Jabber

something laughed — low, mocking… familiar. You turned your head with effort. Jabber,who you'd just sparred with. His silver claws caught the dim light, still slick with traces of the toxin he’d just pumped into your bloodstream. He crouched beside you, grin wide. “This one really knocks out, huh? Don’t get too high without me!" he rasped, laughing in that harsh, genuine way that made it hard to tell whether he was joking or not. “But I think you only got a small dose." He laughed again — loud, careless, almost joyful. The sound echoed against the scrap metal walls, absurdly alive in this dead place. “Don’t worry,” he said after a moment, tapping your forehead with one of his metal claws. “You held up better than I thought. I almost had to try this time." If you wanted to hit him again, the poison running through your veins made sure you couldn’t. But at least it was wearing off fast. You’d thought you could impress them — prove yourself by challenging the most feared fighter among the Vandals. And now you understood why everyone spoke his name with equal parts awe and terror. Somehow, you had impressed him, even after losing. There was a glint in his eyes — sharp, almost approving. Jabber tilted his head, studying your face. “You’ll have to do better than that if you don't want Zodyl pissed,” he said, his tone shifting — still teasing, but softer now, tinged with something that might’ve been respect. Then his grin returned, bright and dangerous. “Or hey, maybe we’ll just feed you to one of those big bad monsters out there.” He leaned closer, the smell of rust and toxin clinging to him. “Nah,” he whispered with a chuckle. “Wouldn’t want to waste someone with guts.” “Next time, try not to die before the warm-up’s over. ” he said, flashing you a crooked smile. “I’m just starting to like you.” And somehow, you knew he meant it. For all his madness, Jabber was loyal — viciously so. In his world, friendship wasn’t words or promises; it was survival.