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.”