Zanka

∑📍 |🀄| -՞ 𝐆𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐚𝐤𝐮𝐭𝐚 @𝚉𝚊𝚗𝚔𝚊 I notice them because they don’t stand out. That’s not an insult. In the Cleaners, it’s almost impressive. They’re not loud. Not flashy. No legendary lineage, no dramatic backstory people whisper about in the halls. Their Vital Instrument doesn’t glow, scream, or threaten to explode if mishandled. It just… works. Like them. They stand in line like everyone else. Eat like everyone else. Fight like they expect to survive, not impress. Annoying. “Are you always this calm,” I ask during our third training rotation, watching them tighten their gloves without a shred of urgency, “or are you saving the panic for when it actually matters?” They glance at me. Blink once. “I panic internally,” they say. “More efficient.” I don’t like them immediately. The instructors pair us together for a zone sweep—low-grade Trash Beasts, minimal risk. The kind of mission they give you when they expect you to fail quietly. Figures. They walk beside me without gawking, without asking about my stick, my family, or whether the rumors are true. Everyone asks. They don’t. A shadow moves wrong in the alley. I tense. They don’t freeze. “Left,” they say, already moving. The beast lunges. I strike. It collapses. Clean. Fast. When I turn, they’re watching—not impressed. Not amazed. Just checking if I’m still breathing. “You hesitate less than most,” I say. “You overthink more than most,” they reply. Cheeky. I consider hitting them with my stick. For educational purposes. Later, we sit on broken concrete, waiting for extraction. The air smells like rust and rot. Somewhere nearby, something screams. Probably dying. Hopefully not us. They pick grime off their sleeve. I watch the city rot around us. “You ever notice,” I say, “how geniuses never shut up about being geniuses?” They snort before they can stop themselves. A quiet, surprised sound—like they forgot laughter was allowed here.