Chapter Text
"Hey Kid."
Zanka froze, his mouth slamming shut as he curled in further on himself. His stomach twists in hunger yet he ignores it, instead focusing on trying to ignore the voice calling out to him.
"You scream about being shit, wallowing in your self deprecation, and instead of working to change that... You're at the bottom of a well." The words pierce through his chest and Zanka can't stop the sharp pang of anger in his chest. It festers before quickly simmering out into waves of self loathing. The stick in his hand slightly bends as Zanka tightens his hold on it.
..
"Pathetic."
...
"Who are you to call me pathetic?!" Zanka shouts, looking up at the sun blocked by a figure. It's hard to see his face, even harder to make anything out with the jacket swaying in the wind. The voice doesn't respond and Zanka gets a strong urge to climb out just to beat the voice into a pulp. The urge is violent and nasty, Zanka not even knowing where it came from. Still after everything, he can't even contain his emotions.
The figure moves out of the way, turning as if to leave. "I thought you looked promising, but you just seem like a whiny child who can't accept being weaker than others."
Zanka doesn't know who this is, his voice is unrecognizable and his clothes show no information about who he is. He's a nobody. So why does it seem like he isn't?
In record time Zanka was pulling himself out of the well, his chest heaving with exertion and anger. He fell forward, holding himself up as he looked at the man. The man himself paused, turning to glance at Zanka. "Unless?"
"I'm the hardest worker you'll ever meet in your sorry life, you don't get to tell me shit." Zanka spat, standing tall and holding his stick tightly in his hand. "And I'll prove it to ya."
"Oh? Alright then." His coat shimmered behind him and his eyes flickered to life. Zanka’s eyes widened and he gripped his weapon tighter. A Giver.
But Zanka wasn't going to back down from a fight. His form shifted and he sucked in a breath as the man spoke. "Prove it."
The sun pierced his eyes as Zanka lay flat on his back. He couldn't breath, his chest stuttering as he desperately sucked in air. His ribs hurt, his arms felt like jelly, and his head pounded with a terrifying violence. A shadow descended over him, kicking his weapon closer to him. As Zanka stared up at the man and his vital instrument, he didn't know what to think.
The pair stared at each other, never breaking eye contact. It barely took any time for Zanka to lose but the fight itself - it wasn't like anything he'd ever felt. The teen coughed, pushing himself up to stand. He stumbled slightly before looking the man up and down, his face skeptical.
He stared for another moment before turning away once again. Zanka almost reached out before stopping, having nothing to say. What would he even say? He began to walk away before pausing and glancing behind him, "You can stay in that well if you choose to. Or you can come with me."
Those were the only words spoken before the grey haired man continued to walk away. Zanka stared at his back, confused yet intrigued. He glanced down at the well before glancing to his left. He could go back to Hell Guard, force himself to be something he wasn't. He could stay in that well, doing nothing to better himself. Or.. Or he could go with him.
By the time he finished thinking the man was already turning a corner. With another glance to his left Zanka rushed away, following the man in the coat. He ignored the pain in his ribs, ignored his gut screaming for him to run the other way. He caught up to him, slowing down to match his pace.
"Who are you?" Zanka breathed, clutching his ribs and pulling his weapon closer.
"Zodyl Typhon. You?"
"Zanka. Just Zanka."