Invited to a Ball?

by PaigetheGr8

Summary:

Zanka gets a letter from his sister telling him to go to a ball.

Notes:

I hope this is a good one if not I’ll stop it. So lmk what you guys think or if you have any suggestions I can do

Chapter 1

The crisp, white paper felt flimsy between Zanka's fingers, a stark contrast to the heavy silence of the Cleaners headquarters. He stared at the elegant script, devoid of feeling, for what felt like an eternity. Ten minutes, perhaps more, of his mind a perfect blank slate. The low hum of the air recyclers filled the void, a constant, dull thrum against the walls. A hand, warm and firm, settled on his shoulder, jolting him back.

 

"What's up, Zanka? You look like you've seen a ghost."

 

Enjin's voice, usually a bright melody, was laced with concern. Zanka flinched, the paper crinkling. He considered a quick deflection, a mumbled excuse about a difficult calculation or a stubborn stain. But Enjin's grip tightened, already reaching. Before Zanka could even register the movement, the paper whisked from his grasp. Enjin’s eyes, usually sparkling with an almost childlike curiosity, scanned the page.

 

"A ball? From Kyouka? And you need to attend?"

Enjin read the words aloud, a puzzled frown etching itself onto his face. "No 'how are you doing'? No 'do you want to go'? Just… 'attend'?"

 

Zanka watched Enjin's expression mirror his own, the disbelief, the vague unease. "Right? What is this even about?" Zanka's voice was a strained whisper, the question hanging heavy in the air between them. "I haven't seen them since… since I left. A ball? I haven't been to one since I was nine." The thought alone sent a prickle of anxiety across his skin. The grand halls, the stiff clothes, the forced smiles. memories of a life he’d purposefully shed.

 

The days leading up to the ball stretched like an interminable thread. Each sunrise brought a fresh wave of nerves, a tightening in his gut he couldn't shake. He found himself pacing the corridors of the Cleaners headquarters, his usual focused energy scattered. He tried to lose himself in his work, and training also meticulously polishing his Lovely Assist Staff, But his thoughts always drifted back to the Hell's Guard, to Kyouka and Goka, to the life he’d left behind.

 

The day arrived. He stood in front of the imposing gates of the Hell's Guard academy. The familiar, cold stone walls loomed, vast and uninviting. Kyouka and Goka stood waiting, figures of authority, their faces impassive. No warm greetings, no questions about his journey, no sign of the affection he secretly yearned for.

"Your old room. Change into the outfit prepared for you."

Kyouka’s voice, sharp and commanding, cut through the heavy air.

 

Goka merely nodded, his gaze distant, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, polished to a mirror sheen.

 

Zanka swallowed, the unspoken command a weight on his chest. He turned without a word, his steps echoing on the polished floors, each one carrying him deeper into the past. His old room. It was exactly as he’d left it, a time capsule of a childhood he’d tried to forget. The scent of old parchment and dust, the faint outline of where his bed once stood, the window overlooking the training grounds where he’d spent countless hours. Unwanted memories, sharp and painful, flooded his mind. The sting of Kyouka’s disappointment, the weight of Goka’s silence. He shook his head, a fierce, internal battle to push them back, to reclaim the present.

 

His eyes fell upon the clothes laid out on the bed. He stopped, a sudden, inexplicable hesitation seizing him. He picked them up, the fabric cool against his skin. A pair of tight black pants, sleek and unforgiving. A white top, with delicate, almost frilly sleeves, but an open back, revealing a daring expanse of skin, punctuated by a large, black elegant bow at the base of the spine. He stared, then dropped them back onto the bed. This wasn't right. This wasn't him. He had questions, too many to ignore.

 

He marched out, heading straight to Kyouka’s quarters. The door stood ajar, a sliver of light escaping. He pushed it open, not bothering to knock, the sound of his entrance sharp in the otherwise quiet room. Kyouka sat at a large desk, immersed in paperwork, her brow furrowed in concentration. Goka, ever vigilant, sat opposite her, meticulously cleaning his sword.

"The outfit. Why am I here?"

Zanka’s voice, usually calm, held an edge of desperation.

 

Kyouka’s head snapped up, her eyes, the color of stormy seas, narrowing. "We need you to distract some people. They've been eyeing you for a long time." Her words were clipped, precise. "Lower their guard. We need information, or their perverted actions to lock them up."

 

A chill snaked down Zanka's spine, a cold, unwelcome sensation. Distract them? Perverted actions? His stomach churned. He opened his mouth to refuse, the word already forming on his tongue.

"You have no choice. It's the Raiders we're trying to get." Kyouka’s voice was flat, final.

The Raiders. The name itself was a curse, a whisper of fear in the underworld. Zanka’s resolve crumbled. He wanted nothing to do with them, with THIS. But before he could voice his protest, Goka moved. A swift, brutal slap across Zanka's face, the impact echoing in the room. Zanka’s head snapped to the side, his cheek stinging. Goka’s hand, strong and unyielding, clamped onto his arm, his fingers digging in.

 

"If you don't want to make yourself more of a failure, you will do this for us."

Goka’s voice was a low growl, devoid of any warmth.

 

The words, sharp as daggers, pierced Zanka’s already fragile composure. Failure. The label he’d fought so hard to shed, now flung back at him by his own brother. u
Unshed tear welled in his eyes, blurring Kyouka’s cold stare, Goka’s unforgiving grip. He swallowed, the metallic taste of humiliation on his tongue.

 

"I… I will do it." His voice was barely a whisper, a surrender.

 

Goka released him, his hand dropping away as if Zanka were suddenly distasteful. Zanka didn't look back. He turned, the sting in his cheek a constant reminder, and retreated to his old room. He felt like a child again, who just got reprimanded, small, and insignificant. He collapsed onto the familiar, uncomfortable mattress, the scent of dust and old memories enveloping him. Exhaustion, emotional and physical, dragged him down. He closed his eyes, welcoming the oblivion of sleep.

 

A sharp rap on the door jolted him awake. The room was dark, a sliver of moonlight piercing the window.

"Fifteen minutes, Zanka. Get dressed. Come to my room when you're ready."

Kyouka’s voice, sharp and impatient, sliced through the silence.

He groaned, the events of the previous evening crashing down on him. Begrudgingly, he pushed himself up. The clothes still lay on the bed, a silent accusation. He picked them up, the cool fabric a stark contrast to his heated skin. He pulled on the tight black pants, the material stretching taut over his legs. Then the white top, the sleeves light and airy, the open back a cool breeze against his skin. He tied the bow, a knot of resignation. He faced the full-length mirror, his reflection a stranger.

 

His eyes widened. The cream white of the top blended seamlessly with his fair skin, highlighting the subtle flush of his cheeks. The black bow and pants provided a striking contrast, making his legs appear longer, more sculpted. He looked… good. More than good. He looked desirable. A shiver, not entirely unpleasant, traced its way down his spine.

He left the room, his movements stiff, and approached Kyouka’s door. He knocked, the sound hollow.

"Come in."

He pushed the door open, his gaze fixed on the floor. Kyouka sat on a plush chair, observing him with an unreadable expression.

"Sit."

Her voice was soft, but the underlying command was unmistakable.

 

He moved to the stool she indicated, his head still bowed, avoiding her gaze. He felt her presence drawing closer, a delicate scent of lavender and something metallic, like polished steel, filling the air. A light touch on his chin, guiding his face upward. Her fingers, cool and precise, began to work. A soft brush swept across his eyelids, enhancing the blue of his eyes, making them pop. A touch of color on his cheeks, a subtle flush. Then, a balm on his lips, making them full and inviting. She leaned back, a faint hum of approval escaping her lips.

 

"You are very pretty, Zanka. A shame you don't see it."

 

Her words were a surprise, a rare moment of something akin to gentleness from his sister. But the compliment felt hollow, tainted by the purpose behind it. She reached for a velvet box, pulling out delicate silver jewelry. Bracelets, a slender chain for his neck, and then, a longer chain, designed to drape down the open expanse of his back, a single, glittering diamond suspended at its end, resting just above his tailbone. Each piece was placed with meticulous care, transforming him further.

 

She stepped back, her gaze sweeping over him, a satisfied glint in her eyes.

"This is a very important mission, Zanka. You will Behave. Do not cause a scene."

Her voice hardened, the brief moment of warmth gone. "You are there to distract the Raiders, gather information. Or incite their impulses enough for us to apprehend them."

 

"What kind of information?"

Zanka’s voice was tight, a desperate attempt to grasp at some control.

 

Kyouka sighed, a sound of impatience. "Watchmen items. That's all you need to know." She waved a dismissive hand. "The guests arrive in thirty minutes. Go."

 

He rose, the weight of her words pressing down on him. He stumbled out of her quarters, the glittering jewelry feeling like shackles. He needed air, space, something to clear the suffocating thoughts. He found himself drawn to the Hell's Guard garden, a place of quiet contemplation amidst the academy’s rigid architecture. The scent of night-blooming jasmine filled the cool evening air. He reached into his pocket, his fingers closing around the familiar, cool metal of his choker. He'd managed to sneak it past Kyouka, a small act of rebellion, a piece of his real life. He needed Enjin. He needed to hear his voice, his honest perspective.

 

He activated the comms, the faint static a comfort. "Enjin? You there?"

 

A moment of silence, then Enjin's cheerful voice, a beacon in the darkness. "Zanka! What's up? How's it going over there?"

 

"Enjin," Zanka began, his voice cracking, "it's… it's not going well." He poured out the entire story, the outfit, Kyouka’s cold demands, Goka’s slap, the crushing weight of his siblings' expectations. He spoke of the Raiders, the fear, the humiliation. When he finished, his voice was a broken whisper.

"What do I do, Enjin? What should I do?"

A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the faint chirping of crickets in the garden. Zanka held his breath, waiting.

Then, Enjin’s voice, no longer cheerful, but steady, firm, imbued with a quiet strength. "Do it, Zanka. You can do this. You could be helping people. Knowing more about the watchman series can help Rudo." A pause. "I know it'll be hard. But you're brave. You’re stronger than you think. And your siblings… they won't let anything happen to you. Not really. Don't worry about that."

 

Enjin’s words, a lifeline thrown across the chasm of his fear, eased something tight in Zanka's chest. The comfort, the unwavering belief in him, was a balm to his bruised spirit.

"Thank you, Enjin." The words were heartfelt, a desperate anchor.

 

The garden’s quiet began to stir with distant sounds of arriving guests. Time to go. "I have to go. They're starting to arrive."

 

"Be safe, Zanka. We're all here for you." Enjin’s voice faded, the connection breaking.

 

Zanka took a deep breath, the jasmine scent now invigorating. He pushed away the fear, replacing it with a fragile determination. He was Zanka, one of the Cleaners. He was brave. He could do this. He walked out of the garden, towards the brightly lit ballroom, towards his fate.

 

The grand ballroom of the Hell's Guard academy was a kaleidoscope of shimmering fabrics, hushed conversations, and the clinking of glasses. Chandeliers, heavy with crystal, dripped light onto the polished marble floors. Zanka moved through the throng, a practiced smile on his lips, greeting guests with the polite charm he’d been taught as a child. He remembered the etiquette, the subtle nods, the precise handshakes. His eyes, however, scanned the room, a nervous anticipation building. He wish he had his lovely assistaff but having her anywhere but his old room would be the worse mistake. The idea sent shivers down his spine of what his sibling would do if they try to forcefully take her away from him. He shakes his head and starts looking around again.

Then, he saw them. Zodyl, tall and imposing, his long blonde hair a striking contrast to his dark attire he believed her name was Noerde. Beside him, Jabber, a wild, almost manic energy radiating from him, his eyes darting, hungry. He was wearing a black suit with his dreads tied into a ponytail. Zanka cursed under his breath. Of all the Raiders, he had to be there. His mission just got infinitely harder.

 

Kyouka, ever observant, spotted them too. She moved with purpose, a vision of authority in her formal attire, and greeted the Raiders. Zanka watched her, a knot forming in his stomach. After a brief exchange, Kyouka’s gaze flickered to him, a subtle nod, a silent summons.

 

He took a deep, shuddering breath, the scent of expensive perfumes and polished wood filling his lungs. He composed himself, smoothing down his open-backed top, and walked towards them.

 

"Zanka, my brother,"

Kyouka’s voice was smooth, almost affectionate, a performance for their guests. "Allow me to introduce you to our esteemed visitors, Zodyl, Noerde, and Jabber." She gestured with an elegant hand.

"A pleasure," Zanka offered, his voice soft, polite, a stark contrast to the tumult within him. He met Zodyl’s gaze, a cold, assessing look that sent a shiver through him.

"Zanka. It's been a while." Zodyl’s voice was deep, resonant. "How are you doing? And the Cleaners? Still scrubbing away at the world's filth, are we?" A mocking edge to his tone.

 

Zanka maintained his polite smile. "I am well, thank you. And you, Zodyl?" He deftly sidestepped the question about the Cleaners, a flicker of annoyance crossing Zodyl’s face. He knew his role: charming, not revealing. While he spoke, he noticed Jabber. The man was unnervingly quiet, his eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, fixed solely on Zanka. A creepy sensation crawled over Zanka's skin, but he pushed it down, focusing on Zodyl.

The conversation continued, a delicate dance of pleasantries and veiled barbs. Then, the music started. A lilting, elegant waltz, filling the ballroom with its rhythmic melody. Couples began to drift onto the dance floor, twirling and swaying. Zanka felt a surge of panic. This was his chance to disappear, to find a quiet corner, to breathe. But a hand with a ring adoring ever finger, extended towards him.

 

"May I have this dance?"

 

Jabber. His eyes, still fixed on Zanka, held a strange, almost predatory glint. Zanka’s breath hitched. He wanted to refuse, to turn away, but Kyouka’s words echoed in his mind: distract them, lower their guard. He had no choice. With a silent, almost imperceptible nod, he accepted.

 

Jabber’s fingers closed around his, pulling him onto the dance floor. The music enveloped them. Zanka tried to maintain a respectable distance, his body stiff, his annoyance a palpable presence. He attempted to keep his face neutral, but the effort was draining. Jabber, however, seemed to find amusement in his discomfort.

A low chuckle rumbled in Jabber’s chest. "Waiting for that bad attitude to show, Zanka. Seeing you so polite, it’s almost unsettling."

 

Zanka mumbled something in response, a noncommittal sound, his cheek still burning from Goka’s earlier slap. He focused on the steps, the intricate turns of the waltz, anything to avoid Jabber’s intense gaze. They danced for a few moments, the rhythm a dizzying blur.

"You look delightfully good tonight, Zanka." Jabber’s voice was a low purr, his eyes raking over Zanka’s body, lingering on the open back, the curve of his waist.

 

A wave of disgust washed over Zanka. He felt a sudden, uncontrollable urge. He "accidentally" stepped on Jabber’s foot. Hard. A sharp, audible crunch.

 

"Mmph!" Jabber’s eyes widened, a strange, almost ecstatic moan escaping his lips. "Oh, Zanka, you naughty boy."

 

Zanka recoiled, a fresh wave of revulsion washing over him. The man was a pervert. Thankfully, the song ended, the final notes fading into the general hum of the ballroom. Zanka pulled away, his hand slipping from Jabber’s grip.

 

"Excuse me," Zanka muttered, his voice strained, "I need a drink." He turned, a quick escape.

 

He moved through the crowd, seeking the refreshment table, anything to put distance between himself and Jabber. But he wasn't fast enough. He bumped into a solid form, nearly stumbling.

 

"My apologies," Zanka began, looking up. It was Zodyl.

"No apologies needed, Zanka." Zodyl’s voice was closer now, his presence looming. "Enjoying the ball?" Zanka asked, trying to regain his composure as he grabs a drink taking a sip from it.

 

Zodyl didn't answer. His gaze, cold and unwavering, fixed on Zanka’s face, then drifted down, taking in the outfit, the exposed skin, the subtle jewelry. A slow, unsettling smile spread across his lips. "Jabber truly can never shut up about you, Zanka. I can see why." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial tone. "There's potential in you. Something you're hiding. We are going to get it out of you. One way or another."

 

A sudden wave of dizziness washed over Zanka, the room tilting precariously. His head swam, the lights blurring into streaks of color. What was happening? He reached out, desperate for something to steady himself, his fingers grasping at air. The world spun.

 

Zodyl’s hand, strong and unyielding, clamped onto his waist, pulling him close. Then, with a swift, brutal movement, Zodyl hoisted him over his shoulder. The world inverted, Zanka’s head hanging low, his vision a kaleidoscope of faces and flashing lights. Yelling. Screaming. A cacophony of noise erupted around them. Gunshots. The sharp crack of them echoing through the ballroom.

"Let him go, Zodyl!" Kyouka’s voice, a furious roar, cut through the din.

 

Jabber’s manic laughter, high-pitched and unsettling, pierced Zanka’s ears. Explosions. A series of concussive blasts rocked the academy, dust and debris raining down. He fought, a desperate, futile struggle against Zodyl’s iron grip. He tried to reach for his staff but realized she still in his room. His strength was fading, his limbs heavy, his mind clouded. He managed to lift his head, his vision blurring, just enough to see Goka, his brother, trying to catch up to him, his faces has this unreadable expression as he watch’s Zodyl carry him towards a gaping manhole in the wall. One of the Raiders, small with blue hair, stood beside it, a shimmering portal opening. As they walk through the portal the world went black.

Chapter 2

Summary:

This is Enjin, Kyouka, and Goka POV after the fact

Keeping u all in the dark for what happens to zanka.

Cruel

maybe but suspenseful for sureeeeeeee. We will see zankas or maybe jabber pov next!!!!

The cigarette glowed, a ruby eye in the deepening twilight. Enjin inhaled, the acrid smoke rasping in his throat, then exhaled a plume that dissolved into the vast, open sky above the Cleaners’ headquarters. Below, the city lights began to prickle, a sprawling tapestry of human ambition and forgotten dreams. His choker buzzed, a sharp vibration against his neck. He tapped it.

 

“Enjin, get to Corvus’s office. Now.” Semiu’s voice, usually a calm current, held an urgent edge.

 

“What’s the rush? Did someone spill coffee on Corvus’s new boots again?” Enjin flicked ash over the parapet.

 

“Just go. See for yourself.” The line went dead.

 

Enjin clicked his tongue, a soft tsk into the quiet. He crushed the cigarette under his heel. Corvus never called him for nothing. He moved, a shadow detaching from the rooftop’s edge, descending through the building’s core.

The corridor outside Corvus’s office felt colder than usual. He pushed open the heavy door. Kyouka and Goka stood opposite Corvus’s desk, statues carved from ice. Their faces, usually composed, now wore expressions of stark, unyielding judgment. Their eyes, like polished obsidian, slid to Enjin, then dismissed him, as if he were a speck of dust clinging to their immaculate boots. He’d helped the zanka choose the Cleaners over the Hells Guard, a decision that earned him Kyouka’s and Goka’s perpetual disdain. It rolled off him now, a familiar, dull ache.

Corvus, perched on the edge of his desk, watched him enter. A sigh, barely audible, escaped the leader’s lips.

“Enjin. Take a seat.” Corvus gestured to a vacant chair.

Enjin pulled it out, the legs scraping against the floor with a harsh shriek. He settled in, leaning back, feigning nonchalance.

“So, how was the ball? I trust the Hells Guard gathered all the intel they needed?” Enjin looked from Kyouka to Goka, a smile playing on his lips. “And Zanka? Is he joining us for the debrief? I’m sure he has quite the story.”

The air in the room thickened, suddenly heavy. Kyouka’s eyes sharpened, twin razors. Goka’s hand flexed, his knuckles whitening. A silent, simmering rage emanated from them, a palpable heat. Zanka must have really pushed their buttons. Enjin’s gaze shifted to Corvus, a silent question.

Corvus ran a hand over his face, a gesture of weariness. “The plan, Enjin,” he began, his voice flat, “did not go as intended.”

“Right.”
Enjin’s patience frayed. “So, what exactly is going on? Cut the theatricals, Corvus. I’m not in the mood for riddles.”

Kyouka’s voice, a whip-crack in the tense silence, finally broke. “The Raiders have Zanka.”

The words hung in the air, a cold, sickening weight. Enjin surged to his feet, chair clattering behind him.

“What?!” His voice ripped through the quiet. “How? How could you let this happen? You sent him in there! You were supposed to protect him!”

Corvus held up a hand, a calm, steadying gesture. “Calm yourself, Enjin. Let’s discuss this rationally.”

Enjin listened, his jaw tight, as Corvus recounted the events, the planned distraction, Zodyl’s quick actions, the sudden portal. But with each word, a hot, furious wave built inside him. They had used Zanka, paraded him like a prize, then lost him.

He slammed his fist on the desk, the wood groaning under the impact. “You disowned him! You called him a failure, pathetic, codependent! Yet. You couldn’t even keep him safe in your own damn home!” He spun, his fury now a roaring inferno, directed at the Nijiku siblings. “You wanted to use him, but when it matters, you fail him! You failed Zanka!”

Goka stiffened, his face a mask of stone, but his body language screamed aggression. He took a step forward, his hand hovering over his sword hilt.

“Don’t.”
Kyouka’s voice, cold and sharp, stopped her brother. She raised a hand, a silent command. “What’s done is done. We need to get him back.”

Enjin laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Oh, now you care? After you practically gift-wrapped him for Zodyl?”

Corvus stepped between them, his presence a quiet force. “Enjin. Kyouka is right... Arguing and fighting won’t bring Zanka back. We need to find him. Before it’s too late.”

Kyouka turned to Corvus, her voice devoid of emotion. “I’ve already dispatched the Hells Guard. They will track him. They have full authorization for any measures necessary.” She looked at Goka, a silent understanding passing between them. “Come, Goka.”

 

They turned, walking out of the office, their backs ramrod straight, leaving a trail of frigid silence.

 

Enjin watched them go, a red haze clouding his vision. He grabbed the chair he’d just vacated, the one he’d slammed his fist on, and hurled it. It flew across the room, splintering against the far wall with a deafening

CRASH.

Shards of wood scattered, echoing the fragments of his composure.

Corvus remained unperturbed, watching him, a quiet presence in the chaos. “You need a level head for Zanka, Enjin. Round up the Cleaners. We start searching. Now.”

Enjin stood amidst the wreckage, chest heaving. He closed his eyes, drawing a deep, ragged breath, then another. Zanka. He had to find Zanka. He nodded, once, sharply.

“Right.”

He burst from Corvus’s office, the shattered chair a testament to his fury. He stalked through the Cleaners’ headquarters, his voice a low growl that carried through the bustling corridors.

“Cleaners! Common room! Now!”

Rudo, his spiky hair a wild halo, skidded to a halt in front of him. “What’s happening, Enjin? You look like you’ve wrestled a desert storm.”

Riyo, ever calm, appeared beside him, her long red hair swaying.

“What’s the emergency?”

 

Tamsy, stoic as ever, emerged from the shadows, his yarn winder already in hand.

Enjin met their gazes, his own eyes burning with a fierce resolve. “Zanka. The Raiders have him. He was taken from the Hells Guard Academy.” His words, stark and brutal, silenced the murmuring. “They’re already gone. We fan out. We find him. No stone unturned. No corner unsearched.”

A collective gasp, then a surge of anger. Rudo’s face contorted, his hands clenching. “The Raiders? They took Zanka? Those bastards!”

Riyo’s serene expression hardened. “They won’t get away with this.”

Tamsy’s grip on Tokushin tightened.

Delmin scream “THIS IS UNFORGIVABLE!”

“Fan out. Work in teams. Rudo, Riyo, you’re with me. Tamsy, take Delmin and cover the perimeter. Check every known Raider hideout, every abandoned district. Use everything you have. We bring Zanka home.”

A chorus of affirmative shouts rose from the Cleaners. They dispersed, a whirlwind of focused energy, their anger a shared current. Enjin watched them go, a grim satisfaction settling over him. Zanka was family. And no one, no one, messed with their family.

He moved with Rudo and Riyo, his mind a whirlwind of strategies, his senses alert. But beneath the surface, a cold guilt gnawed at him. “Your siblings… they won’t let anything happen to you. Not really.” His words to Zanka, a hollow echo now. He had promised safety, promised protection, and Zanka had been taken. He pictured Zanka, his quiet strength, his hidden vulnerability, and a fresh wave of dread washed over him. What were they doing to him? The thought of Zodyl’s mysterious plans, Jabber’s unsettling gaze, sent shivers down his spine. He pushed the images away, forcing himself to focus, to search, to find.

 

***

 

Goka moved through the Hells Guard Academy, a phantom in the aftermath of chaos. The air still carried the faint scent of gunpowder, a grim reminder of their failure. His face remained neutral, a perfect mask, but beneath it, a storm brewed. He replayed the scene, a brutal loop in his mind: Zodyl’s hand, crushing Zanka’s waist, the boy’s head lolling, the look of confusion, then horror, then pure fear in Zanka’s eyes as Zodyl hoisted him over his shoulder. The gaping portal. The small, blue-haired Raider. And then, Zanka was gone.

He thought of Enjin’s accusations, the biting words about their failure. They failed Zanka.

No.

Zanka was the failure. He should have been stronger. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. He shouldn’t have been drugged. He should have fought Zodyl’s hold, his intelligence. He was always so… soft. So reliant on that ridiculous stick.

Goka clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to blame Zanka, to scream at the boy’s weakness, his inability to protect himself. But a deeper, darker truth clawed at him. He was supposed to protect Zanka. It was his duty. Zanka was the distraction, the bait. Goka’s job was to detain the Raiders, to seize them while their guard was lowered. He had failed. He would never admit it aloud, not even to Kyouka. He pushed the thought away, burying it deep. There was only the mission now. Find Zanka. Retrieve him. Erase this stain on their honor.

 

***

 

Kyouka stood on the academy’s highest battlements, the wind whipping her long hair around her face. Below, the Hells Guard moved with silent precision, their search patterns spreading like ripples in a dark pond. Her own face, usually a canvas of cool control, now held a subtle tension, a tightness around her eyes. She blamed herself. For the plan, for the outfit, for sending Zanka into the viper’s nest. But just like Goka, a part of her fury was directed at Zanka himself.

She had dressed him, made him beautiful, a perfect lure. He had performed his role flawlessly, drawing Zodyl and Jabber’s attention. But she hadn’t acted. She hadn’t seized them, hadn’t gotten the information. Instead, she had lost Zanka.

The Raiders’ leering gazes, their implicit ownership of her brother, filled her with a cold disgust. And Zanka, for simply being Zanka, for his inherent vulnerability, for his dependence on that staff, that stick. He could have fought. He should have.

She remembered the blur of motion, the gunshots, her own furious roar. She had shot at them, at Zodyl, at the blue-haired Raider Cthoni was there name, but they were too fast, the portal too swift. She had failed. The word tasted like ash in her mouth. She couldn’t admit it, not to Goka, not to herself. This mission, this frantic search, was her atonement. She would fix her failure. She would bring Zanka back.

 

***

 

Hours bled into one another, the search grid expanding, the desert winds picking up, carrying dust and the faint, metallic tang of the distant city. The Cleaners, a relentless force, scoured every abandoned building, every hidden alleyway, every forgotten corner. The Hells Guard, a more disciplined, colder entity, swept through their assigned sectors with ruthless efficiency.

Enjin’s shoulders ached, his eyes gritty from staring into the gloom. Hope, a fragile thing, began to fray at the edges. He wouldn’t quit, couldn’t. But the thought of another fruitless sweep, another empty warehouse, another dead end, was a heavy weight.

“Enjin.” Tamsy’s voice, calm and steady, cut through the wind. “It will be more hindrance than help to continue in the dark. Everyone needs rest. We’ll be more effective with fresh eyes tomorrow.”

Enjin stared into the vast, inky blackness, the city lights a distant glitter. Tamsy was right. But the thought of stopping, of leaving Zanka out there, twisted his gut.

“Just a little longer,”

he muttered, more to himself than to Tamsy.

His comm buzzed, a sharp, insistent demand for attention, expecting Riyo or Rudo, confirming their retreat.

“Enjin?”

The voice was a whisper, a ragged gasp of sound. Small. Quiet. And utterly, devastatingly familiar.

“Zanka!” Enjin’s heart leaped into his throat. “Zanka, is that you? Where are you? Are you alright?”

He hears a heavy breathing and a weak grunt. “Enjin… you’re there.” The voice was barely a thread of sound, laced with pain.

“Yes, I’m here! Where are you? Give me a location!” Enjin’s voice was a desperate plea, his hand shaking.

“I… I don’t know. It looks like… Raider headquarters.” The whisper hitched. “I’m… mostly okay. They… they poisoned me. Can’t move much. Chained. Collar. My feet… shackled together.” A sob, quickly stifled.
“Please, Enjin. Hurry. Zodyl… he made it clear why I’m here. I don’t want to be here.”

He bears a door opening and jabber singing out zankas name. Then line went dead.

“Zanka! Zanka!” Enjin screamed into the comm, his voice raw, desperate. But there was only static, a cruel, mocking silence.

He fell to his knees, the hard desert ground biting into his flesh. He slammed his fist into the sand, again and again, a primal roar tearing from his throat. Rage, pure and incandescent, consumed him. Zodyl. Those bastards. He would tear them apart. He would get Zanka back. No matter what.

Chapter 3

Summary:

HERES ZANKA POVVVV

Notes:

Hey guys!! Thank youu for all ur support. This is my first big fanfic. So ur support makes me very happy. If there any critiques or anything I’m missing. Lmk I’ll try to fix my issues

Hope you enjoy this one. If you have ideas or something you wanna see happen. Comment so I can put it into the story if it works.

The cold seeped into his bones, a dull ache in his wrists and ankles. Zanka’s eyelids fluttered open, heavy as lead, to a world shrouded in murky gray. His head throbbed, a steady drum against the floor. He lay on his side, the rough stone grating against his cheek, a metallic tang on his tongue. Rope bit into his wrists, drawing his hands together behind his back. His ankles chafed, bound by a heavy chain. But it was the weight around his neck, a thick, unyielding band of metal, that stole his breath, pressing down, a constant, suffocating presence.

 

He strained his ears, the silence of the room absolute. No distant chatter, no clanking of metal, just the slow, uneven rhythm of his own heart. Alone. He pushed himself up, a grunt escaping his lips as his tied hands scraped the floor. The chains on his ankles clinked, pulling taut as he straightened. He was in a small, square room, the walls bare, the air thick with dust and something acrid he couldn't quite place. A single, grimy window, high above, offered a sliver of weak, diffused light. He was in the Raider headquarters. The words slammed into his mind, cold and sharp. His stomach twisted. He was here. He was truly here.

 

“God damnit!” The curse tore from his throat, raw and frustrated.

 

His lovely Assist Staff came to his mind. He wants his staff. Her weight on him would calm him down and her smell would ease her nerves. He wonders where was she? Was she safe? The thought of Kyouka or Goka finding her, confiscating her, or worse, hurting her or breaking her, sent a fresh wave of dread through his gut. He pushed it down, a familiar, unwelcome guest.

Focus. Escape.

He scanned the room, his eyes darting from corner to corner, searching for anything, a loose stone, a stray piece of metal, anything to leverage his bonds. Nothing. The walls were smooth, unbroken. The floor, solid. The chains, unforgiving. He slumped back against the wall, a frustrated sigh hissing through his teeth.

 

A cold draft ghosted across his bare back, a stark reminder of the open-backed top. The ball. The humiliating outfit. He hated it. He hated everything about this. Before he could wallow further, the heavy door groaned open. A silhouette filled the frame, tall and imposing, then stepped inside. Zodyl.

 

Zanka clenched his jaw, forcing his face into a mask of stone. He would not give them the satisfaction. Zodyl moved with an unnerving grace, his eyes, dark and fathomless, fixed on Zanka. He stopped a few feet away, then dropped into a squat, bringing their faces level. The air crackled between them, a silent standoff. Seconds stretched into an eternity, Zodyl’s gaze unblinking, dissecting.

 

Then, a hand, cold and firm, reached out. Zanka flinched, but Zodyl’s fingers clamped around his jaw, tilting his head, examining him with an unsettling intensity. Each detail, from the arch of his brow to the curve of his lips, felt cataloged, scrutinized.

 

“For a male, you could pass for a woman, if you tried.” Zodyl’s voice, a low rumble, broke the silence.

 

Zanka blinked, confusion warring with a spark of outrage.

What?

He stared, his mind scrambling to process the unexpected words. Zodyl’s grip remained, unflinching, his eyes still analyzing.

 

“Your eyes are large, almost too large for your face. Your lips, full. Those lashes,” Zodyl’s thumb brushed Zanka’s cheek, “they’re long, aren’t they? And your skin, soft. Your frame, petite. Small.”

 

The evaluation continued, dissecting him, itemizing his features. Zanka felt a slow burn of fury ignite within him. Who was this man? Why did his body matter? Why was he being subjected to this bizarre inspection?

 

“What do you want?” Zanka’s voice, tight with suppressed anger, cut through the quiet.

“Why are you critique me like this?”

Zodyl’s eyes, devoid of expression, offered no answer. He simply released Zanka’s face, stood, and turned, walking out as silently as he’d entered. The door thudded shut, plunging Zanka back into the dim quiet. Confused, but relieved, Zanka let out a shaky breath. He twisted, testing the ropes again, the chains, the heavy collar. Still no give.

 

The door creaked open again. Zanka braced himself, expecting Zodyl, but a different figure stepped in, a wide, unsettling grin plastered across his face. Jabber.

“Hey, Mr. Bad Attitude!”

The voice, a high-pitched singsong, grated on Zanka’s nerves.

Zanka’s jaw tightened. Jabber. Of course. Just when he thought it couldn’t get worse. He almost wished Zodyl had returned.

“What do you want?”

Zanka snarled, his patience evaporated. “Why are you here?”

Jabber chuckled, a light, airy sound that sent a shiver down Zanka’s spine. He sauntered closer, his eyes glinting with an unnerving amusement. He reached out, his hand hovering. Zanka recoiled, scrambling backwards, but the chains on his ankles held fast. Jabber’s fingers closed around his thigh, stopping him cold. A second hand snaked around his waist, pulling him forward, settling him close to jabbers side. Zanka struggled, twisting, but Jabber’s grip was surprisingly firm.

Jabber’s face, close now, scrutinized him, a mirror of Zodyl’s earlier inspection, but with a predatory gleam in his eyes. His fingers, long and nimble, toyed with the black bow on Zanka’s back, untying it, then retying it, a slow, deliberate motion.

“I love this outfit on you, you know,”
Jabber purred, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. “The problem is, so many people saw you in it.”

Zanka’s mind spun, trying to grasp the meaning behind the words, the unsettling intimacy of the touch. He squirmed, a desperate, futile effort.

“Let me go!”

Zanka demanded, his voice strained. “What am I doing here?”

Jabber ignored him, a slow smile spreading across his face. He pulled Zanka closer, effortlessly lifting him. Zanka’s bound legs swung uselessly. Jabber settled him on his lap, Zanka’s side pressed against his chest, his head resting awkwardly on Jabber’s shoulder. Zanka prepared to fight, to squirm free again, when a sharp prick stung his leg. He glanced down. Mankira. The ten rings glowed faintly on Jabber’s fingers. his claws out, one of them extended, a needle-thin point digging into his skin.

A wave of heat washed over him, followed by an unsettling cold. His head felt thick, foggy, his limbs growing heavy, distant. The fight drained from him, his body relaxing against Jabber’s hold, numb and useless. Jabber, his fingers now idly tracing patterns on Zanka’s arm, deactivated Mankira.

“Zodyl’s plans for you and my plans for you,” Jabber began, his voice a low hum against Zanka’s ear, “there are parts that I don’t like about his plan.” He paused, his touch exploring the curve of Zanka’s hip. “I’m not sharing you. Not with him. Not with anyone. You’re mine, Zanka. All mine.”

 

Jabber’s fingers moved to Zanka’s neck above the collar, a light, caressing touch that sent shivers down Zanka’s spine, not of fear, but of a strange, disorienting sensation.

 

“I want to fight you. I want to unleash your full potential. No one has ever made me feel this passionate like you do, Zanka… We’re meant to be.” Jabber’s voice, a soft whisper, filled Zanka’s ears.

 

Zanka, adrift in the haze of the poison, struggled to make sense of the words, the possessive tone, the bizarre declaration. His thoughts were sluggish, like wading through thick mud. He simply lay there, a puppet in Jabber’s arms. Jabber’s hand moved, settling on Zanka’s throat, his thumb pressing against his pulse point. A slow, deliberate squeeze. Zanka gasped, a small, choked sound, his breath catching. Then he releases.

Another squeeze, tighter this time. His vision swam, black spots dancing at the edges. He clawed at Jabber’s arm, a weak, desperate gesture. The discomfort, the struggle, seemed to please Jabber.

A long sigh escaped Jabber’s lips. He loosened his grip, gently lowering Zanka to the cold stone floor.

“I’ll be back soon to check on you,” Jabber said, his voice light again, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. “Byeeee Zan-Zan sleep tight~~” A giggle, high and unsettling, echoed in the room as Jabber turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

 

Paralyzed and dazed, Zanka lay there, the poison dulling his senses, blurring the edges of his thoughts. There was nothing left to do. His eyelids drooped. Sleep, a dark, inviting void, pulled him under.

 

A deafening BANG! jolted Zanka awake. His eyes snapped open, his body stiff, his mind still muddled. The door, slammed shut, vibrated in its frame. Zodyl. He strode in, his long coat swirling around him, his expression as unreadable as before. He stopped beside Zanka, a heavy chain clutched in his hand. Zanka watched, a growing sense of dread coiling in his gut, as Zodyl knelt, attaching the chain to the collar around his neck. It clicked, a final, chilling sound. Leashed. Like an animal.

 

Zodyl stood, the chain taut in his hand.
“Some people pay good money for a well-bred, strong giver like you, that’s also part of the Nijiku family” Zodyl stated, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. “We will use you to lure out certain individuals, to gather information on the Watchmen series.” He paused, his gaze meeting Zanka’s, cold and direct. “And knowing your loyalty to the Cleaners, the idea of breaking you enough to join the Raiders… that would break Corvus, Rudo, and Enjin. the Cleaners. It’s perfect.”

He reached down, his fingers surprisingly gentle as he unfastened the ropes binding Zanka’s wrists. Freedom. A fleeting hope sparked, then died as Zodyl attached the now free end of the chain to a thick metal ring embedded in the floor. Zanka was still bound, still captive, just differently. Zodyl turned, his mission accomplished, and walked out without another word.

The poison still coursed through Zanka’s veins, a heavy fog in his head, but the ability to sit up brought a small measure of relief. He pulled on the chain, a futile gesture. It held firm, unyielding. He wouldn’t get anywhere like this. His hands, now free, drifted to his lap. His fingers brushed against something in his pocket. His choker. A small act of rebellion, a piece of home he’d managed to keep. He pulled it out, his heart leaping with a desperate hope.

He activated the comms, a faint hiss of static filling his ears.

“Enjin?” Zanka whispered, his voice hoarse.

A familiar voice, frantic with concern, crackled through the tiny device. “ zanka, is that you? Where are you? Are you alright?”

“Enjin… you’re there,”

Zanka breathed, a wave of profound relief washing over him. When he heard Enjin quick voice. The questions, a torrent of worry, were almost too much to process, but the sound of his friend’s voice, alive and real, was a balm.

“I… I don’t know,” Zanka stammered, trying to piece together his thoughts. “It looks like… Raider headquarters.” His voice hitched, a sob catching in his throat. “I’m… mostly okay. They… they poisoned me. Can’t move much. Chained. Collar. My feet… shackled together.” A raw sob escaped him, quickly stifled. “Please, Enjin. Hurry. Zodyl… he made it clear why I’m here. I don’t want to be here.”

Before Enjin could reply, the door swung open again. Zanka’s hand shot into his pocket, silencing the comms, hiding the choker just as Jabber entered, a plate of food and a cup of water in his hands. He wore a wide, giddy grin, his eyes sparkling with amusement. He’s staring to Zanka as if he is a pet, a chained, tired animal. He set the plate and cup down in front of Zanka, then squatted, mirroring Zodyl’s earlier posture, just grinning and staring.

Zanka turned his head away, refusing to acknowledge the food, the humiliating display.
“Eat up, Zanka!” Jabber chirped, his grin unwavering.

Zanka remained silent, his jaw clenched. Jabber pouted, a theatrical display. He picked up a fork, loaded it with a generous portion of food, and held it to Zanka’s mouth.

“Ahhhhh,” Jabber cooed, his voice sickeningly sweet. “Open wide, Zanka.”

Zanka squeezed his eyes shut, turning his head further. Jabber’s hand shot out, clamping around Zanka’s chin, his fingers digging in, painfully squishing his cheeks until Zanka’s mouth parted, a gasp of pain escaping him. Jabber shoved the food in.

“Spit it out,” Jabber warned, his voice low and menacing, “and I’ll momma-bird feed you the rest.”

Zanka, gagging slightly, chewed and swallowed, the taste bland, unappetizing. But the idea of jabber feeding him mouth to mouth, makes him choked down the food. Jabber’s grin widened, a satisfied gleam in his eyes. He continued, feeding Zanka spoonful after spoonful, until most of the plate was empty. Zanka felt full, unpleasantly so.

“I’m full,” Zanka muttered, his voice muffled.

Jabber stopped, his expression shifting from playful to something more intense.
“Good. Now, how’s the poison working its way through your system, Zanka? Time for your next dose.”

Jabber’s hand flashed out, Mankira activating, a needle-thin point pricking Zanka’s arm. The familiar heat, the cold, the creeping numbness, washed over him again. This time, the fog in his head felt heavier, thicker, pulling him down into a dizzying abyss. He swayed, his eyes rolling back. Jabber gently laid him down, his movements surprisingly tender. Zanka felt the darkness closing in, the urge to sleep overwhelming. Just before oblivion claimed him, he felt a soft pressure on his lips, a fleeting touch, then gone. He opened his eyes. It was Jabber’s lips. The thought, distant and strange, registered only for a moment before the darkness enveloped him completely.

Notes:

Just a little peck today for janka. We might get to see who willing to pay big bucks for Zanka. Sooooooonnnnn not to soon tho

Chapter 4

Summary:

Someone is interested in buying zanka but at what price and why do they seem familiar? And is jabber, zanka way out!

Notes:

IM SORRY I HAVE KEPT U WAITING. Had a lot going on and had no time to get it down. Hopefully it up to par.

The oppressive silence pressed down, it a thick blanket muffling the world. Zanka’s eyelids fluttered, a dull ache throbbing behind them. He pushed, a grunt escaping his lips, but his limbs felt like lead. He tried again, muscles screaming in protest, a tremor running through his body. Finally, he leveraged his elbow, dragging himself into a semi-upright position. His shackled feet, heavy and unyielding, scraped the floor. The metallic taste of fear coated his tongue.

Escape.

The word echoed in his mind, sharp and urgent. Zodyl’s plans, vague as they were, promised nothing good. He needed to be leave. Now.

His fingers, still numb from the lingering effects of the poison, fumbled at his ear. One of his earrings, the blue tassel, came free. He twisted, contorting his body, the chains on his ankles clinking a dull rhythm against the floor. He angled the earring, maneuver it against the complex mechanism of the shackle using the clasp to try and pick the lock. A tiny click. Another. He felt a sliver of hope, a fragile spark in the darkness. He was close. So close.

Then, a faint thud. Footsteps. Distant, but growing louder. Panic seized him. He jammed the earring back into his lobe, a quick, practiced motion, then slumped back against the floor on his side, facing away from the heavy door. He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing into a slow, even rhythm. Pretending to sleep.

 

The door groaned open, then clicked shut with a solid thud. Footsteps, soft and deliberate, approached. He kept his body loose, every muscle relaxed, a perfect imitation of unconsciousness.

 

The steps halted, just short of him. A shadow fell over him. A hand, surprisingly gentle, touched his shoulder. It turned him, carefully, onto his back. He kept his eyes shut, his breath steady. A low hum filled the air, a melody without words. It was… odd. Yet, a strange sense of familiarity washed over him. This hum. This touch. It wasn't the rough, calloused grip of a Raider. It felt different. Calmer. Gentler. Like someone he knew. Not Jabber. Not Zodyl. Their presence always crackled with an unsettling energy. This was soft. But cold.

 

A finger brush against his hair, light as a whisper, swept his hair from his face. Then, a touch on his cheek, a slow, caressing stroke. He felt a prickle of unease. He was about to be found out. His heart hammered against his ribs.

 

The door creaked open again. Zodyl’s voice, cold and precise, sliced through the quiet.

 

“Is he to your liking?”

 

The humming stopped. The hand remained on his face. No words. Only movement. The hand lifted slightly, then settled back. He imagined the person nodding.

 

“Good. The book. That is the payment for him.” Zodyl’s voice carried, echoing slightly in the small space.

 

The hand withdrew from his face. Footsteps moved away, closer to the door. Still, no words from the other person. Only the soft rustle of fabric. The door opened, then closed again. Zodyl’s footsteps and the mysterious person receded, then faded completely.

 

Silence.

 

Zanka’s eyes snapped open. He pushed himself up, a wave of dizziness washing over him. The familiarity. The unsettling calm. Who was it? The question gnawed at him, a splinter in his mind. Too gentle. Too quiet. Unbothered by Zodyl. It didn't make sense. His thoughts spun, a frantic whirlpool of confusion.

 

A sudden, sharp click made him flinch. The door. It opened. And closed. Footsteps, rapid and light, approached. Zanka, lost in his mental labyrinth, didn’t react until a hand clamped onto his arm. He roared, a guttural sound, his fist swinging wildly, a desperate arc of defiance.

 

A solid impact. A surprised grunt. Then, a high, airy giggle.

 

“Ooooh! That felt so good!” Jabber’s voice, a delighted squeal, filled the small cell. “Punch me again, Zan-Zan! Come on, give me your best shot!”

 

Zanka groaned, pain shooting through his knuckles. Of course it was Jabber, a manic grin plastered across his face, jabber lunged, grabbing both his arms. He shoved Zanka back against the floor, pressing him down, then climbed on top of him, straddling his waist. Zanka struggled, twisting, his body screaming in protest.

“Get off me, ya freak!” Zanka snarled, his voice raw. “Keep ya hands off!”

 

Jabber’s giggled again, a sound like wind chimes in a storm.

“Shhh, Zan-Zan. Time to eat.” Jabber’s eyes, wide and unnervingly bright, fixed on Zanka’s. “And if you’re a good boy, you’ll get dessert right after.”

Zanka thrashed, a futile struggle against Jabber’s surprising strength. He cursed, a string of vile words, but Jabber only grinned wider. Finally, exhaustion set in. Zanka went limp, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Jabber, sensing his surrender, slid off him, then scooped him up, settling him onto his lap. The familiar position, the humiliating intimacy, sent a fresh wave of fury through Zanka.

“No!” Zanka protested, squirming, trying to break free. “Put me down! I can feed myself!”

Jabber’s grip tightened around his hips, unyielding. Zanka fought for a moment longer, then slumped, defeated. His humiliation burning. Jabber reached for the plate, forgotten on the floor, then picked up the spoon. He brought a spoonful of mushy, unidentifiable food towards Zanka’s mouth.

 

“Open up, Zan-Zan.”

Zanka glared, his jaw clenched.
“I said I can feed myself!” He reached for the spoon, but Jabber’s hand darted out, catching both his wrists in a single, tight grip.

“Oh no, Mr. Bad attitude. Jabber will feed you. See?” Jabber’s voice dropped, a strange, possessive intensity in his tone. “This is how I’m shows my love. You need me. Like how I need you.”

Zanka’s eyes narrowed. He fought against the hold, but then a familiar cold blade, a dull sharpness, spread across his wrists. Mankira. The rings on Jabber’s fingers glowed faintly.

“Hmm, now Jabber can feed you. Not paralyzed. Or while paralyzed.” Jabber’s smile was chilling.

Zanka grumbled, face burning with embarrassment and humiliation. a stream of unsavory words under his breath, but he stopped fighting. Jabber’s grin widened, a triumphant gleam in his eyes. He spoon-fed Zanka, spoonful after spoonful, his touch surprisingly gentle, almost tender. Zanka ate, each bite a bitter reminder of his captivity, but he knew he needed strength.

To Escape.

It was the only thought that mattered.

Jabber’s words from before echoed in his mind: Zodyl’s plans for you and my plans for you, there are parts that I don’t like about his plan.

And: I’m not sharing you. Not with him. Not with anyone. You’re mine, Zanka. All mine.

A dangerous idea sparked. What if he could use Jabber’s obsession? Manipulate him. Play into his twisted desires. Make him think he needed Jabber. Convince him to 'break him out' so he wouldn’t have to 'share' Zanka. Then, he could use his comms, call for help, and hold Jabber off long enough for the Cleaners to arrive. It was a long shot, a desperate gamble, but it was a plan.

The plate was nearly empty. Zanka felt uncomfortably full.

“m’ full,” Zanka mumbled, leaning back against Jabber’s chest.

Jabber hummed, a low, pleased sound. “Good boy, Zan-Zan. You ate so well.”

Zanka shifted, leaning his head against Jabber’s shoulder. Jabber froze, his body stiff. Zanka’s hand, trembling slightly, reached out, placing his palm flat against Jabber’s chest. His other hand found Jabber’s, his fingers brushing against the cool metal of Mankira. He interlaced their fingers, tracing the rough calluses on Jabber’s palm. Jabber’s hand was larger, stronger. Zanka’s fingers felt delicate in comparison. Jabber sat perfectly still, like a statue, his breath held. Entranced.

A minute passed. Zanka wondered if his plan was working. If he was doing this right.
Then, Jabber’s arms wrapped around him, a tight embrace.

“Zodyl… he can beat me up, Zan-Zan. He can beat the shit out of me. real good” Jabber’s voice, muffled against Zanka’s hair, was soft and a little manic. “But you… you make me feel different. I want you to get stronger. I want you to beat me up real good too. But I also want you here. Right next to me. Not having you here… it hurts.”

 

Zanka’s brow furrowed. Confusion warred with the desperate need to maintain his facade. He tried to look up at Jabber, to gauge his expression, but then a sharp prick, a familiar sting, blossomed on his arm. His vision blurred. The poison. He had seconds.

He reached up, cupping Jabber’s face, his thumb stroking his cheek. Jabber froze again, his eyes wide, a flicker of surprise, then a slow, dazed smile.

“Sweet dreams, darling,” Jabber whispered, just before the darkness swallowed Zanka whole.

Notes:

WHOS THE MYSTERIOUS PERSONNNN!!! And a small janka moment of course is always needed

Chapter 5

Summary:

this is jabber POV and Also like and Enjin Vs. Nijiku sibling thing

Notes:

this is my favorite LINE
“It’s a staff,” Enjin corrected, his voice tight. “A Lovely Assist Staff.”

 

U BETTER TELL THEM

Jabber gently lowered Zanka onto the cold, unforgiving stone floor. The impact made a soft thud, a sound swallowed by the oppressive silence of the cell. Zanka’s body, so recently alive with furious resistance, now lay still, a delicate porcelain doll. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, each one a testament to the neurotoxin's insidious work. A fine sheen of sweat coated his brow, catching the dim light, and his lips were parted slightly, a soft gasp escaping with every exhale. Even in unconsciousness, a faint tremor ran through his limbs, a residual dance of the poison coursing through his veins.

Jabber knelt beside him, a possessive hand reaching out, not quite touching, hovering over the curve of Zanka’s hip. The elaborate outfit from the ball, now rumpled and slightly askew, still clung to his form. Silken fabrics, shimmered in the gloom. The rich black and white of the garment contrasted sharply with the stark gray of the cell, making Zanka look like a fallen angel.

He traced the delicate line of Zanka’s jaw with his gaze, then the elegant sweep of his neck, the necklace he wore hung around his neck sparkled. So beautiful. So utterly, breathtakingly beautiful. Jabber could stay here, just like this, for an eternity, simply watching Zanka sleep. His Zan-Zan, lost in a world only he could imagine, vulnerable and utterly his. The thought sent a thrill, hot and sharp, through Jabber’s core.

But the outfit... that exquisite, eye-catching garment. The thought of other eyes devouring Zanka in it, of strangers even imagining taking off the clothes from zanka, made Jabber’s stomach clench. A visceral, burning anger ignited within him. He wanted to rip the outfit from Zanka’s body, shred it into worthless scraps, and then carve out the eyes of anyone who dared to look at his Zan-Zan with even a hint of lewd appreciation. Zanka was *his*. Every delicate curve, every silken strand of hair, every whispered breath. All his.

Jabber’s fingers, long and nimble, reached out, gently sweeping a lock of blonde hair from Zanka’s face, tucking it behind his ear. The skin felt warm, soft beneath his touch. He imagined Zanka in other clothes, outfits he would personally select, each one highlighting a different facet of his beauty. A loose, flowing tunic that would billow with every movement, hinting at the lean muscle beneath. Tight, supple leather that would cling to his thighs, emphasizing the elegant length of his legs. Something sheer, perhaps, that would offer tantalizing glimpses of skin, but only to Jabber’s hungry eyes. His mind conjured image after image, a dizzying array of possibilities, each one more intoxicating than the last. A low hum rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, unadulterated desire. The visions alone made him throb, a delicious ache settling deep in his groin.

A metallic clang echoed through the cell, disrupting his reverie. Jabber’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. The heavy iron door creaked open, revealing the small, lean figure of Cthoni. Her short, light blue hair framed a face devoid of emotion, her blank yellow eyes fixed on Jabber.

“What do you want?” Jabber’s voice was a low growl, laced with irritation. She had no right to intrude on his Zanka-time.

Cthoni remained motionless, her gaze unwavering.

“You shouldn’t get attached to the Cleaner,” she stated, her voice flat, a monotone devoid of inflection. “The boss is going to sell him soon.”

Jabber’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching in his cheek. The words hit him like a physical blow, a cold, sharp blade twisting in his gut. He knew this. He had always known this. But to hear it spoken aloud, so casually, so dismissively, made his blood boil.

“Mind your own business,” he snapped, his voice sharp, a dangerous edge to it. “I already know that.”

He didn't need to tell her he was ignoring Zodyl’s plan. He didn't need to explain that Zanka was worth upsetting his boss, worth losing the privilege of fighting Zodyl, worth everything. Zanka was his, and no one, not even Zodyl, would take him away.

Cthoni’s expression remained unchanged, her yellow eyes unblinking. She completely disregarded his comment.

“The boss wants Zanka ready for the next phase of the plan.”

Jabber sighed, a long, drawn-out sound that was part frustration, part anticipation. He hated being interrupted, but the ‘next phase’ also brought a thrill. It meant Zanka would be active, would be experiencing things, would be pushed. And Jabber would be there to witness it all.

He activated Mankira, the ten rings on his fingers glowing with a faint, malevolent light. before becoming talons. He leaned down, his face inches from Zanka’s, inhaling the faint, sweet scent of him. Then, a quick, precise prick to Zanka’s arm. A fresh wave of neurotoxin surged into Zanka’s system, a silent, unseen current.

“Oh, Zan-Zan,” Jabber whispered, a soft, almost reverent tone in his voice. “I can’t wait to see how this affects you. My beautiful, beautiful Zanka~~~.”

He straightened, a manic glint in his eyes. He imagined the subtle changes, the heightened sensitivity, the delicious vulnerability the new dose would bring.

“We have to go,” Cthoni’s voice cut through his thoughts once more. “The boss wants to discuss the next step. And for you to get ready for the next mission.”

She turned, her small form disappearing through the door without another word. Jabber watched her go, then turned his gaze back to Zanka. He lingered for a moment longer, memorizing the delicate curve of his eyelashes, the soft rise and fall of his chest. Then, he dipped down, a quick, tender kiss pressed to Zanka’s cheek, a silent promise.

“Don’t worry, Mr. bad Attitude. I’ll be back for you.”

He rose, a spring in his step, a new purpose in his stride. He would obey Zodyl, for now. But his ultimate goal remained unchanged. Zanka would be his.

 

Always.

 

***

 

The Cleaners’ common room, usually a vibrant hum of activity, lay cloaked in a heavy silence. The air, thick with unspoken anxieties, pressed down on Rudo. He paced, a caged beast, his footsteps echoing too loudly on the polished floor. Each circuit of the room brought him closer to the edge, a low growl rumbling in his chest.
“Those slimy, scavenging bastards. When I get my hands on Zodyl, I’ll rip his head clean off. I’ll make him eat it.”

Riyo sat curled in a plush armchair, eyes fixed on a distant point beyond the window, her usual serene calm shattered. Her fingers, usually nimble, plucked at the split ends in her hair, strand by agonizing strand. A tremor ran through her, a barely perceptible shiver.
“Zanka…” Her voice, a brittle whisper, cracked. He’s like a brother. What if… what if they hurt him? or worse

Her knuckles, white against the dark fabric, tightened their grip. She closed her eyes, a silent battle raging within. When they reopened, a cold, hard glint replaced the fear.

she thinking hoe she going to disappear in the night and find them. Shoot them all. soft but resolute, hung in her head.

Enjin, however, wasn’t in the common room. He sat alone in his own quarters, the amber liquid in his glass swirling like a miniature, turbulent ocean. He’d drained two bottles already, the burn in his throat a dull comfort against the gnawing emptiness in his gut. His hands, usually steady, trembled as he set the glass down. He’d spent hours scouring the ground after Tamsy had pulled him back, searching for anything. He’d found nothing but the lingering the bitter taste of failure.

He ran a hand over his face, scrubbing away the exhaustion. Zanka didn’t have his staff. The thought, a venomous snake, coiled in his mind. He’d asked Corvus, asked every guard who’d been at the ball. No one remembered seeing it. Zanka never went anywhere without his Lovely Assist Staff. It was his anchor, part of his soul, his identity.

A cold certainty settled over Enjin. The Hells Guard had it. And now, Zodyl had Zanka, vulnerable, exposed. without his vital instrument, a hot, blinding wave, washed over him, chasing away the alcohol’s haze. He stood, the chair clattering behind him.

He stormed through the Cleaners’ headquarters, his boots hammering a furious rhythm against the floor. only had one purpose as he left the cleaner headquarter. to get Zanka's treasure back. The Hells Guard Academy loomed, a bastion of cold, imposing stone, its gates usually guarded by stoic, unyielding figures. Tonight, however, the guards seemed to melt away before his approach, their gazes skittering off him like startled insects. He knew why. They felt it too, the heavy cloak of guilt, the unspoken accusation. Good. They deserved it.

Goka, a sentinel carved from granite, stood waiting in the main hall. His uniform was impeccable, his face a mask of practiced indifference, but Enjin saw the subtle tension in his jaw, the white-knuckle grip on the hilt of his sheathed sword.

“I need Zanka’s staff.” Enjin’s voice, a low growl, sliced through the cavernous hall.

Goka’s eyes, chips of obsidian, met his. “It’s secure.”

“Secure?” Enjin barked a humorless laugh. “Secure from Zanka, you mean. So when we get him back, you won't give it to him to show him how much of a 'failure he is.”

Goka’s hand twitched, but he remained silent, a wall of stone.

“Where is it?” Enjin pressed, stepping closer. “Or are you going to let it rot in some forgotten corner because your family can’t protect the one ‘failure’ among you?” He spat the word, letting it hang in the air, a poisoned dart.

A flicker, a tremor in Goka’s impassive facade. The corner of his mouth twitched, a barely perceptible tightening. His eyes, however, remained fixed, unwavering.

“No intel on the Raiders yet, I suppose?” Enjin continued, his voice dripping with venom. “No new leads? Nothing? It seems your elite guard isn’t quite as impressive when the target isn’t a helpless civilian. Or perhaps you all need more training. Clearly, you need to work harder if you couldn’t even protect the 'failure' of the family.”

Goka’s shoulders stiffened. A vein throbbed in his neck. Still, he said nothing, his silence a shield, a weapon.

Enjin smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. “Ah, the silent treatment. The Nijiku family’s favorite defense mechanism. What’s next? Are you going to be disowned now? For failing you're mission and losing the one person you where told to protect”

A sudden, sharp *shing* filled the hall. Goka’s sword, a blur of polished steel, cleared its scabbard, its point now aimed squarely at Enjin’s chest. The air crackled with a dangerous energy.
“Silence.” Goka’s voice, low and dangerous, vibrated with restrained fury. “You are not worthy to speak to me in such a manner.”

Enjin scoffed, a short, sharp burst of air. “Worthy? I kept Zanka safe since he came to the Cleaners. I protected him. You wanted to use him for one night, and you couldn’t even protect him For. One. Night.” His gaze bore into Goka’s, unflinching. “You failed him. You failed your brother.”

Goka’s grip on his sword tightened, his knuckles white. The tip of the blade lowered a fraction, a prelude to a thrust.

“Enough!”

The command, sharp and clear, echoed through the hall. Kyouka, a vision of stern authority, appeared at the end of the corridor, her cloak swirling around her. Her eyes, cold as winter ice, swept over them, a silent rebuke.

Goka’s jaw worked, a muscle jumping in his cheek. He held Enjin’s gaze for another beat, then with a frustrated growl, he retracted his sword, the metallic *shink* a harsh counterpoint to the tense silence. He slid it back into its sheath with a barely suppressed force.

“Kyouka.” Enjin’s greeting was dry, devoid of warmth.

“Enjin.” Her voice, equally devoid of emotion, mirrored his.

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills, a simmering animosity that stretched back years. Neither flinched. The air thickened.

Kyouka broke the standoff first, her gaze flicking to the side. “If you want the stick, follow me.” She turned, her movements precise, economical.

“It’s a staff,” Enjin corrected, his voice tight. “A Lovely Assist Staff.”

She ignored him, her stride unbroken, leading him deeper into the academy, towards the family quarters. Enjin followed, his eyes scanning the luxurious tapestries and gleaming armor lining the walls, a stark contrast to the utilitarian grit of the Cleaners’ headquarters. He felt the weight of their disapproval, the cold judgment radiating from every polished surface.

Kyouka stopped before a heavy, lacquered door, adorned with the intricate Nijiku crest. She pushed it open without knocking, a silent assertion of her right. Zanka’s room. It was sparse, almost monastic, a stark contrast to the rest of the academy’s lavishness but was dusty from the years of not being used. A single, neatly made futon, a small writing desk, and a simple wooden chest. No personal touches, no familiar clutter. As if Zanka had never truly belonged here, even in his own room.

Kyouka moved directly to the closet, a narrow alcove hidden behind a sliding panel. Her hand reached in, retrieving a long, slender object. revealing the Lovely Assist Staff.

She held it out to him, her expression unreadable. He took it, his fingers closing around the smooth, cool wood. He held it with a reverence that bordered on devotion, as if it were a fragile, precious relic. It was Zanka’s. The omajor part of Zanka’s the had.

Kyouka watched him, a faint, almost imperceptible tightening around her eyes. A flicker of something, annoyance perhaps, or a grudging acknowledgement.

“We have almost everyone deployed.” She stated, her voice returning to its usual clipped efficiency. “We are trying to pinpoint the Raiders’ location. Every Hells Guard is searching for any signs.” She turned to leave, her back ramrod straight.

Enjin opened his mouth, a sharp retort already forming on his tongue.

Kyouka stopped, her hand on the doorframe, her back still to him. “Your anger is understandable.” Her voice was flat, devoid of sympathy, yet held a strange, undeniable truth. “But you need to stop. Focus on the objective.”

She walked out, leaving Enjin alone in Zanka’s old room, the staff a warm weight in his hands.

Goka waited for him in the hall, his face once again a mask of carefully constructed indifference. He escorted Enjin back through the academy, the silence between them thick, almost suffocating. No words were exchanged, no glances shared. Yet, an understanding settled between them, a grim, unspoken truce. For Zanka, they would keep their mouths shut, for now.

They reached the front gates, the massive, iron-bound doors looming like a final barrier. The cool night air, sharp and clean, hit Enjin’s face. He could almost taste the freedom beyond the walls, the open road that led to Zanka.

Then, a sudden, urgent vibration against his neck. His choker.

He lifted a hand, his fingers fumbling slightly, and tapped it.

A voice, soft and faint and distorted, crackled through the comm.

“Enjin…”

The sound, a fragile thread of recognition, stopped him cold. Goka, a step ahead, froze mid-stride. Both men’s breath hitched, suspended in the tense silence.

It was Zanka.

Notes:

thank you for all the loveeeeeeeeeee, plzzzz lmk your favorite part or the part you hate the most!