Chapter Text
Every drop of Zanka’s blood burned as it ran down his back.
It felt like hell broke loose on ground. Goka kept his breathing steady and strides long, trying to push through the roaring mass. Around him, thousands and thousands of people ran for their lives as two gods battled each other, destroying everything on sight. He wanted to run, too. To scream, to hide, to pray; but years of training taught him better. Kyouka taught him better.
The feeling was unbearable, truly, that neither he nor his team could fight against that doomed creature, yet he could not allow feelings to reign over logic. All the Hell Guard could do was to evacuate and protect as many people as possible, and hope the Cleaners were more capable than people believed they were.
Goka surveyed the sea of people, trying to fully grasp the gravity of the situation. It was far worse than he expected. Way, way worse. Everyone was wild with fear, some heavily injured by the debris, some frantically searching for their family and friends, but to no avail. His jaw tightened, recalling the countless bodies he passed on his way.
That night, mothers would wish they had held their children longer, lovers would ache to kiss their partners one last time, and friends would spend hours searching for corpses, thinking about memories that would never get to be made.
He prayed the Red Horn squad was handling things on their own well enough because, at that moment, he couldn’t be their commander anymore. He could only be a brother. Tightening his arm around Zanka’s waist, shifting his shoulder slightly to make sure he was safely positioned, a painful burning spread through his chest. Have you always been this small? He was so light. Too light. Goka made a small mental note to write a formal complaint to the Cleaners regarding their food and training ratio.
Multiple attempts were made to quicken the pace, but every single one was futile. Shoulder to shoulder, rib to rib, there was simply no space to advance, but the best approach in emergencies was to remain calm and calculated. Using his imposing size, his forearms, and hundreds of “move” and “please, let me through,” he made some progress, but it felt insignificant. Blood already soaked through the thick uniform, sticking to his skin.
Tiny cracks bloomed in the shield around his heart, fear slowly creeping in. He needed to find help, and he needed it fast.
Goka considered using the car, but the closest town was at least three hours away. Zanka didn’t have that time. He could spot the medical tents in the distance, full of injured and somehow more chaotic than the mass of people fleeing, if that was even possible, but it was the only option at hand. The sound of his heartbeat thrashing in his ears was increasing gradually. He felt the need to run, to scream as well, but he could only proceed one step at a time. It was torturous.
Stay with me, little brother, Goka whispered.
A massive shockwave made the earth shudder beneath their feet. The crowd stilled, only to erupt worse than before; shoving, screaming, crying. Rage overwhelmed his senses, as it looked like no one was following the Guard’s directions. He didn’t dare to glance towards the fight. It was useless. The Cleaners would either win or they would all die at once. His grip tightened around Zanka’s staff. He hated that Jinki for stealing his brother away, but still couldn't bring himself to leave it behind.
When Goka finally got to the tents, cold sweat covered his entire skin. Havoc seemed to rule there. The air was thick with dust and the metallic taste of blood. Some people were lying on the bare ground, their eyes staring up at the sky, unfocused. Others curled around their injuries, begging for help as their own bodies betrayed them, crumbling under the suffered damage. There were fewer than ten medical staff members on site, looking more like wraiths than humans. All muscles taut, eyes hollow, covered in blood from head to toe, they simply worked like machines, doing their best to save whatever was left to be saved. A loud cry made him flinch as a father hugged his daughter’s lifeless body, which looked like it had been dismembered by flying debris.
In a heartbeat, he scanned the place for any familiar faces. He knew the Cleaners had an exceptional healer, but it looked like she wasn’t there. It wasn’t even certain if she was at the festival, so Goka couldn’t risk gambling on finding her. The few stretchers were all occupied, so he did his best to keep Zanka as still as possible while he placed his heavy coat on the ground.
As soon as he settled his brother on it, fresh blood pooled around his weak body. Pain spread through his chest. Goka kneeled, checking his vital signs. Zanka was cold, disturbingly pale, with a pulse so weak it was almost nonexistent. Just bear with me for a little longer, alright? I promise we will get through this. Kyouka misses you so much.
‘I need some help here!’ he yelled.
No answer.
Goka repeated himself one more time.
Still nothing.
Swearing under his breath, he went for the only doctor that seemed at least somehow available, who was just finishing stapling someone’s scalp closed. Goka dragged him by the collar to the corner where Zanka was lying.
‘Fix him,’ he said flatly.
The doctor threw him a dirty look before crouching. Gloved hands slowly pulled away the shirt that was so soaked you couldn’t even distinguish its color anymore, revealing the open wound in his abdomen. The sight was sickening. Raw, pulsating, and leaking, they could see his torn intestines mingling together. Goka’s knees almost gave up. Terror seized him. The doctor got back to his feet, shaking his head.
‘I can’t.’
Goka saw red. ‘What do you mean you can’t?!’
‘I’m sorry, son,’ the doctor rasped. ‘I need a full surgical team for that kind of wound. There is nothing I can do here.’
‘You can’t be serious! There must be something to do, at least until we get better help! Come on! Do something! Anything!’ Goka was heaving, throat strained from shouting so loud.
The doctor shook his head slowly, white brows furrowed deeply.
He would not accept it. That could simply not be true. Goka pulled the gun from his pocket, pointing it right at his wrinkled forehead.
‘Do. Something,’ he growled through gritted teeth, heart hammering into his ribcage.
‘I’d beg you to shoot me,’ the doctor said coldly, ‘but if you do, you will take at least a hundred lives along mine.’
He rummaged through the pocket of his bloodied coat, pulling out a gauze roll and sliding it into Goka’s hand. Sorrow was painfully clear on his face, even through the exhaustion.
‘Say your goodbyes, son. Don’t let him go afraid.’
He felt the ground collapsing beneath him. Goka’s finger tensed around the trigger, but he couldn’t do it. Shoving the gun away, he dropped next to his little brother once again. Unrolling the gauze with shaky hands, he started working his way around the gash, cursing himself quietly. He had done it countless times before, either during missions or training, but at that time his hands utterly refused to obey.
Goka meticulously tied the bandage as tight as possible, as if it were the only thing keeping his life from spilling away. It’s alright, Zanka. You are alright. I know you are. Stark red bloomed instantly on white. His stomach dropped. Pressing one hand on the abdomen, a futile attempt to stop the bleeding, he lifted the other to brush the matted blond hair away from his face, wiping some beads of cold sweat along.
‘Zanka?’ he whispered. ‘Can you hold on just for a little longer, Zanka? I will find a way. Your older brother is going to fix everything, okay? Just stay with me.’
Trembling, he reached for the staff leaning against the tent wall and carefully placed it on Zanka’s shoulder.
‘Lovely... Lovely Assistaff was her name, wasn’t it? Come on, little brother,’ he shook him softly. ‘You can’t just leave her behind, she will get lonely.’
And once again, the bond between a Giver and his Jinki astonished Goka, leaving him at a loss for words, mouth agape. Zanka slowly opened his eyes, just barely, as gentle as the flutter of a butterfly’s wings, watching him. Or rather said, through him. His little brother’s eyes were once as bright as the stars themselves and as deep as the midnight sky. By then, they were already hollow. His soul shattered into a thousand pieces. He was losing him.
Goka gently cupped his face. ‘Forgive me, Zanka,’ he murmured close to his ear, hot tears spilling down his face. He knew he didn’t deserve that forgiveness, but still begged. ‘Forgive me, my little brother, for not being there for you. Forgive me, beautiful boy, for not taking care of you. For one last time, please forgive your stupid older brother.’
For a few more seconds, the world was blessed by Zanka Nijiku’s gaze before his eyes closed forever. Goka lowered his chest on his little brother’s chest, feeling how his delicate breathing came to a halt.
He stood there, sobbing, for what might have been hours, days, or perhaps years. Goka kissed the cold skin of his hands, his cheeks, his forehead, over and over again.
His little brother was gone.
He would never hear his laugh, his dreams, his worries ever again. He would never see him grow into his full potential. They would never sit at a table as a whole family again, to feast, to celebrate, to pray, to mourn. His little brother was gone.
His little brother was born on the third day of the coldest month of the year, and that was the first time Goka ever held him.
His little brother was one when Goka held him by those small hands to take his first steps.
His little brother was two when Goka taught him how to properly spell both their names.
His little brother was three when Goka had to search every wardrobe in the house for him.
His little brother was four when Goka came up with a secret sign language just for them.
His little brother was five when Goka showed him how to tie his shoes.
His little brother was six when Goka gifted him his first wooden sword.
His little brother was seven when Goka got him fitted for his first school uniform.
His little brother was eight when Goka brought him along to see a trash beast.
His little brother was nine when Goka helped him make some of his friends.
His little brother was ten when Goka explained to him how to treat a girl properly.
His little brother was eleven when Goka pulled him out of his first quarrel.
His little brother was twelve when Goka started arguing with him almost daily.
His little brother was thirteen when Goka noticed he talked less and less.
His little brother was fourteen when Goka lashed out on him so hard he made him cry.
His little brother was fifteen when Goka found out he joined the Cleaners.
His little brother was sixteen when Goka stopped seeking him.
His little brother was only seventeen when Goka failed him.
His little brother was gone forever.
‘See you in the morning, beautiful boy,’ he whispered through the tears. ‘Bright and early.’