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.