Chapter Text
The bitter weather nipped at Zanka’s arms. The hard, icy snow around him was even more fierce—he could die from hypothermia. Although could was put there for a reason. Zanka seriously doubted that he would die such a pathetic death; someone would probably come and finish the job for him. Whether it be by stabbing, shock, pain, whatever, Zanka knew his death would probably turn even more pathetic. The skies seemed to be moving on without him already. It's not like the sky did anything bad to him, he knows that it doesn't care. Not about him, not about the ice it's pumping out, not about anything.
Snow was still falling from the skies, not making the situation any better. He could swear frost was starting to develop on his arms, but that would be an over exaggeration—not for long, though. All Zanka ever wanted to do was be good enough for them, for the cleaners, for Enjin, and hell, even for Jabber. And here he was, dying in the snow like he was below an average joe, a sewer rat. Hell, as of now, a sewer rat was probably dying a better death than him—not that sewer rats were usually better than him, they probably always were.
As Zanka got lost in his thoughts, he lost the rest of his feelings in his arms. The sheet of snow surrounding him made him colder, not that he could even tell the difference between his body and the cold temperature anymore. Never in his life has Zanka ever felt like this, he couldn't even begin to describe it. The weather around him, how he couldn't even feel it, how he felt that he was melting into it. Zanka's train of thought got interrupted by loud cracking sounds, but the man ignored it, pushing it aside as something falling. As quickly as his thoughts got interrupted, he jumped back into them.
It was a sight to see—Zanka lying there like a beat-up stray, with no home to return to; it was a hilarious sight. Red stained the sleet-icy sheet surrounding him. Zanka knew he didn't have much time left. The life he lived wasn't much, hell, he would say something like at least I was happy, but even that's pushing the lines of what his life was. It wasn't much, really. His life, that is. He thought about the cleaners, how they'd probably move on without him after grieving for a day or so. That'd be for the best of everyone. He was just a burden to be carried, anyway. It’d be much better for everyone to move on so they wouldn't have to worry about finding his dead body.
Geez, it was cold. A flake of snow fell onto Zanka's iris, he couldn't even bring himself to blink. It was so cold. Not that he cared. A soft smile crept up onto Zanka's face, but he found himself not noticing it. Would the others even find his body out here? All the way in the freezing, bitter, cold? Probably not, hopefully yes. That way, they could live their lives forgetting about him, getting a stronger and better teammate, and that way, everyone could be happy. Not having to worry about finding his body. Another soft flake fell onto Zanka's face.
He had never seen snow— it looked beautiful. It snowed where Follo lived, apparently It also snowed here. Zanka didn't mind. It was a nice death. After a pause of thinking, Zanka realized something. Red was staining the snow. He was bleeding. Zanka knew this, but he didn't at the same time. He had a very vague memory of it.
The feel of the metal digging into his skin, the cold, the blood dripping out from his arm, the cold, the lightheadedness, the cold, the snow, the cold. The bitter, freezing cold.
Zanka chose to ignore the memory of how he died and instead focused on the snow. He had never grown up around the cold, but he wouldn't mind if he did. It was a breathtaking sight, really. The detailed snowflakes, the things you could make with patches of it. It was really all beautiful. Zanka would die to live here—away from his problems, the hell guards, his family, the cleaners, his pathetic-ness, and Jabber, too; he wouldn't mind either way if Jabber was here or not.
The feel of metal digging into his skin.
Zanka could practically feel the metal in his skin again…ouch. He winced his eyes shut, or tried to, but after realizing that he couldn't even see, he stopped.
Why can't I see?
Ah, the cold, messing with his nerves and what not. It was nice, really, but warmth would be great right now. His blood kept him slightly warm, but it was starting to freeze now. Despite the whole dying thing, Zanka was quite happy. He didn't know why he was happy, but he knew it felt good to be. Actually, scratch the whole despite dying, Zanka was happy because he was dying.
crack
Zanka wondered if this was what being happy was like. Even way back when, when he was at the top of his class, he wasn't that happy. His parents never acknowledged him, never even gave him a you did okay. Just…nothing. Thus, Zanka wasn't happy. Sure, he looked happy, or glad, egotistical, whatever. I mean, he was egotistical for the most part. But every time, nothing good came from his parents or anyone, he was mostly just acting.
crack
His childhood—if you could even call it that—sounded depressing when worded like that. It's not like Zanka wasn't depressed, he just wasn't then (at least he thinks.)
crack
At this point, Zanka couldn't feel anything, everything was just cold. His hands, his face, his arms, god, his arms, even if he did live somehow, he'd probably never be able to move them. How would he even be able to use Lovely Assistaff?
crack
God, he was pathetic. He was dying—practically dead—and didn't even want to survive. The thought of death always sounded nice to him; he just never fully committed to the whole I want to kill myself thing. Zanka found himself thinking about the future, how he didn't have one, how the others did. Jabber would probably move on to a more powerful fighter, leaving Zanka behind in his memory to be forgotten. Just a distant thought that made him go oh well, and move on.
crack
That made him happy. Jabber, Jabber, Jabber—
crackcrackcrack—
Zanka wondered for a moment as to why he heard sounds of cracking ice even more loudly than before, and why he kept hearing them. Icicles falling, perhaps? Probably. Maybe it was Jabber—
What was he talking about again? Oh right, the future. It was going to be nice. Someone cooler than him would join the cleaners and fight his Jabber. Blood loss was affecting his thinking… probably. But it did smell like Jabber, for whatever reason. How would Jabber even react? Would he grieve, pretend to grieve, pretend not to care? Jabber seemed to like Zanka, but he never knew if it was an act or not. No, ignoring that, why does it genuinely smell like Jabber? Zanka knows it didn't smell like him before, but now he's getting the strongest smell he could get right now (which was very faint) of him.
CRACK
He also felt warm, for one. Well, not warm, he was still cold, but he felt slightly warmer. Zanka knew he would still die no matter how much warmer he got—or at least he hoped he would die. What would he even do if he lived? Go to the cleaners and say woopsie! Lost track of time! Ignore the fact that there are long bleeding marks on my arms! I slipped! … Yeah, like hell they'd believe that. Who would even save him anyway? Jabber, probably. And he's not saying that because he wants to be saved by Jabber, he's saying that because he feels warm—which he shouldn't be—and he smells him—again, he shouldn't be.
crack…crack…
Zanka wouldn't mind being saved by Jabber, even if he's a raider; It felt nice to finally face the truth and tell himself that. Usually, he'd tell himself that no, he hates Jabber—but for today, and until he dies, he'll tell the truth. He liked Jabber, and their fights. It was nice, thinking like this, not hiding anything from himself or trying to act like this side of him didn't exist. Thinking of Jabber made Zanka smile (which wasn't much of a smile due to not being able to move his face, nor feel it.)
crack…crack…
Zanka really liked Jabber, he brought out the best and worst of him, and Zanka was okay with that. Mindlessly, Zanka mumbled something practically incoherent if your hearing wasn't fine-tuned to be able to hear a pin drop in a room full of people yelling.
“Jabber…”
Zanka felt himself bump into something, which was weird because he was in the snow, unmoving. Perhaps someone was carrying him? No…impossible, Zanka made sure he'd gone someplace remote to die. Speaking of which, Zanka's death was purposefully done. By that, he means that he fully remembered how he died—that doesn't mean he wants to talk about it, though.
The faintest of whispers made itself heard in Zanka’s ear seconds after that train of thought; it sounded like the gentle breeze of the wind—something he'd never be able to understand. He reached out desperately, trying to even make out a syllable of the incomprehensible words, just to come back empty-handed with nothing but a vague sound of the words—the unverifiable memory stood out, but Zanka found himself quickly giving up with the case, even if it did take up most of his interest.
Some memories aren't meant to be figured out, anyway.
After quite a trek of smelling Jabber and being stuck on the train of one's own thoughts, Zanka felt himself become warm and cold at the same time; an inexplicable feeling that he could not well describe. It was like being underwater yet feeling dry, something unfathomable.
Zanka wished badly to fully understand the feeling or to be pushed off to one side of the coin's rim he was on—cold or hot. He never liked not being able to truly understand what certain things were happening to him; how he felt, why it made him feel that way…he was never good with his emotions. But this—this was something else completely, it was his senses, but he wanted to know why his senses felt this way and why he wanted dearly to just be one or the other.
His thoughts got brought back to Jabber. Does Jabber have any poisons that make people feel like this? Does he have anything like this? Zanka wondered why he still smelt Jabber, although now he just smelt trash. I mean, Jabber's scent was still there, just more faint; Zanka could barely even smell him now. He made a faint mumble sound, before once again saying the name of the man of the hour—
“Jabber..?”
The name came out with some knowledge of Zanka knowing he said it, but that grasp he had on it was unsure; it felt so loud yet so quiet, which it was, obviously. But Zanka felt it was as loud as he could muster up the question. Was Jabber here? Was he gone? He just wanted to know…did his enemy see him in this disgustingly pathetic state or not?
Zanka felt himself get lightheaded with his last words, pushing himself quite too far with making sure the tone was curious—and just saying it, for one. The blinding yet subtle light made way into his eyesight; it was the only thing Zanka could see. He found himself uncaring in the end—of everything. Of the cleaners, his family, hell guards, the raiders, how Jabber felt about him (he still felt the need to have some care for Jabber), and himself.
Instead of pulling away from the grip of death, of eternal sleep, Zanka found himself launching himself to the grim reaper, wanting to never return to his miserable life. It was as great as it could be for him, and it would stay that way. Or it would whether Zanka liked it or not—not like he cared.
That was one of the last thoughts Zanka had before he would eventually succumb to the icy grips of death, and he didn't mean a single word he said.
…Or so he told himself.