The Remaining Jester Card - RachelGreenery (2024)

Chapter Text

“Nothing useful so far. The higher ups are getting frustrated.”

It’s been five days since Branzy’s arrest.

All missions to go to the Casino had ceased ever since the ambush. They haven’t heard anything from the Casino that might’ve indicated they’ve noticed the loss of one of their employees. The commission is in the process of planning an attack to shut it down once and for all. Despite that, from what Clown’s heard they haven’t fully decided whether it’s wise to attack so soon, and apparently it’s a big topic now that’s still needing a lot of discussion before an official order will be finalized.

They’ve still not found a trace about Leo’s whereabouts or how he fared after the Casino ambush. It’s nigh impossible to track down where he is or what he did after attempting to ambush Zam. He didn’t come out of there. It’s possible that he’s gone into hiding or is now helping the Casino prepare.

(Clown can’t be fully bothered to care about him anymore – not a strand of anything left for them, just a little tinge of bitterness.

He was gone, Clown knew that. Been gone for years.)

“Really? Nothing?” he asks.

“Yeah, the guy’s ridiculous, I tell you that,” Planet sighs. He’s one of the people the commission has dragged into the whole interrogation fiasco. He’s telling Clown what’s been going on since the other had asked, “There’s no way he’s not acting dumb, but we’ve put the truth detector on him and it seems like he just finds some convenient way to evade questions- like, he just starts talking about completely unrelated subjects, he’s really good at doing that. We’ve even resorted to… er. Nevermind. Case and point, we’ve gotten nothing so far. The Commission isn’t too happy about it.”

Planet doesn’t need to finish whatever he was saying. They both knew how demanding the commission can get when they don’t get what they want. Clown hates the feelings of worry that start blooming in his stomach.

(“How is he doing?” Clown almost asks, but stops himself.

No, he can’t worry about him. It’s done. It’s done.

It’s done. He knows it’s done. The Casino mission is done. He shouldn’t even think about it anymore.)

“Sounds really stubborn,” He comments, closer to a murmur.

“He is!” Then, Planet pauses, seeming hesitant on whether or not he should really bring up what he’s about to say, “Well, he did make a request. He wants to talk to you.”

Clown perks up instantly hearing that.

“ He does? ” He questions, a little too fast. A few seconds after, he realizes how eager he sounded. Embarrassed but hoping it’s not obvious, he regathers composure. “Why?”

Planet either didn’t notice, didn’t care, or is smart enough to act like he didn’t see Clown’s earlier outburst, and instead contemplates it alongside him.

“We’re not sure, maybe he just feels closest to you because of the mission? Did anything happen between you two while it was going on?”

(“We flirted together and I’m pretty sure he knew who I was long before this mission concluded.”)

“Not necessarily, no,” Is what he says.

Planet shrugs, nodding. “Well, you might get asked by the commission to come in sooner or later. They don’t really want to appeal to his demands, but they also don’t want to waste too much time. Best be prepared for that, Clown.”

The very thought of being interrogated about this mission by the commission makes him sick to his stomach. Being stuck in a room, having to try to bounce around the things he did during the mission, trying to not mention any of the details he would rather never talk about – makes him sick . Yet he knows the commission, and he knows it will happen.

He wants this mission to be done and over with already. It should already have been done and over. He wonders just how much Branzy has spit out – especially about him.

(He wishes he could stop thinking about it, for just thinking about it almost completely sends his mind into a spiral.

He wants to be delusional, to believe that Branzy still has no idea that ‘Pierce’ was Clownpierce – that he hasn’t provided any information about that to the commission and the commission hasn’t tried to fish out anything about it.

Yet he should know better than this, he knows that Branzy most likely already knew, and that thought alone breaks something inside of him. The thought of having to visit – to talk to him after that mask has been taken off, having to show who he really is–)

Clown belatedly realizes that Planet had been talking throughout his thinking, and tries to focus back on the conversation and whatever the superhero has been talking about.

“-says he wasn’t born with a superpower, but he’s supposedly a employee of Blackhearts – he’s commonly known for deceit, let our guards down and you never know, maybe he has some form of mental superpower,” the hero informs, “Working with Blackhearts means he might also be tied to the death syndicate, and they’ve been known to be able to somehow give people superpowers. We’re still not entirely sure how that works, but it has happened, meaning any information we might’ve found on his legal file could be outdated now.”

Refocusing, he considers that, and strangely, that’s the first time the thought of Branzy even having a superpower comes to mind. He really should’ve thought about the possibility at some point – Branzy having a superpower would make sense.

(...would it? He’s actually not too sure. Does it make sense? He doesn’t remember ever seeing him do anything that could be related to a superpower. Suggestion? Perhaps, though that just feels like he’s looking for excuses for the hole he dug himself in.

No. He knows his actions were his own. He can’t put the blame for chasing a flame, following that faux warmth like a hungry moth on anyone but himself.)

“I’ll…” He pauses, “I’ll make sure I think about it.”

Planet shrugs, getting off the lounge seat, “Sure. Good afternoon, Clown, I’m going home now.”

Clown doesn’t say goodbye, and not another moment the hero is out of the lounge, leaving him alone to sit there with his thoughts.

He does think about what he was just told. Setting aside the displeasure of having to deal with the commission – he could be visiting Branzy. He could.

He shouldn’t, he really shouldn’t. (But he could.)

Does he want to? It’s hard to tell – he doesn’t know. What he does know is that he doesn’t want to think about what might happen if they meet in the surveillance of the commission – and he doesn’t intend to find out. Alright. That’s his conclusion, he’s going to hope the commission doesn’t approach him, and he never has to be set face to face with the silver haired casino host ever again. End of story.

(Clown ignores the part of him that’s convincing him to go. He can’t go. He won’t. He won’t unless he’s forced to go.)

Having enough of hearing himself think, he gets up to leave the lounge. But as he stands up, the door to the room opens up from the other side, and someone walks in. The one singular person he has actively been trying hard to avoid. The one person he does not want to see.

Prince Zam stops him as he’s leaving, with arms crossed and a serious expression. Clown internally curses.

He has not spoken to the hero ever since their last meeting during the aftermath of the Casino ambush. Zam was not involved in Branzy’s arrest, as he was – and still is judging from his still bandaged leg – recovering from the accidental injury he sustained from the ambush. Clown was really hoping that he’d be gone for longer.

“So, you’re thinking of going, Clown?” The hero asks, and though he masks it with casualness, Clown can hear the tension in his voice. He looks conflicted – one might say worried, but Clown wouldn’t. Clown doesn't.

(“Of course not.”)

“I…” Despite already knowing the words he should reply with, he finds himself trailing off with lessening confidence. Then, he stops.

After moments of Clown not saying anything, Zam narrows his eyes. "Are you?”

“I’m interested in hearing what he has to say. Especially since, well,” He plays it off, internally wondering why he isn’t just saying a very simple no, “He probably knows me now.”

(That’s a bullsh*t reason – both of them knew it. Both agreed on how the Casino already knew who they were, both knew about how Leo had betrayed them, that it was lucky they even got out of there alive and that they should’ve left sooner.)

Zam is visibly displeased. “Clown, if you don't try to forget about him, you won't be able to focus when we need to attack the place.”

He grumbles, “I know that, Zam."

“Yet here you are.”

In no time, the atmosphere in the lounge became downright unpleasant, and it feels as if the temperature dropped as the cordiality and formality also dropped.

“I was right, wasn't I?” Zam laughs, humorless. “You liked the mission. You like him.”

There’s more to those words, especially in the last sentence. More than what Clown ever wants to unpack from it.

He balls his fist, glaring, "Shut up."

Zam opens his mouth, but then, apparently the hero realizes he’s getting too hostile too quickly, and he shuts his mouth back up. He breathes, seeming to try and calm himself down to actually communicate what he wants to say.

It's with visible disdain when he starts talking again, “Listen – ok? I hate you, don’t get me wrong. I despise you and everything you are – everything you’ve done , Clown,” The superhero spits out, spiteful as he’s ever been, but more so Clown realizes he sounds terrified, “But you’re clearly on the edge of doing something. Something stupid.”

(Clown could feel the hero’s genuine worry, and distantly remembers that they used to be friends. But that’s now irrelevant.)

He scoffs, more irritated than anything else, “Oh, of course you would know the most about stupid. Pardon, allow me to consult with the expert."

Zam gets agitated at his mocking, “I’m just trying to help -”

“And I don’t need your help, Zam. Leave me alone," He snaps.

Clown realizes how unfriendly he’s acting, and how irrational it might be for him to feel this defensive, even with Zam’s usual hostility towards him. It should’ve improved by now, they were able to hold conversations without making any snarky remarks towards each other back when they were in the mission together. The tension didn't fully dissipate between them, but it was getting better at some point.

But as he's been in this mission from the beginning alongside Clown, Zam might’ve seen the signs.

(Of course he’s seen the signs. And he knows Clown is on the verge of something. That doesn’t make Clown feel any less annoyed at how he just came in here barging as if he knew any better about all of this. As if he knew Clown, when he knows that he doesn’t.)

The blond hero tries to say something else, visibly trying to come up with more arguments, but then the realization dawns upon him that this conversation isn’t going to go anywhere.

Zam gives up, and just grumbles as he turns to leave. “Whatever, then.”

And Clown doesn’t try to stop him. He watches Zam leave, and stays standing there.

(He’s not going to do anything stupid, he convinces himself.

It’s over, afterall.

It’s done, isn’t it?)

---

The days passed on as they used to. His assassination missions never ceased, but now, each time he does, he is reminded of the encounter he had in those backdoors of the Casino, surrounded by blood, and the beaming eyes that looked at him as if he was the most beautiful mess to ever exist.

(He needs to stop thinking about him. He needs to not remember him. But it’s impossible to actually commit to that. It’s impossible to repress. How is he ever supposed to go back to normal after that experience?)

He’s gotten more updates, but nothing exciting has happened. Branzy still apparently isn’t saying anything, despite whatever the commission is putting him through. His request to see Clown also hasn’t ceased, but Clown doesn’t know enough about what’s going on to be worried about whether the requests seem suspicious to the commission. It should be suspicious.

Parrot came very late in the mission, meaning he probably doesn't know as much as Zam does. Clown doesn’t think Zam had talked about what happened at the Casino to the commission – not yet. But at this rate, Clown knows it’ll only be a matter of time. He doesn’t like thinking that.

(His resolve is weakening, but he knows he can’t go back if he does decide to visit. He knows it’s a trap. Once he triggers it, something bad will happen, and he’s not ready to make a decision on whether he wants that thing to happen.

He detests what the mission has done to him, hates how it made him indecisive about things. Made him think. He can’t go on any missions without thinking, seeing the blood and seeing his reflection in the puddles, seeing the reflections of that night. Seeing his unmasked face make that expression of shock.

In the back of his mind, he’s desperately trying to convince himself that he’s disgusted. He’s repulsed. It’s nothing else, he’s just repulsed at himself.)

He struggles to sleep. He rarely gets a moment of rest, and now he’s losing even that. Each time he lays to rest in his bed, he feels restless . He feels like something is going to happen, and he’ll miss it if he goes so far as to blink for too long. He feels that he can't, that he shouldn't rest. This decline of sleep is also causing him to decline in his performance.

It's so bad that even the commission is noticing his decline. They would never give him a break (The very idea is laughable), even after he almost died on one of his missions. He’ll be working until he dies, and he can’t keep hiding the resentment he feels. They just tossed him some sleeping pills. Helpful. Very helpful. Thank you, Metropolife Hero Commission.

(There are points where he thinks about it – he’s the one doing all the dirty work, so what would they do if he died? Would they find someone to replace him? Train someone else with bright dreams and force them to be the new killing machine?

Is surviving past this even worth it for him?)

---

“Heads or tails?”

“Tails!” A man can be heard boldly declaring.

“Heads!”

The crowd looks onwards in anticipation as the coin is tossed up into the air. Each with their breaths held in, watching the coin flips around while going up, stopping, then going back down and drops with a clatter onto the floor.

They all stood deadly still, as the host bent over to check the coin, then stood back up to clap grandly. “It’s tails!”

Cheers and claps erupted from around the room. Disbelieved gasps and whispers start making their way in the air.

“Seriously? Isn’t that the ninth time in a row he’s won?”

“He must be cheating! No way!”

“Someone seems to certainly be having fun,” An amused voice said from behind Clown.

The Casino was lively as ever that night. Another night of the mission, just like any other one would go. Clown’s watching as Zam has started a match which garnered the attention of the crowd. His opponent seems indignant, having suffered enough losses but is in too deep to back away as the stakes are once again doubled. Zam, on the other hand, seemed to get increasingly smug at his consecutive wins and how the crowd cheers for him.

Pierce hummed, “Hello, Vio.”

“Hello, Pierce,” the other replied, before looking back up to Sam. He made an interested noise. “Coin toss? Seems a bit less grand than what he usually plays.”

Pierce nodded in agreement, “Pretty sure he’s just flexing. He might be here for a while.”

“Absolutely scamming that person of their money. Go him, I guess,” Vio said, in thought, “Although it’d be bad if he keeps at this for too long and gets too co*cky. They might suspect foul play, which he’s definitely doing."

“I don’t know what you mean, this seems like a good time for you,” He offhandedly comments

Then, the cheer of the crowd erupted again, drowning out the conversation he’s having, and he clicked his tongue, “That’s ten in a row now. How fast do you think he’s gonna break the world record?”

“Well- I guess this is an opportune time-”

“Then get to it. Have fun.”

‘Vio’ rolled his eyes, but otherwise didn’t say anything else before he disappeared, vanishing into the crowd once more.

Minutes passed by and eventually, the bet was done. Slowly but surely, he watched as the crowd dispersed, one by one, back to where they came from. The place quieted down a little.

A moment later, Branzy and Sam became visible again, and they both seemed to be heading his way.

“How much did you win this time?” He asks the blond when they get into earshot.

“A lot, a lot!” Sam assured him, excited.

Even Branzy looked amazed by the outcome.

“Fourteen rounds in a row!” He told ‘Pierce’, bewildered, “That’s a new record here!”

Pierce eyed Sam with amusem*nt, “How lucky you must be, Sam, almost like a miracle. A blessing?”

Sam eyed him back, though disguised himself with a casual scoff, “Oh, shut up, Pierce.”

The tension between them did feel extremely lighter in the setting they’re in. As if neither have anything above their heads. They’re just two ‘friends’, visiting a Casino on a weekend to cool off together. Like they’re not investigating a large-scale crime operation that might make them disappear with no warning at the first mistake.

“You are scarily lucky – I think your opponent might’ve thought that I was helping you cheat!” Branzy agreed with Pierce. He then grimanced, “Which, obviously, is not ideal – but congrats regardless!”

He snickered lightly, and Sam muttered something under his breath comedically, still too giddy to actually be annoyed.

”I’ll be heading to the bar," He said after a moment.

“Don’t get drunk,” Pierce reminded him.

“Wasn’t planning on it!”

And so, Sam took off, leaving Pierce and Branzy alone back where they’re standing. They glanced at each other.

“Hey,” Pierce greeted first.

Branzy smiled in return, “Hey, Pierce! How have you been?”

He was always so pleasant, always friendly, but very animated, charismatic one might say.

“Pretty good. The Casino seems well too,” he said.

“Oh, nothing exciting. Same as always!” The host shrugged, “I’m happy to see you three have been coming back here often, though, always fun to see new reoccuring faces ready to mess up the ecosystem!”

“We’re happy to be here,” Pierce replied. It wasn’t meant to sound as genuine as it did, but he couldn’t stop himself from smiling regardless.

Abruptly, they heard a shouting match starting to erupt somewhere else in the Casino. It’s center seems to be at the bar, of course.

“Well, that’s a commotion!” Branzy commented, interested, “Come on, let’s go see what’s going on!”

He gently pulled Pierce along. Without resisting, Pierce followed.

---

“Clownpierce!”

He jolts upright and awake to find himself sitting in the waiting area inside of the Hero HQ.

For a moment, he is dazed, mind still fogged by exhaustion and drowsiness that he has to force himself to recall details as to where he is. He is aided by the fact that there is an annoyed official member in front of him – the one he was told to meet.

“Sleeping in the lounge?” the Official asks him, unamused, “You know we can’t have you getting ill, Clownpierce.”

Right. He’s here because he’d been called in for a briefing in the morning. He got the call, then went there early because he had nothing else to do. Feeling stagnant and doing nothing felt worse than going on missions and doing stuff, as although the night haunts him, having something to focus on, no matter how much worse it made him feel in his quiet times.

So he arrived early, and apparently dozed off. Concerning, because that is very uncharacteristic of him. He must've been really tired.

He stands from his seat. His voice is first quiet, but he forces himself to sound coherent and clear.

“Sorry, sir, I’ve been having trouble getting rest," He says, straightening up his posture.

That doesn't seem to satisfy the official.

“As you’ve said, yes. We’ve provided you with sleeping pills. You’ve got no excuse to be tired now.”

He nods complacently. The official then switches the topic.

“Maybe you’ve heard, but Branzy Violet has been requesting to speak with you.”

Clown holds his breath.

(Here it is. The thing he knows was going to happen, that he's been dreading.)

“I’ve heard so,” He replies, slowly.

The official gives him a weird look, and that only causes Clown to think.

(Do they know?)

“Are you aware of the reason why?” They ask him, after a moment.

“No,” is what he eventually got himself to say, with great effort. That single statement, and he already feels his own heartbeat going haywire, beating in his chest at the thought of getting called out in a lie, for acts that are unbecoming of someone of his status, for-

The official only frowns.

“We’ve decided to comply with his request. You will assist in the interrogation this evening.”

Clown stops. He fully pauses, unmoving, processing that statement.

What.

---

Apparently out of options and impatient, they decide to fulfill Branzy’s demands of meeting Clown. As much as he could see this coming, he really wishes it didn’t actually happen.

And Clown hates how he feels a part of him is almost excited at the prospect of finally meeting the host again. He shouldn't be excited for this. He's here for a reason he dreads. He shouldn't be excited.

(Why is he acting like he’s the one making excuses? He’s not the one that decided this. He never said he wanted to. They’ve decided it for him. He hates them for it.

He despises the re-realization of just how little his feelings meant. He doesn’t know why he ever tried to stand this job. Why is he still here? A sense of duty? To what? He's just another cog in the machine, a puppet strung up high.)

Nevertheless, he is escorted to the prison, alongside several other commission agents. Not too big of a group.

The prison they enter isn’t one with too strict restrictions, mostly keeping criminals and small villains who aren’t thought to have too powerful superpowers, ones that are easy to suppress, or even ones that don’t have any at all.

Branzy is registered as only an accomplice, willfully or not, and officially doesn't have a superpower. They don't deem him enough of a threat to locate him anywhere else, and so far, he's been cooperative.

(Suspiciously cooperative, with everything but answering questions. Never once tried to escape, Clown’s heard, no matter how harsh the treatment gets.

Is he really just an innocent bystander? No, he's got to have some sort of trick. Why has all he heard about him is how calm he is when being questioned, how unnervous? Is he really innocent? He can't be, not after -

He stops himself there.)

The gates are opened for them, and it's visible how lax the security is when compared to other prisons Clown has visited before. It still had most of the protocols prisons are supposed to have, but little to suppress or accommodate for superpowers. Only a portion of the guards are people with superpowers, even the ones that do, they don't have anything too powerful or useful. Regular prison guards, practically. Nobody special.

While they walk deeper into the building, he only stares at the floor, surrounded by the group of agents from the commission as they talk amongst themselves.

He’s trying to piece together his mind before he's forced to confront everything. He thinks of what he should even say, if he should acknowledge anything. He's not sure if Branzy has even said anything about how they were during the mission, or how much he said in general. Judging just by how little news there is, how none has reprimaded him for it, he's guessing nothing has come out.

(Clown doesn't know how to feel about that. He fears the unpredictability of this encounter. He wishes he could just run tail out of that prison, ignoring the part of him that wants this.)

The group stops when they enter a room, one with all kinds of recording equipment, and a door, presumably leading to the interrogation room.

There seems to be a one way window near the stations, to peek into the smaller interrogation room directly.

He had been handed an earpiece beforehand to get orders immediately in case they need him to ask something specific. He taps on it as commanded, and it turns on. From it, he can hear the voices in that room clearly through it. He doesn't like having a voice in his ear, but it'll only be for a little.

“We’re here. Bring the man in,” He hears someone say, after a bit of a while. The guard nods, walking off to pass the command over with the guard in the other room.

Not long after, they turn to him.

“Remember what you’re here for. Get him to talk,” an official says, coldly.

Clown nods, blank. “Yes, sir.”

(He takes a deep breath.)

He is led into the visitation room, and the door is shut behind him.

He looks around. The room is dry and bland, lacking any features or decoration, but they're fairly sturdy, so is the door that he just come from. There's opened window binds on-top of where the one way window should be. There’s several cameras on the walls, a lot of wires and machinery, there being the lie detector hooked up to the center of the room.

The center of the room, there is only one chair in the middle, facing into another similar room, separated by a thick glass pane.

On the other side, there is a prison guard guarding the door to the room, and there is a man. A man that Clown knows, yet doesn’t know if he can acknowledge that he knows, but the oh so familiar smile that is shown to him the moment the other’s eyes gazes upon him hits something deep within him.

Branzy looks at him from the other room. Clown’s glad for the mask he’s wearing, because he’s unable to control his own expressions behind it at that moment.

Branzy notices he’s there, and looks up to meet his glance with a vacant smile. “Oh- hello, there!”

(Clown doesn’t see if there’s recognition in that gaze or not. He feels his heart drumming in his chest.

There’s no going back now.)

Wordlessly, Clown makes his way over to the chair in front of the glass pane. As he slowly sits down, he braces himself to look forward.

Branzy looks… exactly as he’s always looked, only out of the casino uniform. Aside from that, his silver hair, those violet eyes – they’ve remained the same, only now there’s a bit of tiredness present in him. No doubt the effect of imprisonment and all the interrogation. Looking at the smile again, it lacks the usual warmth it does, instead desolate as the room they're in right now.

But, the thing that first catches Clown’s attention isn’t any of those things. It is that this is the first time Clown is seeing him unmasked , completely. At least literally. He is without the silver mask that he always wears, concealing half of his face save for the eye. Now without it, Clown can see a big scar that had been hidden underneath. It has always been slightly visible beforehand on the uncovered part of his face, a small slit of a scar right below his right eye, though now the uncovered parts around his left eye revealed how bad it really is. It looked as if at some point, half of the face had been completely torn off.

It looks aged – old, but never to actually fade.

Clown suppresses any emotion he might be feeling at that moment, and forces himself to speak clearly to the microphone in front of him.

“Branzy Cello.”

The man nods at the mention of his name, but gives no other reaction.

“That’s me,” he said.

Clown pauses. That voice. Hearing it again, after everything – he has to breathe for a moment, calming himself before speaking again.

“Are you aware of the crimes you're being charged for?”

The host nods again. “I've been informed several times already, yes.”

Clown has read what the commission stored and backed this arrest with. Suspected accomplice in organized crime, among other things. Previous missions at the Casino have actually come up with some evidence, alongside the newest ones. The ambush and the things Clown heard while in the staff only area make for a substantial part of the foundation for suspicion, but Clown didn’t report the entire thing. Only what he heard about the drugs.

(Nothing about the exchange he had after slaughtering a bunch of people in the ambush.

Nothing of their final meeting before the arrest.)

He forces himself out of his thoughts to continue, “Will you cooperate in today’s interrogation?”

“I will.”

Then, Clown pauses, deliberating his risks. He needs to know, but to ask would be suspicious.

“Is there any specific reason why you requested for me to do the interrogation?”

He's not entirely sure what he expects to hear out of that, but he gets nothing, as Branzy only considers the question for a second before replying normally. “Oh, you know, I just feel a bit safer answering to you.”

That may singlehandedly be the weirdest thing Clown has ever heard. He’s been brought in for interrogation before, and it’s always been for the intimidation factor. He is Clownpiere, and the criminals they’ve interrogated are naturally afraid of him and his reputation. They fess up and break easily. He barely has to do or say anything, he just needs to be there in the room.

The fact that someone, who’s under suspicion and pressure from so many serious things, no doubt should be feeling stressed and pressured and terrified – who’s seen what he’s done – would request for him specifically for a bizarre reason as ‘feeling safe’ is absolute lunacy.

(What is going on with the person in front of him? Does he even want to know?)

“Safety,” he repeats, trying to sound cold as he usually does but some of his disbelief leaks into his voice as his exasperation is made abundantly clear. “You requested for me to be the one who does your interrogation to feel safe."

Branzy’s smile doesn’t change, “yes.”

There’s no indication of fear, no ounce of hesitance in that voice.

He briefly feels the urgent need to bring up the fact that everything they’re saying is being recorded, but Branzy no doubt knew.

"Move on," the voice in his earpiece commands.

He takes another breath, and continues on with the interrogation.

From there, Clown just starts listing off questions that have apparently already been answered to in previous interrogations. Just for procedure, most likely, building up to the more important questions.

“Do you know anything about Blackhearts?”

Branzy nods. “He is my boss, yes.”

“How long have you been working for him?”

“More or less two years, when I took the job in the Casino.”

“Did you know about Blackhearts prior to working in the Casino?”

“From his television show, yes.”

(Clown distantly recalls once that Branzy mentions he had been ‘involved in the production, even going so far as to appear on camera!’

It’s something he debates on bringing up – he should. He didn’t get to bring it up in the mission briefing after because the issue of Clown drinking the drugged wine took the biggest priority and they didn’t ask anything out of him besides that. Now, he recalls that conversation with suspicion.)

According to the records he’s been given on previous interrogations, this is as far as they’re able to get in terms of fully accounted for, fully truthful answers. The ones that come after are the ones that they’re unsure about, and a little after that is where they get into the territory of quite literally nothing. No lies, no truths, just rambles of nothing.

He only nods, moving on to the next question.

“Do you have any other ties to him besides your employment?”

“No.”

Lie.

Seeing the rating on the lie detector machine, Clown blinks.

That was an outright lie.

He repeats the question, making sure it's not a mistake. “Are you certain you have no ties to him outside of your employment?”

“I don’t.”

Lie.

He recalls vividly in what he was told, Branzy never actually stated any outright lies in previous interrogations. He always went off topic, or did something weird in an attempt to not answer.

But no, he’s telling outright lies now. He can hear talking starting up from his earpiece, not directed at him.

“Are you certain?” Clown asks again.

“Yes.”

"Are you certain?"

There’s no sign of any other reaction in Branzy’s face at the repeat of the questions. No annoyance, no frustration – just that vacant, placid smile.

“Would I lie?” He asks, toneless.

“You are lying,” Clown lets out, incredulity leaking through in his voice which was previously toneless. “You’re aware you’re being put on a lie detector, correct?”

There’s still no reaction from Branzy, even when the man answers, blankly; “Yes.”

Clown tries to think of how to progress from here, but he wasn’t instructed to threaten or anything – just ask. Just be there to see if he slips something up. Clown doesn’t know if this really counts as a slip up.

The implications of the lie might be enough for them?

It’s then that he hears the voice in his earpiece speaking directly to him. “We’ve jotted this progression down as a note, move on.”

He absently nods at nobody, deciding to progress onto the next question, to see if anything else would be different from what he’s been told.

“Is the Casino, in any way, complicit to the Death Syndicate?” He asks, with increasing caution and suspicion.

Clown tries to catch any flinch, any reaction, but there isn’t any. Branzy’s face remains that poker face, the slight smile plastered on.

“As a host, I do not know these things.”

That’s a lie. Clown can feel it in his head, even without looking at the detector. It’s a lie.

Yet Branzy sounds so sure in his statement, and his face is unmoving. Clown knows the commission's harsh tactics in intimidation and interrogation. He’s been informed of the various things they’ve tried to do to get him to talk – starving. Dehydration. Isolation. All of those for four days. Yet, there’s no sign that any of that has affected the man in any way. He seems completely complacent, completely fine, save for that hint of tiredness.

He keeps pressing. “Where does the money the Casino earns go?”

“As just a mere host, I am unable to give an answer to that.”

It’s all lies. He hears the official confirm so through the earpiece. “Press for more on the Death Syndicate question. Ask him if he’s aware of the alleged drug distribution that the Casino might be involved in.

“Are you aware that the casino is under suspicion for being grounds for illegal drug activity?” Clown asks as instructed, “As a key employee, not only a mere host, are you aware of how involved the casino is in being a bridge for partnership with the Death Syndicate?”

He notices the corner of Branzy's smile raising slightly, as if amused. “Really? Got any physical evidence of that?”

“Answer the question.”

“I’ve heard a story about that. You see, apparently, when one of our staff members-”

There’s the tangents. He's surprised he went this far without hearing one.

“Shut the story down.”

He’s ready to shut it down, “Answer the-”

But it is then that the lights first flickered.

Clown pauses mid sentence, blinking, as do the lights.

Then, all at once, everything turned off. All the lights went down, and he can no longer hear background chatter coming through his earpiece. The detector goes offline, and all the blinking lights of the recording devices in the room go dark.

He could hear the glaring sounds of sirens coming from all around them, and the rushing footsteps of people that had no idea what just happened outside the room. Inside, the visitation room has gone completely pitch black.

Clown shoots up to stand, but the voice of the person in front of him still rings clear, even without the microphones being turned on.

“Phew - there, now we can talk freely!” Branzy says, a very different tone to how he had been speaking prior, “Much better, right?”

Clown can't see anything in the darkness, the room completely going dark as the lights are down, yet he can hear the change in demeanor. The prisoner has completely relaxed, Clown could swear he hears the noise of someone leaning back in their chair, accompanied by humming, drowned out by the noise coming from outside.

“What the hell?” Clown lets out, the situation registering.

He hears banging on the other side of the door that he came through, running, shouting, a bunch of screaming, and more running.

The outside has seemed to entirely erupt in chaos at the sudden blackout.

“Oh- there’s no point in worrying, nobody’s going to be able to open that door,” The prisoner in front of him explains, casually, “Made the mistake of not putting any competent workers in the area.”

It clicks immediately for Clown then that this was obviously planned. Planned, either by Branzy, or someone else.

His voice sounds so calm, so nonchalant, so eerie in the darkness, as he continues; “We’re going to be here for quite a bit. Unless you want to tear that door down yourself, but you’re here to visit me, right? Would you really cut our talk short?”

Clown is silent, unsure how to respond, and unfocused from the conversation with the loudness going on outside. It doesn't sound like there's a fight, maybe just the panic of the situation. Is this a prison break attempt?”

(He left all his weapons in the prison when he came in. Not saying he can't fight barehanded, but-)

The lights briefly flicker on, only for a second. But they don’t turn off again, instead the lights remain dimly on. It buzzed above them, barely illuminating the room, but gave a spot of light to see in what was pitch black.

“There we are!” The casino host smiles, though his eyes shine dark under the dim light. "Much better."

With the light back on, the only thing in that room visible with that small patch of light was them. In the calmness of the shadows, whilst the outside is falling into chaos.

Branzy now has both of his hands – somehow out of the handcuffs – on the table in front of him, crossed as he gazes forward to look at Clown.

“So, Pierce! What have you been up to these days while I've been stuck here?”

That name causes unpleasant chills to spread in Clown's bones, head to toe, and he tenses up, feeling his fingers rake across the wooden table of that visitation room desk.

“So you did know,” He lets out, bitter.

Something glazes over the host’s eyes, that sinister, evil glint.

“How could I not?” Branzy grins, and now he’s definitely torn the facade off. That grin is much, much less innocent than the one he wore during the interrogation, "How could I not? How can I not realize when perfection is standing right in front of me? How can I not recognize the avatar of fear, violence, and absolute terror when he's stepping on my doorstep? How can I ever ignore you?"

(That smile, that voice, that demeanor. Clown knows where he’s seen it from, why he knows he’s seen it before.

The night of the ambush, covered in blood, it takes him back there and that sense of terror comes back to scream in the back of his mind.

“You’re beautiful,” says the echo of the memory, drenched in reverence, awe, and sickening wonder. A hand cupping his cheek, in a false yet earnest show of morbid fascination and love.)

Words can’t describe the emotions that go through Clown, but Branzy continues on without a single pause.

“Clownpierce, the commission's iconic grim reaper,” The prisoner says, reverent, slow. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

(Horror, no, repulsion.

He feels repulsion running through his blood, prickling on his skin with how he feels a discomforting bile rise in his throat. He’s unsure whether it’s repulsion towards himself or at the words said towards him, and he’s unsure if there’s a difference.)

Clown hates the implications of that sentence, he feels his fingers twitch involuntarily.

“A fan of my work?” He repeats, incredulous at just how ridiculous of a statement that is.

Branzy laughs and there’s an unhinged edge to it. “Now, don’t be a stranger, ‘Pierce’! I thought we already got to know each other?” The prisoner smiles, still under a friendly guise, yet the words breach sinister, “Oh- don’t worry, everything has been disabled. Even the bugs they put in your costume! Those also aren’t going to pick up anything. It’s as useless as that camera there.”

He playfully points to the camera over the glass pane that is supposed to record what’s happening in both rooms. Yet the red lights are no longer blinking, meaning it has indeed been turned off like the rest of the electronics in the room.

Now that the lights are on, Clown gets a small glance into the other room, and notices something shining behind where the host is sitting.

Following the trail of blood with his eyes, he gets to the dead body of the prison guard that he saw beforehand, the one who brought Branzy in, and who was supposed to be guarding the other room. His head severed from his body, which was just lying there on the floor, motionless. Dead.

He feels a chill, looking at the man in front of him, who is no doubt responsible for that.

Branzy looks back at him with an innocent expression. He briefly looks behind him to see what Clown’s so focused on.

“Oh, you’re looking at him!” he says, as if he himself is startled to see the corpse lying behind him. He has the audacity to laugh, “ Yeah – I did that, my bad.”

Clown feels his discomfort reach a new high. The man, he's a monster. And he's not hiding it anymore. No, he knows who he is, and now that he doesn't see merit in hiding it, he shows himself to the world.

(He notices the small slatter of barely noticeable blood on one of Branzy's hands, around his fingertips. Those eyes – that dark glint of a monster – look back at him, and he is repulsed.

He is not a good person.)

In the back of his mind, he also notices how it has gotten considerably more quiet outside the room. Everything still seems to be in an outage, and the blinds of the visitation room cover the one window they have. He can still hear frantic footsteps, but the commotion is over.

Clown composes himself enough to ask, “What did you do?”

“I’ve just got time to talk, that's all,” Branzy shrugs. “I heard you were coming in today, and I know we'd both hate it if we had to just sit in awkwardness while you asked questions off a boring script – tried to intimidate me, get nothing – for hours. So I got a friend to help me out!”

Branzy leans back in his chair, contemplating.

“They’ve been really mean to me, trying to get me to crack,” He frowns, “They tried a lot of things, more than what they’ve told you. It hurt, it stung. But I’m so glad I got to see you now. I think it’s worth it.”

Those words ring out in Clown’s head, and he doesn't know how to feel. What to feel.

“Why did you want to see me?” He asks that first question again.

Hearing it, Branzy chuckles, “Because I missed you, of course! Isn’t it obvious?”

Clown doesn't respond to that.

(He doesn't know how he's supposed to react to that. It’s such a loaded statement, one with too many implications he doesn’t want to hear.)

Clown grits his teeth, “You’re not a regular host, you're a--”

"Criminal , right? Or in your view, I’m one of the monsters . A monster you’ll have to kill , right?” Branzy finishes, an amused, wide smile on his face.

“...You’re something.”

“Ouch. Not even worth a label? Come on, Pierce,” The monster says bashfully, then pauses, tilting his head, “Or actually, would you prefer it if I called you Clown? Not really a secret now, anyways.”

(It's not any better.)

“I'd prefer you not calling me,” he snaps.

He sounds oh so chipper when he laughs, “Clown it is, then!”

“What are you playing at here?” Clown demands, “Are you stalling for someone? Have you been trying to do anything with your superpowers?”

Branzy blinks at him with that accusation, tilting his head as if in confusion.

"Superpower? No, of course not – what would someone like me need something like that for?” The host smiles, “Besides, we can do our jobs just fine without any of that born powers stuff, right, Clown?”

He freezes, “What?”

Branzy’s smile remains completely friendly, completely casual , even as he says; “You don’t have a superpower either.”

(He feels his heartbeat pick up in his chest, and it's a feeling he's been long without, only recently reappearing with the mission and the man in front of him.

It's unease. It's dread.)

That information isn’t public. He shouldn’t know that. Everyone – even the heroes, think he has a superpower. Why would he –

“How do you know that?” Clown lets out, bewildered.

Branzy shrugs, nonchalant, “Oh, it’s common knowledge for us in the syndicate. They’re not really good at hiding things, those guys. Especially not knowledge when it comes to their employees.”

(He processes that Branzy just confessed to having ties with the syndicate, but that fails to be the first thing he worries about. Just how deeply rooted is the syndicate in the commission?)

“It must’ve taken you so much to get to this point, didn’t it?” The host continues, whistling as if to taunt, “Deadliest assassin, the killer clown – you’re so renowned! Even more than some heroes that were born with strong, capable superpowers. Even they fear you, don't they?”

There's a pause after he says that. He looks at Clown with that disquieting, chipper expression. He looks into him, with those dark eyes of a monster.

“And that’s why I think you’re so cool.”

(Unease. Repulsion, shock.)

Clown stands up straight from the seat. He is so close to breaking the table with his hands with how he's pushing his fingers into it. Behind his mask he takes a deep breath, a multitude of emotions clawing through, but ultimately his instincts are telling him that the man in front of him is a threat.

He's always been a threat.

“Hey- aw, c’mon now, don’t get all hostile on me! I was just kidding! Smalltalk, really!” Branzy quickly says, sensing the newfound murderous aura that leaks into both rooms. That old, meeker facade gets put back on, though those eyes keep the sinister glint. “Listen – Let’s make a deal! I have a proposal for you that I’m sure you’d want to hear!”

Those words only turn on more alarm bells in Clown's head.

“I’m not listening to whatever you have to-”

Then, the lights flicker on. Once, then off again.

As if a switch is flicked, Branzy tenses back up, and the expression on his face turns back to that placid smile he had when Clown first walked in under surveillance.

The prisoner stands up from his chair, and before Clown could ask what he’s trying to do, he bangs his head first and hard against the glass pane.

Clown's eyes widen behind his mask, raising his arm to sustain the impact.

“What are you-”

The glass shatters with a loud, loud ear shrieking noise, and Clown feels the impact as his raised arm goes through the screen cracking and falling in his direction. It hits the ground behind him, and the room is a mess.

He’s not bleeding, his gloves took the blow off, but he can still feel some sharp parts of that glass going through it.

(The moment slows down in his perspective, and he can feel the sheer amount of shock that overtakes him, rushing in his veins like cold, blue blood.)

Branzy collapses on the other side of that room, badly bruised up. The man seems to have passed out from the blow, some of the sharp shards of glass also clattering all around him on the floor. A copious amount of blood seeps out from the wound he on his head.

Clown feels the surge of panic that overtakes him, but he’s barely able to react when he hears the door behind him get forced open, and at that moment the lights fully turn back on.

It turned on, just as several commission officers were finally able to unlock the door and the surveillance devices started going online again, the blinds of the window peeking in get raised. It turned on, to the view of Clown’s head halfway peeking through the shattered glass of the visitation room, and the person he was supposed to be interrogating badly bruised up on the other side, bleeding, dying.

He’s still frozen in place, unspeaking, even as they rushed into the room, one going through the other side to check on the silver haired and he hears the accusatory tone of the ones in the room with him, seeing what they believed.

“What have you done!?”

---

They officially issue the attack on the Casino soon after – a day right after the interrogation incident happened.

The order is sent out in the morning, and he reads it immediately due to not sleeping when he usually would be.

There's no way he could sleep after what just happened. He tried, he really tried to lay down and rest for the little amount of time he has to rest, but the events of the interrogation keep replaying in his head. He's restless.

When the lights got turned back on during the interrogation, the commission thought he had attempted to murder Branzy during the lights off.

They didn’t give him a chance to explain, though he doesn't know what he would've even said had they demanded him for answers. The end explanation they went with and believed was that Branzy had either attempted to attack him first through the glass or attempted to escape during when the lights were off, and Clown had failed to hold himself back, and pushed a hand through the glass as intimidation, but hit too hard the glass shattered and the impact caused the other head trauma so serious he might’ve only survived due to how fast he had been treated.

Quite obviously, they’re not happy over what they think he’s done.

(The story makes no sense. There's no way they're not noticing the holes – why would the scene look like that if Branzy had attempted to run away, why would it take place in front of the glass? Was Branzy's face just coincidentally right behind the glass so Clown could've conveniently pushed and smashed it back? The glass was mostly on his side – not Branzy’s, indicating that he couldn't even have been the one to hit it!

Yet he chooses to remain silent on what actually happened. He tells nobody anything about the words exchanged. The exchange that then kept him up at night after he was dismissed, wondering about what the man was going to say next.

“I have a proposal for you that I’m sure you’d want to hear!”

Is that just him trying to negotiate a way out? That’d be stupid.)

He barely hears about what happened to Branzy afterwards as he was ushered out. That night, he’s been told that the man is in stable condition, though the interrogation has been paused due to the incident, and Branzy being in no condition to be questioned again until further notice.

(A prison break was clearly not what he was going for. Even if he didn’t know Clown was going to be the one interrogating him, he made no other attempt to do anything other than talk. Nothing he did suggested he had a plan to get out.

Nothing he said implied anything of the sort.

“And that’s why I think you’re so cool.” )

He shudders at the memories, as he puts his mask on. He prepares for the day he's about to face – the attack on the Casino.

He’s glad it’ll be over. He ignores the pit in his stomach, realizing it’s all going to be truly over, like closing the last chapter of a story.

(Unfulfilled and empty. He doesn't know what else he was expecting to get.)

---

“Crow sightings have been really common recently,” Spoke mentions, squinting up at the sky, “Bad omen? Maybe?”

He is now on patrol, hours before the attack is scheduled to happen. Quite the amount of superheroes are being dispatched to patrol the area before it happens, and he’s one of them. They've closed off and stopped any activity near the Casino, not another soul lurking around. They warded off any passersby, but also tried to keep a low profile. In the afternoon, the place looks very, very empty.

He hums, looking at the sky blankly, staring at the murder of crows that had been circling them. His mind is far away, but he forces himself to focus.

“Perhaps, we’ll probably never know until it’s too late,” Clown says.

Spoke rolls his eyes. “You’re always grim, Clown. You know that?”

He hums and continues walking.

From a distance – in the alleyway, he focuses on the Casino, and admires how it looks in the light of day. The tall, looming structure.

The Casino is closed during day hours. From what they’ve gathered, they can see some staff have already arrived inside of the building.

It’s 5 PM in the afternoon. The attack will begin at 8 PM, an hour before the Casino opens for business.

Clown’s grip on his scythe tightens, and he exhales, though it’s muffled by his mask. It’s still a long time till the attack starts, yet he’s already feeling restless.

Spoke is with him, as are other heroes in the area, though he suspects they're purposefully avoiding him, meanwhile Spoke is purposefully following him.

(He’d be lying if he said he hated the company. He doesn’t mind it too much.)

Spoke seems bored with how long they’ve had to wait it out there. At some points, he’d go to bother other heroes, but mostly, he’s kept an eye on Clown. (Clown wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been ordered to do so by the commission, especially after the interrogation incident, but he also wouldn't be surprised if he's doing it by his own free will. He's past the point of caring.)

“You know, Clown, I’ve been really curious, actually,” Spoke starts another conversation at one point, sounding contemplative. “What actually happened between you guys in the mission?”

The first time he asks that, Clown downright ignores him, acting as if he had been too busy surveying an empty dead end alleyway to hear what Spoke said.

This obviously doesn't work and only gets the other hero to try and poke for more.

“Come on! The mission isn’t confidential anymore, right?”

(Nevermind his earlier comment. He hates this.)

“Nothing much,” He lies out of his teeth, trying to sound unbothered, “We’ve just been trying to gain information peacefully. Just that. But on our last visit, they tried to ambush us.”

Spoke thinks about it, nodding. “And Leo betrayed you guys?”

“That happened. Yes.”

That gets the other hero to pause for a second.

“I’ve always thought he’s been acting a bit weird ever since his first mission going there,” Spoke says, more quietly this time, “Like – not different enough that you’d notice it. But he’s sometimes inconsistent, distant, like he’s not actually there.”

There’s another pause after that.

“Makes sense, I guess,” Clown fills in the silence, “Whatever happened, they’ve got him.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Spoke agrees.

There’s another beat of silence after that, before Spoke decides to go and bother someone else, and Clown is left alone again. Thank heavens.

He checks the time in his communicator, it’s nearly 6 PM. Two more hours. The sun is slowly beginning to set over the metropolis, and the alleyways are starting to get darker. They should be seeing people already at this time, employees walking into work, they’re planning on arresting those people too. But aside from the people already deep within the building, nobody else seems to actually be heading there.

He’s patrolling the back alleys, partly to get away from the other heroes who are mostly near the Casino.

It’s quite weird how empty these routes are today, considering these backalley areas are usually crowded with activity. Heroes being in the area scared them away.

He closes his eyes.

…

When he awakes, it’s 7:40 PM.

He opens his eyes, and the first thing he notices is how dim the place has gotten without sunlight. He realizes that exhaustion had crept up on him, and he had fallen asleep while standing.

Clown looks at his surroundings. Now that the dark has set in, he starts to remember the path they’d take whenever they go to do the mission – it’s the exact one he’s in right now.

He gets off from where he had been leaning on his scythe, and starts to head in the direction of the Casino. It’s time he heads back. They’ve probably started to prepare for the attack, and it'll be suspicious if he's not there for it.

It is then that he hears footsteps coming from behind him. He stops, and turns his head around to see a figure drenched in the shadows of the alleys.

The figure stops in their place when Clown spots them. He instantly gets his scythe ready, and squints at the figure, trying to make out their details in the dark.

The figure continues walking his way again, and he takes a step back each time. As they move, they become increasingly clearer, and Clown could almost make out who it is.

(Brown hair… blue eyes… that suit-)

"Rekrap," He grits out at that instant, grip tightening on his weapon and his eyes narrowing.

And sure enough, it's Rekrap. He'd recognize him anywhere, anytime.

“Oh,” Clown doesn’t like the way he smiles, the way he talks, “Clownpierce! Nice seeing you again, bud!”

(He knows Rekrap works for BlackHearts now, he knows, though he doesn't just how much the other is involved other than the fact that he seems quite chummy with Branzy. Must be coming in for his shift. Meeting here, there's a chance he just thinks Clown’s here for an assassination, but there's also a non-zero chance that he knows about the attack.

Clown’s grip on the scythe trembles for a second, and he considers the possibility that he’ll have to kill.)

“What are you doing here?” Clown asks gravely, but the other doesn’t match his energy, continuing to talk in that false chipper tone.

Rek smiles wider and it doesn't match his eyes. “I’d say the same for you! What are the chances we see each other agai-”

He brandishes his scythe towards him, threatening, and Rek stops talking immediately.

"What. are. you. doing. here."

Rekrap stares at the weapon. Clown catches the momentary fear the other must’ve felt, and the way he relaxes again, eyes moving back up from the scythe to Clown.

He doesn’t say anything after that, Clown doesn’t move his weapon away.

“Crows have been everywhere recently, haven’t they?” Rek says contemplatively after a long pause.

Clown’s brows furrow underneath his mask, and he was about to ask what the other meant, when he finally realizes; the crows . The Syndicate’s main way of communicating.

“What is the syndicate planning?” He asks, more tense now.

Rek backs away a step, and his expression is obscured by the shadows of the night.

“Can’t really say anything about that, sorry,” He shrugs, though his eyes are once again focused on the sharp razor end of the scythe being pointed at him.

Rek stops, and Clown could just about make out the serious look that envelopes his face. “Look, Clown. I can’t just… tell you what’s happening, all I’m here to say is that I hope you make the right choice.”

“What choice-” He is about to ask.

*BANG!*

He hears a gunshot going off in the distance, but his grip doesn’t falter, and his eyes only slightly shift to what’s happening in the distance.

“Aaaaand there’s my cue!” Rek says, bouncing off with a salute and his voice going back to being chipper, “Good luck, Clown! Oh- tell the others I said hi!”

Clown is about to chase him, to wring answers out of him, before he hears commotion coming from the alleyway right beside the one he was in, and in that brief moment he took his eyes off from the ex-hero, Rek had vanished into thin air.

He tries to look after him, running further into where the other had run off, but instead found a dead end.

He looks at the wall, weirded out that it's there. Did the other jump? He didn't hear it- that could just be because the commotion is getting louder.

Clown checks his communicator, and sees that it’s 07.50 PM. He needs to head back and see what happened. It's too late to chase after Rekrap. There's a chance they'll cross again later.

He runs down the alleyway, and turns the corner to see what the commotion is, and sees Cube, who was in charge of checking the surveillance inside of the Casino with his superpower, down, on the floor – unconscious. A wound poking out of his arm with an abnormal amount of blood pouring out. At the other end of the alleyway he can see another hero run towards Cube and gets to them first. He decides to check on him too, rushing along.

“Cube! Cube! Are you alright?” He doesn’t see who it is, but by the voice he thinks it's Mid, who looks up at him, “Clown- get someone-”

Another gunshot rings out from somewhere else in the alleyways, and he doesn’t need to be told twice. He nods, and runs back from where he came from.

Not long after, while he’s running, Spoke appears next to him, seeming alarmed.

“Clown- did you hear that? The gunshots-” The hero asks,

“Cube’s down. Someone got to him,” Clown informs him quickly, “How’s the Casino?”

Spoke blinks. “I- I don’t know? I just heard the gunshot, and everyone else also did, and most of us went to check on what happened!”

(It strikes Clown at that moment that this commotion might've caused the Casino to be unattended. That's not good.)

“Spoke, get out of here, get to the medicals and tell them that Cube is in alleyway G6, injured . Someone took them down. I need to go check on the Casino – who was left there? Did anyone stay near the Casino?” Clown is fast to inquire. He is not liking this situation in the slightest. It must be a counterattack.

Spoke seems to try and recall, “Uh- I’m not sure- I think Parrot stayed-?”

He curses, and rushes through the dark corridors as quickly as he could, going through the route he remembers so well, the dark barely lit alleys, he knows the path, he knows where he’s going.

Or the path he thought he remembers well, as suddenly, he’s greeted by a dead end.

He looks at the wall he almost bumped into incredulously, disbelieved that it's there.

(That can’t be right. It can't be a dead end. It shouldn't be a dead end-

He knows his way. He knows this is the right way. This was the right way. He didn’t make a wrong turn, he knows he didn’t-)

He makes more turns, but all the paths end in dead ends. Paths he knows shouldn't end in dead ends, like they just popped out of nowhere.

This situation is familiar enough for him to be suspicious. He looks up, the night sky is pitch black. No moon, no clouds, no stars. An empty, pitch black voidness.

There it is.

Using his scythe, he swings it down to propel himself up onto the alleyway walls, jumping up, to get a view from above. He lands on the top of a building, and sure enough, when he's above the walls the illusion breaks – he sees all the alleyways as they used to be. The sky is no longer pitch black. He can see the moon coming up from behind skyscrapers, the stars decorating the sky with dots of lights.

Reaffirming his reality, he tries to gain information from his new position of view, and he feels something is still wrong from where he's looking. There’s something missing-

*BANG!*

Before he can properly think, he finds himself dodging something by reflex. He gets a glimpse of it for a second, and it doesn't look like a bullet. Not a regular bullet.

It flies past him and immediately glitches into nothing as it misses. He turns to where the next noise came from. He knows it must’ve come from somewhere around him.

In the corner of his eyes, he notices something else glitching in his vision, and he turns immediately that way.

The glitch disappears, but he jumps over to where it was, and plunges down into the alleyways again. What he finds there isn’t a villain like he expected.

He blinks, eyes making a silhouette out in the darkness.

"Parrot?"

The avian hero is on the ground, and one of his wings appears to have been shot, an abnormal amount of blood seeping through. Despite the sheer amount of pain he is obviously experiencing, he still tries his best to stand once he sees Clown.

“Clown- It’s bad," He says gravely.

Clown shakes his head without humor, “No, it’s Ashswag."

Parrot snickers, but he’s still struggling to get up.

“Never thought someone like him would work with the-” The hero’s eyes widen when he processes his own words, and his voice takes a more panicked tone, “Clown, we- you need to check up on the Casino.”

Clown gets what Parrot’s trying to say, and nods. He takes back up to the roof of the alleyway. From the perspective of the floor, the alleyways are still messed up, but the glitch’s illusion apparently doesn't consider the upper view, as it usually doesn’t. Lucky.

After moments of frantic looking, he finally finds his way to the big opening where the Casino should be located – but as he arrives, he instantly knows something is wrong.

It's wrong, and it doesn't make sense.

Once again, the Casino should be here, yet the entire building has disappeared from where it should be. It just vanished.

The old routes that should’ve led to it led to dark, empty, opening, with nothing there.

It’s 8 PM.

---

The mission to attack the Casino ended in disaster.

No actual casualties were recorded as the area was empty save for the heroes, but multiple of them were found injured, some near death. Apparently Spoke also got injured moments after his encounter with Clown. Similar things happened to Cube, Parrot, and others he didn’t come across. They’ve all been hurt badly.

Clown immediately discovering the oddities and sending a distress signal did help reduce the amount of them that could’ve gotten hurt during the maze illusion.

As Clown guessed, it probably was the Casino’s – no, the Death Syndicate ’s – plan to distract all the heroes with the first weaker illusion to disguise the other one taking place, the stronger one that caused the entire building to up and vanish. All the heroes that could’ve seen what was going on or do anything to stop it were taken out first.

There's only one villain they know that has the power to make powerful illusions of such scale, and with him involved, the link between the Casino and the Death Syndicate has finally been confirmed.

Yet confirmed too late, as now they cannot take action, with the Casino’s complete disappearance in the eyes of their reality.

Nobody has been able to find out how to break the illusion. They’ve tried, yes, but it’s been fruitless. No matter the stones they've thrown, whatever they shot at the empty space that used to be the Casino, nothing made it reappear.

(Silently, Clown notices how much stronger this illusion is compared to what Ashswag is usually capable of. Not that they know that well of what the villain's powers entail, and as it's an artificial superpower, but an entire building vanishing without a trace seems… maybe it's just hard to believe. Extremely hard to believe. Usually there's a straightforward way to know how to break the effects of whatever the villain imposes, yet this just doesn't budge at all.

It almost seems too tidy.)

They’ve also tried to find traces of people who visited and regular patrons who frequently went to the Casino, yet exactly yesterday, at 8 PM, all of those people seemed to have vanished out of thin air. They know that because the families have been looking for them as well. All people that have records of going there have disappeared, including the employees.

All of them, except Branzy.

Speaking of the man, he had reportedly only woken up today. His condition is well, and they’re about ready to interrogate him again, now even harsher with how the attack with the Casino went.

They’ve moved him to a different prison facility, with much stricter accommodations. The charges have really, really worsened, with both the interrogation incident and what happened to the Casino.

Today is the day they’ll be continuing with the interrogations, and it doesn't seem like they'll be easy on it this time.

Again, horribly, they’ve assigned him to be doing it, this time under stricter supervision. A few heroes are with him now alongside the commission agents. The only major one that he does know is Subz, who he rarely actually talks to, but has met.

He takes a deep sigh.

(He is not looking forward to this. He is not looking forward to this at all.)

“Do you think he'll cooperate this time?”

The question from Subz sort of catches Clown off guard. They are waiting at the gates of the prison, alongside a larger number of commission agents as they are being let in.

“We need to be careful regardless,” Clown answers, after a second.

Subz hums, then pauses, “I kind of heard of what happened in the interrogation before. Must've been really bad for you of all people to get involved and for you to need assistance. Someone died, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you do it? Or him?” He asks, curiously.

Clown doesn't want to dignify that accusation with an actual answer. His name gets called, and he walks away from the other hero.

“Believe what you want to.”

Subz rolls his eyes, but doesn't comment further as he follows the group.

They walk into the fortified building in silence. It is significantly more desolate compared to the previous prison. The security seems more refined, and the people are more armed. Clown silently observes the building, and sees the vast amount of surveillance they’re being put under. Each corner is being watched, not a corner missed by the careful watch of the prison and its wardens.

They are stopped once more when they’re in the building. He’s waiting with the rest of the group of commission agents, whereas some of the heroes there alongside the officials are brought deeper in for some kind of protocol. Subz is one of them, as he is supposed to be helping transport Branzy from his temporary holding cell. So they take off, and Clown only watches as they’re led deeper in, the gates shutting behind them.

Clown shifts his gaze to look at the floor. He bears the official and commission agents talking to each other around him, but none to him. He has his scythe in hand this time, they’ve let some people pass through with weapons in case the situation got bad. He is one of those. His skills are too good for him to not be armed, despite the distrust he’s gotten from the commission over the previous interrogation incident.

In that window of nothing but waiting, he gains a moment to think.

(Back in the first interrogation, he did end up giving them some of the things Branzy told him during the lights off, unable to lie, under a detector. Luckily for him they asked for the obvious stuff, and he ended up giving it.

Did Branzy Cello ever admit to having ties with the Death Syndicate? Yes, yes he did admit it. He explicitly said so.

So he is aware of the actions of the Casino? He is more than aware of what the Casino has been responsible for.

Did he mention anything else about Blackhearts? No, he did not.

And questions of the sort. Fortunately for him, they have no reason to question if Branzy said anything about him. They asked for everything that implicated Branzy. Yes, it was enough to increase his charges, indeed.

He has no clue how this time is going to go. Would Branzy be acting placid and unresponsive as he did in the first interrogation? Would there be an immediate shift to how he acts after everything that has happened? Will he admit to anything this time – now that his guilt is confirmed?

Clown has no idea of the answers to any one of those questions. He doesn’t want to find out.)

He pays no mind to the people walking and talking around him as he continues to think. Not longer does he start to get a bad feeling, and looks around. He hears the agents with him mention just how long the other group has been gone for. And he notices it too. Twenty-five minutes. Not a direct indication that something has gone wrong – perhaps there were just protocols or complications that were holding them back.

Clown looks up from where he is sitting down, observing the people there – the guards, all in their places. The agents, starting to get concerned. The security cameras, looking directly at him.

He blinks, setting his gaze back to the camera at that last realization. The surveillance camera that is mounted on the wall adjacent to where he is sitting isn’t moving to watch the place as the other ones did. No, it is locked in the angle to directly stare at him, and he feels as if there's a person behind it, intentionally watching him.

As if the camera realizes Clown had caught it staring, it starts moving as the other cameras do. As it should.

That oddity immediately rose up a sense of wariness in Clown’s mind. He stares at that camera for longer, but it no longer stays on him.

Something is wrong, and he can feel it. He can sense it as he turns to the camera mounted on the wall to the right of him, it’s staring at him too, immediately beginning to move again as he sets his gaze on it.

(Something is wrong, it repeats in his head like a series of alarm bells going off.)

“I can’t reach the group that went on!” he hears an agent call out to the rest of the people there. The air in the room is tense. Clown can feel that something wrong is going to happen.

*BOOM!*

It is then that a loud noise sounded out. A loud noise that sounded like an explosion .

He turns back and notices that the guards are all either falling back or going forward to check out what is going on. He stays in place, unmoving, as the world around him starts descending into chaos. The agents slowly start to check what's going on, leaving his side, others stay behind, on edge, on guard.

(Clown doesn't move.

One part of him believes the situation would have already been put under control, it can’t be anything serious. Just another attempt of prison break, and with how secure the place is, it shouldn’t be a problem.

But the other -)

*BANG!*

(-Knows that this is much more complicated than any of them think it is.)

He turns to face the entryway that heads deeper into the prison. The gates, previously closed and locked, are now opened wide. Guards are retreating, and gunshots keep sounding out. A battle has started inside the prison. He hears a loud commotion. He knew it was a bad idea to ever agree to come here.

(Inside, he's holding a breath.

He's not the only capable hero here this time – there's others like Subz, and they should've been enough by themselves to stop whatever is happening inside. At least they should be. Yet, things are looking bad.

A sneaking suspicion as to what's happening rises within him.)

He watches as more come in, some call for backup – hears the mention of the signals getting cut off. No surprise there. Most of the commission agents and the guards are in disarray.

He knows he’s expected to come in. To help.

(A part of him fears what he’s going to find inside. A part of him already knows, but refuses to think about it, because he fears it.)

Still, with all the reluctance in the world, he stands up from where he’s sitting.

“I’m entering,” he states to the agents near him. They don’t respond to him, too busy doing their own panicking.

He sets his gaze to the gate. Clown holds his scythe in hand, and walks deeper into the prison amongst all the chaos happening.

People come running in and out around him, but his focus is nowhere on them, nowhere here. He stills his mind by force, trying to not think about what he's walking into. He keeps walking, and when he’s past the people, he starts noticing. Noticing how everything – every security measure, every door – has been dismantled seemingly by force, seeing how some doors were torn off its hinges.

He finds the first body seconds after entering. Dead body.

He's seen too many of them to even be shocked. He took a breath in, steadying himself, knowing this is only the first of what’s to come.

He readies a hand on his weapon, unsheathing it in advance as he continues to walk in. He walks into more evidence of cruelty, like a trail of horrifying bread crumbs, and the more he enters, the more clearly he hears the screams.

*BANG!*

He has to avoid a bullet that was aimed towards him, missing and hitting the wall behind him. He looks ahead of him to see criminals who had no doubt escaped when everything was in disarray. They stare at him, and Clown can see that their eyes are cloudy, unfocused as they aim to shoot him again. He dodges with ease, running past them while they try to fall back.

He twisted his hands, and his scythe is soiled. He doesn’t look back, continuing to walk, trying to focus.

He hears a lot of people, all at once, in different places, but most of it comes from one source in particular, the loudest. The room containing most of the holding cells, deeper in. The heart of the prison, where everything sinful with the world is kept.

Now, he realizes he begins to smell something. No, not exactly smell, but feel. He can feel it, how the air suddenly becomes harder to breathe.

Stiffening, he brings a hand up to shut the opening for air in his mask.

Clown knows exactly what happened.

He realizes now how slow the gas moves, but it moves everywhere, he can feel it around him, spreading to each and every corner in the room. It's effective and gradual. He probably already inhaled some without realizing. Whatever – he keeps walking. There’s nowhere for him to turn back to.

His only option is going forward, to the center of cruelty. The deeper he goes, the more evidence of what happened. Brawls, people still alive by a thread bleeding out as they watch him walk by with bloodlust in their eyes, some able enough to try and attack him and he cuts them down. He has to breath every once in a while, and he can feel it replacing the air in his lungs.

Whatever the gas is, it’s effective.

You could see the effectiveness in all the victims spread across the room.

Like flies dropping after a cleansing, the view that greeted him should've made him sick to his stomach.

Even more wrong is that it's still going on.

He walks into a cacophony of brutality.

In that torn down mess of a prison room – or the remnants of it, before all the iron bars were twisted, the doors were taken off and thrown about, some walls broken beyond repair – was savagery. Destruction, tasting fresh a cut of meat that is still bleeding blood. Still heating, still beating, like tearing a bloody heart out of its live host.

His eyes shift from the remnants that greet him at the door to the center of attention.

In the middle of the room, people were still in a haze, attacking and killing one another with fierce brutality, any resemblance of humanity taken from them and transformed into mindless instincts to kill.

One by one, five by five – they kept falling down, in painful, many bunches.

Guns, knives, bars, fists, everything is used to spill all the blood. To spill the hate. The tragedy.

Behind all the thoughtless gore, Clown wills himself enough to recognize the people in that pile. Prison guards, criminals alike, and Subz.

In the mere seconds when Clown had been standing there, the entire room has almost been wiped off of any other living soul, one by one becoming victim, the shines draining from their eyes, and becoming just another casualty on the ground, they clinged onto that instinct to live, so much so they kill for it.

As the last of them fade and collapse motionless like marionettes with their strings cut, he feels the grip on his weapon tighten. His body needs to breathe, but he doesn’t want to now.

(He can't decipher what he's feeling at that moment. He should be horrified by the sight. He should feel the urge to run, to stop it. But if so, why is he just… standing here?

Why isn't he moving?

Why is he only watching?

Why doesn't he feel repulsion?

How long has he been holding his breath in?)

Abruptly, the melody of cacophony descends to a halt, as the last human in that crowd dies, painfully so, by the slice of a blade. Leaving only one remaining, and him.

He, the remaining spectator, and Subz, who's still under the influence. Clown snaps out of his awe when Subz turns to him, and he realizes again where he is and what he now has to do.

They lock eyes, and Clown steadies his stance.

When Subz charges at him, he dodges the swing of the blade quite easily, but has to stop his own hand when it tries to swing his scythe and kill the other hero on instinct. No, he can't kill-

He sees the look on Subz’s face, and he reconsiders that thought.

(The inhumanity, the deranged, feral look causes his grip to falter, the memories of that night in the lounge with the violent TV programme hauntingly come back.)

When he angles so Subz misses and runs past him again, he uses his empty hand to jab at the back of the hero's neck, who lets out a pained shriek, then drops unconscious on the floor, blending into all the other ones, no way to tell them apart – who's breathing and who's not.

Clown breathes heavily, and he hears it more clearly, being under that mask. He takes a breath, then needs another, and then another.

He feels the air become heavy, and he feels it coming into his lungs. And then, he remembers what he's inhaling, and chokes on himself.

(Oh. Oh no.

Not again.)

For a moment, he panics, but tries to keep his cool and relax. He feels the haze now, and it's stronger than what he remembers it felt like. Whereas before it slowly wormed into his system, it's trying to barge in. To force him to take his weapon and ram it into the first perceived threat – friend or foe – human or not.

He doesn't give in this time, pushes it to the back of his head, or he tries to. It's not like he can fight it for long, it's going to win.

Then, the sound of a loud, booming voice, alongside the clap of hand catches him off guard.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen, what an exciting twist of events! Wouldn't you all agree?”

The voice had Clown immediately turning his heels, and his entire body tensed up before he could control it. His eyes followed the noise, looking up, and up to –

“Here in the room with us, now, we've got the deadliest, most feared superhero of Metropolife – give it up for Clownpierce!”

He doesn’t see anyone in the room with him, but the intercom. The intercom is untouched, and the voice seems to be booming from there.

(Even through the static of the speakers, he recognizes that voice.

He knows where he’s heard it from.)

Before he can focus or say anything, he dodges a gunshot, and turns around. More bloodlust induced people are pilling in from a place unknown – there shouldn't be this many people here. It's a fortified prison.

“Uh oh! Watch out! The prison is rife with flesh eating cretins whose only concern is eliminating anything they consider a threat – in other words, everything moving and alive,” the voice coos, taunting, “You'll need to be careful~”

As the voice speaks, Clown is forced to move to dodge more gunshots, some lunging at him with weapons like steel bars taken from the cells, chains, and shattered glass panes. He feels his body starting to move on its own to defend his survival.

He slaughters with ease, realizing the moment he feels his mind taking the backseat, and as he lunges at another one, he tries to get his control back, holding his body still. In place. He breathes heavily.

“Oh, oh no, don't tell me you also inhaled some of the frenzy gas yourself, Clownpierce?” the voice of Blackhearts tuts, falsifying worry.

His moment of clarity doesn't last long as another moves to attack him, and he feels that cloud lingering in his mind as his body moves on its own to kill. And kill it does.

“It is impeccable for me to tell the audience that as you’ve seen before,” The voice speaks, explaining as if broadcasting a weather forecast, “For today’s show, we’ve decided to released a very, very special gas – from a beloved anonymous sponsor – that makes it so that everyone who breathes it in – everyone who soaks it in, doesn’t see everything as human anymore, no. behaving like animals, they attack everything.”

(He knew it.)

Behind a new wave of people that entered, the steel gates of the room closed.

The voice on the speakers laughs, “Isn’t this fun, dear viewers?”

(No it isn't.)

Clown curses as he's barely able to grasp his consciousness in the heat of battle. He feels blood splatter on his mask, and a voice screaming in his head to keep killing. To slaughter. To deface. To behead. To kill.

To kill.

“And oh- yes, you are being broadcasted live, on television, to the entirety of Metropolife! Say hello to your beloved audience, Clownpierce~!”

He feels his focus falter for just a second, and it takes him.

…

He vividly recalls the events that happen next, yet it happened so fast.

“Amazing, give a round of applause, people! He just cleared out the entire room! Just like that, there's no survivors left in the area. Just wonderful, isn't it? The abilities of the commission’s greatest monster.”

…

..

.

He's staring blankly at the mess that has accumulated, feeling something screaming in his head.

He stops midway through piercing someone through the heart, yet he's aware way too late, as even when he stops, the stab cuts through them. The body falls with a hump, and he's staring into soulless eyes.

(Monster. Monster. The words ring in his head.)

“Seems like a bigger commotion is happening outside! I’ll send you away now, beloved viewers!”

He barely registers the voice through the haze in his mind that’s still prevalent though he tries to force it out, focus –

“And that's a cut!”

The voice no longer sounded like it's speaking through a speaker – rather, it's in the room with him.

He genuinely jumps back, flinching as he looks ahead to see and-

He shouldn't be surprised, yet he failed to hide his own shock behind his mask.

There above, on the crumbled up stone stairway to what used to be the second floor for holding cells, stood Branzy.

Gone was the usual soft, friendly, grin. No – that grin is downright inhuman, spreading wider than he’s ever seen it before.

They lock eyes, and Clown instantly wishes he didn’t.

Branzy starts walking down, clapping. His voice is chipper when he talks, without as much flare as he did when talking through the intercom, but it's him.

“Woo! Amazing! That was excellent!" He cheers, sounding oh so happy, oh so giddy, "I haven’t been this pumped up in a long time – there's gonna be such a big uproar, they're not going to be able to cover it up! Delightful, right?”

Clown's still trying to piece his mind together after everything that happened, the fragmented pieces of consciousness he's trying to put back together to react.

“What-”

Before he realizes, faster than he could register, the man is inches away from him.

“It’s all thanks to you, Clown. Truth to be told… I've heard countless testimonies about how fierce you were in battle, I’ve gone as far as stealing a view from cameras before out of curiosity – You're wonderful," A small, crazed chuckle sounds out from that wicked mouth, as he stares at Clown, "And I couldn't wait to see you in person. You did not disappoint.”

He doesn’t look any different than he did last time the last Clown saw him. That’s odd. He banged his head against glass. They said he had been on death’s door, Clown saw all the blood spilling from his head as he was quickly brought away – yet there he stood in front of him – completely unharmed. No bandages, no scars, save for the one he always had around his eyes.

It shouldn’t be possible, but there he stands, completely the same to when Clown last saw him, save for that sinister, manic expression on his face.

(The gaze in his eyes - it’s something Clown immediately recognizes.

It’s the same gaze as when their eyes met back in the Casino after Clown killed tens of people in front of Branzy’s eyes. It’s the same fascination - marvel, awe. All with that malicious, sickening, lifeless chill reflected in those eyes.

It was the man’s true colors. A wolf in sheep's clothing caught eating an innocent lamb, the blood staining his wool.

An unmasked monster.)

He takes multiple steps back on instinct, danger ringing out in his ears as he holds the dirty, dirty scythe in his hand.

Branzy doesn't move to get closer to him again, but shoots an amused look his way.

(It's been so obvious – he's not sure why the realization only hit him now. By all accounts, it makes sense, and at the same time, it doesn't. It shouldn't make sense, it doesn't make sense, but the broadcast, the voice he heard, the voice he knows, it all means one thing.

And it shouldn't make sense.)

“Blackhearts,” He utters out, finally, disbelieving of the words that come out of his own mouth. “The Gambling Supervillain.”

For moments, Blackhearts doesn't react to that statement, and in the absence of words, Clown gains enough consciousness to hear. Hear what's still going on around them.

He can still hear the fighting going outside this room. The violence, the brutality.

Then, the villain in front of him starts talking again.

“I liked it more when you called me Branzy, not gonna lie. Can't be helped now though, can it?” He comments, tone almost disappointed as the man frowns.

The screams, he registers everything and -

“What did you do!?” Clown demands.

The villain hums, gazing around to admire the mess he caused, “Oh, I have done nothing but stand here all day. Maybe a bit of camera work, too. Can’t say the same about the people out there.”

That indifference, amusem*nt. It's the same as it is during the first interrogation but is significantly worse in the current situation.

“You did this,” Clown grits his teeth.

The villain acts shocked at the accusation. “I did nothing, Clown. If a bit of gas is enough to make people unravel like this, whose fault is it really?”

“A bit of gas?” He says incredulously. “A bit of gas?”

“Well, I guess you only got a bit, you came in late, afterall. You also somehow fought it for a little, didn't know that was possible, but hey! You always do exceed expectations!” He elaborates, grinning like a madman, “You have the Vexish to thank for the supply! Ringleader just smuggled it in for me this morning. I am ever grateful for his support.”

(Vexish. Ringleader. He's talking about the Death Syndicate.

He did get help somehow to escape. They've been waiting for the exact moment Clown got in for this to happen. He was being watched, surveilled.)

Clown keeps his guard, clutching his scythe so tight it might bleed into his hand. The villain pauses, glancing briefly at the scythe with interest, before putting his hand forward.

“I guess there’s no point in hiding it for longer,” He gives a short, formal bow, “Yes. I am Blackhearts – Owner of the Blackhearts Casino and host of the beloved show, Blackhearts’ Death House.”

Clown doesn’t move forward to shake the hand, feeling a feeling of sickness running through his veins at the confirmation.

Blackhearts doesn’t seem to be affected by the rejection, taking his hand back.

“Always such a pleasure to meet a fan,” He says, the smile eerie.

Clown shakes his head vehemently. “I'm not a fan.”

“Really?” The villain says, disbelieving, sneering, “I recall seeing you walking in here and being absolutely speechless about the beautiful display of cruelty I've got going on. You looked so amazed, I'm flattered.”

Those words are sickening. More sick, Clown has no idea what to respond to it with. He feels repulsion at himself for not being able to argue back, but he forces himself to keep talking.

“Is this just a joke to you?” Clown spits out, “You just broadcasted a massacre.”

Blackhearts shrugs. After everything he’s done, he just shrugs. “It’s just another average Tuesday for me. I kinda do this all the time, Clown – You’ve watched my show. Surely you know that by now.”

Clown feels his fingers twitch. “You’re sick."

That statement seems to amuse Blackhearts further. “I am, and you are too. It’s like we’re made for each other,” The villain winks, then laughs, “I’m kidding! Who doesn’t enjoy occasional bloodshed every once in a while? Fellow monsters, aren't we?”

(Don’t compare me with you, a voice wants to scream, but Clown can't actually speak it out. He just stands there, body torn between ordering him to attack but too confused to.

He needs to focus. He can't let Blackhearts distract him with his words, he needs to–)

He gets ready to wield his weapon, brandishing it at the other, who does appear to get the hint.

"Stop talking," he manages to get out past the discord in his mind and the discord he still hears surrounding them.

“Alright, sorry, no need to get so worked up!” Blackhearts sputters out, raising his hands up in surrender, though he seems ever so smug knowing that he has the upper hand in this conversation, that he's getting to the hero with his words, “I do value it if we could have transparency between us, Clown. I went through all this effort to squeeze in some time to talk to you amongst all the chaos, after all. Let's get back on schedule.”

He doesn't reply nor does he lower his weapon, so Blackhearts continues his monologue.

“You might've already noticed what the purpose of this venture is. Out there, the people are already killing themselves and each other, tearing each other’s eyes and bones out. By now, it’s too late to stop it – everyone’s going to die, and the entire city will have witnessed it. The entire city has witnessed it.”

He declares, gesturing to the room they're in, the blood that drips from the corpses that have fallen. He squats down to get a closer look at a few of them. He cup the face of a dead body in a hand, looking fascinated and satisfied. Clown can't even begin to stomach the thing he feels seeing it happen.

“The entire city has seen how the commission has failed to put the situation under control, and not only that – some good faces of the commission were involved. Including you,” he concludes, tossing the corpse away, wiping his bloodied hands together, and standing back up. He gazes back to Clown, who's still standing in place, unsure how he's supposed to react. If he's even supposed to move.

“Technically speaking, you've already fulfilled your role in this act! You showed them a show – a glorified, beautiful display of the sheer power you hold, and how easy it'd be to take that power from the commission to use for less heroic acts,” he grins, “You've demonstrated your powers, Clown.”

“So in summary, you used me,” Clown concludes coldly, narrowing beneath his mask.

The villain raises a brow, “And you didn't enjoy it?”

“I didn-”

“Don't lie to me, Clown. I know you understand me. And I understand you,” He cut him off, smiling, tone a mocking sort of voice. He starts walking, too, as he speaks, around the room, though his eyes remain on the hero, “As much as you'd hate to admit it, you delight in this. Seeing the twisted mask of justice fall, seeing this stain be forever put upon the world. You liked this, Clown! Even if… well, I was the one who pushed you into it.”

Clown grips his scythe, feeling those words sparking something in him, as well as the way the villain walks his way, circling. An emotion of anger, injustice, perhaps. An instinct telling him he feels threatened. He finds his own voice shifting more to a low warning. “Shut up.”

(In a fight, he could definitely take the other. Blackhearts has never been described to be strong, though he has rarely ever been described at all. Always hiding behind a mask, a screen, an identity. There’s a solid chance nobody has been as close to the man as Clown has in this encounter, and he might never get this chance again. A chance to eliminate, to kill a big threat, to hunt and kill a monster so vile.)

“But what's the difference, anyways?” Blackhearts hums, disregarding the warning and purposefully puts on a more proactive tone with his next words. “The commission regularly sends you out to kill people, why is it any more wrong when I’m the one doing it? In fact, I think you'd enjoy it more.”

With those words, Clown has had enough. He takes off in the villain's direction with the full intent to kill. Blackhearts seems to have expected the move however, as he immediately moves himself to the side just in time to miss the stab aimed at his neck.

Clown swings at him, but Blackhearts dodges again with a hearty laugh.

“Missed me-!”

With renowned anger and frustration, he chases after, trying to swing and cut the monster's head off, but once again misses as Blackhearts avoids the blade by a slither of silver hair, winking.

“Missed me again!” He taunts yet again, enjoying this thoroughly.

It ticks Clown off just how lightly he’s being taken, and he quickens his pace subconsciously telling himself to aim for the he–

(Aiming to kill, it’d be so easy.

He is aiming to kill, to end, but as the hilt almost bashes through the head, his hand moves.)

He’s barely able to change his trajectory at the last second and instead knocks the villain down with the end of his scythe’s handle, throwing them across the room to land with a loud thud on his back, a loud grunt of pain sounding out. He tries to get up, but Clown gets there first, brandishing his scythe against his neck as he did, ordering him wordlessly to stay down.

Blackhearts decisively doesn’t move, eyeing the scythe inches away from his neck, so close to slicing through his vocal cords if he made a wrong move. He holds a breath in, eyes widening as he shifts them to look at Clown.

He winces in pain, letting out a startled laugh. “Wow- you really are something–”

(That look in his eyes isn’t of fear, but it remains that reverent gaze and Clown hates it.)

“I should kill you right here,” he declares, cold.

(He isn’t even bewildered anymore by the other’s reaction.

Even in moments where he is so close to getting killed, there’s adoration in the man’s eyes as he stares up into his potential killer.)

“You should,” Blackhearts agrees, “You really should. You really, really should.”

(But you won't, is the unsaid part. The unsaid declaration they both heard.)

As they stare into each other's eyes, Clown feels his grip on the scythe shake. He should kill him. He should kill Blackhearts – He's a villain. A monster. A monster. Both agree. He has this one chance, and the villain is just giving it to him. Challenging him to do it. He should do it.

His hand doesn't move to end him, however, and Blackhearts no doubt notices if the startled smile on his face is anything to go by.

It's another second before Blackhearts speaks up again, tone taking that of wonder even as he’s toying with death.

“Clown, you have no superpower, and yet, l-look at you.”

"A monster in man's skin,” Clown cuts off coldly.

"A beautiful monster in a handsome man's skin," Blackhearts corrects, and Clown detests it – he wants to tear his skin inside out knowing that the villain’s words are genuine, downright reverent. "The living image of power, strength, and fear."

(Shut up. That’s what repeats in Clown’s mind. He needs to just shut him up. He doesn’t need to hear this – he’s so close.)

Clown steadies his glare.

"Your point?"

"My point is you and I, Clown," Branzy says, tone suddenly cuts the humor, losing the smile, "We're living proof that no one really needs these superpowers and superheroes playing system. We both rose up to the top of this world, despite all the odds against us.”

The words pour out so suddenly, it startles Clown into nearly dropping the weapon. The genuinity, the pained, the hateful tone he talks in, completely contrasting his behavior from moments before. And they keep flowing out, like a dam breaking, a floodgate crashing on itself.

"Don't you see? We don't need these arrogant, irresponsible, self-assured bastards, who were assigned leniency to life at birth and never held accountable for any of their actions,” He continues, getting bolder as he raises a hand to set distance between his neck and the dangerous blade, and Clown lets him. It bewilders Clown that he's letting him.

Branzy, with all the words he's saying, becomes alarmingly human. Clown is suddenly aware of how he's breathing, how they're both breathing. He is aware of the human, uneasy smile on Branzy’s face as he's almost talking for his life.

"You see my vision. I know you do. Don’t you want it too? To tear this entire society down to the dirt? To destroy the system, abolish this self-serving system where the strong elevate the strong and the weak are left to die?"

To die.

He’s suddenly made aware once more of the cruelty that’s surrounding them as they talk. All the blood.

(The reminder of their inhumanity. The built up image shatters.)

“Don’t you want to stop being the commission’s puppet? Society’s scapegoat-”

That's when Clown truly snaps out of it. He shoves the villain back to the ground where he started. He ignores the grunt of pain Blackhearts lets out in favor of keeping him down, stepping on his chest causing the villain to let out a genuine intake of pain.

“Don't pretend to be sympathetic,” Clown hissed, actually threatening the scythe closer it touches the other's neck, “You don't actually care what happens to the people you hurt. You don't care who you hurt, you find it funny. You're only saying all of that to appeal to me, lower my guard.”

Blackhearts seems to laserfocus on the last sentences, beaming playfully even as he struggles to breathe, “O-oh? Well, am I appealing to you?”

Clown narrows his eyes, and steps down harder. He can hear something snap, and the villain heaves up with a sharp gasp. This causes the scythe to briefly tear the skin of his neck, and even then Clown doesn't move it away, showing a genuine desire to kill the supervillain.

“Okay- okay- listen! I wasn't lying – not fully, I do believe in my own words, and they were the reason I started on this path,” The villain starts frantically explaining, “It might’ve been my true motivation at some point – but things change! I'm sure you understand. I’m not the person I was when I was beginning my path, and neither are you.”

The fear is finally noticeable in the villain's eyes, but Clown doesn't feel satisfied. He doesn't reply, keeping eye contact as he stares into those eyes of an inhuman beast. He thinks how he just needs a single push here. A single wrong move, and the beast below his boot will be gone.

Beats of silence pass by, and Clown reduces the pressure his feet had on the other’s chest. He withdraws his blade. It's enough for Blackhearts to breathe again. And the man does breathe, hard and wheezing for breath beneath the “hero's” feet, as a bit of blood trails down where his neck had been pressed down by the “hero's” weapon.

(He watches him heave for air, air he doesn't deserve to breathe in. That he doesn’t deserve to have.

Yet, Clown notices once more that he’s losing his resolve to kill.)

“I should end you right here,” Clown repeats himself out loud.

Even while he's no doubt shaken, whole body shaking and blood trailing down his clothes, the villain laughs.

"You should," Blackhearts agrees readily once more, a small smile forming on his face as laughter bubbles out of his mouth, "But you won't. You wouldn’t. I know you won’t.”

(He won’t. He wouldn’t. They both know that.)

Slowly, Clown withdrew himself, taking a few steps back, allowing the other to get back up on his feet. The villain doesn’t do that immediately, still laying down for seconds, weakly detaching himself from the ground with a groan.

It takes Blackhearts a moment to actually catch his breath. He breathes in, loudly, voicing both awe and wonder, “Jeez – that was–”

“Is that all you wanted to say to me?” Clown cuts him off.

The villain takes a moment to think, then nods, “I mean, that was the very essence of it all, yes.”

(Months ago, he would've killed the supervillain in front of him without a second thought. But now, he finds the idea unappealing.

It has nothing to do with his hatred towards the commission, buried deep in silent resentment now screaming in his mind like a cliffside.

It doesn't even have anything to do with any emotions of love he might've felt, that flooded his sense like a leaking dam giving in to the pressure.

Blackhearts is a horrible and brutal criminal that needs to be put down. Nothing is going to change that.

But he's always felt the same sentiment towards himself. The inhumanity left in him, carved out forcefully until there's no space for anything left. It isn’t understanding that he feels, it isn’t full agreement either – it’s indifference. Indifference to what used to be his responsibility – one might go so far to call it laziness, but the desire to kill just isn’t there. He doesn’t even know why it’s not there, he feels a lot of conflicting thoughts cutting through his head.)

He watches as Blackhearts steadily tries to get back on his feet.

"Give me one reason," He forces out regardless, though even now he's still only watching as Blackhearts is readjusting himself, " One reason on why I should even think about letting you go and not just ending you and all the pain you’ve caused.”

He wishes that the snarl he made sounded more hateful, sounded more sure.

(He knew that just by saying those words instead of acting, just by giving Blackhearts another chance to speak, he had been defeated.)

Blackheart's eyes dims for a moment, scarily, at the challenge presented to him.

Then, he muses. "If you insist."

And then, before Clown could ask – way swifter and stronger than he could imagine the other moving after being injured, Branzy pushes himself into him.

Clown doesn't have a moment to react before they're both falling to the ground, and in the brief seconds they've left footing, Branzy unhooks the mask that covers the hero's face.

He hears the mask clatters to the floor, thrown away.

Then, before he can retaliate, Branzy cups his face and kisses him.

For a second, Clown’s heart stops. He can feel it in his chest, almost bursting at the sudden assault at his emotions and senses.

The kiss is tender. It's soft, it's loving and it’s everything.

Then, his thoughts catch up with him, and he feels exposed – suffocated. He lets go of the grip he has on his scythe in pure shock, and it tumbles out of his hands to join the mask on the floor. For a moment his hands are scrambling, as he's unsure where to put them, but he’s struggling. He doesn’t know how, he’s overwhelmed, consumed.

(He feels like he’s being killed. He’s being killed. The air leaves his lungs too quickly, and it feels like he’s getting sucked in, absorbed, killed. He can’t breathe. He's not sure he wants to breathe.)

While distracted with the kiss, he fails to notice anything going on, up until he feels Branzy's other hand first touch his back, and then stabs something into him.

Panicking, Clown pushes the villain off of himself, getting up and gasping for air immediately as they're separated.

He hears the thud Blackhearts makes as he is thrown off, but focuses more on the air that refills his lungs, replacing what he lost, his composure completely shaken, thrown off his feet.

On the ground near them, he sees a syringe.

Without mercy, Blackhearts smiles, and says the cruelest possible thing he could’ve chosen to say at that moment. The three words that would make this worse than it already is.

"I love you."

Clown’s heart stops.

He feels his entire world crash, freeze, and pause, and he’s closing his ears – his eyes – he wants to close them all. Shut all his senses out.

"No - Shut up-"

(The emotions that flood him – that try to overtake him at that moment, the dam that he constructed – it’s all gone down. He realizes that now. It’s destroyed. There's claws scratching his heart as it explodes. He’s destroyed, and he feels doomed. He’s doomed. He's officially destroyed.)

A hand on his shoulder brings him back, and he sees Branzy, Branzy with that god awful adoring, loving smile.

"I love you,” He repeats, voice getting crueler as his smile widens. “I love you, Clown.”

He feels something. Tiredness, relaxation spreading throughout his body.

“Shut up- what did you-”

A sedative, most likely, almost definitely. It’s a sedative that’s now spreading through him, and he feels his body giving out to the influence, the way his eyes are closing and he is falling to the floor.

A voice starts speaking to him, though he doesn’t fully register it.

“Shh… that's right, Clown,” He distantly feels his mask being put back on his face, gently, "That's right. Take a rest, you deserve it. Don't fight it.”

He feels the darkness overtake him, and he loses to it.

“You know where to find me. I’ll be waiting for you.”

---

When Clown does awake, he’s no longer in the broken down prison holding room. He’s in a bed, in an infirmary. He hears talking coming from somewhere else in the room.

His head feels light, not in any weird way, but akin to how disorientated one might feel after waking up from a nap. Waking up, he feels… off. Oddly blank, yet his heart is beating too fast, feeling like it wants to explode from within his chest. His body feels worn out and tense. Tired. Like a machine still lagging behind moments after its startup.

(What happened? How long has he been asleep for?)

He tries to move his fingers, and yes, he can feel them. He can feel them twitch against soft fabric. His gloves, they've been taken off, and he can touch the fabric with his hands. He blinks his eyes, as if testing if his vision actually works. It does, and he views the ceiling of the infirmary with a cloudy head, his vision focuses and blurs for a moment, before his world does become clear.

He can feel his heartbeat drum steady in his chest, calm, slow, as he just woke up.

(How long has it been?)

Apparently, someone notices him waking up, and out of his view he hears a pair of footsteps approaching him.

“Clownpierce? Are you awake?”

Hearing the voice, he tries to sit up straight, and his body complies with the request.

Clown finally recognizes that he’s in the medical of the Hero HQ. Since when had he moved here?

“I’ll inform them that you’re awake.”

He doesn’t reply, and the nurse leaves him be. She walks out the room, and closes the door behind her. Looking around, he’s now all alone in that decently sized infirmary room, LED lights casts a painful, white blinding and plain glow throughout the room his eyes are still adjusting to. It’s quiet, but he can hear the activity going on beyond the walls. Muffled noises, voices, people walking here to there.

(He can’t remember anything that happened after getting… he remembers the encounter, Blackhearts and everything but what happened after the kiss?

Last thing he knew, he was sedated, and Blackhearts made him fall asleep. What happened after?)

He tries to piece everything together in his mind, but in no time at all,he hears the muffled noises coming from outside, before a click as the door opens again.

He can see a lot of key people outside the room. They are all silent, and only one person actually entered the room, stopping next to his bed.

“Clownpierce,” The tone the head of the commission holds is toneless as it’s ever been, but there’s a sense of graveness to it.. “We have several questions for you.”

***

Blackhearts had been completely truthful during their encounter – he did broadcast the entire prison break massacre of the high level prison onto every television in radius, and from there footage spread like wildfire.

He’d only been out cold for a few hours. In that time, the commission had been attempting damage control. They were being overwhelmed while it happened, desperately trying to get into the prison, though they couldn’t for whatever reason. The entire area had been surrounded, yet there was entering. Before they could properly assess what was going on, the connection finally went up again, and they searched the place tail to head, every floor, to find all the surveillance footage had stopped working the exact moment the dreadful broadcast started airing. They’re still having trouble with repairing the prison system back to before, and all the electronics are still malfunctioning.

They scavenged the entire place, though it was hard to do with just how messy the place was when they got there.

And true to Blackhearts’ words, there were no survivors left who were found in that building, none but Subz and Clown.

They told him, amongst all the piles of people who have died, some of them weren’t even supposed to be there. They weren’t the people there under the commission, they weren’t affiliated with the prison, they weren’t prisoners. There were regular people, who all had somehow gotten sneaked into the prison from an unknown source, by an unknown third party. There were civilian casualties, and nobody knows how they got there.

The third party involved is largely suspected to be the Death Syndicate, the group of which not only wanted to double on the offense but cover their tracks, airing the massacre as not only a threat, but a declaration and a powerful surprise attack aimed at the good image of the commission.

Clown tries to piece together his memories on what happened, the disarray of events that took place in that building, from his perspective. A lot of things were going on at once, and he tries to rewind it all.

(Branzy– no, Blackhearts. He feels something when he remembers his face. A tight rope around his heart, and he feels like he's suffocating.

The smile he had the entire time, sure that he's winning. And, ensnared, Clown admits he has.)

He doesn’t know how he feels at this moment, after everything that has happened.

The commission is deciding to let the two surviving heroes take the fall for what happened, as an effort to restore a little trust in the people who now see just how much power it could have. They’re going to make him the one at fault for this. Of course, he was under the influence of the Vexish’s drug, whatever it was, but he had been, on camera, the one who slaughtered all the civilians in the building. So the commission is having him publicly resign tomorrow.

(He held a breath in with hope hearing that, though of course, they aren’t actually going to let him resign. It’s just a public stunt – they’ll put him back in under a new name.

Well, he says to himself, to hell with that.)

And now, he had just lied. Lied to the commission. It felt wrong, but he did it. He did it, with a monotone voice and a soulless gaze.

“I did not see any of the death syndicate members during the conflict, sir. One of them must’ve been invisible, as I couldn’t see them before they rendered me unconscious, though that may have been attributed to the unknown gas they let out.”

It’s a small lie, really, but of course, he doesn’t tell the people there, persecuting him, about the exchange he had had with the supervillain. They don’t even know the identity of the supervillain – they never did – though whether or not they’ve connected that the person they’ve had in confinement for the last week is secretly a supervillain is most likely irrelevant, Branzy Cello is now considered guilty regardless.

“What about Branzy Cello?” Clown risks asking at one point, “Where was he?”

“We didn't find any trace of him. He was not found as one of the casualties, nor was he found anywhere else,” The official says, bluntly.

He guessed that much. He doesn't reply, going back to being quiet.

(Guilty. Oh, he is guilty.

Clown remembers the man's smile of glee, pure joy. It was unfiltered, and Clown was, daresay, afraid. He felt afraid. Him.

A supervillain without a superpower, rising up in power through years of work without the commission's knowledge. How embarrassing. He’d laugh.)

“We will be attacking that blasted Casino soon, this is enough – request a superhero from another city’s commission, one with some sort of depth recognition. We need to look for a way to break the illusion.”

It's hard for him to feel sympathy or anything for the commission. In fact, a part of him is consciously wishing for a horrible outcome to befall the Metropolis – the system. The old him would've never wished anything bad upon the Metropolis, the one he had given his life up to protect.

(“Things change,” The voice echoes in his head.

Things have definitely changed. He feels nothing now, looking at the people in this room that used to command him. No responsibility, no fear.)

He sits in silence throughout the serious meeting, not talking unless spoken to. He let's himself think thoughts, ones he would've felt bad for thinking months before, but now he feels detached to that old sense of duty.

He's not even sure why – not that much has changed, right?

It is long past midnight by the time he actually gets dismissed. A lot of things have been discussed, though he went through it all with only half an ear open to it, more focused on his own thoughts that he’s surprised to realize the entire night has gone by.

The meeting room is now silent again. Most of the commission agents that were present had left.

Clown waits, but he gets impatient.

“Am I dismissed?” He asks when he has a pause to speak in.

The official brushes him off. “Yes. Wait for your next call, Clownpierce. You are not off the hook, and will be under strict surveillance from here on forth.”

He barely has the will to fake a smile, so he doesn't.

“Of course.”

Not another moment, he rises up from his chair and leaves the room, ignoring the eyes still present honing in on him.

He doesn't care for them.

(He's leaving, on the commission’s terms or not, and it seems the latter will happen. There should be that fear, with how much the commission has changed him, shaped him over the years. There should be the fear of leaving, just as the fear of being replaced was there years back.

But no, he wants out, now. And though they're not going to agree, he's getting out.)

“Clown.”

He is startled back into reality, when someone calls out to him while he’s barely outside the HQ doors.

It’s Zam, who’s right there, outside.

Clown looks up at the superhero, blankly.

“Oh, hi, Princezam,” he greets, without emotion, “You’re usually home by this hour, checking up on Subz?”

Zam doesn’t answer his question. He looks as if he wanted to say something else, but then doesn't. He looks away from Clown, and wordlessly enters the building while the other heads out.

Clown doesn't look back at him either.

Right. Whatever, then.

---

The broadcast caused a huge uproar among the metropolis folk.

A villain had hijacked all the channels city wide, and broadcasted a blood bath. Civilians all around were horrified, and the commission had been held responsible. Complaints were filed, tabloids and newspapers talked about it – it made such a headline it even sparked worry in other cities. It’s the talk everywhere.

But not to Clown, as he hasn’t had the time to sit down and listen or read the news.

Hours after he had been discharged, true to the official's words, his device beeped. A notification coming in from the commission. No doubt for the public apology, an act they were going to do to punish him for letting the prison incident happen and to save their own faces.

As the communicator beeped, he didn't raise his head to pick it up. Instead, he rereads the speech he was set to say, there in his room. He’s late to the actual speech.

“To my dear people of Metropolife, I express deep regret and remorse for the tragedy that happened on my watch. I was supposed to be a protector for the people, yet I failed.”

The communicator ringed again.

He had been given this script hours before, as he was leaving. Reading it made him feel a deep sense of amusem*nt, and he wonders how the people would’ve reacted had he actually read this out on stage, broadcasted as they wanted him to. But he wasn’t going to be there. Crowds of people have probably turned up, yet he isn't there. He's not going there.

Another ring sounds out.

His usual reaction should’ve been, and usually is, to immediately check it. But for whatever reason, at that moment, he just stared at it blankly as it continued to ring, continuing the speech.

“This was a total failure on my part, and I feel deeply, deeply remorseful for the lives that have been taken, both by my hands and by my negligence. My inability to stop the tragedy from happening and only assisting in how everything went downhill.”

Another ring.

It continued to claw his ears. He still doesn't move to answer. He didn’t do anything, continuing to read. He just waited, watched, and waited, watching it keep ringing, ringing. But he doesn’t pick it up.

(It rang and it rang and it rang and it rang and it hurt his ears just to listen to it ringing.

A part of his brain is screaming at him to pick it up, pick it up, before he gets into more trouble, but he doesn’t pick it up. He doesn’t want to pick it up. He doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want that.)

Regardless, he keeps talking. He talks the entire page, as the ringing keeps going in the background, as he can now hear the knocking on his door. He can hear his name being shouted out behind it, yet he doesn't move from where he's standing.

“Clownpierce, Superhero of the Metropolife Hero Commission, officially resigning.”

Right after, he goes dead silent, leaving the only noise in the room to be coming from the communicator, and the knocking on his door gets more frantic.

After minutes, he picked the device up, and smashed it into the ground with all the force he had. All the anger, the frustration he could summon that had been accumulated all this time going into punting that god awful device to the wall, where it hit and fell.

It collided with the floor, and shattered into multiple pieces. Broken, it stopped ringing. But if it wasn’t enough, he stomped on it. Over and over and over and over and over and over again. Until it was just scraps of metal, unrecognizable. He keeps stomping. The paper with the script soon joins its place as he tears it piece by piece – bit by bit – scrap by scarp, and he doesn't stop.

(Blood, blood, blood. There's blood on his hands.)

He stumbles back, breathing heavily at what he’s done. The knocking has gone quiet.

…

He remembers the night after Branzy's arrest.

He caught a glimpse of himself in his bathroom mirror as he was washing his face, and he saw somebody he didn't recognize.

Clown realized then he’s never actually seen what he looks like during the missions, when he has his hair all tidied up, his face exposed without his mask, revealing his eyes. His face. His expression. Him. A him that he’s unfamiliar with. A him that’s now like a stranger to him. An estranged somebody. A him from the past. A dead man.

In the mirror, he saw an unidentifiable person with red eyes and black hair. The person stared back at him, blanky, and so does he, in the dim lights of his bathroom.

The person in the mirror isn't him. That he is sure; he is not human. He is not-

*CRACK!*

There’s blood on his hands, but there’s no longer a mirror in front of him. Shards of glass fell to the floor, shards stung his skin. It hurt. It’s been a long time since he felt this hurt. Since he felt touchable.

Since he felt human. Human enough to be hurt.

…

He tears his face away, forceful, slapping himself in the face to bring himself out of his thoughts.

He needs to get out of here. He needs to be out of here .

Clown reaches for the mask on his face. He feels the device that is on that porcelain plate, a tracker and a bug.

He remembers Blackhearts’ words about him being heavily surveyed, and knows that there's at least five other trackers scattered across his armor and his scythe. He doesn't think he can just detach them all, so it was dangerous for him to wear the entire thing. Regardless he is sure that they might have somehow installed one on him, but he doesn't care about that right now.

He unlatches the mask on his face, and the rest of the costume follows suit. Everything now laid on the floor, deformed and messy in a single pile.

He knows that barely any other hero has seen him without them off, meaning they’ll be less likely to know it’s him at a first glance. Maybe the commission will provide a picture. They probably will. Whatever.

So, he’s leaving his armor behind. He doesn't like it, but it's what he has to do. It felt almost like leaving a part of him behind. A part he should hate, but it’s him.

(A part of him he has never lived without.

It's him. The only identity he's ever been for years.)

The silence is getting dreadful. The commission should be at the door. He could've sworn he heard knocking on his door. But now there's nothing, nothing at all, and he feels the dread that was rage the moments before to accumulate and make his skin crawl.

“Hey,”

He has to hide how startled he is when a voice suddenly calls out to him, in his living quarters that's supposed to be empty, from the corner of the room nobody is ever at.

But there is something else there, now. He slowly turns his head, and he notices the corners of his vision ever so slightly glitching. His eyes lands on a figure that was not there before, and his eyes narrow.

“Ashswag?”

There in one corner, stood the villain supposedly responsible for the disappearance of the Casino - Ashswag. The Glitch. As usual, he's almost surreal to look at, a spot of something that directly contrasts the area surrounding him, as if his very shadow and presence inverts the space around him. Barely any of his features could be made out amongst the glitching, though Clown could just about make out his face and long hair.

“Hello, Clownpierce,” The villain smiles, but then his eyes noticeably widen as Clown looks at him, looking surprised, “You look really weird without your mask. I don't know how to feel about being able to see your face.”

Instinctively, his body inches towards the pile of gear now on the floor, more specifically his scythe. Clown takes onr quick glance out the window. It's one bolted shut, offering no real way to open it, but it still has a mild view to the outside sky. It's supposed to be early in the morning, yet the sky has turned pitch black.

That action seems to have confused Ashswag. “I've noticed you heroes always look out the window when I'm around, what's that about?”

“You always forget to imagine a sky whenever you use your powers, it turns black whenever you're doing your thing,” Clown answers, truthfully.

At that statement, Ash becomes indignant, sounding offended beyond belief as he marches over to the window.

“W- no I don't-” He takes a look at the pitch black, starless, cloudless sky outside, freezes, and lets out a frustrated groan. "...Fuck.”

He quickly snaps his fingers and the sky outside now turns into a cloudy blue sky, way too cloudy and with very low quality skyscrapers that resemble unloaded graphics from a 3D game, but not as jarring as the literal void itself being outside your room.

Ash then points at Clown threateningly though embarrassed. “You saw nothing.”

Clown blinks.

“No one ever told you about that before?”

The extremely enraged and displeased look he gets is enough of an answer. “No!”

“So much for a God,” He offhandedly insults, before continuing, “So, I'm in one of your pocket dimensions, now?”

“That is not how my powers work, for the record. But something like that. They can't see you right now, though they're trying to break the door down right now. They won't be able to.."

And he knows that's true, because the commission had stationed people around the building to escort him out once he's ready for his appearance. He's sure they're panicking now with now he first didn't respond to the calls, and didn't respond to the knocking. Clown doesn't sense anything threatening from Ash either, he doesn't think the villain's there for a fight or anything of that sort.

(He is still wary, because the glitch is a lackey of the Death Syndicate. Though the syndicate's movements so far suggest that they want him alive, he's remains cautious of their actual intentions.)

“What do you want?” He asks, tone close to a threat but not fully there yet.

It's with visible reluctance that Ash painstakingly responds; “I'm here to escort you out of here.”

Ah.

“Excuse me?”

“Clownpierce, you're being surveilled from all angles, you are aware of that, right?” The villain explains, “The moment you step out of this building – and also out of my current range, they'll be able to catch you easily. They're anticipating you were going to run. You won't even get one moment to react. We wouldn't want that."

("We", meaning the syndicate, most likely.)

He doesn't show himself to be fazed. “So you're here to help me escape?”

“I wouldn't say escape.”

Clown hums at that.

“I mean, you could refuse,” Ash admits, though he seems doubtful of that possibility, “Not sure what those guys might do to you, though. You will get caught once you're out of here.”

“I could escape on my own," He declares, confident. He already did have a plan, though he questioned the possibility of it actually working out.

"Can you, though?"

Clown doesn't answer this time, instead, he leans over a little to pick up his scythe. Ash doesn't stop him, though he watches with suspicion and doubt in what Clown's going to try and do. The former hero grips the weapon in his hands, feeling steady as he stands upright. He holds it, and

“Getting violent with me in my own domain?” Ash says, bemused though ready, “Not a very wise choice, Clownpierce.”

But Clown rushes past him, instead aiming for the windows. With the handle of his scythe he pushes it forward, for the glass despite it being bolted by its sides.

“No way that's going t-”

But Clown is able to apply enough pressure, and breaks out as the glass shatters.

Ashswag stares at him with wide eyes as he plummets down from the window.

“Who the hell takes the hard way out when the easy way is literally right in front of him!? Crazy ass–” He rushes over to the window, and sees the exact moment his illusion shatters.

Below, he could see the moment Clown lands on the ground, and the commission agents stationed down there seem to notice him, though they aren't fast enough.

Ash watches the commotion that starts with interest. At the same time, with the illusion down, the door of the room is finally forced open and band of people go inside. They couldn't see the glitch at that moment, and instead they rush immediately to the window, panicked by the outcome. Most rush back from where they came from to provide backup to the people below.

Ash looks back at the pile of armor left on the floor, then turns back. Watching the commission lackeys run around, the villain eventually gets bored. He evaporates into streams of incomplete code and glitches, disappearing as the sky is once more blue.

***

And so, now, Clown’s out.

He breathes in the afternoon air, anything but fresh, but it’s air. He’s been so long without air.

He ran away. That’s what happened, to him, and to the commission. He ran away.

He narrowly avoided detection on the day he ran out. Though he refused Ashswag's help, he can admit that the latter's powers, whatever it truly is, did assist him. That window shouldn't've been able to break that easily under normal circ*mstances. It was built to withstand him, but there's no way the glitch knew that. His powers saw it as regular glass.

The peoplw the commission sent couldn't catch up in time, and he got away. He actually got away.

And now, he breathes.

He wishes he could say he feels relief, but now, there’s another tension that refuses to leave his body, the knowledge that they’re out there, looking for him.

He knows other heroes have been looking for him, and he has almost run into quite a few of them, but managed to evade detection each time, and leave before they realize he was ever there. He's wanted all throughout the metropolis. It was another uproar when he didn't show up to the event the commission had planned for the heroes to have the resignation speech, and now they have to hide the fact that he ran away, knowing it'll spark another public panic if the people knew they've lost control over one of their most terrifying soldiers,

Before, he was already targeted, but he had the commission to back him up. Now, he’s alone, fending off both villains and heroes. It’s dangerous, but he wouldn’t be alive now if that was enough to kill him.

(He could've just accepted the offer for an escort, would've saved him a lot of trouble, but he didn't want to.

He's not sure what he wants, now.

He's free.)

Even now, he knows he’s not free. He’ll never be free.

The only reason he’s able to run now after so long, is because of a rare opening, while the commission is still focused more on fighting against the syndicate, who's getting the upper hand in the battle. Yet it won’t be like that forever – he’s too deep into this business, he will inevitably get dragged back to the battle, to continue fighting the war until he drops dead.

The sun is setting upon the city, and he is standing in the shadows after a long day.

(Now, he's not sure what he really wants to do.

He's not free, but he's not tied to anything yet.)

He lets out a sigh.

Distantly, he hears footsteps resonate from behind him. He turns to this person slowly. He doesn’t move too much as to not rouse any suspicion, to not seem threatening. After all, he is in a dark alleyway.

He recognizes the hero that just walked into the alleyway, Bacon, looking at him with confusion.

“Uh, excuse me, you okay, sir?”

If Bacon doesn't recognize him immediately, it either means the commission hasn't fully spread his real appearance around, or he just looks nothing like himself at that moment.

He shrugs lethargically, “I’m alright.”

From the look the hero gives him, he must’ve thought Clown is just some drunkard that wandered off into the alleyways, lost.

“Okay. Have you seen someone suspicious around this area?” The hero pauses, possibly coming up with a description though questioning how coherent Clown is, “Uh, we’re looking for someone with white mask with a creepy smile? Grim reaper like costume? Kinda clownish too. Looks like a clown. A killer clown? Jester?”

He gets an idea. A bad idea.

(A horrible idea, but he’s just too bored to care.)

Clown looks off, as if to think, squinting his face real hard. Then, he nods. “I might've.”

That surprises the hero, clearly not actually expecting him to be of any help. “ Really? Where?”

“That way,” he points to a direction he picks at random. “I saw him go that way just minutes ago.”

“Thanks!” he says, and immediately begins rushing in that way. Clown can’t help the small smile that graces his face. Not happy, just slightly amused.

His face stays that dead smile, but as the noises around him slowly dissipate, so does the expression on his face. He looks up blankly at the sky, now darkened, a shade of dark blue overtaking.

Clown knows he should start walking again. They’ll be patrolling this area soon.

He gathers energy, and jumps onto the walls of the alleyways, up and up, until he’s at the top of a building standing tall.

He sees the moon rising from the shadows, covered up behind dozens upon dozens of buildings. The city begins to light up, polluting the atmosphere and the sky with artificial gleams of life.

He stands there, unmoving, watching the stars appear, barely shining through, barely able to be seen when compared to the lusters of humanity.

(He sees the curtains of his cruel little display of blood and bones slowly close, the roof toppling to the ground, the stage cracking into ruin as the show’s so close to over. He’s so close to cutting his strings, the ribbons that bind him, but he's also close to death.

He knows that as long as he lives, it’s not over. It’ll never be over for him. Only now, he feels the illusion of a choice.)

In the distance, he sees a light start to flicker. Deep, deep in areas that will be dark, he sees a light that should not be shining so brightly. A light that he recognizes.

(Now, he’ll have to be the one asking for an encore. He has to continue his part in the play, for it’s the only way for him to continue living. Living a life so vile and wretched, yet it’s all he has left and he knows of it well. An encore.)

Nightfall is here.

The street lights will be turned on and the darkness will envelope the corners that nobody would check.

(The corners where he belongs, and where he will finally decide to go, to embrace.

“You know where to find me.”)

---

'Pierce' stood there, in the cold breezes of the alleyway. He just stands there, like a deer in the headlights, as he stares. Stares at a building that should not be there, yet has always been there.

The flaring lights of the casino shone ever brightly in the night, lighting the sky like a beacon. It’s impossible to miss in the dim surroundings. It sticks out like a fire in the woods, a candle in a blackout.

Just days ago, he saw that the Casino was gone. The commission, all the heroes thought so too. They all saw that it wasn't there. It was gone.

Yet, here he is returning, and it's here . He’s not sure how it’s possible – if it's because of the disguise, or because of anything else that dispels the illusion in his eyes, maybe Ashswag did something to him when he visited – Clown isn't sure, but it’s useless to ponder when he’s already here. When both of his feet are figuratively and almost literally at the door.

He knew this was his last chance. His final chance to take the big leap.

He takes a breath in, and lets a breath out.

(He’s not ready, he’ll never be ready, but he braces himself regardless.)

He moves to walk to the entrance. It’s not something he chooses to do, he just knows he needs to walk. He needs to come closer, he needs to return.

Before his mind has caught up, he has already stepped foot inside the building, surrounded by people. The bustling atmosphere of the Casino greets him, humbly and grandly, he thinks half-delirious.

The entrance corridors look the same as they usually do. The walls, the same colors of gray and dark purple.

The moment he enters, he feels seen. Not by the people around him, as evidently none are paying him much attention. Yet, he feels it, the shiver of his skin as he feels dozens of eyes locked onto his steps. It’s then he realizes what the source is; the security cameras.

He feels as if all the security cameras that littered the place immediately turned to view him. As if they're following him, observing him, watching him. Committing this moment to memory, burning it into footage.

He keeps walking regardless, despite feeling the way something is telling him to run out the door.

"Oh, hey, 'Pierce'!" Someone greets him as usual as he reaches the gambling area.

He’d never admit to anyone about how he almost felt like he jumped out of his skin there. He controls his expression, smiling unsurely, “Oh – good afternoon, Terrain.”

Terrain then notices Pierce's lonesomeness, raising a brow. “Where are the other two? Sam and Vio? Oh- and Barrett?”

"Not here," Pierce answers flatly, masking his composure.

"Oh, that's unfortunate. You came here alone?"

"Yep."

“Alright. Have fun, man,” Terrain seems to be satisfied with the conversation, and goes back to doing his own thing.

‘Pierce’ nods, but after that, he finds himself stuck in place. His gaze is stuck on the crowds upon crowds of people in that big room.

(He wasn't greeted by a gentle wide grin, nor the subtle scent of lavender.

He's not even sure if he's here tonight.)

“You good?” He hears Terrain asking him in concern after he just stood there for moments, unmoving.

He pauses, then hums, “Yeah. Thanks.”

He goes through crowds of people. Even after seeing them, he just can't fully believe they're there. That they’re real. It's lively. That's odd. It shouldn't be lively. The Casino vanished days ago. A part of the illusion? He's not sure. But being under Ashswag’s domain he'd thought it'd look wrong, it usually looks wrong, like the maze of alleyways, the glitching living quarters. Everything looks so normal here. Just like how it’s meant to be.

(Everything is normal. That should serve as a relief, but it just helps the festering fear that's bubbling in his head.)

He sees those people as they usually do. He even recognizes some of the patrons from the sheer amount he and the other heroes have been here on their missions.

The same people are laughing, crying, screaming, as they continue betting. Some at the slots, others at the bigger tables, alongside dealers. He goes to the bar, he sees people. He goes to take a closer look at the gambling areas, and they’re all locked in, he hears some chatter about how they’re so close to winning big. It hits him then, the reality of the situation.

(Gambling – an act of putting something of value on stake with the intent of winning something desirable, also of value. Something that might be more valuable.

These people bet their riches to gain more, unknowingly wagering in their lives for a cause they couldn't care about. But the Casino provides them with something that they can resonate with, care for – the cultivation of their pride and greed. An overindulgence.)

He finally sees the influence of the illusion. These people are hostages, unwitting and unknowing. They're the people reported missing, who in the previous night prior to the disappearance already gone away, to throw their lives in the blackhole of victimless crime, and to this day they've stayed here, stagnant.

He's watching, as a spectator.

(He's partaken in this, he has no right to judge. Over the months, this has cultivated – the final wager, all beginning right here in this place of greed.)

The entire time he looked around, he still felt the cameras looking at him. conveniently turned in his direction, yet he doesn't see them move. He knows it's not his imagination. They’re looking at him.

(Is this a part of the illusion?)

“Oh, yeah, by the way, Pierce,” Reddoons suddenly calls back to him as he’s leaving the roulette tables area. The man is absently counting the losses from the latest match. “The big boss is here tonight if you want to meet him. Heard you’re a fan.”

He blinks. “Who?”

Red shrugs, rolling his eyes. “I don’t know man, who is this Casino named for?”

He thinks that over, and the realization strikes him. “Blackhearts?”

“Yep. Came in with his friends,” Red replies nonchalantly, “But if you’re looking for someone else, then I’m afraid I can’t really help you.”

He pauses for a second.

“Thanks,” he nods, turning back.

Clown’s already stormed off, but he’s not sure where he’s heading.

All of the sudden, the crowd of people there seem more suffocating, he’s not sure where he’s meant to go. He’s checked everywhere, hasn’t he?

He hasn’t seen Blackhearts anywhere.

“Lost, Clown?"

Clown, startled, turns to look around. He’s automatically on the defensive as he does, recognizing that voice.

“Rek?”

Sure enough, Rekrap regards him with a smile, barely visible through the amount of people there.

“He’ll be excited to see you here, that's for sure,” Rek says, “Here – follow me!”

Rek turns around to walk, and after a moment of hesitation, Clown follows.

(The entire situation feels so wrong, yet he knows it's not an illusion. Can't be this strong of an illusion.

Instead of an illusion, he feels like he's on a stage, one with actors already put in their designated spots. A stage, where he’s going to be getting on, and he feels that nerve wrecking emotion of the fear you have before you’re set to perform to the audience. Stage fright.)

They walk through crowds – the Casino is so crowded, too crowded even for what it usually has. At points, he almost loses Rek, and does so for a few seconds before finding him again.

“Rek,” He pauses, deciding whether he actually wants to ask, “Are you-?”

The other cuts him off, shaking his head, “Yeah, still here. Not brainwashed, at least not completely, no. You don't need to worry about that, I’m fine,” Rek says.

Clown doesn’t try to question further, and he assumes Rek wouldn’t answer if he did. The rest of the walk is quiet, and Clown feels every single step of the walk, the walk leading him to his doom.

And yet, he walks on. He still follows.

(He feels his heart drum in his ears, he feels himself restraining from breathing too loudly.)

They stop in front of a door. Clown doesn’t think this door has been here before this. It looks like the ‘Staff only’ door he used to access the inner parts of the Casino, yet he knows it wasn’t located here, behind the bar.

Yet it’s here now, and he’s in too deep to question what reality is at this point.

Rek steps aside, and makes way for him to open the door.

“You first,” he says. It's not an offer.

He nods. Clown reaches a hand out to the door knob and turns it. He pulls the door back, opening it, opening it slowly, anticipation hitting him as he sees through the door.

On the other side is a lounge. The employees lounge, he recognizes it. He’s been here before, multiple times. Back in those 3 months where he convinced himself to forget, to avoid. Yet he’s here again, now no longer able to run away.

Multiple people sat around the lounge, but only one of them immediately stood out to Clown.

The man in the middle with black hair, that classy black suit, and the mask covering three quarters of his face. At the open of the door, the man raises his head up to meet Clown’s gaze.

(There's nothing left to avoid. There’s nowhere to run. He's confronting it, this is it.)

There is a certain charisma to the man's appearance. Well crafted, posed, polished. But despite the mask, the bland white porcelain marked by black markers, covering most of his face and anything human you could’ve gotten from his expression, his eyes are exposed.

Still staring at Clown as Clown stares at him, the man tilts his head. Then, Blackhearts smiles at him.

(He looks, and the same dull, dangerous eyes stares back. The same ones that appeared on television, the same ones that looked at him with wonder, amusem*nt – even adoration back in the ruined prison.

The same ones that greeted him every time he visited, that watched him dig himself deeper and deeper, only smiling wider as he handed him the shovel to dig faster.

That’s the same look, and he’s bewildered at how much he misses it.)

The glance between them lasts only a couple of seconds, but Clown feels as if he’s locked in that moment for much, much longer than that. The moment when he looked into those eyes, they stared back and in that stare Clown feels he's been devoured. Like he's being laid bare, vulnerable and exposed.

Then, Blackhearts looks away, turning to Rek, who’s closing the door behind them.

"Thank you, Rek. Sit down," The gamehost commands. It sounded almost the exact same as how it did on television without the static, nor the enthusiastic flare he had in front of an audience.

Rek walks over to sit with the others, leaving Clown all alone who’s still standing.

He stays there in his spot, feeling his body freezing in place. He tries to find words, anything to say, but his mind turns blank.

(He’s here. This is it.)

"BlackHearts," Clown lets out, finally. It’s supposed to be a greeting, but he didn’t really say it like one.

The visible parts of Blackhearts’ face remains still as Clown says his name.

“‘Pierce’, was it?” He says, that small smile visible on the open part of his face – maybe it’s only Clown’s imagination, but he looks incredibly smug, as if knowing he has won, “I’ve been waiting to finally meet you.”

(And he has; he has definitely won now.)

After another beat passes, the supervillain gets up from his place on that lounge, turning to the other people he had been sitting with. He bows at them with a polite smile.

“Forgive me, dear allies. As owner of this establishment it's my responsibility to welcome an extremely esteemed guest of ours first! May I be excused?”

The other people at that table don't seem alarmed or offended, in fact, some seem amused. One of them grins, giving Blackhearts a hearty thumbs-up. One of them traces their eyes from Clown, then to Blackhearts. Then, that man nods.

“Of course. Best of luck, Hearts.”

“Cheers! Thanks!” Hearts grins, before looking over and gesturing to Clown, “Follow me!”

Blackhearts takes off deeper into the room, and after a moment of standing awkwardly in place, Clown makes a move to follow. He still feels the gazes of the other people in the room – the supervillains, he recognizes – drilling into him as he walks past the lounge.

(He recognizes some of the faces in that bunch – Death Syndicate Villains. The man who had gazed at him with interest was The Admin, and he saw the masked heads of the Vexish crime ring there, along with others he isn’t too familiar with.

He’s in deep waters, and he still feels his heart pounding loud, loud. Getting louder.)

Then, Blackhearts stops in front of a door, and he shoves a hand into one of his pockets. While doing this, he finally turns to glance at Clown.

The villain smiles, and says – completely casually, nicely, as if greeting a friend; “How are you feeling, Clown?”

Clown is momentarily stunned, but knows they're far past the pretense, they’ve seen each other unmasked. There’s no point in stalling this further than they already have.

“It’s… I think I’m feeling alright,” He says.

(Surprisingly, that isn't really a lie. He's not great, but strangely, this might be the calmest he's felt all week. He feels his heartbeat has slowed significantly, though he can still hear it faintly drumming in his ears.

He can feel himself relaxing.)

Blackhearts hums, fiddling with the keys he took out of his pocket, shoving them into the keyhole on the door as he continues talking.

“Really? Last I heard from Ash you escaped from the commission. How is that going? Been on the run?” He asks inquisitively.

“Yeah.”

“Must be tough! How did you do it? Can't be that easy to run away from the commission, especially with how strict your employment status with them was!”

Blackhearts opens the door as Clown says; “I managed.”

“No doubt about that,” The villain nods, grinning, “Can't imagine they reacted particularly well to their favorite errand boy going rogue, right?”

“They didn’t,” He confirms, and walks into the room with Blackhearts in front. The villain then shuts the door behind them, and locks it in place again.

They got to a more secluded area, overseeing the entire casino. Some sort of balcony, Clown's has noticed it from below on his mission visits, yet this is the first time he's actually been up here. Must be some sort of V.I.P area, from the looks of it.

“Alright – sit down with me here!”

They sat in the lounge area there, to the side, there is a bar area, though far smaller than the actual one in the Casino.

“Fancy a drink?” The villain asks, smiling when Clown glares at him in turn, “Kidding, kidding! Although I could get you some water if you're thirsty? Milk?”

Clown grimaces, shaking his head, “No thanks. No drinks.”

“Your loss,” The villain shrugs, before turning to the direction of the bar. “A Tequila Sunrise, please!”

The bartender nods, and starts getting ready to mix the drink.

“You’re not actually lightweight, are you?” Clown decides to ask, for conversation’s sake.

Blackhearts shrugs, “I might've exaggerated it. I can handle liquor just fine.”

The drink gets brought to the table moments after, and Blackhearts takes it with a smile. Clown watches, but doesn’t say anything as his eyes wander down.

The noise coming from all the gambling activities in the Casino below fills in the silence in that balcony. The view is good, Clown has to admit.

You can see a lot from up here, you can see the entire inside of the building. And it really is as crowded as it was from below – people pushing up against each other, betting money on tables. You can hear the cheers, the cries, so clearly up here.

He turns back to see that Blackhearts had pulled out an unopened box of standard playing cards.

“Ever played blackjack before, Clown?”

He shakes his head, shifting in his seat. “Not really.”

“It’s a simple game, I'll explain.”

Blackhearts opens the box of cards. He takes the cards with his gloved hands, and puts the now empty box to the side.

“In blackjack, there’s a dealer, and a player. I’ll be the dealer,” He says, shuffling the deck in his hands. He separates some cards from the pile, putting them to the side, and shuffling the remaining deck of cards again.

“The goal is to score as many as you can, but no more than twenty-one. If you do, that’s a bust and you lose the bet. Number cards are worth according to what number is on them, face cards are worth ten, and an ace is worth either one or eleven, depending on whether it’ll make the deck add up to over twenty-one or not.”

He makes a show of fanning the cards on the table, then sweeping them back up into one deck and continues to shuffle them.

“Each of us will first be dealt two cards. One of the dealer cards will be shown face up, and you will have the choice of either hit or stand. To hit means to add another card to your deck, and once you no longer wish to add more cards, you stand,” He continues, “After you’ve stood, it’s the dealer’s turn.”

Clown nods to the explanation, “We’re not betting money, are we?” He asks, after a second of thought.

“Of course not! Unlike for the people down there, I don’t think that's either of our priorities,” Blackhearts shrugs, “Still, it’d be boring if we bet nothing, right?”

He places the deck of cards down on the table, face down, and looks up to Clown with that small, crooked smile.

“Let’s bet lives."

Clown blinks, uncertain if he heard correctly. “What?”

Blackhearts’ smile widens, straightening up.

“The illusion’s going to break soon, I’d say in about a week or two. Ash – as much as he plays God and as much as I helped him with the scripting of this illusion – isn't unbeatable,” He explains with a smile, “The confrontation will be messy. Preparation is key, and this is a part of my preparation. You could call it a bet to determine another bet. Namely – how many heroes, villains, death syndicate followers, or regular civilians become casualties.”

Blackhearts concludes the monologue by taking a sip of his drink, and Clown just blinks. The very idea of that is, to Clown, absurd.

“I don’t think you can predict something like that with a card game,” Clown says honestly.

The game show host nods, yet the amusem*nt clouding in his eye causes Clown to doubt how sure he actually is.

The villain places his drink down, and shrugs. “Maybe not. But humor me. Let’s say we are betting lives. Pretend we are. Y’know, as an icebreaker, just for fun.”

(For fun.)

“How would this work?” Clown inquiries, after another pause.

Blackhearts grabs something from one of his suit pockets, pulling out a pair of dice, showing them to Clown.

“You roll this pair of dice, and that’s the amount you’re betting – times one hundred. If I – as the dealer, and as the Syndicate - win, that number gets added to the casualty count. You win, as a hero, it gets subtracted. Fun?”

As simple as this does sound, it's still utterly ridiculous. Clown hasn't left that table, though. He is humoring this.

“What if the final amount is negative? What happens then?”

“That number will still be the amount of casualties, without the minus,” Blackhearts puts one of the dice on the table to the side, “Don’t stress the specifics. I’ll roll for how many hands we play.”

He shakes the single die in his hands, and throws it onto the table. The die drops, shakes, and then the upside lands on three dots.

“Three hands, alright!” Blackhearts picks the dice back up, alongside the other one on the table. He grabs Clown's hand (Clown subconsciously stops breathing in that second) and puts the pair of dice onto his open palm. ”Now, Clown, roll the dice for how many casualties.”

The Host lets his hand go, and Clown gathers back his composure to nod. He clutches the pair of dice in his hands, shakes them a little. He shakes them harder.

(It’s weird to think about. Those dice should feel light in his hands, yet they feel significantly heavier at the thought that the numbers indicated on them could potentially represent the life of a person.

Yet, there’s still no way Blackhearts could determine something like that. This is just for fun.

But he’s seen a fraction of what the syndicate could do in that prison. In this Casino.)

He throws the dice onto the table, and the resulting numbers are a boxcar – double six. Twelve. Timed by a hundred, that’s one thousand and two hundred (lives).

Blackhearts whistles, “Starting out big! Alright!”

The villain deals him two cards from the deck, and places two cards on his side, one face up, and the other face down.

Clown looks down to see that his cards are an ace and a five. The dealer’s face up card is a four.

“Sixteen,” Blackhearts reads out his total, “Hit or stand?”

He thinks, “Hit.”

Blackhearts gives him another card from the deck, and places it down. A seven. That makes the ace’s value go down to a one. His total is now thirteen.

“Hit.”

Another card is added, it's a four. His total is seventeen.

“Stand,” He decides.

Blackhearts nods, and moves to reveal the face down dealer card. A King. He takes another card, and it's a six. The dealer's score is twenty, he lost.

“One thousand and two hundred to the casualty counter!” Blackhearts announces chipperly.

“A lot of lives,” Clown grimaces.

The villain's smile grows wide, “You have the opportunity to reduce it. Roll again.”

Clown nods, now more relaxed as they get deeper into the game. He rolls the pair of dice again, and throws them as he did last time. Six and one. Seven, seven hundred. (lives)

The previous hand’s cards were swept off and reshuffled. The next pair of cards are put in front of him, and another two in the dealer’s deck, the face up card being a jack this time. His cards are a five and an eight. Thirteen.

“Hit,” He decides.

Another card gets added, a seven. His deck is now worth twenty.

“Stand.”

Blackhearts reveals the dealer’s face down card, and it’s a ten. The dealer's deck is also worth twenty.

“A tie,” He says, “Welp, nothing happens. Last hand!”

Clown throws the dice for the last time. Six and two. Eight, eight hundred.

Blackhearts deals the last set of cards. He gets a nine and a queen. Nineteen.

He looks over, and the dealer’s face up card is an ace. Blackhearts checks the face down card and shakes his head.

“Not a natural,” he says, placing it back down.

Clown looks at his cards one more time, thinking.

“Stand.”

Blackhearts nods, then reveals the face down card. It’s an eight. Eighteen. Clown's total is higher.

The villain grins, clapping his hands.

“You win!” He says, before frowning, “That brings the total down to four hundred! Shame, I was hoping for a larger number.”

Clown blinks. “Four hundred is a large number.”

“Still only a fraction of this metropolis’ population.”

(Distantly, Clown wonders just how badly Blackhearts thinks the attack is going to go, that he considers the entire metropolis potential to be casualties.)

“I guess,” he shrugs.

Blackhearts collects the pair of dice and puts them back in his pocket. He takes the cards, and tidies them into one deck again. Then, he pauses, seeming to consider something. He looks back up to Clown with an obscured grin.

“Hey, watch this!”

Blackhearts shows him the cards fanned out in his hands, still shuffled up. Then, he merges them into a deck again, and starts methodically shuffling them. Three seconds later, he fans out the card and shows them once more to Clown.

It's sorted out, all the suits, sorted one to ace.

“Tada!” The villain says, victoriously.

Clown briefly bent closer to take a look, genuinely impressed, “Oh – that's a cool trick.”

“I'm not done!” Blackhearts declares, putting the sorted deck of cards down on the table. He then beckons Clown over, “Come closer.”

Intrigued, Clown bends forward to get closer.

Blackhearts slips a hand near his ear, and out of nowhere, pulls out a card from there. He takes the card, and puts it in Clown's hand, who’s still stunned.

Clown blinks, and goes to check the card. It's the red jester card.

The host smiles, taking the card from his hand. Then, he fans that card out, to reveal the three other jester cards stacked behind it.

Clown looks at the cards, still stagnant in awe even as Blackhearts combines those cards with the rest of the deck and puts them back in the box.

“When did those get there- how did they get there?” He lets out, fascinated.

“Jester cards are sneaky like that,” The villain replies, smug, putting the box of cards down, “Just showing off a bit of magic! Glad you think it's cool too!”

“Magic. Are you sure you don't have a superpower?” Clown muses.

“Oh, no, no,” Blackhearts laughs lightly, though there's a more sinister air to his tone, “I don't need superpowers to be magical, artificial or not.”

Clown doesn't know how to reply to that, so he doesn't.

Blackhearts finished tidying up the table, and once more they sat there in silence with the chatter coming from below to layer the air. Clown glances away.

(Despite being the one that set up the stage, the one that prepared the table, the one dealing the cards, Blackhearts had only been a dealer for his bet, a host for the game. Afterall, the house always wins.)

He hesitates, but eventually speaks up.

“What happens now?”

(Only he can make this wager. He's been indulging, and his final bet isn't against any villain, but against himself.)

The villain hums, contemplative. Then, he shrugs.

“Whatever you want. Fire exit should be nearby if you want to leave,” Blackhearts smiles, almost unsettlingly as he gestures to a door. He looks at Clown with a curious expression and says, so casually, “Do you want to leave?”

(He's not sure where else he could even go. He's thrown everything else away.)

He pauses, before shaking his head.

The villain seems happy to get that answer, “Glad to hear! I don't think I would've actually let you go either!”

(That much is obvious.)

Clown takes a moment to think, and then he says, truthfully; "I'm not sure what I want to do now."

Blackhearts leans against his chair.

“You can be a free man now, Clown,” he tells him, yet again, this time more sinister, “But that’s not what you want to hear, right?”

(It isn't.

Now that he's no longer with the commission, no longer a hero, he's not sure what else there is to do. What else he could do.

But he knows that Blackhearts does. He knows what the villain wants.)

Blackhearts continues speaking again, when he doesn't reply.

“I'll say, I'm really pleased to see you here, Clown – so quick, too! Barely a day has passed! You came quickly, even after you rejected Ash – which I expected. I wouldn't have accepted help from him either," He lets out a laugh, “You know you won't be satisfied if you're free. Spent too long playing a puppet, you won't be able to live without any strings.”

And Clown knows that he's right. He isn't satisfied.

“Do you still feel remorse? For the people?” The villain asks, this time more serious.

Clown thinks, and decides to be truthful though his voice betrays him.

“A little.”

Blackhearts accepts that answer, nodding with satisfaction. “We can work on that.”

He doesn't know how to respond to that.

(He knows what Blackhearts wants, and what it would mean for him to accept.

To completely go against his humanity. To change.

To start this new wager.)

“You don’t need me,” He says, hesitantly, in his last bout of resistance.

He expects a laugh in return, but the villain’s smile only widens, and his tone sounds genuine, “Maybe not, but I want you.”

Clown stares into his one visible eye, and it stares at him back. He sees it, the admiration, the joy.

(His life, everything he's been working on so far, all the work he's put into his duty – all that he's throwing away for this visage of freedom. It might not be something that he realizes he's doing, but that's how an addiction gets you. It starts off as something small, something innocent, something that escalates higher, and higher.

Blackhearts has been betting on his loss, his surrender – and the villain has won.

This is the moment he finally folds.)

The silence stretches on, until eventually, the villain gets off his chair, and beckons Clown to follow him.

“Clown, let me show you something.”

Clown gets up, and does follow. He is not brought far. They go back the way they came from, and he can still hear the chatter of the meeting going on. They go past the door, and into a room still a part of the employee's lounge.

Yet the centerpiece of that room is what makes him pause.

It's his hero costume.

“You left it behind in your flat in your rush to get out and start running, right?” Blackhearts asks rhetorically, “Well, the commission got to it first, but I was able to recover it. I even got all the devices, all the trackers removed. Wouldn’t matter if they were still there, but if it gives you a feeling of security.”

Clown moves forward without realizing, eyes wide.

He looks at the costume being displayed. Coming closer, he touches the mask, and he sees himself in that sinister smile, those empty eyes. Slowly, carefully, he detaches it from the stand.

He risks a glance to the villain, who gazes back at him with interested eyes.

“Well?”

He breathes in, and breathes out.

He stares into the mask. Hesitantly, he brings it up on level with his face. Then, he equips it on, and it fits on his face as naturally as ever. Like it has always meant to be there.

His hand stays holding the mask up for seconds, until he let's it fall down, gazing upon it through the eye holes of the mask that has always been a part of him, now with him again.

“Aw, handsome as always!” He hears the villain comment happily, “I am missing your real face, though, you should let your hair go more often!”

“Oh, shut up,” He mumbles, more bashful than anything.

“I’m serious – you look great!"

He smiles, and it's obscured.

He brings a hand up to touch the mask again, to feel the porcelain and all the cracks that came from the latest encounters, the dust that came on it when he threw it away. It used to be so clean, so spotless.

“Something's missing,” He hears the villain comment again, then he hears the sound of something heavy being picked up, and turns, “Catch!”

Clown turns just in time to catch the scythe in his hands. His scythe, which was left behind in the commotion of his escape.

In the pristine, clear reflection in the blade, he sees himself. Or at least, the image everyone has always seen. That cruel, awful mask that brought upon death itself.

It's him.

He feels Blackhearts draping his cape over his shoulders, adjusting the way it covers over him. Subsequently, he's trapped in some sort of hug.

“Now you're complete!” The villain grins, cupping his obscured face with one of his hands, the other still hugging. Clown leans into that touch.

“I am,” He agrees, and he knows he should be terrified of admitting that. He should be terrified at how easy it is for him to admit that.

(He’s complete. This is him.)

Then, Blackhearts gets off. He stands in front of Clown, and extends a hand out, clearly expecting him to shake it.

"Clownpierce," The villain greets, composed, yet sounding ever so giddy with this outcome, “I’m so glad you’ve decided to work with us.”

He takes the hand, and he does just that.

“Thank you for having me.”

(So then, he's accepted his role as a threat .

He's the backstabber to this society. The society that doomed him, and now, he'll cut his strings, only to attach new ones. He accepts the new set of strings, and it's the role he'd always been meant to play.

This is him. He is the monster. He’ll be the monster everyone knows he is.)