Chapter Text
“YOU FREAKIN’ MASOCHIST! Don’t yer dare touch me!”
Jabber grinned, teeth biting back a sharp laugh as the Lovely Assistaff slammed into his ribs. The impact made a sickening crack, a tiny explosion of pain shooting through his intercostal muscles.
He felt the bone snap under the pressure, jagged edges pressing into the soft tissue around it, each inhale sending a razor of agony up his chest.
His lungs protested, tightening painfully as if trying to escape the crushing grip of his own body—but the sting was intoxicating, each throb a perverse confirmation that he was alive, truly alive.
The staff, usually a clean, navy blur of furious precision in the hands of the cocksure Cleaner, was currently pressed against Jabber's throat, but it wasn't enough to stop the low, rumbling laugh from escaping him.
"Now, that ain't nice, pretty-boy," Jabber wheezed, tilting his head just enough to avoid the worst of the pressure.
He felt the familiar, hot chemical rush of his own toxins activating—a welcome sting against the righteous fury radiating off Zanka.
"You're all worked up. Getting that perfect, frantic tension, yeah? Don't stop now, I'm just getting started on yer lovely little bruise~"
They were fighting in a desolate valley of No Man's Land—a monumental graveyard of crushed metal, discarded appliances, and the occasional bone-white remains of a Trash Beast.
The air was thick with dust and the oppressive silence of The Pit, broken only by the brutal thwack of Zanka's staff and the sickening scrape of Jabber’s Jinki.
Jabber’s hands, encased in the heavy, toxic mauve of Mankira, were a lethal mess of blood thirsty energy.
The ten linked rings on his tanned fingers morphed into clawed gauntlets, slashing through Zanka’s uniform with a screech of tearing fabric, but Zanka was too fast, too disciplined, pivoting on the shattered remains of a washing machine.
CLANNGGGGGG!!!!!!!!
The Assistaff spun, not just blocking the incoming swipe of Mankira, but delivering a perfect counter-strike that slammed into Jabber's temple.
The impact was dizzying, a beautiful flash of white pain that made Jabber’s vision swim, yet his grin only widened, cracking the dry skin on his face.
He’s desperate, Jabber thought, spitting a mouthful of coppery blood onto the junk-strewn ground.
That desperation...
That determination to prove himself and go beyond his limits.
It’s what makes Zanka good.
It’s what makes him fun to play with.
The blonde-haired lunged again, his movement a furious, trained elegance that spoke of a noble upbringing he desperately tried to reject.
“…Quit yabberin’, freak. You’ll be swimmin’ in yer own filth before ya even know it!”
“Mmm…! You really are what they say… Mr. Bad Attitude, and I… I can’t get enough of it~," Jabber purred, his voice dripping with a twisted blend of pain and perverse longing, as if he craved every bite of the torment.
He dropped his guard for a split second, inviting the staff to collide with his shoulder, and as Zanka took the bait, Jabber lashed out with a speed that belied his reckless approach.
RIPPPPPPPPP.
Mankira’s claws found their mark, sinking just deep enough to deliver a fresh dose of poison—a corrosive, numbing acid—into Zanka’s side.
Zanka gasped, stumbling back, his beautiful blue eyes wide with shock and pure, concentrated rage.
The kind of look Jabber could feast on alllll damnnnn day.
"Ohh, thattt'ss ittttt," Jabber sighed, feeling the poison kick in on the Cleaner, even as the throbbing pain from his temple settled into a sweet ache.
"That's the look. Come on, pretty-boy. Let's see if your willpower outlast my venom."
This was their thing.
Always had been.
Push and pull, fire and gasoline.
Three times they’d gone at it in this lifetime—two wins for Jabber, one where Mr. Bad Attitude got him good, cracked a rib or two, maybe more.
Didn’t matter.
Sure as hell sadistic though! He loved that. The way Zanka barked and cursed, actin’ all high and mighty while still swingin’ like he wanted it.
The thrill made his skin buzz. Every clash was a love letter written in bruises and spit, a brawl that sang louder than any damn sermon.
Every protest was just music, rough and raw.
Jabber could feel his grin stretch wider, teeth aching, ribs screaming, heart poundin’ like junkyard drums. Yeah, Zanka could yell all he wanted—Jabber knew the truth.
They both lived for this.
He could still taste the dust and copper in the air, see the blood painting the trash heaps like some twisted mural.
Zanka with that cold glare, him with that stupid grin that just wouldn’t quit.
Fists flyin’, insults barkin’, the world around them hummin’ like broken machinery.
Hell, it wasn’t just a fight—
It was their language.
A game between monsters who didn’t know how to quit.
Jabber lived for that sweet, sick harmony of pain and laughter.
Although, sometimes that shit got on his nerves.
Zanka always holdin’ back like he some saint with self-control, talkin’ that same crap about Jabber bein’ the “natural-born genius” while he’s just the “average joe.”
What a load of junkyard poetry.
Sigh, yeah, yeah—place name, tragic backstory, all that hero crap the cleaner got goin’ on. If he wasn’t so damn fun, Jabber would’ve gutted him ages ago and danced in the mess.
But nah… he liked the guy.
Really did.
The way Zanka’s eyes burned with that pure hate every time he looked at him—it was cute as hell.
Like a stray dog barin’ its teeth, and Jabber just couldn’t help but wanna pet it.
Sighhh.
Yeah, Jabber’s been doin’ that a lot lately—sighin’.
Guess the high wears off faster these days. Body’s feelin’ heavy, muscles draggin’, so he been pumpin’ himself with whatever nasty mix he can cook up just to keep movin’.
Some toxin, some—errrr, trash?
Probably just leftover crap from that last poison he got buzzed on a few weeks back. Ain’t like it matters; his veins already learned to dance with it.
Now, now—focus, dumbass. The fight ain’t over.
Zanka’s still there, swingin’ that stick like he’s preachin’ salvation.
They’re tradin’ blows, metal ringin’, air thick with sweat and smoke.
Jabber’s got the upper hand, though. He can see the venom doin’ its job, crawlin’ through Zanka’s body nice and slow.
Heh.
He’s been playin’ around with a new mix—wanted to see how long the cleaner could last before toppin’ over.
Not meant to kill, nahhhh, just to make every second burn like hell.
A little experiment, a little funnn.
Pain makes the best data, after all!
“Hey, dude~” Jabber drawled, crouching low with a lazy grin, Mankira scraping against the cracked floor, shrieking like metal in pain.
The sound made his grin widen.
“Don’t tell me yer gettin’ drowsy now? Heh, though I gotta hand it to ya, Zanka-kun—you’re crazy tough. It’s been, what, forty minutes? Usually, my venom tucks folks in after twenty.”
If looks could kill, Jabber would’ve been a corpse ten times over and still grinnin’.
Those cold, ocean-blue eyes of Zanka’s cut through him, sharp enough to flay skin.
“Go fuck yourself, monster,” Zanka spat, voice low and shaking with fury.
Jabber froze for half a heartbeat.
Well, shit.
That was new.
Zanka never actually said it loud before.
Usually it was just the eyes, the punches, the silence that screamed louder than words. But hearing “monster” come outta his mouth like that?
It hit different.
Kinda sweet, kinda sick.
Both of ‘em freaks anyway, closeted psychos hidin’ behind their own mess.
Still, somethin’ in him twisted the wrong way this time.
Not the good kinda hurt he liked—nah, this one stung deep, ugly.
Made his grin twitch, eyes flicker like a busted neon sign.
Guess even yer’ boy Jabber got a nerve or two left in there after all.
He laughed it off, low and cracked, but the sound had teeth.
“You already did, haven’t ya, Zanka-kun?” he shot back, voice dripping with that twisted grin. But fuck, the word kept spinning in his head, curlin’ up in his throat like bile, twisting his guts in ways he couldn’t laugh off.
Zanka sputtered, face turnin’ crimson like fire in a busted barrel, and damn if Jabber didn’t wanna coo and tease him more.
Usually he would, oh yeah, he would, but the playful high was gone.
Mood swing incoming. Dark, twitchy, hungry-for-chaos mood swing. Jabber’s fingers itched for more, craving the scrape, the clash, the rush of teeth and blood.
He knew Zanka’s limits, though.
Could toy with a stuck, immobilized Zanka all day, but nah, tonight ain’t that night.
Tonight, Jabber’s thrill was waitin’, thick in his chest, twitchin’, like he could taste the next fight before it even started.
Jabber knew all that jabbin’, insultin’, whatever-the-fuck Zanka liked to sling at him wasn’t personal.
Just the usual mess they did.
But damn, it pissed him off how it didn’t hit like it should.
Didn’t sting, didn’t burn, didn’t make that delicious kind of chaos he lived for.
He hated it.
That dull-ass “monster” shit?
Not enjoyable. Not even close.
Jabber shook that mess of thoughts right outta his head.
Zanka was pinned now, completely fucked by the venom he’d dripped into the guy, muscles locked tight but eyes still glintin’ with that stubborn fire.
Half-aware, half-fightin’, and Jabber?
He wolf-whistled, loud as hell.
…Damn, what a motherfucking fighter.
That’s why he stayed Jabber’s favorite enemy.
Not just some punk that could throw punches.
Could keep up in combat and, yeah, in bed too.
Enemies with benefits, what?
Shit, so what.
Impulse, selfish cravings, raw-ass desire—that’s how they rolled.
Both got off on it, messy, chaotic, and loud.
Jabber grinned, fingers twitchin’ at the thought, thrill runnin’ up his spine.
Yeah, that’s their kind of fun.
“Well, we had our fun, pretty-boy. Gotta bounce—looks like your Cleaner friends finally sniffed you out,” Jabber said, eyes flickin’ to the three shapes movin’ in the distance outside the valley.
How’d they even end up like this, you are asking?
Zanka had been doin’ his usual Cleaner shit in no-man’s land when Jabber just… popped up. Jumped him, of course.
Playtime’s always fun, but every game got its clock.
Still, he couldn’t just leave him like a rag.
Jabber dragged Zanka careful, ploppin’ him up so he could sit, brushing ash-blonde hair from those stubborn blue eyes.
Couldn’t help it—
He lingered a sec, staring deep, that sick little twist in his chest buzzin’ like palpitations. Then, quick, a soft peck on the cheek.
Zanka opened his mouth, probably tryna yell or spit some fire.
Jabber just grinned, raised a finger to shush him.
“Til’ next time, cleaner,” he whispered, then vanished like smoke.
Jabber’s heart was still rattlin’, giddy as fuck.
That flush on Zanka’s cheeks, that stupid little half-protest—
It got him every damn time.
Yer’ boy Jabber couldn’t help it, kay’?
“Woah—Zanka, nghh—ouch,” Jabber winched, but fuck, it ain’t just pain he was feelin’.
Nah, pleasure slammed through him like a scorching trainwreck.
Ain’t no wonder that Sphereite kid Rudo called him a goddamn masochist.
Every bite, every pinch, every sharp press of Zanka’s teeth on his tanned neck sent sparks up his spine.
Bruises were already bloom’n, blue and purple spreading across his collarbone like fucked-up war paint.
Jabber’s smile twisted, eyes glitterin’ with that nasty little glee only he could feel. Couldn’t think straight, couldn’t care—just wanted more.
More bites, more pressure, more chaos.
Hell, he loved it.
Zanka bit down again, harder this time, sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood that slid warm across Jabber’s skin.
He lapped it lazily, tugging on one of Jabber’s locks until their foreheads bumped together with a dull thud.
“…You’re quieter than usual,” Zanka muttered, eyes narrowing a little, curious and cautious all at once.
No anger in his tone yet, just that steady, unreadable calm he had before he decided to break something.
Jabber’s lips curved into a grin that didn’t match the heat in his eyes.
“Heh, what’s wrong, cleaner? Missin’ my voice already?”
Zanka huffed, fingers still tangled in Jabber’s hair. “Just makin’ sure you’re not plannin’ some stupid shit again.”
“Oh, baby, I’m always plannin’ stupid shit,” Jabber crooned, voice low, teasing.
“Ain’t that why you keep comin’ back?”
Zanka scoffed, but his grip didn’t loosen.
“You’re a damn headache.”
Jabber laughed, breath ghosting over his skin. “Yeah, but you love it. Don’t lie now.”
The cleaner’s jaw tensed, his lips twitchin’ between irritation and something else. “…Keep talkin’, and I’ll shut you up myself.”
Jabber tilted his head closer, grin feral. “Promise?”
Zanka just rolled his eyes and kept doin’ his usual business, markin’ Jabber like it was routine.
If Jabber didn’t know better, he’d swear the dude did give a single fuck about him.
Nah, just his way.
Always cool, always deadly—good at bed, good at fightin’, and way too damn stubborn.
Kinda unfair, honestly.
Zanka talkin’ all that average Joe shit when he could match Jabber blow for blow, and sometimes even leave him eatin’ dust!
This whole mess?
Started back when they were just kids, barely seventeen, eighteen, horny and impulsive.
Now?
They’re in their twenties, still wreckin’ each other and bantering through it.
Almost a year and a half of this shit, nobody knowing—raiders, cleaners, hell, probably not even the wind that blows through the canvas town.
Only Cthoni kinda knew halfway through and just… didn’t care.
Probably thought it was funny. Or stupid.
Either way, she kept her mouth shut.
And it was perfect.
Second genders? Who gives a damn in the Pit.
Stereotypes? Trash talk.
Both of them Alphas, no risk of accident, no rules holdin’ ‘em back.
They could wreck each other any damn way they wanted, push every boundary, and not have to sweat some unwanted side-effect.
Freedom, chaos, and a little fucked-up pleasure all rolled into one.
“-er”
Yeah, Jabber could live with this.
Fuckin’ loved it, actually.
Liked Zanka. Liked him a lot.
The dude was still one of the strongest fuckers out there, kicking and fightin’, alive and annoying as hell—and now, of course, fuckin’ with Jabber.
Made the blood hum in his veins every damn time.
But hell, one day?
One day, they’d have to kill each other.
Ain’t no way around it.
And that thought…
“-bber”
Huh.
…That ain’t a pleasant thought no more.
What the fuck changed…?
Used to be he’d imagine all the ways he’d inevitably kill Zanka, or Zanka’d do him in.
Usually smack in the middle of some high-adrenaline battle, blood sprayin’ like fireworks, both of ‘em soaked in it.
Zanka looked… fuckin’ gorgeous drenched in blood.
Those ocean-blue eyes filled with pure bloodlust, finally locked on Jabber.
But now?
…Nah.
That shit ain’t exciting anymore.
Weird, huh. Strange as fuck.
Jabber tilted his head, lips twitchin’, trying to figure why the hell the thrill felt off. Something in him’s shifted, and he can’t tell if he likes it or if it’s gonna eat him alive—
“Monster.”
“—Jabber!”
The shout yanked him outta his little spiral.
Blinkin’, he saw Zanka already standin’, tuggin’ on that damn cleaner uniform like nothin’ happened. Looked at him all weird, brows knit, eyes sharp.
“Freak, the hell’s wrong with you? You’ve been outta it,” Zanka snapped, arms crossed, that lone brow shootin’ up like he was tryna read Jabber’s fucked-up little brain.
Jabber’s grin twitched, teeth flashin’ just a little.
…Guess he’s that obvious, huh?
Brain still buzzin’, skin tinglin’, heart jumpin’ like a junkyard drum.
Zanka always sniffed out his mess, no matter how deep he tried to bury it.
Jabber, always the pervert, just shifted his position, lazy grin tugging at his lips.
Huh, looks like Zanka had actually covered him with the damn blanket after their usual nasty routine. What a gentleman.
But the blanket slid down his torso, stopping at his waist, leaving the trail of marks Zanka left on full display.
Jabber hummed, letting his locks sway to the side as he tilted his head, blinking at those ocean-blue eyes.
“Just thinkin’, Zanka-kun,” he murmured, voice low and teasing.
Zanka huffed, a blush creeping pink across his cheeks.
Damn, he was way too easy to tease.
Jabber could almost see it—
Zanka probably felt all proud of himself, lookin’ at the marks he left.
Hah!
Guy could pass for a vampire right now, all pale, smug, and lethal.
Closeted sadist vibes.
“Well, yer’ gotta get up and leave. The others are about to wake. Make sure to fix the bed,” the blonde reminded, glancing at himself in the mirror before grabbing his Jinki and clicking the door shut.
Silence hit the room.
Jabber sighed, arms flung back behind his head, leanin’ into the empty air like he owned it.
The “others,” huh?
Yeah, his Cleaner friends, all of ‘em.
Scissor-girly with that murderous gaze, Rudo the Sphereite, and…
Engine?
Enjin?
Shit, Jabber couldn’t remember—some guy with an umbrella-looking weapon thing, always in the way during fights for years.
And the rest.
Receptionist downstairs who knew too much, probably knew about him and Zanka’s little arrangement. Didn’t matter.
She clearly figured it wasn’t her problem.
Not busy, not really doin’ harm.
Smart move.
Jabber sighed again, heavy and drawn out.
Fatigue curlin’ up in his chest like a damn snake.
Hell if he knew why.
Ever since that brawl in no-man’s land, he’d been feelin’ like shit—exhausted, nauseous, like bile was tryna claw its way up his throat any second.
Mood swings hit him like a freight train too.
Normal shit—Zanka yellin’ insults, Cthoni stoppin’ him from goin’ full-out, Boss Zodyl barkin’ orders—shit he used to handle with a grin now made his head spin.
Sigh.
Always sigh.
Jabber’s gut twistin’, chest tight.
Needs somethin’ strong. Maui Wowie, top-shelf, something to blast the world back into color before he snaps for real.
Fast.
Can’t deal with this half-dead bullshit feelin’ anymore.
With a snap of focus, Jabber slid off the blanket, tossing it aside like yesterday’s trash.
Threw on his raider threads fast—mismatched grey and purple patch pants, top shirt, his damn choker of course—and didn’t even pause.
Window was next.
Out he went, smooth as a thief on a heist, heart thumpin’, fingers tight around Mankira.
Down the Cleaner Headquarters building, silent, swift, like the shadows were his playground.
Feet barely made a sound, every muscle coiled, every nerve screaming with that insane giddy thrill he always chased.
Stealth wasn’t just skill.
It was a fucking rush.
Welp.
Successful sexfiltration, ha!
Yeah, he cracked himself up with that one—damn, he was funny.
Jabber barked out a laugh, shoulders shaking, still high off the thrill and the heat from Zanka’s bed. He tugged at his jacket, struttin’ like the damn king of chaos, low whistle rollin’ off his lips—
…Until that stupid-ass buzz from his comm choker hit his throat.
“Aw hell nah,” he muttered, scrunchin’ his face.
The vibration crawled under his skin like a damn fly that wouldn’t quit.
“What, y’all miss me already?” he grinned to nobody, voice dripping with mockery.
The sound made him twitch, though—itchy nerves, restless hands.
Every little hum of that device felt like the world tryna leash him again, and Jabber ain’t ever been one for leashes.
“Where are you, Jabber?” Cthoni’s voice came out flat through the tiny speaker, rough and dry like she’d been scraping his patience for fun.
Jabber clicked his tongue, swagger in every lazy step as he strolled farther from HQ.
“Whoa, creepy. Didn’t realize I was on a leash, Cthoni.”
His grin split wide, teeth flashing. “Relax, I’m just stretchin’ my legs. Ain’t like I’m crashin’ no Cleaner pajama party or nothin’.”
“You were near the HQ again,” she said, tone steady, sharp under the calm.
“You got a death wish, or just bored of breathin’?”
He snorted, kicking a rock just to hear it clatter.
“Bored? Hell yeah. Can’t a man walk and enjoy the aroma of rottin’ garbage in peace? Say, is the boss feelin’ generous today? I’m dyin’ out here, girl. Need somethin’ to hit before I start bitin’ my own damn hand off.”
Silence.
Then that sound—soft, low, drawlin’.
A hum.
Jabber stilled for half a second, eyes flickin’ up.
That hum.
He knew that one.
The “I know somethin’ you don’t” hum.
Man, that woman was somethin’ else.
He still remembered the first time he met her, thinkin’ she was his age—maybe younger with that damn smooth skin and them lazy sharp eyes.
Then she dropped the bomb she was pushin’ thirty and his brain short-circuited right there. Like, what the hell she usin’????
Angel’s blood?
Sewer magic?
Ain’t no way she out here fightin’ for vandals, runnin’ Zodyl’s errands, and still lookin’ like a college brat who sleeps eight hours and drinks water.
Unfair as hell.
Cthoni hummed again, long enough for it to crawl under his skin.
And damn if Jabber didn’t grin wider, crooked and mean.
That meant boss was up to somethin’, and Jabber was too twisted to back off from that kinda game.
“You’re in luck, Jabber. That’s why I called in the first place.”
Cthoni’s voice flipped from bored to brisk, businesslike.
“Boss got a mission for you. Another raid plan, labelled… dangerous.”
Jabber’s grin cracked wider.
“Dangerous? Girl, that’s like tellin’ a fish ‘bout water.”
He adjusted his choker, teeth glinting. “C’mon, gimme somethin’ spicyyyy this time! Not another runnin’-in-circles, shootin’-rats gig.”
Cthoni ignored him, of course.
“Coordinates are set in Sector 9. High-risk territory, heavy surveillance, human trafficking count. You’ll need to infiltrate—”
“—Yeah, yeah, lemme guess, stab, blow shit up, bring back the shiny thing?” Jabber drawled, kicking at a busted can as he walked.
“I swear, y’all act like I need a tutorial every time. I been doin’ this since puberty hit, sweetheart.”
“Sweetheart?” she repeated, dry as dirt.
“Jabber, one of these days, you’re gonna end up with your head on a spike because your mouth moved faster than your brain.”
“Aw, Cthoni, you care. How sweet.”
He chuckled, low and rough, eyes dancing.
“If I die, you gonna cry for lil’ ol’ me? Maybe visit my grave, put some flowers, say, ‘Damn, he was hot but stupid.’”
“You’re assuming you’d get a grave,” she shot back.
That one made him laugh, loud and messy, teeth bared like a wild dog. “See, that’s why I like you, girl. You cold as hell but funny too. Boss got taste keepin’ you around.”
She sighed audibly.
“Are you done flirting with your handler, or can I finish briefing you before you decide to blow yourself up for fun again?”
“Hey, don’t knock it till you try it,” he snickered.
“Explosions got a certain… romantic vibe, ya feel me?”
Cthoni’s silence stretched for a moment.
Then came that familiar hum again—low, knowing, amused.
Jabber’s grin tilted sharp. “Yeah, that’s it. You hum like that when ya and boss—errr—plannin’ somethin’, Cthoni. What ya’ll schemin’ this time?”
“Nothing you’ll like,” she replied coolly.
“But you’ll do it anyway.”
Anddddd she wasn’t wrong.
Jabber already felt that thrill bubbling in his gut, that stupid, twisted itch for chaos. Dangerous, huh?
Shit, he was born for that word.
Jabber’s boots crunched over the trash, every step soundin’ like the world sighin’ in disappointment.
What a drag.
What a soul-suckin’, brain-rottin’ excuse of a mission.
Cthoni been talkin’ big, sayin’ “good time” like she was handin’ him front-row tickets to a bloodbath. But nah—
This wasn’t no fireworks show.
This was straight-up daycare duty for a maniac.
He kicked an empty can, watchin’ it ping off some half-dead wall.
“Ain’t this some bullshit,” he muttered, tone all sing-song and bitter.
The so-called traffickers he’d just rolled through?
Weak-ass, bargain-bin wannabes.
Folded faster than damp paper.
Didn’t even bleed right!
“This ain’t a raid, this a janitor gig,” he snorted, wiping grime off his cheek with the back of his glove.
“Shoulda brought a mop, maybe a broom, start sweepin’ corpses proper.”
He didn’t even remember what he was supposed to be grabbin’.
Some shiny-ass trinket for the bosses “future plans.”
Blah blah, sphere domination, whatever
Cthoni started spittin’ intel mid-call, and Jabber tuned that noise out the second she said “infiltrate quietly.” Quiet ain’t his thing.
But yeah, he already had the damn thing—the objective, the shiny lil whatever-the-hell. Been sittin’ in his pants pocket this whole damn time.
Tiny as hell, too. Could fit under a fingernail.
He rolled his eyes, half-snorting through the pain.
This the big prize? This lil pebble-lookin’ ass thing????
What could this microscopic piece of crap even do for the Vandals?
Blow up the sky? Turn trash into gold?
Who knows, who cares.
That was their headache, not his.
Jabber wasn’t built for thinkin’ about plans or strategies or world-endin’ tech.
He just wanted fights—messy ones, loud ones, the kinda brawls that make his blood sing and his nerves buzz like a live wire.
If it meant he got to face someone who could actually make him feel somethin’—ahem, Zanka—
Someone who could match that wild itch under his skin—then hell, that was better than any payday. That’s the realllll high.
That’s what got him cumming.
But really, Cthoni? Infiltrate quietly my ass.
Againnn, quiet realllyyyyyy ain’t his thing.
Quiet was for the dead and the boring.
He crouched, staring at a splatter of blood on the ground, grinning a little too wide.
“Damn, they don’t make criminals like they used to,” he said to no one, voice soft, almost affectionate.
“Used to be fun. Used to scream better.”
Yeah. This gig? Trash.
But maybe, just maybe, if he made enough noise, somethin’ interesting would crawl outta the dark.
Jabber tore through the junk heaps like a storm with a grudge, Mankira singin’ its sweet metal song as it sliced through the filth.
Usually, he’d be grinnin’ ear to ear, laughin’ like a damn maniac.
…But not right now.
Right now his body felt off—like the frantic euphoria got rusted.
Movin’ on autopilot, no real spark, just muscle memory doin’ the dirty work.
Halfway through the mess, the weakness hit.
That ugly, snake-slitherin’ kind of fatigue crawlin’ up his veins. His gut twisted hard, bile threatenin’ to climb its way up his throat, vision flickerin’ at the edges.
“Ah, hell no,” he hissed through his teeth, swingin’ again just to feel somethin’ real.
Sweat dripped cold down his temple.
Every heartbeat thudded like a drum in a coffin.
Prob’ his poison again?
His brain snarled. Or that cheap shit I pumped in me last week before the brawl with Zanka in no-man’s land?
Either way, it was pissin’ him off as always.
He spat on the ground, grin twitchin’ back up.
“Tch, whatever, baby, we pushin’ through. Ain’t no little toxin gonna bench me.”
He slammed Mankira into a wall, breath comin’ harsh. “C’mon, Jabber, get your freak ass together. You ain’t dyin’ here, not in this boring-ass dump.”
His laughter came out broken, half-choked, but still wild.
Yeah, poison or not—he was gonna finish this job, if only to spite whatever the hell was tryin’ to slow him down.
He’d been patchin’ himself up with black-market crap and whatever nasty toxin mixes he’d been drip-feedin’ into Mankira, tellin’ himself it was just fallout from old scraps or some chemical hangover.
Kept movin’ though, swing after swing, teeth grindin’, every hit a little more desperate than the last. Grindin’ through the monotony like it was medicine.
Then came a sound that didn’t belong.
Low. Grinding.
Like rusted metal havin’ a seizure.
Made the whole heap shiver.
Jabber’s bored glaze cracked open.
Eyes snapped sharp.
He watched a last, sorry trafficker—clutchin’ a stun-stick like it was a prayer—sprint for a massive rusted vent like his life depended on it.
“What the hell you think you’re doin’?”
Jabber barked, voice suddenly all teeth and hunger.
The man was pissin’ himself, eyes bugged.
“You idiots! We picked this spot! If the Hell Guards, or anyone, finds us, the Trash Beast wakes! It eats everything. Leaves no evidence!”
That little confession hit Jabber like a shot of cold lightning.
Adrenaline popped in his veins, pure and glorious.
Cthoni wasn’t blowin’ smoke.
She wasn’t lyin’.
She’d dangled “dangerous” like a dare and it’d actually been a dare this time.
He laughed then, proper and ugly and thrilled.
“Bout time somethin’ worth my damn time showed up,” he crooned, fingers tightenin’ on Mankira. The world tilted tasty and violent and he felt alive again.
A hulkin’ mess of rusted steel and trash came crawlin’ out the heap like the devil got tired of hidin’. Metal screamin’, fabric flappin’, junk churnin’ like a storm.
Big, ugly, and LOUDDD.
Wayyyyyy biggyyyy than the intel had promised.
Thing looked like a scrapyard had a nightmare and decided to walk.
“Smart! Very smart!” Jabber hollered, and it wasn’t forced either—nah, it was that real laugh, the kinda sound that cut through his throat raw.
His grin stretched wild as he dove in, Mankira hummin’ like it missed blood.
The fatigue?
Gonnnnneeeee…
The aches?
GONNNEEE!
This was it, hehe... A real fighhnnggghtttt!
SOMETHING WORTH BREATHIN’ FOR!
But the second he moved to dodge that first swipe, his body betrayed him.
Muscles stuttered, nerves fired wrong.
Those black-market shots he’d been dependin’ on flipped on him, turned his veins to sludge. The high crashed ugly.
Adrenaline turned to cement in his bones.
“Shit—”
Too slow.
The beast’s limb—a fat chunk of jagged scrap—caught him full force. Pain tore through his ribs like barbed wire.
He hit the ground with a grunt, air knocked outta him.
He saw it rear back, all gears and fury, ready to crush him to paste.
And Jabber?
“—HAHAHAAHHAHAHAHAHAHEHE—!”
He started gigglin’.
Not outta fear. Nahhhhh.
Outta that cracked-up, delirious joy that only comes when death finally looks you in the eye and flirts first.
WRRRINGGGGGGG.
Suddenly, a flash of blue and gold tore the world open like somebody cracked reality with a bat. Next thing Jabber knew, he got snatched clean off his feet—
Felt his guts flip inside out as the whole world smeared into a blur of purple streaks and static noise.
Then BAM—!
He slammed into the ground, lungs full of stink and rot.
The taste of rust, oil, and god-knows-what hit his tongue.
He gagged, spat, and blinked through the haze, vision tiltin’ sideways. He was sprawled out on some busted manhole rim, garbage oozin’ under his boots like it was alive.
And there she was—Cthoni—standin’ over him, face locked in that ice-cold fury like she just caught him pissin’ on her sofa.
Space still shimmered around her muscular figure, gold light cracklin’ like she’d ripped open a goddamn portal to come drag his sorry ass out.
Jabber squinted up at her, chest still heaving.
“Shit, woman,” he wheezed, half-laughing, half-chokin’.
“You coulda warned me before you tossed me through the multiverse. I think my brain’s still floatin’ somewhere in orbit.”
Cthoni didn’t even flinch.
Just hit him with that signature dead inside look, eyes rollin’ like she was tryna physically push the stupidity outta her head.
“Mission’s done, you idiot,” she said, voice flatter than a machine’s hum.
“We got the missions objective. But the boss won’t be happy seein’ one of his front-liners bleedin’ out ‘cause he can’t keep his ragged ass in one piece.”
Then she crouched next to him, hands movin’ fast, precise—way too soft for somebody who could fold space like paper.
Her fingers brushed his side, and for once, Jabber didn’t got nothin’ slick to say.
The grin died on his lips real quiet.
Pain hit him like a truck.
Specifically, in his abdomen.
Not the cool kind of pain, not the “yeah, I can work through this” kind.
This was the oh-shit-I-might-actually-die kind. His guts twisted up; the world spun. Everything he’d been suppressin’ with those junkyard drugs came back swingin’ like a damn dynamite.
His vision fuzzed, sound warped, and for a second, he thought the sky itself was cussin’ him out.
Damn, he thought, teeth chattering, blood iron-heavy on his tongue.
Shoulda known that mix was gonna hit back.
Body been actin’ up for days.
Guess the bastard finally won.
Cthoni’s voice cut through the ringing.
“Jabber? Hey—Jabber!”
It was sharp, panicked—she never sounded panicked.
That was new. That was almost… nice?
Funny how that was his last thought before the darkness swallowed him.
The world just dipped, slow and heavy, until all that was left was her voice echoing somewhere behind his eyelids, like she was yellin’ from the bottom of a drainpipe.
Then nothing. Just black.
Just peace.