Chapter Text
Zanka pulls himself up from the medical bed, sunlight not yet shining through the windows, the morning still young. He rubs his stiff neck, stretching muscles from sleep. His tox-screen levels came back fine the night before, so Eisha cleared him for today.
He reaches to feel Lovely Assistaff, just an assurance as his mind wakes fully. The bed frame creaks as he leans, pulling him out of the remaining grogginess, adjusting his eyes to see in the minimal light of the room.
The clock on the wall reads 5:47 in the morning, ‘a late start’, Zanka admonishes himself. He really doesn’t want to run into the rest of the team. A bitter reminder that they don’t feel he is capable enough to pull through for the information broker trip. They’re taking that ex-raider, the one with no backbone, over him.
Zanka ruminates in frustration as he collects himself and picks up Assistaff and his bag. He slips out the door, anticipating the training he’s about to throw himself into. His footsteps trot up the stairs softly, avoiding disturbing those still asleep.
Reaching his own room, Zanka riffles through his bag’s contents, seeing the medical supplies pretty much obliterated from the fight. But at least his key was still there and intact.
The lock turns, and Zanka can feel the buzz of starting the day. He quickly changes into sweatpants and a t-shirt, leaving his old clothes in the hamper. Stopping to check his earrings in the mirror. The bag of crumpled supplies is a future problem, for now it is left on his desk, the key slipped into the pants pocket.
As soon as his shoes were on, Zanka was snatching up Assistaff and out the door. He flies down the stairs, trying to stay quiet, but still holding a bit too much pep. His tassels flutter as he heads out the side door.
There is a lot of empty land only a mile or so out from the HQ. Zanka takes advantage of this, and once he’s there, it stretches so far that he could go on a run for hours and still be away from people.
This sort of solitude befits good training. Faster, stronger, more efficient. Zanka tends to stick to the classics of repetition. Runs, sets, drills. Pushups and pullups. ‘These things work… but. ‘ Thoughts of the last fight float around. Agility and reaction are going onto the list.
Trash beasts don’t require a lot of that, they tend to be clunky and unaware. But there was a time, back in the academy, when Zanka was highly trained… ‘well not enough even then, because Hiyo…’
Fighting real fights is different from a spar. Zanka might have learned the most from his sister, but in the end, he was expecting it. In the academy, he was expecting every move. When he was shown something new, he faltered, he fell, and lost pitifully.
This has happened again. Trash beasts are predictable, sparing for practice lacks dirty tricks and real experience. But fighting that raider, Jabber Wonger, was real. That was a true fight, no wait to match blows, no rules of parry, and despite that, it never was his full strength was it.
Zanka curses natural talent and then begins the new regime. He would not just run, he would jump on these boulders, get good footing, if they fell, he would act quickly. He would ask for more opportunities once he proved this capable. Maybe beg to get Semiu to see his movement, hit him where he was supposed to be, or Tamsy to chase him with his string, or even Gris to box him hand to hand.
Zanka knows it’s presumptuous to even assume they would hear him out even a bit… well maybe Gris would, but the others have no reason to even hold respect for him… especially after Zanka doubted and then was greatly overshadowed by the plan Tamsy held, yelling at him, when he was ultimately many steps ahead of Zanka. Another reminder where and how wide the distance falls.
The boy shakes his head out, ‘he will develop that skill’, turn insecurity into drive, ‘skill, not talent, because natural talent only goes so far.’ Empty reassurances, an attempt to piece together confidence.
Zanka trains until the sun stands bright, making its way towards the middle as it inches from the east. Sweat beads on his tired body, glistening in the light as he decides it’s late enough to head back. He’ll eat then take as many jobs as he can, Zanka decides as he makes his way back to the headquarters.
—-
It’s been a few hours since the encounter with the information broker. Jabber doesn’t remember when he blacked out, but when he came too Cthoni had him laying in the back seat next to Momao. ‘Wait, Momao-’ He puzzles, clearly something went wrong in the mission.
“What happened? Damn….” He says softly, throat still raspy..
Cthoni just shakes her head, shutting Jabber up real quick. Something bad must’ve happened, because the whole atmosphere is very tense. Now Jabber isn’t the best at reading a room, but he knows when the boss isn’t playing around, and this is starting to feel like a prime example of his bad moods..
The ride back was dull and long, Jabber spent the time fixing up his remaining wounds. Presumably, Cthoni splinted his arm while he was out. She’ll deny ever caring, but it’s apparent she puts in some effort.
He recalls how he got into this state, ‘Fuu… huh, never really thought he would be strong like that- the fight was thrilling as hell, but-’ He winces as he pulls back crusted blood with his shirt. ‘It’s no fun to feel pain when everyone is being so somber.’ Normally Jabber would’ve been blabbing on about wanting a rematch and how crazy the rebrand was, but this doesn’t seem like the time. ‘Really sucks for real, because I could really use a joke or two. Man this hurts like a bitch-’
Jabber glances up to make sure that Zodyl isn’t watching before discreetly activating Mankira on his left arm. It’s difficult with the pain from the break and the splint, but he manages to reach his claw to his wrist.
Tears prick in his eyes as he feels his bones shift, but as soon as the sharp tip hits his vein, he feels a presumptive relief. It takes a few seconds for the numbness to hit, but the expectation of it alone has Jabber relaxing.
He lets out a shaky breath as the pain dissipates. He glances back up to see Zodyl staring back through the mirror. He looks utterly disgusted and irritated. ‘Surely he knows this is just painkiller right? Dude is looking at me like I’m doping or something.’ Jabber just stares back, not sure how to even respond, because how even are you supposed to?
He knows what the others think of him. ‘It’s a load of wacky bull shit-’ Jabber would defend himself mentally. They think he’s some obsessive junkie, some self deprecating masochist, they don’t see that he’s just having fun. ‘I’m living life so much fuller than them, can’t they see, I’m not reliant on nothing! Just getting the full experience, and surely anyone can appreciate a good fight. A bunch of pessimists that's what they are.’ And truthfully, it’s very hypocritical of them. They sit on a high horse just because they don’t outwardly express enjoyment doing the same things Jabber does.
The ride back to base stays uneventful, no exchange of words, or acknowledgment of what happened. Jabber’s still way out of the loop on Momao’s situation, but it’s whatever. Cthoni will spill everything later once they’re away from the boss. She always keeps him posted, it’s not really a question about it, kinda nice to always be in the loop, even if the boss doesn’t care to tell.
It’s obvious Zodyl views Jabber as a weapon, he’s a tool, useful as a frontliner, but he doesn’t bother to include him in major discussion like the others. Probably thinks he’s not smart enough to provide insight. Stupid conclusion too, because surely he knows plans take strategy. Then again he never thinks things through, always saying it’s an experiment and crap when it doesn’t go right. Reality says you can’t just show up and start slashing to get things done, ‘would be so fun if it was though, damn I want a good fight like back in that beast again.’
After arrival Jabber rides the remaining painkiller effect to make his way to the healer, peeling himself out of the car. Whatever’s up with Momao, she’s not coming with. At least that means it’s not medically concerning or whatever. ‘It would suck if she went out, she’s interesting to talk to, always down to get into fun trouble.’
Most of the Raiders are lame as hell, thinking they’re some mysterious vigilantes or whatever. They’re always on about order and presentation, Mamoa though, she keeps it real. She knows nothing about it is righteous, we all here for one thing or another, she gets that. ‘Nights when we go out to smoke, and she taps at random strangers, sharing crazy drama about their lives that they don’t even know was seen, laughing real good about it, makes the whole scary strict Raider crap a joke for real.’
Jabber comes up to the stairs, the numbing effect is wearing off, he hums a little trying to make each laborious step a game,
“one step, two step, three step, four. Every stair is closer to the door” It’s some nonsense but whatever keeps him going. Eventually he gets up to the landing, and turns into the healer’s office, flickering fluorescent lights blaring into his eyes. The healer glances up at him, after he showed up with 8 bullet wounds last time, nothing could faze her, probably.
The healing process takes several hours, knocking whoever is getting healed out for the duration. So while Momao is being laid into the bed that will house her for the next month or so, Jabber is laying down on a medical cot. At this point in time the sun barely peeks from the horizon, darkness settling in for the night.