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.”