Sky

A mix of Fandom related art such as standalone fanart, oc art, or fanart based on one of my works.

X readers oneshots/works. This can be harems, reverse harems, or singles.

Potential oc x canon works as well: could be written; could be comics.

This will be a Multi-fandom blog however not yet multi. Current fixation is Gachiakuta.

Disclosure:

Whenever I write smut, it would be double its length, as it would have both male and female povs to allow both sides to read their respective biologies.

Assume every x reader to be poc based, and gender neutral unless stated otherwise on that post. I will not clarifying every single post on a gender neutral mc [or poc], as it would be the norm for this blog. So assume that. Poc wise, I am poc myself, so it would show up in my mcs either through dialect, styles, or simply by my power of aura alone.

I will not be writing smut of minors, nor will I age up minors to write smut for them.

Anything sexual revolving minors would be strictly implied/can be alluded to.

[2,683 words]

Rudo in ‘Fusion’, [Passionately protective, Codependency, Mild signs]

Rudo would be a protective Yandere. Not the traditional one of endless killings and bouts of jealousy. Where his relationships are all found family, displaying yandere tendencies means having an unhealthy attachment to someone—someone closer to him than anyone from the cleaners, that is. Someone who has seen him from a young age, and been there for and with him up until this point, to justify that codependency. It is obvious to all that he holds the people dear to him above all else, yet he keeps them at a relative distance despite their kindness. A tendency stemmed from his experiences of being discarded so easily. And with the nightmarish past still haunting the forefront of his mind, he found himself clinging to the final vestige of the old life he once knew.

You.

It’s childish, shapeless, messy, hardly volatile. He has yet to become who he wants to be, or should be. So even in a state of obsession, it is a cesspool of contradictory and inflicting emotions rather than something dangerous. It is especially mild when you consider that Rudo wants to belong somewhere, and he wants to protect people more than harm anyone. So, a Yandere would be a form of codependency, but also a desire to maintain something childish and ‘real’. I could imagine it as an attempt to uphold what he knows while making room for new habits.

His ‘yandere’ is more tragic than it is malicious, I believe. Despite this, his ‘yandere’ trope would be more on subtext than explicit expressions of obsession. It would be how he perceives you, speaks to you and interacts with you and those around you, rather than what he would do TO you or TO other people. Get me?

Additionally, I could have gone the extreme route, exploring his character in the scenario where you get hurt, but I wanted to explore the quiet. Because yandere themes get blurred for his character, given how strongly he already reacts when someone he loves gets hurt. Therefore, his yandere is unique to the quiet interactions, not the fights. Rudo does have the capacity to take someone’s life or be aggressive, but his aggression will not be unique to the person he is falling for. Therefore, his yandere is unique to moments of alone time and quiet.

[Headcanons|Short]

Rudo is the type to be more platonic than romantic, even if his ‘yandere’ is for romantic interest. He would not demand kisses or romance—he would just demand closeness and the basic affection that is oftentimes platonic.

He prioritises your safety more than his attraction/affection for you. It’s all about ensuring you stay alive, for as long as possible.

Despite his tendencies to hoard things, he had the awareness to understand that you need the space at times and the chance to interact with people. He won’t try to isolate you from the opportunity, but if the infection goes unnoticed, then he may demand more one-on-one time.

Rudo is sensitive and highly empathetic despite his reasons to the contrary. He will feel deeply for your pain, your trauma, or your suffering—so kidnapping you or bringing harm to you is out of the question. He is the type to make sure it never gets to that point.

If you are very close to him, he may hurl at you an insult that is all meant in good faith. His difficulty expressing himself may lead him to rely on such insults rather than something more conventional.

Though Rudo has the autonomy to make his own decisions, he is not immune to grooming. If someone were to imply that you might need a stricter eye or increased surveillance, Rudo might be influenced to take that suggestion.

Rudo, for all his desires to be good, has the equal capacity to be flawed in that goodness, and may unknowingly take out those flaws on you.

But the motive stays the same: he doesn’t play about you.

Rudo, being a meagre child, tends to feel things more strongly than he would openly admit. He couldn’t help it, really. Many who know him or have interacted with him can point to the aggression and short fuse that often drive him forward. Even those who oppose him can say with confidence that even if the circumstances were different, he was too much of a hothead to be reasoned with.

Though he was once set on stewing in his stubbornness, he can admit now that, perhaps, he was a bit too much at times. Quick to jump on the boat, quicker to throw a fist when the time did not call for it. Then, he could justify his actions. But if he wanted things to go as smoothly as possible… restraint would be his number one challenge.

He needed to be as eloquent and calm as Tamsy, as determined as Zanka, as cool as Riyo… the list goes on. One after another, he noted aspects of his teammates that he felt he needed to emulate.

Enjin’s reliability, Gris’ kindness, hell, even Jabber had something he needed. He needed every damn trait; he needed to be older, stronger. He needed to be the leader, the underdog, the shield, the sword, the undertaker. There was time to live, indeed, but the longer he remained in this stagnant, self-inflicted shithole, the more likely someone was to get hurt because of him. Because of—

“You’re making that face again,” You started as you drove your index finger against his cheeks. “Stop that.”

Rudo perked and turned to you with a bark, “I’m not doing anything!”

“You are! You’re scowling and making that pissy face again!” Your finger dabbed their accusations on his cheeks, then his brows, pressing firmly over the wrinkles.

He bit the inside of his cheek, his gloved hands clenching the bumps of his knees. Even these gloves often felt too big for him. So big that he had to roll them down just so they could fit on his forearm. But he couldn’t bear to take them off, not with the splotches of burns irritating him whenever they’re off. Maybe he was always meant to wear these and stomach the dependency. Even if not for the burns, he couldn’t imagine taking everg them off. Tresses of white hair, tips faded black, fell over his face as he bowed his head.

“I’m just… thinking…”

This time, you were the one fixing your face into a frown. Your eyes darted sideways as you settled back into your spot on the mattress, your hands stained with paint. “Is it about… Amo?”

“Yeah,”

Your frown deepened, a devastating hopelessness grasping the strength in your body. “We’ll… we’ll find here. She couldn’t have gotten far…!” You insisted despite yourself. Your body inched closer to his, raising a hand to pat down his shoulder. “We can—”

“It’s not… that…“ He interjected swiftly, his hands gripping tighter, “I just… everything is so… frustrating!” His red eyes tunelling down at his shoes, he screwed up his face to stop the tears before they could form. His body trembled with the effort, his mind darting to focus on the celebration occurring outside the room. The distant booms of fireworks and the cheers of people celebrating the new mural. Even with the jovial atmosphere, it could not erase the heavy ache in his chest.

His eyes dried, and his teeth ground, ‘I’m such a piece of shit…!’ His lips curled. ‘Ruining the celebration with my… shitty mood!’

Your hand felt like a gentle caress on his back, caressing the tension in his muscles. Your body tilted forward, your head dipping into the space of his body to look into his bowed head.

“Do you need some time alone? I can do that, I don’t mind… You look like you need it.”

Again, the list of people came unfurling in his mind. Those he needed to emulate before some imaginative climax. Their kindness, determination, rationality—and your consideration. It should be a blessing to have someone who understands him well enough to know when he needs the space to himself. But isn’t that what happened to Amo? Space? Giving her space?

“…Huh?” He finally registered it, raising his head a fraction as you moved backwards. His red eyes honed in on you, narrowing to your supportive expression. “You’re… leaving?”

Your chest ached, but you continued, “Missing out on the party… and you seemed pretty bummed out,”

“But…” Don’t leave. He didn’t push quickly enough. Instead, his hands fiddled with one another, gloved fingers pinching at the symbols on the back of his gloves. His lips pressed into a tight line, and he looked away. “…Stay,” he mumbled.

You blinked, “What?”

“It’s fine. You can… stay,” He offered, louder, shimmying closer. “I’m alright. We can just sit together—that’s fine,”

Before, his assurance—though often delivered in blunt awkwardness—would soften you into agreement. It was the tentative way his voice would often retreat into silence after the fact. However, his quiet frustrations, paired with his random silences, drew you to move away from him despite his desire for closeness.

His eyes widened a fraction, and his lips pulled into a strong frown, quivering. Again, the heavy ache was in his chest, crushing his heart and soul until all he could feel was the absence of your support.

It was him, wasn’t it? You’re noticing it—what he notices about himself. Being too little. Too much. But if he just has a bit more time, if he can just be a bit stronger, then… then he can do exactly what he has to do. No questions asked.

“I think it’s better we get some space… I… I kinda need some space too…”

‘Space?’

“Was it something I did?” Rudo threw at you, his hand finding the edge of the mattress as he pivoted his body to you. His eyes flitted about your face, “I’ve been shitty, I know—but was I that bad? Was I an asshole to you and haven’t noticed?”

“No!” You assured stubbornly, leaning close, “Of course not!”

“Then why are you trying to go?!” He raised his voice, incredulous, “I need you to stay here! We need to stick together from now on!”

“Stick together?” You started, exasperated.” That’s what we’ve been doing this entire time!”

“We need to be closer, then!” Rudo insisted. He pointed at the door, wagging his finger at the old oak, envisioning a horror that was not perceived by the rose veneers shielding your eyes.

“We don’t know what’s out there anymore!” He shouted, motioning wildly with his hand as he shaped a crude silhouette of a toothy grin. “They took Amo so easily, and we don’t know where the hell she is, and I don’t know what the hell to do!” His voice cracked, and his cheeks warmed into crimson as he dropped his head. He moved his hands, finding their bearings on your shoulders. “I… I don’t know what to do… Someone could try to take you while I’m not looking! And they can do it from right under my nose, too!”

“We’re in the safest town there is!” You shouted.

He recoiled at the volume and conviction in your words, his face scrunching up as heat warmed his face. “Yeah? Well… doesn’t matter, okay?!”

He peered closely, “You’re safer with me. Anything can happen to you if we’re separated… we need to activate our fusion,”

He raised his hands, jabbing his pointer fingers on either side of his head. “We need to be like this!” He added as he crossed his pointer over the middle.

Your body slumped, and a low groan tore from your throat, “Not that again,” You complained, “I hate that thing,”

“Too bad, shit face,” He leaned close and let his head drop. His forehead had knocked against yours like two hollow coconuts. You glared into his red eyes, and he ignored your irritation in favour of the hollow sound made by the lack of brain cells, “This way, we’re always together.”

You made a face, “Hurray.”

Whether he cared for your irritation didn’t matter, as his hand found yours despite it. His eyes averted from yours. His face grew hotter, and he bit the inside of his cheeks as they reddened. “I don’t want you to get hurt… and as leader… I will make sure nothing gets to you.” His eyes grew wide, determined, “…Because that’s my job as the eldest!”

“I can fight too, by the way,” You argued, “Plus, we’re only 3 months apart!”

“Doesn’t matter. It’s my job, okay?” His voice dropped into a soft, trembling whisper. “I won’t let anyone hurt you, you got that? I swear on everything that I know, I’m keeping you safe, even if it kills me.”

Your eyes narrowed, “If you die, who’s going to protect me then, huh?”

Silence encompassed you both. He could almost feel the firing of synapses in his head.

He blinked, his hand closing around yours. He never thought about that. He had only thought about what would make him sound cool, and genuine at the same time… Never really thought of the logistics. His eyes flitted away from your gaze, and bakc on it in irregular intervals. “…I’ll keep you safe, and you can keep me safe? Deal?”

You pursed your lips, and his cheeks grew red.

The twitch in your eyes was soon followed by a sigh. “Deal.”

He raised his hand, wagging his bulky pinky, “Pinky promise?”

You raised your hand in turn, a naked, vulnerable hand to his bulkier, clothed one. Your pinky wrapped around his, and your hands both gave a slight shake.

Rudo pushed further against you, his nose brushing against yours. His eyes fluttered shut, his brows perpetually fixed into a distressed expression. “Thanks… you have no idea how much I needed that…” His breath fanned your face.

“I can’t lose you, too…” He whispered, his hand squeezing yours. “So… just stay with me, okay?”

“I hear you,” You retort, pushing yourself closer. “I can hear your thoughts at this point,”

His eyes flitted up to yours, “I mean it… You pinky promised… you’re staying with me from now on, okay?”

“I wanna do stuff on my own, sometimes,” you began, your face scrunching up just a fraction. “I don’t wanna be with you all the time,”

His face twisted painfully. His hand gripped yours a fraction tighter, loosened, then entwined your fingers together. He held your hand, a captive little soldier, in the very gloves dictating his destiny. This time, he maintained eye contact, crimson eyes holding your gaze in equal confinement. “Well… as a leader, whatever I say goes. You’re no permanent partner, no take-backs.” His nose pressed to yours in a swipe, a minute tremble accompanying his hand. His throat bobbed, and he was growing uncomfortably aware of the closeness, even when it was necessary. Necessary… “Safer for you—us,”

‘Safer…’ Annoyance sprouted in your chest, softened only by a fickle memory of that honey-blond man, who had reiterated to you the same rhetoric days before. ‘Safety in numbers, dear. You had felt foolish then, humiliated by the brief expression of anger when Rudo had insisted on sticking close to you past the mission. Not that you hated the closeness. But it got to a point where even you were growing tired of his constant looming presence. To be corrected by an older man of all things would forever haunt you.

“Geez… fine…” You huffed, feeling that flush of embarrassment again. Rudo means well, you’re sure. It would be foolish to pretend that this world, despite being a world away from what you have known, was any safer. Rudo, you knew, you can trust with all your heart, even if delivery is sometimes… strange.

Finally, Rudo slumped into you entirely, his arms loosely wrapping around you. His face found your shoulder, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

Safety in numbers… you’ll be sure to thank Tamsy the next time you see him.

[5,426 words]

Riyo in “Old Habits” ; [A muzzled dog, all the tools to become]

Riyo is also a highly cautious person. She knows how to play the social-butterfly, extrovert game well enough to always bring her opponents’ defences down. She has the awareness to recognise the potential threat someone poses, but the rationality to realise that charging at someone is the worst way to go about it. This caution extends to how she interacts with people she already knows, always dealing with an underlying suspicion of betrayal or a ‘wolf’ amongst everyone else.

This is accentuated by her background as a killer and her interactions with Amo. She shared equal suspicions of Rudo and approached the matter with playful narratives.

Riyo is a wolf in sheep’s clothing in that regard. She won’t flash a knife or gun at you under suspicion—she’ll simply let you know that she can. It is what I believe she was trying to do when she first came into Rudo’s room. She established that she knows where his room is and how easy it is for her to get there. She didn’t outright make any threats either—because she needs people to trust her before she can trust them. She wants people to know what she is without saying that outright.

And given how little we know of her backstory, I’m going to go out on a limb here and say that she has issues with loving people too strongly. What I’ve noticed in the doll festival arc is that when she is trying to cut into the protective shield made by one of Mymo’s goons, her justification for her ability to slice through that shield is that “when love is too strong, it’s easy for cracks to settle in”. So this either means that her love for someone (maybe her mother) was so strong that it has blinded her to subtext or to a betrayal that was slowly working up against her, that only when that betrayal was carried out did she realise what had happened, too late. In fact, let’s pretend that her situation with Amo was not her first one—she knew that there was going to be a time where she couldn’t trust anyone—assuming something was going to happen that would allude to a red herring. A group of people, or her family, and she knows one of them is out to get her, but she doesn’t know who. We can even say that her experience with the Information Broker was different for her personally, not just ‘being baited’, and was, in fact, a callback to what happened to her in the past. A love so strong she was used as a decoy (as when she collapsed due to the trash beast, she said she needed to train harder, as she never noticed that the trash beast was only faking an injury to target her at her weakest). Get me?

We can even use what Zanka said then, at Amo’s tower—sometimes the people love most are the ones we want to kill. He is most likely saying that in a self-deprecating humour type of way—but that’s for his section. What if the person Riyo loved most is the one she had known she should have killed? Maybe the person she loves most is her father, a love so strong that her mother, in theory, used that against her? Again, i’m only on chapter 147, so my interpretation could be wrong. Now, how does this fit into yandere?

[Headcanons | Long]

As a yandere, Riyo would have to hold less emotional value for you as a person, not because you are worth less than her feelings, but because she exists in a state of preemptive suspicion and fear. Despite being ‘clean’, she has an underlying suspicion that at least one person is a spy and is out to hurt the people she has grown to care for. So she, despite loving you, has to hold you at arm’s length in fear that you are that spy. Additionally, loving you too strongly would mean opening herself up to cracks, to let herself be open to getting hurt again, whether by losing you or realising you were only using her/tricking her. And she has clearly failed in the past to protect the person she loves; there is a chance she could lose you, too. And it won’t be her fault, but she would feel like it is. A wolf should protect its pack, right?

Her attraction to you is inherently selfish, selfish to herself because she knows the kind of pain she will end up in if she lets it spiral out of control, but the joy of—the illusion of—falling in love; that sweet heavy feeling in her chest, being close with you, was a better feeling than her paranoia.

She could try as much as she wants, but she can’t always ensure your safety, especially when you consider that ensuring your survival 100%would mean returning to old roots. But she’s clean. And she promised herself never to kill again. So, she won’t, and she will fight to avoid it.

But if something were to happen to you… she can’t promise pacifism forever.

She maintains a normal relationship with you; her behaviour is not negatively altered in any way. Her job is to maintain a normalcy that a ‘good cleaner’ should carry. So even when the situation thickens, she remains levelheaded and playful, keeping you on your toes with her wit and satire. Keep you trusting her, liking her, and loving her. But she is also not afraid to let someone know that, if needed, she can and will revert to old habits. She carries that firearm not for comfort but for the acknowledgement that no matter where she is, who she is with, there will always be a time when she will need it more than ever. Well, I suppose that is, by definition, ‘for comfort’, right?

She hasn’t used it for you (yet), but it’s on the back of her mind. As the threats slowly turned from trash beasts to people, the more aware she was getting of realising how easy it would be for you to lose your life, and how quickly her vital instrument wouldn’t be enough.

Riyo, as a yandere, is casually protective, masking her desire to keep you safe under a veneer of cool playfulness. Using her easygoing nature and enthusiasm to disarm you and those around you, so you won’t know what she is doing in the shadows, or thinking of. She is sceptical of you, refuses to love you fully or to allow herself to show what she feels, but she also refuses to let you go off with someone else. She is possessive in this regard, holding you in a waiting room—the quicker she can confirm your loyalty to her and Enjin, the quicker she can have you.

Riyo is all about studying you, seeing how you interact with others, and finally, how she interacts with others ABOUT you.

Despite being a yandere, she is also selfless. She is not the type (to me) to threaten someone over jealousy. She is all about making sure the person she loves is protected and happy—and if that means giving you up, then she will. She won’t impede on your progress or journey to happiness; she will make sure to remove all the threats along the way, though.

No one is allowed to threaten your happiness. She won’t forgive those easily, either. Even the special cases.

Riyo didn’t know much about you to discern the type of person you were in the quiet moments of your life. But when she first saw you, she began her data entry: You were a recluse, often brought to the world for interactions outside of your own free will. You were often at Follo’s arm, a close friend despite the differences in skill sets and positions. You stood tall on your own indifference, a perpetual gaze of melancholia that Riyo had assumed to be a byproduct of something traumatic.

But then you would open your mouth, and only the kindest of words would spew forth. When the veneer of indifference fell, you were an almost joy to be around.

“I like that updo you have.” You raised your hands to make motions around your head, shaping Riyo’s hairstyle with careful hand squeezes.

Riyo’s momentary confusion gave way to a quirk of her lips, a cheeky smile directed to you as she tilted her chin in mocked snooty appraisal. “Yeah, I really outdid myself there…!”

“Scissors, right?” Taken aback, her smile faltered for only a second. You were still looking at her with that kind smile, a smile that now felt eerie given the question.

“Yup!” She found herself chirping back at you, strangely. “Yours?”

“Standard cards, nothing fancy.” Stripped of social convention, you found no offence to your question, and worse, deemed it an acceptable one. Her gaze cut to Enjin, who had been watching from the couch. He made the face Riyo couldn’t, then gestured with a shrug of his shoulders, and mouthed, ‘normal’.

Oh. One of those, huh? The real social kind, no boundaries… the ones that say whatever is on their mind with no forethought, yeah?

She learned your name thereonly because you took her silence as a reason to continuewith the introduction. In a span of five minutes, she learned where you originated from, your parents, how you got your instrument, and why you’re here. You piled it on to her like you had been holding that in for so long, with no other means of sharing.

After the novelty of meeting someone new had worn off, your attention was quickly snagged by the next shiny person to fall into place. Apart from Enjin and Semiu, you were the first person she had met since joining, and she had spent the good majority of her own welcome party watching you from afar. From the hop in your steps whenever a particular beat gets ‘nasty’, or the swift cadence of your voice as you speak to the others. You bounced off other people’s energy easily, micro-adjusting your own tics and tricks to align with whoever you were speaking to. A phenomenon that had to be… curated. Had to be a byproduct of… something. No one can be naturally social to that extent. No one could possibly ‘vibe’ with strangers and gauge exactly their likes and interests with the quickness you did. You had to be—

You were a—

“A… regular person?”

She stood, perplexed at the front of your drawer, staring at the… very ordinary assortment of undies, socks, and undershirts. No weapons, no tactical gear, not even a mask or gloves or…? Was she missing something? Again, her hand perused through the drawers, from your undies, to your shirts, to your pants, to the random compartment of just earrings. Her impromptu search again concluded with no statistically significant difference from her last search. And this time, she actually made the effort to hold up every garment.

“Don’t tell me I actually broke into a regular person’s room…”

In the darkness of your room, she pivoted on her heel to drag her gaze across the expanse. The bed was included more times than she could count in her scope, where you slept soundly under the thin sheets. Curled in a fetal position, your lips parted, and your chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. Sleeping so deeply… she heard from Enjin that you had to take sleeping medication. Apparently, wherever you came from, didn’t offer the nicest of nights. Left you awake most nights, bloodshot eyes and paranoid… it was a wonder how he’d manage to convince Alice to perscribe you to them. Her gaze flitted down to the deeper darkness under your bed, where she saw the glimmer of the lock of a suitcase. On a better night, she’d make the move to get to that suitcase. She continued her scope to the nightstand and the ugly, rigid piece of junk you called a lamp. To the open window, back to the bed, the door, then finally the bathroom door.

Her eyes flitted back to you, at the drool pooled on your blanket.

She stepped over your strewn shoes, then took that brisk turn into your bathroom. She had expected the few bottles of cosmetics, lotion and some kind of cheap bottle of cleanser on your porcelain sink. In the small shelf behind your mirror—strange that she doesn’t have this—was a used razor blade, the cap sitting beside it. A half bottle of sleeping medication, a folded sheet of prescription, and your toothbrush. Her fingers wrapped around the bottle of medication, squinting through the dark to barely catch the printed words wrapped around the bottle. She popped the cap open, the stench of chalk slapping against her nose. Her nostrils flared, a cold shudder running down her spine. She capped the bottle and returned it to its rightful spot. Her fingers pinched the note next, unfurling it with a similar entitlement.

‘One a day, 30 minutes before bed! Take with water, no caffeine or alcohol, and after a meal. Follow the scheduled boxes.’

‘Scheduled boxes?’Her lips quirked, and she shook her head with a bemused smile. Cute. She folded the note into 3’s and pressed it to its location. She nudged it, adjusted it, until she was sure it looked just as it did before she had touched it. Her hands gripped the rim of the mirror, her eyes dragging over the assortment one final time. Though she could confirm with confidence that everything was just as you left it, the curve of plastic to the back, at the top of every shelf, caught her curious eyes. And as quick as she caught it, the quicker her hands took hold of it.

In her hands, she gripped a long and wide plastic box. 4 rows, 7 columns. on the strip, colour-coded and labelled by the first 3 letters of the day. Her lips quirked again, her eyes softening into reluctant fondness. Of course, you needed the reminder. Too carefree for your own good… Her fingers flicked open Sunday, empty. Monday, empty. Tuesday, empty. Her fingers flicked open and closed every day, of every week, of this month of your progress. Never missed a day, never missed a week. With growing fondness, she was continuously barraged with your consistency. Well, it lines up with how consistent your personality has been, that’s for sure! Always in the mood, always ready to welcome new people, even with such strange methods of—

Tuesday, today, the pill sat untouched and fresh-smelling of chalk.

‘Oh.’ Her lips trembled and still, grew despite herself. ‘You’re awake, aren’t you?’

Her hands gripped the box tighter, her joints as stiff as an old locomotive. Maybe she can use your hair oil…

Mechanically, her hands pushed the box onto the lowest shelf, sliding it in and knocking over the pill bottle. Her hands gripped the mirror tighter and pushed it closed, her reflection staring back at her, and you behind her.

Her cheeks creased, her eyes squinted. “Hiya!”

“Hi.” Your hand found the porcelain sink. “If you’re looking for the afterparty… it’s usually in the courtyard.”

Riyo blinked, her eyes staring at you through the darkened reflection, “Just wanted to see my… good friend!”

“Yeah?” Your hand slipped off the porcelain, and an undignified yawn escaped your lips. “Riyo… what are you doing snooping through my things?”

“Was that what I was doing?”

“Yeah,”

“Huh…” Riyo maintained her smile, though it now stretched into something awkward, “Maybe we can answer each other’s questions…?”

“Mine’s first.”

“I wanted to see the kind of person you were!” She chirped, “And clearly, you’re the type to know when to stop taking medication…”

You understood the unspoken immediately, “You kept looking at me, I thought you didn’t like me… or wanted to get me, so I didn’t take anything. I figured you were going to knock and ask to talk, but… well, when I heard my window sliding open, it clicked,”

“Ah… I must look like such a creep, huh!”

“Yeah.”

Silence floated easily between the two of you, again underlining Riyo’s sudden stipend of awkwardness. She gazed at the guilt of her reflection; however, she was unable to perceive you in the same reflection. Again, she was ostracised from your mind.

“Yeah… my bad… I guess I was in over my head…”

“You were…” Your voice now was softer than how it started, almost as if you were embarrassed for her. Finally, your body retreated from her back, offering her that minuscule space she needed to finally breathe easy. Her hand hadn’t even inched toward the pocketed Ripper, not once. Maybe, instinctually, she knew you wouldn’t hurt a fly, even though her mind was running a thousand simulations, with you turning out to be a secret operative.

“Look… I do want us to be friends, I think you’re really cool… but I don’t like creepy creepers crawling through my window,”

‘Hah!’ She turned around, her smile queasy, “Yeah… real sorry…! We can be friends for sure! I’ll just… see myself… out…”

Even when facing you, the darkness of the bathroom obscured most of your face, where all she could make out was the shine of your eyes. Your lips curled int a frown, and you sighed.

“Through the door… please…”

Riyo conceded with a mocked salute, “Aye aye!” Her joints, once rigid and stiff under the obscured scrutiny of your disapproval, snapped from their rust to provide enough flexibility to launch her out of the bathroom in quick strides. Her hair swayed with her quick strides, her hands finding the cool knob of your door.

“Sorry, again, really!”

Despite herself, she dared herself to glance back to confirm one final note. With an added tilt in her body backwards, she caught your person still in the bathroom. The assortment box sat on the porcelain, your fingers flipping open Tuesday, pinching the chalk between your fingers.

‘So… you really are just a regular person…’

You popped the pill into your mouth, swallowed it dry with a grotesque shudder. “Yuck!” You spat, then blew raspberries at the taste.

Her chest grew tight, and she returned her attention to the door. Her hand gripped the knob tightly, the cool metal grounding her to what was really, a shitty night built on her own lingering paranoia.

‘Hah… geez… I really messed with a normal person…’

“Kay! Bye!” She swung the door open and practically leapt for freedom.

On her way back to her room, she recounted the series of events that led to the encounter. More importantly, the signs she must have missed. She should have noticed you were faking it—or at least weren’t in that ‘deep sleep’ she had presumed. The soft breaths, your fetal position, the minute twitches in your fingertips, the random jerk in your leg. The drool on your cheeks, the stain on your bed…

The more she thought back to you and your sleep, the more she began to realise that maybe she was looking too deeply into it. You were probably, truly asleep, as you implied…she was just… wrong. Wrong about you.

Yeah. Wrong.

You were, simply, a jolly person. Someone who finds joy in the world and has an odd way of showing it. And you stayed consistent with that, even when you awoke to her snooping around—

How did you sneak up on her so quietly? Weird.

Regardless, the following day, and the day after, she watched you interact with people with not a shred of reluctance in your step. Always so eager, so willing to take that step forward, even if the recipient of your affections appears withdrawn from you.

“What is it with her?” You must have gotten it worse, she had thought. Where everyone got out with injuries and mild anguish, you came out ready to grapple for something before it could slip from your fingers. Then, when the effects of the smell had fully worn off, you collapsed on your front and lay there in utter stillness, listening to the distant explanation of Tamsy: how the smell had fabricated a reality so true, you couldn’t help but wish to protect the bearer of the smell.

“What’s her… problem?!” your voice only marginally escalated, before plummeting into a hushed whimper. Your hand trembled and found purchase over your eyes. Even then, Riyo wished she could see through your body to have a scope of your face. But even in misery, your back was turned to her, and all she could grasp was the tremble in your shoulders. Your body wracked up another ragged breath, and you were curling into yourself again.

If she wasn’t going through her own vices, Riyo would have made the move to be by your side. Trepidation held her chained to the floor, her injuries a minor addition to the turmoil. She should have known not to trust that girl. She should have known that this wasn’t going to be an easy job. She was the one who had invited you to tag along, unable to resist the siren’s call of a trip and job with you, even if it meant squeezing between her and Zanka the entire ride.

It was her own fault, really. She shouldn’t have subjected you to Rudo’s goals. She would have known that it would have hurt someone in the end—she had expected that person to be herself. Not… you. And she especially didn’t expect to see that memory again, there in the flesh. Or, better yet mocked flesh. Their voice, their smell… to feel the warmth that came from a love so strong all she can do is stand and fight to protect that.

A part of her had pointed that anger to Rudo. Had it not been for his goals, his drive to reach them by any means necessary—none of this would have happened. They would have never met Amo, they would have never been shown that, and you would have never been—

The anger didn’t last long. At least for him, Rudo got his hits in.

But a debt was still owed.

“That was a dirty trick,”

Riyo was a person of small talk; it was what she specialised in shortly after being corralled into this white-collar HQ. But she found that skill a weakness as she pinched Ripper in her hands, her fingers warm and looped around the round handles of her beloved friend.

Zanka had long recovered from his plight, or at least pretended to be. His cot was empty for only a few days before a new person moved in and claimed reign over the sheets. This new inhabitant, with her black hair and ends faded orange, and that round face, could only muster a fraction of feeling in her dehydrated face. Even when she caught her own reflection in the metal, the girl had already been sapped dry of her fears. As if Riyo were the least threatening person the girl had met thus far.

Still, there was a debt.

“It takes real guts to make them cry like that…” As still as the statue remains in the wastes, Riyo held herself tall and pointed at the girl in the cot. Her eyes wide, her lips pressed thinly, she tilted her head only a fraction, “You must really like hurting people, huh?”

Amo mimicked the stillness in Ripper’s aim, her hands folded over her lap, fingers twiddling and gripping one another. Scared little children comforting each other under the gleam of a rifle’s scope. Her throat bobbed, a pathetic raspy sound scratching at her throat as she breathed, “Amo didn’t mean it…”

Riyo remained stationary, “Amo did,”

The girl’s eyes watered, “I did…” Her gaze tore off the sharp end of Ripper and met the cold calamity of emerald, basked in an intensity unlike the one she had when they first met. If one could call it an official first meeting.

“Amo hurt—I hurt a lot of people…” She conceded with a forced maturity in her quivering voice. “And Amo—I know that I am a very bad person…but I want to change and—”

“Do you remember who you hurt?”

Her body stilled, as though someone tied a metal rod to her spine, yet attached needles so she may always feel them the longer she remains upright. The small clothes she wore prevented her from feeling suffocated, as those garments she wore prior often made her feel—but she still felt in the nude and worse of all, constricted. If she recalls, Rudo was on a mission, far, far away, her knight in giant gloves. He would not be back until the following day or two. How unfortunate for her to deal with this alone. Still, her gaze flitted away from Riyo, falling like tears, to her bundled hands.

“Um…” She began to grieve the warmth of Rudo, a warmth she felt she may have taken for granted, now in its absence. Her mind was a chaos of untied knots and bundled threads, the silhouette of a beautiful woman behind bars, lit with the holiness of a saint. Farther back, her hands that had asked for nothing but a single favour, clawed their way into the tower. She clawed and clawed at finely worn waste, dug too far and came across the splintered skull of Mister, and she was burying him again in quick shovelling. She shovelled back, until she was back in the tower, sitting on bent knees before a woman with black hair and kind eyes.

“I hurt that lady with the black hair—the… the mom-in-my-fantasy,” Her words pooled at her hands, and she held them like a lifeline, “The… the mean man with the umbrella, then the… the man with the black hair… then the big-big man—”

“Not them.” The dead rose from under Amo, selfish, vengeful souls that gripped for a body that did not belong to them. “There was someone else. The one with the hoops.”

The sand swallowed them again.

Amo blinked, her eyes lifting in time with her head, “Hoops?”

“Yes.” Riyo’s chapped lips moved swiftly, “Hoop earrings, sometimes they wear studs, sometimes nothing at all.” Her grip grew a fraction tighter, “Gold makes them stand out. It balances well with their skin. But they sometimes like silver, because the contrast draws attention. And they like attention. Them. That’s who I’m talking about.”

“Amo doesn’t—”

“The prettiest hair I’ve ever seen. It has so much volume when it’s not in a style, it poofs! Poofs! Did you know that humidity can make their hair unruly? They’ll keep it in braids. They treat it so well, and they always come out looking better than before. And you made them cry—cry.”

Poof? Hoops? Them? There was more than one…?

“I—"

“How can you not remember? You made them cry—you made them—”

Her eyes darted left, and her hand dropped to her side. Her fingers opened her pocket and tucked Ripper inside.

The door opened with a sigh, and suddenly, the warmth returned tenfold. Amo turned to the door, but saw not a hint of white hair or large gloves.

“Hey, can I—Oh!”

A strange person stood at the doorway, hair fixed in messy braids, as though they hadn’t been done in some time. They wore a pair of large pants and an even bigger tee over themselves, a graphic of a weird comic printed at the very front, bold and popping with colour. Your face was a pleasant mix of surprise and fondness, yet a begrudging embarrassment of being caught visiting.

“Riyo I—sorry, I thought it was just going to be Amo in here…”

‘Don’t leave…’ Amo thought herself, drawn to the warmth she never thought to find in someone who wasn’t her knight.

“It’s cool, I just wanted to see her myself!” Riyo seemed moved by a similar fixation, abandoning her stiff posture for a softer facade and sitting on the adjacent cot.

“That’s nice of you.” The person, with an almost sheepish flush to their face, stepped fully into the room, bearing a bouquet of papier-mache flowers in one hand. Their lips curled, then straightened into an awkward line. “…Rudo told me that in the Sphere, people usually give flowers to the sick, so… I figured… Well, I—” Your eyes darted, and your hands fumbled, “I didn’t have anyone to drive me to town, and I didn’t wanna ask Delmon ‘cus his flowers means so much to him so I figured— ‘well I can make them myself’ but ti didn’t know how so i had to ask some help from Dear so—anyways!”

You found yourself sitting on the same cot, staring at Amo as though she were someone so precious, “How… are you?”

Amo’s eyes found yours again, your hair, your clothing. The studs in your ears, how well they balance your skin.

“Amo…” the girl began with dawning guilt, “Made you… cry?”

Your youthful eyes grew, and the heat in your face doubled as though outed. “Oh…! I uh—yeah, I did, but—well, I cry easily! I’m a big crier! I cried yesterday, in fact, when—y’know that time when—remember that time, Riyo? I cried when that thing happened… y’know the thing…”

Amo looked to Riyo, but the other girl fixed her eyes on Amo with a cold certainty. This WAS that person. And Amo gathered that there was no ‘that one thing’, maybe there were no tears to talk about.

Caught, you moved so quickly that Amo shrank. When your hand thrust, her breath jumped, only to falter when you dropped the bouquet in her lap.

“Sorry… I get a little jumpy sometimes…” Your meek voice reached Amo’s ears, and your face appeared softer than before. “I… that was me, yeah… I mean, I’m sure other people were crying too…! Right?”

When no support reached you, your body bowed, “Geez, okay… well… Yeah, I… cried. It’s not fun seeing something like that, especially when it still feels so fresh, but… well… you were just troubled, right?”

Something fragile gripped Amo’s chest, squeezed her heart until her eyes stung, “No, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“It was so long ago!” You interjected with a cutting chuckle, “I’m over it now, really! I’m not here to get you back or something, I don’t do debts… I just heard that they found you and I figured that… we can be… friends…?”

Riyo should have known you were going to pull a stunt like this. Had she not watched you enough to predict this? She did, actually. She saw it over and over in her head the entire time she spent in that ride back to HQ, imagining you rehearsing lines in the mirror to get it right. She should have known you would have…

“Friends…” Amo’s voice floated to both her and your ears, trembling. “…Amo would like that…”

Your awkward face cracked into elation, and you were bouncing upright with that quickness that, again, made the girl flinch. “Oh-kay! Friends! This is great—when you’re well enough to walk around, send me a message! Oh—wait, sorry you’re—um just shout my name, and I’m bound to hear it! We can do whatever—we can even go to cafes and get some cake—”

“No-!” Amo’s sudden shout startled even herself. “I—Amo is fine.. thanks,”

You blinked away your bemusement, “Wow… you hate cake that badly, huh? First time hearing that…” Still, you were a joy. And you expressed that even when faced with that startling interjection.

To think… Riyo could almost laugh now. Well, she was laughing, tickled by the nonsense you began spewing shortly after. How your eyes crinkled, how your hands moved in wide gesticulations, and your feet kicked, then stilled. How, even when faced with someone who played a dirty trick on you, you didn’t mind the dirt.

Riyo exhaled, her hand finding the hem of your shirt. The only thing that she can hold onto, given hw frantic your hands were moving. If you can forgive her that easily, then… then… she was wrong about you, again. But then again, as her head dropped onto your shoulders, and you paused your gesticulations to allow the contact, Riyo wouldn’t have you any other way.

Hold on to that smile, and she’ll hold on to you. And this time, she won’t fail.

[5,566 words]

Zanka [Good Enough To Replace him] Jealousy, inferiority complex, Toxic

Zanka’s yandere tendencies would stem most likely from his insecurity and an inferiority complex. Given that he came from a broken home, with implications of abuse, followed by being outdone in the only thing special about him, he would most likely approach a relationship in a similar fashion.

Where the sickness had started in minor factions of doubt, it soon festered into something uglier.

Zanka, as a yandere, would be one who is on the precipice of violence, but not because of his supposed sadism, but actually because he can no longer stand being second place to someone. And under the implications of being abused in his family, we can say that his sadism stems from a desire to let people feel what he has felt, or to finally be in a position of power instead of being submissive to it.

We can say even that his drive to be stronger, whilst mostly influenced by Hyo’s sudden intervention in his life, is also caused by a desire to let others feel inferior to him rather than vice versa. Fighting geniuses is a death sentence because someone like him could never beat them—that’s what makes it so worth it. The narrative that HE is the exception to that rule is what drives him to be better than a genius. that something could be inherently special about him. So, in a yandere relationship, where we could say he derives validation from a single partner, it would mean that he is in a constant state of competition with himself and those he deems a ‘better fit’ for that partner, to prove that HE is the exception. Building on this, if he is not your type, then he believes himself worthy to prove the exception to those rigid rules.

His love will manifest as a persistent desire not to be second place to another person. So, in the case that he is not chosen for a romantic relationship by that person, he may just try to ‘work harder’ to be perceived as a better match than to outright say it. Zanka has manners in that sense, but he can be sassy.

But he’s also the type to try to remain visibly nonchalant, so he probably won’t express his displeasure for fear of being looked at sideways or perceived as lesser-than. I think Zanka is the only one who might be willing to, in slight, harm someone he knows as long as they are within the boundaries of a consensual sparring session. There, he has every ‘right’ to go all out without the consequences, and he can frame it as training without being looked down upon. He will try to hurt that person, not fully on Sadism (as I find the word very general), but to prove that he can, could, would…and that they are weaker than him.

Zanka’s love, if pushed to a yandere state in short, is driven by a desire for superiority and stems from his underlying insecurity. It’s consuming in its size. I don’t think he would be driven to kill anyone, even as a yandere, even when obsessed—if he had to kill someone just to take them out of the competition what does that say about him? I think he’d get a greater pleasure from simply proving himself right rather than taking them out of the game entirely. He drives to humiliate the competition.

I think his behaviour towards you will change depending on who or what you are. For Rudo or Riyo, where it’s very neutral—no matter who you are, they would behave the same— I feel Zanka has more conditions. (For example, whether stronger or weaker, Riyo will always strive to protect you and collect debts)

If you’re weaker than him, then it would justify his reasoning to be there with you and protect you, or even to train you. He would happily take the role as mentor if it meant only he could bring out your truest potential. (Emphasis on HE, he wants exclusivity.)

If you’re stronger than him, then it’s an excuse to train harder so the two of you can be on the same level of strength. It’s him envying you—wanting to be you, but also wanting you. He’s back at the academy all over again—in a world full of Geniuses like Hyo, he has to fight to prove why he deserves the seat at your side.

His yandere is both about how he interacts with you and how he interacts with others about you. It’s all about exclusivity. Only he understands you, only he can meet you in strength/bring out your strength, and only he deserves you.

He’s willing to try anything to get and keep your proximity over the competition. He would actively try to foster synergy with you so that he is perceived as your perfect counterpart.

In short, Zanka, as a yandere, is an insecure devotee, fighting himself, you, and others to prove why he deserves you.

[Headcanons | Moderate]

Zanka perceived his relationship with you as unique. And he will continue to have this idea that it IS unique, and that no one can ever match it

He’s not grabbing for you as one might expect from a yandere; he’s not like the rest of his team, who are more casual with touch. If anything, he expresses himself through the possessive view of you and verbal affirmations.

Quick to shut down, as politely as he can, if someone ever brings up an idea of how much better you would be with someone else. Either he speaks for you or clarifies rumours on your behalf. Simultaneously, he would subtly arrange himself to align or parallel with you more. So, to the outside world, the two of you are conveniently well-suited to one another.

If you like strawberry cake, he suddenly likes chocolate. If you prefer sweets, he likes spicy food. If you’re a night owl, he’s an early bird. Some tropes work seamlessly together—which was what started this little infection that the two of you DO belong together because of how convenient it is. But in some cases, you are not an exact parallel of him. Where he prefers the quiet in a fight —focused intensity —you are equally quiet—which is fine. Nothing wrong with that. But now the two of you are not parallel. You’re just like-minded people, which is harder to romanticise.

But he wasn’t going to change anything, either. So he pivots. Now, instead of the two of you being exactly parallel, it’s that the two of you are so deeply entwined that you tend to share traits. He likes that challenge.

If the two of you are in an established relationship, then you would find that his motives change from wanting to provide evidence that the two of you belong together to actively doing everything he can to keep you and justify the relationship.

His quiet possessiveness grows tenfold, where he is now, by definition of a relationship, allowed to hold or touch you without reason. And he abuses that.

Where he grew up not having anything for himself, despite being someone of privilege, you’re one of the few things he picked for himself—and that bond deepens when you consider that this is a fight he can win. And even if he is losing, he would fight harder to win.

Zanka knew what kind of person you were the moment he saw you, ashen and dewy, standing beside Enjin. With those deep-seated eyes, those petulant, curled lips, cracked from dehydration and lacking in vigour. Unkempt hair hiding under a satin scarf with a plethora of patterns, and a throat encased with beads. Then there was the way you stand, resting your weight on one leg while the other was only slightly jutted out, your hands tucked in the pockets of your trousers.

One of those… smooth talkers.

Maybe he hadn’t been specific before. It wasn’t necessarily how you dressed or appeared, per se. If anything, he had speculated that you must have been found on the street, given how roughed up you look. It was when you began talking, and somehow managed to gouge what and who everyone was sans fail. Zanka had catalogued it as a pretentious effort to appear sly when it must have been what Enjin had told you. But then you drove deeper and deeper, until Zanka was sure that you were stripping him bare with the same indifference.

‘” Okay, I didn’t teach them that,”’ Enjin spoke as he slapped a hand over your mouth, just as you pointed your attention to Rudo.

Yeah, one of those.

He’d even wagered that you must have a strange fixation on them, him in particular. He kept finding you already glancing his way, as though to further scope out his reactions to specific news or line of dialogue. Yet it seemed like no one else noticed, or at least nobody cared enough to point it out. Even when he made an attempt to allude to your supposed fixation, either no one caught it, or the conversation mutated into another.

‘” Y’know Zanka,”’ Riyo had started that lunch after that dreadful tower, taking a sip of Rudo’s soda, ‘” You and the new guy are so much alike,”’

Zanka must have made a face, for Enjin snorted around the mouthful of meat in his mouth, slapping his palm down on the tabletop. His lips flew open, “She’s right, y’know… both of you got this… nonchalance going on, noticed it?”’

‘” Well, I’d say they got it down better than Zanka,”’ Riyo murmured with a smile of her own.

Zanka had felt his eye twitch, halfway through slurping his noodles, when he set the bowl down. ‘” Just because we have a similar approach doesn’t mean we’re the same. If anything, I find it offensive.”

”You two are almost the same in other places, too, Zanka. Lighten up, huh? Could be a new friend for you. I think it would be interesting—”’

‘” And why would I be interested in them?”’ Quick and sudden, that Riyo perked with a cheeky grin. And he resumed his meal. From his seat, though, he had a vantage point and found himself looking over to the next table. You ate slowly, too slowly for his liking. You seemed mostly out of it, unable to enjoy the meal even though it was paid for you. Like you wished you’d be anywhere else.

But Follo was all over you, in the sense that he had so much to spill for some reason. Focused on you and your vigour… maybe trying to pick up things about you. Again, Zanka could not see anything remotely interesting about you. Maybe you were a tad bit cool, so quiet and to yourself—put together when you want to be. You did this thing where you’d tilt your head and scoff with a slight squint in your left eye.

His gaze snapped away when your flickered toward him, a heat creeping up the back of his neck. He busied himself with his food, but he could still feel your attention like a brand on his skin.

Lately, you’ve been getting into basic exercises ever since Enjin began piling food in front of you. He had asked you once about it—not because he cared. More like because he wasn’t sure how to feel about a second person in the same place he usually likes to train. He must have made it known to you, his disinterest with it, because you looked him up and down as if he was barely a passing thought.

It annoyed him—that indifference towards him. He didn’t expect you to behold him like he was someone great—not at all. He was no longer that boy, but he also didn’t understand why you seemed so… bored with him. He had noticed how quick you are to make small talk with everyone else. You and Eisha seemed the closest, given how often you spent the nights in the infirmary. Then it was Follo, given how close you two are in terms of age, and grew even closer when Follo found out about your little guilt.

He could only see Follo’s back form here, not that he minded. He has a perfect view of your face. Your dumb face, giving Follo more consideration than you ever gave him.

‘“How are they, by the way?”’

Zanka remembered how it felt when the poison began to flow through his blood and capture every soft edge of his nerves. His vision purpled, then darkened, then lit again with mottled spores of black. A kaleidoscope burst before his eyes, just as snakes hung high above him.

‘“I gave y’all a lil present a while back… pretty thing with the cutest eyes troubled eyes… they good? Alive, right? Right?”’ That laughter twisted in his ears, “Oh Zanka… you out of it already, huh? Okay, okay! If it wasn’t for the boss man’s orders, I’d slip a little letter in your pocket, so you can be my little messenger… well, I’m sure when they find out you’re dead, they’re gonna come lookin’ for me. And we’ll be together again,”

His feet were picked up, that lanky teen grinning at him with all his teeth and distorted features. ‘“You weren’t into ‘em, right? Just gotta make sure… they always get a lotta attention back home, and I always gotta fight to keep ‘em… so I’m just lettin’ you know that whatever you got goin’ on, ain’t mean shit,”

His body was dragged, and suddenly, he was thinking back at you. Not a single word had registered—not really. He felt the impression of words but couldn’t spell them.

‘“My man… they gon’ hate this… but they gon’ love what I do,”’

‘Your man? Your… what?’

“Yo, quarter combo brows,” Zanka’s gaze tore upwards to the door of the infirmary. You stepped into the infirmary without tact, a hand tucked into your pocket, the other gripping something wrapped in newspaper.

“Sorry for the late gift…” You seemed to look better. He has heard from Eisha in passing that when Tamsy and the others went to locate them, they dropped you off at Mole town. Apparently, you had a place there, and Gris felt kind enough to leave you there when you asked.

You must have just clocked back in, given how much better you looked, if that were possible. To be fair, you always had that thing about you. You tend to stand out no matter what room you’re in, even if you’re standing off to the side. How you could be behind bodies, and he’d still find a way to spot you among them, hiding in plain view. You’d tilt your body side to side, rock on your heels and toes.

“I heard what happened… rough stuff, I’m surprised you’re still alive,” You had the barest of humour in your eyes as you sat on the opposing cot, placing the small box on the small stand between the beds. “How you feelin’?”

Zanka’s lips trembled. You. He hadn’t thought much of you during his recovery—only recently, when suddenly Jabber’s voice infiltrated his head. And even then, he had disregarded your memory in passing. How weird that he thought of you, though. Speak of the devil, and they shall arrive. And the devis has… gotten him a gift…?

“‘M fine, nothing new.” He dragged the blanket higher up his body, though it still bunched at his hips. “Eisha almost got all of it out. Not that lethal,”

You seemed contemplative for a moment, the bags under your eyes emphasised as you looked down at him with equally avoidant glowering. But it was almost snuffed out by the new vigour in your skin, a warmth that replaced the cold clammy that had inhabited your face for a while. “Whatever you say,”

The cot groaned under your weight as you swung both legs up and over the sheets. Your arms are raised and folded behind your head. “If you need anything, ask, okay?”

“I’m not inept,” he fired back. “You can take your pity elsewhere.”

“Miss me with that bullshit, Zan,” You did that thing again with your head, looking at him as you made that face that made his sour. “You helped me out, now imma help you. This ain’t a debate. So quiet down on that—“ You motioned your hand in his direction, encompassing him, “—complex you got goin’ on. Treatin’ me like your enemy, mind you, the worst I’ve ever done was get spit on your shoulder,”

It was the night you were fully able. It was maybe just a night before the Tower situation. You were fully on your feet, and Enjin was determined to give you a proper welcome party, even when word had it that you had fought him because of it. Apparently, you weren’t too into having a party, more focused on getting the medication that Enjin had promised and failed to give you. You had gotten violent, according to some records, a byproduct of that ugly habit you had before joining. It was an ugly fight. The kind where apparently it caused someone to lose a bit of sense—but you were weak, and Enjin had everything over you.

Enjin was disappointed at the time for not trying anything. Well, he did. But Enjin doesn’t know that. He tried to forget it—it was a moment that neither of you had wanted. You were too guilty to even defend yourself; you just gave up when Zanka found you in your own route to a relapse. And he didn’t know why, but he felt gracious enough to help you back to your room and take the bottle away from you before you could.

Laid you down, threw a pillow at your face and called that a night. But there was that quiet acknowledgement to never speak of it again.

“So you’re because you want to thank me?” He coaxed, his fingers fiddling with the cuffs of his long sleeves.

“Yeah, that. You didn’t have to deal with my shit—and I made you uncomfortable,” You murmured, shuffling on the bed. “I know I’m not… the easiest guy to work with. And you don’t know me… I don’t know. You’re very… heroic?”

He had expected more from you. He really did. But your persistence, calm sent hod shudders running up his spine to settle at his face. Now, it has become glaringly obvious that there is a difference between you two. He had prided himself on that calm nature of his, being able to maintain a level head… There were clearly levels to it. You didn’t even look grateful.

“Just doing my job,” He murmured.

“Your job is to clean up trash beasts and train that spherite,” You spoke too quickly, “I ain’t got no part in that equation,”

“Kinda hard to not do anything,”

“True,” Your voice floated to him, and he felt another shudder, “But you didn’t have to take care of me. Easiest choice was to drop me off at the infirmary and tell Eisha… but you were so damn persistent on helping me keep all this a secret… my little nurse all of a sudden,”

His eyes narrowed, “Lookin’ too into it,”

“Alright then,” You gave up too easily for his liking. You shrugged, your dismissal an antiseptic scrubbing away at him.

When you turned your face away to look at the ceiling, Zanka followed your gaze up to the hanging lights. With a huff, he let his body fall back to the pillows, shuffling down to rest his head on the stiff pillow. He dragged the blanket up to his chest, his fingers splaying over his stomach.

This time, he found it impossible to ignore you. He again thought back to your first introduction. Again and again. His mind ceased to follow a linear path of events, flitting amongst several all at once.

How ‘similar’ the two of you were, as he mentioned. How the two of you shared such staggering degrees of social avoidance—with you being a ‘hardcore loner’—a joke probably made in poor taste, given the state they found you in. When Enjin had made the joke again, in front of you, you hardly reacted to the jab. Then, it became apparent the degree of ‘loner’ you were, but Zanka would categorise more of a detachment. That Remlin kid once drew all over your face, and all you were focused on was the fact that the ink was red instead of purple. Throughout all this, you haven’t changed much.

Call him what you will, he was sure you were about to snap one way or another. But you were pleasant throughout the trip. You seemed fixated on him just as much as he was on you, asking questions when you could about him—him. How weird. He had gripped Lovely Assistaff just a tad tighter when you had asked about his duration with a giver status.

‘“So, yer just gonna watch me do all the work, huh?” He had asked, masked and partially obscured by the fine trash clouding the land.

You stood closer than you should, given the threats, ‘“Sorry, you want me to fight with my hands? Want me dead, huh?”’

He couldn’t help the snort there, and he had turned away, ‘“Could at least…”’ do what? What could you do? You were wearing a standard uniform for a reason. ‘“I don’t know, give me a pointer?”’

Quickly, ‘“I like your fighting style,”’ You lifted your hand from your pocket and made a circular motion, ‘“All spins and twirls, looks nice. I like the handling of the staff you got goin’ on,”

Oh. Well, that was new. If only he could see your face, he could tell whether you were being genuine or messing around with him. Maybe you weren’t being genuine. It was too sudden to be something genuine. Suffocating warmth had pooled up to his face, something he was quick to rid of with a curt turn of his head. You were clearly watching him then, right? That proves it! You were watching him! And you were watching him because there was something unique about his fighting style that you just can’t get enough of, right? Yeah, that. He swung and hit, plummeted and struck—and he always found you farther away. Always there, always present. You saw that, right? You saw how he targeted 3 at once? Did you see when he pivoted his heel to get a better grip on the ground? Did you see when his lovely Assistaff took on a minor new form? Of course you did, you’re fixated on him. You’re so obsessed with him, it’s embarrassing. Fine. He’ll give you a show.

You were too careless for his liking, though. Your hands were in the finely ground waste as if it were your first time seeing something like that. Then, when Gris called for you, you raised your arm in mock defence, the sleeves of your loose shirt rolling down to expose your forearm, hints of depleted muscle. And you were slinking back off with the supporters with an attitude in your step, the kind that had the equipment around your hip popping with every step, until you were back at Follo’s side. Then, you were clapping your hand with Follo’s, and he seemed particularly excited to have finally picked up on that greeting gesture.

Communication had grown sparse as the day drew on. In that tower, though, he didn’t notice he’d move closer until his elbow brushed yours. He jerked back as if burned, muttering an excuse about needing more space.

When the smell got to you, you became a distance away. But even when you had snapped out of it, not a damn… change.

‘“What’s wrong with ya’?”’ Zanka has asked you then, when you let the blood running from your nose reach the top of your lip.

Your eyes, shallow and blank, blinked back into awareness and took the slow route to his body. ‘“Huh?”’

Zanka’s brows pulled close, ‘“Yer not as… emotional like everyone else,”’

‘“What’s there to trip over?”’ You simply said. ‘“It’s just a… party trick,”’

A party trick? Who do you think you are? He was sure from then on that you must think of him lowly, or at least don’t care about him as much as you try to appear.

“Wanted to see what type of person you actually are, figured that was my best shot,” Zanka admitted, only to bite his tongue in regret when his voice trembled at the last word. His eyes squeezed shut, a pestering groan escaping his throat. “You piss me off, y’know?”

“I do that,” You spoke, and he felt the frustration all over again. “You hate me, Zanka?”

‘Yes,’

“Hate’s a big word,” He muttered. “I just get iffy ‘bout ya,”

“Because…?”

Yet you weren’t even looking at him. Why not look at him? Making it look like you didn’t even—like you—

“Ya, actually meant what you said back then? ‘Bout me and my instrument?”

“Huh?” You began, bemused and maybe a bit annoyed at having your question go unnoticed, “What did I say again? Oh, right, I said you were cool,”

‘No. You said more than that. You were just speakin’ outta your ass then, huh? Figures… what do you really think of me?

“I mean, you are. Had to say that,”

“Right.” He murmured. “How many people have ya told that to, so far?”

For instance, he saw your composure falter, your eyes flickering with something grim. As though caught off guard, or sunk into something. It lasted for only a few seconds before you were scurrying to mutter, “Uh—plenty others, I guess,”

There it is. The smooth shit talker he knew you to be. Bet you had plenty of others on your roster, huh? How much blood you got in that choker? So whatever you say about him means jack shit in the grand scheme of things. You’re just a pretty face with a pretty mouth. He’d listen to your conversation with Follo on the way back to base, though he was tuckered out much like everyone else. He couldn’t help but want to see what got Follo so invested—what got you so talkative. Saying his name in that low, unimpressed drawl, but still having the decency to maintain eye contact and cling to every word Follo let slip. You said Follo’s name different tho—less focused. Less pronunciation. Less everything. But you said Zanka’s name with so much focus, so much emphasis.

“It’s a bad habit of mine—but I’m honest, you are pretty cool,”

Sure. Whatever you say. It was his fault for ever thinking you meant the compliment.

“The cool people always got this air around them, and in a game as rigged as this one, they always get their way,” you added, sans fail.

Maybe it was the impression of frustration in your voice that had Zanka turning on his side, confusion mottling his face. It was on the nose, wasn’t it? A bit out there?. “Since when did you get introspective?”

“Since 15 seconds ago,”

His face softened a fraction, and he took the opportunity just as it hit the waters, “This bout da—y’know since you… you speakin’ on experience or…?”

For a second, when your lips parted, and your eyes seemed to freeze, Zanka had thought—was sure he had overstepped. Maybe he had let his own curiosity get the better of him and lost the chance to get something unique. Something exclusive out of you. Something that proves that you had something against him. Or something about him. Something. He remembered the exact way you said his name in your first introduction. Again, that low, rumble, a lazy drawl that may have been a product of your lethargy—yet somehow lodged deep in his chest and refused to leave.

“I lost my own game, yeah. But you knew that already, huh?” You meant to joke, but the levity was only that by intention, not tone.

“Who doesn’t?” Zanka had meant to help you with your joke, but you hardly smiled. Suddenly, he felt shittier than before—worse, he felt painfully unfunny. He never cared before—he was no comedian. But now he wondered if the few times he had made a joke before were actually funny or if everyone had a collective duty of pity.

You intercepted before he could spew a half-assed apology, “If it wasn’t for them, then I wouldn’t be here. Not my damn choice, it was theirs and the game allows it. People with the most drive behind their choices tend to overcome the weaker drives…” Your eyes fluttered shut. “There was an easier, non-refundable way… but I was too much of a coward to take it. But when the scary option revealed itself to them, well, they took it no questions asked. willing to take the risk, and that’s why they won,”

Zanka sought your face despite it being partially turned away from him. Your voice, which had been shifting into the depths of frustration, had spontaneously mellowed out into something almost… reverent. Like you were reminiscing on your saviour and their victory, rather than loathing what they represented in your life. On one hand, Zanka perceived it as a joy to be alive. On the other hand, he wondered what made them so special, to win the game that should have been yours for the taking. What made that person so special to make you break character all of a sudden? How many compliments did you give them?

“Eh, if you’d won, we wouldn’t be talkin’ right now, right?” He murmured. “You’re here, talking to me.” It could have been anywhere else, right? You chose to be here. You chose him. You chose to come here and chat him up—bringing him a gift. That means something, right? You WERE watching him. You ARE fixated on him.

Sans etiquette, you blurted, “Yeah, I’d be dead. Right in a pile of trash, too, a broken leg or two,”

“Then that guy made a pretty damn good choice.” Had it not been for them, he would have never met you. You would have never been here. Surely that has to count for something, right? Not that the two of you had some remarkable bond—he didn’t even know your last name. But there was still something about you that he would have missed otherwise. Besides, you and whoever that person was are not on good terms again, right? If you two were, then you’d be with them, so… technically, there is no one else, right?

“Maybe,” You murmured, and suddenly dismissed the conversation with a redirection of your body his way. “Point is, Zanka, from what I could see, you’re pretty good at what you do. The best there are, the strongest I’ve seen… Jabber ain’t got nothing on actual skill.”

Zanka’s eye slit up despite himself. His fingers clenched minutely on the sheets, his lips trembling. “Complimenting me all of a sudden… sounds like yer tryin’ to get on my good side, even after knowing don’t really like you,”

“Hate is such a big word, I’d figure liking me would have been an easier pill to swallow,” You argued with a knowing glint in your pretty eyes.

‘Maybe…’

“And what if it was? What if liking you was easier?” He asked.

“It is easier, you haven’t strangled me yet.”

“Yet.”

Warmth crossed your face, and your lips quirked into something precious and beautiful. Your eyes creased, and your shoulders shook with a small, genuine laugh. It was cruelly quiet, and your voice came out almost mirthful, “I didn’t take you for the guy to make jokes.”

Was that your first smile? Ever? Gotta be, right? He made you… smile? Laugh? It was a nice sound, if he was being completely honest with himself. And it was caused by him. That means only he can make you smile, right? Only he can make you laugh? Not Follo or Eisha or—

Jabber

Zanka scoffed and turned away, “Don’t get it twisted,”

“Alright, Zanka. You got it,”

Yeah, that’s gotta be your first ever smile since joining. And he did that. Him. On his own. And he knows it’s only him so far because your face looked strained when it smiled, like it has forgotten how to. Or hasn’t done so in such a long time, that your face had been muted into that grim exhaustion. How your teeth peek, how your lips curl. To the way your nostrils flared just slightly—paired with the faint smell of the outside and cologne… yeah. He did that. Him.

That proves it then, right?

A smirk pulled on his lips, his face growing warm again. His chest grew tight, and he fought the eager trembling in his shoulders, and that stupid breathy sound that wanted to push past his lips. He clutched the blanket up to his face. ‘They’re seriously obsessed with me!’

‘They want me, me! I knew it!’

Well, then, he got a lot of work to do now, right? Can’t let people think they can come between this, right? Right.

8,879 words [don't get excited, he's sharing with Fu]

Enjin in [Loyalty] Confident, intentionally a bum in some cases,

Enjin as a yandere would be more casual. He is confident enough that I don’t think the infection would start as an insecurity, but rather a confidence that you and he are already destined to be, it just needs to be realised. Additionally, even if you are being pursued by someone else, he has the confidence to feel like he’d win regardless.

According to Semiu, Enjin is more of a bum in the cleaners, constantly chasing after women. It is unknown to me if he is successful or if his methods work. But I do like to think that they do, maybe not all brands of women tho. This is more of a headcanon and not backed by canon evidence (there’s not enough imo), but given that Kyouka asked for her greetings to be passed on to ‘the blond charmer,’ it could be that she was reluctantly charmed by him—or it’s a derogatory given that his ‘charm’ is what brought Zanka over.

Additionally, let’s say she WAS charmed by him—it could follow the trope of big-scary general bought by the weakest flirting game ever (as a funny little diversion trope); or that Enjin has some genuinely good game.

Moving past that, Enjin explicitly likes smart, well-endowed women. In this case, since we are going gender-neutral here for both female and male readers, we will focus only on the smart, non-childish part.

His relationship with you now must have been built on you checking off at least one of those traits. But I also don’t like making a character someone’s exact type. Regardless, his relationship with you as a Yandere is more casual than anything else. He is not outwardly possessive—he expects loyalty from you, and expects you to fight for what you want (him). So I don’t think he would worry if he knew you for that loyalty. If you are loyal to someone else, then that’s where I believe the yandere begins. A jealousy that your loyalty, time, and effort are for someone else.

Enjin is one of the harder ones for me to interpret, oddly. We will refer to his relationship for Fu for a moment. He dislikes Fu, not maliciously, but because he likes it when someone fights and has the drive to get what they want (a trait he likes in Zanka, for example), whereas Fu represents the opposite. Someone who is too passive in life and doesn’t even have the drive to make his own decisions.

This trait is most likely transferable if he meets someone his age, where he would be drawn to people that way. Again, I am not fully up to date on the manga, so my interpretations are NOT the ‘right’ ones! And even if I did read the manga in its entirety, my interpretations would not be the ‘right’ one. [idk, I feel the need to clarify this. We are all entitled to our own opinions!]

[Headcanons|Moderate-Long]

Though I have been exposed to spoilers so…

Enjin, as a yandere, seems to have a high grasp of his morals. I don’t think he would be the type to kidnap and or torture the person his infection made him cling to. Given his background, he may be entirely against stripping you of your autonomy. Instead…

Enjin, as a yandere, or a slow-developing yandere, is the type to gauge out what makes other people so interesting to you. He has most likely already tried his hand at you—he is the type to let you know from day one how he feels about you. So, the infection only started because you turned your back on him, either because of loyalty or simply a lack of attraction to him.

He will not force your hand, but he will become insufferable in his frequency. He is here, there, atop buildings, watching you go about your day. He won’t interfere with your day-to-day routine, but he also can’t help but wonder where you go, or what you do in a day.

Maintaining that friendship with you is easy; he knows when to back off in his flirting. But he can’t help but want to be around you all the same. If you need a favour, he will be your guy. He won’t trip over himself to do that favour for you, but if he catches wind of you needing that, he will try to get to you—he’ll find you way before you find him. He’s not omnipotent, so he doesn’t know where you are 24/7; he will ask around, though.

When he’s desperate to know your location, he will take it to Tamsy.

If he wants advice, he will go to Semiu—then make a face when the woman shuts down his delusions.

He is not cruel in his pursuit, nor is he trying to be a creep about it; he will try to make sure the two of you are always going together or at the same place. And if he can’t, he won’t trip over it.

If your loyalty is elsewhere, let’s say another man or organisation, then his approach will be somewhat different.

At first, he will try to move on and give you the space that you need from him. He will be determined not to come off as a creep or harass you, so he will try to make sure he is not near you. But he still gravitates towards you, finding himself in places you normally go to, subconsciously, just to try and catch a glimpse of you.

Semiu had probably told him some ways to move on, because she can’t stand seeing the bum even more of a bum over someone he can’t even have. She recommends finding something else to do—maybe even take on some jobs to distract himself. On rare occasions, if she feels the situation is not changing, she would recommend a random hookup to take his mind off it for good. Find someone else to obsess over. She doesn’t root for that route; it is more like a ‘if everything else fails…’ option.

The infection started with envy. Where he lies alone in bed, you’re probably with your partner. He’s alone, cold, a little horny, but mostly cold. Probably spending your nights in someone else’s arms, where you could have been in his, had it not been for your partner.

Now he’s wondering what they have that he doesn’t. Your loyalty is phenomenal, but surely this person has to be undeserving, right? What could they possibly do to get you whipped over them? He’s watching you when you can with your partner, trying to understand the dynamic or the character of your partner.

He could try all he likes to imitate what you like. But again, that drive and loyalty that drew him to you in the first place is unshakeable.

Enjin is not the type to kill anyone. Not with his background at the very least. His method is to have events that align a little too well. Sabotage and a lack of active manipulation. He is the type to let things play out, let things find themselves to him rather than the other way around. If he has suspicions of your partner cheating, then he’ll let it happen and help you find out without letting you know that he knows.

If your loyalty is to an organisation…

Loyalty was hard to come by for most. There could never be someone who is, undoubtedly, 100% loyal to a cause. However, Enjin wouldn’t jump to crucify anyone for disloyalty, as he had learned in his upbringing that loyalty can come in many shades, with its own exceptions. Though even then, that would be the rare exception, not a cookie-cutter of what happens. Furthermore, he could even say that sometimes disloyalty can be black or white; there isn’t always a reason. Not always a strong moral code or stressful circumstance, it just is.

He had known about the supposed disloyalty, more prominently when that young teen first approached him with all nerves and a severe lack of a Raider’s drive—that scrawny kid who never ceased to embarrass him with his awkward standstills and persistent whining.

But it really wasn’t the kid himself that evoked the wonder on the grey areas of disloyalty; it was you.

He had been just moments away from turning his back on the teen, after deducing that he was hardly a threat to him (more like a distraction if anything), when the kid started blabbering about a ‘security blanket’.

“Huh? Security Blanket?” Enjin prodded with an arched brow, his body turning a fraction towards the shorter teen. Standing within the walls of buried trash, curving walls, and the occasional tremor under his feet, wonder brewed in his mind. Piercing his worry and anxiety was a stupid image of this kid wrapped up in a comically large, fuzzy blanket, pink and worn at the edges, maybe with a blaring logo on the front. The image evoked the nastiest cringe his face has ever formed.

The stench only added to his disgust, but it was becoming a more tolerable trait than the cursed imager.

Seeing the older, and objectively cooler man, standing in disgusted silence, Fu found himself twiddling his fingers. The pads of his sweaty index fingers pressed together in fleeting kisses, his eyes sweeping his feet, Enjin’s feet, his body, his face, before promptly falling back to his feet.

“Yeah, well—Mr. Zodyl wanted to make sure we got this right, so we made sure to have all our odds played out for us…!” He fumbled again with his hands, his voice a jarring discordance that grated on Enjin’s ears. Socially inept, or maybe willfully ignorant (Enjin wagered it was the former), Fu garnered a sliver of confidence to whip his head up and, facing forward, crossed eyes despite attempting to make eye contact, and squealed:

“They let us know what all we have to do to make sure we win…!”

He knew the Raiders had their own teams, their own front lines and supporters… it wasn’t exactly hard to come by. But he hadn’t expected them to have a giver, maybe similar to that of Semiu. A giver with the ability to make predictions? And without risking blindness, that is? Well, maybe the kid wasn’t a total loss, after all.

“’They’,” Enjin reiterated, now dropping his harsher tone in place of something neutral, “So, you guys have a lucky Giver?”

Like clockwork, Fu’s eyes lit up upon realising Enjin’s full attention is on him (going exactly as he hoped!). He hopped in place, hands clenched with barely restrained victory. “Yup!” He spoke, popping the ‘p’. “They’re always nice to me, and always letting me know what I can do to win! And they told me that I have to win this fight, because if I don’t, then they can’t stop Zodyl from getting to me!”

Though spoken with a rush of excitement, his own words forced their way back to his ear, and his mood plummeted as quickly as his hands. His eyes flitted to his shoes again, his mouth salivating, “…I have to fight you, and win… I have to fight you and win, okay?! So… If you don’t mind…! Can you throw the first punch!?”

‘Oh yeah, easy money,’ Enjin rolled his head back, his face twisting into uncertainty, “I don’t know…” He drawled, “Hitting a kid is not really on my payroll… besides, it would feel so… wrong…”

“Huh?!” Fu gasped and took an eager step forward, “I—I can tell you more about them! Yeah! I can give you the info and-and—and we can fight! How’s that?”

“Well, when you put it like that…”

“Okay!” Fu chirped, smiling wide again as though he had finally cracked the code to getting his face caved in. He fidgeted on his pointed shoes, glancing about as though the walls may have the answers.“Uh, okay—so you need info on them uh—Oh!” He perked, “They’re really close with Mr. Zodyl!”

‘Close…’

“Like a second in command?” Enjin inquired. The kid nodded dumbly before him, smiling so hard that Enjin wondered if his face didn’t hurt.

“Yeah! They’re always around him—but they’re also the person who usually gives the talk-down to the new recruits! They were there when I first joined!” He added on as his thoughts drifted in whimsical recollection. You were one of the nicer ones. To be fair, no one had really done anything harmful to him, nor did they make him feel particularly unwelcome. Well, apart from Zodyl, who never ceases to express his disinterest in Fu’s constant dependence. Especially since it ‘impeded’ on Zodyl’s time with you. Regardless, it was you who had shown him to his quarters, you who had given him his first directive as a Raider, and you had allowed him to trail you whenever Zodyl refused to.

Enjin nodded along to the tale, his earlier intrigue now reduced to a dying flame. “Yeah, see, no offence, little man, but I thought you had more juicy deets…”

Fu’s whimsy severed itself as his body straightened like an iron rod, “Oh…!” His voice trembled, “I-I do! I really do!”

Enjin made a face, tilting his head away, “Uh, sounds to me like you only know them on a professional basis.”

That worked enough to stir up his concern. Fu was squirming in place, looking about the inside of the structure for a second time. Then, epiphany struck him faster than Enjin ever could, and the dimples on his face grew pronounced as he stood with a more rigid readiness.

“They’re loyal!” He barked.

Enjin blinked, “I’d expect as much,” He clicked his tongue, “Nothing really surprising. Gotta be loyal to work in a business like that,”

He tried not to think much of the Raiders. If he were being completely honest with himself, he would still hold the outdated views of the Raiders—that they’re a bunch of givers and non-givers, thrashing, raiding, and committing petty crimes. Even when the news hit of experimentation, he was still under the impression that most of them were petty criminals. If Zodyl really did wrack up a group of pure givers, he has to assume that most of their loyalty was deriving from some form of compensation. He can say here that Jabber’s reason is most likely the thrill of it all. Fu here was probably just because he had nowhere else to be. You? You must be getting paid.

“So what’s their weekly salary, huh? Info? A vacation? An item?”

Enjin had expected Fu to jump at the ready to answer his question, but the tn had only deflated, looking far more crossed than upset. His eyes never faced the challenge, though. His meekness was a constant reminder, but his voice came out almost firm. “…They’re loyal to the cause… like—”

He stopped himself. “They’re not being nice to me because of something else…!”

‘Yeah…whatever you say, kid,’

With enough sense to know when something was a touchy topic, Enjin pivoted, “Okay… what about… I don’t know… what’s their vital instrument?”

Fu’s mood seemed unable to replenish itself, “I can’t talk about that,”

Finally, Enjin’s impatience muted, “What?” His tongue rendered inoperable, all he could do was express his genuine surprise to receive a… what, pushback, from this meek, compliant teen?

Fu shuffled on his feet, feeling the scorching gaze, “They ordered me beforehand to never speak of their vital instrument, no matter what…! So that question is off…!”

It would be common sense to say that it was just the general rule. That’s how it works in the ground, right? Never ask someone about their vital instrument, never make a comment about it, never look at it. Mind your business, wait for the giver to talk about it. But this seemed like a deliberate act that felt more… rare? Like, even knowing was too much information? This person can’t be a…

No. There can’t be… No.

“Then…is that person here right now?”

Fu’s crestfallen demeanour disturbed him more than his awkwardness, “Zodyl doesn’t let them leave base… too ‘valuable’…heh…” Fu laughed to himself, “…if only I could be too valuable to leave home… then I could just stay at base and run little errands…”

‘If only…’ -

Alone. Fu knew that one way or another, he was going to end up alone again. It was only the vague comfort and the harsh insults of Hii that kept him company. His face sagged with every daunting second in the wastes, having long given up on communication. He lay curled in the nook and cranny of one of the trash heaps, finding the tight space a secure hole for the night. Or maybe every other night if he doesn’t get his bearings.

‘krrrk crrkkk frrrk!’ The equipment scratched in his ears, and he jumped to pinch it with his fingers. What had started as his momentary relapse into a depressive state burst into adulation of the highest decree.

“H-hello?!” He squeaked, his sagging face tightening into a hopeful smile. “M-Mr. Zodyl?! Cthoni?!…Jabber…?”

If it were Jabber, then he wouldn’t expect any help, anyway. Maybe just 5 minutes of laughter again.

‘Krrrk crrk!’ Static echoed and pinched his nerves, a voice struggling amongst the static. Franticness rose in waves, and he unclipped the choker from his throat to hold in his hands and up to his ears. Only to clip it back on a second later, when he thought the static had stopped.

‘“Crrk—Fu—there?”’

He rolled out of the nook and cranny and leapt onto the ledge and scaled the heap. “W-wait! I need to get a better signal! I can hear you!”

You. Oh you! Oh, how glad he was to hear from you!

His palm scraped against sheet metal that might as well have spelt tetanus with its rust. Standing on his rickety, hopefully temporary home, he stood at the ready. “It’s you!” His eyes grew wet, and he saluted at nothing, “Fu, reporting for duty!”

At the new height, the transmission of your voice smoothed over, and he could hear the crisp coldness that both unnerved and comforted him. Pricks ran up his arm as a sudden lightheaded sensation washed over him.

‘“It’s me…”’ He could imagine you in your office, sitting on that swivel chair that Zodyl had recently got for you. ‘“Are you hurt?”’

His smile trembled, and he wiped the creek of crimson moving down to his fingers. “No! I am ready for my orders!”

Still, his legs gave out, and he crumpled onto his butt on sheet metal and junk. His knees drew to his chest, and he plucked Hii from his pocket with a quiet, “We’re going home…!”

“I… I made it out of the trash beast… I think they forgot me…hah…” He spoke with a fiddle.

Silence met him at first, one that he had worried would be a lost connection. But then your voice returned to him with equal conviction,‘“I’m glad to hear you’re okay,”’

His voice quivered, “T-thank you! Um—my location—uh—I don’t know where I am! I can see a mountain up ahead—north—no, east? Uh—maybe if I just—”

‘“Fu, relax. Breathe.”’

Fu sucked in a greedy lungful of air, choked on the dust particles, and coughed it up. He inhaled again, exhaled. “Okay—I’m relaxing!”

He heard a sigh on the other end, ‘”…right. Okay, so… from what I’ve heard, you’ve failed to complete your mission, correct?”’

Of course, you knew. Cthoni must have sat you down and recited every detail of it. From the launch to Fu’s pathetic squirming.

‘“You have not fought your assigned cleaner, even after I’ve paired you all with the ones I felt you’d fare well against—with the exception of… Miss Noerde, to whom I failed with my own predictions…”’

Fu had wanted to retort. Had wanted to assure that it was furthest from the truth. If anything, he wouldn’t have gotten the sliver of confidence had you not done the prediction check. But not a sound escaped his lips, and again, he was thwarted by his own cowardice.

‘“Regardless of that… you’ve failed.”’ You paused. ‘“There will be no one coming for you.”’

His body grew cold, and he couldn’t get a word in before you started spewing.

‘“Wherever you are, please find yourself the nearest town. Let me know when you do, and I’ll transfer some money to you.”’

“Huh?” Fu finally mustered. “I—what did Mr. Zodyl say—”

‘“Zodyl is not pleased with your performance, and does not know I am in communications with you.”’ The imagery of you sitting in your office transmuted to you seated in the corner of your room, or the mouth of the pipe system, hunched over and looking over your shoulder. ‘“He had instructed us all to cut our ties with you—I have watched everyone do so. And he watched me do so.”’

Fu’s throat ran dry, confused “…Then…How—”

‘“I still have some of your blood from my previous prediction. I re-formed our bond that way. So I don’t have much time to speak before he notices my absence…”’

Fu sniffled, bringing a hand to wipe his face, “Th-thank you—”

‘“Don’t mention it.”’ The audio cut out, then returned. ‘“I do not know if you’re still with us. If he considers you a part of us. But it will be best to assume otherwise. Proceed with yourself as an informal exile. Remove your uniform if you can,”’

“I—I can’t!” He exclaimed, looking down at his patchwork of white and purple fabric. “I’m not wearing anything else under this!”

Silence. ‘“Do you see any grime around you? Mud or anything of the sort to stain your uniform with?”’

“Uh—no…? Wait, I can climb this peak and check!”

‘“Do that.”’

Fu released the choker and slid off the sad excuse of a shelter to rush to the larger hill of rock and trash. He climbed it with not much hassle, apart from loose gravel every now and then. Reaching the top, he found the vantage point provided him with a broader view of the flat lands and the trash-littered rubble. In the far distance, he can see the remains of the trashbeast, tyre marks from where the Cleaner’s recovery vehicles were. A part of him wanted to search for Noerde, given what you said; she must be around, too. Not dead. Can’t be dead. A woman like her?

He glanced all around, and frowned, “No… nothing…”’

‘“Well… it would be smart to lay low. The hellguard will most likely do a patrol following the recent events, especially paired with the Spherite’s involvement. If they find you, they will try to take you in. You’ll likely lose your life. Avoid them at all costs,”

He swallowed thickly, “Okay… lay low… got it.”

‘“Where exactly are you, again?”’

More confidently, Fu blurted, “By the trash beast,”

‘“Good. I can help you from there… There should be a town 3 hours from you. 2 and a half if you run to the northeast.”’

“Okay…” He breathed out. “Well, I… When can I come back…?”

‘” As I said, assume you’ve been exiled. If you attempt to return, I will be unable to vouch for you. You’ve made your weaknesses and failures clear to him; I cannot promise you life. Stay away, and you’ll be safe. Avoid the hellguards, and you’ll be safe. When you can, get a change of clothes with the money I’ll be sending. I’ll give the locals in town a call, and they should be able to provide a room for you to stay in. But…keep your senses sharp, don’t trust them easily, and try not to make yourself too known, you’re still wearing that Raider’s uniform—do you have your lantern?”’

“Yes…”

‘“Toss it.”’

His throat bobbed. “Okay.. yes… I can do that…”

‘“Good. Though it’s going to get dark soon… on second thought, keep it on you. You’ll need the light. Just make sure to be discreet about yourself,”’

He nodded profusely, “Okay.”

Silence fell again, and he found only comfort in knowing you were on the other side.

‘“That is all I can do for you, Fu.”’

His heart dropped into his stomach. He found himself sitting again to ease the tremble in his knees. “Can I still talk to you?”

‘“Operations and plans are changing right now. I cannot uphold communications past this point. And I cannot disappear again without bringing alarm to myself. I’ll have to sever our connections again, permanently.”’

Fu’s face grew numb, “…What am I supposed to do no…?”

‘“Currently, I am no longer your superior, or your comrade. You do not need an order from me, or my advice. Therefore—”

“Wait! Please!” He started. “I can—don’t—”

‘“Goodbye, Fu.”’

“I just need one more order!”

‘“Take care of yourself before I do,”

‘Crk!’

-

When Enjin had flown out of that tunnel, he had entirely expected that to be the last he’d ever see of Fu. No, that was a bald-faced lie. What he meant was that he had expected there to be a long period of time before he got to see that teen again. Preferably (or maybe not) with the rest of the raiders. The Food district was as colourful as every other part of Canvas town, with painted depictions of food and snacks on every shack and building to signify their niche. Enjin sat on a low stool, having shed his jacket and still arming himself with Umbreaker under his palm.

Having long finished his food, he was satisfied with just sitting there, stewing in the comforts of camaraderie. Dear Santa helping himself to one too many slices, with Bro urging the boy to consider how much he can physically handle. Then there was Rudo eating his food with gusto—under the promise of dessert, of course. And Remlin—

‘“It was Jabber!”’

As though the Sphere had curated Fu solely to agitate him, they had chosen to deposit him right into Canvas town. All short and rigid, with nothing different about him but maybe the smell of someone who hasn’t taken a shower yet. As one would expect, what had started as a quiet speculation on Amo’s whereabouts had spiralled into panicked aggression towards the raider teen.

Insults hurled left and right, Fu, a fugitive soldier, accepting all hurled derogatory epithets even though he quaked in his pointed shoes.

“He had to get through the entrance like everyone else,” Was what Enjin had to resort to when the teen was accused of being here for harm. As much sense it would make for a Raider to be here for—well—a raid, this was not just any other Raider… This was Fu. And Fu is… well…

Enjin looked the teen up and down, strangely drawn to the old conversation that had reached an untimely end. Not because Fu had run out of things to say. Oh no, the teen was eager to spill as much praise as he could—but because that was the moment Bro and Dear had swooped in.

“So, what, you’re alone?” Enjin probed, swinging an arm to rest on the back of his chair, his legs open in casual affairs, his finger tapping the curved handle of Umbreaker. “Thought your lucky giver was such a loyal buddy… you’d think they’d come get you instead of letting you wander alone…”

Fu, instead of deflating, perked up. “Well…! They are here! And they want to talk to you at the bar down the street! They didn’t leave me!”

Bro jumped to his feet, “Two raiders?! Here?!”

Fu, catching his mistake, turned quickly, “N-not like that! Day off! It’s their day off!”

“And they wanna get buddy-buddy with the enemy?” Enjin murmured.

Remlin, finding the confrontation more humorous than anything, grinned around their slice, “I call bull!”

“I swear!” Fu screeched. “Please just tru—come with me! They asked me to get you!”

“I don’t trust it,” Bro spoke over the table. “He’s a raider,”

“And I’m a cleaner,” Enjin swung his legs over and stood to his feet, “The only way those two can get through is to have no bad intentions… so I doubt this is a set-up… but if something goes wrong…” His finger looped around the snug choker, “I’ll let y’all know,”

Fu had calmed down once Enjin’s subordination was confirmed, swinging his arms on either side of him, looking more like a happy scout than a deadly raider. Still, Enjin’s guard was something unshakeable even in the face of something perceivably harmless. It’s the harmless-looking ones that do the most damage, after all.

“Right here…!”

Fu stopped obediently at the mouth of an open bar, where there was a greater population slumped over tables or laughing loudly to the other drunks. Fu smiled to himself, feeling and looking accomplished. Glowing, even.

Enjin looked about the open bar, to the bar counter, the stools, then the surrounding picnic tables of drunks. His gaze swept over twice, including the graffiti next, the location, and the visibility.

“Well… where are they?”

The teen snapped out of his glow and quickly pointed, “Right there on the stool—” He scurried off moments before finishing, squeezing through crowds to reach one of the occupied stools at the bar.

“I brought him for you!” He chirped with that same accomplished enthusiasm.

Enjin followed him after a few beats, stopping short of someone looking out of place. Out of place because they were drinking ice cream in soda, where everyone else had a bottle. If he could describe you in one word, it would be rigid. Where he characterised Fu by the random rigidness in his posture, you appeared rigid internally and externally. Back straight, hair well groomed, and clothing business casual. A long-sleeved buttoned-up, well-groomed, untucked and loose around your body.

Your head turned to regard Fu, your eyes fixed in a narrow shape, your brows permanently creased. He’d reckon that the job must have stressed you out enough so that now your face can’t seem to relax from their agitation.

“Thank you, Fu. You did well,”

The teen beamed, and you turned around entirely. “Good night, Mr. Enjin. I am—”

“I know who you are,” Enjin interjected, “He told me about you before,”

“I’ve heard,” You murmured. “Please, join me.”

You slipped off the barstool to take a seat at one of the tables, lowering yourself in the chair, whereas Enjin plopped down into his.

Then you turned to Fu, reaching into your bag to pluck a pouch. “Buy yourself some dinner,”

The coins jingled as the pouch landed in his palm. “What should I get?”

“Anything,”

“…but…what?”

Enjin’s eyes never left your face, “Get soup or something…. And give us 30 minutes. I got a lotta questions,”

“I can’t do 30,” You insisted.

“Kid told me it’s your day off… You can do 30.”

You made a sound, and Enjin couldn’t tell if it was amusement or surprise. Still, you turned to Fu, “Give us 30 minutes—get mild spice noodle soup. A fork. And no onions.”

Like he was bestowed the holy grail, Fu saluted and rushed out of the open bar perimeter to move down the road. Attempting to locate a noodle shop.

Your eyes watched him go, waiting until his body disappeared from the crowd and he took the path to the noodle shop. Once confirming his absence, your gaze moved to Enjin, hardening into something firm and professional. Where your eyes took him in, plus the surroundings, Enjin could only watch you. You weren’t as slimy as he thought you’d look… the top unbuttoned, and he spotted the hint of a necklace under your choker. Your vital instrument, maybe?

His gaze jumped back to your eyes, “So, you’re a raider? Or you’re like him and just… abandoned?”

You hummed, surprisingly at ease around him despite your exterior, “No, I’m still a raider.”

He had expected riddles and clues. Expected you to curve the question, or to spew filler to avoid answering it directly. Your direct character greatly satisfied him, and he found himself slumping into his chair. He motioned with his hand, “Does Zodyl know you’re here?”

“Mr. Typhon did not need to know my whereabouts. I requested a day off, and he gave that to me.”

“And you chose to come here of all places? For… What? You two knew we were here, so-”

“Allow me to interject,” You raised a manicured hand and waved it at him. His eye twitched, but he caught himself short of saying something… unkind. You planted your hand on the tabletop, your fingers tracing the lines in the wood. “I did know you were here. My… vital instrument is very versatile… After Fu’s unfortunate exile, I made a special effort to locate and meet him personally to discuss his migration options. He had informed me of his interest in you and your agency. So, under the standard of procedures, I have compiled his documents for him, and am here on behalf of him, to vouch for his place within your agency.”

“Vouch? Wait-”

“Yes, yes,” Your hands reached into a satchel that he hadn’t noticed before. A raggedy thing held together by bold stitches, hopes, and dreams. You drew two yellow envelopes from the bag, setting both in the centre of the table. “I am touching for his transfer into the Cleaners Department.” You reiterated.

Befuddled, Enjin leaned forward, pointing squarely, “But… you’re a raider!”

“I am.”

He tried again, “Your guys—” He pointed at you”—tried to kill my guys.” He pointed at himself.

You nodded once, “Yes, I am aware. I read the report.”

Should he shout? Laugh? Smoke? All three? Why were you so casual about this? Why aren’t you… maybe… trying to set him up? You’re just… handing over one of your own like that? Like a business plan? Why does he feel like he’s about to receive papers regarding custody rights? He raised his hands in mock surrender and let them fall back to the table.

“…You lost me.” He spoke with a lightness in his tone, too focused on the shock of the situation to focus on anything else.

Your eyes were cold and steady, and you pointed down to one of the envelopes. “It is my job as his superior to ensure that he receives a 2-week notice before being let go. Unfortunately, given the circumstances of his exile, abandoned within the trash beast-”

“You guys left him there?!” Enjin shouted and greatly appreciated the blast of music, keeping the conversation somewhat private. His shouting, however, did cause spittle to land on your cheeks.

You mildly flinched, raised a hand, and wiped it away. Your fingers pinched and rubbed the fabric of your shirt. “Mr Typhon had left him there, yes. I was as appalled as you, but I had to be less obvious about it when I heard,”

‘…huh,’ His eyes assessed you one final time, the haze of purple pulling back to show him, someone almost… soft? Was that… is that affection he’s picking up on? Were you… Were you actually a—

“So, despite all that…” He trailed as he enunciated, “You just… you’re helping him? Helping him join us? The enemy?”

“Fu was my subordinate. He deserves the bare minimum of protection and documentation. The envelopes before you are his documents.”

Dumbly, his gaze dropped to the envelopes on the table. His jaw slacked, his eyes honed in on the ‘Raidr’s Archive’ label seated at the very front.

Ignoring his stunned expression, you pointed your finger at the thicker envelope, “These are his basics, like his age and blood type and his psychological and physical evaluation—”

“You guys do that?” He interrupted with astonishment.

You nodded simply, “Alongside physiological evaluation, strengths, weaknesses, Giver status, state of Vital instrument, weakness of said instrument; My job is to be as thorough as possible,”

“Wow…” He gaped as his eyes tracked yours, “So, uh… you’re very… thorough, huh?”

“I do what I must.”

For a moment, he couldn’t help but linger on the modulated tone of your voice. How smooth it falls from your lips despite their rigidity and cold expressions. He could even say it gives off very much secretary vibes. But more on the macabre side—only because of who you work for.

“I am also providing myself as a kind of bargain, eye witness, or whatever you wish to refer to me as, to ensure the contract is legally binding.”

‘Contract?’ His gaze flitted to the second envelope. ‘Must be that…’

“I think we can take the legality out of the picture,” He gestured to your overall appearance and his. “Besides, I’m not sure signing a contract with a raider is a good move for me.”

“You’ll have sufficient time to read it, if that’s what you’re worried about,”

“It’s more like association,” He spoke again, trying to disguise his still-assessing gaze, “No offence to you or anything, but I can’t sit here and pretend to be cordial as if this is a simple transfer,”

You didn’t even flinch. If anything, you appeared almost apologetic. His stubbornness was something to be rationalised and discussed over. He had expected more of a… visceral reaction from you, in all honesty. But you just…

“It could be if you ignore our previous Spherite dispute,” You offered, and he almost choked.

“And that’s just ignoring everything!” He exclaimed. “Seriously, I can’t even trust the kid enough to seriously believe he is not a raider anymore. You’re here for what, the goodness of your heart?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit,”

“Whether you believe me or not does not change my intentions,”

His lips flew open, then pressed shut. His eyes averted for a moment before falling upon you again. Staring into the pools of your eyes, you had the severe lack of life that every other giver lacks. A dreadful crestfallen haze that made you look as uncanny as everyone else. His voice quieted, “You said your boss doesn’t know you’re here… you’re telling the truth?”

Your voice floated to him in a softer breath, “I am.” Your eyes held his despite his prior outburst, “I did inform him of my absence, but not the reasons for it.”

“So, you’re a traitor,” He pressed.

You shrugged with a simple ‘hmph’, “Only if I’m caught,”

The whiplash from your professionalism to a simple admittance of ‘if I’m caught’, unfortunately, pulled a snort from his lips. His hand raised, and he clapped it over his mouth, leaning back as his shoulders shook. “You—no way…”

At the epicentre of this newfound humour in his person, your visage was equally confused as it was strangely pleasant. “That’s funny to you?”

“A raider disobeying orders to help out the abandoned? Yeah, kinda is… you’re… not who I thought you were…”

Without needing to hear them directly, you picked up on the implications with a frown. “I am still a loyal subordinate to Mr. Typhon. That part of me is consistent,”

“Debatable,” he mused, rocking his chair back with more ease than the beginning allowed him to. “If you were loyal to him, then you would have told him where you were heading, and who you were planning to talk to… but this is all your dirty little secret, right?” His lips pulled wider. “I’m your little secret, huh?”

Your lips curled further. “Yes.”

“Yeah?” He coaxed in a lower voice, before raising his arm, “Let’s get some drinks, then.”

The concept was unprecedented to him. A raider and cleaner getting friendly? Maybe more if time allows it? Hah, a story for the ages! Well… a story he won’t tell anyone, maybe Gris if both were really, really intoxicated, that is.

“Oh no, I’m fine,” You said grimly, “I’m not a drinker…”

“But you’re out of the job, temporarily,” he reminded as the bartender approached. “So, have a drink on me—Your little secret,”

“I’m fine, really—”

“Two whiskeys,”

Your eyes glanced up at the bartender, no one worth noting, then back at Enjin. “One drink.”

“There you go,” At his call, the waiter left in a scurry with the order, leaving the two in their lonesome again.

Enjin lifted his arms and folded them behind his head once again. “So, I take it you will loosen up once you get this drink, right?”

“Most likely,”

“Well…” he glanced down at the package, “I’m willing to let Fu into my team…” He trailed off with an almost sly grin.

You perked instantly, “I am very glad to hear that-”

“Buuttt,” he dragged, “I got a few more questions for you… call them the dealbreakers…”

“Give me your worst,” You fired back.

Sans, missing a beat, threw at you, “What’s someone like you doing in a place like the Raiders?”

Your lips flew open. “Fu is—Pardon?” Your mood plummeted, stunned.

His lips quirked, finding your stunned silence almost adorable, given how uptight you were the entire night. “You, in the raiders, why?”

You acclimated quickly, he’s gotta give you props for that. In no time, you were appearing as confident as ever, looking even more flushed in that shirt and that updo. “I suppose…” You started with a quiet murmur, “They found me first.”

“Really?” He probed. “So… no money under the table, no ransom, no evil desires, just… they found you first?”

Your brow arched, and you met his teasing probe with a pointed jab, “Did you really think I was there for something else?”

“Well… yeah!” He strained the last of his suspicions. “I thought you were evil or something! You mean to tell me you’re loyal because they found you first?!”

“Exactly that,” A glass was set down before you, golden brown liquid settling. The glow of the liquid caught your eyes for a moment. “If I were founded by the cleaners, I’d be loyal to them.”

He thought over it for a moment, “What if you change loyalties?”

“As in?”

“Join the cleaners?” His gaze hardened, though he tried to accompany the sudden seriousness of his voice with a lazy wave of his hand. “I mean… If you don’t mind transferring one of your own to us… Why not join us yourself?”

You answered without a second to waste, as though it didn’t need to be thought over. Not like how he thought over your loyalty. It was as if the Raiders were simply your destiny to the very end. And you exemplified that with a prideful tilt of your head. “I’m simply not interested in that transfer. I like what I do in the Raiders, and I am loyal to their cause.”

“The raiders cause, or Zodyl’s?”

Enjin had known that question to arouse something new out of you. He had wondered the depth of your loyalty ever since he realised your generosity was genuine and not some falsified bullshit to get leverage on something. To his frustration and interest, your answer was delayed by the palpable silence surrounding you. Your hand lifted to the skin peeking from your unbuttoned shirt, scooping up the necklace that he can confirm now, to be—

“Zodyl is a greedy man…” Your voice penetrated the pregnant pause, your available hand wrapping around the cool glass of whiskey, “When I first met him, he let me know all he expected from me. The more time I spend with him, the greedier he gets… To get anything in this world, where our very geography puts us at a disadvantage, is to play the game unfairly. To cheat, to con, to be as greedy as possible. His drive, his cause—they all exemplify what it means to be a raider,”

Of all things, your warmth was only expressed for… him. Him? That blunt and melancholic-looking man? The same one with the raggedy coat and—according to Rudo—no friends? The same one who abandoned Fu in the first place, and that blonde woman? How closed-minded can you be? What kind of confinement did he have on you?

“The cleaners could use more givers,” He pitched despite himself. “Especially more with the ability like that. I mean… we got one already. But hey, I could be a greedy man too since you’re into that,”

Humoured, you shook your head and released the necklace, “Not as much as him.”

He scoffed, his eyes dropping to the jewellery, “He gave you that necklace?”

Again, warmth encompassed you. “He did,” you said, smiling. “A token of his—”

“I could get you a better one,” His voice interjected in a dismissive tone. For once, you were rendered into absolute silence, your gaze depleting itself of the affection you had felt only seconds ago.

He held your stare, “I’m gonna be blunt with you: I thought you were going to be another know-it-all wannabe villain. But… you surprised me. You’re loyal, I give you that, but even you have a sense of morals. I can respect that about someone, but if you have to go behind your boss’s back just to help someone, maybe they’re not for you. Maybe you’re better off somewhere you can help people,”

Though even his honesty was not enough to shake your resolve. That was impressive of you. Someone not so swayed by words, tempted by them, or even considering them? How can he hate you for that, when this is the type of loyalty people will kill for? Zodyl… how did you land someone like this?

“That’s just the way it is.” You defended, “Me helping Fu is my personal motive, Zodyl doesn’t have to know because what I do in my personal life is none of my concern.”

“Does he hold the same value?”

“You clearly don’t,” Came your quick spat. “We are not here to discuss my personal life,”

He shrugged, “Can’t blame a guy for wanting to get to know you better…”

“On a professional basis, I will allow, but nothing beyond that.”

It was hard to take you seriously when this was the most flushed you’ve ever been—and he just watched you express almost reverence to your boss. Working off your present irritation, he snorted, “Maybe it’s just me… but I figured that since you’re handing one of your own over… that we’d be in contact more often,” he motioned vaguely to where Fu had disappeared. “If Fu acts up, who else am I supposed to rant to?”

“It would be none of my concern what he does under your care,” You grumbled.

Tickled, “But don’t you wanna know his progress?” He persisted, “‘Hey, Fu just defeated his first trashbeast’ or ‘Fu finally picked something for himself off the menu’,”

“He’s seventeen, not an infant.” You were good at most things, but for some reason, you found yourself unable to modulate yourself with Enjin, every possible jab at you. Your brows furrowed together, and your frustrations became as apparent as Enjin’s lack of indulgence in his own glass of whiskey. “I don’t need to maintain a connection over something as trivial as his personal life…”

“Fine then,” He conceded, “How about this: I take you out sometime?” He finally dropped, and the look of utter befuddlement crossing your face was something he was sure going to remember, “We’ll need a connection for that, right?”

When your lips curled into a snarl, he leaned back in his chair, “You said yourself, boo, your boss doesn’t gotta know what you do in your personal life. Mines don’t gotta know about my life either, so…” He propped his head on his elbow, flashing a confident smirk your way, “How you doin’?”

The chair screeched as you stood abruptly, your hands fisting into your pockets. You plucked a handful of coins and tossed them on the table, mortified just as much as you were disrespected.

“Thanks for having me, but I’ll be off now,”

‘Shit. Too bold, Enjin,’ His hand closed around his own drink as you circled the table. He tilted the rim to his lips and swallowed the brown liquid in one burning gulp. He slapped the glass down, reached into his own wallet, and tossed a few dollar bills onto the old table.

Then he turned on his heel. “Hey, wait up!”

He didn’t know how, but you were already on the streets. How did you manage to get through the crowd so quickly? He had to squeeze past people, hop over a few drunks, just to be graced with your retreating form. “Look, my bad, I get it! Just that—well, you’re pretty much my type. All cold and serious, but you got a soft side about you—you’re not who I thought you’d be! I thought we were getting’ along and vibin’—”

You scoffed, “‘Vibin’?”

“Uh—syncing? Twinning?” He paused, then tried again, “Help me out here, babe. Where did I go wrong?”

“Just—” You stopped yourself quickly, and hissed, “Just take care of Fu.”

“I got that the first time,” he insisted as he jogged up to you. “Look, I think you’re hot under all that seriousness. I like someone who’s all headstrong and loyal—and I think—I know—you could be a pretty good addition to the cleaners. The Raiders are the exact opposite of who and what you are—” His hand wrapped around your bicep, and you whipped around, your eyes flaring.

“Down!” Your barking command came, and suddenly his fingers unfurled from your arm, his hand jerking back to his body. His knees buckled, and the ground came zooming at his face. He collapsed with limbs heavier than steel, his lips kissing the floor you walk on.

‘The hell—?! How can they use their instrument in—’

“Stay.” You hissed, and his twitching stilled.

“Sit.” And he was seated up against the wall, his breath caught in his throat, his hair tousled. His breath came short and quick, his arms stiff and unresponsive to him.

You stood over him, looking down at him with all the hate a raider like yourself could muster. “Your speech won’t work on me. I won’t be swayed, and I don’t like having my loyalty tested. Stay in your lane, Enjin.”

“‘Stay in my lane’?” He rasped, fixed on the way his name was spilt from your lips with the venom supplied by your tongue. His gaze flitted to your necklace, only to find it completely unresponsive and barren of effect.

‘Your… your instrument is not—’

“What type of power you got to be this nasty…? Treating me like a dog…”

You scoffed, “Then you must feel right at home.”

“Hell yeah, I do,” He whispered, looking up at you and the neon lights behind your figure, “So… I’ll call you?”

Appalled, all your dignity allowed you to do was suck your teeth, cut your eyes and turn the other way.

He watched you leave, well, watched as much as he could, given the lack of feeling in his neck, “I’ll ask Fu! Catch you later, boo! You’ll come around eventually!”

A shame that you didn’t look back, really. You disappeared down a nearby road, and the effects of your instrument were alleviated from him in a sweeping wave. Though a part of him urged to follow you, build and present his case, the rational side of him vowed to give you space. There would be other times, he’s sure. Though if what Fu said was right… Then how would he ever see you again…? The only way to do so is if Zodyl decides to finally stop hiding you…

Then again, why hide you to begin with? A giver with the ability to control people through verbal command? Especially when you say them with such absolute authority. How quickly his body was to obey them before his mind could process the command. It was a terrifying power—the worst kind to ever exist. The kind that aims to strip one’s autonomy… So, was Fu’s devotion to you a byproduct of that power? If he were Zodyl, and he wanted Rudo so badly, he’d just send you to spew a couple of commands. Unless there was a major setback to prevent that…?

“H-hi… where’s…?” A tentative voice started from beside him, and he turned his head to greet the short teen. Fu stood with his hands full of his packaged dinner, his gaze sweeping the streets in search of you.

‘Bingo’, Enjin smirked up at Fu, “Hey there, little man, back already? You just missed them,”

Fu deflated visibly, and the man was quick to add on, “We did some talking… looks like you’re unofficially part of us, now…"

Fu blinked, “…Huh?” Processing the words, his smile split his face, and he looked about ready to cry again. “Thank you..! I won’t disappoint—”

“Before that…” Enjin’s interrupted before the teen could spiral, his eyes never leaving his. Though he maintained the usual casual posture of his character, Fu thought he saw something new in Enjin’s eyes. Something so similar to the same look Zodyl often gives you.

Then came his quiet request, “How about you tell all you know about them, huh?”

Jabber to me reads as an opportunistic person in a similar fashion to how Zodyl is. He seeks to maximize as much as something for as long as possible. Whether that is the adrenaline or enjoyment of something, or to fulfill his own obsession.

He is also detached and disassociates often. I have an inkling that when he is fighting he is disassociate or detached, perceiving the fights as a kind of rpg fight sequence, something he can perceive from afar despite being right there in it.

In his fight with Rudo he allows himself to be hit. I say 'allow' because I feel like Jabber is faster than to let himself get hit. But again he is opportunistic. So I think Jabber, in his fight with Rudo and Zanka are two different versions of him. For Rudo, this is all a game. His objective was to just retrieve the Spherite, but he figured that since Rudo was a giver they can have some fun. Its a bone that he is throwing there. So to have fun is a minor objective, so to maximize that is to let himself get hit repeatedly.

But lets take it a step back, too: We see him get annoyed when he noticed all his attacks are not landing. The switch happens quickly. He lands, and he is immediately annoyed and frustrated, and his face drops. No more stretched grins or slim faces, his whole mood dropped and he is more languid now. Almost like he was pulled out of his dissociation.

I like to think of it as myself when I play a game, you disassociate when you play, getting into the rhythm but when something goes wrong you're knocked out of that 'A-game' head space. I like to think that, that is what happened there to Jabber. He goes on to say that it's hardly a fight if there is no back and forth. Again, he's not supposed to lose, anyways.

But he opens himself to the idea of getting hit and hurt, and potentially losing. This could either be because he is confident in his ability to complete the mission, or he always had a plan B that he knew was not going to fail. We can see that he cares plenty about the mission. Not in a personal way where the mission will benefit him, but rather that his relationship with the mission is a form of conditioning: do a good job = reward.

So I think he always had the intention of winning, but he also doesn't like easy victories. When we first met Jabber he said that he tries to go easy on someone with bark and bite (Zanka); this sentence also, stuck with me. It could mean that he has met other people before with bark and bite so Zanka was part of a fraction, not a whole. If Zanka was the first person who had both aspects, then his line would have been more like, "He had bark and bite so I went easy on him" but he explicitly said people so this was a common, or atleast tantalizing recurring pattern that he noticed, and chose to honour.

But he didnt kill Zanka. So, why? Has he killed the other 'people' or did he similarly only poisoned them? If it was only poisoning them, then that would mean that him and Zodyl share a similar mindset of utilizing people to their fullest abilities until they break. Jabber WANTS his victims to prove him wrong. He poisoned Zanka so we could say that he fully expected and waited for him to recover for another fight because people with both bark and bite are inherently rare, and thus must be saved for last rather than taken out. If Jabber killed everyone with those traits then he'd have no one. Zodyl similarly gave Noerde her comb, to which he later described as planting a seed to watch flourish.

Noerde was essentially useless to him then, but he knew she could be in the future if he just gives her whay she needs to become useful.

Jabber id imagine is the same way. So=

Jabber is opportunistic, and probably has a short list of people he plans on getting back into contact with if they ever grow. Right now, all we know is that Zanka is on this list, whether as the sole exception or a part of others, no idea.

Back to disassociation and detachment. He was detached when he first met Rudo, entered a state of glee when he blocked the door, then was back to detachment. He bounces between emotions really quickly which made him bipolar and almost unpredictable. His relationship with non givers is further emphasized here with how quickly he ignores Gris to walk past him, pretty much shouldering him. His attention is limited to his goal. He is opportunistic to just ONE person at a time not to a bigger image.

Zodyl in contrast is opportunistic for the BROADER image. He sees multiple assets and potentials in one scenario whereas Jabber only sees one at a time. So of course he didn't notice Gris or Folllo. Well, he did the latter. But essentially he is minimal in what attention he offers. Disgusted, even. He values strength clearly, and the supporters dont offer that to him. His basis of strength comes from being a giver so he measures strength in that way.

Now, Gris mentioned that some people dont like Supporters because they are glorified fodder. It can come from a place of mockery, that kind of line.

However Jabber’s philosophy comes from a place of disgust and hatred. To him they are not juat fodder, they are a direct conflict to the kind of people he wants to meet and interact with. Because, again, he explicitly shows hate for them which is pretty much a strong feeling given that Supporters are just regular people.

If he cares only for givers it could mean that he only wants to surround himself with fellow givers. So it could be why the Raiders was such a good space for him. It lets him be around like minded folks.

Now, my theory is that though we have no clue of where Jabber came from, he came from a place of those who hated Givers. I believed it was Enjin who mentioned that despite Givers being a common concept, they are, in a general census, despised by the general public. They are 'freaks' who are obsessed with their item. This paints a new perspective of the ground. The ground is not a haven for givers. The Ground is a catalytic for people to become givers. Being a giver is NOT common, and hardly normalized yet.

People hate Givers and what they present, I reckon that it comes from a self-hatred type of situation. Afterall, the ground is the trash bin to the Sphere, so everything is a reminder to what the Sphere is doing to them, so to be obsessed with an object, a piece of junk in a world where you are bound to stay there and lose everything at the presence of the trash storm, could elicit that.

We could say here that the reason why more people aren't givers is because of that mindset- no point in clinging to something when it can easily be taken away.

So for people like Jabber to be obsessed with something it's more like a "why are you obsessed in a world like this?" -basically a way to belittle it. Tamsy mentions as well that the most volatile are those who make a religion out of the trash which is mentioned by Zodyl in the trash beast arc.

I find it funny, as well. Givers on their own are hated for being obsessed with objects, but cultists who are obsessed are also frowned upon by the minority (givers). So, this led me to conclude that in the grand philosophy of things, to be obsessed with items is inherently bad. Of course the cultists are different because it actually harms people. Their delusion leads to death, and is almost worship of the Sphere of we really think about it. And who wants to indirectly worship the Sphere?

Back to givers, there is already a major power imbalance in the world because of the disparity between the Sphere and the Ground. So givers are essentially reminders of that disparity by having that kind of power in a world where EVERYONE is mesnt to be oppressed. Deriving this from actual oppressed areas, sometimes some people would rather have everyone be oppressed than to have one of their own succeed. We see this as well in dysfunctional homes, where despite the impoverished family, they would rather have all of them suffer together than to see someone else succeed. Because to have someone succeed is to be reminded that their own lack of societal status can also be self inflicted and not just brcause of their oppressors. It's hard to uphold the image of victim mentality if people in the same circumstances as you can succeed in life- makes it clear to others and yourself that you simply didn't try. Givers are those who got power in a world where everyone is not meant to. Anyone can be a giver, anyone can have the power of change- but to have the power of change is to admit that the world can be changed starting with you and the community that exists, and most would rather exist in a victim hood of (rightfully) hating on their oppressors than to put energy into making their world a better place to live. So, why not just hate the givers and make THEM look like the problem than to admit that they just lack the same kind of care? Of course this is just an interpretation, you may notice that some people would rather complain and mope about their lack of status than to change it because it's easier than to wallow than to work for change.

To be a giver is to go AGAINST that system of oppression. But most are so comfortable in their chains they can't imagine a world without it.

So, Jabber (sorry I rambled back there...), he could have come from an area where being a Giver is more broadly hated. Like a large ratio is against him. And he is a man of change and quick fixes, so we could even say here that his life must have been very, very boring. Of course his life could be plenty of ways which I will touch on. But what if his life was uneventful? What if, on the grand scheme of things, his life was more 'normal' than anyone else? He wasn't a mercenary, wasn't enslaved, wasn't banished from his home or anything like that, maybe he just had an abusive parent? Normal shit. Of course abuse is not normal but in the context of the ground id imagine that having an abusive parent is like the 'barest' of trauma someone could have.

Maybe he realized this, as a kid. His life was boring. Nothing going for him, nothing to do. And worse nothing to stop this situation. He sees people left and right, meanders through the streets, thouse burying themselves in their toxins and indulgences. Again as I mentioned, he hate supporters - non givers.

What if he hates non givers the same way a non giver would hate givers? That non givers don't do anything? Again, to be a giver is to go AGAINST the system beating you down. What if he noticed that despite everyone talking shit, no one had the bite to do anything. No one was working to change anything, or to stop anything or to change anything. Again, we have no clue what his backstory is like, so im just making an example here. Maybe it wasn't an abusive parent, maybe it was just a regular person.

Maybe as a child he wanted to feel something, anything, because he can't stand the monotony of his life or its regular banter (which could explain his fixation to pain). His vital instrument is named 'Mankira' which could be a personalized way of saying 'Man Killer'

Mankira are blades with poisoned tips. Objects are given Jinki status through desire.

If we are going with the Scorpion imagery that surrounds Jabber, then his claws are Pincers. Now, rule of thumb for Scoprions is that small pincers are highly venomous, where as those with large pincers are mildly venomous.

Scorpions with large puncers rely on size to overpower prey, while scorpions with small pincers rely on quick attacks to subdue prey. So smaller pincers scorpions carry the most lethal neurotoxins, larger ones have rarely medically significant ones. Sounds familiar?

The poison aspect is a part of his weapon design, not an addition to it. So his desire must be largely poisoned base. It could be a desire to 'feel' or to make someone as helpless as he felt of we were going dor a route of him being at a disadvantage. However, his claws are NOT pincers. They can slice and dice. They carry 2 purposes- to slice and to apply poison. If it was just poison then they'd have a more curved needle like design. But they are blades with an added benefit of application so we can deduce that he desired both to kill and to poison, which would explain the man killer motif. Something else to notice too is that so far his poison has not killed anyone yet. They did a number on people sure but the killing blow comes from his claws. He stabs just enough to poison not kill, thats a level of restraint to watch his work ruin someone.

It could be a sadistic type of thing. He could like or want to see someone, especially a giver, be helpless. Again, he just kills non givers. He made full intentions of killing Gris, not to poison him. He didn't kill Zanka immediately. So this could serve 2 meanings: poisoning a non giver is a waste to him because he inherently sees non givers as 'extras'. Or he internally desires the suffrage of givers and the death of non givers, so would rather kill regular people and see Givers undergo his masterpieces of poison and suffer.

It could also be a self hate thing- hating givers for not meeting a certain standard, so to punish them is to poison them and let it do its work rather than kill them immediately.

But he clearly values the lives of Givers atleast to keep them alive, if he was a 'man killer' then he simply would have killed everyone. But as I mentioned before... opportunistic. No sense to kill someone when they can come back to him in the newr future, I'd imagine it could be why he has a more 'friendly' approach to givers ESPECIALLY if they are strong.

But he is also very fast, too. He didnt have his jinki activated when he blocked the door, and I doubt that level of speed was just there for anime logic. If his desire was to be a man killer, and to poison, then either his whole body was essentially an instrument of violence and Mankira was an outlet to that violence. Or he is an actual scorpion. Scorpions with small pincers like I mentioned are fast. He's fast, but NOT physically strong (we see Zanka literally stop him with his teeth and shove him off). Jabber using his second form was him probably realizing that he cant beat Zanka with speed alone so he tried to get himself larger pincers to overwhelm him with bulk. Which worked I guess.

We can say that Jabber despite valuing givers more has a kind of power complex where he NEEDS to feel in controlled of the situation. Killing them is easy yes but he wants to make sure everyone knows that he is capable of putting someone down and wants his victim to realise that which is probs why he poison them first. An elongation of thag torture i suppose.

He is detached again when he realised Zanka won't fight him again (cus Zanka is down) so this brings an additional idea of Jabber wanting to be proven wrong. He wants to be fought and taken down, wants the thrill of meeting someone who can kill him for once. I dont think he has a desire to die for say, rather that being close to death is the greatest euphoria he could accomplished ever, and he wants to share that euphoria with people.

I say share because he explicitly mentioned that some unnamed person used the hallucinogen on HIM, so he decided to use it again on Zanka. This means that despite being drugged and 'messed up' he managed to get back up and potentially fight or kill the dude that did it. And typically, what determines what you hallucinate is based on mindset. So I have no clue on what Jabber could have possibly seen.

Anyways Jabber is disappointed when the thing he wants to utilize breaks too soon. He plays rough but he wants to know that whatever he is playing with could last. Which could be an allusion to his childhood. He wants something or someone who can keep up with him, be a constant in his life. So I think his relationship with masochism reflects that.

Yes, he likes pain, but he is not always fixated on it. He clearly has the capabilities of focusing elsewhere. But Masochism is just the TIP of everything, something to feel for his monotony life. It's quick, it's fleeting. It's a QUICK FIX. It's something he utilizes when he's particularly bored or in dire need of excitement. Quick fixes never last of course, very limited. So it would make sense that his desire to fight strong givers is not just about strength but also about finding the perfect vessel for his constant.

For this, his relationship with people are skewered in turn. He is capable of forming minor relationships of course, and infact he is the type who wants someone who is emotionally and physically fit to be a constant. Which could explain his desire for Mankira, she is a constant in life, always there and never fails him. He has never lost a single fight yet.

Fights are nice and all but even he said that he is often bored and can never go all out. He wants to get to hia true potential but non givers can't take him there, and according to Zodyl he is STILL not there yet. Jabber has yet to find someone who brings out his FULL him. This plays into my previous point on how those at a similar disadvantage state would rather see you in the same place as them rather than succeed. Jabber is being 'held' in a stagnant place of no advancement because of the 'jealousy' of others. He cant advance because no one 'wants' him to.

He also cared very little about his wounds which would play into his detachment of his own body. His body is a vessel rather than who he is as a person. A vessel or avatar he can customize at will or tweak for certain rpg fights. Not something he inherently associates with identity.

Okay wow I spoke alot. Let's try to summarize so far: Detached unless he sees am opportunity for stimuli, disassociative when things dont go his way or immediately achieve a positive result, probably bipolar given how quickly he can shift mood, his Philosophy is the extreme end of hating supporters and non-givers, potential sadism towards Givers; needs and desires someone to keep up with him to advance.

Okay, here is the hc section for Fanfiction ideas right.

So as you read above that is what I interpret from Jabber’s character- all anime based because I havent touched the Manga yet.

I try to be accurate to these characters when I write them in my oneshots as you may have seen in my 'Ugly Devotion' oneshots part 1 and part 2. Even then, I am not happy with it as much i feel like there were so many parts I could have explored more and I didnt do Jabber much justice! And as im writing this I still feel like im missing several key parts about Jabber’s character.

Anyways, my interpretation of Jabber in an X anyone scenario is not as strict. I don't think that someone has to be STRICTLY powerful per say- which is what i was trying to convey with my oneshot. I had an idea of "what if someone was against EVVERYTHING he probably stands for?" And I say this because we know so very little of Jabber so I cant tell you that everything i just mentioned is 'canon' or adjacent to it. So of course everything here are HC and my personal characterizations.

So I tried to incorporate what I notice from him, his detachment and his disassociation, getting hurt without 'realsiing' the pleasure. To realise the pleasure is to be 'in' that head space which he wasn't.

I feel like Jabber towards a person in a romantic aspect would have similar unhealthy codependent relationships. It's more about what that person does FOR him rather than the person themselves. People are characters to his favourite game, he has some favorites, some he does not care for some he would like to see more of. So I'd imagine that his care is not conventional, or pretty, rather a manifestation of the obsession he holds for most things, to keep things going before they break. He can't fix things but he'd be damn if it breaks on him.

In my oneshot I threw in another factor of time that what if the person he likes is someone he knew longer than most? Would he accept losing thag person? I think that the time he spent with someone would determine his level of care. I dont think he attaches himself, I think he attaches to the high someone gives but if that high is a consistent supply then he gets attacjed to the supplier because they have NEVER failed him. So for that to fail him is like to put him through a sudden withdrawal that he did not prepare for.

Additionally! This might sound crazy but I dont think Jabber has a healthy relationship with sex, or desires sex. Feeling pleasure and wanting sex are two different things! So I don't think he views his masochism as a pipeline for sex but rather as a pipeline for eventual release from the stress which would be his version of a reward. If anything given his detachment as I've mentioned he might be uninterested in sex in the sense of connection or pleasure.

But i feel like in the case of a relationship, if he is in a state of viewing you as a 'constant' then sex mighr become an aspect of utilizing the high you give rather than the genuine need to be close to you. This can even be as a final resort if things aren't going ad smoothly with the supplier.

His usage of poisons however may have made him incapable of feeling pleasure normally. His constant yse of neurotoxins may have turned him towards anhedonia, which means basically his dopamine receptors are reduced to protect the brain from the stress. Which could tie into why his masochism is a source of pleasure- hia regular dopamine receptors are fried so the only way he could feel something is through pain = pleasure.

So he might he might be desensitized.

In terms of sex, now, I feel like he may approach it with a similar detachment. He might be in it, and might jump out of it just as quick of they don't get to his brain quick enough. He's all about keeping up that rush of dopamine in unconventional methods. I feel like he won't care about reciprocation in some cases, if he views his the high and not the supplier. But when he views the supplier I believe he may enter a state of viewing thag person as 'like' him. An extension of him the same way Mankira is to him.

So that person becomes a VESSEL to his own pleasure. So if they feel pleasure or happy is what he would feel because that person is who regulates Jabber. He needs the dopamine, and you provide him that. He can't lose that.

His relationship with people are essentially twisted. He wants to rough them up and do whatever and know they will bounce back. If they can't bounce back, especially if he is already attached, then that is a betrayal to what he has done for them, and the kind of relationship they cultivated.

He is obsessive in that sense I'd inagine if the person he wants is someone he knows a long time. Because again I dont think he is someone who attaches to short term but long term. He recognizes how feeble short term is so would strive for longterm. So I think he would be very good at longterm relationships- more considerate. He wants to make sure its a ride or die. In short term I could imagine him being altruistic because there is no telling whether it would last or not so it makes no sense to attach to it.

Now, his unhealthy views of relationships and people will translate to affection. Again I think his dopamine receptors may be fried. So he wont get conventional pleasure from it. Kisses i could see being more about maintenance rather than connection. He is grappling for what little dopamine he could, so if a kiss can do it then he would utilize that until it cant anymore.

Sap it dry.

Love i can see now being something he wouldn't want to acknowledge. I think he would know what it is, the same way he would know how it makes him feel. Love is associated with longterm, so I think it may be easy for him to attach a twisted imagery of what it means to love someone, but he would want his partner to say it first in that similar regard. If Jabber sees himself as a detached vessel, then Love is more about the other person loving him and being there rather than vice versa. If the person can admit to loving him then it would be easier for him to mimic and reciprocate.

Dont get me wrong I think he will be attached just not the "kiss me everyday" type of attached. He wants to consume and be consumed, wants to be high off of being love- he wants it to hurt because to be in pain is to finally feel something. If it doesnt hurt then it's like it's not happening. If he's not in pain then he disassociate and lose himself in his head- but if he has someone tangible outside of it hed want it to hold his attention.

Heartache now I can say is the worst kind of pain. Its not physical, it's internal. He can't feel it the way he can feel a scratch, so in that sense, it's almost scary. It's the first feeling that does not elicit pleasure. He hates it, I could imagine.

So, yeah

Tamsy Caines. He has spoken his name in formal colloquial sequences or whispered in the shadows of the pit, a veneer of pale honey-blond hair falling like thick curtains. If he angled his face just so, a slight tilt on its side, his hair would sway just a bit, and the undercurrent of navy would pop from under the veneer of gold. Two-toned, two-faced, how ironic it is.

He wouldn’t say he was particularly obsessed with the way he looks, oh no! To say that would be to say he was self-centred!

Obsession is just a fraction of it, truly. Not a blemish or visible pore, skin so flawless he is sure it glows in the morning light. Save for the scar, he found it added to the charm despite its… recognisable attribute. A ghastly, gnarly thing it is, stretched in jagged, sharp curves over his eye, stopping just short of touching his lower face.

He didn’t find it unappealing per-say, but he also wasn’t the type to linger on its pale hues.

You however…

Oh… you…

“Does it hurt?” The gentle pads of your fingers lay twitching kisses onto his scarred cheek, barely grazing the skin. Yet you recoiled, as though the scar held the memory of its burn, transmuting it so you could feel what it had felt. In the quiet moments within HQ, he would often find himself taking that familiar path to your bedroom. He had started this habit under the excuse of team bonding ages ago and had made it a regular activity. It was an excuse to listen to your music, breathe in chemicals of makeup and paint, and gaze upon what little lace you managed to collect over your adulthood. Your room was standard, like everyone else’s, but you made it a habit to blow your money on decor, having hired Gob for the job before his passing. Now your room was a mosaic of dark purples and streaks of white, with graphics on the walls depicting eyes or birds. You had several lights, and your bed was a patchwork of dark fabrics.

“No,” His words felt like a pathetic pebble against the roaring waters currently working currents in his body. He leaned a fraction into your touch until he could feel the beginnings of your calloused palm. Yet, even the fawning graze of your hand was not enough for a skin so parched of coolant.

His hands came up, nimble fingers wrapped around your wrists, and he laid your hand flat over his cheek.

“Maybe a throb on occasion,” he rasped now as the coolant bled into his skin, calming his nerves. “Nothing vexing, I assure you,”

“Then it can take the paint?” You questioned now, your hand limp in his hold, for it needn’t move as long as he holds it.

“Should, yes,”

Though awkwardly fixed, your right hand fetched the thick brush. You dabbed the excess on a stained sheet of paper before bringing it up. His pupil-less eyes, those scrutinising things that have been so focused on you, were deterred from watching the bristles.

“I’ll need my hand, Tams,” You murmured now, fingers curling lightly over his cheek.

His lips pressed into a thin line; displeasure was written across his lips in braille. “Of course. My apologies,” his grip slacked after a beat, and you finally pulled your hands away.

“Too far…” You murmured more to yourself than to him. Your hands itched, and you pressed to the comforter beside his hip. “Do you mind?”

“No,” He opened himself, “Not at all. Do what you must,” spoken like a favour, and you took it as one. Your hand fell to his shoulder, the other gripping the brush with too little care than he would like. Your knees came on either side of him, your body casting a shadow over his body. Then your weight as you settled on his lap.

“If it hurts, tell me.”

“We established it doesn’t.”

“We also established that it does at times. Who knows, maybe facepaint is an irritant, maybe you’re allergic to the ingredients—” you had only meant to ramble to emphasise your point, but had wound up on a new problem.

He could read the fine lines of your face as it registered, and he was already offering up his arm.

You shifted and dragged the brush in a quick flick over his bare arm.

The two of you watched.

“It’s thinner than I expected it to be,” He murmured in the bated silence, “I had thought it to be…”

“I do multiple coats. Well, primer then the coat. Sometimes I have to go in a second time,”

“That’s hardly efficient,” He spoke as his arm dropped, and he looked up at you. “How do you manage to put so much time into it?”

“Oh, please,” You murmured as you tapped the brush against his cheek, the instrument glowing a dull white. “We both know the answer to that, right?”

His lips twitched, the soft light from your lamp catching his eyes. “Seems I have forgotten,”

“Your memory could use some work, then. Not mine: My memory is better than that, trust me on that,” You swiped the brush upwards in a stroke up his face; the watery pigment thickened into a paste. You dragged the now-empty brush over the pigment, swiping it over the smoothness of skin.

“It’s cheaper to get watery pigments,” you began as your tentative strokes reached his scarring. “The only thing it changes is the longevity,”

“Then why not get actual pigments for the added benefit of longevity?” He asked just as you dragged the paint over his brows.

“Slide me some pocket change, then.”

He couldn’t help the earnest chuckle from his throat. “I was sure that with your aesthetic touch, you had quite a lot to spend.”

“Oh no, I just… volunteered for August and he so graciously gave me the clothes after,” You grinned in his face just as his eyes fluttered shut, to allow that white cloth to cover his lids. “A doll he is, I tell you,”

You pulled the brush away and switched it out. “Keep the eyes closed,”

What a miserable request that is. Oh, how he longed to view the artistry upon your face as you worked on his with equal warmth. Alas, he greeted the darkness behind his eyes and relied on the subtle scent of you to get by.

Though he disliked the island above, he could imagine that your scent may differ if you were to exist upon those polished streets. Perhaps you would smell of spice, or maybe the chemicals of your paint.

His musings died behind his eyes the same way everything else did under the meanderings of the sphere. Had you been from the sphere, blessed with wealth, you would be a person in white, heavy fabrics, and straightened hair. Someone who dons white leather with gold trims, instead of the studs or silver stars he adores. Your face would be bare, with only the touches of pigment on the lips. Would you prefer the soft classical tunes? Not that he minded classical tunes… but he can’t imagine you preferring that.

“Never change,” He muttered now as a lighter brush dabbed over his eyelids, then dragged.

“Change? What do you mean?”

“As in… keep the style you have… you’re utterly ethereal,”

Your lips quirked as you dabbed the black eyeshadow, drawing a thin, sharp wing with the excess. “Only time I won’t is when I’m dead.”

“Then how lucky am I to have you cherish your vital instrument so dearly,” he cracked open his eyes, smiling through his heavy lashes. “Truly, how fortunate that I get to keep you alive for much longer.”

“Glad to be alive,” You whispered and drew the brush strokes in a circle, spreading the black in with the greys. “Hm. You look good. Wow. I should do this more often.”

“You’re done-?” His eyes cracked open, and you hissed. His eyes fell shut again.

“Only one side, Tams. I need some—shimmer. Yes. Shimmer. And some eyeliner and- lipstick….”

Mimicking the style on the other side of his face proved to be an effortless endeavour. Your strokes this time were quick and confident, circular motions to blend out the pigments when they got particularly heavy.

“You have such beautiful lashes,” you said in hushed levity. “Mascara would ruin them…”

“Yours look fine,” he commented. He has watched your eyes long enough to remember the shape of their half-lidded bristles.

“Yes, but now I have less than before… all that stuff clogs them and stuff… can’t have you losing those pretty flutters,”

“Flutters?”

Quickly, “You blink, and Rudo is blown away by the breeze!” You announced with an exaggerated candour.

His face twisted into mock offence, his hand coming up to slap your hand away. “Why, I never! I always make sure to direct the cyclone to the walls! Slander, I say! How dare you?”

“Alas, my dear Caine, your efforts are but a fraction!” Your hand returned to his face, and this time he made the effort to close only that eye. You paused, a brief discomfort passing through you—you wish you could do that. Then you continued. Though you had mastered the sharp edges on his other eye, you grabbed the rectangular piece of paper and pressed it to his outer eye, lining it. Then you dabbed the brush to apply the shadows. “And Rudo sees through such attempts at fractioned effort, played off as its full!”

His smile flickered, but he continued on, “But, my dear, you have forgotten that I am as honest as I could be! I truly try! Truly! Perhaps Rudo is just a natural attraction for cyclones and their dangers!”

“Dangers, you say! My, with how consistently the wind touches him—I thought it was only an act of love.”

Tamsy’s flickering smile had wilted into a steady gaping frown. And he found that you had never smiled, either. He had only pictured it amongst the familiarity of friendly banter.

“An act of love…” You repeated as you finished up. Then you reached for the used stick of black lipstick. “Just an act of love…”

“What are you mumbling about?” He asked you quickly. His little fixation… perfect thing wrapped in black and white. Your eyes squinted, and he noticed how more prominent the holes of your piercings are when you make a face.

“Nothing.” Your swift dismissal did little to quell the inkling of suspicion burrowing through his chest. If it weren’t for the weight of you, the salacious heat of your body that felt far kinder than the lashing whips of fire, he would have already had you down. A hand to the back of your head to keep you down, another wrapped around your wrists just long enough to give him the time to think. Critically.

“Nothing you say… but I can clearly recount you mumbling.” His hands moved with languid grace, settling on your hips with a tender hold.

Then the logistics reared into his frontal, the teeth and claws that adorned your body. You were far from brittle, hardly a rabbit and more of a wolf. Hardly ‘tiny’ in that sense. You had a snapping maw and quicker claws. If he were to attempt to lay his hands on you, you were sure to find a way to clamp your teeth into his throat.

Oh, what bliss that would be, to have you pressed so closely to his colder body. Drink up the heat, please! Let the cool flow of his body quench your thirst, and forever circulate you as you did his.

His fantasies transmute to that of suspicion again, just as you brought him back to reality with a slow drag of lipstick over his bottom lip. From the shape of it alone, it must be the stick you normally used, given its worn-down tip. As quickly as you had brought him out of his musings, he was back in it again, wondering if the lipstick had worn down around the shape of your lips.

“And… there!” You seemed to have forgotten all about your slip-up, lifting your hands in half-hearted celebration. Your smile hardly creased your lidded eyes, but was perceptible enough to warrant cold shudders down Tamsy’s spine.

How infectious it is, how infectious you are. A vector for the most sickly, grotesque of diseases.

Your hand patted his cheek where the pigment had long dried into a smooth white. “It should last a few hours…” Your calloused hands, as though on pure instinct, reached for the small bowl of clear alcohol. You dipped them, then wrung your fingers of the distinct sharp smell, then directed your clean fingers to a separate bowl. There, his labret had been left in place for quite some time to prevent infection. Your fingers pinched the silver, and you cursed yourself with a huffing sigh.

“I should have put the labret first…” Still, you continued and slipped it into its rightful place.

Again, you leaned back to scrutinise your work. “I’m done!” You remarked with renewed enthusiasm, reaching swiftly for the mirror.

“Well, it’s not done… yet, this is the very basic look.” He took the mirror from your offering hands. You were right. This was hardly close to the kind of looks you normally do. Fine lines and thicker wings. In all truth, he much prefers the look of corpse paint, but had wanted to indulge in you. Had wanted to be closer to you, and frankly, this look was just as nice too.

“Then you have much left to do,” he mused as he dropped the mirror onto the bed. A smile of his own quirked on his black lips, “I hope you’ve cleared your schedule already,”

“For you? Of course.” Oh, if only you knew the kind of trepidation your kinder words do for him. He was sure, given the monotone of your expression, you meant it only in banter. A jest, maybe. But it never failed to arouse sleeping grubs, puffy, sallow things, engorged by their consistent supply. How quick they are to burrow into living flesh, doughy plump creatures—an infestation like rolling marbles under his skin. And he would allow himself to keep living so they could continue feeding.

You and your- cursed maggots. You have no right to infest him with the world’s squirming grub.

“Tams,” you began with gentle affection, “Is there something you want to tell me?”

Is there? He could think of a hundred things, actually. How you walk with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly who they are, despite being more concerned with keeping their instrument safe. How easily you can get people to warm up to you, despite your audacious presentation of yourself. Even in your most glamorous, Dear still greets you like a favourite cousin.

Whatever it was you wanted to know, he had no clue beyond what his infatuation offered him, and it must have shown in his expression; you turned away with a rush of air knocking from your nostrils.

“You’re disappointed in me,” He insisted as his hands settled firmly on your waist, the warmth palpable under the large shirt you had thrown on. He quite likes that shirt. He might take it from you later when you’re not looking.

“I’m waiting for you to say something,” You insisted instead.

“What is there for me to say?”

“You don’t know?” You replied, incredulous.

“Is it something I should?”

“I’d think so!”

Was it that he had stolen your scents? Or maybe that he may have cleaned your brushes when you were too busy playing siblings with Rudo? Was it that he had snipped pieces of your hair in your sleep? Must be that. What a fool he was! He should have known you could tell… You always appraised yourself in the morning at 8:40 am, typically under white lights, then under orange lights, right before opening the windows to try natural light!

A fool he was! A fool!

“I apologise,” he sighed, averting his hollow eyes. “I suppose I wasn’t as sneaky as I had thought… I was very inappropriate,”

You gripped his cheek, your thumb swiping over the set pigment. “Tell me, then,”

He swallowed thickly. “…I won’t go into the gritty details of it, but… well, I just want you to know that your hair is tied with a ribbon and treated with utmost care and affection—”

“My hair?!” You shouted, your body straightening upright. Your hand flew, and you slapped it to the back of your head, feeling the locks there. Your face then warmed with heat, and you exclaimed, “When did- how-”

“Pardon me,” Tamsy interrupted. “Was this not what you were talking about?”

“No!” you hissed, “I was talking about the damn—you—you keep disappearing to who knows where, and you’re starting to creep me out ever since that kid got here,”

Oh. That.

Perhaps he said too much then, hm? No matter, this will all be forgotten in due time.

“You… you find me creepy?” He blinked his puppy dog eyes at her. How ridiculously intimidating he must look, given that he just had his face done.

Your expression slacked, and your eyes crinkled with apprehension. Though by the way they flickered, it was a self-directed one. “No, of course not… I just mean that-”

Either you knew to stop talking, or you have realised something else. He couldn’t tell. He could never tell with you. Not that you were some mastermind at hiding your emotions, quite the opposite, really. You wore it all on your sleeve, showed the world your heart and continued to surprise people with it. But you had teeth, and you had claws. A sweet person would not need those. You could change as quickly as you can bite.

“Never mind, I just haven't been sleeping well,” You were still atop him, and now Tamsy could not help but feel like the rabbit, and you, a prowling wolf who has grown tired of the chase.

A lie, however. You have not changed your sleep schedule in the slightest, he knew this, and so did you.

“That’s a shame… we need you at your best, you should take a break,” He conceded instead, his palms sliding over the dip of your waist. As always, you starkly reacted.

“I will,” Your claws circled his throat, gauging him. Whatever you saw, he wondered if it was more than he gave you credit for. Dare he ask?

“You haven’t been sleeping much, either,” You murmured. “Too busy standing about, straining your eyes through the dark…”

How much do you know? If it were just his midnight activities, then it’s not as bad. A few tweaks and you’ll be back to normal. But given the lingering drag of your claws on his neck, your eyes were depleted of their casual warmth. He’d bargain you may have picked up on something else. But to ask was to reveal himself. To stay quiet was to appear guilty.

“Well,” You were back to a vibrant state, fetching a bottle of eyeliner. “Let’s get back to it. Right?”

Oh… you.

Male Reader

Zodyl knew what he was getting into when he had asked for—offered himself to you. He simply hasn’t thought of what it would mean in terms of details, rather adamantly focused on your minute expressions. You weren’t hard to please, he noted with bated breath as his hands palmed the flesh of your thighs, having already gotten your pants down to your ankles.

“S-sir,” You had reverted back into honorifics swiftly, just as his fingers brushed your inner thighs. You had begun gripping the cushions, tight enough that your nails could pick the cotton from their decayed leather.

“You seem to have developed a comprehension problem,” He remarked as his hand brushed over your pelvis. His eyes fluttered a fraction at the heavy bulge of you, constrained by your briefs. Black standard ones, as he would expect from someone so careful and cold in their loyalty. But the darkened stain tarnished that perception. So focus on the simplicity; he had missed the sound of your hitched breath, your inquisitive eyes narrowed in almost bred shame.

“I told you to call me by name,” He spoke now, unashamed in contrast. His hands left their idle musings and moved to trace the ridges of your cock, a maddeningly slow pace more for his own report rather than to tease you. Mapping the shape of you through your briefs.

Your pelvis twitched against every drag of his fingers, unable to help the buck in your hips. Your head spun with the daze induced by his touch, hands clenching and unclenching the cushions.

“Sir—Zodyl—please,”

“Begging now,” He mused dryly, offering you the barest of levity. His palm flattens over your girth—a decent size. By some arbitrary standard, he assumed. Still, he made his hand cup, gripping the dent and shape of you through the sleek fabric.

Your words came strangled, frustrated even. Your hands, which had been tearing into the couch, lifted to grab his wrist. Sweat had long coated your skin, your fingers tight but not forceful. They twitched against him, and your face had drained of colour at the impression of an assault.

Zodyl met your gaze, “All I need is your permission.”

You were never the type to shy away from him. He could tell you to sit there and let him work, and you would have done so because your loyalty had simply been rooted in that subservience. But being a willing participant was an agency you had not expected to be granted. You sucked your bottom lip under your teeth, eyes flitting away from his face to drop, embarrassingly, at the evidence of your arousal. Then lifted back up to those cold eyes.

“Please, Zodyl,”

His free hand hooked under your thighs, plainly opening you up to him. Your body had stiffened immediately, but soon slumped back into the couch with the weariness of someone who has already lost the battle. You let your body, force it a better word, to find relaxation under his touch. Only to work up a nerve when his fingers found the bands of your briefs.

All your thoughts vanished into a singular point as your briefs were pulled down, just enough to release your cock, and it sprang free from its confines. It curved towards your torso, a minute twitch putting emphasis on the pearlescent bead that had gathered at the tip. Heavy and thick, your hands that had been wrestling with patience, moved to rub down your face. As though you could wipe any trace of embarrassment from your heat-stained cheeks.

‘They’re calming down expeditiously,’ Zodyl read from the way your eyes seem crestfallen with both arousal and reluctant petulance. Of course, he should have known his best wasn’t the type to linger in doubt for long.

Lowering his head, the first lick was a cold, fleeting one. It traced the underside of your heavy cock, over the ridges of a pulse that had your hands back at your side, fisting and twisting into the cushions for stability. His eyes flickered up for a moment, his tongue dragging upwards, tracing a path to your leaky cockhead.

“Hahh,” Your hips stuttered into an upwards twitch, quickly seized by his hands on your hips.

“Easy,” He murmured, kind words that belied the sin of his tongue. They circled you again, following the print of veins, to the underside of your cockhead with enough idling to elicit a groan from your throat.

‘A tease’ your tongue had wanted to form, ‘He’s being dishonest with you,’ came your snuffed accusation.

Zodyl gripped the base of you—more so to keep you still rather than to serve any purpose. However was still pleased to see the dual results. His tongue circled the flushed, angry tip, lapping at the beads of bitter salt.

“Ah—shit,” You spat against your hand, your other flying into his short hair. Oh, how you had adored the dual tones of his hair, so impeccably groomed for someone who didn’t even bother to button his shirt all the way. Your fingers, once so careful, smoothed and gripped the roots of dark hair.

If it wasn’t for his pre-existing adoration of you, your astounding loyalty and presence, your slip would have garnered enough annoyance from him to evoke a quick removal of the situation. Instead, basking in the taste of you, the weight of you wrapped in his hands, he felt nothing but buzzing elation to finally have you. Now, with your scene in his face, and the reluctant pleasure skewered over your face, he had no more doubts.

He stretched his lips to wrap around you, those cold, calculating eyes refusing to offer you even a brief respite from their scrutiny. Slowly, he swallowed down on your girth, his tongue pressed snugly to the underside of your cock as he dipped downwards. His mouth, so moist with a suction so heavenly, had your hips jerking up into his mouth, your pelvic bone aching to kiss the tip of his nose. He made a short sound, one you were too busy relishing in the feel of him to account for.

Your fingers combed through his hair, dragging your affection in circles across his scalp.

You’re kinder than he takes you for, especially when recalling moments your coldness had manifested into cruelty. Especially during moments where his longevity is being threatened, how quickly you can turn someone inside out for the mere suggestion of harm against him. Only to then quickly revert to quiet subservience, hands left to wipe the crimson fluids off languid fingers, then join in a placid hold.

‘“Are you okay, sir?”’ You would say as though the carnage was a meager backdrop to his presence. It wasn’t far off to assume that your quickness to resort to hands-on mauling was a by-product of an odd perversion to gore, and this loyalty was a front to allow that release. He had thought of that plenty, in the dark corners of his office when nothing but the TV’s static offered its company.

Groaning when your cock hit his throat, his hands found purchase over the flicker of muscles in your thighs. Palmed the sticky heat of them as your hips jerk up into his mouth. He blinked away the quick formation of salty tears that dared prick his eyes as your cock hit the back of his throat in steady thrusts.

Perhaps his consumption of living matter served its purpose here—he found the stretch a pleasant burn. What he couldn’t take into his mouth, despite his beliefs that he, in fact, could, his hands substituted. Calloused palms gripping the base with a reverence edged with mindless control. Stroked in swift pumps, slicked with what spittle or drool had slipped past his stretched lips.

“Zodyl—that’s it,” You rasped, head rolling back onto the couch with bliss. Tremors of pleasure wracked through your body, lighting every nerve with their ambrosia. Your hips worked upwards in steady, careful motions, eager for the hot suction, yet submissive in their need all the same. Still, you chased and took what you could, groans spilling past your lips in shameless strings. On one hand, while you enjoyed the delicious bobbing, you couldn’t help but wonder if he had done this before. The idea of your boss—a man stoked only by his ambitions—on his knees for another struck you with more need than you ever thought possible.

‘I can please you better,’ Your languid thoughts had imparted to him in an instant, and your hips pushed upwards in a startling forcefulness, colliding with the back of his throat.

Zodyl’s hands, that had been so diligently pleasing you, squeezed over smooth phallic muscle, and your voice broke into fractured whines. “Zodyll…so close—‘don’t stop—not now,” Your dizzying desire rattled your throat.

Zodyl, if he wasn’t busy, would have tried to dissect this change in behaviour. Instead, encouraged by you, he bobbed his head with more purpose than anything has ever given him. His throat constricted around the intrusion in tandem, swallowing more of you just as much as trying to pace you. His decorum, his analytics at least, was lost as your voice pitched to new highs, bouncing off the dilapidated walls of his office. No doubt, someone could probably hear you.

A second thrust of your hips, then a third, until you were pounding against his face with the heat of someone who needed this more than the faceless praise of a job well done. Your hand still gripped his hair, holding his head stubbornly in place. Your pleasure rose with the sounds that rumbled from the back of your throat, coiling like smoke around the wet sounds of your cock going down his throat. The drag of his tongue under your cock, the pressure of you hitting his throat—fuck, this is what you’ve been putting off all this damn time?

“Zodyl,” Your teeth met, and your chest rose and fell in rapid pants. “I’m—”

Your hands flew off his hair, slamming into the cushions with a startling, hasty quickness. To your credit, you had thought the man would have gotten the hint and pulled off on his own. You had no other method to communicate what was about to come (pun intended) without deeply embarrassing you, and potentially losing that high.

To your utter shock and enjoyment, it was your final haste that had Zodyl stuffing his nose down to the trimmed coils of hair at the base of you. His fingers slip to cup the weight of your balls. Thick fingers smoothed and pressed, prodding fingers in rhythmic pulses. He groaned around you, the vibrations rippling through your cock, working you for every drop of your body—working every drop yourself you had offered to him when you first signed yourself away. Your hips jerked under him, your lips open in a gawking, silent moan.

Only when he was certain that, with your slowing breath, he’d drained all your doubts did he finally pull back with a wet pop.

“Hm. Interesting,” His thumb padded against his bottom lip, swiping over the bead of release that had escaped him when the first ropes of cum had filled his mouth. “You are capable of enjoyment… capable of receiving me, in that regard.”

Then he stood, taller and taller, until his shadow blocked your heaving body. He pulled Mishra over himself, reaching down to only take hold of your hand.

“Let this be a preview,” He murmured, bringing the back of your hand to his lips. “You will be rewarded periodically—my finest tool needs its consistent polishing,”

His eyes met yours across his kiss to your hand, “Is that understood?”

Your jaw slacked, your brain mushy with release and hair clinging to your face, you still found the awareness to nod in his direction.

“Yes—Zodyl, I understand,”

Female Reader

Zodyl knew what he was getting into when he had asked for—offered himself to you. He simply hasn’t thought of what it would mean in terms of details, rather adamantly focused on your minute expressions. You weren’t hard to please, he noted with bated breath as his hands palmed the flesh of your thighs, having already gotten your pants down to your ankles.

“S-sir,” You had reverted back into honorifics swiftly, just as his fingers brushed your inner thighs. You had begun gripping the cushions, tight enough that your nails could pick the cotton from their decayed leather.

“You seem to have developed a comprehension problem,” He remarked, just as his hands slid over your hips. His fingers dragged over the garments of your panties, standard ones that fit his perception of you. Standard, practical. But what drew his attention was the tantalizing snug of your garments, clinging to your heat through the wetness that had gathered there. So focused on what awaited him, he missed the hitch in your breath, the way your inquisitive eyes flitted about his face in assessment.

“I told you to call me by name.” He spoke now, unashamed as he dragged his fingers to the product of your arousal. The pad of his fingers brushed the moist spot, gathering the slick that had bled through the fabric. This time, he caught the stutter in your breath, the heave in your chest.

“Zodyl—sir—please,” You murmured against the maddening drag of his fingers.

Your hips twitched against his finger, nudging towards him with ample implication to have any fool crawling over you. But Zodyl was no fool, a sound, admirable trait you find now painfully stifling.

“You’re aroused.” Spoken so casually, it had barely brushed your daze. The only thing you had computed was the seamless way his fingers hooked around the waistband of your panties. Slowly, he dragged the fabric down your hips, shimmying it off to your thighs, then knees. He slotted himself between your legs once again, his eyes drawn to the heat of you nestled between plush thighs.

His hand returned to the heat that called to him, fingers finding that tiny nub of most interest to his scrutiny. Your breath came strangled, sudden as your hips jerked up against his hand. Your hands, that had encouraged him just before this, couldn’t help but revert to their desperate grasping of the cushions. Nails tore into the decayed material, begging for the caress of cotton.

You had never been the one to—let something like this happen. You weren’t, in a sense, celibate. More like you had valued your job and efforts enough that sex, even pleasure, brought little mental satisfaction. The idea of indulging, even if it’s by your own fingers, seemed a daunting, exhausting task that would make even the latrine duties seem like a heavenly sport. To allow him, of all people—him—was a subversion that you realized worked in your favour, luckily so.

“Zodyl,” You tried again, with a voice no less needy than it had been before.

His eyes finally met yours from across the chasm of faces, assessing you as yours had done him. Wasting words, he noted with imperceptible musings, his rough hands finding the flesh of your thighs. He pushed them open, pulling you closer to the edge as he opened you to him. Soft and pliant to his quiet demands, your leg soon propped over his shoulders, your body half-way slumped against the couch, angled awkwardly.

‘They’re far more pliant, now,’ he noted with the way your eyes grew half-lidded, bordered by thick lashes and a thicker petulance in your pupils. Of course, he should have known his most loyal wasn’t the type to linger in doubt for long.

Lowering his head, the first lick was a cold, fleeting one. A feeble flick against your puffy folds, the tip of his tongue gathering only a sample of the feast. It traced the path from your sopping entrance, up to the swollen nub that sat just above, which had your hands clawing into cushions, half-debating to simply grab his face again. His eyes flickered up to your face, and his tongue pressed flat to your clit.“Mm-hah!” Your voice tumbled past parted lips, an almost hesitant sound when it did. Your hips stuttered against his tongue, seized by his hands.

“Easy,” He murmured, kind words that belied the sin of his tongue. It circled the pulsing nub, offering the minimum of attention with a lazy flick of his tongue. The tip of it nudges you despite your efforts to get more of him on you.

‘A tease’ your tongue had wanted to form, ‘He’s being dishonest with you,’ came your snuffed accusation.

His tongue delved into your hot, moist folds, squirming and pushing past muscle. Your hips lifted under his mouth, and a breathy sigh and gasp ripped from your throat. Finally, your hands flew to grip his short hair. Oh, how you adored seeing him fix his hair during the quiet moments; his eyes fixed so carefully on the splintered mirror, dragging a worn comb through unruly strands. You had imagined what it would have been like to offer your services in that regard. But that had felt inappropriate. Which was strange to admit, given how ready you are to button the rest of his shirt when he refuses to do the last one. A style, you had assumed. Though he never stopped you from finishing the ritual. Your fingers, once so careful in your devotion, gripped the roots of his hair with enough force to want to rip them out.

If it wasn’t for his pre-existing adoration of you, your astounding loyalty and presence, your slip would have garnered enough annoyance from him to evoke a quick removal of the situation. Instead, basking in the taste of you, the scent of you colliding with his face, he felt nothing but buzzing elation to finally have you. Now, with that beautiful pleasure etched onto your face, the hard lines of your face slacked into parted lips and lidded eyes, he had no more doubts.

His face pressed close, impossibly close. The tip of his nose hit your clit with an almost clumsy press. With one hand holding your thigh open, the other cupped the flesh of your ass, palming. His hands circle now, crawling to your entrance with deft movements. He flicked his tongue within your depths, your gummy walls a snug embrace that had his hand gripping your thigh tighter. He made a short, rasping sound just as your slick caught his chin; something you were far too numb to account for.

‘Filthy,’ was the first sound thought he had in a while, just as his tongue dipped as far as it could, pulling back if only to search your depths again. Your back arched off the worn couch, bowed with the elegance of the birds he would see in half-scavenged books. Your fingers twisted into his hair, and he wasn’t so sure if you wanted him to taste you or remove himself from you.

He has never known you to be this… rough with him. In all the time he has spent relishing in your serenity, you have been someone endowed with the gentle devotion of a follower. Though he was pleased to see that your devotion never bordered on the relentless pursuit of purification often seen with those religious fanatics. Still, with the way you took care to notice every minute detail of his appearance, plans, or words, he could assume your devotion was as holy. Now, you seemed to forbid yourself from bowed worship, holding his head against your cunt with mindless pursuit of pleasure.

His index finger slipped into you, following the curve of his tongue. Though even one finger seemed so little, for someone who had served him so perfectly, and will continue to do so until their dying breath. His middle finger followed the trail shortly after; the cramp in his fingers was a minor variable in his exploration of you. When he felt that the dual stimulation was a bit awkward for him, he retracted his tongue with a protest quick to fall from your lips. His lips found your inner thigh, a brief apology he could not say with words, before his lips found your clit.

He drew in your clit with an obscene slurp, pinching it lightly between his teeth.

“Zodyl—! Please—just like that!” You managed between the daze and breathless pants that seemed to have been your only vocabulary. Your head lolled back, with the heel of your foot digging painfully into his back, as though you could fuse him with you. The careful drag of his fingers in your sopping heat followed a rhythm at least, every thrust punctuated by the squelch that followed. His fingers twist, just as his lips suctioned, and your hips jerked up against his willing mouth. Your gummy walls fluttered around the intrusion, sucking him into your heat. How he managed to wrack this kind of pleasure from you will forever haunt you. Your languid thoughts transmuted to unpleasant ones; ones of your boss in the arms of another. After all, how else could he have known how to do this, without some kind of prior interaction?

Your breath huffed, your hips elevated now by the tightness in his hands, his reluctance to let you pull away. “So close— ‘m so close…”

‘I could please you better,’ as another wanton moan spilt from loose lips. Your voice pitched into a fervour, a song for the angels in the heavens if you wished it to be. Zodyl had no doubt in mind that at least one person. He hoped whoever that could be would choose ignorance over speech. You deserved that, at least. Privacy for whatever happens behind closed doors, especially for something as sensitive as this.

Though he couldn’t say the same for him. The decorum he had fisted, burned into need that could no longer be quenched by your sinful sounds alone. The scent of you that he had been inhaling served as much purpose as any other drug, ensnaring him in a dedication that surprised him.

His fingers curled within you, the knowing gesture of a man with enough awareness to know exactly what to do, finding all the gooey fleshy parts in you. He strung your pleasure, building up the notes as his tongue suckled at your clit with another filthy slurp.

Just as your back bowed, and your lips flew open, his fingers slipped out of you, slicked, replaced by his lips. His fingers, clumsy in their wetness, met the nub with their pressing circles. He groaned around you, his tongue lapping up at the liquid ambrosia now oozing onto his ready tongue, working you for every drop of your body—every offered drop of your loyalty. Your hips jerked one final time, lips open in a gawking, wobbling moan.

Only when he was certain, with your slowed breaths, he’d given you a sufficient reward, did he pull away.

“You’ve enjoyed that more than I thought you’d allow yourself to.” The pad of his thumb swiped over his chin, gathering the slick that had made him a canvas of your pleasure. His tongue gathered the slick in a sweeping efficiency. “I take it you don’t need any more convincing… I don’t like to waste words, after all,”

Had you more articulation, if not for the mushy headspaced induced by your release, you would have jumped to question that. But all your body could do was nod, wondering now if he’d take the next step on his own, or if you’d have to work extra hard for it.

“Good…” He nuzzled his face against your thigh, pressing slow kisses upon the skin there. “Continue to surprise me, you’ll be rewarded greatly for that,”

“You look sick…” Jabber’s revered voice floated to you in a sighed admission. He sat cross-legged on the hardwood, dressed in loose-fitted black pants and one of your button-up shirts. He rocked himself back and forth, but fixed himself to bend forward at the minor altercation to your appearance. How you managed to look better than before would always astound him, where before just the meagre way you walked could turn heads. He started back again, his fixation including the glimpse of skin from the lift in your shirt.

You wore similar attire for the late morning: loose-fitting pants, but one of Jabber’s shirts thrown over you. It was the only one you could find without the splotches of chemical stains or smears of ink.

You dragged the blade one final time over your brows, impeccably shaped. Twins. You set the blade down on a sheet of paper, your hands finding the small mirror propped up against an empty bottle. You turned your face around, and your pleasure, at least, seemed to heighten the more your self-appraisal drew on.

“Does look pretty good,” Your voice registered as its usual flat, which, without context, could very well read as a crestfallen attempt at self-comfort. You set the mirror down against the bottle, raising a hand to brush back imaginary hair. You had tied it back before you began your shaping, but habit brought your hand up to swipe away hair a myriad of times already.

“You want slits, right?” You continued as you pinched the blade again, dipping it into a shallow pan of alcohol. You shook the droplets off, gripping the blade securely.

Jubilant by your inquiry, he made the effort himself to prod into your personal bubble. His knee touched yours just as he scooted close, his hands finding the ground to lean into your space.

“Right at the archs!” Elation could not begin to capture his vitality, “Fix me up right,”

“Mhm,” You conceded with a careful hum, encroaching on what bit of space existed between your bodies. Through careful adjustments, you situated yourself in that narrow nook and cranny, a knee between his open legs, with your hand finding his jaw and chin with blind ease.

He pushed his face into the calloused warmth of your hands, tilting his head marginally to provide an almost parallel view of his brows.

“Cut my shit straight, aight?” he murmured.

You gave a curt nod, “Just cus’ of that, might give ‘em a lil wave, make it look like they tryna holla at me,”

His lips twitched into a wry smirk, and said nothing.

The thin blade used for your own brows was pitched precariously between your pointer and thumb. It had once been a part of something bigger, a mint green handle to be precise. You had bought it for less than the price of an ice cream cone and had trusted its quality with foolish delusion. The blade had simply slipped off the curved mouth at the second drag across your brows, clattering to the space between your legs. Disillusionment was only a minor fragment of what you had felt.

Now, you trust your fingers more than the mint plastic. It steadied as it neared Jabber’s face, honing in on the length of his brows. They weren’t the messiest, but they were cousins at best. You swiped the blade at the outer edges of hair, a sleek ‘scritch!’ tumbled into your ears as you snipped off the first few strands of hair.

“Close your eyes for me,” You coached in a low rumble.

Jabber, in spite of his desire to stare at your concentrated face for longer, obeyed you sans argument.

There’re was no actual reason for him to close his eyes. You simply wagered that you’d do a better job if you weren’t so closely watched by the vibrant hues of pink. As you dragged the blade for more snips, shaping the fuzzy brow into a straight, shaped one, your decision proved correct. The brow was coming into shape rather nicely!

“Oh, shit,” Came your derogative murmur, your hands stilling.

Jabber’s eyes flew open, pink hues locating the fixture of dismay written across your face like offensive literature. He threw himself backwards with a half-minded shout, raising his ringed fingers to cradle his brow ridge. “Fuck ya mean ‘oh shit’?!” he clapped back, clambering to his feet in one quick climb.

“I trusted you!” He added on in rising, formless panic. On his feet, he didn’t know whether to rush out of the bedroom or lunge at you. His feet grappled awkwardly with the floor, throwing him backwards, forward, sideways, then to an awkward standstill. Panic sporulated under his feet again, and he finally turned to the crossroads, taking a sharp turn to your slightly ajar bedroom door. He threw it open and closed it behind him as he rushed out. The pitter-patter of his bare feet on warm floors echoed though the halls, and consequently reached your bated ears; a ‘slam’ followed, undoubtedly him kicking the bathroom door open.

You shook your head slowly, your heavy eyes suffused with brewing amusement at the auditory evidence of his irrationality. With bated breath, you waited for the follow-up.

“Oh… shit,” you barely made out his words over the unfathomable distance. But his voice travels far, even in his awestruck whispering.

Then: “Oh! Shit!” Louder and punchier. Then the pitter-patter of feet again over warm floors, then your door flew open again, hitting the wall. Jabber stood at the doorway, bouncing on his heels, one brow shaped and neat, with a defined slit in between, the next fuzzy and round.

You rolled your shoulders casually, looking up at him, “So?” You drawled. “How’d it look, man? Like it?”

“You kiddin’?” He pranced forth, grinning, “I look sickkkk,”

“Still need to do the second one, can’t be celebrating yet,”

Jabber was sat in an instant, scooting close. “Do what you gotta do, twin,”

“Mhm,” Again, you grabbed his face. Finding it easier to shape his brows now, your words poured out in an attempt to fill the gaps of silence. “Saw you lookin’ through my collection, by the way,” You started in a low rumble. “Thinkin’ bout getting one?”

Jabber blinked at you, contemplating. It took him a while to get it, and soon recollection crossed his features. “Oh.” He gave it ample thought, and still wound up just shrugging his shoulders, “Thought about those ones on the bottom lip. Y’know the one that sticks out, not the rings,”

You dragged the blade around the bushy brows in rhythmic ‘scritch-scritch’. “Labrets?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again, “Which one is that?”

“Bottom lip dead centre.”

“Eh. I was talkin’ bout the ones on either side.”

“Snake eyes?”

“That’s the one,” He conceded with the slow drag of his eyes over your face, blinking when a stray hair fell too close to his eyes. “I want mine coloured, though. Love silver and all, but I get bored mad quick, so I figured ‘hey, some colour might do me some good’,”

“Silver gon’ match with your lady Mankira,” You coaxed simply, “Never go wrong with silver on silver,”

“Yeah, but think of a red,”

“Red? On you?”

“What about it?”

“Nothin’, nothin’,” You placed the blade at the arch of his brows, cutting a thin slit, “Just that… red won’t look good on you,”

Jabber clicked his tongue, “What do you know?”

“Plenty. Red won’t look good. Stick with silver. If you really wanna diversify, you can even go for a black,”

“Black,” He reiterated, dropping his weight more into your gripping hand. “Maybe,”

“Could try to get the kind with the fake jewels on top, though,” You turned his face, “You’d look dope with one of those rhinestones on you, though,”

Jabber’s lips quirked upwards, “Think so?”

“Bring out the eyes, man,” You commented, “Make you really stand out, you’d be glowing and shit,”

Jabber found himself chuckling, “Said that so easily, makes me wonder how many people you told that to before.”

“Enough,” You mused with a wry smirk.

Jabber let out a curt, punchy ‘hah!’ before stilling himself so as not to disrupt your work. Still, he sang, “Heartbreaker~!” Just as you made the final swipe over his brows.

“Shut up, man,” You bit down on your lip as you pulled your hands back. You wiped both brows with a mildly soaked pad of cotton. “Well, it’s done.”

Jabber’s eyes lit up, and he leaned forward, “Tell me first—how I look?”

“Well, it’s MY work, so—you look dope as hell,”

His face twisted into mock offense, “Man, ion wanna hear about your work—it’s MY face,” He snatched the tiny mirror propped against the bottle and raised it up, “‘My work so it looks good’ my ass,” He mocked with a mimicked voice, though could not brush off the mirth in his eyes even as he turned his face away from yours.

You watched as he held the mirror up to his face, watching his irritation blend into surprise, then awe, then glee.

“Shit man,” Jabber gasped, “You—!”

“Me?”

“You know what imma say,” Jabber threw his hands up, slapping them back on his knees. “You don’t need me to say it,”

“Would stroke my ego,”

Jabber opened his mouth to say something quick and spiteful, but found himself biting back on it with a giggle. Instead, he mustered, “Looks so dang good. I look—I look cool. And ‘yknow what would make it even better?”

“Snake bites?”

“That—and eyebrow piercings,” Jabber clapped his hands together, “You gotta see the vision—you see it, right?”

“I do. Silver, right?”

“I’m thinking rhinestones,” He bit his lip, “Really brings out the eyes, y’know?”

You blinked, and your lips quirked into a half-hearted smile, “Yeah—it will,”

Despite the convenient presence of a 24/7 burger joint, nothing on the streets remained but the memory of humanity. When the food finally arrived, sloppy burgers wrapped in thin, graphic paper, cooling quickly in the cold breeze, the stench, when paired with the midnight breeze, drew nausea into your throat again.

Jabber had tried to get you to sit inside the building; however, the lights were glaring beacons that burned through your retinas. Jabber had slapped his hand over your eyes before promptly dragging you out. He sat you down at the only outside table, though under the neon sign, and put the order in himself. Currently, you have drunk a total of 5 tall glasses of water and have been to the bathroom three times to expel the excess water in your bladder. Jabber had accompanied you to the first two, deeming you too unreliable to go on your own. By the third time, he had relented and allowed you to go on your own, but you collapsed the moment you removed your braced hand.

Now, sitting back down in your plastic chair, the cold biting wind nibbled at your fingers and palms; The chains of sedatives were beginning to rust at every link, the slow creak of metal giving way to a persistent buzzing behind your eyes. Through the lifting haze of your vision, you could almost perceive with more confidence than before. Only to quickly be met with the lashings of the neon sign’s glare.

Jabber poured you the sixth glass the moment you forced down the last gulp of the fifth. He filled it to the brim, just short of a cascade, and set it down before you with a soft ‘clink’. The water wobbled, your eyes tracking its sway. Soon, you were sure your body was swaying in time with the wobbling.

The yellow glow of the restaurant coated your body, and in particular, your side of the table. He found it to be an injustice to your vitality—if anything, this light seemed to emphasise the sickly pale that seemed to tint you.

“Eat somethin’, even if just a bite,” He started as his fingers pinched the wrapping paper of his own meal. He uncovered the burger layer by layer, until a round, spotted bun and grease slapped his senses. Typically, greed would encourage him to feast until he throws up, but melancholia had long taken hold of his control, driving him to a reluctant patience.

Across from him, you had given up on trying to behave normally. You were slumped back in the chair, back curved to the seat, legs as far out as they could be, spread. Your head was tilted all the way back, rolling over your shoulders. Time had been a concept that you could not grasp, even with flailing arms and reaching fingers. How long has it been since the departure? An hour? Two hours? Through your dazed triangulations and the complementary fever, you had a sliver of a mind to ask Jabber yourself. Maybe the restaurant had a clock that he may have glanced at.

You were slumped as far as you could on the plastic chair, your head upright, but nodding off every few minutes. With the constant back and forth between drinking water and urinating, you found yourself dangling on that precipice of total awareness. But it came with its own side effects, you soon realised. At the soft rumble of his voice, the way it seemed to roll off his tongue in a low murmur, your gaze pinned its muse of grease and buns.

The bun was squished by both the wrapper and Jabber’s poor handling. Viscous red and yellows peeked from within, dripping down the sides in clots. The patty was dark brown, partly obscured by a layer of wilting green and fleshy red slices. Your stomach rolled over, dumping bile back into your throat through some strange gravitational reversal mechanism. Your diaphragm heaved, and you slapped your hand over your mouth. You sank further into your chair, feet stretching under the table until they nudged Jabber’s. Your eyes darted back to the assortment, peeking at the mayo. Then away.

“‘M not hungry,” You blurt in passive admission after heaving. Though tilted away from him, it was easy to picture his face twisting into something akin to annoyance or irritation. Flitting, you were proven right upon catching the twitch of his slit brows, the downward curve of his lips.

His finger stabbed at the bun as he hooked the assortment to his palms, adjusting the dripping, sagging thing to sit on his thumbs. “You puked your guts out,” He pointed out bluntly, “Eat somethin’. Or ‘least drink the water,”

Your lips smacked, and you breathed out a worn, “Think I drank enough.”

“Then eat somethin’,”

Your throat prickled, and you swallowed the lump in rebuttal. That prickled lump layered with sandpaper dragged down your throat. “m’stomach hurts,”

Jabber knew that you meant the cramping. You had been violent when you retched, so he had accounted and expected. Though an inkling of suspicion wormed its way into the quieting atmosphere. He lifted the burger to his mouth, biting down on breath, veggies, and a greasy brown patty. Ketchup and mustard smeared over his mouth and chin, a pickle slithering out from the other end of the moist channel. It slipped onto the table with a ‘splat’.

Goosebumps used your arm as a track course, dragging a trail up to your shoulders, then a shudder that rolled down your spine. Drool pooled into your mouth, under your tongue and the back of it. It tasted of salt and a mild sweetness, with the residual chalk of those white-pilled euphorias. Your throat bobbed, and your lips pressed tightly together with an incessant hum emanating from the back of your throat.

Jabber’s attention snagged on your tight lips, his chewing degrading into something mechanical. Slow and obtrusive. Food sloshed in his open mouth, and he owed it to that when he caught your quick swallowing of drool.

“So,” He spoke between chews, “What else did you do?”

The words hardly had the time to land before he was distracting you again with the handling of his burger. He took a second bite with a ‘hmph’ despite not having finished the last one. His cheeks swelled unnaturally.

“Or was it just—” Food squished and churned, “—the big K and your depressants?” He dropped the burger into its wrapper.

Had it not been for his finally dropping the muse, you would have never registered the question as quickly as you did. Your scrutiny remained unfaltering, however, finding the slop an offence sufficient enough to warrant its hold on your attention. Still, you had half a mind processing the question flung at you through spittle. Your hand smoothed over your shrunken stomach, dragging long paths over the dip of skin under your shirt. You smoothed over flesh, your tone strangled by your insistent breathing.

“Knew a guy,” You huffed, “Gave me something to get the edge off—the—the,”

Your words ended in a slurred flurry of blurred sounds, eliciting a suspicious stare from Jabber. He lifted his hand, Mankira snagging the yellow light for herself in an obtrusive shine. His finger pointed at you, crooked but no less demeaning. He swallowed the mush in his mouth, green wedged between teeth, “Opiates?”

Opiates. Again, you tried to recall and wound up seeing something years ago. You saw blurred figures, heard the calls of your mother from when you were a child, then heard your own voice when that pretty thing degraded before your eyes.

Black spots mottled your vision, decorating Jabber, then the table, then finally your lap with their stamps.

“Never-” You hadn’t realised how strongly you felt, up until droplets of salt mattered against your lap. “Never—asked,”

Jabber hummed, your misery a potent experience. Still unrelenting in his pursuit, he waved that same hand as if batting a fly. “Nah, if it were you’d be foamin’ up…” He racked his brain, skimming through the recent memory of those bottles.

He could feel their tingling and weight in his palms, the smell of bile and chalk. How his fingers gripped these tiny bottles, how dearly you must treasure them. You owed it to them for this prolonged suffering and for your retirement.

But the actual contents of that third bottle alluded to him. It couldn’t have been a prescribed bottle, which he was certain of. You may have been the type to fall into the pit, but you weren’t the type to scratch off labels. A shrieking yowling penetrated his brooding silence, street cats having their midnight dispute, much to the neighbours’ displeasure.

He tried again, perusing his thoughts. He recalled the smell of bile again. Your clammy cold skin basked under the flickering glow of the bathroom light. The emptied bottle of chalk, the scratched label.

By some decree of secrecy, his search resulted in nothing but the thin layer of ground chalk powder at the bottom of the bottle. Jabber let his hand fall back to the table with a short scoff and made another grab for his burger.

He levelled and unflinching gaze at you, half a soul boring into your fragmented one. The soft glow of the sign, now, was beginning to sour his mood on top of your ambiguity.

“Eat,” he tried again, exemplifying his command with a sloppy bite.

This time, the queasy churn of your stomach seemed to alleviate, just enough that the burger didn’t look too unappetizing. But even if the thing was accompanied by crushed K, your stomach still dared you to test the odds.

“Look, I’ll help you out,” Jabber reached across the table, snatching the wrapped burger from your Youtable. He slumped back into his chair, a low creak of his chair. His fingers pinched and pulled the wrapper off, layer by layer, with a strange brashness that the meal did not deserve. But his philosophy dictates justification; everything deserved to feel the butt of his curdled night. He peeled the burger into the wrapper, setting it down. Still, he found that it wasn’t enough, not for his scrutiny. He pinched the bun with dirty fingers, separating head from body with lazy suspicion. By chance, his dissection was quickly justified by the slop of briny green sitting among the leaf and red flesh. His lips opened in a snarl too quickly, “Man—what? I told ‘em no pickles.” He dropped the bun, pulling his body away with a jarring scratch of the chair against the pavement. Hard plastic scraped against concrete. He stood, licked his fingers clean and smacked his lips. “Wait here, gonna give ‘em a piece of my mind…”

“Don’t,” You chastised in a low drawl, turning your head to look at two Jabbers., “Mm- minimum wage,”

He blinked stupidly, “Huh?”

Again, “Minimum wage. Them.”

“So?”

“Leave them.”

He took those words, turned them over in his head, and scoffed, “They screwed up your order.”

Yet he dropped back down into his chair, “I know you’re one of those… ‘pacifists’ or whatever, but it’s startin’ to get old…”

His gaze scoured you, “Wish you were a fighter…”

I wish you were…. different…

Then I- we wouldn’t be here right now

We would be at the crib, doing-

Nothing.

His hands were rough, not because he had a desire to harm you; he just simply lacked that awareness at times. His hands would grab and prod, grip and hold. Sometimes too tight, you would protest at times, and others, you just watch him with that easy fondness.

Your hands were kind but no less firm, a quiet strength that always made his head dizzy with the endorphins your fickle affection brought him. Always so lenient with whoever came your way, always so stupidly versatile that he had been cursed with the annoyance that came from being around a self-appointed genius.

He wasn’t sure if he’d want you to be different. What would the ideal version of you be?

He knew the answer already.

Jabber sat up, reached for the burger again. “I can fix this, just gotta-” he lifted the bun, fingers pinching and dragging out slices of pickles. He popped them into his mouth.

“There. Eat.”

Your gaze dropped to the assaulted assortment, the crude smear of ingredients that now seemed uncomfortably pressed in one side. Where you had found, at least, minimal desire in consumption, that quickly dried up into residual repulsion.

“I’m good,”

Jabber’s gaze fixed irrationally over you, a silent, thick glare that encompassed his own repulsion. He stood up again, slammed his chair back into the table, and rounded it. Your eyes tracked his march, following him to the double doors of the restaurant. He shoved them open and stepped in. By then, you chose to look away for your own peace of mind. You’d try to listen in, pick up bits and pieces, but space from him was a garnered peace that you wasted no time indulging. A low, satisfied groan tumbled past your lips as your head lolled back. Your eyes blinked, then fell shut in an easy swoop. You slumped back into your chair, letting your head loll off to the side, your eyes fluttering closed.

You thought it couldn’t have been long since you closed your eyes, but Jabber was back at your side, shaking your shoulder. A violent shake that was accompanied by his loud, ‘Yo!’ and ‘Wakey-wakey! Quick!’

Your eyes opened, and the shaking stopped with a wobbly exhale. Jabber peered into your face, his wicks hanging as he sighed again, his lips pulling then shrinking. “Aw snap man—I thought—for a second there—”

He stopped himself short, offering a mused chuckle instead. He straightened up, dropping a wrapped burger before you. Following that was a tall glass of a fuzzy drink. He rounded the table and reclaimed his seat that had grown cold in his absence.

“Sorry! Sorry!” He laughed, his face demonstrating a brimming glee.

Though lethargy had brought you to a daze once again, the sight of his enthusiasm brought you back into the barest of awareness. Just moments ago, to your fractured perception, that is, he had been irritable. You had felt that in the way he ate and looked at you. Though no threat of harm came your way, you knew him to be someone capable of that if it ever came to it.

“Got me all worked up!” Jabber added with a fretful wave of his hand, “I wasn’t gone that long!” He paused, thought about it. “Okay, like around 30 minutes, but nothing for you to doze off on me!”

He shook his head, then motioned to the new additions to the table.

“Anyways, got you a new one—NO pickles this time,” As though flooded with restless energy, his hands fidgeted before grabbing your meal. He moved to set it back down with a soft ‘my bad’, then stopped. He paused for a total of five seconds, eyes focused on nothing. Then he pulled the burger with him and began unwrapping.

You strained your depleted energy to study the newfound confidence and mirth in his posture, the way he handled the meal with far more courtesy than he had the last, and his own. As he revealed the burger beneath layers of graphic paper.

“Made this one real special, too!” He exclaimed, and he meant it. The burger was standing taller than the standard, the bun fluffed and puffed with air, tiny oval seeds decorating the top. You could see the layers of contents now, from meat to veggies—and none of those pickles. But you looked at him through the slow adjustment of your eyes that grew more aware the longer you watched his smile.

You had decided that whatever that smile meant, you wanted no part of it. But you found it hard to look away when his eyes met yours, submerged in a fickle tenderness that you felt almost cruel to consider disregarding.

You were never the type to ignore him, after all. It was that part of yourself that never changed. Until tonight, of course.

In that brief moment of awareness, you wondered how things could have played out had you answered the call. Had you made the effort to sound normal, even though you were just short of swallowing chalky euphoria.

What would have happened if you had just answered the call? Played it normally, let him think everything was fine?

“Got you somethin’ that’s not water this time, too,” He said as though guilt had penetrated him, “Your favourite!” He sang.

Then he dug a hand into his pocket, gripping something. He bit his lip, his eyes never swaying from your suspicion. “So, I was thinkin—”

Of course. He thought of something. You braced yourself with a slow stiffening of your body.

“—That maybe, we need to… go back to our old roots… remind ourselves ‘bout the good ol’ days,”

Jabber decided that it was the only plan for tonight. The initial plan was to get food, take you back home and find a way to talk some sense into you. But when the food was ruined, and he stormed into the restaurant with an air of irrelevance, he felt the vestige of chemicals firing off brand-new ideas. It was the lights.

The lights.

The lights had flickered just as he threatened the cashier, and his mind was eclipsed into a cherished memory. A tickle in his ribs, a restlessness in his gut, the press of bodies. How vexing it had been to try so hard, and someone still had to go and ruin it with something as stupid as adding pickles to a burger for a clearly no-pickles person. Yet, how encouraged he felt when the flicker of lights and the soft hum of music from the back elicited the only solution left.

Or at least, the one he is favouring.

In all truth, he thought of two solutions. But that’s… a last resort.

You didn’t move, though. He expected as much, really.

“Finish up, man,” Jabber murmured, “We got some rememberin’ to do… it’s gonna knock that shit right outta your head,”

You licked your lips, the fog lifting just enough for you to find this new meal of worth of consumption. “Old roots?” You said at last, “That’s—can’t we just head back to the apartment after?”

His eyes boiled over into quiet suspicion, “Nah, nah, we havin’ some fun… jus’ me and you out into the small world… you’re gonna like it, don’t worry,”

Pleased with himself, or maybe understanding that your resistance is secondary to what he has sorted in his head, he threw his arms behind his head, hands cradling the back of it. A drawn groan tumbled past his lips as he leaned the farthest he could into his chair without toppling backwards, crossing an ankle over the other. His head tilted back, flitting to the hanging yellow sign, boldly reading ‘24/7’.

“No rush, man, just enjoy your food, then we headin’ out…”

You had hoped to go home. There was no concrete reason as to why, other than the strong desire to simply be surrounded by the familiar again. But you had also expected Jabber’s persistence, his conflicting desire to cajole you out of this infection.

You had to be grateful for that, in a way.

You needed the closure.

You lurched forward with a sudden craving for grease and entitlement. Your hands warmed from the meal before forcing the spire of the burger into a compressed block just to fit it into your mouth. Your teeth drove through buns, patty and veggies, fought the midsection of a tomato before severing the chunk.

And Jabber barked, “My man’s hungry!” His eyes cornered you, “That’s my man!”

‘“You remember where we first met?”’

You found yourself almost fully able, and you hadn’t realised how much you missed walking until you took the first few steps on your own. And you had to, really. Around the 3rd, ‘can never go wrong with left’ motif, Jabber had roped you into a roundabout of the block, winding up right back where you started. There, you had to ask him where this ’ plan ’ was supposed to take place.

Though the whole surprised betted on your unknowingness, he relented to your question with a murmured, ‘“That underground hub…”’

‘“Thought we’d get there by now but… guess my memory ain’t as good as I thought… my bad”’ he added on after you had chastised him. The underground hub was a sensation, banking on the town’s strangeness and the irony of an underground club in a relatively underground city. The first time you went, you were maybe 15 or 16 years old. Young, yes, but spunkin’ and ready to experience the social life that others have fawned over. The club had shut down after the owner passed though, and the community was in mourning.

When you had explained this to Jabber, his face hardly splintered into embarrassment; instead, he was pickled with annoyance and a deep-seated hopelessness that you had never seen before. His eyes dipping, his body growing cold.

So, in spite of your reluctance, you had done him that favour and took him there anyway.

The hub was the basement of an old apartment building, with two knowable entrance. The main door, which is accessed by going into the building, then locating the basement; then there was the ‘secret’ one.

Jabber gazed up at the tall building, its brick walls marred with graffiti over the years since its unlawful abandonment. He found it strange for a moment that a relatively intact building was abandoned so quickly. Not that he was the type to crucify the waste—more opportunities for him. The tall windows carried the weight of their neglect the most, many broken as though someone had thrown rocks up against the glass. Its unassuming presence amongst a block of occupied buildings would deter anyone from simply walking past it without a second thought.

But Jabber saw only the answer to all their problems. He moved first, “Think the secret entrance still a secret?”

You didn’t have to ponder that. You followed Jabber, a residual drag in your steps, turning into the nook between buildings. Much like all the other alleyways dotted in the town, this one was just as grimy and foul. Trash littered the floors, and puddles of concoctions lay stagnant. There was nothing discerning about it, apart from the low window built into the side of the wall. Small enough where someone would have to crawl on the grime just to slither through the window.

Jabber dropped to his hands and knees, tilting his head at such an angle that your disgust reached the highest levels.

“Jabs-” You moved with a frantic quickness, almost slipping on grime, just to gather his wicks into your hands. Your hand smoothed over his head, gripping his wicks in one hand, elevating them. “Be more careful, dude,” You chastised as his chin almost touched the floor. “Your hair almost—ew,”

Jabber moved, and you adjusted your grip to lift more. “Nah. I knew you were gonna catch it,”

Your hands loosened a fraction, then tightened. You bit back that impulse. “Yeah, what are you looking for?” With one hand, move to your own hair. You still had the band he used to tie your own hair up. You tug it off and shake your head of tight knots, and pull the band over the collection of wicks in your hand.

Jabber hummed absentmindedly and moved forward sans awareness. He ended up pulling taut on his wicks, wincing at the sudden tickle of pain. Meanwhile, you jerked in place, shoes sliding against grime. You spaced your stance, catching yourself on the wall. “Hey—” Came your retort, tugging on his hair to get him back and ease the line.

He fell back on his butt with a hiss, and he looked up at you. You flinched under his gaze, “Sorry, man,” You murmured as you pulled the hair band around his dreads. “Just give me a break,”

He blinked up at you, the darkness of the alleyway masking his eyes. “It’s cool—real cool.”

You pulled your hands away from the newly shaped bun, “Okay, you good now.”

“Not gonna tug on it again?”

“Why? Is it loose?”

You hadn’t realised it. Jabber did.

“Whatever, man,” Was all you could offer as Jabber fixed himself into an awkward crouch. Your face twisted into something foul as he lay his body flat on the murk. His hands found the windowsill’s brim, giving it a test push. It only trembled at first.

He gave it a harder push, his arms flexing and his knuckles turning white.

“Damn, weak as hell,” You murmured under your breath.

“Shut up. I ain’t the one who lost muscle,” Jabber sat back on his heels, flexing his arm, “See? Allll real muscle. Been workin’ out,”

“And window still closed,”

Jabber scoffed and dropped back to the window. “Have some faith, damn!” He huffed as he tried again. The hinges groaned into wake, the brim nudged just a bit upwards. Jabber perked, “See?! I knew it—I knew it. This is the answer—” He pushed and pushed, and little by little, the blockage was lifted. Through the widening gap, a flush of dust and rot corroded his nose, forcing them into a scrunch.

“Smells like hot ass in here—I mean, I can handle it, but—” He pried it upwards with success, and it snuffed his complaints swiftly. He nodded to himself, “Okay… okay! Let’s go,”

Before you could protest, he pushed himself up to a seated position. Again, you found yourself revolted by the grime seeping into his clothes. He braced himself on his hands as he pressed his legs closed. Then, using the grimy covered ground and the force at his palms, catapulted himself in one, swift, ‘swoosh!’ He disappeared through the window and darkness of the abandoned hub, and a loud echoing ‘slam’ pounded against the walls.

You were free, you realised with a quickness that had failed you before. Standing there in a murky alleyway, you could easily turn away. You could try, perhaps fail, to get back to your apartment in a half-sane sprint. Try to see how far you can get before your legs give out, or before Jabber catches you. The chances of you arriving home before him were slim, but you couldn’t help but relish the idea. Climbing flights of stairs, reaching your floor. Lock the front door, then lock yourself in the bathroom until this haze fully wears off. A second attempt would be impossible—and you weren’t brave enough to face the railings. But maybe you will once the sprint’s exhaustion takes over.

“C’mon!” Jabber’s hand pushed out the window, wiggling and coaxing. Looking past it, you could see his outlined shadow.vd “Don’t leave me hangin’,”

You were a fool. That you knew. A fool to him, to yourself—yet you found yourself crouching down, just like you did the first time. You were alone then. With nothing but beads in your hair and cheap cologne masking your blatant inexperience. Then, the most you’d find in the alley was beer cans, or the occasional rubber that you once had the misfortune of slipping on.

You were smaller then, the way a teenager would be. You found yourself small again, a dilapidated person. So you had enough confidence to know entry would be just as easy. You only hoped that the manoeuvre wouldn’t splash that grime onto your head.

“Step aside,”

Jabber’s hand receded, and his shadow sank back.

One night.

Just one night.

You didn’t want to think about the act itself. You shrugged off your jacket and laid it on the ground before the window. Then you sat on it, pushing your legs through the window. You shuffled forward, hands braced on the expanse of the jacket—and you slipped down. Your knees buckled once your feet hit the ground, and an arm quickly hooked around your waist. Jabber hoisted you back onto your feet, an asy grin on his face.

“I scoped out, everything is still here!” Well, he’s sure they are. This spot was the only patch of light in the entire room. Every other corner was shrouded in an impenetrable darkness, a cloying musk wrapped around every morsel. He braced your body up against a table, swiping hair from your face. “All here… it’s awesome! W’re gonna have a blast, bruh!”

He pulled away with a bounce in his step, his wicks following the bounce and sway of his body.

“Just gotta get the lights on, get some music! Get that goin’ real quick—b-r-b—”

Then he turned on his heel and disappeared into the darkness. He stopped short when the darkness became all-consuming, and he couldn’t make out anything else but the impression of figures. He wasn’t the best with directions; he couldn’t tell right from left, even if he was kicked upside the head. But an itch in his side had directed him towards the far right of the spacious room. Well, as spacious as it could be. As he took a new route in the darkness, he recalled the press of bodies against bodies. Bodies that he had no reason to be surrounded by. But at the time, there was nothing going for his life. He had his Mankira wrapped around his fingers, sure; even the ballad of silver became a bore to him, a continuous, consistent melody that sang only violence and misfits that he had grown periodically numb to. This hub, he had considered then, to be a change in his monotonous life. He slipped in through the tiny window, landed on a table, occupied by nobody. Getting off the table was the hard part, too many people, moving too erratically. Make no mistake—this pulse was exactly what he needed. But how can a guy have fun if he can’t even touch the damn floor?!

His hand lifted, searching disparingly.

Fun.

‘“This is so awesome…”’ He had geeked then, finally finding his footing on the sticky floors. Too many bodies, too many people. Lights were circling amongst colours, a strong beat echoing off the speakers. Street music, he quickly identified. Nothing like the occasional pop or hip-hop on the radio, though there were some resemblances between the latter and club music. He had spent the first five minutes studying the people. Older folks, most of them. Some were only a few years older.

To be fair, he wasn’t meant to be there, either.

He never searched for a partner in the press of bodies. He didn’t want one. He came with Mankira, and he had no intention of leaving with anyone else. So he hopped to the beat, two left feet trying to find the right one. Left and right, he bounced in whatever ways he could, showered in blues and greens.

Then those warm oranges flickered on amongst the colours, and his left feet turned him to the right ones.

His fingers flicked, and the lights flickered on in a stagnant green, flooding the room in their glow. He tilted backwards, spotting you like a diamond in the rough. His fingers turned the knob of the breakers, the lights jumping between yellow, blues, before blurring into softer hues. Orange poured into the room now, and the tightness swelled in Jabber’s chest. Your heavy eyes flitted up to the streams of light, still braced but now finding your bearings.

Were you thinking of the same thing? Did you know what he saw that night? Someone who clearly didn’t belong there either, blending with the crowd with the whine of your body in time with the pulse of music.

‘Music, duh!’ He thought briskly and sprang like a madman to the old wooden stage. He climbed onto it, the heels of his ridiculous tap-dancing shoes clicking against the hollow wood. He slid to the dust-covered set of musical equipment, narrowing at the keys and music player.

‘Huh.’

“Yo!” He called, “Got any idea how any of this works?”

Your eyes tore off the lights, “The DJ set?”

“What else?”

You ignored that, “See any vinyls up there?”

“I ain’t even know how to turn the damn thing on, now you start throwin’ some music lingo at me?”

You rolled your eyes, “The big disk goes at the centre. Pop the needle on it, figure it out,”

He bit the inside of his cheek, making a face, “Shit, I would’ve figured that out myself… useless ass… pretty ass… just standin’ there lookin’ all delectable and shit, majestic ass,” he mumbled, but followed through. He was no technical genius, so it took a lot of trial and error for him to figure out what goes where and how. He grabbed the first vinyl he saw, with two letters scribbled on its cover. He shrugged, slid it out, and popped the disk onto the set.

“Music comin’ right up!”

You flinched when the speakers stood at every corner of the room, trembled with vigour. ‘Skkrr skritch!’ they cried as dust puffed from their mouths. Then, to your absolute befuddlement, music began to pump out with rising volume, filling the room with a smooth but slowed bass. Nothing like you remembered, at least. The music then was loud, yes, but they were frantic, punchy. The kind that had people bouncing against each other, trying to catch that quick rhythm.

This song unnerved you in its tranquillity, as the orange bled to deeper hues.

Jabber filled your wandering gaze, hopping down from the stage with a slow pulling smirk, “Been a minute… right? Been so long since we had a night like this…”

You found yourself staring at him. You’d be lying if you said the music didn’t help with the heaviness in your chest. But you also couldn’t say that it worked up your feelings just the same.

“You picked the wrong type of music,” you bargained instead, straightening up. “Play something we can dance to.”

Jabber sucked his teeth, “Did a whole lotta technical bullshit just to help us have a good time… so you better dance to whatever the hell I put on.”

“I ain’t dancin’,” You muttered simply, a hand gripping the table. “This—”

“You’re so lame,” Jabber drawled instead, a slow sway accompanying him as the slow beats tune filled his body, drop by drop. “Used to be so cool—with those moves—”

You watched as he lifted his arms, moving with the coordination of a fish out of water. A sway there, a spin there, a kick. Then he was jumping over the place, lips pressed together with the makings of new beats on top of the existing bass.

“You were all like—“ He stopped and made a poor attempt at a roll. He stopped, “Hang on—almost got it—“ He tried again. He yielded the same results. “Eh, whatever,”

A smile returned to his face, and he was throwing his arms around.

“Get it—get it—” He chanted as you watched him.

Shrouded in purple lights, you could almost feel the presence of someone at your hip. Another person, someone who you shouldn’t be dancing with at all. But everyone had assumed you were of age—that you belonged there. Though you had come for the appeal of dancing with someone older, it was Jabber’s disgusting lack of coordination that had snagged your attention. The feverish excitement in his limbs even as he moved against the crowd, the sway of his waist that was, at least, matching the brand. And those eyes. Pink eyes are already set on you.

Your hand had slipped off the waist and hip of your dance partner. And you squeezed past bodies, stepped over sticky puddles and fallen red cups. Splendid hues overhead, drowning in crimson just as you reached the invitation of his body.

“You’re dancing it wrong,” You rasped then, and now.

Jabber’s contortions came to a skidding halt, his brow arched. “Huh?” He said then, and now. In both situations, he couldn’t help the weary, longing gaze encompassing all you represented.

“It’s all in the hips and waist—you’re moving everything but those,” You had mumbled it, yet somehow managed to penetrate the thick music. Your hands itched at your side because of the alcohol you had downed in a bold swig. Now, they itched with residual cold tremors and toxins.

“Jabber—”

“You never knew me, then,” Jabber interrupted, but still took that bold step forward. His eyes lost that manic energy, a fraction of it existing only to amplify what he had always felt when he looked at you under crimson lights. “So… you wanna dance, or what?”

“If you let me lead,” You bargained, your hand finding his side. “Can’t be embarrassing me… with the shit you got on your feet…”

One more night.

One more dance.

His eyes twinkled, “Hell yeah—move those feet!”

His hands made a grab for yours, forgetting already, and a breathless laugh left you as he pulled you to the centre of the room. Your feet moved to catch up with him as he jogged back. “Take it easy—!” But you were lacing your hand with his, twirling him. Your lips pulled into an exhausted smile as he spun on his toes with a radiant giggle.

His eyes took you in again just as he rounded to face you, the heaviness lifting. He pulled your entwined hands up again, spinning you now. Your movements were languid, steeped with residual loss of autonomy. He hooked his arm around your waist to stop an inevitable fall.

He peered into your face, his wicks tickling your cheeks. He smelt of the grime in that alleyway, and the lingering musk of that burger. Under those pungent scents, you faintly caught a whiff of the incense your room was suffocated in. “Hi,” he breathed.

You stared right back, transfixed, “Hey…” Your hand settled over his arm, “You ready for me to lead, now?”

Jabber could not form words, having made a strange strangulation sound that bordered on glee but also insanity. You interpreted that as a ‘yes’, and found your bearings. Your eyes could never shine like his, but he found that inkling of warmth sufficient.

“Been a while,” He reiterated, and moved with the music again, but with less dominance than before.

Despite yourself, you mustered a half-hearted, “Yeah…” the barest of words that still made him smile.

“Slow, right?”

“Could you do that?” You teased, “Never the type,”

“I got a lotta skills in my claws, slow dancin’ is easy-peazy,”

Then it all narrowed down when your hand found his side.

Jabber’s movements slowed into an abrupt stop. Through the fabric of his shirt, he felt the hesitance in your fingers, nimble fingers considering whether to grip or just hover above his body. Then your hand cradled his side, the heat of your hand again, gripped his chest just as harshly as those fumes used to.

He moved closer without your initiative, just like he did then. Though his justification was that the hub was packed, and he couldn’t help the intoxicating closeness between bodies. As one might conclude, he had none at the moment. Only that it felt good to be this close to you, so intimately that is. He stepped just in time with yours, and the alignment happened as fluidly as the motions of a sway, however imperfect.

The music vibrated through your bones, sending a vigorous pulse through your hips and waist.

“Follow…” Your hands settled on his hips, pulled. Your hips started in a circle upon bent knees. A slow circle, forward and around, your hips brushing against his in rotations.

Jabber’s hand found your waist, pulling you closer until space was a suggestion. Again, he was justified then by the large crowds, ensuring you weren’t swept away. His new…. friend. Now, as his eyes focused on the thin lines of your face, the brief concentration in your eyes. Those lips pulled into a small gape, closing, parting again. Your lashes fluttered as you glanced down between them, your hands sliding, then gripping his body. You smelt of the cheap soap he had bathed you with, burgers, and a lingering aftertaste of chalk.

You felt his hips catch the rhythm you’d set, following the circular path yours had traced. A beat behind, but learning. You rolled your waist left, he swayed right, hips stubborn in their reluctance to pull away. You had the first genuine smile he had seen in a while, conflicting with the bags under your eyes. His pelvis met yours in a slow grind, just as his hands circled to your lower back.

‘Do you remember any of this?’

His hands fumbled with your back, then slid to your hips, gripping the jut of bone. Your lips quirked, and he met yours with his. A quick, fleeting thing. You almost didn’t register it.

“Jabs,” You whispered against his lips, your breath fanning his. “What was—”

“Nothin’,”

“‘Nothin’ he says,” You breathed against his lips, your eyes flitting up to meet his. “Jabber,”

“Curious,”

Your hips rolled again—forward, side, back, side—tracing the familiar path. The movement started on your knees, travelled up your thighs, and released in a slow, deliberate rotation. He sucked in a greedy breath through his gaping lips, sticking his nose into the curve of your neck.

You tilted your head back, eyes drawn up to the red lights. Strange how they haven’t changed yet. Your eyes fluttered closed for a moment, soaking in the lights, him. Him. Only him. You were glad he came—if he hadn’t, then you’d never get this.

‘Thank you.’

“Been a minute, right?” You drawled, your voice as intimate as the slow bass of music.

There was no possible way the two of you could have ever gotten closer. But he was the kind to always come prepared. He pulled your hips flush to his. He opened his mouth to speak, but could only follow the roll and grind of your hips against his. His chest pressed snugly to yours, transferring the heat you had lost when you took a stroll to Death’s door.

Somehow, Jabber found himself ensnared a second time. The glow of red lights vaguely highlighted the sheen of sweat on your arms. He slotted his thigh between yours, and you ground your hips down in a slow, lazy rotation that made his breath catch.

“Been a minute too long,” He rasped, his head swam with the dizzying euphoria of the red lights catching the sweat on your body. His legs felt lighter, his body looser than before. He swayed with an equal laze, his gaze dropping to your hips. The graceful roll of your waist and hips. “Missed you,”

‘Stay,’

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. Your eyes fluttered shut, your brows knitting together. “Jabber…”

“Don’t,” He started, his lips brushing, “I know what you’re gonna say—stop it. The best damn night of my life—”

“Thank you,”

His breath stifled, and his eyes glared into your partially open ones. “It’s not over yet,” He insisted.

“I know,” He waited for it. The ground knows how long he’s been waiting for it. He could have done it himself; he had the audacity to complete the move himself if he wanted to. But he wanted to feel it. The want, the longing. He wanted to know if you felt just as high as him on these nights.

It never came.

“You’re doing it right now,” He persisted, “These ups and downs ain’t got nothing on us—see how fun it is?”

“It is fun,” You spoke now, your hands slipping from his body. “Tonight is… perfect, okay?”

Perfect. “And?” He spoke louder. “What else?”

“What else?”

His eyes darted across your face, “C’mon, just say it—say it. That’s the last piece!”

Your lips pulled into a tight frown, “I… I can’t, I can’t,”

His breath hitched, and his voice trembled, “What the hell…” He pulled back finally, taking large, staggering steps back, out of the crimson light. “Can’t even—nah, you can’t be serious…”

You raised your hands, “Jabber, please, I— I love… dancing with you. I really do,”

“That’s—not it!”

“It makes things difficult—”

“Difficult?” He forced out in a spitting laugh, “Yeah, ‘cus you tryna kill yourself wasn’t difficult enough, huh? Had the balls to pop pills but can’t even say how you really feel ‘bout me,”

“There’s nothing to say,” You argued now, grasping at the air. Your eyes were downcast, laden with exhaustion “I just wanted to—I wanted to end us off on a good note, I wanted you to—to have a good memory of me,”

“You—huh?” He swallowed thickly, looking at you through the hypnotic glow of red lights. The mockery of that perfect night came hurling at him. “A memory? I don’t want… no damn memory!”

“I can’t be that person anymore, Jabber!” You shouted across the distance between you two, “I can’t do that to myself—”

“Then do it for me!” He demands, his hands clenched tight by his side. He lifted his hand, wiping furiously at his face. “Why can’t you do that for me…?”

You raised a hand to cup your mouth, your vision blurring. “It’s not—it’s not your fault. It’s not my fault—it’s just—sometimes—” Your words staggered, stumbled, tripped over themselves.

“I thought—I thought we could finally—” He sucked in a breath, panting, “Thought this was the night you could get better again—” His voice contorted, “Dancin’ with me, talkin’ to me—touchin’ me like that— holdin’ me like that… I thought—”

His hands found his knees as his body trembled. “This whole thing… just a stupid game to you… isn’t?!” His head lifted, his eyes a vicious fuchsia that seemed to glow in the crimson lights. “Makin’ me your damn chore! Now that everything is settled, you can just kill yourself scot free, huh?!”

He pointed a trembling finger at you, at your stupid guilt marred across your beautifully gentle face, his silver rings expanding. “You just wanted closure—I was just your—blind, stupid, victim. I was right about you—a damn heartbreaker, player, flirt— leadin’ people on… makin’ them feel special like they are worth somethin’!”

“Yo…” You took a weary step back, the silver glint of Mankira drawing your vision to hone on its sharp blades. “Hey… Jabber, put that—”

“Oh? What? You don’t miss her?” Jabber lifted his limp hand, shaking it to hear the clinking of the blades. A slow blink punctuated his face, his expression slack and lacklustre. “Mankira wasn’t the only person that missed your vital instrument… and she wants some closure too…”

“Dude!” Your voice cracked as your heart raced in your chest, “Put that shit down—”

“I thought you wanted to die…” He spat, “Well, here’s your lucky day, player… bad night for liars…”

You gazed at him under those crimson lights. At such a distance, it was hard to discern what his face looked like as a whole. All you could focus on was the light sheen of sweat on his body, his lethargy. And all that crossed your mind was how beautifully lethal he was.

“Yeah… that’s what all of this is about, right?” He prodded quietly. Then his heels dug into the ground, his lips pulling into a snarl. “Right?!” He kicked off the ground with a pronounced ‘boom’, drawing the beautiful claws of Mankira.

They framed your body, then your shoulders, then your neck.

Death, you knew to be cold. Those who had tasted Death’s lips would always expel a final breath just before their hearts stopped beating. You were told that death could be quick and painless, over in a wink. It was a mercy that the ground did not offer to most. But it was the kind of mercy you longed for. You wanted to taste burnt herbs on your tongue, you wanted to find sleep and awake in the bleak nonexistence of your life. You couldn’t face the railings, couldn’t accept the idea of your body being amongst trash.

This, you could accept.

Crimson lights, the heavy vibrations of bass, Jabber. Him. It has always been him. So your eyes remained open, to consume the vision a moment longer.

Only him.

Mankira trembled at your throat, the sharp prick of her kiss a tantalising brutality to come.

“Hey…”

Your eyes took in the beauty that is Jabber Wonger, how quickly his insanity could give way to such aching colours of grief. Mankira knicked your skin in gentle kisses, gathering droplets of red, and your body remained still in its offering to his claws.

“You were going to…?” Colours bloomed in his face despite the stagnant lights. He inhaled, exhaled, inhaled, exhaled. “Why didn’t you fight me—you were supposed to fight me!”

He wretched Mankira away, a salacious heat lapping up his body, “Fight me!” He demanded. “Hit me!” He pleaded.

“I don’t like hurting you, Jabs,”

“You’re doing it right now! I don’t like this type of pain—shit’s weak, man! Shit got my chest all heavy and—hit me!”

“You want closure, too!” You started, “Go through with it, Jabs! You’re so close!”

Jabber took a step back, his chest squeezing with a new, fresh slash. Mankira sang Your melancholia, and Jabber glanced down at the one constant at his side.

“Hear that shit Mankira? Me? Killin’ ‘em?” He laughed, short and quick.

You paused just short of reaching him, eyes darting to Mankira. Then back up to Jabber’s face. Your eyes grew wet, and your hand trembled as it remained juxtaposed. “Please, hear me out—”

His eyes widened a fraction, and he moved. His left hand raised, clenched taut, and drove itself into your cheek. The sound of skin hitting skin echoed through the spinning room. You collapsed onto your knees, hands gripping the floor. Your breath returned to you, ragged and short, then brisk. You whipped around, brows knitted, both hands grabbing the second punch.

“You selfish— freak!”

You rose to meet him halfway, grappling with his arms. He kept Mankira stubbornly away from you, using his left hand to divert or deliver blows. You pushed forward with your feet planted firmly, and he stumbled back, grunting. Your hand fisted his shirt, gripped. Hitting him was something you didn’t do. You couldn’t bear hurting him, even if he found enjoyment in the stinging of skin on skin. Your palm instead slapped against his face, pushing his face back. He drove his free hand into you again, hitting your side, Mankira waving in the air. A petty thing, the kind of dispute that followed children.

You swayed, and he followed. Left, right. A step here, a step there. His hand fisted against your hair, yours against his nape.

He gripped, and so did you, bringing you both to a standstill. He breathed in your scent, the lines on your face, the thin layer of sweat. He thought of the hallucinations, the one hanging from the ceiling. The one on the ground in a puddle of their own blood. Then he thought of you, your warmth, your radiance, the easy air around you.

You took in the fixture of his eyes, that hypnotic glow. The way his anger had fused with the quiet moments between toxins. How his lips snarled, how he smilled of grime. How he clung to you, how he felt against you. How he—

Chapped lips met in a collision of teeth. Your hands moved up, both cradling and holding his face. His arms wrapped around you, claws barely sitting at your hipbone. Your chest was pressed flush against his, catching the minute ragged breathing in his chest.

Then you two were slowly pulling away. Your lips lingered over his, a brushing press. There was a tingling that lingered upon its surface, like static. Your eyes darted to his lips, while his eyes tracked yours. Your eyes lifted now, tired ones meeting those bright fuchsia ones.

Mouths collided a second time, more depraved than the last. Your hands smoothed up into his wicks, pulling him impossibly closer, your heart aching. Your eyes blinked, then squeezed shut, hot tears spilling from the crevices of your eyes. His mouth moved against yours with rising franticness, swallowing even the slightest of sounds. You chased the rhythm he set, parting your lips for the prod of his tongue. At your immediate permission, he groaned into your mouth. His tongue licked its way into your mouth, alien. You breathed between kisses, chasing his lips time after time.

If Jabber had it his way, he would have done this a thousand times already. If he had it his way, you’d be tucked away with him at Raider’s base.

You flinched into the kiss, and his tongue prodded more insistently against yours with a hushed moan. Your hands tend to scramble, then slam over his shoulders with renewed intensity. You reeled back like you had been burned by the lashings of his desire. You choked on whatever your mind had articulated, your eyes narrowing downwards.

Mankira stood snug on your side, loving you from the inside. The cold metal seeped into your writhing flesh, kicking up spurts of blood into your throat as your vision dipped into a blurred kaleidoscope of colours. Your knees buckled from under you, your hands quick to grip his arms for stability. Your skin felt cold again, then warm, then stiff all over.

“Jabs—!”

“Shh, I know,” Jabber spoke against your lips, chasing the last of that liquid courage. Who knows when might be the last time? “But it just hit me, man…” He chased your paling lips, trailing his hot kisses down to your jaw and neck. He ravished the salt-tainted skin of your throat, pressing softer promises to the rapid pulse. “Need… people, a lot of it…”

His arm slithered around your waist just as your legs gave out. Your body slumped in his arms, and his kisses never ceased in their devotion. They trailed hot embers over your chest, accompanied by the coolant of tears. They soaked into your shirt and onto your skin.

He bent his knees, slowly taking himself down to the floor with you. He sat criss-crossed on the ground, laying your body there. His forehead pressed down against yours.

“A whole team, y’know…?” He sucked in a harsh breath, “Raiders ain’t got those resources… and the boss won’t let me keep a non-giver…!”

He smothered you, hands cradling your head. Once Mankira had her fill of you, she slowly retracted back into his silver rings, becoming nothing more than a painful memory. He quickly pressed his hand over the butchered wound of your side.

“They’re gonna take care of you—better than I can—needed you to—need you s’much,” He pressed against the wound tighter, his fingers soaking up the carnal crimson of your blood.

“Say it,” He pleaded against your lips, his wicks caging you. “Say it, say it—say it—say it—”

‘I ____ you,’

‘____ you’

‘only you…!’

He swallowed thickly, struggling through a shortness of breath, “They’re gonna clean you right up—you want that, right?” He practically fought himself to say.

“To get clean?”

“Right outside? Seriously?”

The woman stood at the end of the bed, her arms crossed over her chest. Her hair was wrapped in a scarf, her face bare of its usual touches of aesthetics, given how early in the morning it was. Correction, the sun hadn’t even crested the horizon yet. She blinked the sleep from her eyes, raising a manicured nail to scrape the crust from the corners.

“Shikage woke me up, sayin’ some rando was just… dumped right outside,”

“And no note…” The man slurred in groggy distaste, leaning back into the old wooden chair the infirmary had on standby. He rolled his head back, catching himself before his weight could topple him over. “What did our lil’ doctor say about this one?”

The woman’s irritation faded for a brief moment, “Kentamine and depressants, and an underground drug,”

“Shit man,” The man murmured, sobering, “What did they go through…?”

“According to Eisha… chances are this was all self-inflicted,”

The man’s face twisted, and he ducked his face into his palms, rubbing. “Shit—one of ‘those’ cases… huh?”

“Our worst ones—they’re lucky to even be alive. Got some damage at the back of their throat,” Her face cringed, “Then a wound in their side… then more chemicals…”

“I’m gonna handle them, Semiu,” The man mumbled quickly. “This one can stay.”

Semiu sent him a sideways glance, “We can’t adopt every stray, Enjin,”

“They need us; they were brought here for a reason.”

“We don’t know who brought them here, but Eisha is going to run a test on their blood,”

Enjin glanced at her, “Sounds suspicious.”

Semiu hummed, “You look at the wound yourself, and tell me.” She yawned now, raising a hand to cup her mouth. She smacked her lips, adjusting the frames of her glasses, “Let me know when they wake up. I’ll need to run a background check.”

“You got it, girl,” Enjin called out after her as she turned on her heel. Enjin forced a grin despite the turmoil sweeping in his gaze, “Maybe they’re a giver too, can bring them straight into Akuta!”

Semiu stopped at the doorway, her eyes narrowed, but her lips pulled into a reluctant smile, “Natural talent ain’t good enough for you?”

“Gotta catch ‘em all, sis,” He reasoned with a shrug of his shoulders. “This one’s a shiny,”

Semiu didn’t grace that with a response, stepping into the hallway with a dismissive ‘hmph’.

Enjin turned back to the person, his smile faltering.

“It’s okay, kid,”

He brought a tattooed hand forward, stopping just short of touching their arm. He swallowed thickly and bit the bullet. His calloused palm fell over the clammy arm, sliding down to grip cold hands.

“We’re gonna get you all cleaned up,”

"I like your hair," You were, what Noerde initially thought, androgynous. Maybe that was the wrong word. But you dressed neither masculine nor feminine. She could discern some aspects of your attire that may point to one or another, but they were counter balanced by something of the opposing identity.

At her second glance, she thought you were a fighter like her. Someone who dressed for practicality. At times your attire did looked combat-ready. But overtime, she noticed you dressed more out of feeling than adaptability.

Worse, you appeared well liked within the faction. Perhaps adored. By one person.

"Excellent work," Noerde heard the hushed praise of Zodyl just before she could round the corner.

Something about the man had ways struck Noerde- not attraction. Just the kind of cold respect one might feel to another warrior. Zodyl was everything he said he was, and more. Noerde appreciated that about him, and especially appreciated thag he never had any interest in her then... and still doesnt now.

Maybe it was because of the other person he has at his arm.

"I'm glad to hear that, sir," You spoke with a neutrality that startled her, in comparison. In this angle Noerde could only see your back, so can't say what she expected. She has never seen your face. But you looked, in her mind atleast, friendly. Open. Given how strangely you dressed, she had assumed you would be the easiest to talk to. But you approached Zodyl's compliment with an almost impassive acceptance of it. Like it was hardly something worth noting.

Zodyl however, didnt seem to mind. If anything, Noerde thought she saw something akin to... pride, was it? It was something heavy, something wanting and adoring and- she didn't want to indulge those frivolous thoughts more. Implying he held something for his... colleague was to slander his clear goal-driven attitude. It was to personify who she thought was a shell of a man

She looked at you again, the way you bowed your head in acceptance. She could see now silver hanging from your neck. Maybe not real silver, real ones are hard to come by. But they were intricate no less. Where did you manage?

"Should I-" you began, however Zodyl interrupted with a raised hand.

"You're dismissed." He held his hand there, not touching you, but the imposing manner still rendered you into silence. He continued now, eyes still strange in their immersion of you, "You've done enough for today. Rest." Cold and finally.

You felt it, given the slight submission in your posture.

Noerde felt it, too.

And she stiffened when Zodyl's eyes flickered to her hiding space.

'Shit!' Noerde whipped her head back around from the corner, turning the opposite way. She walked tall, her steps almost stiff. It was her fault, really. For... 'intruding'. She shouldn't have watched, but she had felt something strange about the two. Something almost like-

"I like your hair," She sucked in a breath, and whipped around on her heel. You were already standing there, dressed in the patched purples of the Raider's uniform. You had your head tilted a fraction, weighing whether or not to proceed with your musings. You smiled, in spite of her obvious stiffness.

"It was the first thing I noticed about you. It's very pretty, I can see that it's your pride and joy,"

Pride? Yes. Joy? Maybe not. To enjoy maintaining her hair qas a subtle alignment with the traditional views of womanhood. To care for one's aesthetic, to be fashionable, submissive, and nurturing. She had apent a great deal of her life rejecting that narrative, clawing through the world's system to make her way to the top.

So for a moment, her mind had registered your words to be a similar regurgitation of those shackles, however friendly they may be. But just before she could bark with dismissal, she took in your... smile. It was awkward on your face, forced and uncomfortable. It hardly creased your eyes, but it framed you in such strangeness that it splintered Noerde's anger into...

"Thank... you?" Noerde muttered instead, cringing at her poor delivery. "My hair is what I would need for battle," She backtracked quickly, raising a hand to swooped her long blonde hair over her shoulder. Her fingers threaded through the length of it, "I spend a great deal ensuring every bit of me is suited for what Zodyl has in store,"

Your eyes lit up, a subtle brightness that almost removed the dim glower surrounding your pupils. "I've noticed. Zodyl told me about you, im very glad he managed to find someone like you,"

Pride kindled in her chest, and she stood taller, but now suspicion crawled into the forefront of her mind. She maintained face, and offered the slightest of warmth. "I am glad, then. I hope to continue serving him in that regard,"

She poked at what she perceives to be your attachment. She expected a flicker in your awkwardness. Her eyes perused your form with such obsessiveness, that it bordered on violating.

However you didnt seem to notice it. And if you did, you did a good job at hiding it. "He appreciates loyalty, especially those so driven by it. I think you already have a good standing with him,"

'No more than me, however,' Noerde had imagined you to say next. But you didn't. You stepped towards her in one then two steps.

"Tell me about you," you started.

Noerde's eyes twitched, "You just said Zodyl has told you about me,"

"He did," you conceded with a sigh, "But I would like to hear it from the source,"

Noerde stepped back, putting distance, "I am not a fan of idle chatter. Especially with my first mission already drawing so close,"

"No?" You murmured in thought, "You were very interested in mines and Sir's, however,"

Noerde felt herself growing taught with surprise once more. Her hands clenched at ger sides, and her mellowed gaze sharpened into a glare. "So," she started in a low grumble, "That's you're ploy? Chat me up to intimidate me? Am I in trouble now?" She scoffed.

As quickly as you're amusement rose, it plummet. "In trouble? No... I just thought it was funny..."

'Oh.'

Embarrassment tickled her gut and her hands relaxed. "...I... apologize for my aggression," she muttered.

"It's fine," you waved your hand, then offered another awkward smile. "Walk with me, Amozo?"

"Noerde is fine," she offered, a weak attempt to mend this... bond?

"Noerde it is!"

You saddled up to her side, and the two of you gor into a slow pace. The Raiders base was exactly as one might expect it to be. The walls were streaked with a black grime, forming a dark gradient from ceiling to ground. The gentle clicks of their heels on the flooring echoed through the stretch of the dark hallway. The smell had his Noerde when she first came here. She visibly crinkled her nose. But you traversed the stagnant puddles with indifference.

"I hear you came from a tribe of women, sounds exciting. How's it like being in a mixed setting for once?" You asked.

"Exhausting." Noerde muttered. "I had joined under my fascination with Zo- him. I met the blue haired woman, and she became my framework to how the rest must be. Quiet and resilient... capable even. Then I met the crazy one,"

A sudden sound came from you, muffled by your raised hand, "He... has a way of making a good first imoression," you offered in amusement. "Have you met Maomoa as of yet?"

"Who?"

Puzzled, you continued, "She is not hard to miss. Freckles? Headphones?"

Noerde nodded, "Then no. After meeting the crazy one, I frankly tuned the rest of them out,"

"I see... Then you've met your rookie-colleague, correct? I hear he also has an impressive background,"

"What's your purpose with me?"

You paused, blinking, "Sorry?"

Noerde redirected her body to face you, "You knew I spied on your... conversation with him, you know enough about me to go on about your day... and now you're asking me about the others." Her eyes narrowed. "What do you want?"

"Nothing," You insisted, your brows furrowing only slightly. That, she noticed, looked more natural on your face than that disgusting smile.

"I only wanted to be nice to you," you added with a petulant glare. That, Noerde also noted, seemed off on you. That tone, she means. "What's so wrong with that?"

"Drop the act," She said, pushing herself into your immediate vicinity. "I know when someone is faking. You're like a little actress, aren't you? Putting on faces to relate to people more. You and I both know what you are,"

"And that is?"

Noerde looked you up and down. "Affectless, at most. Stoic at least. I know when there's something off about someone,"

She watched your faces, noting the persistence of surprise trying to shake her off. But she glared through it, into the apathetic eyes behind that mask. "Drop it."

You blinked, and took a meagre step back. Your hands joined together, and the impression of warmth degraded into a disgusting unsettling glower. In the veneer of innocence, you had somehow managed to startled Noerde into silence when that mask fully fall. She had expected apathy. Had expected to see something emotionless. But this level of detachment breathed wrong, moved wrong.

"Sir is very particular about the people he has here," you started anew, your tone leveled. You adjusted yourself, "I normally converse with the new recruits. See what we're dealing with. He appreciates that about me,"

Noerde swallowed a prickled lump in her throat, "So... You're typically the one who breaks the ice..."

"I suppose." You shrugged, eyeing the woman again. "I was here longer than he has. So, when he took over he made sure to keep me around,"

'So there is an attachment there,' she thought, only to dismiss those thoughts.

"So for confirmation, you put on an act to gauge information out of me?" She muttered.

Your eyes, still those emotionless fretless hues, rose to meet her face. "I actually found you beautiful. I wanted to talk to you. Its not often we get a promising giver,"

Your words confused her. Did you... were you?

Did you just see her as an asset? You said one thing, then contradicted yourself with another. Where was the correlation? You thought she was beautiful and yet approached as a fellow asset?

You observed her now, "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression. Can we start again?"

Noerde watched as you offered a hand.

"Hello, My name is F/n, I'm the Raiders reconnaissance specialist,"

Noerde blinked. Slowly, awkwardly, she raised her hand to meet yours. Yours was calloused as her own. Clipped nails with flaking and chipped nail polish. You wore a ring. Her heat had dropped strangely, then eased when she realised it wasn't a wedding ring. Still, being this close...

Her eyes drifted over your neck. There was no choker around your neck. What replaced it were a series of dangling silver. Some were hidden, tiny chains. Others were loud in their worship of your body. Her eyes dropped to your hand again, still gripping hers. The ring was a silver. She took a peek at your wrist, and saw no choker or bracelet.

You were a person of silver, clearly. Or atleast someone who enjoyed being pampered despite your aloof demeanor. The pit has no place for people who wished to be pampered. But facing you, regarding you, consuming you... she could understand the appeal. She understands that her appraisal of you may not be accurate. Your titke implies you spend most of your days spying than fighting. But given you were a raider, it wont be far off to assume that you knew how to handle yourself if things go awry.

Finally, the question returned from its first cyrcle: Did you have a warrior spirit? Maybe the body of a warrior lies under that fabric. Soft skin and smooth muscles, maybe a a touch of scarring or tattoos. Were you the type to have a tattoo? If you had one on thag body of yours, would you show it to her? Would you let her touch it, trace the fine lines of ink?

She can assure you that it woukd just be meagre curiosity. Just that.

"Miss...?" Your voice floated back to her, gentle and blunt.

Noerde'a thoughts halted, warmth crawling up her neck. She cleared her throat and gave your hand a light squeeze upon realizing her delay, "Sorry. My name is Noerde Hew Amozo,"

You nodded stiffly, an impression of gratefulness brewing in the desolation of your eyes.

"I'm very glad to meet you, Noerde Hew Amozo,"

'What a mouthful... you're never letting this down, huh?'

"The pleasure is all mines," she murmured, holding your hand for a fraction longer. "Since you are here to break the ice... I am assuming you would be showing me around?"

"Is that a request?"

Her eyes hardened instantly, and she pulled her hand away. "No."

You tilted your head despite it. "Miss Noerde... I would need you to be more upfront with me... are you requesting I show you around the base?"

Her lips twitched, curling into a tight frown. Her lips opened, closed. She was lifting her hand then letting it fall back. Her eyes squeezed shut, and her hands clenched and unclenched.

"I..." she started carefully, seething, "Would like... if you would... come with me... you seem like a... very interesting... person..."

Her eyes cracked open, and your inpassiveness held a flicker of amusement.

"I would love to," You murmured. You took a step forward, and Noerde pulled back instinctively.

But your arm was already wrapping around her's, linking the both of you by the elbows. She gaped at the audacity of you, your startling boldness for a person so... so strange. Her complaints were a sputtered mess, ceased by her inability to articulate herself.

"This is better," you began when you caught her confusion. You motioned to your arms. "We can form easier bonds this way. It's a good team exercise when you'd want someone to be as close to you as possible,"

Her eyes twitched, "So you've done this before?"

"No," You pulled her closer, "Only you so far,"

'This little-!'

Despite herself, warmth flooded her skin again. The dizzying heat reached the tip of her ears, and her lips curled into a snarl. It faltered time and time again, until she was almost shaking with barely contained irritation.

You blinked again, something she now found infuriating and oddly endearing. "Miss Noerde?"

"No..." she muttered. "I am... very glad... that we are... doing this..."

"Are you?"

"Yes... I..." she pulled you closer up to her side, your body against her side. "Am..."

You offered another strange smile. "You're flushed, Miss Noerde. Do you need to sit down?"

"I'm a warrior. I will get over it." She spat more to herself than to you. She held your arm in hers, hoping the flush will die on its own. It hasn't. And she found herself incapable of moving herself.

"Speak of this to no one," she muttered with a tremble in her shoulders. "This stays between you and I,"

"Of course,"

She, gritted her teeth and tugged you forth as she took her first difficult step. "We will explore together. Alone. Then we will speak. Alone. Then we will go our separate ways, alone."

"Really?"

"No," She turned her burning face away. "Just keep up with me. Don't drag your feet."

You hummed, "You'll like it here, Miss Noerde, we have much to offer," You said now, dipping back into professionalism as your eyes focused ahead.

Noerde swallowed thickly and looked back at you. That heat never went away. Instead, she found herself transfixed by you again. You weren't a warrior like her, but you still had a fire she found herself drawn to.

"And... these things that are offered... how soon can I receive my payment?" She asked carefully, measuring your words.

The slight twitch if your lips was enough to have her tuning her face away again.

"Soon, Miss Noerde," you murmured. "As long if you come back from your first mission..."

Noerde, perked, her shoulders squaring. She tilted her chin up high, walking with more purpose. "I will. I would expect my reward once my return- preferably ready for me as well,"

Your chuckles echoed, "I will see what I can do, Noerde,"

"You're sulking," Zodyl stood at the mouth of the large pipe, hands on either side of him. Following the end of the last mission, he had noticed your immediate absence after the debriefing. He surmised what it could possibly be about, and took it upon himself to search for you personally.

"How did it all got so bad so quickly?" You spoke once the silence kicked in once more. You sat on the edge of the pipe tunnel, legs dangling with your head bowed. Tour hands remained in your lap, fiddling with your vital instrument.

"I accounted for everything I- things were supposed to go well today they were supposed to be- I did everything right...!"

Zodyl regarded your posture, however remained in place. It was not often he gets to hear this level of conviction in your voice. Not you. Never you.

"Sometimes there are outliers we don't recognise until the data is skewered. We don't always see what's not there-"

"But not me..." You interrupted, shaking your head, "I'm supposed to know everything... and now they're..."

Zodyl watched you for a moment longer. "Fu failed in his mission. I doubt he is dead however, he has a way of surviving treacherous waters, despite his uselessness,"

"Noerde, sir," You whispered, "I told her she was going to do well- I told her that she already won and-"

"The cleaner had a pistol." Zodyl mentioned casually. "You accounted for everything. There was no way you would have predicted the cleaners to have a firearm,"

"But you left her there, you-"

"Noerde wanted to display her loyalty. She wanted to tie loose ends. I will not take that away from her." Zodyl explained, "She did just that. She did all she could to the very end."

Despite his words, he saw that id did nothing to ease you. So he approached in slow steps. "I will send you on a recon mission, after you get all the bulkets out of Jabber first. Get your mind off it." He stood behind her. "Is that understood?"

Jabber didn’t have much to his name outside of what the raiders gave him. He wasn’t afraid to give it out for that same reason. Even if old faces somehow float back into his life, the chances of them having something against him are low. Having no ties means he can do whatever the hell he wants without worrying about repercussions. Most of the time, at least. Sometimes he can’t help but let a couple of things slip, talk too much. Sometimes, when he’s feeling particularly active, he would ramble on about how the current situation reminds him of something else. Someone else.

‘“Y’know, I know a fella that would like to hang with someone like you—both of you got this nonchalance thing going on,”’ he said once, crouched and his hands making grand gesticulations.

Even if their friend wasn’t as much of a fighter—against getting dirty in most cases, Jabber always made sure to give them a call every 12 hours. However, after the first incident, the stance was too long at the railing, he reduced those hours to every 3. He would then call at random, in between hours. He’d always get a response.

His friend didn’t answer this time.

His shoes hit the stone in quick taps— tap tap tap— then dragged into a long skiid as he pivoted on his toes, catching his body into a redirection. He turned down the alleyway—the throat between buildings, damp and indifferent. Despite arriving at his destination, he moved like a frantic dog, pattering over stagnant puddles that reeked of mould and piss. The tide of nerves came and went, a dizzying sway that was more hypnotic than any poison he ever tried out.

The alleys knew which houses needed saving, which didn’t. This apartment was the only one with a fire escape. Other apartments? Their tenants just learned to jump. His arm lifted, his ringed fingers finding the lower reaches of its ladder out of memory rather than sight. An old rusted thing, pieces of the bars biting into his palms, tinged in ugly blood oranges, then soaked with the dribbles of red from his forming scars. He pulled. The ladder groaned in resistance—then gave. The ladder shrieked in its descent, link by link, then came slamming down onto the alleyway floor with a rattling crash. The tremors under his shoes propelled him up, feet finding the bars as he hauled himself up.

He found the lowest platform of the fire escape, climbing up onto it. He clambered onto his feet, then rushed to the flight of stairs—clang clang clang—the metal grates sang his name and cheered the name of Mankira. Normally, emboldened by the song of metal, he’d allow Mankira an encore. ‘Yeah, sing her name!’ he would say, dragging extended claws over the strings of railing bars.

Not tonight.

He ignored the call, grabbed the railing instead for the first flight of rusted stairs. Climbed up to the second floor. Third. Fourth.

At this height, all someone would need was acceptance.

He turned to the rusted window at this floor, crouching down. “Hey-!” His voice rung, loud and disrupted. His fists came down, banging on the fogged glass. Jabber could take all the pain really, he found a perverse enjoyment in their sores and scars. So please, if there really was a god…

He wasn’t sure if he’d be able to take this level of pain.

His hands gripped the bottom rail, pushed. Like the ladder, this window shrieked in protest, pushing against his strength. Its paint was peeling into flakes, polka-dots coverage now giving it a whimsical feel. His knuckles paled, and his palms stung as red was brandished into his flesh. He released with a huff. Then he moved onto his back, hands braced and gripping the grate. His legs bent at the knee, and he drove the heels of his shoes into the glass. Thunk! Thunk! Crash! The glass shattered into webbed clones of themselves, sprinkling over the window sill and the inside of the room.

“Yo!” He shouted again, and threw himself to the sill. He tripped over his feet, hands meeting glass as he crawled through. “Hey—!” He fell face-first into the floorboards, the wood groaning his name like they’ve done many times before.

Then the smell hit him. For a moment, in this haze reeking of pungency, he saw something dangling. He saw the cord hanging from the ceiling beams, and something attached to it. He blinked, fuchsia eyes growing wet. The smell hit him again, a slap to the face, and he saw something on the ground, the same shards of the window in flesh.

He scrambled back, shoes hitting the floorboards as his back found the wall. He raised his hands, rubbing his palms into his betraying eyes. Once, twice. He gritted his teeth, grunted, and felt the comforting touch of Mankira. His hands pulled away, and there was nothing.

His eyes tracked over from the floor to the ceiling to the drawer. A ceramic bowl sat, emitting a continuous string of incense smoke. The pungent smell faded into something earthy and sweet. But he didn’t trust his nose anymore. Nor did he trust his eyes. But he did trust how clean your room looked. Swept, mopped. No more clothes hanging out of your drawers, your things organized.

“Jabs…” He didn’t trust his ears either. Maybe he was still under the high of toxins. Maybe he never did leave the base. Maybe he was still there, feeling the high of bliss that came from his newly acquired sore.

“What the hell, man…?” His eyes tracked to the bed now. Its frame was relatively sturdy; however, it had graffiti and scratches on the frame and legs. The mattress was layered on top of another, with patched-up blankets thrown over it. A canopy hung on all sides, sewn together from things that used to be other things— a sheet, a curtain, maybe a tablecloth. It hung like a half-collapsed lung. And past it, a body rose, slow and considering.

Jabber blinked once, twice, then a third time. He kept seeing two, then three, then one. Two of them. One hanging, the other lay on the ground. Three of them. One hanging, the other lying, the other sitting up. One, hanging. One, on the ground. One, rising on the bed.

“You’re not hallucinating…” Is what they all say. “…If that’s what you mean…” The one on the bed grew arms, and reached over to the nightstand.

With a ‘click’, orange light oozed into the room from a small lamp. It touched most corners of the room and dismissed the hanging and lying ones. Jabber blinked again, his eyes squinting just as his vision honed. He raised a hand against the orange light. But his discomfort was momentary. He clambered to his feet, glass crunching under his shoes. He limped forth once, over the betrayal of his visions, to the frame of the bed. On instinct, you shuffled more to one side, and he climbed up like a deranged man. He left prints of blood on the cold sheets, his gaze never fleeting.

His hands came down over your shoulders as he straddled your hips. You were still mostly disoriented, the smell of incense weakening as the smoke flooded out the broken window. But this sudden contact brought your pulse back into a stuttering start. You were shaken back, then forward, nails digging crescent shapes into your shoulders.

“Dude—c’mon, my head hurts,” You complained as your head moved with every violent rock of your body. Your clammy hands trembled as they planted over his, urging him to cease. Your lips lulled open, but only the blurt of your complaints followed. A small, hollow, ‘stop’.

Jabber’s breath hitched, answering you with utmost fervour.

“You’re here! Snap—aw man—you’re actually—shit!”

In your blurred vision, through the clump of your lashes, Jabber was the only defined object. He stood amongst the blur of your room, painted in the warmth of your orange lamp light. It was nice to see him in orange for a change, rather than the hypnotically nefarious glow of purple. Still, the warmth was an afterthought to the franticness that laced his Jabber’s arrival.

“How many fingers am I holdin’ up!?” He held three fingers before your eyes, wiggling them.

Your eyes squinted, “Three—”

He dropped a finger, and took your answer as the highest level of evidence. His voice rose to several levels, “Oh snap man—imagine if I hadn’t gotten here! Imagine if…” He trailed into distant suggestion, a bleak mood eclipsing his panic

You didn’t wait, raising your hand to shove him off. A weak push. But the attack took him off guard, and he collapsed onto the mattress beside you. His wicks strewn over the sheets and pillows, he rolled onto his back with a sigh.

“Man… y’know I almost lost my way… and I still made it on time… that’s a good record…”

You thought of what would have happened if he hadn’t made it ‘on time’. But the thought was quickly pushed aside as you rolled your shoulders and neck.

“Those leprechauns strapped to your feet… breakin’ my window…” Your words slurred at the very end as your head lolled. You inhaled and exhaled, and he took that as a good sign at least. You were relaxed—must have been asleep.

He glanced up at you, lifted his leg and made a ‘huh’ sound. “Didn’t even—man, I look like I need to guard a pot of gold, huh?”

He let his leg flop, then hummed, “Didn’t answer my call… real rude to leave a guy on deivered, y’know?”

“Tired,” You murmured, slipping back under the covers. The sweet incense smoke was fading quickly,

Jabber met your response with a dismissive scoff, “Yeah… cleaned your room for once, quit your job—but you’re ‘tired’…” Jabber, other than the craze of a fight, had his moments. He turned to lie on his side, his face fixed into a blunt veneer of awareness. His body was slim and lean, much like most people in the pit. You knew this by touch alone. Gazing at him, you noticed he wore the pants of his uniform, but had thrown on a large shirt over his chest. However, what conflicted you was his sporting of a quiet, glowering frown, instead of the usual smile or grin.

“You think I’m stupid? Bet you could just play it off on me, huh? Like I’m some blind chump?”

The scenario of trying to lie to him was as ludicrous as it was fatal. He had a thing about liars, worse if it came from someone he allowed so close to his skin without needing needles and string. And at such closeness, maybe the nerves, your head began to spin.

You found yourself sitting up again, quickly, and he followed like a mimic in a mirror. He sat there, peering at your profile, his eyes dimmed.

“You okay?” He asked now, a whisper in the orange-lit room. Again, his vision shifted to the floor, then the ceiling. So many ways, so many tools—for now, he will trust that this is the real one. “You spacin’ out on me and that ain’t a good look in your eye, either.” What he meant was the disassociation. But no response met him. “Hey, hellooo?”

You found yourself agape, still in a way you normally weren’t. Your throat was parched now, you noticed. Dried and you’d imagine a sore to come in the morning. You should have been panicking. You should have let him known—but the euphoria felt good.

“Look at me,” He grabbed your face, turning you his way.

It was bound to come, you knew; the morning, you mean. He caught your pin-sized pupils.

“Hah?” He whispered, then his eyes grew wide. “You already—”

The frame creaked and rattled just as Jabber bounced to the very edge of the bed. His hand wrapped around your bicep, smearing the drops of blood and glass across the clammy skin. His breathing tightened, and he muttered soft yet spitting curses: ‘Shit’ he said just as he tugged you off the bed.

His body dropped to catch yours, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Come on man—work with me here—just to the bathroom—quick!”

“Jabs,” Your voice started, then slurred at the ‘s’. Jabber wrapped an arm around your midsection and took multiple steps back. He threw his gaze over his shoulder in frantic glances, manoeuvring out of your bedroom door. Your feet dragged across the hardwood floor, shuffling, then pressing against him.

Jabber ignored your futile attempts at struggle, towing you down the dark hall. He turned to his right shoulders first, shoving the wooden door open. It hit the wall with a ‘bang’, and he flicked the lights on with his available hand.

“Right here— right here—” He gripped your body and redirected himself. He planted his hands firmly on your shoulders, forcing you to your knees. Your hands flew, weak and trembling, grabbing the cool ceramic of the toilet bowl.

“Tilt your head back for me,”

Your mouth salivated, and despite the growing fog, you shook your head. “No—please—”

He dropped into a squat, his ringed fingers finding your chin. He tilted your head back, the other fisting your hair. He gave your hair a tug, and your mouth flew open with a weak protest. His fingers came now, two of them, straight and curving over the valley of your tongue, to the back of your throat. Nails scraped your throat, and the back of your nose burned. His fingers pulled away, dragging raw lines, before his hand jerked your head forward. A long heaved was dragged from your lips, a disgusting retch, then your mouth drooled. Then, a thick, bitter wave of dark green bile and chalky sludge flooded your tastes. The smell hit you next, and then the next thing you knew, more sludge was expelled from your gaping mouth between contracting diaphragms.

Jabber’s fingers pushed into your hair, drawing circles into your scalp, watching as the toilet water turned to a murky, opaque grey. Half-dissolved fragments of white and blue tablets white and blue tablets clinked against the porcelain, sinking heavily into the grit at the bottom of the bowl, surrounded by its webbed gelatinous skin.

“There ya go… keep goin’ for me…” He murmured as his gaze dragged around the cramped space of the bathroom. It was never meant for two people—none of your space was meant for two. But when he first came around, he made sure it could fit them both, even if it meant they’d have to be closer. Not that he minded, they could always be closer, he would say.

However, his gaze was not to surmise the logistics of space optimisation, not this time, at least. In his haste to bring you here, he had no tool to keep your hair up. As you retched and dry-heaved what was left in your stomach, he honed in on the stray bands situated on your askew shelf board.

“Keep goin’ till all of it’s out. We gon’ get it out,” He continued as he scooted himself closer to the shelf. He tilted his body, one arm extended to hold your hair, the other dragging over wood to reach the black band. His fingers curled around the elastic, and he pulled it over his wrist. “Hold still—” He gathered your hair in both hands, pinching and dragging the band over and around your hair in a ponytail.

Free now, he clapped his palms to his knees and stood with a quiet groan. He rolled his shoulders back with a loud huff, slouching to the sink. His eyes fell on the bottles in the sink. Some he recognised; orange-tinted cylindrical bottles, their white caps popped open. Others he also recognised, but those were not of your usual medication. A white bottle here, a small capsule there, then a frumpled, soaked pile of tissue paper. He plucked one of the white bottles and turned it over. Expired. But everything else about it was scratched off.

He tuned in to your retching, an inkling of satisfaction burrowing in his chest. You were reaching a harsh point, he realised. You have stopped vomiting, but you were heaving uselessly, choking out pleas in between heaves. His eyes slinked back to the sink, rising up to catch himself in the splintered reflection. Thin cracks ran across the glass, cloning him in sevens, each one reflecting back a desolation that he had grown used to.

How many times had he spent staring into this same mirror, into those eyes? Nothing ever changed in his eyes, with the exception of dilation whenever the faulty light flickered. His eye crinkled, his pupils contracting as his hands gripped the edges of the sink. The light buzzed overhead, a constant hum that stilled him into a state of fixation. A ringing in his head that distracted him from the bottles. He watched his clones, his breathing slow and his perception distant from the glass.

The bathroom became a vacuum, and he was only a young man standing before a split mirror. His thoughts trailed on in a lazy stream, falling off the scape of his mind. Now, his distilled thoughts ravaged his attention, drawing him deeper and deeper into comforting silence. It—the eclipsing silence— would creep up on him in moments like these— and settle in his head until hours pass. He stared into one of his clones, at the lack of glow in his clone’s fuchsia eyes. His gaze took in his face in its entirety. The wicks framing his face, his nose, and his lips, the bags under his eyes. Then the blaring obvious: the bandage on his cheek. Where was that from, again? Oh, right, boss man. Had some fun with the guy just a while ago, for doing a good job. Yeah… it was a good job, right? He didn’t succeed, but he was still successful.

Thump!

The vacuum became the bathroom again, and he tilted his head at a minute angle, catching your half-collapsed frame in his peripheral vision. His throat bobbed with a lump of parchness, and his tongue darted out to lick at his chapped lips. “You gon’ be aight,”

His hands moved quicker than his words, grabbing and sweeping bottles up and out the bowl, then over the edge. They fell into the overflowing trash, some hitting the bin’s rim. They clattered to the ground in loud, attention-seeking bounces. For his own sake, he ignored them.

“Your boy Jabber here—he gon’ take care of you real well. Relax,” He drawled, his hand falling into the empty bowl, clenched then unclenched.

You were mostly on the ground now, knees bent, and your body leaned back uncomfortably. Your back was close to hitting the ground, hovering only because of the strange strength your hand has on the bowl to keep you from fully toppling over. Your head swayed left and right. Your head bobbed, and your words were as slurred as your senses.

Jabber took a step forward, then a second. “We’re gonna head out, have some fun out on the streets—that’s what you need. More ‘us’ time,”

He dropped down, hands finding the back of your head, then your back. “I left you alone for too long, man. That’s it… forgot to check up on ya’—calls ain’t enough. We pullin’ apart—you knew that would happen, right? Yeah, you do… You the type to pull some shit like that…”

His palms smoothed over your back, “Ignoring my calls… making this place all depressin’ with your mopin’… tryna push me away…”

His arm wrapped around your torso now, deeming your retching enough for now. He pulled you against his chest, settling you between his legs. “I’m gettin’ real tired of this, y’know? We fixin’ this, fixin’ you. We startin’ with some food—that burger joint opens 24/7 now. You like burgers, ‘member? ‘Specially the ones with the spicy sauce,”

“Not hungry,” You managed, your lips drooling with lingering bile.

He peered into your face, swiping off the drool with his thumb. He wiped it off on his pants. His hand found your face again. Your skin was pale, clammy and cold, yet drenched in sweat. With the flickering lights, your skin was painted in sickly yellows. Your eyes gazed at him with that easy warmth, the kind that would ensnare him with their dilation. But your eyes were red, puffy and irritated, glossed with moisture. Your pupils hardly reacted to him, gazing at him as though they were painted glass.

“You just threw up bottles worth, I know you hungry,” He laughed a little. “That stuff got you messed up man… look at you! Spacin’ out on me… looking like you already…”

Died.

“Hey,” He shook you a little, “Stay awake—how many fingers am I holdin?” he asked again. When your eyes grew dull, he snapped his fingers before your face. “Hey!” He pointed again, “How many fingers?”

Your lips opened then closed, your tongue heavy as they pushed through the sludge of drool in your mouth.

“…Twos—threes—”

“Close,” He murmured, holding only his pointer finger up. His hand came back down to your body, dragging over your torso. “Let’s get you cleaned up, right? A shower gonna help out. Should wake you up,” he said, his hands finding your underarms. He lifted you with him, grunting at the deadweight. You used to be heavier, he noted. The kind where he would struggle a bit to carry you. Here, though the effort was felt, he lifted you with much more ease.

“From now on,” He rasped in huffs as he stepped a shoe into the tub. “Let me deal you the pills, aight? Just—give me a call and I’ll be here—no reason to do this alone! You need me, since You always be forgetting the dosages!” He laughed as he grabbed your knee, dragging it over the tub’s rim.

“You don’t need bottles to have fun, only 1 or 2 pills! ‘S okay, though. You got me to fix this, right?”

He let you crumple up against the bathtub. He crouched in front of you, fingers moving to your shirt. “Yeah… you got me… arms up,”

“I—can’t,” You huffed as your head lolled back. Your eyes fluttered shut, your hair sticking to your skin. “Not—leave—Jabs. Never meant—fih you to see this,” You slurred.

“Now you talkin’ stupid,” He muttered as his hand gathered your wrist. He lifted your arms up, pulling your shirt over your head. “Look, you messed up. I get it, we all been there. Next time we gonna make sure you take the right amount, it’s just one a day, y’know?”

“No,” You huffed, “You don’t—”

“Shut up.” His hand moved to your pants. “Shut. Up. Dumb enough to forget the dosage, now tryna… trying to…” He made a face, “Whatever.”

“Dosage,” you slurred.

“Yeah. One a day, chump,” He muttered. “That’s what the bottle says, that’s what the doc says.”

“I know,”

He paused. “No, you don’t,”

“Saw the bottle,” You started as Jabber manoeuvred you. Though resistant at first, you soon relented and helped him, tugging your pants down to your knees then ankles. “Popped—popped them all—”

“You’re tired,” He interjected. “That dumb job got you all stressed, and you forgot the dosage ‘cus i wasn’t there, and accidentally took too much. And you accidentally put your smoke on, and accidentally left your window locked. Accidents happen.”

“Popped and swallowed—s’ good—”

“Shut up!” His hand drove forward. If he had wanted to hit you, you would have felt it, but his hand hit the tub’s rim beside you. He gazed emptily at his hand, then crawled out of the tub. He turned the pipe. The pipe first huffed air before expelling a slow stream of water.

“Look, we need to get you cleaned up for our night out. Can’t have you lookin’ like that at the joint. Imma dress you real nice too—make you look dope as hell! But—well, you already look pretty sick—no pun intended—so this’ll be real easy,”

It used to be him in the tub. The steady flood of water as it filled the tub took him back to the older days. Exposure to toxins had been a steady incline, where it soon launched into a race to find the newest hit. He would come back, intoxicated not off alcohol—though he sometimes dabbled in the newest concoction—but the fumes emitted from the miner pits. Thick black smog that would kill crows in their pretty silver cages. He would follow after the group of miners, dressed in their colours and their hats and their pickaxes, brandishing himself a new name and persona to confuse them. He would huff and puff the smoke from their machines, feel his head grow high and woozy. But when even the thickest clouds of smoke could no longer create that effect, he moved deeper. And when the deeper parts of the cave systems failed him, he would return to the surface. When the locals’ piss-water couldn’t get him toppling over, he switched to the underground packets and their tablets.

‘“Mm ‘s good, twin. Never felt better—”’ He would say just as you opened the front door. He would collapse into you, smiling ear to ear as his body grew warm and flushed. You took care of him then, flushed the intoxications from his body, bathed him, dressed him, tucked him into bed. When morning came, he would gush to you about his new supply. Then the tablets lost their kick. Then he wanted to see if poisons had any kick. He could take it. His body was made for it—to be a fighter.

You weren’t the type to indulge in whatever poisons he had, but you were still the type then to pop a piece of chalk in your mouth once a day. Otherwise, you would be gripped by a melancholia that even he couldn’t penetrate on a good day. He saw that once, after you had run out and couldn’t get another bottle till the following week.

On your good days, you would lie in bed, talking to that pretty little thing you got in your hands. Smiling at it, polishing it when need be. You loved that thing to bits, just like him to his Mankira. The four of you were close like that. If the two of you weren’t taking care of the other, the two of you were doing some kind of extracurricular, though he did all the fighting.

“You never fight, do you?”

At first, in the beginning of the partnership, he was restless by your performed pacifism. It sucked to not have someone ready to get down and dirty with him. But over time, he had come to accept it. It was fine. He could fight for the two of you. He would fight for it.

Then that night came. First time he ever saw you fight, and he had never been so ensnared before. You clearly had no desire to, but you fought for those damn things, lost them still.

“I always gotta pull my weight there…”

Not a fighter. Never a fighter. That would be a surprise to many people. It was certainly a surprise for him. Look at you. First time he saw you, met you—you were… everything. Painted in orange lights, suited up in layers and effortless expression. Damn near majestic with the bass of heavy music.

You weren’t a fighter, but damn, could you dance. Not a damn fighter. He couldn’t ask you to fight even if it meant not fighting would—could—. He fought every damn day, it’s entertainment, it’s a way to pass the time. And you—You—

“Jabs…”

He blinked back to awareness, his lips pulling, “Crap!” He threw himself forward, turning the pipe the other way. Water bobbed over the rim, falling in waterfalls on the floor and his pants.

“Sorry, got lost in my own head!” He laughed as he reached his arm into the water, pulling out the plug. “Just gotta drain out some and—my bad. Almost drowned you there, did I?”

Your eyes were still hazy, he noticed. They wouldn’t look anywhere, but at least you looked more aware than you did a few minutes ago, right?

Right.

Usually, you don’t take long to decide. You’d fish the items out of your closet or drawer, dress yourself with your back to him, a towel around your hips for the barest of decencies.

He picked out your outfit based on what he usually remembers you wearing. He fixed beads over your neck, the large shirt and jacket, those loose pants that cut at the knee and your shoes. Normally, you’d dress yourself, layering clothes, or removing them. Sometimes you wore chains over your hips, sometimes not. Sometimes you would wear regular clothes, alternating between loose-fitting and tight. He wasn’t sure which he liked best. Loose clothing gave the appeal of trying to figure out what’s under. Tight clothing shows off to his greedy eyes, letting him see every curve and bump, the lines of muscle.

Then you’d stand before the long mirror, your reflection cloned on every splintered fragment of the webbed glass. You’d pat down your shirt, adjust your jacket and pop the collar.

‘“I look fly to you?”’ You’d ask, typically, arms bent as you turned over. You didn’t ask this time, but he still answered, “Looks good,”

He picked up something loose for you, fixing the clothing over your thinner body. He couldn’t decide which jewellery you would like to use, if you wanted any. But he gave you beads, and wore beads himself, so the two of you could at least match.

“C’mon, arm around me—there you go,” He wrapped an arm around your torso, holding you up against his side. “Lean on me—yeah… see? We got this…”

“‘m tired,”

“You’re hungry. And—I can’t leave you here alone,”

Then he was walking with you, half carrying you, actually. Out the door, to the winding tunnels of the halls, down to the first floor.

The streets of the town were barren of life, as expected, given the late hour. There were occasional felines that wandered the sides of the road, with the underlying presence of drunkards passed out in alleyways. But with the city’s strange situation, being half underground, the ‘walls’ that are erected around it cast darker shadows over an already dark night.

The streets now stretched for a long way to their first stop. Though it felt like they weren’t ever going to reach there. You were walking too slowly, too quietly. Though you were hardly walking to begin with. Your hand was wrapped around Jabber’s shoulders, your feet making the effort to touch the ground without twisting over themselves.

No bounce in your step, no exaggerated sway of your hips or body. You dared not recite the lyrics of a song or a fond memory. Even after the bath, your skin glowed with degradation of its usual vigour.

Jabber glanced down at you, pulling you closer, and forced himself to match your stride.

“Met that spherite kid, by the way. Got some pretty good moves,” He mentioned when the silence got too much.

Your head lolled towards him. You huffed, your arm trembling, “Y-Yeah?” You offered briskly, licking your split lips, “How—” your voice trailed off, and you lost your thoughts again. You envisioned yourself chasing them, but they were flashes of light. Your eyes squeezed shut under the neon lights of a sign, a seismic quake shaking your attempts at articulation.

“Short,” Jabber continued, “White hair, red eyes—got some attitude on him, though,”

“Mm…”

Jabber took a moment, his jaw clenched, “Giver, too. Raggedy old gloves,” He shook your body a little “Yours was cooler, though,”

Your face sunken, that ‘look’ returning like an infection. An infection he can’t fight with Mankira. “Yeah?”

He stiffened, then tried again with a loud laugh. He threw his head back, wicks swaying, “Yo, I’m telling you, man, you just had to be there! I was dishing it out, y’know me, tryna land my hits and ain’t none of ‘em hittin’!”

‘“Oh, so you were just doing lone fool?”’ You would say—you should say. ‘“Lost your touch, Jabs, out here losin to a kid?”’ But you didn’t say that. You didn’t say anything at all. You stayed quiet, eyes ahead on a location he did not see.

His breathing grew heavy, and he gave you another squeeze. His words spilt out, catching your attention for a moment longer. “Turns out kid’s little contraption was redirecting me, y’know… sending me here and there… thought he was dogin’ me at first, turns out I was doging HIM,”

Despite his efforts, the silence hung in the air.

His lips curled, and he leaned into you. He saw with alarm that growing ‘fog’ in your eyes, the distant hollow that seemed to have been carved into your soul. “Hey man… come on, give me something… tryna make this night last…” He shook your body again, “We can’t just…”

You nodded in a sudden jerk, “Yeah…” He wasn’t sure if you heard him at all. His steps slowed, and he regarded you with newfound concern. What was the timespan between his arrival and the ingestion? Couldn’t have been long, right? What did you take?

Jabber nodded quickly. Even if the response was not what he was looking for, he was glad to hear your voice. Glad to have brought you out here into the desolation. “Okay, okay! Don’t worry, I still got some ideas left in me,”

And all he thought was ‘Come on… crack a joke, call me a name—say somethin’…

“We been through alot, right?” He started quietly in the darkness of the town. “We’ve been most places…”

Your ears buzzed, your gaze sweeping the streets, up, then down. “Jabs—”

“Yeah, say my name,” He murmured. “We always pull through when things go to shit…”

Through the haze of this infection, lingering residuals of euphoria and restlessness, you received vivid recollections of those ‘instances’. Jabber has had habits of trying to snag whatever cool thing he could find from people. Petty thievery that often met you was often associated with. If not for the easy cadence of speech you harboured, you were sure you would have more bruises by now. Where Jabber was good with his hands, you were better with your tongue. And when the two of you got tired of playing the same role, shared versatility helped make things more interesting.

‘“Every time you get one of those ‘ideas’, we end up on some bullshit,”’ You told him once, partially bent over with Jabber standing on your shoulders, with him trying to pry a stranger’s window open. Earlier that day, the stranger had apparently flaunted their new jacket, which encouraged Jabber’s desire to raid the spot.

“What would you do without me?” He asked you, low and expecting, though he figured he wouldn’t get a response.

What would you do? Right. You knew exactly what. If you never met him, if you have never seen him in that room, surrounded by purple lights. standing there already staring at you from across the crowd. Somehow, he was more interesting than the person you had at your hip already.

“I bring the entertainment. I’m the life of the party,” he continued despite your prolonged silence. “A package, me and you. As it always has been. Somethin’ like that can’t just—end.”

“‘S… tired, Jabs,” You managed now, sweat pooling on your brow. Your throat was hoarse, raw and bloody with the welts he had dragged there. You could still feel his fingers wedged there, moving and flexing. Your throat bobbed with its phantom assault, and you heaved, doubling over. He caught you swiftly, his hand circling your torso as he rubbed soothing circles over your stomach.

“I’m gonna fix it,” He spoke aloud as he rubbed, “Gonna find somethin’ new for you. wrap it up in some colourful paper and—boom. Brand new gift. You still got some fight left in ya’, I know it,”

Your eyes watered, pressing more of your weight into him. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out other than a bitter string of saliva. Then you were murmuring, then laughing with an astounding enthusiasm that Jabber knew all too well. “Special to me, man—so special—”

“You ain’t in any place to be making demands.” He intercepted your flurry of slurred words, “You almost—” His face twisted up, his lips pressed tightly together. “Almost—almost left me—! You—that’s cold, man!” He tried levity between his words, but even that failed him when his voice rose to fill the streets. “So damn cold! Almost left me—almost abandoned me and for—for a stupid—stupid thing! We’re supposed to be tied—we got a bond, man. And you were going to just ditch me! Hah!”

“Ditch?” Your voice slurred, cringing at the volume. The buzzing grew tenfold, and his voice was still travelling through your ear canals, “You—” Your head bowed, and you panted, “You—! You—!” Your trembling hands moved to ease the itch on your chest, fingers rubbing uselessly over your soaked shirt, sticking to your skin. “Always ‘bout—You!” You managed between breaths, your slackened face twisting to express minuscule rage, “Selfish little—”

“Me? Me?!” Jabber pulled away from you, arms slipping off you. Your world flipped on its axis, and the ground rose to your face, a dull throb stretching over your body. You clutched your abdomen, rolling over onto your back. The smog-covered sky spun and blurred, the spiel of accusations circling you.

“I wasn’t the one popping pills—” His voice cut itself off, eyes laden now with a furious betrayal. “I ain’t the one trying to get the easy way out!” He opened his arms and let it fall limply to his side again. His dreads hung as he loomed, his eyes darting across you, “Why didn’t you fight for it? Why didn’t you fight for me?!”

me

me?

me?!

The voices sang in your ear and in your bones. He became two people, then one.

“You?!” Your voice found its strength, flitting about the never ending emergence and assimilation of Jabbers, “After—everything?!”

You didn’t really know what you meant by that. You tried to think of what happened an hour ago, but all you saw was green with little white chunks in it.

“You always pull through. You’re always about that life—the struggle and the ups and downs—always had my damn back!” He shouted with a strangled cry, hands clenching at his sides. “Then you just—trying to opt out of this, out of what we have? What gives, man?!” Jabber approached, a slow slink in his step. “What? Am I not special enough for you? You don’t like me enough? You lost one thing, and all of a sudden, your life’s just over? Didn’t even leave me a damn note!” He crouched over you, glaring into your glass eyes, “You were just gonna let me find you on my own, huh?!”

‘Passed out’, the word sprang to his mind. ‘Out of it’ came the following.

“Yeah, that’s what I got… didn’t think of me once, did you? Just popped those bottles and didn’t think about that damn thing. If it was me—it was me—I thought of you.” He crawled towards you, a hand holding your shoulder down. His wicks fell over his shoulders, dangling around you like a cage.

“All of you. Only you.” His hand gripped tighter, then loosened, “Laid there in my own pathetic waste, and thought, ‘man, I wonder what F/n is doing right now? Probably in the mirror, shaving their brows again.” His voice strained through his attempt at humour, finalising into laughter too loud for the empty streets. “I bet I didn’t even cross your mind… if I did, you would have—should have found the energy to fight for another night,”

Faced with his accusations, your pale lips opened to speak, but again he dominated the conversation with another musing. “‘One more night’, you should have said… ‘For Jabs’… but you didn’t…” His calloused hand dug into your shoulder, the crescent shape of his nails felt through the layer of clothing.

Then again, his expression went through a sudden, rapid change from it’s accusatory glower. His leering stare submerged into a kind of learnt despair, however veneered by his lingering displeasure. As though he were some rabid dog, playing tame.

“One more night, man,” He began in a wobbling pitch, “One more night… for us… I know I can turn this ‘round. And we can forget all about this—I’ll forget all about this—and we can go back to being us. Remember, us? The Duo? THE duo?” His arm trembled as he expelled his tantalising breaths between nervous laughter. There were times where his easy-going laughter fooled you into taught submission, just as his convoluted narrative reached its peak. Not that Jabber was an exceptional liar, more like he was good at ensuring the issue appears smaller than it is. Had it been before, you would have observed his smile, the nerves in his face, and let the situation fall on its last peg leg. But with the bags under his eyes and the unnatural size of those deranged eyes, his attempts could not stand on their own. Even with your smooth mind, his pathetic gambling did not elicit empathy from you.

His chest tightened with unruly desperation, and he lowered himself, bracing himself on his elbows, the street his stage. His ringed fingers located the expanse of your throat, flattering it with the kisses from the pads of his fingers.

“You see what you do to me, man?” The ballet of his touch found your jaw and chin, sliding up to cup your face. Here, you understood him clearly. You knew what he was saying. And even if, somehow, your mind tuned it out, you had enough understanding of his lips to read them even when apart. Three words.

Three words that should’ve inspired you to choose the ‘right’ answer. Reciting the words, even in your own head, felt like trying to will the earth to move.

Then he gripped the painted sallow of your face, and by this point you had given up on trying to speak.

“You got me all begging and shit… got me begging a dead person…! How the hell do you expect me to— to—”

Struck by his own words, a change in narrative, it deterred his voice to cease its ramblings. The size of his eyes shrank, and his face levelled into the neutral smoothness you would see in moments of absolute silence.

Then his lips moved, careful and slow, “Whatever… like I care… not gonna let you—” he stopped himself short of an admission. His lips curled, and he spat a viscous glob, as though the words themselves were mixed into it. His eyes adjusted to your dishevelled face again, and he strove to your arms. His fingers were taut around the depleted muscles of your arm, hauling you up to your feet with less struggling. He found, with tingling warmth, that you could stand on your feet. Not well enough for him to release your arm, but enough to know that in your strange little way, you were fighting. For him, just as much against him. He wasn’t sure which direction he preferred, but he still took an extra measure to hook his arm around your waist.

“Let’s try catch that burger, yeah?” he drawled, “My man needs to eat something ‘fore he collapse on me again, right?”

Zodyl is not one to develop relations for the purpose of exceeding the boundaries of his profession. He collected assets and tools, would polish them or set some to rest before use. Few assets stood out to him during his time as leader, those who deemed remarkable. Seeds that have flourished into something beautiful in their versatility and strength. Some tools he lost, and he made sure that even in absence he gains something from it.

Them, he could say now- you he could say, was neither asset nor tool. Atleast, not in the way he typically classifies them. They existed within the reasonable bounds of his calculation and experiments, dependent variables that could either flourish or wilt. It was his job to ensure his tools remained in working condition. Jabber for example, he could say to be one of his most useful. On the frontlines, but still with so many areas of improvement. Others, like Fu, he could say were disappointing failures. Could have been something great, but perhaps that was fault of his own. He should have been able to identify the outliers, and had failed to do so.

In this case, he was his own outlier. A beautiful thing you are, beautiful in the context of strength. Grace was not your strongest skill, however you made up for it in the sheer desire to win. A festering, poisonous swarm that floods your head and chest, makes the world buzz in the discordant if your will. If there was a will, there was a way, and you turned that into a literal. The odds were oddly in your favour, a manulipulation of Statistics that he found both intriguing and frustrating. Frustrating because it meant you were both an Independent variable as much as a dependent variable. You didn't NEED him the way he wanted you to. You didnt need his directives or orders to know what to do. You carried out exactly what he wanted without having to ask because somehow, thorough unidentifiable, boggling means, you always managed to read him.

"I got it, sir," You'd say with that easy wave of your hand, a dismissal of whatever words he wanted to impart to you. Often times, your brazen approach, paired with your apathy, rendered him into stunned silence. The kind that had his lips half-open with the potential of speech.

And everytime, you succeeded. Not that he ever doubted you. Over time, he has grown to expect your success. You proved yourself worthy of belonging on the frontlines, but even then he found himself reluctant to grant you that promotion. There was nothing lacking in you, none that he could conceive, but you were unpredictable. And unpredictable means there are always the odds that you were...

Defected.

Unpredictability means your loyalty could very well be changed.

It was a weird loophole. You're intensely loyal, so he knows you will stay. But you are intensely unpredictable and opionated, so your loyalty may shift.

Like now, you regarded him with the impassiveness that you often wore upon your face. The kind that was more empty and unfeeling rather than cold. Noerde, he could say was a cold woman. She did not tolerate tomfoolery, especially Jabber. She made that loud and clear despite being only a rookie.

You never made face, you never changed an expression... you were neither cruel nor irrational.

You were... almost lenient. Jabber could do whatever he pleased and you'd let him; surprisingly this leniency made you a larger problem. For Zodyl.

What moved you? What could move you if not his most infuriating tool? What would disturb your peace? Blunders? Meaningless blabber? Perhaps he could keep you still in one place? Or maintain your gaze and see if you'd look away. Would you look away? Would you hold his gaze? Truthfully, he wanted you to hold that gaze. He wanted you to hold his gaze everytime he does something, anything. He wanted to watch you, and he wanted to make sure you were watching him.

He wanted to be under someone else's scrutiny for once. An obsessed scrutiny for example. Someone who can assess him just as violating.

You... almost fit that box. You just needed that push.

There was a quiet power in you, the kind that made him question his own. He'd hate for you to lose that, or worse think yourself intellectually beneath him. Well... he only means that he held no ire for your challenge to his authority. It gave him something to ponder on.

"Sir?" Your voice floated back to him, simple and cutting.

His lashes lifted and he blinked, his meandering thoughts coming to an abrupt halt. Slouched on the worn couch, he pressed his palms together, Mishra rubbing against his wrists. His fingers pinched the cuffs of the sleeves, tugging them back.

What a tall, long-lebbed man the watchman must be to own a coat with such long drapery...

"I apologise," he murmured, "I got distracted,"

"That's unlike you," You spoke, leaning back into your own seat. Your eyes never wavered from his, "You've been quieter lately, may I inquire?"

He maintained your gaze with his own, before seating himself upright. "It's nothing worrying, I assure you. I'm only pondering on a few things,"

"And you chose now to do it?" He assessed you, and found not a sliver of mockery. Somehow, your genuine question sent goosebumps crawling up his arms.

"It was of you," He muttered simply, as it always was. How would your anger feel like? Your joy? Your pleasure? "Does that satisfy you?"

He saw your eyes lift, the flutter of your lashes in the dark room. You shifted, adjusted your seating on the old rickety chair across from him. "Oh." Delayed and small, you quickly followed up, "Is it about my recent mission?"

"Yes," he lied, eyes darting around your body. The minute tension in your hands, the swallowing in your throat. Nervous? For a clever person like you... it's beneath you. There was nothing you could ever do to even warrant his anger. His eyes jumped again, face and throat, shoulders and downwards. The first time it had been a meagre assessment of your condition since your mission. The second time it was simply indulgence of your personal expression.

Nothing lewd, he is sure.

"Moreso of your vital instrument,"

"Again?" You let slip in a low grumble, then you were flinching again as though the training in etiquette was toggled back on, "Sorry- go on,"

The slight tilt of your head, the way you maintained his gaze.

"I only require updates. Given you were alone, I cannot confirm whether or not you have reached a new milestone. So, have you?" He asked.

"No, sir," You murmured, "I told you already that-"

"I know," he murmured. "I had expected you to break that,"

"That won't be honest to Aethyrs," Ah, yes. Aethyrs. The name lf your vital instrument. Sometimes he'd catch you talking to it, alternating to Aires in friendly chatter. How human you could be, only to stiffen into obedience whenever he is near.

"I suppose not," he sighed, "But you do understand I cannot allow my tools to grow rust in stagnant waters,"

Your eyes narrowed just a fraction, "You're calling me lazy?"

"I'm saying you lack drive,"

"Me? Me?" You were standing before he could even argue. He tilted his head to look up, and allowed himself to lean back in his seat so his head was not so uncomfortably craned upwards.

"I've been loyal to you for months," came your biting snarl, "I did your recons, I scouted your areas and calculated the odds of success to failure and- and I pulled bullets out of Jabber and had to fight him to not put it back in," You were motioning frantically before letting your hand slap back to your side.

"I have been more driven by this goal than anyone else in this faction. There is no one else like me, and there is no one left,"

He considered you, your anger though not as fierce as he would hope. It was there, yes; evident in tone and the way your lips pulled into a snarl. But it was measured much like everything else about you.

"Loyalty," he repeated, "Ties into your willingness to follow my word. And you showed me continued rejection of-"

"Oh drop it already," You spoke quickly, then took a step back. Your eyes widened a fraction, and your eyes finally, finally, averted.

Your face relaxed, clenched, and you huffed, "I... spoke out of turn,"

He watched you for a second longer, disappointed. You maintained face. What would it take for you to snap? To grab him, even? You seemed the kind of person to grab a person's throat, would you?

"You are my most loyal, your skills now are testament of that," he conceded, and he saw the way your shoulders drop. "There is not another person here who could ever best you in that field. But I'm also a collector, I wish to maintain my tools, keep them in working condition,"

He stood, and your head dropped entirely. He still approached, and took the liberty to lift your head. Your eyes were softer now- to his interpretation atleast. Waiting and expectant. Always the obedient one under the defensiveness.

"...To polish my tools. Ensure they are well taken care off," Your eyes flitted over his face.

"I understand that, sir," You muttered, so focus on the proportions of his face to notice his other hand lifting.

"Good. I have polished you weekly, correct? It's what I do best," He shoved his hand into his pocket, and your eyes lit up.

As though a hidden command, you were turning around on your heel with palpable enthusiasm. Your hands found and bunched your hair, lifting it to reveal the curve of your nape. He could see the thin lines of prior jewelry still on you. A strange habit to layer jewelry over the other, but he found it oddly pleasing.

His hands swooped, something small tapping your collarbone before he pinched the ends together at your nape.

"It is for your loyalty that you must be polished consistently, I cant have you degrading even for a moment,"

But your focus lingered on the silver, taking in the curves of the small charms on it. "I understand, sir."

This part of the loyalty he finds frustrating. So loyal to him, you remained blind or perhaps reluctant to his obvious intentions. Who would have thought that too much loyalty was going to be a problem?

His fingers lingered on the smooth skin of your nape, fingers dragging over his past 'rewards' to her. What was his reward? Was he obligated to one?

"I want to keep you close, I want that loyalty by my side," he murmured, his fingers caressing the skin there.

He felt your shudder, something short and fleeting. You were delayed by this for just a moment.

"I always am close," You spoke, letting your hair drop. He could hear the rejection, and he pulled his hand away. "When have I ever left your side, sir?"

He watched the back of your head, the sting of your rejection felt in his fingers. "Never," he murmured. "You're a constant in my life. But even in constant you tend to withdraw from me. A fleeting tedious variable you are,"

"I thought you liked the fun of it," you bit back, finally turning around to face him.

"I do. I enjoy when something, or someone, can maintain my continuous attention. They can face me, challenge me... you... I find to be quite interesting," his voice dropped to a low whisper, his eyes half lidded.

"You're exceptional. Jewelry isn't enough of a mark,"

Your eyes met his, swallowing thickly, "A 'mark', sir?"

He hummed "What can I do for you, F/n?" His words intercepted you entirely, and you were almost taken back by them.

"Sir?"

"We're alone," he reminded you in a hushed voice. "No need for formalities here,"

Your eyes grew heavy, and you were quiet for a few seconds longer. You were beautiful like this, defensive and nervous all the same. You tried again, licking your lips, "Zodyl... I don't understand what you mean." You enunciated every word, as though speaking them was difficult.

He watched you, dark eyes growing heavy with something he couldn't ignore. You are a fierce thing, loyal yes, painfully so. So loyal he could ask you to bring down the Sphere yourself and you'd find a way to do so. But in doing so he'd lose you in the process.

Sometimes he would ask himself what's to come after bringing down the heavens. If he brings the heavens down to earth, would you still remain at his side? Or would you finalize the contract, and terminate it?

"What can I do for you?" To keep you with me?

He was momentarily stunned by his own intercepting thoughts. But is that not the goal? To keep you close? Perhaps.

He has consumed many things in his time, why not consume you as well? See what all tou have to offer wrung you dry until you're painted in vibrant colors to balance out your mute diluted ones. Something he can document and be pleased by.

"Oh. Well," Your hands found the jewelry resting on your chest and collarbones. Your fingers pinched and turned, pinched and turned, tugged and fumble. "You've done enough for me as is... the jewelry is beautiful,"

"Jewelry is a momentary joy," he remarked plainly. "You wear them yes, you demonstrate that pride clearly... but they are only objects. Material things,"

"Vital instruments are just 'objects'," you pointed out. "Maybe objects are just the standard,"

"You're avoiding me," Finally, you seem to snap out of it.

Your face grew still for a moment, and despite yourself, your gaze averted. He could feel warmth being expelled from your body. You felt lighter on your feet, "You could give me a day off... a raise..."

"Must I ask you my question again for you to understand me?" His tone dipped back into a call of authority, smoothed by the fixation in his eyes.

"No." You bit the inside of your cheek. "I understood it."

"Then?"

You shifted on your feet. "You-" you stumbled. "I would appreciate more effort into your rewards."

Effort... he wasn't mad.

"You're painfully opaque," he encroached into your space until the bulk of him swallowed what remained of your defenses. His hands found the jewelry again, fiddling it upon his fingers. The closeness again, stirred something in his gut. A strange inkling to be closer, yet it wasn't the desire for that kind of connection. Not yet. "For someone who values direct colloquialism, you've been avoidant of me... yet that was the clearest you've ever been,"

His eyes focused on the glint of silver, dragging up to your collarbones, neck then face. "Do I intimidate you, F/n?" He breathed, taking apart the subtle pulse of your pupils.

"Hardly," Even that felt like a lie under his scrutiny. "You're just... strange. A strange man,"

He hummed, and dropped his hand to your shoulder, down to your arm, then your hand. "Come, Sit,"

He pulled you towards him, a hand finding the small of your back just to guide you. He guided you to the seat he had occupied, lowering you down upon it. The cushions met you as you sunk into them.

He guided your careful wary steps to his own seat, setting you down upon it.

"Allow me to do what I can for you," he spoke simply.

"Zodyl- sir," you started again, silenced by his almost gentle expression.

"Let me..." Not a plea, not an order either. His hand found your arm again, and you forced yourself to relax.

"...Yes sir,"

He glanced at you, and your lips pressed, "Sorry- Zodyl,"

There you go

"Allow me to ask you again," he said now, "I know what i can do for you. The question is would you let me. You wanted effort, correct?"

Your hands found your lap, and you were crossing then uncrossing your legs. Your hands squeezed the fabric of your uniform.

"Yes- no. Wait-" you took a breath, bowed your head a little. He saw your face fix itself, as though you had to remind yourself who you were. "Yes, Zodyl... you know there's nothing I like more than your rewards..." you whispered truthfully.

His hand dropped to your knee and his body moved down with it.

Your eyes fluttered shut, then squeezed. Something in you, despite everything, couldn't handle this. Like some festering tightness in your chest that made you want to viscerally pull away. Your hands gripped the edge of your seat until your knuckles turned white, braced. But you were beautiful like this, painted in nerves that he doesn't often see from you.

"Zodyl," Your voice was quick and sharp.

"F/n," his was softer, spoken in a dazed rumble.

He stared up at you, expecting and ready for it all the same. He was not a man of doubt, so he knew this was the one thing he saw no downside to. And even if there was a downside, he'll learn for next time.

"Sorry... it's not often my boss wants to give me a reward like this... especially a man like you..."

"'A man like me'?" He reiterated, "What kind of man am I?"

"Cold, unfeeling, clinical." You listed and droned on, gazing down at him with increasing interest. "Not the kind of man to be knelt like this before me..."

His hand rubbed over your thigh, slowly and carefully. Just a taste. Only a taste and he'll never ask again. "And?"

"I think I like the view," you remarked carefully. Your hands loosened and found his face, his strong features. Touching him was brief, tedious and shy even now. There was hesitance marked in every brush of your fingers against his face. "You do look handsome like this,"

A dark gaze you had, something analyzing but warmer than usual. It was a good change.

He hummed low in his throat, encouraged. "Keep your eyes on me, then." He leaned close, his lips brushing your knee in a fleeting press.