ZANJAB THE WORLD

[zanjabba]

About this blog...

This is an 18+ blog dedicated to all things zanjab– art, drabbles, and whatever little pearls we dig up from the bottom of the Zanka/Jabber well– run by two lame-o dweeb loser nerd posers 🫧💿

❗This is occasionally a NSFW blog! Posts will be tagged accordingly, but we’d like our followers to be adult-only, please <3 (on that note: We’re both adults, so feel free to submit either SFW or NSFW prompts/asks xx)

About us!

Nereid 🫧(she/her): 

Fav characters: zanka and jabber (duh) and kyoka (guh) | AEST | I write a lot. <3 send me prompts any time!

live laugh love zanjabbangst. crim major. also i love making up worldbuilding grrr . Send me your thoughts on anything, but especially if it's about zanka/jabber whump x

tags: #nereidfic for writing, #nereidsmut for smut #nereidthinking for thoughts and ideas and stuffs!

Atom💿(he/him): 

Fav chara: other than znjb? Semiu, Gil, and Momoa ^3^ | PST | art, writing, music junk, what have you

Zanjab Warrior #1. Exclusively top!Zanka and bottom!Jabber; heart could change whenever, but it probably won't. Shoot me a music rec and I’ll shoot you one back

tags: #atom bonds for general posting, #atom art for art, #atom den for writing, #atomtunes for music-related stuff ‘n’stuff

[zanjabba]

Killer Chemicals - Part 1

Zanjab (jabber POV) made with love by Nereid 🫧

Special Agent Zanka Nijiku has a new assignment: Protecting PhD candidate Jabber Wonger, whose research has made him a target for assassination.

Working in a lab has its perks, but there’s always things that are tedious about it– that’s the same with everything in life. 

Washing hands right before you enter, and right before you exit. Making sure you don’t leave someone’s samples out on the bench and keep them in the freezer. Labelling things. Not slamming your hip into the bench and dropping thousands of dollars worth of materials onto the floor. 

All very important things. However, Jabber considers something else far more important, and it’s his current project– one which actually does not have a team of researchers because no-one wanted to work with him. 

’Like hell we’re getting near that freak,’ was the general consensus. Jabber was worried for a moment that it would impact his ability to work, but his supervisors and seniors (both of which there are many because apparently, he’s a ‘handful’) are quite gracious, and approved his request. He even managed to nab himself a grant, and from there on it was all smooth sailing. 

Though… aside from a very select few people, he’s not supposed to talk about what he’s developing. Those people don’t really believe he can do it, but they say for ‘safety reasons’ that Jabber should keep his mouth shut.

Synthesising a toxin that hyper-charges the body's self-repair cycles and accelerates the healing process to absurd rates is typically considered something of a really bad idea (or science fiction). In the words of his favourite professor: ‘It is just cancer waiting to happen. Are you making a drug to induce cancer?’ 

Jabber had told her no, because obviously he’s smart enough for that not to happen. No, his drug is, essentially, a healing potion. An ultra-rare mystic-type item, brought straight from his favourite RPG to the real world. And he will make sure it doesn’t accidentally induce cancer. 

Apparently, though, saying the words ‘cure-all’, ‘long shelf life’, and ‘inexpensive’ are grounds for suicide by sniper rifle, so Jabber unfortunately does not get to brag to anyone about how delightful this little baby will be when she finishes her final spin in the centrifuge.

That’s correct: Jabber is basically done. He just needs to cut himself open and try it out. 

He can already hear his supervisor giving him a verbal beatdown, but does that really matter? Whether his trial has been approved by the ethics board or not, the fact that it works (which he’s almost certain it will) is irrefutable. And then he can make a patent and make a hell of a lot of money so he can spend the rest of his life playing with fun things in the lab. 

The centrifuge beeps happily as its cycle comes to an end, and Jabber whistles a short tune in response as he reaches in to pull out his prize. 

Beautiful, magenta liquid, like magic. Jabber can’t help the smile that grows on his face as he realises the practical result is as what he theorised. The vibrant, purple-pink colour is actually the byproduct of the chemical reaction required to bind each half of the molecule; being a stable, non-toxic compound, it would be more of a hassle to remove it than to keep it in, and, really, it adds a character that–

“Excuse me, is Mr. Jabber Wonger here?” Someone asks curtly, and Jabber– vial in hand– twirls around with a big grin, only to be met with someone suited up like a security guard for a club, sunglasses and all. 

Nevertheless, Jabber learned his manners just like everyone else. “That’s me,” he says cheerfully, turning back around to set up a test tube holder for his samples of the healing potion, “What can I do for you?” 

The click-click-clicking of wooden-soled shoes on the lab floor echo, and the sound of them is pretentious at best. “I’m gonna need ya ‘ta come with me,” he says, and Jabber can somehow tell that this is the start of something unpleasant. 

“I can’t,” Jabber says, unloading the centrifuge, “Can you give me like, four hours? I have to contact my supervisor so she can approve my–” 

“We need ‘ta go, now,” the intruder says, insistent. He pushes up his sunglasses onto his forehead, revealing pretty blue eyes and eyebrows that have been split three times each. “Ya don’t have any time.” 

Jabber rolls his eyes with an exaggerated sigh. Turning around, he groans, “Look, do you even have the right passes to be allowed in here? This is actually a–” 

Jabber meets the entertaining end of a gun, and he freezes. 

“Come with me, or yer dead,” the secret-agent looking man says firmly, “And I’ve been hired, actually, by yer supervisor– Semiu Grier, staff ID five-eight-six-six-three-six. Jabber Wonger, student ID one-eight-seven-one-five-one-one, I will be escortin’ ya to a secure location as determined by Project Anima.” 

The man flips a badge at him, too, and Jabber widens as he sees the very official-looking badge with an equally legitimate ID card underneath. 

Zanka Nijiku

Special Operations and Witness Protection

Officer ID 1871511

Jabber reads out the ID number, and he grins. 

“Hey, we have the same ID number,” he says, watching Zanka pocket the badge and return his gun to his holster, “What’s this for, anyway?” 

“I’ve told ya. I'm workin' for Project Anima. Get ready ‘ta leave.” 

Jabber shrugs, turning back to his desk and starts looking for corks to put on his test tubes. He wants to take this stuff with him– oh, and his notes, too. He needs those if he wants to make this stuff again. 

“My laptop’s in the office, can you grab that for me?” Jabber asks, corking up the final tube, “Oh, and I’ll need an insulated bag for these. Do you think a lunch bag would be okay?” 

“No wonder they call you a mad scientist,” Zanka mutters, grabbing Jabber by the collar of his lab coat and dragging him backwards, “Come on. Get yer shit from the office and then we have ‘ta go.” 

“Why?” Jabber whines, complying because unfortunately, if someone’s willing to hold a gun to his head, then they’re probably willing to shoot him, too, “Is this a kidnapping?” 

“No.” 

“You’re with the government! You could be here to silence me!” 

“...I’m here ‘ta make sure that no-one else gets ‘ta that first,” Zanka grumbles, leading the way out of the lab, “Laptop. Lunch bag. Let’s go.” 

“You need to wash your hands,” Jabber insists, shoving the corked tubes in his lab coat as he stops to soap up his hands, “There’s dangerous chemicals in there, you know!” 

Zanka glares. “I didn’t touch anything,” he says, “Where’s your laptop? I’ll get it for you.” 

“Okay!” Jabber says, working a lather between his digits, “My desk is the one furthest from the window and closest to the lab door. You can see it from here.” 

“The… one with all the figures over it? And the half-eaten protein bar?” 

“Yup! Take the laptop with the sticker of the anime girl with the syringe on it. That’s all my notes and stuff. Oh! And the USB stick, the pink one.” 

Jabber dries his hands off and heads to the fridge, pulling out one of his co-worker’s lunch bags and removes the contents out of the bag and back into the fridge, before he stuffs the several test tubes of precious liquid in. 

“That’ll break if you jostle it around,” Zanka scowls, Jabber’s laptop tucked underneath his arm, “Get some paper towel, stuff the bag, and let’s go.” 

“Jeez, what’s gotten you in such a bad mood today?” Jabber scoffs, realising a little belatedly that he forgot to take off his lab coat, “It can’t really be that serious, dude.” 

Suddenly, a bullet pierces through the window, and Jabber jumps. 

Zanka, however, seems prepared– and deeply irritated. With a growl he reaches for Jabber’s collar, and Jabber’s lucky he managed to zip up the lunch bag before he’s thrown to the floor, landing with a grunt. 

“Dammit, I said we have 'ta go!” Zanka screams, dragging him forward before he presses a hand to his earpiece. “Yeah, I said I got ‘im! Get the fuckin’ car here!” 

Zanka continues to drag him towards the exit, so fast that Jabber has no time to scramble to his feet before the lunch bag is being snatched from him and Zanka is shoving him towards the internal fire escape stairs. 

“Woah, w-wait, wait, dude!” Jabber shrieks, scurrying down the stairs, “They’re shooting at me?!” 

“I told ya, we don’t have time for yer fuckin' around!” Zanka scolds him, only inches behind, “Get movin’, or yer dead!” 

Jabber doesn’t really have a choice, now, so he bites down whatever snarky response he was generating in his head and runs down the stairs as fast as he can. If he’s honest, it’s all a little exhilarating; a mad scientist being hunted down for his breakthrough achievements by some mysterious, villainous organisation is a plot taken straight from the movies. Zanka is the super-spy sent by the government to protect him, so he shouldn’t need to worry too much, should he? 

Jabber reaches the bottom of the stairs and hesitates, waiting for Zanka, but Zanka just drags him forward again with another growl. 

“Ya can’t stop here, ya maniac!” He screeches, forcing open the door to outside, “C’mon, we’re gettin’ outta here!” 

His head is forced down just in time to miss the firing of a gun. A bullet lodges itself in a nearby wall. Zanka swears loudly, running as fast as he can with a hand tangled in Jabber’s hair. Jabber can only follow him and pray that he doesn’t get shot– he’s got so much left to do, like defend his thesis and feed his snake and–

Zanka cries out, stumbling for a moment, before he regains his footing and runs even faster, so fast that Jabber can barely keep up. They’re approaching a car now, and Jabber can only guess that this is their escape vehicle. 

“Get in the car, get in!” Zanka screams at him, once again pushing Jabber through another door, “Get inside, let’s go!” 

No sooner than Jabber has all four limbs in the vehicle does Zanka dive across his lap and slam the door shut, the car already beginning to move. A bullet hits the window, and it barely chips the top layer of glass, but Zanka swears loudly anyway. Jabber gets the feeling he does that a lot. 

“Jesus, Zanka, they hit you?” The driver up front gasps, his eyebrows raising over the top of his sunglasses, “Med kit’s in the glovebox, let me–” 

“I’ve got it,” Zanka groans, leaning forward and knocking the driver’s hand out of the way, “Focus on getting us out of here.” 

Jabber looks over, and his eyes widen as he spots the patch of dark red blossoming over Zanka’s suit and seeping out into the white of his shirt. It’s a bullet wound. 

“Oh, shit,” Jabber says, pushing himself against the door as if to give Zanka some more space, “That’s– that’s crazy.” 

Another bullet hits the window beside his head. Jabber flinches, his heart racing. 

“Nothin’ I haven’t been through before,” Zanka mutters, placing Jabber’s laptop and the lunch bag full of his cure-all liquid in the space between them, “Take yer fuckin’ laptop, and– Follo, give him the stick. Download that onto yer laptop. It’s not perfect, but it’ll help ya not be tracked. Do ya have a phone?” 

Jabber rummages in his back pocket, pulling out his smartphone. “Yeah, why?” 

Zanka holds out his hand. Jabber gives it to him, curious. Then, before Jabber can actually ask him what he needs it for, Zanka winds down the window and throws out his phone with a pained grunt. 

“What– what the hell, dude?!” 

“It’s either keep yer phone, or be killed. Take yer pick.” 

“Here you go, Mr Wonger,” the driver says cheerfully, holding out a USB drive to Jabber, “We’ll get your devices cleaned properly when we get to a safehouse. For the meantime, I’d suggest putting your seatbelt on.” 

Jabber takes the drive, disoriented. Beside him, the man who had practically kidnapped him is shrugging off his bloodstained jacket, only to reveal his no-longer white shirt underneath. The getaway driver looks forward, concentrating, and it’s then that the gravity of the situation really kicks in. 

He turns to Zanka. “What the hell is happening, by the way? I– I knew I could get in trouble, but Semiu’d kept everything a secret, right? So…” 

“There’s a rat in your lab,” Zanka answers. “Someone leaked yer project, and those guys you’d encountered earlier? They’re workin’ for... ah, well. Ya shouldn’t be surprised they’d target ya, come on.” 

Jabber chokes on a laugh. “Seriously?” 

“Seriously,” Zanka nods, giving a wry smile. “That’s why your supervisor got in touch with us. Ya should send her some flowers when ya get the time.” 

Jabber relaxes in his seat, fumbling around for the seatbelt at his side. “Woah.” 

“Don’t get too overwhelmed,” Zanka mumbles, hissing softly as his shirt slips to reveal not one, but two different bullet wounds in his shoulder and upper arm, “Ya’ve gotta survive for at least a week whilst we set ya up with a lab ‘nd stuff.” 

Whatever Zanka is saying gets drowned out by Jabber’s own thoughts. Zanka is severely injured, and there’s a lot of blood. It’s not in his best interests to let the guy die, considering that he’s part of the reason that Jabber wasn’t shot dead in his lab, and if he can do something to help, maybe he will. 

Maybe it’s to satisfy his own curiosity a bit, too.

“That’s a nasty wound,” Jabber says, reaching over and unzipping his lunch bag, “I know it hasn’t been tested officially, but you could always–” 

“Don’t even try it,” Zanka grunts. Jabber falters. 

“I– I mean, you don’t wanna bleed out, right? So you should try it, Zanka. Trust me. This was made to cure wounds like the one in your arm. Uh– the both of them!” 

“No, but thank you,” Zanka says, pulling out a bandage. “Only one of the bullets made an exit wound– the other is still inside. I don’t want to play games with lead poisoning.” 

Dammit. Zanka would have made a good guinea pig for Jabber’s cure-all. He’s not sure how the stimulants would act on the bullet, though– he doubts the flesh would do anything except heal around it, and that’s almost worse than the wound in itself. 

“Suit yourself,” Jabber shrugs, “Could’ve made a great story if you tried it and it worked.”

Zanka scoffs. “No. We’re gettin’ ya the resources to conduct clinical trials and finish yer publication, and yer gonna get that shit of yers on the market within the year. That’s our goal.” 

“A– A year?” Jabber asks, almost giddy, “Are you for real?” 

That’s ridiculously quick. If Jabber hadn’t had an attempt on his life, he would have been looking at just under ten years, and that’s if he was lucky enough to find a clinical lab and a manufacturer and all those other things that make it impossible to have an independent product on the market. It’s like a dream come true– and also a nightmare, because Jabber’s not going to get a single day of rest, is he? Not for the next year at least.

“I don’t know the details,” Zanka admits, bandaging his wound tightly with a wince, “But my job is ‘ta keep ya safe until then– or until yer project gets rejected.” 

Jabber’s still reeling, but he finds it in himself to nod. This is a dream come true for a researcher who is tired of academia– a shortcut through all the nasty stuff, and a chance to really let himself go.

“That’s… wow,” Jabber giggles, dizzy with excitement, “Oh, man, this is gonna be great. I gotta– I’ll get to call Mama and tell her, yeah? And my people? My homegirl, Mo–” 

“No.” Zanka interrupts. Jabber’s jaw snaps shut. 

Zanka pins the bandage in place, and he’s unable to meet Jabber’s gaze. Jabber looks between him and the driver, but both of them seem uninclined to elaborate. 

“Hey, what? What do you mean, ‘no’?” 

The car is eerily silent as they drive down the highway. Zanka sighs. The driver scratches the bridge of his nose before returning his hands to the steering wheel, but he’s visibly tense. Jabber huffs a laugh, turning to Zanka again and giving him an expectant look. 

“You can’t expect me to go no-contact, man, what the hell? You’ll– you guys have private lines of contact, right? Right?” 

Zanka seems more composed, like he’s rehearsed the coming line a hundred times over: “For the sake of yer safety, and the safety of yer family and contacts, ya will legally be declared dead in two days’ time. Then, you will be free ‘ta work and study in Agency-approved facilities until the termination of Project Anima.” 

Jabber stares. He thinks his ears are beginning to ring. He didn’t hear that right, did he? He didn’t. His hearing must have been damaged from the gunshots or something, because that doesn’t make any sense. What good would come of him being dead? 

“I’m– huh?” 

He needs to get out of here. With Zanka injured, he wouldn’t be an issue, but the driver– if Jabber can get the driver to stop, maybe he can hijack the car? Maybe, if he could knock him out, then he’d have a chance of veering this stupid car off-course and bring a premature end to this insanity. 

“You are dead, Mr Jabber Wonger. I’m afraid that ya won’t be able to contact anyone outside of the project until its conclusion.” 

“Careful, Zanka. He’s going to fight.” 

“I know, I know,” Zanka mutters, reaching into the door pocket as he looks directly into Jabber’s eyes, “If he can behave, I’ll make it painless.” 

Jabber presses himself against the side of the car, still restricted by his seatbelt. He looks behind himself out the window with the scenery rushing by at over a hundred kilometers an hour, then to the driver, and steels his nerves. He has to do this. 

Gritting his teeth, Jabber rears up a leg and aims to kick Zanka in the shoulder– in his weak spot. But Zanka seems prepared. He snatches Jabber’s ankle and shoves it back at him, throwing Jabber off balance even as he’s sitting down. Jabber attempts to undo his seatbelt, but Zanka once again has beaten him, blocking the button release with a foot. 

“Let me go– the fuck?! Let them kill me, dammit, don’t do this shit!”

Zanka hisses. “C’mon, just calm down, ya fuckin’–” 

“No!” 

Jabber tries kicking with his other foot, but even injured, Zanka is stronger and quicker. Even when Jabber tries to punch his injured shoulder, Zanka dodges the strike, and throughout their scuffle, the driver remains focused on the road, not slowing down even once. 

Jabber yelps as he feels his wrist yanked forward, and then something that looks like a pen is being pushed into his skin– and pierces it with a fine needle. 

“No, no!” Jabber growls, wrenching away, but he knows it’s too late. He makes another move to hurt Zanka, but his limbs are immediately too heavy for him and the strike lands weakly against the agent’s chest. Zanka huffs, pushing him off of him, and Jabber is so suddenly exhausted that he can do nothing but slump back against the seat of the car. 

“I’m sorry ya have ‘ta go through this,” Zanka says, his voice distant and hollow, like Jabber’s listening to him through a thick sheet of glass, “But yer research could save millions. Ya can’t give up yer life, and all yer people’s lives, without even tryin’ yet.” 

“You’re… sick,” Jabber rasps, his eyelids growing heavier without his consent, “I hate you.” 

“Yeah, well.” Zanka huffs a laugh. It sounds a little sad. “I get that a lot.” 

The last thing Jabber sees is a pair of azure eyes looking down at him pitifully, before his eyes close and his mind drifts away into nothingness. 

/////

I kind of had no idea what to do with this story for a bit, but I managed to draft up this pilot, and I'm happy with how it looks (i guess!) If this work gets to the point of near-completion, I'll put it up on ao3 :) for now, pls enjoy this itty bitty bit. ty for reading x

- 🫧

P.S. Also heyyyy. Listen to these bangers:

[zanjabba]

[zanjabba]

zanjab modern au 4 fun 💿

can you tell who likes the other more

Songs referenced:

Jabber’s profile

Zanka’s profile

[zanjabba]

Janet Jackson visiting me in the Zanjab dreamscape, per us’. Everypony listen to Rope Burn

[zanjabba]

Get them out my villa #loveislandTHEGROUND

Ref:

[zanjabba]

Rocket Love - Stevie Wonder

[zanjabba]

wip central

[zanjabba]

POV Someone misses you 👀

Ref:

[zanjabba]

Zanka Ghost-Seer!AU Snippet

by Nereid🫧

////

Since he was little, Zanka’s been able to see them. 

“Zanka? Come on, we’re leaving.” Goka calls, but Zanka’s fixated on the man lying on the floor of the tailor, his breaths laboured as he stares back at him.

No-one else has noticed him. Not Kyoka, not Goka, not the shopkeepers. The man’s eyes are hollow, and it’s scary– but Zanka’s seen it before. 

“Can you… no, you can see me,” the man says, his voice distorted and distant, like Zanka’s listening to him through a radio in the next room over, “H-Hey, boy, you can see me, right?”

The man reaches out a hand. Zanka flinches. 

“No, no,” the man hushes him, his voice a desperate plea, “I won’t hurt you. I’m not going to hurt you.”

Too many of them say that. Too many of the ones that have hurt him say that. Zanka only dares to look away for a split second to find his siblings amongst the racks of fabric, because he knows if he isn’t careful that–

He bites down on a cry as a cruel hand wraps around his ankle. “Please,” the man begs, “I– I left it under my bed. It’s– You have to make sure he doesn’t find them.”

Always, these people have requests. They can’t move on until they’ve been fulfilled, which isn’t so terrible until their motives are things that Zanka just can’t do. He’s only nine– these people can’t be helped by him. He can go and find hairpins and trinkets or write a letter or free a pet locked up inside, but he can’t kill people, or steal things, or report someone who he doesn’t know to the Hellguard. 

“I’m sorry,” Zanka whispers, trying to tug his leg away, “I can’t– n-not now. Please ask later…”

“Zanka? What are you doing?” Goka asks, poking his head around the corner as the man’s nails dig in deeper to Zanka’s ankle, “Come here.” 

Zanka can’t. He can’t move– he can only stare, terrified, at the man on the ground as his nails break through skin, sending bolts of sharp pain up Zanka’s leg. It hurts. He wants to tell the man to stop, but he can’t, not when Goka watches. 

He’s tried to tell his siblings before, and they’ve punished him for it. Zanka must suffer in silence, else he’s punished further. But that ultimately leads to times like now, when Zanka can do nothing to free himself from a trap he’s entered and his siblings see only his disobedience.

Goka looks at Zanka strangely, because Zanka has yet to make eye-contact with him, and that’s not something Zanka does. Usually, Zanka’s always trying his best to be attentive. “Zanka, Kyoka’s put in the order for your clothes now, we’re done.”

“Mm,” Zanka nods, doing all that he can to suppress tears, “Okay.”

It hurts. It hurts even worse when the nails drag down, slowly, opening the welts into wounds and drawing blood that already begins to soak through the cloth wrapped over his skin. 

“Goka? Zanka, come on,” Kyoka says, clicking her tongue as her steps echo closer, “I thought you two wanted to go for lunch?”

She rounds the corner, then, and there’s a mildly irritated expression on her face as she takes in the scene– Zanka, frozen still, Goka watching confusedly, and the man only Zanka can see pleading for him to do something Zanka cannot do for him.

“Zan–” Kyoka interrupts herself with a gasp, and Zanka feels relief wash over himself as finally, someone has noticed. “Zanka?!”

It’s funny, having a big sister– she’s so much stonger than him, which means it’s not an issue for her to pluck him up by the collar, tugging him free of the man’s grasp, before settling him in her arms. 

“What the hell!” She barks, not at Zanka, not at the man who did this to him who has started to wail, but at the shop assistant, who is wide-eyed as they stare at Zanka’s ankle. 

Zanka dares to glance at it, and suddenly understands why Kyoka is mad. Zanka, for once, wasn’t being dramatic; there is blood dripping down his ankle in vivid red rivulets, much to Zanka’s relief. 

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what–” 

“I don’t care that you don’t know what happened! There’s– This is absurd!”

He’s relieved, because this time, the pain is real and tangible and no-one’s going to tell him he’s a liar for collapsing during training or being unable to sleep because those people are trying to get him to do things for them. 

“–A child of the Nijiku family, mind you! If your store can’t abide by even the most simple of safety guidelines–” 

“Sister, let me take him–” 

“We spend our lives dedicated to securing peace, and if you cannot repay us in turn–” 

Zanka feels himself being passed over to Goka and he makes no resistance– his leg hurts too much to think of anything other than the pain. He can hear his sister making threats towards the shopkeeper, and Zanka feels guilty for someone taking the blame for his own actions. 

After all, Kyoka never even asked if he was okay. 

He blinks away tears and curls in a little closer to Goka’s chest, but his eyes are still trained on the ghost curled up underneath the shelf. It looks truly sorry with its eyes downturned and bottom lip quivering, as if it is as close to tears as Zanka is. 

“I’m sorry,” it trembles, “I can’t– you need to get those rings. In a silk bag, under my bed. There’s ten– I took them from a boy, but then he–” 

“Please, forgive me. I am truly sorry– I will give you a generous discount on the clothes! I cannot afford more than that, but I swear–”

“–Relentless. I was hunted like an animal.” 

Zanka feels a shiver run down his spine. Though a little overwhelmed by the cacophony of voices, he finds himself listening intently to the sorry-looking ghost… even if he is a thief. Even if he was a bad person, he didn’t deserve to die. Zanka believes that no-one deserves such a sad ending, but he knows Kyoka thinks otherwise– that’s why he keeps his mouth shut. 

“Those rings… When your ankle heals, I want you to go to my home…” the ghost rattles off an address, and Zanka repeats it over and over in his head until it sticks. 

It’s somewhere outside the main city, he quickly realises, and he feels a little ill for it. He’s not really supposed to leave the city, given that the outer ring is dangerous; outside the safe, clean air of Kamuatari, the outer city Kabe-gaichou is where a lot of sick and poor people live. Zanka hasn’t ever been out there without his family before, so the request from the ghost is a little daunting. 

His ankle hurts. He feels tired. He wants to go home and think on it. Goka is walking away, and Zanka– knowing that he cannot bid farewell to the ghost– throws it a little hand signal and hope it catches the meaning. 

Zanka is going out of the city on his own for the first time tomorrow, and he’s going to find that ghost’s stolen rings. After that… 

…After that, what is he supposed to do with them? 

“Just don’t let that monster get them! Anyone but him!” 

Maybe Zanka could give them to his siblings. He wonders if Kyoka likes rings. Goka might wear one on a necklace. Maybe they could all have matching ones, and Zanka would be able to feel like he really fits in with the two of them. They’re both so much older than him, after all, so if Zanka can do anything to get them to look at him as an equal, he’ll take it.

“It’s alright. We’ll head back through the city centre and to the clinic. I’ll bill it to the estate.” 

“Understood. He looks close to passing out, though…” 

“Is he pale?” 

When Goka replies, Zanka, with his ear pressed to his brother’s chest, feels the vibrations rumble through his entire body. “Not really.” 

“Then let him rest. It’s only a short walk.” 

Zanka feels a bit sick. He doesn’t complain, though– his sister seems quite on edge and he worries that if he says something, she’ll get madder. Thus, he keeps his mouth shut and his head down and tries not to think about the throbbing of his ankle as he repeats the address given to him by the ghost over in his mind like a mantra.

////

lowkey... I've had this idea for a super long time (I checked, and i wrote this october of last year?!), but I've had no idea what to do with it. I was clearing out some drafts and sorting them into documents when I realised that this could be zanjab !!! lmk if u have thoughts or enjoy this 'cause i might continue it, i might not. need ideas to get this idea off the ground ahah. It'd be really, really cute to see little zanka and little jabber interact, wouldn't it?!

also! have a lil music rec from Atom that I've really been wondering could be an inspiration for this fic... such a nice listen, i recommend!!

-🫧

[zanjabba]

Zanka/Jabber - Dungeon Crawler AU Snippet

by Nereid 🫧

After being dumped by his previous party, average-joe adventurer Zanka Nijiku finds himself out of a job. Wandering around the Tori City Dungeon entrance, he stumbles across someone arguing fiercely at one of the Guild Manager desks…

////

“I’m sorry, sir, but solo parties are not permitted in this dungeon. Please refer to the Adventurer Guild’s Guidebook section eight, part twenty-three–” 

“I’m plenty strong enough, so just let me at them!” the man whines, slamming his hands on the desk of the Guild Manager, “I need the money!” 

Now there’s a story Zanka’s heard a thousand times: people, in desperate need of money, going down to kill themselves in the dungeon and either feeding the monsters or making a hell of a lot of trouble for the people sent to retrieve their bodies.

Most visitors tend to forget that this dungeon isn’t a typical country dungeon, with less than ten levels and clearable by most seasoned adventurers; the Tori City Dungeon is so deep that it has yet to be fully cleared. Countless adventurers have died– but the upper levels are at least relatively safe and a good hunting ground for both beginner and seasoned parties. 

“I’m sorry, sir. You need at least one more party member to be able to enter this dungeon, and they must be at least level fifteen.” 

Zanka recently turned level twenty, though most of his skills are B-rank or higher. He’s good for his level, but still just an average joe amongst adventurers. 

“I’m level thirty-three! Isn’t that enough?!”

To Zanka, that certainly is. Level thirty three would let them clear the first five floors without even breaking a sweat– under an hour and a half if they work quickly, even. From there, it’d get harder, but someone without a party with a level that high could really help Zanka’s own improvement. 

Alright. So I have an idea…

No, no, he shouldn’t. Who knows what this guy is actually like? Someone that talented with no party will have a reason for not having one; Zanka shouldn’t risk it. 

But without a party, he can’t make money, and rent is due. By himself, it will be hard to move into another party, and not to mention his attitude problems– which aren’t bad, and his very first party leader used to tell him they were amusing, but are enough to deter people who aren’t tolerant (that is to say, a lot of adventurers his age.) 

It’s worth a shot, Zanka thinks nervously, watching as the young adventurer with the four-foot-long locs begins to start talking more with his frantic hands rather than his mouth, What’s the worst that could happen?

A lot of things, another part of his brain responds, and it sounds an awful lot like his sister's voice, scolding him for being too hasty to jump in and making rash decisions.

What a shame that Zanka refuses to listen to that. 

“Hey, sorry,” Zanka says, coming up to the bench with the exhausted-looking Guild Manager, “Forgive my party member, we haven’t actually signed up together yet; give us a few, yeah?” 

The Guild Manager relaxes, nodding. “Head to desk thirteen to register your party, and then we can allow you into the dungeon; please ensure you acquire the relevant stamps and have completed the mandatory modules on party–” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” the previously irate adventurer scoffs, turning to Zanka with a strange look in his eye, “You… should come with me.” 

Swallowing anxiously, Zanka gives a slight nod, and the adventurer ushers him off to the side, away from the registration and toll desks and more into the crowd of adventurers milling idly about. 

The strange adventurer leans in close, and Zanka realises it’s too late to back out when he realises the teeth bared at him are elements of a smile, not a scowl. 

“You’re gonna be in my party?” the man says, a manic twinkle in his eye, “You’ve been down there before, haven’t you? In the dungeon?” 

There’s an eagerness to this man’s demeanor that has Zanka skeptical, unsure of whether volunteering for this man’s party was the right idea after all. Zanka is desperate for money, as is he eager to get some levels up and some invaluable experience in one of the five largest dungeons in the country, but not if it’s at the expense of his sanity. 

I shouldn’t judge off of a single interaction, Zanka scolds himself, shaking his head before offering a hand, Who knows? Maybe he’s a great guy, just new to the area. I’ve dealt with worse. 

“I’ve been down ‘ere a few times,” Zanka nods, “Zanka Nijiku, level twenty, and a run-of-the-mill fighter,” he introduces himself mildly, but jolts in surprise when the mystery adventurer snaps up his hand immediately, shaking it vigorously and making his mixed-metal bangles chime incessantly. 

“Jabber Wonger,” the adventurer says gleefully, “You can call me Jabber, everyone else did!” 

Did?! Zanka thinks hysterically, his heart stopping momentarily, Oh, lord, I might have made a mistake…

“Nice ‘ta meet ya,” Zanka says slowly, blinking once, twice, three times, “Um, Jabber. Ya seem pretty experienced for yer age, yeah?” 

Beaming, Jabber nods, and every time his head moves the metal clasps encasing well cared-for locs clink against each other; the man seems very loud and boisterious all around, but something in Zanka’s gut has him second-guessing his initial impression of the otherwise vibrant adventurer. After all, Zanka doesn’t know what Jabber’s Class is, and he has a feeling– rather, assuming that the rings and other jewellery over his body are enchanted items– that Jabber’s abilities lie instead in magic. 

When paired with a fighter like Zanka, one would assume they have decent battle chemistry, and the thought has Zanka a little excited. Maybe with Jabber, he really will improve faster than usual. 

Then, as if having properly processed the statement, Jabber's excited grin falls, and he pauses for a moment.

“Experienced?” Jabber says, visibly confused, “No, no, I just– I just like to try new things. I wouldn’t call it experience. Not in the traditional sense that makes your aptitude go up, no.” 

Zanka shrugs. “Whatever it is yer doin’, I’d like ‘ta team up with ya, if yer not opposed ‘ta it.” 

The request earns him a sly wink from the other as he beckons him towards desk thirteen. “But of course,” Jabber snickers, “We’ll have so much fun, Zanka!” 

“Right…” Zanka mumbles, “Fun.” 

Last time I heard someone say the dungeon was going to be ‘fun,’ I walked out with their severed arm in my pack, Zanka thinks weakly, looking Jabber up and down, but decides ultimately to keep that little anecdote to himself. At the very least, in terms of levels, Jabber is significantly stronger, but Zanka knows better than anyone that strength takes more than one form.

“Fun!” Jabber repeats, turning on his heel and marching up to the Guild Assistant at the desk, “Come on, my dear teammate. Let’s make a party out of this– get it?!” 

“I get it,” Zanka grunts, shaking his head but following without an argument. He can't tell if this is a huge mistake or the best decision he's made yet, but he know for a fact that there's no backing out now. 

“Welcome to the Adventurer's Guild,” the receptionist says with a painted-on smile, “How may I assist you today?”

Jabber grins. “I need to register my party!”

“Your party?” Zanka blurts, incredulous, “What do you mean, your party?! It's shared ownership, isn't it?!”

“Shared ownership, understood…” the assistant mumbles, jotting down something onto paper, “And your names, sirs?”

“Jabber Wonger, level thirty-three,” Jabber boasts gleefully, “And beside me is Zachary–”

“–Zanka Nijiku,” Zanka interjects hurriedly, stepping forward and pushing Jabber aside, “Zanka Nijiku, level twenty.” 

“Uh-huh, and your registered numbers?” 

Zanka exchanges a glance with the other adventurer, before simultaneously they both dive for their pockets and pull out their certifications, both stamped with bright-red ink that declares them to be official members of the guild. To become a guild member, one must be invited by another who has documentation– it’s the whole reason why Zanka had a party in the first place, and why being abandoned by that party stings all the more. 

“All good… Shared leadership?” 

“N–” 

“Yes, thank you,” Zanka says again, enjoying the scandalised look he gets from Jabber as the other hisses, “Shared.” 

“I’m higher level, though,” Jabber grumbles, “I’ll get paid more for my work.” 

“And that’s fine,” Zanka sighs, watching the guild assistant jot down more notes, “I need ‘ta get paid in experience.” 

“Oh, you do, don’t you?”

“Don’t say it so condescendingly!” 

“But how else would I mean it?” 

Zanka’s eye twitches. “Oh, you’re crazy.” 

Jabber grins cattishly. “That’s what they all say.”

///

just a lil bit of fun. was half-listening to someone else's dungeon crawler carl audiobook whilst writing this and wondered what kind of class/fighters zanjab would be. to be honest, I was never really into DnD, so I couldn't tell you...