Chapter Text
The Cleaner base always felt louder before a mission.
Not in volume exactly, but in movement. Boots crossing paths, equipment being checked and rechecked, voices rising and falling in overlapping conversations that never fully stopped. Zanka Nijiku noticed it as he stepped into the briefing room, the faint scent of incense clinging to his uniform and mixing with oil, metal, and dust. It followed him everywhere now. He had stopped wondering when that happened.
He took a seat near the wall, setting his staff upright between his feet. The familiar weight of it grounded him more than the room ever could. His fingers rested loosely against the smooth surface, relaxed but ready. He kept his posture straight, expression neutral, eyes drifting toward the center table without really focusing.
The Trash Storm was over. Had been for weeks.
That didn’t stop it from lingering.
Every so often, a fragment tried to surface. hard floor. Poison in the air. Laughter that felt wrong even now. Zanka pushed the thought down before it could take shape. He had learned to do that quickly.
Rudo arrived in a rush, as usual, sliding into the chair beside him with barely contained energy. “I swear, if Enjin sends us on another scouting run, I’m gonna lose it,” he said. “I wanna actually do something.”
Zanka glanced at him. “You always want to do something.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Yeah yeah.”
Rudo chuckled and leaned forward , drumming his fingers against the table. Across from them, Riyo sat quietly, checking her gear with careful precision. She acknowledged them with a nod but didn’t join the conversation. Zanka appreciated that about her.
The room shifted when Enjin walked in.
He didn’t announce himself. One moment the noise carried on as usual, and the next there was a subtle pause as people registered his presence. He dropped into the chair at the head of the table and kicked his boots up, chair creaking under the movement.
“Alright,” Enjin said. “Let’s keep this short.”
Enjin spread a worn map across the table. Its surface was creased and stained from use, jagged canyon lines carved into the paper. Sections were circled in harsh strokes of paint, warning marks scratched in wherever danger was known.
“Sector Fourteen-C,” Enjin said. “Raiders have been running supplies through here. More movement than usual, and they’re getting sloppy. We have to cut the line before it turns into something bigger.”
Rudo leaned in, eyes scanning the markings.
“Any backup expected?”
“None that we know of,” Enjin replied. “Which means we shouldn’t assume anything.”
Zanka traced one of the fractured paths with a finger.
“The ground looks unstable,” he muttered. “Must be the damage from a while back.”
“Yeah,” Enjin said. “Walls are cracked, tunnels half-collapsed. Trash beasts have been restless too.”
Zanka considered it for a moment. “We should split up once we’re inside. Cover more ground, keep the noise down.”
Riyo looked up. “We could do three branches?”
“That’s what I’m thinking.”
There was a brief pause. Enjin watched him, then nodded. “Alright. You take point on one route. Rudo and Riyo take another. Finish fast and don’t waste any time.”
The rest of the briefing passed quickly. Signals were confirmed, contingencies reviewed, the usual warnings delivered without much ceremony. By the time they stood to leave, the room had already started to reset itself for the next team.
The vehicle bay was colder than the rest of the base.
Zanka climbed into the transport without comment, taking a seat near the back. Rudo dropped in beside him, still talking, while Riyo secured herself across the aisle. Enjin took the driver’s seat, grinning as he powered the engine up.
“You good back there?” Enjin called.
“Define good,” Rudo said.
The transport lurched forward abruptly, jerking everyone in their seats. Rudo yelped and grabbed the side rail. Riyo clicked her tongue under her breath.
Zanka braced automatically, hand tightening around the edge of his seat. “You don’t have to floor it,” he said.
Enjin laughed. “Where’s the fun in that?”
The ride down into the Abyss was rough. Too fast, too sharp, every turn taken like Enjin was daring the vehicle to flip. Loose equipment rattled. Rudo complained loudly. Riyo shut her eyes and focused on breathing.
Zanka stared out the side window, watching the landscape shift from structured concrete to jagged trash dunes and fractured stone. The deeper they went, the heavier the air felt. He welcomed it. It gave him something solid to focus on.
When the vehicle finally screeched to a stop, Rudo stumbled out first, looking slightly green. “One day,” he muttered, “he’s gonna kill us before the mission even starts.”
Enjin clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine.”
They moved quickly after that. The canyon entrance loomed ahead, walls cracked and uneven, debris scattered where the Storm had torn through. Zanka paused at the edge, scanning the terrain, then stepped forward without hesitation.
Inside, the sound changed. The air felt tighter, quieter. Raider voices drifted faintly from deeper within, careless and unaware.
Zanka turned back briefly. “Same plan,” he said. “We split once we’re past the first bend.”
Riyo nodded. “Don’t rush it guys.”
Rudo grinned at zanka and Enjin. “See you once we’re finish.”
They separated like planned. Rudo and Riyo headed down the left branch, their figures quickly swallowed by shadow. Zanka turned right and moved forward alone, staff balanced lightly in his grip.
The canyon narrowed as he went, the walls closing in. He adjusted his pace, senses focused, thoughts narrowing to the task ahead.
This was familiar territory.
Simple.
Whatever else lingered beneath the surface could wait.
For now, there was work to do.
The canyon narrowed the farther Zanka went.
Trash and stone pressed in on both sides, jagged and half fused together, as if the land had been stitched back wrong after the Storm and never healed properly. Twisted rebar jutted from the rock like broken ribs. Sheets of melted plastic clung to the walls, frozen mid-drip, their edges sharp enough to cut skin. The air carried a dull, metallic tang that settled in the back of his throat.
Somewhere deeper in the ravine, something groaned.
It might have been shifting debris. It might have been something alive that was too slow or too full to care yet.
Zanka kept moving.
His pace remained even and deliberate. The staff rested across his shoulders at first, balanced there with practiced ease, but his grip tightened as the ground sloped downward. Loose fragments skittered under his boots. He paused once and tilted his head, letting the canyon finish settling. When the echoes faded, he continued.
They were far enough apart now that he could no longer hear the others.
That was expected.
This branch of the canyon twisted in on itself, its walls buckling inward from damage left behind years ago. Sound did not travel cleanly here. It disappeared into layers of broken junk and hollowed stone before it could carry.
Firelight flickered ahead.
The raiders had not noticed him yet. Their posture gave them away. Their shoulders were loose, their movements unhurried, confident that the unstable terrain was protection enough. Crates were stacked against the canyon wall, lashed together with thick cords and scavenged metal hooks. Ammo cases and supply boxes were piled together, their markings half scraped away. Fuel cells sat under tarps darkened by old leaks.
Zanka stopped just inside the shadow and counted.
There were four of them.
Two leaned against the crates with their helmets off. One was broad and thick-necked, his beard matted with grime and dust, his arms crossed as if nothing in the canyon could touch him. The other was thinner and long-limbed, with a sharp face and restless hands that never stopped moving.
A third crouched beside a fire barrel that barely gave off heat. He poked at it with a bent metal rod, his shaved scalp catching the firelight and revealing old scars.
The fourth paced in a loose circle. He was tall and slightly knock-kneed, and his boots crunched loudly with every step.
None of them were watching the upper ledges.
Zanka shifted his grip on the staff and waited for the pacing raider to turn his back.
When he did, Zanka moved.
The first strike was fast and quiet. The staff swung down in a tight arc and cracked into the back of the raider’s knee. The man shouted in surprise as much as pain and collapsed immediately.
Zanka followed through without hesitation. He flipped the staff and drove the reinforced end into the man’s jaw. The impact snapped the man’s teeth together and cut the sound off at once.
Zanka caught him before he hit the ground and lowered the body carefully, controlling the fall so it made as little noise as possible.
For a moment, the world pulled away from him.
The firelight blurred at the edges of his vision. The sound of his own breathing felt distant, hollow, as if it belonged to someone else. His body kept moving without conscious thought, setting the body aside and adjusting his stance while his mind drifted.
“Did you hear that?” someone said.
The thin raider had just begun to turn.
Zanka was already on him.
He stepped in close and slammed the man chest-first into the stack of crates. Wood cracked and metal rattled as the air was driven out of the man’s lungs in a choking gasp. Before he could recover, Zanka struck twice with the staff, once across the ribs and once high along the side of the neck.
The raider folded and slid down the crates, wheezing softly before going still.
“What the hell was that?” the third raider shouted.
He scrambled to his feet, panic flashing across his face as his hand fumbled for a weapon. His movements were clumsy and rushed.
Zanka barely registered the words.
His focus narrowed to distance and timing. He hurled the staff in a smooth, practiced motion. It struck the man square in the shoulder with a sharp crack. Bone gave way under the impact, and the force spun the raider into the canyon wall. He hit hard, slid down, and groaned once before falling silent.
Zanka stood still for a brief moment.
There was no surge of emotion. No rush. He felt empty, as if he were watching the aftermath from somewhere just behind his own eyes. The fire barrel’s glow pulsed too brightly before his vision steadied again.
The fourth raider ran.
Zanka swore under his breath and sprinted after him.
He closed the distance in seconds. His boot slammed into the back of the man’s calf, sending him face-first into the ground. Zanka was on him immediately, driving a knee into the man’s spine and pinning him there.
“Please,” the raider said. His voice shook. “Please, don’t.”
Up close, he looked younger than Zanka had expected. His shoulders were narrow, and sweat soaked his hair flat against his forehead. He smelled of fear and old fuel.
“Do not move,” Zanka said quietly as he pressed the staff against the side of the man’s neck. His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “Or you’ll make it worse.”
The raider froze, his breathing shallow and uneven.
Zanka struck once more, controlled and precise.
When it was over, he rose slowly. His chest lifted and fell as the haze receded. The canyon came back into focus, along with the crackle of the fire and the slow drip of leaking fuel.
His hands were steady.
They always were after this.
If anything, his thoughts felt clearer, as if the noise in his head had finally been turned down.
He retrieved his staff and turned to the supplies.
Sabotage was easier than fighting.
He cut the cords holding the crates together and punctured the fuel cells just enough to leak. He tipped boxes so their contents spilled into dirt and trash below. Anything useful was ruined. Anything dangerous was made unstable enough to become someone else’s problem.
When he finished, he stepped back and looked over the damage.
It was clean, efficient, and quiet.
Zanka lifted two fingers to his mouth and let out a short whistle. The sound echoed once before vanishing into the canyon. If the others heard it, good. If not, the plan allowed for that.
They would regroup later.
He turned and started back toward the marked path.
That was when the ground shifted.
At first it was subtle, just a faint tremor beneath his boots. Zanka stopped immediately and planted the staff against the ground.
The canyon seemed to sigh.
Loose trash slid down the walls in thin streams. A rock broke free above and shattered when it hit the floor. The air grew heavier, pressing in around him.
Zanka frowned.
“Not now,” he muttered.
He took one careful step forward, then another. The tremor did not return, but the feeling lingered, as if the land itself was holding its breath.
Zanka picked up his pace.
He wanted out of this branch before whatever the Storm had buried decided to wake up.
♡ ♡ ♡
Jabber lounged across a broken stretch of canyon wall like he belonged there.
One arm was draped lazily over his stomach, the other hanging off the stone at his side, fingers flexing now and then out of pure restlessness. One leg hooked around a jut of cracked rock, his balance careless but exact—like gravity was something he only humored when he felt like it. From his perch, the ravine yawned open beneath him in jagged layers of trash and fractured stone.
Every few minutes something shifted—debris sliding where it shouldn’t, stone grinding against stone in long, irritated groans. It sounded like the place was deciding whether to stay upright or finish tearing itself apart.
Jabber stared down at it, unimpressed.
“Boring,” he muttered.
…..
Zanka didn’t like how quiet it had gotten.
The canyon had settled into something unnatural, the kind of stillness that pressed against his ears and made every small sound feel too loud. Dust clung to his clothes. The metallic tang in the air hadn’t faded, it only thickened, as if the place itself was holding onto the aftermath of violence.
He adjusted his grip on his staff and kept moving.
The exit wasn’t far. He could feel it in the way the ground leveled out, the way the walls pulled back just enough to let in a faint wash of sickly light from above. Another minute or two and he’d be clear of this branch. Another minute and this would be done he thought to himself.
That was when he felt it.
Not a tremor. Not a shift in the ground.
Something else.
Zanka stopped.
The sensation crawled up his spine, sharp and immediate it was like being stared at from point-blank range. He turned slowly, scanning the ledges, the broken piles of trash, the jagged overhangs that jutted out like teeth.
Nothing.
His jaw tightened.
“Get a grip,” he muttered, and took another step.
A laugh echoed down the canyon.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly clear. It slipped through the space like a thread pulled too tight, light, amused, and completely out of place.
Zanka froze.
The sound came again, closer this time, bouncing lazily off the canyon walls. It carried no strain, no urgency. Whoever it belonged to wasn’t hiding.
They were waiting.
Zanka turned fully now, staff lifting into a ready position. His stance shifted automatically, weight settling into his heels, eyes locked onto the darkness ahead.
Then the dark looked back.
Two points of color flared to life above him.
Pink.
Bright, unnatural, and unmistakable, the eyes opened slowly from the shadows of a high ledge, glowing like they’d been painted directly onto the dark. They tracked him with open interest, unblinking, sharp with curiosity.
A shape peeled itself away from the rock.
He dropped without warning.
The figure landed directly in front of Zanka, boots hitting the ground with a heavy thud that sent dust and trash skittering outward. Something cracked beneath the impact, but the man straightened like it was nothing, rolling his shoulders once as if loosening up.
Jabber grinned.
“Man,” he said, voice light and almost cheerful, “you Cleaners really know how to party.”
Zanka’s grip tightened.
Jabber looked exactly as he remembered. Too loose. Too chaotic. Everything about him felt wrong—from the way he stood like the ground belonged to him, to the gleam in his eyes, bright with barely contained excitement. The rings along his fingers caught the dim light as he moved, claws flexing lazily at his sides.
Zanka didn’t lower his weapon.
“Get out of my way,” he said flatly.
Jabber tilted his head, pink eyes flicking down to the staff, then back to Zanka’s face. His grin widened.
“Straight to business, huh? No hello?” He clicked his tongue. “Kinda hurts.”
Zanka stepped to the side, testing the narrow space to pass. Jabber shifted with him, blocking the path without effort, smooth, and infuriatingly casual.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The canyon seemed to lean in around them, walls close and unforgiving. Somewhere in the distance, trash shifted with a hollow scrape.
Jabber broke the silence first.
“You know,” he said, tapping a claw thoughtfully against his jaw, “I was starting to think you hit the bucket after that incident. Then I hear about raiders dropping like flies out here.” His eyes gleamed. “Figured it had to be you.”
Zanka didn’t respond.
“Oh,” Jabber continued, clearly unbothered, “and your red-haired friend? Wild shot. Took me right out of the air.” He laughed, sharp and delighted. “First time anyone’s ever tagged me like that. Cleaners got some bite to them, don’t they?”
Zanka paused for half a second longer than he meant to.
Riyo with a gun? He hadn’t known she carried one or knew why she even had it in the first place. He didn’t dwell on it. Whatever her reasons were, they weren’t his concern.
“Not my business,” he said. “Now step aside.”
Jabber leaned closer instead.
He smelled faintly of metal and something acrid, like burned plastic.
“You really don’t remember?” Jabber asked, voice dropping just enough to sharpen the words. “That fight we had? Kinda felt unfinished.”
Zanka’s jaw clenched.
“That fight ended a while ago,” he said. “You’re still standing, I’m pretty much busy right now.”
Jabber laughed again, softer this time. “Busy, huh? That’s a shame. I was hoping you’d make time for me.” His grin turned crooked. “Nothing feels better than trading blows with someone who actually hits back.”
Zanka shifted his stance, staff angling forward. “I’d suggest you move before I do it for you,”
“Make me.”
Jabber moved first.
He lunged without warning, claws slicing through the space where Zanka’s head had been a split second earlier. Zanka ducked and twisted, the staff snapping up to deflect the follow-up strike. Sharp and jarring in the tight space.
“Hey!” Jabber laughed. “There it is.”
Zanka shoved forward, using the staff to force distance. Jabber danced back, light on his feet, clearly enjoying himself far too much.
“Don’t you ever shut up?” Zanka growled.
“And you don’t waste words,” Jabber shot back. “Guess we’re both pretty much alike, don’t ya think?”
They circled each other, boots scraping against loose debris. Jabber’s movements were erratic, unpredictable, sharp feints and sudden stops. Zanka stayed grounded, tracking him carefully, refusing to get pulled into the chaos.
Jabber swiped again, deliberately wide. Zanka blocked and countered, the staff cracking against Jabber’s ribs hard enough to knock the breath from him.
Jabber hissed—then laughed.
“Oh, that’s good,” he said, breathless and delighted. “Mind doing that again?”
Zanka stared at him, disbelief flashing across his face. “You’re insane.”
“Probably,” Jabber agreed cheerfully, rolling his shoulder. “But you hit harder when you’re pissed. Makes me think you’re an actual sadist.”
Their clash sent vibrations through the canyon walls. Fine cracks spread along the stone, dust raining down around them. The ground groaned in protest.
Zanka noticed. Jabber didn’t care.
“Stop messing around with me!” Zanka snapped, striking faster this time.
Jabber met him head-on.
They collided in a flurry of movement, staff and claws and bodies twisting through the narrow space. Jabber’s laughter echoed with every exchange, bright and sharp against Zanka’s clenched silence. Each hit landed harder than the last, restraint slipping on both sides.
Zanka tightened his grip on the staff and shifted his stance again.
He barely had time to react before Jabber lunged. The movement was lightning-fast, a blur of claws and rings catching the dim light.
“Get out of my damn way!” Zanka barked, swinging his staff low and snapping it up just in time to deflect a swipe aimed at his head. Sparks flew where metal met reinforced wood, the sound sharp and jarring. Instinct and training took over. He poured his Anima into his precious Assistaff, awakening it fully. The simple stick transformed—its surface hardening into a metallic sheen, the tip thickening and sharpening with inverted spikes for piercing, the whole weapon growing stronger and more lethal. Now metal clashed against metal as he blocked.
Jabber grinned widely. “ Now that's what I’m talking about! Play with me properly now why don’t ya?And don’t even think about holding back!” He swept a poisoned claw in a wide arc, green smoke curling from the tip. Zanka twisted back, planting his activated staff and using the uneven terrain to angle Jabber’s strike aside. He could feel the unstable piles beneath him, the hollow crunches warning of potential collapse, but he didn’t falter.
“I’m pretty much dead if I let this drag out any longer,” Zanka muttered, jaw tight. Each movement Jabber forced, each flash of claws against his defenses, was a spike of irritation and adrenaline.
Jabber laughed, sharp and bright, echoing off the canyon walls.He lunged again, forcing Zanka to duck low and spin the staff behind him. The reinforced metal caught the poisoned claws, leaving faint green streaks.
In the close press of combat, Jabber’s Mankira rings gleamed as he adjusted his grip. One claw grazed Zanka’s arm, slicing through fabric and skin. The poison seeped in immediately—a burning numbness spreading from the cut, courtesy of the neurotoxins Jabber could channel through his rings. Zanka gritted his teeth against the sting, the toxin already dulling sensation in his limb, but he refused to let it slow him yet.
Zanka countered, striking the side of Jabber’s torso with the spiked end of his activated staff. Jabber took it full-on, clearly enjoying the impact. “Keep it coming. You know I live for this kind of rush!”
Zanka growled in frustartion, lunging forward to press the attack. His staff cracked against debris as he aimed for Jabber’s side. He pivoted on a pile of rubble, using the vibration of the shifting stones to anticipate Jabber’s next move. The chaos of Jabber’s strikes became predictable if one paid attention, and Zanka did.
“You never hold back,” Jabber said, landing lightly on a ledge. “And I like it.” He leaned back, observing Zanka as he maneuvered through the debris. “Really looked cool taking down those raiders earlier.”
Zanka ignored the praise, clearly irritated with his stupidity. “You’re in my way,” he said, swinging the staff to push Jabber back.
“Yeah. That’s kinda the point,” Jabber replied, rolling to land just out of reach. His grin stayed wide.
The canyon seemed to lean in around them. Dust and rubble cascaded from small cracks as every clash reverberated. Jabber pressed forward relentlessly, claws flicking, rings catching the light. “Everything’s more fun when you push me,” he said, voice teasing. “I could go all day with you, you know~.”
Zanka pivoted, using trash piles and stone debris to leverage his movements, staff striking with precision. Each attack, each block, was calculated. Jabber darted around him, erratic and unpredictable, every feint forcing Zanka to adapt.
Jabber, circling him, lunged again, claws slicing through the air, forcing Zanka to twist and block.
Zanka’s hands burned from gripping the staff, muscles tensing, the spreading poison making his wounded arm heavier by the second. But his mind stayed sharp. He ducked, spun, and struck, turning every disadvantage of the terrain into leverage. Jabber’s chaotic style contrasted with Zanka’s control.
“Whats wrong now?,” Jabber laughed, claws flashing. “You’re getting slow. Not enough fight left in you now?”
Zanka, pressed by Jabber’s endless commentary, swung hard enough to crack a pile of scrap beneath them.
Jabber hissed, landing lightly.
Zanka pressed forward again, striking with calculated force. Each hit forced Jabber to react, dodge, or absorb, and each reaction revealed the chaotic pattern hidden in Jabber’s play.
They circled, collided, struck, and blocked. Dust floated in the sickly light, shifting stones rattled, and every echo amplified their presence. Jabber twisted, ducked, and lunged again. “Give me more. That’s the spot!”
Zanka countered a poisoned claw with a heavy push of the staff, forcing Jabber back. “Stop messing around with me,” he said, voice sharp. But the adrenaline sharpened his senses, even as the poison gnawed deeper.
He lunged again, claws scraping against debris, almost playful in his menace.
Zanka blocked, struck, pivoted, and forced Jabber into a corner. Each move calculated, measured, every strike designed to test limits. Jabber twisted, laughing, taking the hits as if they were a game.
Zanka’s muscles burned, breath tight, but he stayed grounded. He tracked Jabber’s chaos, reading patterns in the unpredictability. Jabber darted, lunged, and feinted relentlessly, enjoying each counterstrike.
They collided again, staff and claws meeting, metal ringing against metal, debris scattering with every impact. The canyon trembled slightly, brittle walls cracking, dust cascading around them.
Zanka adjusted stance, striking fast, calculated, and precise. Jabber met him head-on, laughing wildly. “That’s it! That’s the one!”
The battle stretched on, the canyon a personal arena. Each strike, each dodge, each laugh and growl pushed both to the limit. Jabber’s chaotic energy fueled Zanka’s focus, irritation sharpening into deadly precision. The two of them moved like lightning, chaos against control, laughter against iron resolve.
The canyon absorbed their fight, every crack, every scrap of stone, every echo marking the battlefield. Their voices, sharp and bright against the ambient hum of dust and debris, created a rhythm of chaos and order.
By the end of the exchange, both fighters were breathing heavily, coated in dust and sweat, muscles screaming. The poison in Zanka’s arm throbbed relentlessly, his movements growing sluggish despite his will. Jabber, bruised and cut, still grinned like the pain was fuel. Though neither admitted it, the intensity of the clash had forced each to the edge of themselves, the canyon itself bearing witness to their personal battlefield.
The canyon’s response to their brawl was immediate and merciless, as if the accumulated trash and negative Anima had finally reached a breaking point from all the vibrations, impacts, and noise. A low rumble started beneath their feet, not just sound, but a deep vibration that traveled up through the layers of refuse straight into Zanka’s bones. His legs tingled with the pressure, the sensation climbing until it sat heavy in his chest. Loose trash around his boots began to stir restlessly, pebbles and shards of rusted metal clattering down the jagged walls in warning.
Zanka’s instincts kicked in hard. This was bad, very bad. He didn’t need experience scavenging these polluted zones to recognize the signs. The ground was unstable, alive with pent-up negative energy, and their fight had just poked it awake.
Then the roar came, raw and massive, tearing through the air like something primal unleashed. It bounced off the fractured stone, multiplying until it felt like it surrounded them completely. One bellow rolled into the next in a deafening overlap, as though the canyon itself had given voice to the trash beasts stirring from their dormant state.
Zanka muttered a sharp curse under his breath, eyes already scanning for any gap or path out. He didn’t spare Jabber a glance, the guy’s endless racket and their clashing had clearly set this off. Survival came first now. The poison from Jabber’s earlier scratch still burned in his arm, a dull, spreading numbness he forced himself to ignore; no time to deal with it.
“Great,” Zanka gritted through his teeth, pivoting sharply without another wasted second. “Your nonstop yapping just woke the whole damn place.” He locked onto a narrow dip to the left, where the canyon floor sloped into a twisting maze of uneven paths worn by years of erosion and collapses. It looked risky, with shifting footing and no promises, but it was movement, and that beat standing still. Zanka took off, boots slamming against the trembling debris as the ground pulsed in angry response. Trash gave way like loose sand in places, but he adjusted on the fly, balance holding through pure determination. His heart hammered, dust kicking up to burn his eyes and coat his throat. For a split second, a grim satisfaction flickered, he was finally putting distance between himself and that maniac-masochist.
But then Jabber’s laughter sliced through the growing chaos, bright and completely unhinged, like the apocalypse was prime entertainment. “Hey!” he shouted over the tremors. “Wait up! Where are we headed now?”
Zanka ignored him, vaulting over a fallen slab of concrete, breath coming in controlled bursts as he pushed harder. The walls closed in tighter, vibrating with the approaching beasts, stone humming against his skin.
And somehow, impossibly, Jabber was right there beside him, matching stride for stride with those long, easy steps, grin splitting his face like this was the highlight of his week. Zanka’s head snapped sideways in surprise. How had this guy closed the gap so fast?
“You’re quicker than you look,” Jabber said, not even breathing hard. “Thought you were more the stand-and-fight type, not a runner.”
Zanka’s jaw locked, irritation flaring as he picked up speed. “Back off,” he snapped. “I don’t need some idiot glued to my side, especially one who turns a fight into a beast stampede.”
“Aw, come on,” Jabber replied, mock-offended but still cheerful. “We’re in this mess together now—partners!”
Before Zanka could fire back, a massive shape erupted from the debris ahead: a hulking trash beast of twisted metal, compacted waste, and thrashing jagged limbs. Its roar rattled Zanka’s skull, chunks of refuse exploding outward. He skidded to a stop just in time, but Jabbermtoo caught up in the thrill didn’t react fast enough. A sweeping limb caught him square in the chest, launching him like trash into the canyon wall with a heavy thud. He crumpled into a heap amid swirling dust and debris, disappearing from view.
Zanka didn’t pause. This was his victorious opening Jabber down, maybe out, taken out by the very thing his chaos had provoked. He bolted forward smiling genuinely in happiness for the first time in his life, boots slipping once on loose ground before catching traction. Sweat streamed down his back, lungs burning, but he refused to look back. Survival meant cutting loose dead weight, and Jabber had been pure trouble since the start. More roars joined in, tremors worsening, but Zanka blocked it out, eyes fixed on the path.
Then a heavy crash shook the ground behind him, followed by an indignant yell that shattered the brief hope. “OW! That actually hurt!” Jabber’s voice rang out, as lively as before. “Hey, you could’ve given me a heads-up!”
Zanka’s eyes widened in disbelief. How was he already up? He dropped down a short ledge, knees jarring on the landing, but powered through without breaking stride. “Come on!” Jabber called, words chasing like an echo. “Don’t ditch me after all that quality time!”
“You’re not my problem!” Zanka shouted over his shoulder, veering into a tighter shaft as another roar thundered closer. The sound bounced wildly in the confined space, walls feeling like they were pressing in. The ground shook harder, trash cascading constantly underfoot, the canyon groaning on the edge of full collapse.
He risked a quick glance back anyway. Jabber was running again, blood streaking from his nose but doing nothing to kill that manic grin. He wiped it casually, like a scratch, and let out another whoop. “Man, that’s gonna bruise tomorrow. But hey, the rush makes it worth it, right?”
Zanka cursed under his breath, snapping his focus forward. A smaller trash beast lunged from the side, jaws snapping where his leg had been. He twisted mid-stride, leaping onto a sinking mound of waste that shifted ominously under him.
No time to think just react. Jabber bounded up behind, flinging a dark, corrosive substance from his rings in mid-air. It hit a support outcrop on the wall, hissing as it ate through the structure in seconds. The rock cracked sharply and gave way, triggering a cascade. Debris rained harder, walls shuddering.
“What the hell was that?” Zanka bellowed over the noise.
“Improvising!” Jabber yelled back, thrilled. “Gotta keep it interesting you know!”
The floor ahead gave suddenly, a huge section caving in with a sickening rumble, swallowing trash and stone into a dark drop. Zanka swerved at the last second, breath ragged as he kept running. Another roar closed in fast. “This is all on you,” he accused, lungs on fire.
Jabber’s laugh cut through the dust and chaos. “Nah, it’s our mess and that’s what makes it awesome!”
Cracks spiderwebbed across the walls now, beasts surging closer, air thick with choking dust and rot. Zanka’s focus narrowed to pure instinct. He dove into a slanted side tunnel just as a massive form smashed the spot they’d left, the shockwave shoving him forward. He hit the ground hard, rolling through trash before scrambling up. Jabber slid in right behind, panting but still chuckling.
“You gotta admit,” Jabber said between breaths, “this beats wandering around bored.”
Zanka didn’t answer. Above them, the ceiling groaned, a sharp crack splitting the air. Debris started falling, first small chunks, then heavier pieces that threatened to bury them.
They sprinted as the collapse roared behind like an avalanche. Dust swallowed everything, ground buckling wildly. Zanka aimed for a faint light ahead, pulse thundering as the world fell apart around them.
Then darkness swallowed them whole.
The avalanche claimed its due.
…..
Zanka woke up choking on dust.
His first breath scraped his throat raw, dry and thick like he’d inhaled the canyon itself. He coughed hard, rolling onto his side as grit and pieces of blood spilled from his mouth and nose. His head rang violently, a deep hollow ache pulsing behind his eyes.
When he pushed himself up, his vision swam.
The light was dim and wrong. Not open canyon light. Not even filtered storm glow. Just a low dusty haze clinging to everything, broken only by a faint glimmer of reflected stone.
They had fallen far.
Zanka pressed a hand to the ground to steady himself and felt something wet smear across his fingers. He froze, then slowly lifted his hand.
Blood.
It trickled down from his hairline, warm against his skin, disappearing into the grime caked on his cheek. Not pouring, but enough to make his stomach knot. Head injuries were bad. Head injuries underground were worse.
He wiped his hand on his sleeve and forced himself to look around.
The ledge was narrow. Barely wide enough for two people to sit without slipping. Below them was nothing but darkness, the kind that swallowed sound and depth entirely. Above them, the ceiling was gone, replaced by a solid wall of collapsed stone and compacted trash. No cracks. No gaps. Just packed debris, pressed tight like the canyon had sealed its mouth.
Buried.
Zanka’s breath hitched.
His hand moved automatically to his side.
Empty.
His pulse spiked.
“No,” he muttered, sharper now, patting his belt, his back, his thigh. Nothing. His fingers dug frantically through dust and torn fabric, heart slamming harder with every second.
His lovely Assistaff was gone.
It must have been torn free during the fall. Slipped from his grip. Bounced off stone and vanished into the dark below or been crushed under the collapse. Either way, it wasn’t here.
Zanka sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth.
That was bad. Worse than the blood. Worse than the drop.
Without it, he was blind down here. No vibrations to read. No structural sense.
“Fantastic,” he muttered hoarsely, more to himself than anyone else.
A voice answered him, irritatingly calm.
“You always wake up this grumpy?”
Zanka turned his head.
Jabber sat a couple feet away, propped against the canyon wall, legs stretched out awkwardly. He looked just as wrecked. Clothes torn, skin scraped, dust ground into every inch of him. Dried blood crusted beneath his nose, darker now and ugly.
He was still smiling.
Zanka stared at him, jaw tightening as his breathing evened out.
“You just had to keep pushing with your idiocracy,” Zanka said. His voice came out low and edged. “Now look where we are because of you.”
Jabber glanced up at the blocked ceiling, then down into the dark below. He whistled softly.
“Yeah. That was one hella of a drop.”
Zanka’s eye twitched.
“You don’t sound concerned.”
Jabber shrugged, shifting slightly and wincing at the movement. “Eh. We’re alive.”
Zanka scooted closer on the narrow ledge, closing the gap enough to reach, and smacked him upside the head.
Not hard enough to knock him out. Hard enough to make a point.
Jabber yelped, hands flying up instinctively. “Hey! What the hell?”
“For not shutting up,” Zanka snapped.
Jabber rubbed the spot, blinking in mock offense. “Damn. Touchy.”
Zanka didn’t reply.
He leaned back against the stone, ignoring the fresh flare of pain through his skull. His thoughts spiraled fast and ugly.
They were deep. Too deep. The air felt heavier down here, stale and unmoving. No breeze. No open shafts. If the collapse had sealed the upper paths, there was no quick way out.
And worse—
He was stuck.
With him.
Zanka closed his eyes briefly and exhaled through his nose, forcing himself not to snap again. This was bad. This was very bad. No staff. No tools. No sense of the canyon’s condition beyond what he could hear and feel raw.
Food. Water. Light.
All gone.
And even if something had survived the fall, it was buried under tons of trash and stone. Retrieval wasn’t an option. Not here. Not now.
He muttered under his breath, words tumbling out in a low stream, sharp and anxious despite himself. “No exit. No signal. No readings. No gear. Deep enough that nobody hears us if we shout.”
Jabber tilted his head slightly. “You talk to yourself a lot.”
Zanka shot him a look. “You’re still breathing. That’s already more than I expected today.”
Jabber grinned, unfazed. “Positive thinking.”
Zanka’s head pulsed harder, pain blooming behind his eyes. The dust felt thicker now, clinging to his lungs. He shifted again and the world tilted unpleasantly.
The poison from Jabber’s earlier scratch still burned low in his arm, a dull numbness that had spread farther during the fall and the collapse. He clenched his fist once, testing it, then forced the sensation aside. No time to deal with it. Not yet.
He pressed his palm to the stone beside him, grounding himself, but his fingers slipped slightly on the grit. His stomach dropped.
Down. They were way down.
Too far to climb. Too unstable to force. And without his Assistaff, every step from here on out was guesswork. One wrong move and the ledge gave way. One bad angle and they were both gone.
Zanka swallowed and blinked hard, trying to focus.
Not now.
The darkness crept in anyway, edging his vision, narrowing it. His hearing dulled, the drip of water below stretching into something distant and warped.
He slumped forward before he could stop himself.
Jabber straightened instantly.
“Hey,” he said, grin fading for a second. “You good?”
Zanka tried to answer. Tried to push himself upright.
His body didn’t listen.
The ledge tilted sharply and then everything went black.
Jabber lunged forward, catching him before he could slip any closer to the edge.
“You okay, man?”