Chapter Text
The stolen cloak is heavy on Clown’s shoulders. He’s just murdered a poor man—
The gladiator steps foot outside the pit.
The little sliver of face glaring through those scarves is riddled with dark, raised trails, but they’re no problem. Many mafia goons have scars—Ashwag probably tore them up if they dared disobey him.
These scars will help him blend in.
Clown’s fist clenches around the hilt of the bloody blade strapped onto his waist.
His body aches from fatigue. His throat is dry and scratchy as his teeth grind against each other, dulled by sand. He blinks through reddened eyes. How has it only been a few hours since he’s killed Ash? Squiddo had planned this from the start—they had made sure that if Ash didn’t go free, Clown would pay for it with Branzy’s life.
This part of town is the mafia’s, through and through. Each grain of sand, creeping desert flower, sugary, dried fragment of bone, and whispered word—it belonged to Ash. It belongs to Squiddo. The sun drifts low, skimming the flat roofs of derelict, abandoned houses blown over in thick gusts of hot sand—a desert eating its young alive.
Squiddo’s probably in on his plan. That flash of green scarves in the periphery of his vision likely belonged to Boosfer, the mafia’s reckless spy. Although he’s swift on his feet, those clothes are a dead giveaway of his presence.
Branzy is being moved to the harbor, isn’t he?
But the question—is Squiddo transporting him themself, or are they designating the task to mafia goons? Branzy is precious cargo, sure, but Squiddo surely wouldn’t expose everything by being there. Don’t try anything. Those words haunt Clown’s mind. They crawl around on millions of icy legs and nibble on every loose corner of his brain.
But if he kills Squiddo today, everything will be over.
Clown continues walking toward the towering, gold-rimmed edifice he knows is the mafia’s center of operations. He’s been there a hundred times, each worse than the last. He squeezes his eyes shut when the memory of the final night with Ash burns his gaze.
And there it is, stepping out of the building’s doorway, is a slim, copper silhouette—Squiddo’s. Clown approaches, noticing the spinning twin daggers around their gloved fingers.
His legs tense, ready to pounce.
“I suspected that you’d ignore direct orders, Clown,” Squiddo says, cocking their head. Their orange glasses glow against the fallen sun’s smile.
Clown scoffs. “I killed an innocent man for nothing—you really do see right through me.” He lets go of the blade, and finds the butt of a gun. Not yet. “It was a tip, right? A little forest birdie informed you I’d be coming.”
In a fiery flash, Squiddo dashes towards him, attempting to slice his throat. “Boosfer really outdid himself, but I really do need a new guard now,” they grunt.
Clown dodges, taking a slow step away and pulling that goddamn cloak off. The dense fabric pulls toward the ground and rests there in a crumpled pile. “You’re moving Branzy to the docks, I presume.”
They lunge towards him again. “Always. One. Fucking. Step. Ahead. You don’t care about anything or anybody but yourself, don’t you?”
It’s almost like they’re kids again, joking around and circling each other in a mock-arena. Innocent, fresh, only dabbling in the art of the fight. They might as well be chasing each other through wild laughter, painted rainbow by the swaying projections of colorful quilt canopies above.
Clown shrugs, trying not to loose his footing from Squiddo’s incessant attempts at his life. “I wouldn’t say that.”
A dagger grazes his cheek.
Clown lifts the gun into the air, points it at Squiddo’s forehead, letting the light hit its gleaming barrel. The bullet escapes with an earsplitting bang, but they’re already behind him, landing a heavy blow on his back.
He fires and fires, but never quite lands. Fuck, should’ve trained more with firearms.
“Why Branzy?” Clown yells between exploding shots. His ears are ringing and ringing. He’s not sure if his hearing will ever recover from it. “Why not me? He’s not the one who killed Ashswag! Branzy did nothing.”
And he’s out of ammo.
Squiddo doesn’t reply.
Their silence is deafening.