Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“You can’t choose what path I take!”

“I’m trying to keep you safe!”

Clown argued, rubbing his glabella. Half points worried, half points frustrated. Kaboodle wasn’t fit for the vigilante life; nor was she even ready for the adulting life. She was 16.

“Well your ‘trying’ isn’t gonna work! I decide what choices to make, I get to build my own future, Clown!” Kab bites back, bordering on hysterical. She laughs hollowly, shaking her head.

“I know that-” “No you don’t!” She cried, and he went tight-lipped. He stares at her for a moment or two, worries that shouldn’t be swim in his eyes. Her hands are shaking, he notes. His are as well.

“You-.. You’ve just been trying to control me.” She mumbles, and it almost seems like this dispute hadn’t been about vigilantes or heroes at first glance. Betrayal glistens in her eyes; or was it tears?

“Kab.” He muttered under his breath, stepping closer, yet each step forward was her step backward.

Clown reaches for her hand, and she flinches. He retracts his hand, lips pressed together in a thin line. He backs away, steadily. He feels, not for the first time, he’s done something wrong. Something he can’t take back; something he would’ve taken back if he weren’t a coward.

He nods slowly. “Okay. Okay.” As if backing away from a feral cat. Angry, and yet pitiful. It’s almost painful to walk away from his sister. He wishes she’d never even brought up vigilantism.

He thinks idly, that maybe he is the problem. That he should’ve let her do her own thing, but then he thinks again. She’d be in so much trouble; vigilante or not. 

Kaboodle is a smart girl, and though she can think for herself, she’s reckless. Far more reckless than he’d prefer. Back in elementary school, she’d often get herself in trouble, he recalls. They’d changed schools repetitively, after she would get suspended, gaining a lengthy record with each elementary school. He remembers when he had to vouch for her; getting in fights for her, and winning effortlessly.

She’d smile, laugh with him as they joked about how they were cowards.

He holds those days close, though he’d never admit it. Not anymore, anyway.

Clown ventures out of the small, suburban house his family renovated. The hoodie he wears hangs loosely off his shoulders, and his hair, tied up in an improper half up-do, bangs serving as curtains; framing his face. The world around him is dull, lackluster, on par with his, now, muted sentiments.

The wind murmurs through the shrubs and bushes that are planted along the sidewalk, opening up into the metropolis that lies in the heart of the city. Billboards, bustling streets, less vibrant than they should’ve been, in his eyes. They all become white noise in the back of his mind once he disappears into the alleys. They’ve become his safe place; promising shadows where he can hide, where he’s nothing to the world. He finds himself often conjuring weapons, welding the darkness to the shape he’s imagined. Oftentimes, a scythe. He traces along the edge of his curved blade with his fingers, perfecting its already refined sharpness.

A distinct rustle of clothing, he doesn’t turn back. Merely, swiping his scythe with practiced ease. The splatter of blood and a groan are the ones spinning him around.

A young man; no older than he was. Boyish, just judging from his attire. On the sticky pavement, blood gushing from his abdomen. A pained expression on his face, his hands trembling as he traced the wound, getting a grasp of the severity.

Clown looks at him, former concern melting into indifference. He grips the hilt of his weapon harder, using the edge of his blade to tilt the man's head up, the strong smell of iron lingering in the air. The man must have snuck up on him, assassination or not. Clown’s eyes are set on the man’s while he retracts his scythe. The man mumbles stuttered apologies, inching back with the heels of his hands.

He swings the scythe once more, and his apologies are in vain.

The alleyway is filled with the sounds of gurgling. Crimson dyes half of Clown’s hoodie, and he scowls. The head of his opponent tumbles right off its body, clean cut. Without any brain coordination; its body would collapse, laying flat on its back. In the back of his mind—he thinks—it’s a pleasurable thrill. To be doing something terrible, something so criminal in the eyes of the society. A delectable taste on his tongue, which resides with the metallic electricity of blood.

Clown steps backward, away from the mess he’s created. Slipping off the hoodie, he tosses it over the decapitated head Percy Jackson style. The scythe he holds dissolves back into the shadow, leaving no trace of a weapon at all.

The walk back to his home is silent, he gains several stares with the heavy, pungent scent of gore sticking to his clothes. Nothing more than his boots clinging to the floor with each step, the sound like ripping off a bandaid. A faint, barely noticeable red stains the asphalt while he strides.

Once he’s in front of the door, he opens it as quietly as he could; stepping in and avoiding each creaky floorboard with all his might. The living room down the hall was filled with yells and shouts. His parents had been fighting again. He trudges up the steps, skipping a few to lessen the creaking. Though, they’d never hear him with how loud their current squabble was. Clown peers around the upstairs corridors, situating where his sister would be.

Kaboodle is sitting on the floor of their shared room, wiping her eyes with fists. Her brown hair cascades down from her shoulders, the same shoulders that shake softly.

Clown decides to ignore her for the time being, patting her shoulder as he walks right past her. She looks up, almost in confusion as he packs a satchel. 

It’s not much, just a few articles of clothing that either held sentimental value, or for comfort. He abandons his phone, but takes his wallet. He pulls a face mask over his nose.

“Wh…-? Where are you going??-” She mumbles, pushing herself up, yet he pushes her back down by the shoulders. He equips his satchel, swinging it over his head while he, nonchalantly, mind you, walks out the door.

He spares Kab one look, before sneaking away.

His parents haven’t stopped bickering when he wanders outside. He still smells vaguely like iron, which would be inherently suspicious to have as a scent, when you’re wearing completely black. Though, there’s not much he can do. He walks almost aimlessly. Anywhere but home.

The park is one of the most unforeseen areas you’d find a killer; which is why he finds himself at one. The pathways are filled with teens around his age, and the sunbeams shine lightly through the leaves of the trees. The sun has begun its descent down beneath the mountains, the sky a kindling orange. A news reporter is being broadcasted to the city, the digital billboard sporting the newest headlines. A decapitated man, found in the alleyways of Content Avenue. He smiles pridefully to himself while he continues his peaceful walk, covered by a red and black mask.

As he nears the heart of the park, the pathways disappear into greenery, shrubs and lawn. Pebbles and little stones scattered across the evergreen sanctuary the city's government tends to. Gardeners come early in the morning to nurture the small clearing, and the kind elderly often come to feed the pigeons which come around.

Unexpectedly, he bumps into a young man, nearly stepping on his feet and stumbling backwards. The man has.. Intriguing features, to say the least. Silver hair, clearly cared for. Striking violet eyes. Much about this man is violet.

“Oh! I’m sorry—are you okay?” He exclaims, stepping backwards a little to maintain distance. The man’s eyes are locked on his. The abnormality scale keeps going higher, Clown notes. His concern falters for a moment, probably having detected the acrid scent before being pulled back up.

Clown simply nods, settling for his usual, monotonous gaze. Uncaringly nonchalant, but this man is intriguing, so he will entertain him for a few more ticks. “I am.” He responds, not bothering with the pleasantries of asking him as well.

The man decides this is his cue to yap onwards, so he does that. “I’m Branzy.” He holds his hand out to shake, he does so while maintaining a smile.

He takes his hand, grasping it firmly as he shakes it. “Percival. I rather Clown.” He mutters indifferently, though he can’t dispute the slightly intrigued tone in his voice. An interesting name for an interesting fella, he supposes.

“Clown?” Branzy asks incredulously, tilting his head as he pulls away his hand leisurely. He has this funny look on his face that Clown wants to laugh at. He probably will, most likely before he goes to bed.

At this moment, he realizes he has no bed to go to.

Clown cocks his head to the side, matching Branzy’s action. “I’m not sure Branzy is a less unique name than Clown, for one, no?” He uttered humorously, amusement swimming in his eyes.

“It’s just kinda awkward!” He squawks in defense. “Y’know, how like.. You smell like blood.. Then your name is Clown.. Like.. a killer Clown?” Branzy mumbles the last part out, as if he’s scared of offending him. Which he should be.

He grins under his mask, chuckling almost inaudibly. “What a coincidence, am I right?” He crosses his arms, in his mind, he’s giggling like a schoolgirl. Branzy is a funny, funny man.

“Soo… uhh…” Branzy’s smile is more nervous than before. “What’re you doing out here, anyway? Out by the sanctuary, I mean.” He corrects himself, rubbing the back of his neck almost anxiously.

“Not much.” Clown hums, rubbing his fingertips together like a mischievous little fly. “Running away from home, the normal teenage dream.” He fights the urge to smile at the way Branzy falters even more.

“Wha—?!” He stutters, mouth opening and closing like a silly little fish. Making a few more confused noises, gesturing nonsensically. “Why? Just-” Is the first thing he manages to enunciate. “Why? Do you have a place to stay-? Is everything alright—Why are you saying it like it’s alright?!” Branzy whisper-shouts, and Clown lets a snigger slip through his lips.

“To answer your question, good sir, I do not have a place to stay,” Clown pauses for a moment, uncrossing his arms to clasp them together behind his back. “I suppose it just called for a change.” He answers simply.

“A change? A change in the form of running away from home?” Branzy asks incredulously once more, and the sun dips past the horizon lightly.

Clown taps his finger on his chin, as if thinking. “Possibly.” He hums nonchalantly, tilting his head once more.

“Okay.” He sighs, rubbing his temples. “So your name is Clown,”

“Percival, but I do prefer Clown.”

“Right, your name is Clown,” He nods. “You ran away from home at like—5 in the afternoon?”

“Optimal conditions for disappearing, yes.” He nods once more.

“And now you're wandering the Heart of The City with nothing more than the clothes on your back and a satchel?” Branzy gestures wildly to his satchel. Clown mentally snorts before nodding.

“God-..” He breathes, like a worried mom. 

“What is your point, kind sir?” Clown chuckles, resting his cheek on the palm of his hand.

“I can offer you a place to rest-?”

“What.”

Chapter Text

Clown has been making himself home in Branzy’s apartment for a good while now. The sunlight shines through the living room’s windows pleasantly, hitting the spot on the couch where he sleeps rather nicely. He thanks Branzy a lot, especially for housing a drop-out while he, himself, was and is still in college. He makes it up with household chores, keeping his hands busy while his new found companion is busy pursuing his formal education in engineering. Clown is a naturally intrigued person, snooping around quarters he really shouldn’t be in.

Branzy’s out at college, something about studying on campus, he recalls. Clown pokes and prods in every nook and cranny in the small living space, though he avoids Branzy’s sleeping chambers. As much as a meddlesome pain in the ass he is, he rather not betray the trust of someone whom he’s taken a liking to. The streets outside are bustling with car honks and chatter while he pries into each crevasse he can get his grubby little hands on. Distantly, he wonders how Branzy could even afford such a commodious residence, especially with college tuition and school funds added to the equation. The most likely possibility is bartering. Branzy would be great at bartering, that natural charisma he has is a wonderful characteristic for any activity that’d be similar to bartering. Or, Branzy comes from a wealthy background.

His living space reflects his, rather charming, at least to Clown, personality. Minimalistic, yet so chaotic at the same time. It’s not cramped, and yet trinkets are scattered across every flat surface. Nerdy posters he had, at first, laughed at. He’s come to find it interesting, the way Branzy’s eyes lit up once when he’d mentioned one of the names on one poster, finding the art intriguing. He listened to the man ramble off about something he’d never really bothered to care about, too busy observing Branzy’s expressions and mannerism while he’s yapping about God knows what.

His hands freeze over a drawer, oddly drawn to it. Clown narrows his eyes, pulling it out and inspecting its contents. Different mechanical pieces are scattered in it, scraps and wires scrambled carelessly. In the center, among paperclips and metallic whatnot, there is a watch. Not just merely any watch, a technologically advanced one, as it seems. The edges are rounded, the digital watch screen shining as the sun lit up the engineer’s desk. A light grey, accented with purple hues and shades. He taps the screen once, as it lights up. It’s a small map of the entire metropolis, with differently colored points for key locations. The contacts list is filled with several heroes' names, and his eyes are glued to the miniature screen as he scrolls after each and every one, lips pressed together in a firm line.

Clown sets down the sleek device, shutting the drawer quietly. He exhales through his nose, shaking his head before dragging himself back to his spot on the couch. He isn’t mad, nor is he irrationally angry. Simply bristled by the dishonesty showcased by his buddy. There are certain subjects you’d rather share with your housemate than not, I.E. being a part of the Hero Organization in the city you both live in. Absently, he turns on the television, letting a news reporter babble on about headline after headline.

The camera pans to Leven Stelen’s Hero Headquarters, an impressive skyscraper, surrounded by the buzzing streets that different buildings and shops frame, portraying a thriving society, punctuated by the digitized billboards that hang on the sides of massive malls. The female reporter stands in front of said camera, holding up a microphone as she broadcasted the newest updates surrounding the Heroes’ community, considering the sudden uprise in vigilante numbers. According to trusted sources, the number of vigilantes has skyrocketed, from a mere 3 vigilantes, to around 12. She reports on the first ones who had turned to vigilantism, Vermillion, JackRabbit, and Aranea. Being much less celebrated, they had never earned any headlines in the recent passing of the years. Though, now, several more vigilantes enter the spotlight, causing an uproar of the public, several posts on social media referring to quote unquote ‘bias’ or ‘idolize’ them.

Clown watches as photos slide across the screen, the new villains. He picks out one picture in particular, pausing the live news report immediately. His chest tightens, and the light streaming in from the window dims, as if relaying his dilemma to the sun itself. His jaw clenches, setting down the remote on the couch arm, the recognition swimming in his eyes, and sickness in his stomach. He rubs his eyes, numbly, though his hope atrophies once his wishes are crushed. It’s still the same person on the TV screen.

It’s still Kaboodle.

He breathes in air that’s unwelcomed in his lungs. The name under the image is different. Cotton Tail. Her hair is dyed, that vibrant blue she’s always paraded around as her favorite color. She’s got a bunny themed mask, two bunny ears sprouting from the top of her head as she poses, for the camera, tossing a bomb with a bunny scrawled on it up into the air as the fuse ignites. She’s different, and yet she’s all the same. A stark contrast in appearance, but even just the pose she’s striking, tells him it’s still her.

He’s frozen in place when the door creaks open, unlocked. “Clown! I’m home!” Greets a squeaky, tired voice, as the front door locks much more quietly than previously. Branzy’s silver hair peeks around a corner, frowning when he spots the paused news channel, and even deeper when he notices what’s happened to his pal. “Clown?” He mutters, setting down his laptop bag under the coat rack.

Clown’s eyes are glued to the screen, the sound of his blood rushing in his ears distant as he thinks over the argument he’d had with his younger sister.

“Clown, buddy.” Branzy shakes his shoulders, and breaks him out of his stupor.

He looks up at Branzy, letting out a shaky sigh, still uncomfortably tense. Not only from the pictures of his sister being publicly displayed on live television, but also the fact he knew the person who was offering him even an ounce of comfort, was just another superhero. Manifesting a somewhat nonchalant expression, he turns away once again.

Branzy seems disgruntled by this outcome, finding the solution would be to sit next to him. “What’s this about?” He utters worriedly, pulling off his shoes and setting them by the couch while he brings his legs up onto the couch. There’s a short pause as the question hangs in the air, while Clown stares blankly at the space where Branzy formerly was.

“You’re a hero?” He mumbles, mustering up the most unconcerned voice he can manage, though a thought passes by, that maybe it’s not that big of a deal. He internally scoffs at himself, mentally rubbing his own temples. Branzy pales slightly, probably wondering how he’d known.

“How’d you find out?” Branzy chuckles nervously, looking to the side, a nervous tic Clown has recently picked up on. In the background, the sky slowly darkens, stars beginning to sparkle in the evening. Mindlessly, Branzy picks at his fingernails, lips pressed in a thin line. A compromise in his supposedly secret career leading him into anxiety.

Clown turns his head to look into his eyes, letting out an exhale through his nose as he examines the emotions swirling behind violet irises. “Your drawer. It isn’t very well hidden.” He murmurs, a sigh escaping his lips mid sentence, though it’s almost amused.

Branzy blinks, processing for a moment before his mouth makes a small ‘o’ shape while Clown starts to crack up. He waits for him to stop laughing before asking, concernedly. “Are you okay with it…?” he searches the dull in Clown’s eyes while pausing for an answer. Clown evaluates his morals, as much as he’d hated heroes, villains, vigilantes and all sorts of the like, Branzy has proven himself worthy of the very little trust Clown allows himself to put in people. Along with housing him, despite being a runaway, and befriending Clown when he realized he couldn’t stay back at the old house.

Somehow, Branzy has wriggled his way into the heart Clown only had because of Kab.

“I…” He hesitates. “I guess so.” Clown watches the way Branzy lets out a breath of relief, hand on his heart like he was about to faint dramatically. “I must say I was.. Not frustrated, I’d say. Irked. Irked that you hadn’t thought to tell me at first.” He admits, his eyes drifting from Branzy’s face to the still running television, still paused on the exact moment where they’d displayed his sister’s face. Branzy followed his gaze, head tilted slightly, the small smile that had appeared on his face when he affirmed his question on his face up until now.

“That’s understandable.” Branzy responds, relaxing back into the couch as he studies the vigilante shown on the paused broadcast. “If you were wondering; I’m Daedalus.” He fills the silence, murmuring quietly as the TV buzzed and the air conditioning’s constant ambience permeated throughout the small living room. Clown nods mutely, attention glued to the picture on the screen. Idly, he comments. “I haven’t seen her before.”

Clown turns to look at him, a poorly hidden pained expression painted on his face. Somewhat solemn, regretful. “How do you… Per se, become a villain?” Clown digresses, the thought impulsive above all. Branzy’s eyes widen, straightening up slightly as he clears his throat.

“..Well..!” Branzy starts up. “You’d have to draft up a persona. Do all that fancy, bougie stuff with character making that I,” He points at himself. “Didn’t have to bother with, having never officially debuted. I’m just kinda… outta the public eye, y'know?” He gestures to himself. Clown nods slowly, almost skeptically.

“Basically, make a persona, train up till you live up to your persona, then you debut. All the hero— or, well, villain, in your case, stuff would follow right after.” Branzy ends his makeshift Villainry 101 lesson quickly, finishing with a nervous grin.

Clown pauses for a few beats before nodding. “Interesting.” He clicks his tongue, committing the explanation to memory before he adds. “... Dinner?”

⨝

Clown sat down on the floor, sketching on a spare notebook Branzy had given him when he noticed he’d had nothing to do. Legs crossed, he stares down at the prototype of the mask he wanted to don upon his planned debut as a villain. It’s late at night, Branzy’s out doing God knows what for the heroes organization as Daedalus. It’s a classic jester’s mask, with a few pixel hearts scattered around. It’s practically just a jester’s uniform, Clown is baffled with the lack of jester themed heroes, villains and vigilantes. Though it’s good for him, he’ll be unique.

He scribbles something out, redrawing it before setting the pencil down and admiring his work. It’s a rough depiction of how he’d prefer it to look, much more gothic and over-the-top, considering his lack of sewing skills. He’d ruled out tailors, considering he’d have to pay way more, assuming he’d also have to supply said tailor with the exact fabrics he wants. His financial stability is also another flaw in his plan, although, with the discovery of his closest and only friend being a hero, which not only pays more, but also might grant him the blessing of having insider information, he might be able to con (plead) the man out of sufficient funds. Clown scrawls down his thought process with practiced cursive, the air conditioning whirring quietly in the background as the lamp on the coffee table flickers momentarily, the only light source currently in the whole house besides the moon itself. The celestial body’s light drains in through the windows, curtains giving way.

Clown sighs, shutting the notebook before sitting up, returning back to his makeshift bed on the couch.

⨝

“What kinda fabric are you searching for?” Branzy asks as the door chimes, the both of them entering the fabric store. It’s like he’s ascended to heaven as he takes in the myriad of every type of fabric possibly existing, a beautiful cacophony of colors and textures while he completely ignores Branzy’s question, dashing towards the aisles of red and black shades of fabrics. Engrossed in the process of surveying each and every roll of fabric like a child in a candy store. Faintly, the murmurs of news reporters rattling off about the freshly debuted vigilantes echoed through the shop.

Branzy looms behind him, spectating as he mentally notes down every fabric that’d do well in both flexibility, agility, tough enough to resist being scratched, and wouldn’t irritate him every time he moved. He analyzes his options. “What do you think would be better?” Clown mumbles, pointing to one red fabric, more of a crimson hue and stretchier than most, then pointing to another, bloodred with embroidered slightly darker flowers, though much stiffer than the latter.

“You still haven’t shown me your designs.” Branzy points out, though making his choice. “I think that one is better.” He taps the large roll of crimson fabric. Clown nods enthusiastically, calculating the price tag set on top of the roll per yard.

“I’ll show you my ideas later.” Clown smirks, stepping aside to face the other aisle with the black fabrics. He studies the more gothic leaning ones, pausing when he spots a specific roll. It’s a beautiful piece, embroidery done spectacularly and a nice amount of lace. He thinks to himself, this would make an incredible corset, or, sleeves. Cuffs or sleeves? Both. He stops to inspect the price, to find out, it was, all in all, a good deal. He grins, turning to Branzy.

“What do you think about this?”

⨝

After a hefty shopping spree, mostly involving second-hand sourced pieces, after Branzy nearly saw God looking at the fabrics price, they’d returned back to the college apartment. Clown dumps the new materials on the floor, avoiding Branzy’s white rug. While searching for hidden gems at garage sales, Branzy had spotted a fully functioning sewing machine. In the moment, Clown nearly dropped all the rolls of fabric he’d been holding. It’d been at a great price, and he was sold the moment he laid eyes upon the machine. At a different garage sale, he’d been able to cop a male mannequin for the exact amount of money he’d had in his pockets.

While Branzy immediately crashed in his bedroom, Clown changed into more comfortable clothes before getting to business. Watching videos on patterns not at all related to his own designs, then scrapping up a rough sketch. With little to no room for imperfections, he drafted it up with paper for a hot minute, testing how it’d fit with just the paper before committing to it. Working till the late hours of the night. By the time the sun peeks over the horizon, Clown has finished the ribbing for his corset, and he’s nearly done with the jester hat. He’s running low on black threads, focusing on sewing the red parts of his hat instead. At some point, he pokes himself with a needle after realizing he needed to handsew one part, cursing before wiping the small droplet of blood on his shirt. When the clock ticks, he looks up. Early morning has risen, the sun only a bit lower than it would be if it was, say, afternoon.

Clown glances up at the thudding footsteps he’d heard, meeting eyes with a very disheveled Branzy. He grins at him before going back to sewing on a jingle bell onto each of the ends of his jester hat. Branzy chuckles tiredly at that, moving to get ready for his lectures. Clown realizes something, before calling out and looking back at Branzy. “Can you get me more black thread?” He continues sewing, despite looking away.

Branzy’s eyes flicker from his face to the piece he’s been sewing, wincing before nodding. “Yeah, sure.” He agrees, checking his watch, and presumably writing a reminder for it then disappearing into the bathroom.

Clown looks back to his piece, continuing sewing blissfully while his eyelids start to droop, every time he blinks his eyes back open and resumes making his jester hat. Once he’s finished with the piece, he sighs, setting his eyes on the small roll of black thread, which, by literal means, was hanging by a thread. He organizes all of his materials so it’d be less cluttered, nearly having a heart attack over the roll of red thread, thinking it’d disappeared, when really, it was under his ass.

He retires back to the couch, laying down on a throwing pillow and clicking on the TV for white noise. The channel switches to the local news outlet, much to his displeasure. The reporter goes into detail of the new arrivals in the city, even going so far as to interview one new vigilante. Of course, it’s his sister. He pushes his face into the pillow, letting out a big sigh before paying more attention to the TV.

Cotton Tail greets the reporter slyly, giving vague yet informative answers to the questions they’d prepared for her. The broadcaster asks a more personal question. “Why did you choose to become a vigilante?” They inquire, listening intently as Cotton Tail tenses slightly at the statement. Even with the mask on, Clown can sense her expression through her body language, imagining how she’d look.

“Really, it was about some… problems at home, yeah? Besides that, I wanted to protect the city at all costs, even the problems the heroes couldn’t fix due to having more important problems themselves!” She responded with fake enthusiasm, and Clown softened. He knew there was more than quote unquote ‘problems at home’, and he knew he was part of the problems at home. She was still the same kid he’d practically raised. He thinks, it’s just like seeing her, for the first time, again.

He groans before shutting the TV off. He was almost tempted to throw the remote at it, but he rather not be scolded by his best friend. Clown sighs, curling back up into a sleeping position to get some well-needed rest. Though his eyes droop, his mind drifts back to Kab, and the way she’d tensed. She still looked like a child, at least to him. A kid in an adult's body. The lids of his eyes shut closed, and he rests.

⨝

“How… How?!” Branzy exclaims surprisedly, circling around the mannequin, grabbing every view. Clown’s villain costume has been finished after only five days. Each intricate detail displaying his hard work, from his jester hat down to his shoes. Clown’s hands hover over the jester mask, pulling it off the mannequin delicately. He smiles at his masterpiece, and Branzy is patting his back proudly.

Clown slowly clicks the mask onto his face, securing the piece. It fits perfectly, while still giving him a full view of his surroundings. A layer of mesh hides his eyes, perfect for being incognito. “A lot of hardships, that's for sure.” He hums rather happily. He takes in the sight of his work, drinking in each carefully crafted aspect of the jester costume. He runs his fingers over the embroidered raven on the front of the corset, basking in the feeling of completing something. Branzy hovers over him, leaning onto him. “What do you think?” He murmurs, turning to face Branzy.

Branzy thinks for a moment, a smile on his face. “It’s incredible, Clown! I don’t know how you do things like this in such a short amount of time!” He praises, gesturing to the costume like it’s some sort of all powerful being he worships. Clown cracks a smile under the mask. “What’s your villain name gonna be?” He raises the question, tilting his head.

He thinks for a moment, tapping the side of the mask while he contemplates on the ask. 

“Clownpierce.”

⨝

Clownpierce stands at a rooftop, scythe in hand. A silhouette in the moon, as civilians point and form crowds in the streets. He twirls the scythe in his fingers, a cold thrumming in his veins as his powers run freely for the first time in days. He faces the heroes headquarters, sprinting to run from rooftop to rooftop, fast on his feet and the wind falling behind him. The world disappears around him, he leaps onto the first floor’s roof, stabling himself as he crouches on the flat surface. He circles around the second floor building, observing the perimeter as an alarm rings from inside of it. Several heroes' eyes he meets, though, he’s only here for one thing. Or, rather, one person.

He hums as he finally catches the eyes of Daedalus, maskless, yet wearing hero-like clothes. Clownpierce presumes it’s for branding. He knocks on the window, and Daedalus jumps. Clownpierce snickers, tilting his head as recognition falls onto Daedalus’ face, letting out a sigh as surrounding heroes look at the window in horror. Clown does the ‘I’m watching you’ gesture with his hand, before striding off, leaving defense heroes at the front of the Headquarters thinking it’d been a false alarm, while others begged and pleaded that it hadn’t been, and it was in fact, a scary killer clown.

He watches the chaos unfold merrily from the rooftop he’d perched on, legs crossed on the edge as he claps his hands silently. It’s almost humorous how the jingle bells on his hat hadn’t emitted a single noise. He supposes that’s what he gets from buying from a dollar store. Branzy would for sure scold him for pulling such theatrics, but he finds it worth it for being able to see so many panic stricken faces in one place, especially since he’d been the one to cause it. It’s an odd feeling in his veins, almost manic, hysteric even, and yet, it’s a quite good thrill.

Though, he’d ought to leave before he gets interviewed by some no-good reporters.

Clownpierce says one last goodbye to the chaos he’d created, before running off to the nearest non-populated alleyway to change out of his costume and skedaddling back to Branzy’s apartment.

⨝

“Clown.” Branzy starts, sighing heavily. He taps his foot on the floor disapprovingly, and Clown immediately starts apologizing. Branzy freezes for a moment, blinking once, then twice, tilting his head. “..What?” He utters out incredulously.

Clown blinks as well, pausing before snickering. “I’m apologizing?” He points out, shrugging as he re-arranges his costume on the mannequin and flattens it out. He watches as Branzy takes in this information, processing. Clown can practically see the loading text on the top of Branzy’s head.

“I didn’t know you apologized so quickly.” Branzy deflates, joining in Clowns laughter, getting cut off by the news channel suddenly switching on. The news reporter starts up right away, reading off a clipboard as the sun lingers in the background. The two stand there in surprise, Clown’s jaw drops in awe, and Branzy’s in shock.

Clown turns to Branzy, grinning before grabbing his shoulders, spinning him around and hopping happily. Branzy reciprocates the action, and they spin around like beyblades. “We did it! We did it!” Clown laughs in pleasant surprise, the most happy Branzy’s ever seen him. “I’m a villain now.” He breathes, almost in relief.

“I don’t think I’ve seen anyone be as happy as you to be on television, especially not for becoming a villain.” Branzy snorts, embracing his best friend. Momentarily, he can feel Clown tense before hugging him back, letting out a sigh, easing out into the tight squeeze Branzy’s got him in, not making any move to fall out of his clutches. “You’d be a perfect villain, just saying.” Earns Branzy a light-hearted jab into his back as they linger for much longer than normal friends would hug. They’re special, Clown thinks. Much more special than your typical friendship, that’s without a doubt.

They release each other, taking a deep breath in. “Yeah, I’m gonna take a nap.” mutters Clown, drawing a chuckle from Branzy’s lips as he retreats back to the couch, faceplanting there and obtaining yet another laugh from his best friend. He shuts the curtains as Clown gets comfortable, shutting the TV off right after.

“Goodnight, Branzy Craftt.” Clown murmurs, yawning into the pillow.

“It’s 12 on a Sunday morning, but goodnight, Clown.” Branzy smiles, tossing a blanket over his friend.

Chapter Text

Clown has, ultimately, become a staple in the villain community; both in the large circle of villains alike and in the society of Leven Stelen. With a ‘charming’ personality, as some of his ilk (Epimetheus) has called him, he’s risen up into fame with an unmatched speed. Whether it be about his peculiar costume choices, or his mannerisms that have been observed far too closely by the public (he’s stumbled upon a social media post an exaggerated amount of times), is where he has no clue. Branzy has been extremely encouraging, despite their careers being polar opposites, with Branzy’s work as a support hero. Not only financially, but with genuine sincerity. Lately, the apartment has been left alone most of the time. An empty shell of how it used to be before his leap into villainy. With Branzy having both college and his job at the heroes HQ, and Clown often going out as Clownpierce to terrorize the fighting heroes, the flat often gets left alone for more than 12 hours on the daily (except for weekends, where Clown and Branzy stay home while Branzy gets online lectures).

Today is Sunday, quiet and cozy as the TV serves as ambience while the two of them eat lunch together. Few words are exchanged, the kitchen’s warm light flickers briefly. Overall, it was comfortable. Clown finds himself studying Branzy. The way his violet eyes glimmer with a safe light; emanating the comforting glow that radiates off his being. The silver strands of hair that fall onto his face, framing the contour of his jaw like a portrait, and him as the muse. Oddly enough, it suits Branzy. Clown’s thoughts are often interlinked with Branzy, one way or another, like pieces of a puzzle.

Branzy is a liability in Clown’s hard shell, and yet he can’t be bothered enough to care. The special spot in the ever spiraling vortex of his heart. It’s odd to yearn for a bond; connection, after the only interactions he’d ever had in his past few years of life consisted of confrontations, rarely ever quiet moments like this. It’s something that perplexes him, driving him to nights where the last thing on his mind would be Branzy. A tingly feeling in his stomach, a childlike giddy feeling bubbling up after the sole moments he’d be open to breaking down his facade were ones with his younger sister.

He raps his knuckles against the marble island they’re seated at, his plate finished as he stares absently at the college student in front of him. There’s something about Branzy that makes him feel safe. Like he could spill all his problems to him and he’d listen, nod, comfort him. Maybe that was his power. Get people’s guards down. Clown snorts at the thought.

Branzy looks up from picking at his food, cocking his head to the side. “What?” Clown smiles amusedly.

“Nothing.” He drawls, and Branzy looks unsurprised, though he cracks a small, tired smile as well. There’s a quiet giddy feeling that wriggles its way to his heart, Clown suspects it’s endearment. He sighs quietly, amused or endeared, he hasn’t got a clue. “Say, what is your power anyway?” Clown murmurs, curious.

Branzy hums a bit, chewing the food in his mouth before answering. “Healing.” He sets his fork down, and Clown takes the time he’s fixing his dish to place in the sink to blatantly stare at the man, going back to inspect him. His mannerisms are languid, despite a few hitches, it barely disturbs his flow. He’s slouched, eyes slightly droopy. Which makes sense, he’d woken up maybe 30 minutes before, and Clown woke up 2 hours ago. His eyelashes are the same silver of his hair, a pretty thing, he’s sure. There's a small, horizontal scar beneath his left eye. He’d asked Branzy before, finding out it’d been from a project malfunction from his college. “Getting scrap metal flung almost straight into your eye is not the best college memory!” Branzy chuckled, shaking his head. Clown decidedly agrees.

“Why’d they put you in redstone when you’ve got healing powers?” Clown ends the brief silence, tilting his head slightly. “There's not a shortage of redstoners in the hero program, is there?” He adds while Branzy thinks of a response.

“Now? Definitely not. But then, there was such a small amount of redstoners and way too many healers, so they’d moved me to being a redstoner after 2 months of being a healer, because I was and still am in engineering.” He explained, turning back to face Clown after running his plate under the faucet. He nods quietly.

Clown sighs boredly, eyes landing on the small laptop on the desk by the window. Morning rays stream in, a nice warmth reaching his cold feet. “You’ve got lectures?” He asks, looking back to his friend. His fingers drum against the countertop while Branzy nods, exhaling through his nose.

“Yeeerpp.. The majority of the morning then 2 hours in the afternoon.” Branzy grumbles, earning a quiet laugh from Clown. He stumbles towards the desk, pulling out the chair and sitting himself down while he sets up his study station. Clown watches him do his thing, before deciding getting himself ready was a better option than sitting around watching engineering lectures he’d have no clue about. Branzy’s eyes catch on Clown’s movement, raising an eyebrow before asking. “Whatcha’ doing?”

“Gonna go out as Clownpierce.” Clown stretches, drawing out his words. His friend rolls his eyes, yet the smile on his face defeats the purpose of any malice coming across. Branzy’s hands fly across his laptop’s keyboard while Clown is busy pulling on his jester’s apparel. His eyes stay on Branzy, despite focusing on getting these stupid stockings on-..

By the time he’s fixed his mask on his face, Branzy’s in his first lecture of the morning. He watches how he bites his lip when jotting down notes; how he furrows his eyebrows as the lecturer spits some nonsense he must understand, as he nods and scribbles even more on the notepad in front of him. “I’ll be going out now.” He mutters from a distance, though Branzy picks up and looks at him to smile and wave mutely before realizing he’d missed something from the lecture. He watches, from the door, how he pinches his nose bridge before going back to writing the detail.

Clownpierce strolls out the apartment door, somewhat grateful that there were no stragglers (other tenants) out in the corridors, as he turns to the stairs. He opts for the stairs while in costume; he’d rather not be spotted in a grum elevator and be stuck with a fan — or worse — a hater. Besides, what if his costume got stuck on the elevator doors? He isn’t one to take chances involving his costume. He saunters up the stairs, his stride unusually nonchalant. The breeze hits him as he arrives at the rooftop, jingle bells chiming in the wind. It was weird; how they’d jingle with a small gust of air, and yet stay silent when he leaps from roof after roof.

He scans the amount of the city he can view from here, standing by the edge of the building. He could see the fabric shop he and Branzy went to, a nice memory. He tugs at the sleeves of his garb, a reminder. Some civilians had spotted him by now, either pointing to their friends or holding up phones. Clownpierce takes this as his cue to summon his scythe, the shadow of his figure morphing into the black smoke, soon into his curved blade. It’s like a grim performance. He belatedly applauds himself for choosing the concept of a jester; a clown. With his flexibility, it was a clever plan. He allows himself to grin under the mask as he leaps, using the end of his scythe to propel himself higher, landing on another roof. He repeats the process till it lands him on the rooftop in front of the heroes HQ, humming to himself as he watches stray heroes scamper around when they notice him. It’s like a twisted game of message relay as he watches progressively more heroes catching drift of his presence. It’s a pleasant thrill in his veins.

He watches as they can’t do anything about it, being too far away to be truly classified as a problem till he acts on it. Of course, he won’t. Not when Branzy isn’t here to watch. He sits down, letting his crossed legs dangle off the building’s roof, bopping his head to a tune that’s blasting down the road, in one of the shops he and Branzy had gone to. Footsteps crunch behind him, what a fantastic way to play his favorite trick he’d learned. He waits till the footsteps are almost right behind him, before tilting his head back as if he’d just been stretching, then kept going, like how you could bend a felt doll’s neck backwards, but exceptionally more morbid.

In front of him — or rather, behind him was one of the most influential villains, The Glitch. A mafia leader, and yet, grimacing at the almost extreme, contortionist action he’d put on display for a visitor. Clownpierce chuckles, sitting back properly before pulling himself up and turning around to officially face the other villain.

“That is… odd.” The Glitch says, and Clownpierce mentally applauds himself for having caught a Mafia leader off guard, with a trick he’d learned when he was around 13 or 14. The first one holds his hand out to shake, and Clownpierce inspects his hand before shaking it. Glitch’s eyes are narrowed at him, a magenta shade. He tilts his head, humming. “I’m assuming you are…. Clownpierce?” Glitch murmurs as Clown drops his hand.

“The one and only.” He drawls, letting his scythe’s blade drag across the floor. Glitch’s eyes are slits as they dart to the blade, and Clown chuckles indifferently. He twirls the scythe in his grip, holding it properly, before dropping the end to the ground, resting his hand on the bulb of the end. He likes theatrics, one thing he’s sure of.

Glitch purses his lips, the mass that’s consuming his other eye lags with his slowly dissolving grimace, still hanging onto the sight from a few seconds, minutes ago. “I’m assuming you know who I am,” He rolls his eyes slightly before adding. “I’m not here for a duel, if that’s what you’re wondering.” Glitch concedes, running a hand through his hair. “I came for.. A proposition, of sorts.” He clasps his hands, and Clownpierce narrows his eyes under the mask.

“What kind of proposal have you prepared for little ole’ me?” Clown feigns amusement, his tone almost sing-song-y. He drums his fingers in a pattern on the bulb of his scythe, focusing on a small scuff that’s gotten onto its steel blade, his other hand swiping at it. He discards maintaining eye contact, keeping his eyes on the scythe, while still monitoring Glitch’s movements.

Glitch’s eye twitches at the lack of interest he’s displayed, lips pressed in a thin line. “You’d join us.” He lays out, and Clown’s eyebrow raises in intrigue, though it wouldn’t be seen through his mask. “Not just as anyone in my Mafia, of course.” Glitch corrects himself, a slight purr to his tone. “An assassin.” He hums, watching Clownpierce’s body language, though there’s not much to read. He’s excellent at masking. (pun)

Clownpierce taps his scythe, letting it disappear into black smoke as he leans into the deal, thinking over the pros and cons. “What’d be in it for me?” He crosses his arms, cocking his head to the side, bells jingling slightly at the movement. Glitch smirks, having finally gotten his attention.

“I’ll pay you.. Generously.” Glitch summons a small pouch, opening it. A myriad of fancy gems and currency; diamonds, emeralds. “This,” He dumps the valuables onto the rooftop. “Is less than one percent of what I’ll be paying you. Merely a milligram.” He grins, letting the pouch get carried away by the wind. “Oh, and the thrill of killing.” Glitch adds nonchalantly. He holds his hand out. “What do you say, Clownpierce?”

Clown breathes, a sigh escaping his lips before he shakes Glitch’s hand.

“Deal.”

Chapter Text

Overall, it’s been a month since Clown’s started living with Branzy. He’s semi-upgraded from his makeshift bed on the couch to being housed in the small office room that’d been used for storage for quite a long time. Branzy has blessed him with a twin bed (He also contributed with the payment, he is not a moocher) and moved the majority of his personal belongings inside said room. It’s roomy enough for him alone, which he’s incredibly grateful for. A couple days ago, he went out by himself, not in costume, for the first time in a few weeks. Generally just decoration shopping, seeing as a plain grey room wouldn’t exactly match his vibes, nor does he want the itchy bedsheets that came with the twin bed.

Presently, his bedroom is a nice color palette consisting of red, black, and white. He has tarot card posters, ones that Branzy has personally complimented. He has a few more jester themed pieces of decor, scattered across a few shelves, and his bedside table. Comfortably enough, he has more than one blanket. Branzy comes and hangs out in his room every now and then, quietly chatting with him, occasionally laughing.

The daylight streams in from shudders that he installed. In some time, he’ll be going out with Branzy, get lunch. As friends, he reminds himself. Branzy had suggested the proposal late last night, while they were watching a cooking show. Branzy hasn’t exactly expanded on where they were gonna be going, but Clown shrugs on a crimson and black varsity jacket. He pulls on the same colored face mask he’d worn when they first bumped into each other, donning converse he’d spied on a few weeks ago while he was at the garage sale with Branzy. Layering a few necklaces. He may be living in his friend’s apartment rent free, but that doesn’t mean he can’t afford a nice outfit.

A knock on his door, which he can only assume is Branzy. He messes with his hair for a second before opening up his door, greeting the man himself. Branzy’s gone for a rather casual outfit, the same colors as his except he’s switched red out for purple. Unironically, they match.

“Branzy.” Clown addresses him, tilting his head as he leans on the doorframe he almost has to duck to get under. Branzy grins, looks him over, then starts tugging him around like a ragdoll.

“Let’s get going!” He pulls him along, barely giving him enough time to close his door before dragging him out the flat, pausing only to shut the door and lock it properly, rushing him to the elevator before it shuts. Branzy pats his pockets, making sure to check if he’d brought his belongings; keys, phone, wallet.

Clown last-minute braids his hair into one big braid, letting curtain bangs frame his face while the elevator dings. He follows after Branzy, like one big game of cat and mouse, except in a very open area, as Branzy dashes across the sidewalk (exaggerated), weaving through ill-fated person after person. Clown almost has sympathy for the people Branzy’s gonna end up accidentally wacking. The only time he gets the privilege of tranquility is when his hasty friend waits for him at the front of the cafe he supposes they’ll be eating at.

He lets Branzy enter the doors first, the chimes jingling as they cross the threshold, letting Clown finally get a breath in while he’s hit by a wave of air conditioning and the scent of freshly brewed coffee. Branzy slides into the small queue leading up to the counter while Clown ends up left finding a booth for the two of them. He slips through a few stray tables before seeing a booth right by the window, immediately taking his seat there. He drums the knuckles of his fingers across the sticky surface, nodding his head to the beat of the song that plays, some sort of alternative rock he’s heard a few times before. He finds himself humming slightly to the lyrics, eyes drifting from the posters on the tiled walls to the wall mounted television. It’s displaying the most recent headlines that’ve taken place in the villain’s district, a drama here and there, some minor crimes.

By the time Branzy gets back to him, the song has changed to some random Mariah Carey song. It almost paints Branzy as an angel descending to bless him with the news of what he’d ordered. He slithers into the seat in front of him, going on to list off the food he’d gotten for the two of them as Clown lays back. The music is dulled in his ears as Branzy continues on yapping. He registers as it switches to a song he recognizes. My Kind of Woman, by Mac Demarco. Beneath the face mask, he smiles as he watches. Branzy knows he’s barely listening, and yet he continues rambling, the topic switching every few minutes as he goes on a babbling spree.

He faintly hears Branzy’s name being called on as his eyes snap to the order counter, smiling at Clown before skedaddling over to grab their orders. Clown takes this time to spy on the news channel playing, watching as heroes gather and do interviews with the reporter. He wonders if Branzy would’ve been there, had he not been transferred to redstone.

The man he’s thinking about comes back, a tray of food and drinks in hand. Just from looking at it, he starts salivating. It’s not like the food at home isn’t good or yummy, it’s just refreshing to have a taste of things out there. He jumps up from his seat, helping Branzy put down the tray to avoid spillage, momentarily brushing their fingers together as he sets down their respective food items. Branzy looks up, though he doesn’t reciprocate his gaze. Clown sits back down with him in sync, picking up his fork.

He starts eating, picking at his food while he chews. “What’ve you been up to the past few weeks, Clown?” Branzy asks, speaking with his mouth full while he gestures with his spoon. Clown hums at the question, tilting his head as he thinks about it.

“I’ve made a deal with someone.” He swallows before speaking, unlike someone. Branzy perks up at this, raising his eyebrows. He cuts a piece of meat, eating it before explaining it more thoroughly. “With one of the bigger villains.” He nods.

Branzy hums, intrigued. “Who?” He questions, taking a sip of his cucumber smoothie. Clown moves his food around with his fork, debating whether it was worth it to tell a, quite frankly, big secret while in public. 

He downs his iced water before answering. “The Glitch.” He observes as Branzy goes through the 5 stages of grief, face contorting from shock, intrigue, and back to disbelief. He takes another sip of his cucumber smoothie, nodding like an auntie at a family reunion who’s just caught the latest family gossip.

“How?” He whisper-shouts, swirling the smoothie around with his straw. “That’s a mafia leader.” Branzy looks around cautiously, but for his own and Clown’s sake, the other tables didn’t seem to be paying much attention to their conversation in particular. He looks at Clown with wide eyes, that makes Clown almost wanna giggle at his near well blind faith.

“Well, he came up to me first.” Clown grins, fixing his plate and making sure to clean up after himself. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, watching Branzy’s face contort into incredulity. “I simply accepted the deal.” He crumples the napkin, dropping it onto his finished plate.

“What was the deal even about?” Branzy slurps his smoothie loudly, hopefully drawing less attention to the discussion at hand.

Clown puts his face mask on, that had previously been discarded to actually eat. “Something about becoming an assassin for the mafia. Nothing big.” He murmurs nonchalantly. “He’ll be paying me handsomely. Isn’t that great?” He adds, gesticulating on the table. Branzy’s jaw drops even further, if that were even possible.

Branzy shuts his mouth thoughtfully, hesitating slightly as he asks. “What about the people you’ll be killing? Will there be a chance he’ll ask you to assassinate someone.. Important to you? Or important to me, at least?” He whispers concernedly, eyebrows furrowed.

“Don’t worry.” Clown dismisses, sighing quietly. “If he ever tries.. I’ll let you know. I wouldn’t kill someone without a good reason.” He allows, watching as tension melts from Branzy’s body with a heavy exhale of relief(?). Clown drums his fingers against the table, waiting as Branzy wraps up drinking his smoothie.

They pack up, and the moment they step foot out the premises, Clown’s face scrunches up at the stench of city air. Branzy chuckles quietly, and they walk side by side. Hero and villain, masks set aside for the time being. Branzy’s hand finds his, and he looks up from the ground, raising an eyebrow. “I don’t wanna get lost.” Branzy excuses, and Clown decides that’s a good enough justification.

Besides, it’s not inherently unpleasant.

On their walk home — which completely contrasts their journey to the cafe — Clown takes this time to recall his thoughts. He realizes in the moment that hand-holding might not be… friend behavior. Especially since he doesn’t believe the explanation Branzy gave to him for it. As much as he is skeptical, the action is somewhat comforting. It’s like he’s scratched an itch he never knew or really acknowledged he had. He doesn’t often have any intimate, per se, interactions in his lifetime. Not that this in particular was intimate. Just.. Unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

The sidewalks are all astir, the two weaving their ways through the crowds of people. Passing by the hero HQ, Branzy stops, telling him that he had something to leave in the post box. “May I come?” Clown’s mouth moves before he can stop it. Branzy thinks for a moment, before nodding and tugging him along with him, pulling him through the automatic sliding doors and grabbing an envelope from his jacket’s pocket.

A few heroes spot Branzy, waving at him or greeting him before eyeing Clown awkwardly. Without his jester attire, he feels a bit bare. Despite this, he doodles a small jester icon on the receipt Branzy gave him, folding it up and tearing off the extra bits of paper before ‘accidentally’ dropping it on the floor as they leave. Subtly, he feels pity for the poor janitor who’s gonna end up picking it up. “What’d you drop off?” Clown asks, hand back in his. Branzy explains a way too complex redstone contraption to him in excruciating detail, and Clown tunes out half way. He listens to Branzy ramble for the second time today, only paying attention to the way his voice shifts and how his free hand gestures at invisible objects.

Branzy notices how oddly quiet Clown’s gotten, deciding to question him. “What’cha gonna do when we get home?” He queries, rubbing the back of his hand to get his attention back on him. Clown purses his lips for a moment thoughtfully.

“Gotta meet Glitch again.” Clown supplies, squeezing Branzy’s hand back. Branzy hums, and the situation feels oddly domestic. Clown can’t say he’s thoroughly enjoying it, that would be embarrassing, but at the very least, he isn’t actively trying to pull away from the grasp. It’s a quiet buzz in his mind, like the bite of an ant except much, much more favorable. The thought crosses his mind for the nth time today, that they weren’t supposed to be this close. Friends weren’t supposed to hold each other’s hands.

At least, that’s what he’s heard.

For all he knows, it could be normal. It just feels wrong and right all at the same time, to have such an ‘intimate’ bond with someone who distinctly isn’t in his family tree, nor someone of the same sex. In his old household, his mother had told him, at the ripe age of eight, that there were no other genders that were ‘valid’ — in her words — nor were same sex relationships. Being enrolled into such firm and hateful beliefs at such a young age left him conflicted upon finding out that they were, in fact, as valid as any heterosexual couple or cisgender person.

He’s expressed this concern to his younger sister in the past, in the dark of their shared bedroom while their parents were off doing anything but parenting, and learning that she’d had the same beliefs as his own. Despite it being almost 2 years after the interaction, the memory lingers sometimes. He never truly knew if he were a boy, or a girl, or anything in between or outside of the box. He catches himself thinking about marriage, drifting between the lines of liking both men and women.

Clown snaps himself out of his stupor as Branzy pulls the door to their building, letting him enter first before following right after. He sighs, tilting his head as they enter the elevator. Branzy taps the button of their floor, tapping his shoe against the floor as they ascend floor after floor, finally dinging when they’ve reached their floor.

Clown follows slightly behind Branzy, entering their apartment after him and closing the door behind him. He watches as Branzy stretches, bee-lining for his room while Clown leisurely strides back to his own, pulling off his face mask with an exhale as he shrugs off the varsity jacket. He takes his hair out the braid he’d put it in, stealing a brush from his bedside table, then brushing his hair out.

He pulls off his shirt, grimacing as the small mirror on the wall shows off his scars. Clown huffs, hauling it off the wall and placing it face down as he dons his clown-ish garb.

Clipping on his mask, he peeks out his shudders, out into the open streets, bustling with the afternoon commuters. He tugs on his gloves before leaving the apartment, shutting his door as Branzy salutes him goodbye from his place on his desk, working on his laptop. He tilts his head in acknowledgement, smiling under the mask despite Branzy being unable to see it as he closes the front door. He breathes a sigh of relief at the empty corridor, before trekking up the stairs, running his hands along the railing as he scales the few floors it takes to reach the rooftop.

Clownpierce spies the rooftops for an unmistakable person; The Glitch. The wind rustles his fabrics as he summons his scythe from his shadow. Mentally, he laughs at Glitch, as he catches him standing almost obliviously, in his shadow. Though, presently, he snorts, then dashes from his building’s rooftop.

He lands on the building Glitch is on, twirling around his scythe as he approaches, like a predator stalking its prey. Slowly, Glitch turns around, hands clasped together like some kind of movie villain. Clownpierce tilts his head, raising his blade slightly before Glitch pushes it back down with his finger. “Why have you called me here?” Clown huffs, scrutinizing The Glitch.

“What? Can I not just speak with my new favorite hire?” The Glitch laughs, and Clownpierce spins his scythe out of his loose grasp, pointing it at his neck. Glitch has an amused smile on his face, almost daring him to do it. He grunts, dissolving his scythe back into the shadows. “Well,” Glitch starts. “Really, if you must know..” 

“This will be your first mission.” He pulls out a folder, on the front, is the image of a man — well, villain. Clownpierce runs his finger across the name below the picture.

“He,” Glitch points at the picture. “Is the ‘emperor’ so to say, of the wealthiest district in all of Leven Stelen.” He explains. “Countless deaths he’s staged, and however many bodyguards he may have. Are you truly up for the challenge, Clownpierce?”

He glares down at the picture of the man, Monarch.

“A cakewalk.” He murmurs, taking the folder.

Chapter Text

“You’ll be working with my good friend here,” Glitch raps his fingers across the desk. They’re inside of Glitch’s office, with Clown sitting in the spinny chair in front of his desk. Another villain, who’d been standing at the side walks into view, orange-pink gradient glasses glinting in the fluorescent lights above. Their star-like antennae bounce with each of their movements. She’s shrouded in a moth-pattern cloak, layer after layer of orange and cedar clothing piled on top of each other, like the outfit was haphazardly thrown together last minute, and yet, to Clown’s standards, it was rather fashionable.

Glitch looks at the bug themed villain with barely concealed respect. “Sanctity, introduce yourself.” Clownpierce raises an eyebrow under the mask, what a unique hero name. Sanctity clears their throat, setting her hands on the desk.

“Sanctity, Glitch’s assistant.” She murmurs, lips curling into a smile as she nods. They hold out their hand for Clown to shake, and he does eventually. Her gloves are leather, almost steampunk-y. They pull their hand away, folding their arms as they stand side by side next to Glitch. Their colors go well together, Clownpierce thinks.

Glitch hums, pulling Clown’s attention away from the peculiar villain back to his employer. “As you both know, your target is Monarch.” He taps the folder that Clownpierce had brought back, opening it before pushing it forward as he sits up straighter. “Monarch, otherwise known as Zam D’royal, practically runs the Crescent District. His tyranny has been documented by the house owners themselves, both online and in real time.” Glitch presses a hidden button underneath the desk, and a wall mounted TV displays countless interviews of the people of Crescent District. “Even possessing much higher rent costs and real estate selling for almost double the amount from the Capital’s, despite the Capital having much better living wages, according to several disclosed sources.” He sighs, running his finger over every blue highlighted source stated on the laminated documents.

“You and Sanctity will be ending his quote unquote ‘reign’ over the poor people of Crescent.” He drifts his gaze from Clown to his assistant. Clownpierce nods, jotting down notes mentally. “The mission starts by nightfall, I’ll be keeping comms. Do whatever it may take to get rid of that tyrant.” Glitch shuts the folder, handing it over to Sanctity. “You two are dismissed. Prepare.” He shoo’s Clownpierce off, while nodding to the 3rd villain.

When Clown trudges out of the office, Sanctity is trailing right behind him, surprisingly tall. Though, not taller than his proud 198 centimeters. The mafia members stare as the two ascend the elevator.

“Sooo..” Sanctity starts, and he raises an eyebrow. “Nice ta’ meet ‘cha, Clownpierce.” She grins, hands clasped behind her back. Clown is rather taken aback at this, seeing as how professional she’d been back in the office.

“Nice to meet you, Sanctity.” He says coolly, head tilted in intrigue. Their mannerisms are rather jittery, a bit eccentric. “Are we off to prepare?” He asks. It was around eight in the morning, and nightfall was far ahead of them. Sanctity chuckles, shaking their head.

“Glitch might’ve said ‘prepare’ in that somewhat intimidating tone of his, but since I’m assuming we’re both kinda experienced with this kind of stuff,” She gestures. “We won’t need to prepare until around two hours before. We’ve got around…” They begin counting on their fingers, tapping their foot on the elevator ground.

“Eleven hours.” Clownpierce answers for them, and they make a sound of agreement. The elevator dings, leading the two of them into the main floor. Funnily enough, the front of the mafia is disguised as a… Library. He watches as Sanctity dashes off into the ‘history’ section, sighing before going off to follow her.

The shelves are full of labeled books, dull colors and names on the spines that have begun fading. Sanctity is busy messing with an Anne Frank book, back to the opposite shelf as they lean on it. Clown spies a rather vibrant book, almost drawing him towards it. He brushes his gloved fingers against the book’s spine, dust rising as he picks it up.

‘Leven Stelen’s History’ The golden lettering began to disappear.The diluted purple cover which reminded him strangely of Branzy. The same gold curls along the spine of the book like vines. He uses his fingers to wipe the dust away, slowly opening the book. The page he’d opened on was yellowed, though the words remained legible.

He drags his eyes across the page, brows furrowing under the mask after every paragraph. Descriptions that sounded all too familiar; silver hair and violet eyes. Dark hair and a mask. Under different names, sure, but it still seemed abnormally similar to his silver-haired pal and he himself. 

The book nearly falls from his hands, and he coughs, covering it up as if it were from the dust. He shoves it back in the shelf where he’d grabbed it from. Looking back, Sanctity is seemingly staring at him. He can’t really tell, especially with those big round glasses of theirs. He glares back under the mask, but it must’ve gotten the point across since she goes back to reading her book.

“What’re you reading?” He asks, drawing attention away from his mishap. Sanctity perks up, standing straighter before walking towards him, by his side as she recounts the amount of 'The Diary of a Young Girl’ She’s read. Clownpierce nods every few sentences, sometimes humming a response while they nod back. After a few minutes, give or take, they finish up their impromptu reading discussion with Clown, setting back the book.

“We’ve got like, all the time in the world!” Says Sanctity, toned down by the fact they were in a library. She walks forward, taking the lead to guide both of them outside the mafia front. The moment they step out of the building, eyes snap to two. Some civilians do double takes, some’s jaw gaping as a herd of reporters come trampling in.

Sanctity’s antennae straighten, pointing up to the sky in surprise while Clownpierce grabs her arm, dragging them along with him. Ignoring her laughed out cries of terror, he asks her a question. “Can you fly?” He hisses out, and Sanctity nods.

“I can, but I can't carry you with me!” They manage, trying not to be run over by the herd of broadcasters and their microphones.

“Doesn’t matter, go!” Clown yanks them with enough force to dislocate any normal person's arm, pushing them in front of him as they propel themselves upwards. The moth-like cloak’s wings spread, soaring the skies above the city buildings. He watches as they land on a roof top, classic.

He sucks in a breath, entering a random sorbet shop he was sure none of the reporters could get him in. He pauses when he spots that familiar silver hair.

Well, he’ll be damned.

Branzy’s eyes light up the moment he lays eyes on him, though the guy across from him, in a yellow, black, and blue jacket, has the exact opposite reaction. Clownpierce watches as the color drains from the second’s face while cameras click and flash just outside the window.

Clown clears his throat, taking out his wallet and walking up to the counter, where a poor worker was cowering in fear. He taps the strawberry sorbet, for Sanctity, and a chocolate one for himself. He places down the exact amount needed for payment while the worker shakily nods, placing the money in the register before holding up a thumbs up.

He walks by Branzy’s table, patting his back while he takes his seat at the table exactly behind the two of them. The guy Branzy is sitting with is absolutely horrified, his gaze flickering from Branzy to him. Clownpierce would snort if there weren’t several video cameras documenting the whole thing. A thud comes from the roof, followed by the fluttering of wings.

A very disheveled Sanctity emerges from the back, startling the sole worker out of their socks, nearly knocking over the sorbets Clown had ordered. They mutter an inept apology, shimmying out of the space before skipping towards his table.

“How was the flight here?” Clown muses, leaning his chin on his palm. Sanctity frowns, fixing her hair. She lets her wings flutter before folding properly and sitting across from him.

“Terrible, thanks for asking.” They laugh, adjusting their comically huge glasses.

Clown hums, eyes drifting from them to the worker shakily carrying their sorbets over. They place down the chocolate in front of him, then the strawberry in front of Sanctity. They murmur a quick thank you before digging into her sorbet. In the meanwhile, Clown is stuck in a dilemma constructed on how he’d be able to optimally consume this delicious dessert without accidentally revealing his identity to the whole sorbet shop including the slowly lessening crowd of reporters.

Sanctity looks at him weird, as if they’re waiting for him to start eating, before realization dawns evidently upon her features and she starts giggling. Branzy looks behind himself in confusion as well.

“..So.” Clown starts, and Sanctity is trying their hardest not to start cry-laughing.

Slowly, he turns around, picking up the sorbet. Underneath the mask, he is as red as the cherry prints on the walls. “Branzy—”

“Y-yeah?” Branzy chuckles, brow raised. The guy across from him seems even more terrified.

“Branzy, I can’t eat.” Clown says, utterly mortified. The gloved hand holding the sorbet cup shakes slightly. Branzy pauses, slowly processing the information for a good hot minute, before laughing.

He has his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, white locs falling and black nail polish shining in the morning light. As always, Clown takes a moment to admire how his roommate looks. When Branzy finally lowers his hands from his face, there’s a delightful pink tint dusted on his cheeks that Clown can’t bear looking away from.

Clown snaps himself out of his stupor, placing the strawberry sorbet on Branzy’s table, much to the fearfulness of the man across Branzy. Speedily, Sanctity has finished her chocolate sorbet, standing up in sync with Clown. He clears his throat, waving a low-profile goodbye to his best friend, before escaping through the glass front doors.

Ignoring the crowd of broadcasters, he walks off, into the horizon. (exaggeration). Mentally, he berates himself. He taps the gadget on his wrist, just as Sanctity catches up to him, walking side by side. Speaking into the watch, he murmurs.

“We’re on our way to District Crescent.”

Chapter Text

“It’s a bit early to go now, don’t you think?” Sanctity nagged, nudging Clownpierce’s shoulder. They stood at the top of a building, looking down on Westhelm avenue. Only a few meters away from the Crescent District. He turns to look at her, head slightly tilted.

“We’ll just be scouting the area.” Clown gestures to the streets lined with houses, some suburban, some grand. The scorching sun stands high in the sky, amidst clouds. It’s dry, the afternoon. Clown hadn’t bothered with lunch, deciding to avoid eating in costume ever since the sorbet anomaly. 

Sanctity nods, messing with the smartwatch the Mafia had provided. Her star antennae bob with every small movement, moth-winged cloak shifting in the wind. Trees lining sidewalks blow with the breeze, squirrels scurrying around.

Clown observes a route where they wouldn’t be seen, while still being able to search for an area to camp by until nightfall. Over by the connecting roads that lead to the Crescent district, there’s a small alley that nearly no one goes to. His gaze flickers from the alleyway to Sanctity. Quietly, he taps her shoulder, nodding towards the alley before jumping between buildings in a way that even Jackie Chan would envy. Sanctity follows behind, gliding less subtly with their wings.

In the alleyway, the brick walls remain untouched, the pavement as sticky as the ground of his first murder. He swallows, each step adhering to the ground like some sort of double-sided tape. Closing his eyes, Clown lets out a sigh, stopping in his tracks. He can tell Sanctity nearly bumps into him, making a hushed noise as she comes to an abrupt stop. He closes his fist around the air, the shadows conjuring into his scythe.

“Keep watch.” He murmurs, the soft rustle of clothing telling him she’d nodded. When he opens his eyes, the shade of the alley is comforting. The same darkness he’d killed a man in, the same darkness he uses to materialize each weapon. It’s a bit odd, somehow, how just a few hours ago, he’d been in a sorbet shop, and now, in around seven hours, he’ll be executing one of the city’s most influential villains in the history of Leven Stelen.

Monarch, the ever flamboyant villain. The quote unquote ‘Emperor’ of the Crescent District. Having bestowed that title upon himself, Monarch is a boastful and reckless villain, according to many studies. Often acting impulsively, the ‘celebrity’ frequently gets into legal trouble. He evades these problems with his silver tongue and bribery.

Clown, him and his moral compass, has grown a healthy disliking to the man himself. Monarch gives villainy a bad name is his reasoning. Clown's belief he holds closely to his chest is one many other villains exhibit. To be a villain is to be collected, to act not on impulse but strategy.

Clown does have exceptions to this belief, one of them being Epimethius.

Oh, Epimethius.

He could go on and on about the villain, and he'd still have yet to mention his atrocious fashion choices. It's not like he inherently hates him, in fact, it's nearly the opposite. Despite being a pain in his jester garbed butt, and he says this begrudgingly, he's grown accustomed to his never-ending yap. Not as much as Branzy's, far from it actually. Branzy's yap is far more enjoyable than Epimethius’.

Epimethius proved himself to be somewhat agreeable in Clown's eyes, and with how incompetent some of the villains could be, Clown has no other choice than to accept it for the time being.

Now, he's gotten thoroughly thrown off his original train of thought. Where was he? Ah, yes. Assassinate a Monarch. Quite literally.

Sanctity is anxiously fidgeting with their several layers of clothing, feeling the tassels of their orange and burgundy poncho. Distantly, Clown worries. Glad that it's distant though, as he twirls the scythe in his grip. The sky is slowly turning a warm orange, clouds gaining that pinkish tint that happens during the afternoon. Mice and vermin chirp occasionally in the rain gutters along the alleyway.

“We’ll be camping out here?.. Like.. The whole day? What about dinner?” Sanctity bit her lip, frowning slightly. She looked slightly disgusted at the sticky ground, though Clown couldn’t blame them.

He nods. “Yes. Dinner will have to wait for after the mission.” He picks at lint on his gloves, leaning on the right wall of the alley. He hears her sigh, almost defeatedly, and snorts. He lets the scythe dissolve back into the shadows, turning to look at them. 

They’ve got a cartoonish frown on their face, like he’d just taken candy from them unprompted. It’s amusing, really. 

“Surely the mission won't take long, surely!” Sanctity says optimistically, quietly. Clown can't help but chuckle.

Clown shakes his head. “Oh, don't get too ambitious, you might jinx yourself.” He points his finger at them accusingly. She gasps, planting their hand to their chest like they'd just been shot. Which is a rather gruesome comparison.

“You're so right, how silly of me.” They frown even deeper, heaving a heavy sigh which Clown has the audacity to laugh at. 

Clown looks back up at the sky, a nice pink-orange as the sun falls beyond the horizon. Several beats of silence pass as they quietly wait. Birds caw and crow in the Crescent District, retreating back to their respective nests as dusk draws nearer.

In Clown's personal opinion, he finds it poetic. As the sun sets, corvids alike begin returning back home after picking off their prey. He'll kill a man today, and any other day, just as the crows and ravens, and still, even as a murderer, he comes home.

Home is where the heart is, as many say. And him? Well, he'd say Branzy would be his heart. Not to anyone he knows, though. That'd be awkward. Imagine the scythe bearing, death bringing villain Clownpierce having a crush? On a guy?

Absolutely not.

He sighs, which comes out surprisingly love-sick-ly. He can tell Sanctity gives him a curious look, even beneath their comically large glasses. Clown sends a half-hearted glare her way, which eventually falls flat due to his mask.

Tapping his foot impatiently, he scrolls on the digital watch the Mafia had so graciously provided him with. Thankfully, it was one of those advanced watches. The ones with social media apps? Yeah.

He scrolls for a bit, slowly turning his mind into brain mush as he doomscrolls before ultimately deciding using a watch wasn't for him.

Now, he wasn't a ‘boomer’, as some call them. In fact, he was a ripe eighteen years old, and turning nineteen by November. He just hasn't figured out a way to lower the brightness of the watch and it hurts his eyes. There's a big chance he's legally blind, which ultimately doesn't go well with his current profession and ambition (overrunning the city and becoming the most feared villain in all of Leven Stelen), but he manages.

He hasn’t actually touched a smartphone ever since he’d ran away. Becoming a fugitive has its risks, even if you’re basically a teenager.

The afternoon passes agonizingly slowly, mostly consisting of Sanctity humming the tune from the library’s elevator, then rambling on about some.. Five Nights At Fredbears? Something about Omori, which he knows partially about, mostly from Branzy’s poster wall. 

The entire time, he’s stuck pacing circles in his mind. He had two options; succumb to Sanctity’s yap, or think even more about how unfairly pretty his hero best-friends eyes were.

What do you think he’d choose?

….

That’s right, none. He’d chosen to ‘rest’ his eyes, letting Sanctity speak to his semi-alert body while he snoozed for the next few hours they had to wait.

⨝

The sunset is lonely.

Slowly, the once bright and shining globe of a sky, the center of a solar system, falls. Bright blue skies and cotton clouds dissipate into the deep purple that seems a bit too familiar to be simply a coincidence.

Clown sits on a roof of shingles, they hurt and jab into his back, but he hasn't made a move to adjust.

He has no mask on.

Where is his mask?

Abruptly, his train of thought is cut off by the sound of shoe soles pitter patter on the roof. Yet, he doesn't move an inch. He's not sure he's even breathing, to be honest.

When has he ever been honest?

A figure sits beside him, cross legged. In his peripheral, once vibrant blue hair is diluted into a softer tone. Bunny ears flop by their head.

“Who..” He tries, but no words come out. As if he's been paralyzed.

Surprisingly, the blue-haired person huffs a laugh, turning to him with electric, hot pink eyes. “Who am I, right?” She (He assumes it's a she) smiles, though it's nauseatingly faux.

“You don't remember me, do you?” Her voice echoes, though her lips don't move. It's a dripping sweet tone that she's using, almost mocking.

Clown mentally shakes his head, assuming she'd also be able to read his mind, with her supposed psychic abilities. “I don't know you.” He thinks, but a distant, conscious part of him screams otherwise.

“You did.” She sighs, shaking her head. “At least you thought you did.” She says solemnly. Too solemn for just a dream.

Is he dreaming?

What category would this dream even fall in?

He presses his lips together into a thin line. “Who are you?” He thinks. The moon rises slowly into the sky as they quote unquote ‘speak’.

“I was your best friend.”

That's wrong.

That's wrong, Branzy is his only friend.

“It's not wrong, Clown.” She shakes her head. “I'm here now.” She smiles, though it lags slightly.

That's wrong.

That's wrong, that's wrong, that's wrong.

He's not here.

He's—

⨝

Clown snaps his eyes open, the ceramic of his mask feeling awfully suffocating right about now. The only light that illuminates the space he's in — an alley — is..

Sanctity’s antennae?

He breathes a subtle sigh of relief, cracking his knuckles.

A weird, weird dream.

The thing is, he can't seem to remember who he was even talking to anymore. He remembers what they said, sure, but he hasn't a clue what they looked like. It's all so cryptic for no apparent reason.

The sky is dark, much darker than when he'd first ‘rested’ his eyes. Checking his watch confirmed his suspicions, it was around seven in the evening.

… The time that they were supposed to start preparing and two hours before the mission.

He hisses, whipping his head around to find Sanctity, sitting on the floor, presumably asleep, and star antennae doing circles around her head like they'd just been knocked out in some old style cartoon.

After a few beats of justified silence, he lets out a quiet groan before shaking them awake.

They wake up agitatedly, frowning from the harsh awakening before being shook even more.

“Rise and grind.” He sighs, taking his hands off her shoulders.

“Isn't it rise and shine?—”

“Shh. Rise and grind.”

They mess with their hair, huffing before throwing the moth cloak's cowl over her head. Clown stares unamusedly at her before gesturing to their, glowing, mind you, antennae. She rolls their head (Their version of eye rolling) before squeezing both antennae like a rubber ducky.

He sits there and processes for a good second before sighing and launching himself up onto the wall of the alley, climbing up, having a few close calls with his nails, before reaching the top of a random flat roofed house.

Sanctity follows after, choosing the much less treacherous way of flying. They land swiftly beside him before the two start scouting the area.

Clown presumes Monarch would choose to live wealthily, to be extravagant with his living choices. His belief was only strengthened when he spotted a tall building, nearly a skyscraper, that is…

Cherry blossom pink, a tad purple in the moonlight.

Monarch has questionable taste in architecture.

Leaping from rooftop to rooftop, the silvery moon stood tall. A reminder of someone’s silver hair, the sky a purple that only draws memories of striking purple eyes.

Branzy is a new name that haunts his mind, swirling around in his head. He still thinks sometimes, how could such an accomplished individual even spare him a glance? For heaven’s sake, he was a runaway; the exact definition of a fugitive. He’d killed the day he left. Nothing would ever amount to Branzy. Branzy was a college student with not an ounce of debt. He lived in an accommodating apartment. Branzy, he’s a hero. Clown is a villain.

They weren't meant to ally, they were supposed to be enemies. They couldn't be on the same team, and yet somehow Branzy took Clown in as if he were an old friend.

Now, they were inseparable.

Clownpierce thinks it's peculiar how he brought him home unprompted. When he smelled like death itself, blood sticking to the soles of his shoes, how Branzy, kempt and styled so perfectly, offered him a place to stay.

Branzy, the sweetest soul he knows.

Branzy, the man he thinks he might be in love with.

Branzy.

“I.. I think this is it.” Sanctity declares incredulously, snapping Clown out of his lovely stupor. Clown clears his throat, dismissing his subtle jolt back into reality as nothing.

Clown lays his eyes upon what might've been the most glorious yet obnoxiously pink structure he's ever seen.

“I can see.” He replies dryly, resting a hand on his hip.

Sanctity hums, tapping their foot repetitively. “Shouldn't we go in?” She says, turning to look over at him.

“Yeah, we should probably head in if we want to get this over with.” Clown sighs, squinting behind his mask.

“..Do we go in the front door?”

“...”

“You've been in this career much longer than I have, and you think we should go in through the front door?” Clown asks in disbelief, if he hadn't been wearing his mask, they'd see the pure disappointment on his face.

Sanctity rubs the back of their neck. “Not spy missions!” They whisper-shout.

“This is not even a spy mission.” He almost wants to facepalm, but he rather not break his carefully crafted mask.

“Whatever, let's just head in.” Sanctity gulps, gliding down from the rooftop smoothly, while Clown is left there to figure it out himself.

While the bottom is basically just a fat cylinder, the second floor and upwards is a big tower. Clown can easily spy a fire exit staircase leading down from the second floor balcony.

His first dilemma, though, was getting down from the roof.

He breathes, clenching his jaw as he conjures a grappling hook with the dark of the night. He examines it for any defects, before hooking it on the roof's concrete edge and hopping off.

Unlike his practical suicide attempt of leaping off a building, he spots Sanctity over by the side of Monarch's property, jaw gaping as they watch him rapidly descend, before swinging and breaking his fall swiftly.

Clown lets the gun dissolve back into the shadows, swapping it out for his signature scythe.

“Let's go.”

“Ookayy..!”

Sanctity follows aimlessly, Clown would describe her more lost than a toddler at Walmart without a guardian.

Eventually, they find the staircase. He presses a finger to his mask's painted smile before walking up the creaky steps without a single noise, with them fluttering their wings instead.

Clown scans the area for security guards, brows furrowed in concentration as Sanctity finally locks in.

The fire exit door opens, walking in as quietly as earthly possible. The inside is filled with.. less than humble posters and propaganda, most featuring Monarch himself and others with his known alliances and allegiances.

Hallways are dark, gloomy with the night hanging over the building. Except for one.

Fluorescent lights shine bright in the hall leading up to a big, cherry wood double door.

…Surely the mission should've been much more difficult than this currently was.

Even Sanctity seemed confused, and a bit pleasantly surprised. Clown mentally took note of this, deciding he'd be mentioning this to Glitch sooner or later.

Once they'd gotten closer to the doors, it became apparent that Monarch was most definitely inside.

“Like, I don't know what you expect me to do!” Monarch exclaimed rather frustratedly, muffled by the door.

“It's not my fault the people can't afford my houses, that's just a skill issue.” He audibly shifts around in what seems to be a desk chair.

Ah, so his reason for murdering this man would be acceptable. Wonderful news.

Sanctity seemed to be having enough of this, despite only hearing around two sentences out of Monarch's mouth. 

“Well—”

They tore down the door, surprisingly easily, and caught Monarch dead in his tracks.

Monarch was donning a neat soft yellow suit, a pink suit tie, and a black undershirt. He paled instantly at the sight of two villains right outside his office doors.

“Wha—?!” He yelps, dropping the smartphone he'd been holding on his desk.

Clown can't help but chuckle, spinning his scythe around in his hands. Oh, this was gonna be fun.

“Zam? Zam, can you hear me?” A voice murmured from the phone.

Eyebrows furrowed, Sanctity takes initiative to steal it as Monarch tries to grab it. He backs away immediately, hands up in defense.

“Monarch.” Clown sneers, stalking closer like a predator spying its prey. “Though, I think we should be calling you ‘Zam' now, shouldn't we?”

Sanctity nods in agreement, hanging up the call on Zam's phone carelessly as he curses, reaching for his phone though it was a few feet away from him.

“Let's not drag this out.” Clown smiles, raising his scythe to strike.

“Wait!”

Clown hums, cocking an eyebrow.

Zam cowers slightly in the corner he's been pushed in. “I—.. I'll give you anything! Money, property, whatever! Just—.. Just don't kill me!” He offers.

Clown pauses, as if thinking about his offer. Hope glimmers pathetically in the formerly Monarch's eyes. 

It disappears just as quickly though, as he swings the blade right as Zam was about to continue on his spiel.

Blood gurgling fills the room, Zam's head tilts backwards, before nearly completely detaching from its neck. The head hangs from merely a scrap of skin that remains attached.

Clown hums satisfiedly, while Sanctity makes a disgusted noise, making a point to walk out of the area.

The delightfully putrid smell of fresh blood fills the office, clinging to every surface.

Zam's body crumples to the ground, the skin connecting its head ripping and letting it roll to the ground, by Clown's feet. Clown decidedly kicks it before walking out.

He approaches Sanctity, still holding Zam's phone. She's scrolling through it, scouting out his contact list.

“Several missed calls from this guy named.. ‘Erebus’? With a purple heart emoji. Probably the guy he was talking to before we burst in.” Sanctity says, not bothering to look up from the phone.

Clown nods appreciatively. “We need to get rid of the evidence.” He walks towards the emergency exit door, peering out the window.

Police sirens wail in the distance, and Clown curses. “Fast.”

“Well you don't have to tell me twice.” She shrugs, throwing the phone on the ground with most probably pent up rage, crushing it with her boots aggressively before holding up a thumbs up.

“We'd ought to get going.” Clown narrows his eyes, pushing open the exit door as he summons his trusty grappling hook, wrapping up the mission.

Sanctity lifts into the air, fluttering their wings rapidly as they tapped their watch. “Mission success.” They proclaimed, grinning as their glasses shined with the moonlight.

“Say, what about that dinner you talked about—”

“Seriously?”

⨝

When the news hit the headlines, Pangi was at work.

When the news hit the headlines, Derapchu was hanging out with Kaboodle, his newfound vigilante friend.

In spite of Zam’s alleged tyranny, Pangi learned to see the good in him. The way he’d find a way to compliment him with every visit, the way they’d joked so carelessly in their time together.

In spite of Zam’s alleged tyranny, Derapchu couldn’t care less. He loved that man, so what if their morals didn’t add up? So what if he was a villain and he was a vigilante?

Pangi grieved when he heard the news, spending hours in the dark of his desolate room crying, yearning for what could've been had he been there to stop it, even if it were physically impossible.

Derapchu grieved when he heard the news, surrounding himself in chores and tasks to get it off his mind, working himself to exhaustion and isolation. He blamed himself for the death of his friend, even if he wasn't even awake at the time of the murder.

Pangi met Derapchu at the lake, the pitter patter of rainfall at their feet as they made small talk.

Derapchu met Pangi at the lake, throwing grain and berries to the geese swimming and paddling as they murmured to each other.

"It's nice to meet you." Pangi sighs, the dark tint of his sunglasses only adding to the gloom of his dilemma. Though, Derapchu glows slightly, metaphorically. The lamp upon one's feet.

"It is, it is." Derapchu smiles hesitantly, the murk of the lake mirroring his quiet grief. Though, Pangi makes it all somewhat better. The salt of the earth.

They confide in each other, slowly building a new friendship through a mutual experience.

...

Somewhere out there, a crown bearing man scowls, phone clattering to the ground with a harsh thud.

"Zam."

Chapter Text

Clown pushes the door of Branzy’s apartment open, the lights were dimmed and the clock was ticking far past twelve.

With his mission successfully reported back to Glitch via ‘The Sanctity Carrier Pigeon™’, he'd returned back to the apartment right after a late dinner atop the rooftop of a waffle house.

Light streams into the dark hallway from a small crack opened in Branzy's door.

Clown sighs, shutting the front door as he somewhat aggressively rips off his mask, figuratively and literally. He sets it down much more carefully on the shelf by the door, pulling off his shoes and leaving them by the coatrack.

His hair is slightly disheveled in the braid he'd put it in, slowly coming undone as he takes off the hairband and tosses it on the coffee table while making his way to Branzy's room.

Branzy is an odd comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

Clown peeks the corner, clownish garb still on and tired eyes. Branzy is sitting at his bed, slouched down in crisscross applesauce as he types away at the keyboard of his laptop. His AirCon whirls quietly in the background.

“Branzy.” Clown murmurs softly, earning a jolt from the latter as he slowly, creakily, turns around.

Branzy blinks, almost like a frog, before processing his presence with a small, tired smile. “Clown. How was the mission?” 

He returns the smile, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. “It went well,” he says decidedly. “But we'd definitely waited much longer than I'd have liked to.”

“You did go pretty early.” Branzy hums, shutting his laptop and setting it aside. Clown can tell Branzy's acting slightly odd, but dismisses it as sleep deprivation.

He joins Branzy on the bed, sitting on the mattress with his feet hanging off. “How was college?” He makes conversation, lightly tracing spirals into Branzy's back.

“Not too bad.. Chief and I had a makeshift therapy session.” Branzy smiles humorously, Clown can't help but chuckle.

“Getting more help than all of us, huh?” He mutters. Branzy rolls his eyes without malice. There's a prolonged period of silence where they just stare at each other, Clown should've been able to read him like a book, and yet Branzy seemed like a mystery.

“You should go to sleep.” Branzy sighs as the time passes, the smile he's been spotting dimming subtly.

Clown catches the split second where he seems less bubbly. “Only if you will as well. It's past twelve, y'know?”

Branzy cheers up mutely. “I will, I will. Don't you worry your little clown-y butt.” He says jokingly.

“Never has my butt had a better name.” Clown says rather fondly.

⨝

The quiet pitter patter of rain slowly builds up on the asphalt that crunches under his feet as he stands before the Heroes Institute, the tower looming over the surrounding buildings with skies gray and cloudy. Clown simply watches as a test crew of Glitch’s army run and scamper around the Heroic grounds, flooding in while heroes and vigilantes gather at the scene. His mind is static, not a thought behind the scrawled eyes of his mask.

Boredom emanates off his silhouette, slowly subsiding as a certain figure lands beside him, elytra tucking back into itself.

“Yo, how’s it looking?” Epimethius drawls, nudging his shoulder. The gravity-defying rainbow colored bandana he often wears flows in the non-existent breeze. Piercing white void-like eyes stare at Clown expectantly, too expectantly for an early Monday morning.

To convey his overflowing boredom, he examines his gloves while he speaks. “Not much has happened.” He replies truthfully. The only somewhat exciting activity has been a stray invisible soldier bashing a window. Besides that, the test invasion hasn’t done much more than trample a few bushes since the heroes had an emergency ‘auto-lock’ system on each entrance and exit. He’d warned Glitch about this prior after Branzy had so graciously gifted him with the knowledge; as Branzy was the one to build said ‘auto-lock’ system.

“That’s like.. Really bad.” Epimethius blinks, and Clown snorts at the lack of a reaction. He cannot blame him — if a Mafia’s army cannot disarm a small chain of automated locks, it would be as disappointing as spilling a glass of milk. But, once again, he cannot speak. He has no concept of how abstract or niche the redstone Branzy had put down might’ve been.

Clown holds a firm belief that Branzy might be the most talented person he’s ever interacted with. Albeit, he hasn’t interacted with many people. Branzy has an obscure line of work, not only working for heroic forces, but in the context of redstone. The number of redstoners in Leven Stelen has been dwindling exponentially, and many former redstoners may have retreated to regular engineering courses despite redstone’s superiority over simple tech.

Redstone is much easier to understand rather than, say, Python or Java scripts. Redstone as well has stronger signals and has a great deal of power regarding force. Redstone lasts longer, as discovered by researchers out in the far north after discovering redstone still intact even after nearly eighty years.

Aside from the whole redstone spiel (that he sourced from Branzy, it’s not plagiarism, it’s inspiration, he swears), Branzy is not only a great sport but an amazing coach. With his below par childhood, Clown had never even touched a laptop. Branzy, who has to know how to work a laptop regarding his college situation and schedule, offered to teach him how to commandeer one. He’d worked with him through his trials, and was only lightly irritated when Clown had accidentally deleted one of his files.

Speaking of Branzy, there was a likely chance Branzy was in the Heroes HeadQuarters.

“If the intrusion has barely done anything, why hasn’t Glitch called them off?” Clown narrowed his eyes, tapping his watch impatiently. Glitch usually has more sense than to keep a sinking ship sailing, and it’s getting increasingly concerning how awfully the small team has been performing.

Epimethius shrugs obliviously. “No idea but like— maybe we could like.. Ask Sanctity or something.” He says, fidgeting with his fingers. Sanctity would be the individual with the most intel in regards to the whereabouts of the mafia leader; though, they’re nowhere to be seen.

White noise erupts abruptly from both of their wrists, Clown’s eyes widen slightly before pulling his wrist up to his eye and earshot. Sanctity’s voice, unmistakable, goes off in a distinctly distressed ramble, spewing words at a pace he can barely keep up with.

“Quickly!— God, they’ve ambushed us! They let our own force become a distraction—” Wind whips in the background, and Clown can spot a patch of darker clouds over in the distance. He can hear Glitch shouting commands and whatnot, followed by rustling and distant reciprocal shouts. “I’ve sent our location to you guys. I can only pause the moment for so long until it starts hurting my head.” They manage, the call hanging up immediately after.

Clown grunts, summoning his scythe in the shadow of the slowly dissipating rainclouds, nodding to Epimethius as he leaps into action, both literally and figuratively. He reads the coordinates given, despite the position of the fight becoming increasingly obvious. He weaves through buildings like halls of his favorite maze, from the corner of his eye, he spies Epimethius as he traverses the roof tops. 

He can only hope that the situation hasn’t gone further, but as foolish as a wish that is, no genie could ever grant it.

When they arrive, the streets and corner stores have their shutters rolled down, in spite of few having their windows shattered. Epimethius steps forward quickly, running towards the two silhouetted figures in the middle of an artificially manufactured storm, conjuring a forcefield up within a few grueling seconds.

Under the mask, Clown can’t help but scowl, following Epimethius into the safety bubble as he lets the scythe dangle over his shoulder. The scowl melts when he pushes past him, falling into a disbelieving frown.

The line up is a mash of heroes and vigilantes was interesting. Apotelesma, a veteran in the Hero Institute, stands at the front, white eyes nearly the same as Epimethius’ (he’ll have to discuss the similarity with him soon). Atlas stands beside him. These heroes have a knack for looking similar to Epimethius, apparently. Two vigilantes haven’t lowered their defensive stances, one he can easily recognize as his sister, and the other he can only slightly remember.

Apotelesma speaks first, bringing his clawed hands together. “How wonderful of you two to join us.” He says bitterly. By the way Epimethius sneers, he can tell they’ve either met before, or have a rocky relationship. Atlas glares daggers at him as well, which is kindly telling.

“Why’d you even start a fight in the first place?” Epimethius scoffs, and Clown can catch the way Sanctity glances at him concernedly. They’re not wrong for being concerned, he muses. Apotelesma smiles, folding his arms.

“You were the ones attacking our tower.” He replies matter-of-factly, Atlas nods frequently.

Clown brings his attention to the individuals in front of them, rather than the less than civil argument being discussed on a disheveled street. Cottontail, or rather, Kaboodle, stands there. She taps her foot on the ground like she’s being inconvenienced, and in some ways, she is. JackRabbit holds his stance, alert. His ears are pinned back though, hood of his cloak pulled down to see better. He seems tired despite the wide eyes, barely noticeable bags under his eyes, and Clown can’t help but wonder what’d happened to get a vigilante in that state.

Atlas looks awfully pissed, which is reasonable. Who wouldn’t be pissed if a Mafia sent a dysfunctional team of intruders to your institute’s doorstep? Apotelesma is smug and cunning, a sharp, practiced smile playing on his lips like he knows what he’s doing.

“—Now that’s just bullshit.” Clown hears Glitch say as he tunes back into the conversation. The storm whirls wildly in the background, indubitably Atlas’ doing.

Epimethius brings his fingers into a fist as the forcefield drops, and the road-turned-battlefield dissolves back into its chaos as smoke bombs drop like hail, and actual hail rains from the contrived skies in a whirlwind of disarray. Shouts and yells of demands echo from Glitch’s lips, and Clown has to force himself to avoid his Psychokinetic plague. Sanctity looks as if she’s teleporting with every move, though he knows it’s merely chronokinesis. Objects are flung around with Epimethius’ mind, and yet Atlas manages to dodge each one by a single hair.

Apotelesma does his best with a battle axe, and Clown admits, he is fairly skilled with such. They duel for a bit, Clown absorbed with the swing of his scythe and the way it cuts through air. They dance to a morbid song, filled with shouts and the metallic hiss of weapons that clang and clash.

One sound snaps him out of his malice driven stupor.

A yelp that sounds suspiciously like Sanctity.

Apotelesma seems to notice this too, pausing in his movements long enough for Clown to jab the end of his scythe into his abdomen before rushing off to check on the situation Sanctity might’ve been in.

The battle pauses in silent horror as the shouts disappear into stunned silence.

Sanctity is sat down on the asphalt, blood gushing from her forehead and glasses cracked. Soot sticks to their clothing, slightly burnt and singed at the edges, evident of an explosion. Cottontail stands not too far away, hands brought up to her mouth and hair falling over her shoulders.

JackRabbit rushes over from where he was ganging up on Epimethius with Atlas, setting a hand on Cottontail’s shoulder. Clown watches as he whispers something to her, quietly calming her heaving chest. Apotelesma and Atlas approach last, the latter’s eyes blown wide in grim disbelief.

Glitch crumbles on the ground next to Sanctity, hand supporting their back as he asks them questions regarding their well being. His other hand wipes delicately at the blood on her forehead, treating them like a stained glass piece, one wrong move resulting in it falling apart and shattering on the floor.

Glitch turns to the two of them; Clown and Epimethius. “What are you waiting for? Call help.” He snarls, disconsolate as Epimethius fiddles with his watch in a panic. Clown clenches his jaw; Branzy would know what to do.

…Branzy.

He opens his eyes in alarm, bringing his watch up and scrolling through saved contacts, stopping on one he hasn’t called before.

Branzy had given him his contact information in case of emergency, which ended up with Clown keeping him as his emergency contact. He hadn’t anticipated that this would be the day he actually uses the information, but it was better than nothing. He only registers the fact that the surrounding heroes might be shocked if Branzy—Daedalus comes without warning after pressing the call button.

He sucks in a breath as he answers. “Hello, Heroes Institute here?” Branzy’s voice comes in, somewhat concerned.

“We need help. Urgent.” He murmurs into the watch’s input mic.

Rustling comes from the other end of the line, most likely Branzy standing up. “What is it about? And who’s we?” He asks, the clacking of his heeled shoes against the floor not going unnoticed, evidently walking out of a building as Clown hears the mechanical whirring of automatic doors opening.

“No time to explain. Yggdrasil Avenue, quickly.” Clown says, before punctuating his sentence with hanging up to hopefully uphold the urgency of the situation. When Clown lowers his watch, Sanctity is cradled halfway into Glitch’s arms, jaw clenched tightly in most probable pain. Epimethius is sat down beside Glitch, an expression of misfortune plaguing his face. Clown doesn’t bother peering at the others.

The scene is nothing but ragged breaths and Glitch’s quiet but sincere apologies. Sanctity has their lip bitten, and from the looks of it, bleeding from the force of her own bite. A flicker of pity arises in Clown’s chest before dying down as Epimethius holds his head in his hands.

Minutes feel like hours, the labored heaves that Sanctity emits like a ticking time bomb. It’s a long, draining wait before his knight in shining armor appears. Daedalus’ eyes wander for a bit, taking in the scene before landing on his own. They flicker momentarily to Sanctity on the ground before returning to him.

“I apologize for inconveniencing you, Daedalus.” Clown says, approaching him before leading him to Sanctity. “But I assume you do know what I’ve called you for, just by the looks of it.”

“I.. I know. I’m much more experienced in redstone, I hope you know.” Daedalus chuckles dryly, crouching down beside Sanctity himself. Clown looms over him, though.

“Heal them,” he says, more quietly he adds “please.”

Daedalus nods, eyes flickering up to meet Glitch’s as he hesitantly lets go of Sanctity. His eyes wander, searching for any other wounds other than the obvious one. He hovers a hand over Sanctity’s forehead, to which they flinch and he mutters a quiet apology. Daedalus closes his eyes, a lilac mist forming as he began to start healing.

Clown glances to the heroes and vigilantes, Apotelesma seems incredulous, while Planet stares with suspicion. The two vigilantes have nothing to say. They’ve never heard of Daedalus. (Which is ridiculous, Clown thinks. He’s wonderful.)

Clown watches as Kaboodle tugs JackRabbit’s sleeve, signalling to the end of the street. JackRabbit looks back and forth between the street and the wounded body that was Sanctity, before nodding with a guilty sigh. They walk off without a scuff, nor a scratch. Clown — he feels offended by how easily they can leave a scene behind; how they could leave the two heroes behind despite how much he despises them.

A shuddering breath escapes Daedalus’ lips as Clown turns around, lifting his hand off of Sanctity’s now fully healed forehead. Sanctity sits up, and Glitch moves to support her back as Epimethius relocates to join Clown’s side. His arms are folded and lip bitten in thought. Daedalus stands up, nearly collapsing from power exertion before Clown stabilizes him. A subtle purple cloud follows his hands.

Daedalus shakes the mist off of his fingers, looking back to him. “Thanks, Clown.” Sighs Daedalus as Clown pulls his hands off his shoulders, slouching slightly. He runs a hand through his hair, strands falling back on his face regardless.

“Don’t mention it.” Clown answers softly without a second thought, nodding. Branzy smiles, a kindling fondness bubbling up into the tug of his lips. He takes his leave, slowly, quietly. His footsteps crunch against the gravel and asphalt. The silence is deafening after Daedalus leaves, either from the shock emanating from the heroes who stand a little far off behind the four, or from the unanticipated disturbance.

Clown watches as Daedalus trudges off, sucking in a breath as the sky slowly lightens, the storm clouds evaporating. From his peripheral, he can see Glitch subtly shift Sanctity into his arms. He drifts his gaze away from the road Daedalus’ taken, floating back to the heroes who seemed glued to the ground below them. Epimethius follows his eyes, narrowing his own.

“You can leave. You’ve done enough.” Epimethius snarls, baring his canines like a mad dog. Apotelesma takes a step back, pulling Atlas back with him. Atlas is reluctant, eyebrows furrowed like he’d been solving a puzzle and Apotelesma had just taken the last piece away from him, though they depart fairly quickly. Epimethius grunts, clenching and unclenching his fists by his sides.

Clown raises a brow, tipping his head slightly.

“Assholes.” Epimethius grits his teeth, speaking gruffly. Clown laughs; or at the very least huffs in amused agreement.

“I can agree with that.” He mutters, rolling his head.

Epimethius smirks, before softening into a curious grin. “Who was that guy? The one who.. The one who healed Sanctity?” He tilts his head, tapping his foot against the ground. Clown narrows his eyes, in spite of the mask. “You guys seem kinda close, I dunno.”

“He is a friend. Nothing more.” He answers vaguely, tone sharp and warning.

“But like.. In terms of roles in society?”

“I don’t see how that’s important.”

“It is important.” Glitch murmurs from his spot holding Sanctity on the ground. The glitchy part where his eye is supposed to be lags quite a bit, perhaps due to the former situation. “That guy healed Sanctity; who knows who he might speak to? He could ruin our reputation as the mafia with something as small as a slip of the tongue.” Glitch snaps, carefully bringing Sanctity up to her feet so he could stand as well.

Clown narrows his eyes into barely slits, huffing. “If you must know, he is a hero.”

“A hero?” Sanctity says doubtfully, steadying herself on her feet. Epimethius looks just as distrusting, and Clown feels like the jester in the king’s court.

“Are you insane?” Epimethius criticizes, seeming more tentative than ever. “Like, dude. Heroes— Did you see what those guys just did?” He scrunches up his face, signalling to the slightly decimated and damp streets and the fallen streetlamp.

Clown scoffs. “Of course I did. Daedalus is different, and I’d rather not discuss this in a public headspace.” He snaps, adjusting the cuffs on his wrist with increasing aggression. 

Epimethius blinks, taking a step back at the abrupt switch in expression. Despite this, Glitch nods.

“We should get out of here.” He mutters, turning to Sanctity with a brief tip of his head.

Sanctity inhales deeply before holding out her hands in front of her, orange fog pouring from her finger tips to form into a glowing portal. Glitch supports them, holding their shoulders up as they slowly relax into his hold,

disappearing into the portal without hesitation. Epimethius throws a glance over his shoulder before following suit. 

Clown stands there for a moment to then sigh and walk in.

Chapter Text

“I’m heading out now, see you, Clown!” Branzy calls, the door slamming shut as he adjusts his collar. Clown watches, spying as the rickety doorway trembles despite the lack of force exerted.

Clown feels a strange knot tighten in his chest, strained through a juicer, almost. It wasn’t like usual; the normalcy of moths fluttering in his abdominal cavity, rather, dreadful. He looks down at his hands, claws. They’re balled into fists, keratin threatening to pierce through the pale, sickly skin. Something is going to happen; he knows of it. A gross wriggling in his gut and a lump in his throat, begging to spill.

Something will happen; he just doesn’t know what it is. A crucifix pointed at devilish horns or spiders hurled at the holy. The unsettling quiet of his mind for once driving him insane, paranoia billowing in the empty expanse of his understanding. It’s uncanny to care for someone so much that it brings you to your mental limits.

He's nuts, he convinces himself. Merely a churn of his stomach fluids and he goes crazy with ‘what if’s. It could be nothing. It could be.

Clown desperately wants to follow after him, to warn him, to drag him back to the apartment and deprive him of his livelihood.

But that'd be pathetic.

He isn't going to be worried about something so little, despite the way his heart strings stretch abnormally. Nothing would happen to Branzy, and he'd accept that. Whether his subconscious likes it or not.

The couch springs squeak underneath him, foot tapping incessantly against the rug of their living room.

Maybe he'd benefit from a walk.

Running a hand through his hair, he stands up. Low iron making his world spin slightly, though he manages to get to his bedroom safely. The more he thinks about it, the more he realizes how stupid it sounds to be worried about something so fickle.

His bed is a mess of weighted blankets and pillows, some thrown haphazardly onto the carpet floors and others draped over the side of the bed after his barely successful attempt at escaping the claws of sleep.

Clown tramples over a plush, nearly stumbling before regaining his bearings. He looks back at the god forsaken plush like it threatened him with no parole.

In his mirror, raven hair tumbles down his shoulders in waves, frizzy at the ends and baby hairs sticking up as if he'd been electrocuted. The bags under his eyes are slightly darker, despite sleeping early and getting up late.

He hasn't really been able to sleep well, not after what Kaboodle had done to Sanctity.

He runs his hands over his face, a groan escaping his lips. He's glad his mask hides all the blemishes. He doesn't really think about it otherwise. Clown shakes open his drawer, stealing his brush and pulling it through his hair violently, 

wincing before loosening his grip on the hairbrush. Tangled locks tug and pull at his scalp, curls matted with his sleep from the night before; a compilation of tosses and turns as the air conditioning hummed like ringing in his ears.

Still, with a comb lugging through his hair and yanking painfully on his crown, he can’t force his mind from drifting away to Branzy. Suppressed fretting swirls in his mind like a clogged drain.

Clown clears his throat and hopefully his mind, eyes floating towards the clownish mask sitting on his desk as he lets the brush drop to the floor with a resounding thump. He sweeps the curtain of his bangs away from his face, pulling the facade onto his visage and clicking the snaps on, lacing the two grommets to keep it from easily falling off.

A porcelain front, painted with rosy cheeks and a blocky heart under his right eye hole.

Tresses fall onto his shoulders, curtain bangs gravitating back over his ceramic forehead. Clown approaches the mannequin that holds his garb, fingers gingerly tracing the pattern on his fool’s cap. Diamonds and checkers, red and black colors that intercept cohesively. He handles the cockscomb with care, setting it upon his dome. The bells jingle and chime slightly as he moves, pulling on his gloves and cuffs. He dons his tunic, shifting his arms into the puffy sleeves and clasping each little button.

Clown slips into his corset, pulling lace through the grommets with practiced ease. His mind is silent, falling into step of a familiar routine. He ties it in a performative bow, before tucking the stray lace back into the bodice. He clothes himself with his stockings, checkered and softly yellowed. He slides out of his pajamas, replacing them with breeches that stopped at the knee. Twenty-first century boots followed; he rather not squish his toes squeezing into the ones that court jesters had worn.

He admires himself in the mirror; a weapon, a scythe, rather than the pathetic Jest before. Leven Stelen’s deadliest assassin, priding himself as he stands among the ranks of murderers and cultists. Clown would love to rid the world of all the sins that disgrace it, for dishonoring him. To be born in a dysfunctional household, he’d been wronged by God; if there even was one. He wishes to stomp on each little pest and do this universe a favor, unstable by all means. Then, there's a part of him who seems fairly content with a soothing lifestyle, even if it means his kettle whistles with scalding water inside. To live alongside Branzy and nod to his rants.

T’was lifestyle that seemed too far to reach, too heavy to lift with flaccid fingers. Rather than a diploma on his wall, tapestry of imagery his mother would’ve rebuked hung. Rather than a desk of his study material, makeup brushes are stationed in his drawer. In place of medals were the gems he’d been paid with. A, say, normal life, was too far gone by the time he realizes it.

He realizes —in candor— a simple life wouldn’t suit him.

Perhaps in another universe, in theatre, it might’ve, but in this vast expanse of the universe that he calls his own, it just didn't befit his extravagant nature. He’d much rather disregard the terms and conditions thrown at him, code his own game. Though, that was much more Branzy’s style.

..Branzy.

Clown’s eyes snapped wide, falling back into his step after self-glazing way too much in a couple minutes. The pit in his stomach returns full force, worry creasing his eyebrows and clenching his fists. He rushes back out the door, lightly pulverizing his plush once more, however he cares not to look back. Clown quickly shuts off each lightswitch, braiding his hair on the way out. The way he’s running doesn’t help his braiding skills, but he, as the amazing, manly man he is, gets it done anyway. No offense, Chappell Roan.

He fumbles with the keys for a moment. ‘Why do Glitch’s office and Branzy’s apartment have identical keys?’ He thinks to himself. Clown manages to lock the apartment, tucking the keyring inside of his corset for safe keeping. Don’t question him, it’s a life hack.

Clown takes the fun way down the apartment building; through the fire exit stairs. Rather, sliding down the railings and narrowly avoiding getting his ass bitten by a stray bar. His braid whips in the wind, hair tie threatening to fly away with the breeze. His boots touch the ground, barely stumbling while cars skirt to a halt as he runs across the paved streets. The thought that he might come up in the news for that small stunt barely crosses his mind, unlike how he’s crossed three pedestrian lanes while the vans and automobiles zoom past him without a care in the world. Except for the care he has for Branzy right now.

He speeds up his walking, instead, running. He tramples through the central garden, the ‘heart’ of the city without a second thought. He and Branzy met there, though. The looming tower that is the Heroes Institute impends ominously in the distance; the distance being a couple meters. Oddly, smoke plumes from the site, and even more oddly, a crowd is huddled around barricades that surround the Hero Tower.

Ah, so his gut feeling was correct.

Clown’s face wrinkles under the mask as a few civilians spot him, nudging others and making a path for him with visages of fear. Some cower, others look on with disgust, few with awe. He tears his eyes away from the horde of individuals, over to the… crumbling spire. The second floor’s front has been battered open, rebar and shrapnel visible. Several if not all windows shattered.

Heroes and villains gifted with wings and flight soar in the skies above, sky battles with higher stakes; literally and figuratively. A villain —he assumes—, with Stygian hair and vibrant grape eyes that are only slightly reminiscent of Branzy’s, wrestles with a hero, a polar opposite, with wings that flutter as they’re tossed around, void white eyes that narrow at the other.

Clown jumps the barricades, shaking the hair away from the mesh of his eye holes on his mask. Deep brown, almost red eyes pick the heroes and villains apart from the scene, lingering on a few white haired ones before he brings his sights onto the second floor of the building. He summons his grappling hook in the dark of his shadow, grappling to said second floor with ease. He pulls himself up. Many heroes and villains alike pause momentarily at his arrival before resuming their brawls.

The lights flicker, hanging on by a thread that’s violently snipped by telekinetic abilities. The unlit area serves greatly for his ability, swapping his grappling hook for the scythe he holds dearly. Immediately, he scours and he spots an odd one out. Erebus; straight from the villain wiki. Yes, he’s read the wiki. He wanted to know what the people said about him, that's all. Erebus, Monarch’s accomplice and right hand man.

Erebus, who was backing a silver-haired hero into the bum and broken elevator shaft.

Clown snarled, dashing and weaving through combat circles like a skating rink; scythe held in a death-grip, watching as Daedalus’ eyes flit and flicker from the opposing villain to Clown’s own. His hair whips in the wind’s resistance, skirting just around Erebus and moving in front of Daedalus in a hurry. A crow’s mask stares back at him, beak painted purple and beady eyes that seemingly narrow at his arrival.

A short roof does Erebus no good, thankfully, and Clown shoo’s him off violently with a swing of his scythe. The scythe that beheaded Monarch. Daedalus nods a thankful greeting, though his eyes travel elsewhere. In the heat of battle, none dare turn their heads to the dynamic duo. Abruptly, Daedalus bursts into a sprint, leaving Clownpierce to follow after. The thumping of Daedalus’ shoes are louder than battlecries from in and out of the tower, but no hero nor villain seem to care.

“Where are you going?” Clown whisper-shouts, matching his pace but straying behind in case of suspicion. Suspicion of what, you may ask? He has no clue either. It’s better to stay low.

Daedalus pants, eyes darting from hero after hero. “Rek— I gotta..” He pauses for breath. “Where is Rek?” He mutters, stopping at the edge of the massacred building, reinforcement bars sticking out in every which direction.

“Rek?” Clown parrots.

“Yeah— the… the guy I was sitting with at the sorbet shop, y’know?”

“With the yellow and blue jacket?”

Daedalus nods, pacing by the edge of the potential balcony, hands trembling with purple fog and mist, eyes glowing that same shade. Clownpierce, as the naturally considerate friend and roommate he is, scans the surroundings as well. Not much he recognizes other than a few other villains he’s met before, stray debris falling from the third floor, a guy in a weirdly familiar jacket dead hanging from a rebar, the works.

..Oh shit.

Clown clears his throat, once, twice, before Daedalus finally looks back at him.

“What?” He says, slightly irritated. 

“You might wanna see this.” Clown dips his head in Rekrap’s general direction, letting the other follow his nod and curse quietly. Rek is… struggling, to say the least. Just from a distance, it looks like he’d slip merely from the rust. Daedalus appears right by him, the non-collapsed floors almost trembling underneath his feet.

Branzy tries, and he means tries to pull the other hero up, but it seems futile. Clown has eyes that can see that Rekrap is more muscular than Daedalus by a long run, which must’ve been the reason he’d been able to hang on so long. Without a word, Clown appears beside him, lightly pushing him aside and taking over, despite the way Rekrap practically cowers mid-air.

“Rek! Thank goodness you’re okay!” Branzy breathes in relief, Clown watches as the tension melts from his form while stepping away, letting the two reunite on their own time.

Rekrap, whose hands tremble and are slightly bruised, just nods, letting Daedalus wrap his arms around him in an embrace, while Clownpierce is standing awkwardly, off to the side, wringing his gaze away from the two and back to the on-going battlefield of debris and sparking livewires, only redirecting it back to the two after a moment.

Only now, Clown realizes that blood slowly drips down the extent of Branzy's forearm, crimson trickling onto Rekrap’s jacket with the hug.

“Daedalus.”

“Y—yeah?” He finally pulls away from Rek, concern lingering on his features. By now, Rek must've seen it as well, his eyes flickering from Branzy's arm to his face.

“You're bleeding.” Rekrap whispers, tapping his arm. Daedalus winces, looking down at the riverlet steadily flowing from a small gash.

Clown watches as he hovers his hand over the slice, Daedalus’ hand emitting the same violet- lavender.. whatever-shade of purple as just moments earlier. Though now, he notices the way Branzy's shoulders slump as he exerts more of his powers into healing the wound. 

He doesn't dare move; leaving it to Rek’s responsibilities to catch him if he falls. Which reminds him that they're right by the edge of the desecrated building.

“We need to move.” Clown mutters, turning his back to the new window (the hole in the side of the building). He walks forward, calm in the midst of the storm with strides that striders would envy. Or at least the illusion of calm.

Rekrap and Daedalus soon follow, the latter lagging slightly behind as Rek wrings his arm under Daedalus' armpit in support. The bleeding wound on his arm has scarred by now, despite the efforts to fully heal it. A bump on the skin of his forearm, darkened like a bruise.

Daedalus winces with each step, Clown travelling down the emergency exit stairs with fair ease. He watches the two struggle, holding back the way he wants to help. The rumble of unresolved fights still crackles in the background, blood scattered on the roads and on the walls of buildings. Vibrant feathers, scales, and whatnot litter the grounds, battlecries and wails pollute the air.

Rek’s hands are bruised, rust rubbed off into calloused palms and peeling skin, and yet he supports Branzy heartily. Clown might be glazing Rekrap, though it may be his first time properly meeting with such a hero. Despite his prominent cowering and—or shrinking in Clown’s mighty presence, he sounds decent and acts even more adequate than what he’d expect. 

“You.” Says Clown, and Rek startles, nearly dropping Daedalus right then and there.

“Do you have a safehouse?”

⨝

Later, in the dim lighting of a dingy hotel room, Rek hisses.

“Ouch.” He mutters, and Daedalus merely rolls his eyes, purple emitting from his hand thrumming and weaving into the open callouses on Rekrap’s fingers. Clown sits on a squeaky sofa chair, feet hanging off one end of the armchairs as he checks his nails.

“You’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get tetanus, Daedalus! That’s like- really bad.”

Branzy sighs, shaking his head. “If you don’t hold still, you will get tetanus.” The violet mist buzzes with almost electric capabilities, though the bags under his eyes get more and more noticeable with each passing second. “Besides, shouldn’t you be more worried about tearing a muscle?” Chides Daedalus.

Clown hums in agreement, picking at his nails calmly. The other two began to chatter about other things; he’d learned to tune them out soon enough. He observes their movements, rather than their yap. Rekrap’s shoulders sag, though he holds his head high up, alert yet tired. Branzy is tired, comfortable despite the icky sheets on the bed they’re sitting on.

“Did Clownpierce actually.. Save me?” Rekrap asks as soon as Clown tunes back in.

“Yeah, basically.”

“..Okay, sure, like that’s not a lot to take in.”

Chapter Text

hey chat..!!..

You might've noticed I haven't updated this fic in a while, and that's because of school. Somebody please give me a sickness, I desperately need out of this hell hole so I can write my sweet sweet clownzy fanfiction.

But due to my amazing academics and a 4.0 GPA, I have to go on hiatus for a little bit. I've been experiencing a lot of ups and downs and round and rounds, maybe even went diagonal one point, with my academics. Especially since I've been elected for the student council.

It will be an indefinite hiatus until I get my life and my motivation back, but until then, have fun! Give me headcanons, suggestions, whatchamacallit. Create fan art (please I beg), make fanfiction inspired by this, or heck, maybe a oneshot based on my idea.

Maybe I'll even do a little FAQ answering or a Q&A in the comments, just ask!

But, until my academics are under control, I'll be taking my leave. I love all of you readers!!!

Chapter Text

The lightbulb buzzes, dimly lit in the shadow of an underground operation. Clown sits across a desk, feet tapping against the floor in a somewhat familiar rhythm. Sanctity sways on the heels of her feet beside the office chair. Thursday, he confirms with himself. It’s rather late. He’d enjoy spending this time with Branzy much more, but he’ll make do with his occupation for a little while longer.

“I’m sure the two of you have heard about this,” Glitch starts, turning away from the whiteboard newly hung on the wall. “It’s not unheard of.” He furrows his brows, setting his hands on the glass of the desk. Pictures of him and Sanctity—polaroids—find their place beneath the transparent surface. Glitch calmly extracts a folder from the upper left drawer, opening the folder and flipping it for both of their views. It’s filled with articles, papers of evidence and crucial testimonies regarding L.S. Bank’s embezzlement schemes. Page after page, images of fraudulent bank statements and desperate citizens cursing the firm after thousands are robbed from their accounts.

Sanctity nods, frown forming on her face as they push up their gradient glasses on her nose. “Not.. exactly ideal, is it?” She mutters, shaking her head. Clown nods his confirmation.

“This,” Glitch gestures to the folder, “will be your mission.” He says, patting the documents. Clown cocks up an eyebrow underneath the mask, sitting up straighter in his chair.

“How so?” Sanctity glances to Clown, then back at Glitch. From this angle, Clown can barely see the hint of a sclera beneath those gradient glasses, but the weirdest part is, there seems to be no trace of an iris. But he doesn’t question it. The powers and their side effects are weird enough as is, and he’d rather not pry and prod into the personal attributes that they hide behind some tacky lenses.

Glitch nods, like he’d been expecting the question. “You’ll be retrieving files. Documents that I’m unable to yank from their connection. In other words, stealing the offline things.” He mutters, waving a hand in the air as programmed panels—holograms tinted purple conjure. Glitch’s hands fly across the illusions, and Clown can’t help but be impressed.

Glitch’s hands close around the air, the holograph dissipating as he lowers his fist, opening his palm to display two pristine earpieces. Modern, a sleek black. “These will be our devices of communication.” He nods towards them, placing each piece in front of the two members.

“Interesting.” Clown drawls, picking up the earpiece with a silent grace, careful not to press too hard. On the other hand, Sanctity brings the pod up to her glasses, examining it as if it were some sort of treasure. In his silence, they trill quietly, an extraterrestrial noise Clown barely comprehends while he observes the instrument of communication. “And we will be.. Traveling by special means?” He says, tearing his gaze away from the object.

Glitch clears his throat, shaking his head. “No. No portals. It’ll only incriminate us more, considering the heavy surveillance surrounding the bank.” He replies, tapping the documents repeatedly. Clown ponders this, lowering his gaze back down to the piece of equipment between his fingers. Sanctity murmurs something under their breath, which sounds suspiciously like ‘bummer..’.

“How come we can’t perform this ‘heist’ from base?” Clown inquires, crossing his legs.

Glitch coughs, like he’d been anticipating such a question, and from the way his expression turns stern with apprehension, perhaps he had been. “My energy leaves a prominent signature in more classified online documents. If I executed a burglary through their devices, it’d be evident who’d gone and pilfered their files.” He mutters, rattling off performative diction like he’d just read a glossary.

“When will we start?” Sanctity says, peering back up at Glitch, slowly lowering the device down. Their antennae glow dimly in the darker room. Glitch ponders for a moment, tapping his foot rhythmically on the hard wood floors.

“Tonight.”

⨝

“Y’know, we could’ve like.. Teleported half the way.” Sanctity pipes up, wings twitching under a cloak that’d been tossed on quite rudely by the perpetrator; Clown. The latter throws a half-hearted glare, perceived despite the porcelain mask. 

Clown tuts in disapproval, shaking his head. “No, Sanctity. Even if Glitch has a bias, we’re not defying his word.” He proclaims, sighing. The bank’s glowing lights shut off with the slowly dimming sky, stars blinking like little lights in the heavens while the moon’s shadow twists and turns. Sanctity visibly shrinks, glasses falling lower on their nose before being pushed back up with nimble fingers.

Their footsteps are soundless in the dark of night, the pitter patter of pipes leaking the only disruptive noise besides the quiet breaths that they exhale. Thunder is a low rumble in the distance, but they continue their mission without fault.

It’s a quiet walk, cowls pulled over their heads. Clown had long discarded his cockscomb, switching it for his usual braid, though he kept the false face. Wouldn’t scrap it for anything—except if it were for Branzy. Branzy’s always an exception in his book, when is he ever not?

Before he goes on a spiel about his wonderful friend who so happens to possess the title ‘Branzy’ and is of the Kraftt variety in his own conscience—He’s done that one too many times—the two find themselves around two meters away from the grand city’s bank. L.S. Bank, is the big lettered sign that sits on top of the flat roof.

Clown holds his pointer finger to his mask’s lips before nodding to the side exit. Sanctity is about to object when the bank’s front glass doors slide open, a bank teller slipping out of the graveyard shift while security locks the doors, standing right outside the front entrance. He shoves Sanctity into some crevice, a nook between the thick walls of what inside, must be a vault.

She’s mildly disgruntled by the act, staring up at the roof like it holds the secrets to her suffering before they notice something key to the success of their expedition. “Clown.” They whisper, shaking his shoulder quietly. He mouths a ‘what’ back to them, before realizing his mistake and muttering it back.

“There’s.. There’s a vent.” She says, and Clown follows her glasses’ gaze to the small but large enough air vent; just large enough to double as a crawlspace if one set their mind to the task. “D’ya think I can fit in there?” They whisper, looking back at Clown.

“Are you insane? Do it.” Clown says, getting ready to boost them up on his shoulders.

Somehow, the two both end up inside a room, standing before the vault door like some niche book cover somewhere in the fantasy and adventure section in a bookstore. Sanctity busies themselves with poking and prodding at the twenty-four hour cameras that Glitch had previously shut off right in front of their very eyes, with merely a few holographs and some nimble fingers.

“Documents, Sanctity. Not security camera parts.” Clown mutters under his breath, too preoccupied with the vault’s passcode to acknowledge the way Sanctity jolted, her moth wings barely catching them as they plummet rapidly from the desk they’d been standing upon.

They sigh deeply, antennae drooping a bit as she dusts herself off and joins his side. Clown had tried a mix of ten passcodes within the span of the five minutes they’d managed to spend there, nearly reaching his limit with the stupid password vault that made an obnoxious ding with each invalid code that he was sure would give off their location; which miraculously hadn’t happened yet. 

Sanctity peeks her head into Clown’s personal space, the little stars on their antennae obstructing his vision. “Have you tried ‘poopies’?” She asks, almost absently, tilting her head. Clown just scoffs, shaking his head with a scowl.

“No way they’d make a code to a vault ‘poopies’.” He mutters, almost incredulously, though he punches in the word—code—whatever you’ll consider it, into the vault, unflinching as words flash a bright green, beeping incessantly and echoes bouncing through the room while the vault door opens inwardly.

Clown stands there, in disbelief, in front of a room of cabinets and fluorescent lighting that automatically came on the moment the chamber had been opened. He takes a double take, looking at the room then back at Sanctity then back at the room once more. The only sound he can mutter is a quiet “...Wow.”.

“See man? I told you I’m a master at plunder!” Sanctity grins, shrugging before skipping into the room like they hadn’t just cracked the code to a safe of endless evidence pointing to multiple accounts of fraudulent transactions and incriminating proof that could get a multitude of crowds placed in jail for several crimes under the umbrella that is theft. Clown can only clear his throat and walk in, making his way to a cabinet to begin their ultimate heist.

“Sanctity, you’ve never said that.” Clown exhales, eyes narrowing as the earpiece finally crackles to life. Glitch gives clear instructions, despite the semi-bitcrushed distortion that had amassed due to Clown stuffing the device into his pockets. Glitch goes on a spiel, and to be frankly honest, Clown lets the monologue go on and on, letting Glitch’s lecture fade into a quiet buzz in his mind as he thinks about more important things.

Like Branzy.

Branzy’s birthday was coming up around the middle of spring, which left Clown ample time before he had to start preparations; considering it was early February. He hasn’t really wriggled any information out of Branzy regarding a dream birthday party other than his favorite color being purple, he liked ice cream cakes rather than regular cakes, and he has a sweet tooth for vanilla ice cream. Clown will be sure to take inspiration from the few posters Branzy has tucked away in his room and the many set out on display in the living room, considering Branzy has the posters for a reason.

Clown’s contemplating how he’ll be able to clear Branzy’s schedule for his birthday, taking into account how Branzy is very much employed and a college student in the course of engineering, when he’s snapped into attention by the loud ringing of an explosion.

Glass shattering draws the attention of not only Clown and Sanctity, but Glitch.

“What was that?” A voice—which belongs to Glitch—, alarmed, not panicked, chimes in his eardrums, buzzing alongside the thrum of his own blood in his ears. Clown mutters something like a curse under the quiet exhale of his breath. Sanctity scrambles, uncoordinated as the folders, documents of reported fraud spill from the cradle of her arms.

“Bro, why do we need to do this?” Someone, accompanied by another voice, says, visage shrouded by the smoke of the lingering explosion. The fluttering of wings is a small, barely audible detail, but after working with Sanctity for a few weeks, it’s easily perceived by accustomed ears.

A grunt, a few pieces of rubble and stone disturbed, turned over the side of a former wall. “Dude, I’ve told you like a million times. To get revenge on those idiots who killed Za—... Monarch.” A much more familiar figure makes themselves known, rather, himself known. As the fog clears away, retreating to the dimly lit streets.

“..Erebus.” Clown scoffs, shaking his head, cowl falling off belatedly. “I should’ve known.” He says, eyes narrowing despite his mask. Sanctity recovers from their silent shock, shoving folders into a sack which seemed bottomless. She slings the pack over her shoulder, falling into a practiced defensive stance.

In retort, Erebus swings his Mace over his shoulder. Another villain, presumably Erebus’ sidekick lags slightly behind. Osiris, Clown’s brain supplies. “Wow, you guys sure are early.” Erebus sneers, too purple color scheme clashing with the flames that burst from debris from the explosion.

“Nah, bro.” Osiris replies, wings folding before batted away rudely by Erebus himself.

“Okay bro, if you just hand over those documents, we’ll let you two go. Is that a deal?” The violently violet colored one holds his hand out expectantly, canines bared in a less than friendly grin. Clown can’t help but glare back, scoffing under his breath meanwhile Sanctity scoffs quite audibly.

“No dude, we’re not giving these to you.” They reply defensively, earpiece clattering to the floor with their hurry. Luckily, Clown just so happens to have a spare one. Glitch is silent for a moment, but the sound of hurried tapping and tabs opening can be discerned from the way it practically booms in his ear drums. Clown would be lucky if he miraculously hasn’t suffered any damage to his already poor hearing. At least then he’ll be dismissed from having to listen to barked orders.

“You’re just making things harder for yourselves.” Erebus fires back, holding up his weapon while Osiris shatters a potion bottle on their ground, particles and mist surrounding the two, a mean orange-ish yellow color.

Clown snarls, yanking his scythe from the shadow of a cabinet, and crushing the lighting with the bulb of his weapon, letting out a dignifying crunch. Sanctity moves back, careful even in the cover of night. None back down and none waver.

The fight that follows is messy, broken glass that's indecipherable if it were from a light bulb or from splash potions, dizzying particles floating throughout the cool breeze that slips in through the crack of debris.

The wail of sirens approaching.

Clown's eyes stay trained on the newly opened window—the hole in the wall—waiting. Waiting for a cop car, for heroes to start patrolling sidewalks like K9, sniffing out their every move.

 “As much as we enjoy this fight, we've gotta go, right, Osiris?” Erebus sneers, the polished tiles of the bank floor splintered with each strike of his mace. Osiris has tactfully maneuvered behind the two mafia members, shoving folders that Sanctity hadn't acquired into a briefcase.

“..Yeah, bro.” He says intelligently, swerving past Clown and Sanctity like a racecar mid-drag race.

Clown scoffs, swinging his scythe in their direction one last time while Erebus is too busy taunting them with a less than clever goodbye, shooting a rocket and blasting off to god knows where, Osiris in tow—on a fishing hook.

Sanctity stands there, glancing at him then back at their sack of goodies repeatedly. “...I mean, I think we have all we really need.” She says, slinging it back over her shoulder. Clown sends her a pessimistic look, about to retort with a joyous comment before the neverending wail of sirens stops just outside the large bank windows.

“Good enough.” Clown replies gruffly, tugging his cowl back over his head. “Let's go.” He says, picking up the decimated earpiece that had solemnly fallen on the floor.

“And return this back to Glitch.” He hums, flicking it Sanctity’s way before walking off, not completely missing their mortified expression. He might've snorted, but he covered it up with a cough, so it's fine.

⨝

By the time the two report back to base, Clown is exhausted. His hood has devastatingly fallen off his head, revealing a decrepit braid that may as well have been labeled a rat’s nest. Not like a rat would actually want to take abode in there, actually. He's been considerate as to actually redo the braid, but there's only so much you can do without an actual brush.

Sanctity is doing great. Except for the fact that they keep complaining about how much the sack weighs. Clown tells them it's the weight of a fraudulent bank’s sins, but Sanctity ends up asking about ‘why and how hasn't the bank repented yet?’

And Clown thought he was the one raised religiously.

The elevator ride down to the Mafia floor is excruciatingly slow. Or, it was the constant tune of ‘Please Hold’ by Juno abusing his ear holes and thoroughly ruining his already wonderful mood. The lift is cramped, a sack of precious files is taking up half the space an actual person would, and Clown is stuck contemplating why an elevator would even be in a library if not for a super secret mafia base?

Copper trims, gold trims, diamond trims. They all flood his limited vision through his mesh covered eyeholes. Sanctity says something about passing through and the army splits like Moses parting the red sea. 

They stride together, walking to Glitch's office with a bag of crucial evidence and cloaks that have been partially ripped from either debris, Erebus’ mace, or Sanctity tripping on both of their cloaks at the same time.

“Glitch.” Clown greets monotonously, stepping back as Sanctity sets down the tote like it had been weighed down by several anvils and Sisyphus’ boiling rage. Glitch is unamused, holding out his palm for the earpieces back. Only one comes back unscathed.

Glitch doesn't yell at Sanctity. Doesn't punish her. He just gives a disapproving look while they grin sheepishly, throwing up a thumbs up. Something fishy is going on here, Clown can tell, but honestly it wasn't part of Glitch's job offer that he'd be investigating suspicious activity among his own colleagues, so he lets it be for now.

Clown lets out an imperceivable sigh the moment Glitch dismisses the two of them. He can't bring himself to walk—let alone parkour back to the apartment complex, so he chooses to shoot Branzy a text through his watch with minimal faults and maximum effort. He plods over to a separated room, the bar, and trudges to sit on the couch next to the wall. The fumes of liquor intoxicates the air while a gold-trimmed bartender sits behind the bar.

Clown isn't drinking age, believe it or not, and he'd rather not get wasted right after a mission, so he leaves the gin and rum alone, resting his arm on the armrest.

He won't sleep. Just.. closing his eyes for a bit. Rest his eyelids. Yeah.

⨝

“Back here again, so soon?”

Percival blinks blearily, rubbing his eyes. Barely conscious, but the sun is dipping below the horizon at a rapid pace and the sky is a muted gold. Perci can barely hear a thing, almost like he's underwater. Muffled by seafoam and the quiet swish of ocean waves.

Vibrant blue hair fills his senses, two piercing pink eyes stare right back at him.

“Y'know, I've been busy while you were gone.”

‘Who are you?’ he wants to say, but it's as if his mouth has been sewn shut, screwed together by tacky glue and a dream. Percival's eyes focus, finally, and he takes in his surroundings.

They're on a rooftop. Same one.

When was he ever on this rooftop before?

“I've made new friends. This vigilantism stuff is easy!” The girl smiles. It's sharp, uncanny, inhuman. But somewhat nostalgic, as if he'd seen it before. He just can't place his finger on it.

Her eyes grow dull, smile melting back into that unmoving expression just as before. “I know we'll meet again, just you wait, Clown.”

“..Just you wait.”

⨝

Erebus grunts, struggling with the pages of a hard cover book. The edges are yellowed and the candlelight dips the dark room into an orange haze. Chalk dust stains his fingers white, contrasting the black of his gloves.

He draws the last line of a pentagram, hands trembling with focus as he looks back at the scripture, eyes tracing the sacred texts like they hold the secret to every door in the universe.

Because they do.

Erebus mutters the chants scrawled down in the pamphlet, gaze trained on Jacob's Star.

“Dii hunc circulum benedicant.

Amicus meus oriatur—

—sicut sol mane

et regnabit sicut luna—

—obscurus in caelo

Dii hunc circulum benedicant.

Oriatur.”

And his vision collapses with the flash of light that follows.

Chapter Text

Clown loves Branzy. He really does. Surreptitiously, but he still does. Doesn’t mean he’ll always oblige to any occasion which Branzy has abruptly announced—which, in this case, is a Halloween party. In Clown’s honest opinion, he doesn’t mind dressing up and socializing, heck, he enjoys Halloween maybe a tad bit more than the normal person, but this so-called gathering happens to be a college party; consisting of people he’s never even met before, aside from Rekrap, whom of which won’t even properly recognize Clown without the mask.

“Oh c’mon, Clown. All you gotta do is be present.” Branzy says, a naive frown crumpling the hopeful grin on his lips. Clown can’t possibly deny the pang of guilt that claws at the edges of a decayed heart. Honestly, who can deny Branzy at all? He’s far too deep in the rabbit hole that is friendship, which is concerning, considering his fair amount of failed relationships.

‘I’m busy.’ Clown wants to say, but the words tumble right out of his gullible mouth before he can stop them. “Fine. I don’t have a costume, though.” He utters, catching himself before continuing to speak. It’s a lost cause to take words back now, especially while watching the way Branzy’s demeanor shifts gleefully. The kicked puppy act drops, and now Branzy just looks extremely jubilant.

He scrambles on his feet, running off to his room like a critter skittering around a family’s home. “I’ve got a spare one somewhere here! I came prepared!” Branzy calls. The sound of fabric shuffling and clothes tumbling out of a closet crescendo. Clown sighs, shaking his head in what could be labeled as amused affection, but he’d rather not tackle such labels when he’s too busy dreading what Branzy could have haply thrown together a day—or a few hours, technically— before the aforementioned festivity.

Clown follows after Branzy, peeking round the corner of the doorframe to see a pile of garments tossed haphazardly onto the carpeted floor, with the culprit sifting through them with rapt attention. Branzy plucks a couple garbs from his heap of colorful textile. Most notably, a silky black cloak with a red inner layer made of velvet, a cream colored blouse, a dark vest with golden accents, and some black dress pants.

“..A vampire?” Clown says blandly, Branzy grinning up at him with barely concealed mirth.

“You betcha.”

“And I suppose you are..?”

“An angel.” Branzy says pridefully, bringing his hands together in a prayerful position, while Clown stares on with obvious skepticism. Even for Branzy, that seems awfully tame, and Clown can’t help but wonder if it’s a mere cover up for a crazier stunt. Because Branzy doesn’t seem like someone who would dress up as an angel on Halloween, of all days.

He picks up on this quite quickly, obviously, as Branzy pouts petulantly. “Not a normal angel. You think so lowly of me, Clown.” He scoffs, before turning to the closet and drawing a basket out of a small nook in its corner.

Clown raises an eyebrow. What else could possibly be the outcome of an angel costume if not for the common stereotype? Branzy smiles back at him, fishing out a couple styrofoam rings. His sarcastic disbelief quickly dissolved into barely sheathed bewildered understanding. The rings were bejeweled in plastic gems that gleamed in the sunlight that passed through the window, imperfectly scrawled eyes that reminisced of Branzy’s own, a vibrant purple shade glossed over by some sort of varnish, mod podge, upon Clown’s scan of Branzy’s room, spotting the cluttered desk in the corner.

“A.. biblical angel?” He guesses, raising an eyebrow. He wouldn’t put it past Branzy to do something as eccentric as religious imagery as his Halloween costume, especially considering the actuality of his own costume—also chosen by Branzy himself—is very thoroughly weaved with Christianic beliefs and symbolism. This is only strengthened when Branzy nods, digging through the mound of his clothing to present Clown a specially tailored robe, a pure, pearly white that greatly compliments Branzy’s hair and complexion, adorned with golden accents that run along the neck and bottom, and a small train attached to the back.

Branzy beams, sieving through the small hamper and extracting a halo—presumably Branzy-made, taking into consideration the wire is the same as the excess cord he has lying around in his drawers, recalling the day Clown found out he was a hero. That day was also the day he’d realized he wanted to be a villain. Good memories, overall. Faux fur wraps around the wire, and Clown manages to peep at LED lights that peek outside of the colorless fur. A headband follows, hand-made wings constructed of thick felt, golden specks painted on, and cardboard. Cable carefully attaches the false appendages to the headband.

Clown takes a moment to admire Branzy’s expertise in modeling, not only in his engineering projects, but the hand-crafted designs that he designs, despite looking shoddy up close, they look well made and expertly produced. 

He also takes a moment to imagine Branzy in the costume, but don’t mind that. That’s for Clown.

“I imagine this isn’t the full costume?” Clown says, raising an eyebrow, watching as Branzy neatly folds the articles of clothing and stuffs them back into the basket. His eyes trail after Branzy’s face, tracing each little detail, specifically the scar under his eye, before looking back towards the receptacle.

Branzy nods. “Yeah. I think I’ll go thrifting with Rek later, unless you care to join?” He smiles, radiant and sly. Clown looks away, to save himself the fluster, he tells himself. But really, it's because he'll end up agreeing to yet another outing, and he's already tired enough from his hours at the Mafia. Branzy's lucky enough to have holidays from both the Hero Committee and college, while Clown has to break into a big, multi-million dollar company every other week. It's tough being painted as a villain, it really is. 

Despite being categorized into the role of a villain, along with his fellow mafia members, they seem a lot more like anti-heroes. Clown and Sanctity have dabbled in such topics once or twice before, never lingering too long. After all, he'd signed up to be a villain.

“No, sorry. I'll be fine here.” Clown says, despite the desire to accompany Branzy wherever he could possibly go. He also doesn't want to risk the chance of Rekrap recognizing him so quickly, he might as well stay home. It is also at this moment where Clown realizes he might be too attached to this silver fox prick—not a prick, Branzy is perfect—maybe way too attached, especially for a villain.

The whirring of the air conditioning is the only noise aside from the rustling of clothing and their soft breathing as they sit in a comfortable silence. Matter of fact, maybe the air conditioner is making too much for a ruckus. Clown will have to sort that out soon enough, but instead he wastes his time watching Branzy fold his clothes once more, tucking them into organized drawers in the closet. The slight tremble of Branzy’s fingers suggesting he’d had too much coffee this morning, and the lingering grin on his face endearing Clown way too much for just a roommate.

Clown snaps out of his lovesick stupor, saying a quick excuse before grabbing the costume Branzy had lent him and walking back to his room. He dumps the unusual garb onto his bed, closing the door of his quarters while bristling due to the graze of itchy lace that brushes against his skin while he deposits the ensemble unceremoniously onto the blankets. Clown sighs, before beginning to pluck through the outfit, glancing back at his ‘vanity’ of jewelry and grease paint.

He doesn’t mind going to a party, sure, but a college party of all things? Full of prospering engineers and tired students who’d much rather talk about their upcoming midterms than over the fruit punch that was almost always spiked? Now, Clown doesn’t have much experience with parties, nor college parties, for that matter, considering he hasn’t got a degree in anything, but he doubts it’ll be too enjoyable. He barely knows anyone there, and the chance of someone like Epimethius being there is way too high for Clown’s sake. But, he’ll make do. For Branzy, he tells himself.

For Branzy.

⨝

The rumble of voices buzzes in Clown’s ears, piercing his eardrums and making him wince. The fabric of the vampiric garments isn’t very pleasant to his skin, and he feels slightly out of place in a crowd full of strangers he hasn’t even seen in a picture frame. The only faces Clown can pick out from the costume-wearing horde are Rekrap—someone he knew would be there, courtesy of Branzy—and Branzy himself. Clown adorns earrings of silver, shaped like stakes, and red paint flicked on their sharp edges—Branzy’s idea once more.

If he was truly a vampire, they’d be searing through his earlobes and burning the skin of his shoulders once they’d fallen through the piercings.

Branzy is glowing. Literally and figuratively, the LED lights of his halo light up the somewhat dimmed room, competing with the jack-o-lantern fairy lights which line the walls. Rekrap stands beside him, dressed up as… a warden? Not the prison kind, anyway. The Minecraft kind, Branzy supplies as they chat about some world—a Minecraft one—laughing and chittering like teenagers. Because they were. Well, technically young adults, but who really uses that title anyway? Preachers? This party surely wasn’t a place for preachers nor pastors, Clown notes as he directs his eyes to the blood red fruit punch labeled ‘human blood’ with a small inscription under the note— ‘not really blood LOL’—scrawled in handwriting that seemed oddly familiar.

“Ooh, shit! Is that—mphpmphhhhh?!” An annoyingly familiar voice squabbles, another’s hand clamped over their mouth once they’d met eyes. White, void-ish eyes stare right back at him, while another pair, red, glare at the former.

Ah. Epimethius. And Aamon, Clown notes. He didn’t know they went to college. His best guess might've been that they'd been senior high schoolers. Clown lets out a sigh, sparing a quick glance to Branzy and Rekrap, before leaving his comfort zone—like a baby bird leaving the nest—and walking up to the two who were making fools of themselves, wrestling at the edge of the crowd, almost knocking over a vase, while Epimethius shares a sheepish grin.

Clown hasn't seen Aamon much in the base, in fact, he might have only heard stories of the spectacle. He hasn’t seen Aamon fight either, which is an odd occurrence. Clown would’ve guessed he’d have to fight alongside Aamon sometime earlier this month. There have been rumors of the devil winning a fight while drugged. He doesn’t believe this as much as the others, but it must be from their own previous experiences.

Distantly, Clown realizes Epimethius might just be the host of this party, judging by the questionable decor and the note on the fruit punch bowl.

“Epimethius,” He greets, monotonous as he looks at the way Aamon has apprehended Epimethius in a headlock that rivals a WWE wrestler’s chokehold. Epimethius grins at Clown, prying red clawed hands off his throat to cheerily address Clown. Aamon is dressed up as, no surprise, a demon, while Epimethius has garbed himself in a costume of.. Goofy’s son?

Clown had learned better not to question Epimethius’ antics right around this point, staring as he, Epimethius, flicks shades down onto his nose—only to miss and have the sunglasses—Which he was wearing in a dark room—clatter to the ground with a noise that both Clown and Aamon wince at. 

“Hey dude! And yeah, it’s Spoke around these parts.” Spoke chuckles quote unquote, ‘nonchalantly’, as he’s said so many times. “Spoke Isher, if you will.” 

Wow, Epimethius really doesn’t care about his credentials, does he?

“Mapicc.” Aamon adds, arms crossed while a demon tail lashes behind him. Clown wonders if it’s a facade, or if Aamon just so happens to have a tail perfect for this very occasion. He supposes it would just be convenient to dress up as your own species for Halloween, but can’t anyone put in the actual effort to their craft?

Not like Clown is talking, anyway. Branzy picked out this costume for him and he will gladly wear it—even if the wrist cuffs tick him the wrong way and the jabot is slightly uncomfortable. It's not like he's wearing his mask as well, he's acutely surprised the two have even recognized him. Well, just Spoke, he supposes.

“..Perci.” Clown says decidedly, bringing his fingers to graze the painted skin of his visage, red-brown eyes flickering back to Branzy for a solid moment before returning to the duo. “Percival. I prefer Perci.” He corrects himself, clearing his throat. Spoke grins, prying himself from Mapicc’s grasp to offer Clown a hand—to shake.

Clown stares at the hand for a while, before raising his own, as they shake on… nothing in particular.

“You've found friends?” Branzy's voice cuts the awkward silence as Clown retracts his hand, dusting it off on his slacks. Branzy rapidly approaches, skipping past the crowd of drunk college kids and a fallen red cup. He beams, while Clown looks back to see Rekrap moving on to yet another conversation, just not with Branzy.

“I suppose you could call it that.” Clown hums, watching intently as a flicker of recognition dawns upon Spoke’s eyes, grin widening almost uncannily. He grimaces inwardly. This was almost certainly going to be an embarrassing interaction, at least for himself, if not for the collective party. He fiddles with the hem of his coat, gloved fingers catching on the golden buttons.

“You're…” Spoke pauses for a moment, tongue peeking out his lips in thought before snapping his fingers. “Daedalus! Right?” He plants his hands on his hips, wide legged jorts swaying slightly at the motion.

“Oh, we've met?” Branzy tilts his head.

“..When you healed Sanctity.” Clown supplies, eyebrows raised in what could almost be labeled as fond amusement. Branzy grins sheepishly, throwing up a thumbs up, his other hand rubbing at the back of his neck. Clown clears his throat (phlegm, ew) before introducing each party.

“Spoke, Mapicc, this is Branzy. Branzy, this is Spoke and Mapicc.” Clown says, having taken the liberty of acquainting this small group of individuals from different social classes—I.E., two villains and one hero. He'll just have to make sure none of them end up trying to start a skirmish with his one and only roommate. It'd be unfortunate to lose the one who actually owns the apartment he squats in.

“Nice to meet you guys!” Branzy greets, ever the optimist. The air smells vaguely of gun powder and poorly hidden alcohol, accompanied by the musk of sweat and heady perfume. The floor is stained with red punch that must be a handful to scrub out of the grout and there have been two incidents he nearly witnessed happen due to an imperfectly placed ceramic collection.

“Perci, you guys not gonna go for a drink?” Mapicc offers, the spaded tail curling around his ankle while Branzy chuckles abashedly, the lively purple of his irises turned a muddy indigo from the lantern lighting. He and Clown politely decline, with Perci watching as a potted plant nearly tumbles off a counter when a raven-haired college student sweeps past it to reach his friend—a pale white schemed freshman—presumably dressed as a ghost.

“No, thank you.” Branzy says softly, sheepish despite the party being his idea. Though, Clown can't exactly blame him. The sleeves Branzy is wearing seem to be an irritating tulle fabric that Clown would probably have a tantrum in if he'd ever been given such textile as a toddler. Then again, toddlers hate everything and everyone. Which is understandable.

While Branzy guides Clown through a sea of alcohol-driven teenagers, one head of hair catches his eye.

A vibrant, ocean rivaling blue. Wavy hair that Clown has deemed too familiar, and a complexion undeniably near. When the anomaly turns to face his direction, he can only see what appears to be dread—recognition dawn on her face. Kaboodle.

Branzy tugs on his wrist, with Clown too busy stuck in a stupor, he hadn't noticed he'd been hindering Branzy from moving. So, he keeps walking, despite the way his eyes keep trailing back to the sister he might have abandoned, and the vigilante he might have conjured. The scourge who'd nearly killed Sanctity—the person who fled a crime scene.

Clown closes his eyes and breathes, focusing his eyes and returning them onto the back of Branzy's neck, trailing the small sliver of skin that shows past the gold and white scarf he'd thrifted just this afternoon. Clown is not Percival, nor is he the brother that ran away from a dysfunctional home and left his sister. He is Clownpierce, feared villain of Leven Stelen and scythe wielder.

But when Kaboodle starts towards the pair, Clown's feet glue to the ground like someone had put super glue on his soles before they'd gone out.

“Perci?” Branzy calls, though Clown is too busy dreading what's to come next when Kaboodle saunters up in front of the two like she's owed an apology. Maybe because she is owed an apology, but Kab would've been foolish to think he'd ever apologize.

“Clown?”

“Is it.. you?” Kaboodle mutters, tucking a hair behind her ear, though it's more likely to keep her hands busy before she starts clenching her fists. Branzy looks back and forth between the two siblings—whom he didn't even know were siblings. Which was reasonable, they looked nothing alike now. Kaboodle is brash and skittish, while Clown is more coordinated and contemplative.

In the past, Clown would've been impulsive, reckless while he stumbles into brawl after brawl, all for Kab.

“Um,” Clown says intelligently. “It is. Yeah—Yeah, it is me.” The horde around them has quieted, eyes landing on the peculiar duo in the middle of the room. Kaboodle, dressed in snow bunny blues, fur draped across her shoulders like a shawl and bright pink eyes sharp like a blade. Clown, garbed in reds and blacks, golden accents glinting in the limelight of attention.

They stare at each other. Like a stray dog and a poodle, two sides of the wrong coin.

“You—.. it.. just— just can't be you. I mean, like, dude, imagine the one time I reunite with my dead brother is at a Halloween party?” Kaboodle laughs, though it's hollow, and it takes Clown back to the scene when they'd first argued—when Kaboodle first snapped. How Clown had fled the scene like a coward then killed a man in cold blood the moment after—how much of a terrible brother he might be.

“Clo.. Clown, do you know this person?” Branzy interjects, joining back to Clown's side and practically gluing himself to it, watching as the sardonic glint in Kaboodle’s draconic eyes fades into something too familiar—too reminiscent of the day Clown ran away.

He grits his teeth, chewing through the first layer of the skin of his cheek, unfazed by the flood of iron that overcomes his taste buds. “I'm not dead.” Clown says, forcing himself to sit still—to not show as much emotion he might be expressing inwardly. “It's complicated.” Kaboodle's eyebrows furrow further, stepping backwards while Spoke and Mapicc stare at the scene.

“I thought you'd died, Clown. That's—.. Why? Just, why, dude, there were so many other options!” Kaboodle laughs, just like earlier, it's hollow, incredulous to his decisions. Like she's searching for an answer that Clown himself might not even know. The silence that follows a few seconds after is almost deafening, save for the recording of videos. Clown hates college students.

‘Because I'm a coward,’ Clown wants to say, but the words get stuck in a lump in his throat while he fights a losing battle with pride. So he puts his ruse back on, the facade flowing back into his veins like a mask—the mask he doesn't have right now. He'd conjure a cheap alteration, but that'd be counterproductive, only serving to expose himself more.

“Why should it matter?” It was clear the words he'd just uttered were the wrong answer, as Branzy kicks the heel of his shoe and Kaboodle displays more of her distrust freely.

“Why should it— Why should it matter?” Kaboodle scoffs, almost as if she was debating hysterics, just to see if she'd get an actual answer. “Maybe it matters because I'll start thinking you're dead if you don't come home in like 5 days? It's— it's been actual months, Clown! And then you just show up at some party?” She argues, and Clown can't bring himself to try and contradict her points, because she is right. 

“I'm sorry.” Clown apologizes, but his tone doesn't help at all. He sounds stern, but it's only because he's too busy holding himself back—keeping himself in check while the fuel only strengthens the fire.

“Sorry—?! Sorry isn't gonna cut it for being missing for months, Clown! Do you think maybe I'd somehow magically come up with the conclusion you're just on vacation?” Kab hisses, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, making a scene. Because it was all just about making a scene, not about a foolish brother who cares only about himself.

“I was planning to come back eventually.” Clown says quietly, and he knows that an answer like that is only going to get Kaboodle more frustrated, but how can he apologize properly without his pride at risk—his reputation at risk? The crowd looms over their two figures that look nothing alike and camera flashes flicker among themselves, crumbling Clown’s self esteem and the retorts that come with it.

“Eventually?” Kaboodle spits, furiously rubbing at her eyes like she’s just come back from a swimming pool. “That’s ridiculous, Clown, and you know it.” She says, and Clown has to bite back a harsh retort, because hadn’t Kaboodle’s desire to become a vigilante been just as if not more ridiculous than his attempt at running away from their lives, saving them the trouble? Had he been so ridiculous for hitting the road because of a flawed living environment, right as he’d come of age? Clown found it utterly preposterous.

“That’s rich, Kab. I thought you’d be happy to see me again.” He says bitterly, crossing his arms like he had all the rights to. Kaboodle’s face—once hopeful, youthful—now sagging with the stress only vigilantism can bring—crumbles, as if she'd had the hope beforehand, that her own brother could ever be anything other than arrogant.

Because Clown had not been as arrogant before, of course. Expectations derive from reality—or, well—the past. At one point, he'd actually been.. a brother. Someone who was there for Kab, to care for her while their parents exchanged slurs and words he'd rather not repeat. Now, he's just a stick in the mud. Unmoving, unchanging, and covered in filth. Worms writhe inside his pores like the guilt that showers Clown every time he even dares to think about the past he'd had.

A past which was ultimately less pleasant than the present he has now.

Kaboodle's face wrinkles with her loss of faith, mirroring the loss of her brother. Clown would've, at some point in the past, soothed her. Cradled her like he did when their parents were too busy high off their asses to feed Kab a milk bottle, or how he'd had to fish her birth certificate out of a junk drawer that was bound to be thrown out.

Only now does Clown remain indifferent. Not to Kab, but to his emotions. He holds back the pouring fountain of his heart, threatening to overfill with the wishes, hopes, dreams that had been tossed in like spare pennies, change in some person's pocket. Clown and a coin share two similarities. Clown and coin start with the same letter, and they're also both two faced—an afterthought he realizes just before Kab starts speaking.

“I am.” Kaboodle breathes, voice creaking with the emotion she dares to show, one of her liabilities, despite her expertise in manipulation. She's just too emotional when it comes to people she'd trusted, once upon a time. And now, Clown must hold an Oscar for how good (or bad) of a job he's doing at keeping his expression cold—the stoic shell he claims to be.

Branzy is still caught between the scene, standing beside Clown like a defense attorney who has no reason to interject, who is fighting a losing battle for the sorest loser of all time. Clown would love to let his pride chip away like paint flakes, but he has a reputation to uphold. Maybe he is selfish—to care about a reputation rather than to side with his sister—to actually reunite, rather than exchange passive aggressive comments.

“I just can't be happy when you're being so— so selfish, Clown. I thought you'd.. I don't know, smile a little? Show me that you actually care?” Kaboodle runs a hand through her hair, choking on the phlegm that builds in her throat with every passing second—either from her tears or from the abundance of sweets—of which are now left abandoned. Clown feels a pang of shame surge through his gut, but schools his expression back into neutrality before she’d gotten the chance to blink.

Selfish.

 ’A person who is concerned excessively or exclusively with their own welfare, advantage, or pleasure without regard for others’.

Now, Clown was no English professor, but he knew he checked at least a few of those boxes. “I do care, Kaboodle. The thing is, you’re just too focused on your emotions to realize it.” He says, because he’s only ever known how to play offense. He loses a few pawns each round, maybe a rook or bishop. Lose his morality, lose his sense of a deity higher on the hierarchy than him. He shovels spoons of apathy down his throat and forces it down his gullet like some sort of morbid supper.

“Are you serious?” Kaboodle sniffs, swiping under her eyes to chase away the saline droplets that threaten to fall. She oddly resembles the painting—’The Fallen Angel’—eyes red rimmed like the grease paint Clown greedily smears across his visage with each mission given to him, despite the mask he has on. “Why can’t you just—.. Just take accountability? Why do I have to wring answers out of you, why is it so difficult?” She questions, and Clown only has one answer. It’s been stated before, and it’ll be stated again.

He’s an idiot. A bastard—a coward.

Everything he needs to be to crawl out of the pot alive. The pot that is a social circle of heroes, villains, vigilantes alike. He would’ve been dead or destitute—if he were someone less astute. He walks in paths of golden bricks and showers in diamonds. Clown kills to feed himself, and yet he’s already gorged on lobster dinners and medium rare steak. A glutton for blood and yet he’s got veins full of the such. If he were less selfish, he might as well be a branch under someone’s foot. Easily snapped. He might’ve been spineless, pushed over by a gust of wind, had he not beheaded the man on the day he met Branzy.

And now, Clown is sorry. Terribly sorry. But something his smooth, sanded down brain can’t comprehend, is apologizing. He might as well die before he ever utters an apology to anyone but Branzy, considering his wonderfully supplied superiority complex which stands on stilts of brass and copper, oxidizing with the steps he takes toward a fortune that's too high up on the shelf. 

But Clown does not choose to live with the guilt of another family member lost—not after Minute. Especially not after Minute, despite the hassle it is to rustle through his memory files and pluck out a single, foggy memory of blank, white eyes being taken away from him, just before Kaboodle was born.

He vaguely remembers the way he’d been yanked away by their father, scolded for whatever reason. Clown remembers the way he’d stayed silent, sitting beside his mother’s hospital bed, recollection fuzzy while his brother is pushed out the door. Clown snaps back to reality soon enough, shaking his head while he stares back into the once vibrant pink eyes now turned into a muddy magenta.

“..I.. I apologize, Kaboodle.” He says, and Kaboodle’s eyes nearly blow wide with bewilderment, not expecting the abrupt shift in attitude. Clown would’ve loaded and cocked his gun with yet another passive aggressive comment, had his memories—memory, singular—not returned so suddenly. Had the tiny little metal cogs in his mind not turned, he might’ve just ended up concluding the argument—and the party, nobody wants to drink after that much familial drama—with one less sibling and a red cup full of mystery juice that spoke probably concocted.

“...Really?” Kaboodle mutters, that gleam in her eye returning—or maybe it’s just the light of the room reflecting. Either way, she seems much more hopeful. Clown could easily crush the faith, hope in her eyes, like some little bug he couldn’t care less about, and yet, he has no reason to. The tremble of her voice expresses her unreasonable ambition, and the face of hurt falls away, leaving only the vessel of a young girl—too young for her own profession.

“Really, Kab.” Clown affirms, and for the one time in his life, he takes a step forward. A step forward to repentance, or at least, something akin to repentance. He can feel the lingering gazes of incredulity burning holes into the back of his neck, a certain pair belonging to shades of purple and two others of a void-ish white, and two of vermillion which rival a kindling hearth. Clown pays them no mind, instead choosing to speak further, and for once, it doesn’t sear another tick into the grooves of his brain. “I’m.. sorry. Genuinely, maybe.”

A small smile slithers its way to Kaboodle’s unmasked visage, mimicking the one of an equally as small girl, who Clown feels it’s too late to mention. Kaboodle is just a kid, still the kid Clown cradles in his chest like a second heart, beating painfully in time with the breaths he takes. Maybe, now it’ll be less painful. Maybe, now he’ll actually repair something, rather than break it down into much smaller fragments, turn it into something beautiful rather than vulgar.

“...Good.” Kaboodle sighs, shoulders drooping the moment the tension unwinds from them. Clown doesn’t have the heart to mirror her, perhaps because of the unruly crowd of teenagers that probably know more slang than words they know in the urban dictionary, or perhaps because of the way Branzy exhales in relief, tugging on Clown’s waistcoat like a horserider to reins.

“I can’t forgive you.” She adds, and Clown’s ego takes a hit, but he’s the only one to blame. Who is Clown to expect Kaboodle to immediately accept a half-hearted apology at most, especially while Clown had been thinking of someone else entirely?

“I understand.” Clown says, being the bigger person, literally and figuratively, while the smile Kaboodle wears, which bears a heavy resemblance to the one she donned in their early childhood years, ebbs at Clown’s guilty conscience. His shame falls away into reminiscence of simpler days they shared in a room with a bunk bed that’d been much older than themselves.

“...You’re back.” Kaboodle mutters under her breath, taking a step back, before regrouping with the crowd, walking back to the person she’d been talking to beforehand, and now Clown feels like he sticks out like a sore thumb in fabric he considers itchy and lace wrist cuffs he’d rather not be wearing. So Clown goes back to Branzy, which isn’t long at all, considering he’d been at his side the entire argument turned into an apology.

“You’ve got a sister?” Branzy whisper-shouts, while they walk to the exit of Spoke’s very, very well crafted party, while the host himself yells at them to come back soon.

⋈

Clown slumps onto their couch, kicking off boots while Branzy whines about his vision being blue tinted because of the horrendous lighting of the party.