to think about what might have become of him if not for Enjin. Zanka had been lost, afraid, and itching for some kind of cosmic punishment, and Enjin gave him somewhere safe to land. He gave him an outlet for his rage and, most importantly, showed Zanka that Pain wasn’t always the best teacher.
"Come on, Zanka, show 'em what you got!"
Zanka's head snapped forward, brutally colliding with the other man's forehead and knocking him back just enough. Dirty Mike swore and pushed forward again in a desperate attempt to regain balance and control. His sweat dripped onto Zanka's neck. Disgusting. His body was alight with a new wave of conviction as he reached under the man's arm and bridged as hard as he could. To his delight, Dirty Mike flipped and went toppling to the ground. People screamed their approval, booed their distaste. Zanka barely heard them. None of it mattered. No one could touch him now.
In a flash, Zanka was on top, pinning his opponent and landing blow after blow to his face and head. There was no stopping him now. His broken lips split into a determined smirk as he saw blood splatter the mat beneath them. Dirty Mike bucked, squirmed, and attempted to block, all failing miserably. He felt like an animal, baring his teeth and letting his most base instincts take over. His fist came down over and over again until he felt the sickening crunch of the other man's nose breaking. It felt good.
Time slowed. Or maybe it sped up. Zanka wasn’t sure. Vaguely, he became aware of a referee kneeling nearby. With one last push of effort, he tightened his grip and ground his kneecap into the meat of his opponent’s inner thigh, pinning him fully.
A bell rang out, and he was suddenly yanked backward. It was over. The crowd went absolutely wild. Zanka shuddered as he got to his feet, his body numb and clunky. The referee grasped his wrist and hoisted his arm into the air, almost sending him stumbling. The ref was shouting something Zanka couldn't quite make out against the uproar.
やったの？ 勝ったの？
Once he was released, Zanka staggered toward the edge of the mat, toward the sound of his friends hooting and hollering. Immediately, he was swept up in a many-armed embrace.
"Now that's what the fuck I'm talking about!" roared Enjin, clapping him on the back.
Zanka's mouth twisted at the praise, trying to suppress the manic smile threatening to overtake his bloodied features.
"That asshole hit pretty damn hard," Zanka conceded, pulling away from everyone and rubbing at the back of his neck awkwardly. He was already becoming sickeningly aware of just how disgusting he was. He probably needed a medical-grade shower after all of that.
"Good thing you can take a lickin' and keep on tickin'!" Riyo giggled, playfully swatting at Zanka's shoulder for emphasis. He went loose at her touch.
There's a right way to take a punch.
"As if anyone wants to lick Zanka," Rudo muttered, scoffing under his breath. Without skipping a beat, Enjin flicked the side of his head, earning a little yowl.
"Shove it, twerp. Don't make me kick yer ass next," Zanka snapped. Rudo rolled his eyes, but wasn't stupid enough to keep pushing Zanka's buttons while he was still worked up from the fight. He’d been begging Zanka and Enjin to teach him some moves for a while now, but now clearly wasn’t the time for a lesson.
"On the contrary," said Riyo mischievously, “You look kinda hot when you're pissed off and dirty!”
“—Aaand, that sounds like my cue to, uh, go somewhere else! I’ll track down that prize money.” Enjin winked, shuffling away.
“I’d bet,” the redhead continued, “That after seeing that crazy show of strength?” She slung an arm around Zanka’s bare shoulders and steered him back around to face the room. “Plenty of girls here wouldn't mind licking you. Or boys! Or, whatever you like, I guess-"
"Riyo-" Zanka whined, straining against her hold. But Riyo was much stronger than she looked, and he didn’t have much fight left in him.
"It's really none of my business, and you know I totally don't judge-"
"Please stop." He could feel his face burning bright red. Rudo pretended to gag out of the corner of his eye.
"Okay, okay, BUT! I may or may not have noticed someone in the crowd who was looking at you all night."
"Riyo, everyone was looking at me, I was-"
"I know, but this guy was looking at you like... Like he wanted to-"
"Jesus Christ, Riyo, I get it. Thank you. You can stop now," Zanka implored, pinching the bridge of his nose and feeling around for more cuts and bruises. Through his fingers, his deep blue eyes swept the room with an unbidden curiosity.
People were laughing, shouting, shuffling to whatever music was blaring from a boombox somewhere. And then Zanka saw him. It was practically a jump scare, his heart dropping for a second when their eyes met.
Across the room, leaning lazily against a column, was perhaps the most striking man Zanka had ever seen. His eyes were wide with giddy excitement, his pierced eyebrows quirked upwards playfully. High cheekbones, sharp jaw, full mouth. His lower lip was pierced too, a silver hoop splitting his shit-eating grin down the center. Long deadlocks cascaded over his shoulders, glinting with little gold rings. At a distance, all the metal adorning his face and hair gave the impression of twinkling stars against his tawny skin.
Zanka blinked stupidly, completely dumbfounded. The sound of his pulse hammered in his ears, drowning out everything else.
It’s just leftover adrenaline. My body is still in overdrive from the fight.
He wrestled his gaze to the ground, preoccupying himself with wiping at a sticky smear of drying blood on his cheek. But it wasn’t long before his eyes drifted back up to the stranger.
Then, slowly, as if he'd been listening in on their earlier conversation, the man opened his mouth and let his tongue creep out suggestively, until Zanka could see even that was pierced. A little silver ball sat there, like a pearl in the center of an oyster.
Zanka's breath faltered.
It was unnerving, really. He had never been looked at like that before, except for maybe crazies on the subway. Riyo was right; this guy looked like he wanted to eat Zanka alive. If he wasn't so stupidly beautiful, he'd look right at home in a horror movie. Zanka wondered if that piercing--
"Hellooooo, Earth to Zanka?" Enjin prompted. Zanka's body jerked, tearing his eyes away from the freak in the corner, who was now laughing maniacally and turning to say something inaudible to a girl with blue hair. Zanka wished he could read lips. Their eyes periodically darted back to him, making no attempt to hide the fact that they were clearly talking about him.
"I said, I've got your cut of the winnings," Enjin said, thrusting something into Zanka's useless hands. He looked down. Three crumpled 20s and a lukewarm Bud Light. His heart sank. It's not enough. It’s never enough. If he really wanted to turn his life around and prove he wasn't a total failure, he would need more than 60 bucks and a cheap can of beer. Plus, there had to be easier ways to come by such a measly prize. Ways that didn't involve him getting almost beaten to a pulp.
God, his family would disown him all over again if they could see him now: half naked, covered in sweat and grime and blood, in an abandoned warehouse filled with punks, junkies, and all manner of shady characters. 恥さらしめ。二度と家に帰ってくるな。
With a sigh, he turned and handed the beer to Riyo. She, in turn, handed it to Rudo, who immediately opened it and started chugging. Little shit. Riyo rummaged in her bag and produced a small med kit, a hand towel, and a bottle of water. She ushered Zanka into a nearby chair, cracked open the kit, and started dabbing at his face with alcohol. The sting of the disinfectant pulled him out of his dazed state, and he grimaced against Riyo’s hand.
“Close your eyes,” she commanded, and Zanka obeyed.
Water hit his face, causing him to gasp and splutter. He jerked away from Riyo, who was laughing and clutching the towel to her chest.
“What the hell was that for?” Zanka barked.
“Um... You’re super gross and covered in dried blood?” Riyo teased, still giggling. “C’mon, I said you look kinda hot when you’re dirty, not that I wanted to lick you clean myself. Chill.”
Zanka rolled his eyes, bangs dripping into his face as he settled forward again. She returned to dabbing and wiping at his face.
“You're just way too easy to mess with,” she admitted.
“You’re awful,” Zanka muttered, his voice muffled against the towel. Riyo pushed the towel flat until it covered his face, dripping a little water onto it. He twitched.
“Be nice or get waterboarded.”
Since Zanka didn’t have anything nice to say, he opted not to say anything at all. Silently, he let her continue cleaning him up. When she retreated and returned with a salve and little bandages, she leaned in closer and dropped her voice to a more serious tone.
“Jokes aside, do you know that guy? I’m kinda worried he wants to Buffalo Bill you.”
Zanka glanced back across the room, looking for the crazy-eyed stranger with stars in his hair.
But he was gone.
“Nope. Never seen him before in my life.” Zanka shuddered, tracing over one of his newly dressed cuts. “And I hope I never see him again.”