Chapter Text
"Wendy..." Clayman addressed them in what was almost a reluctant tone, one leg crossed over the other, hands steepled in front of himself. "I've heard from the others that you've been having difficulty dealing the final blow in battle."
Wendy flinched, ducking their head, grateful for the mask they could hide behind.
"Yes."
"Even with smaller, unintelligent monsters, or even simply animals."
"Yes."
"...I see." Clayman leaned back, letting out a soft sigh, crossing his arms. Behind that mask, his feelings and emotions were still impenetrable to Wendy, even as the other members of the Moderate Harlequin Alliance could read him clear as day. Wendy could read the others too - but somehow, not Clayman.
They knew well enough why that was.
"It's just..." They looked down at their hands, palms up, fingers only slightly curled inward.
They couldn't take this silence, afraid that Clayman was judging them and finding them wanting. What would happen if they served no more useful purpose? They didn't want to find out.
"When I think about taking a life, I- I feel nauseous. I want to puke. I freeze up. I can't do it. I think too much about what it means." The words were coming out like a waterfall. They felt like they were babbling. "I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to get over this hurdle on my own. But I-" They looked up, meeting Clayman's gaze with a gasp. "Order me to kill."
"Pardon?" Clayman replied, unmoving.
"Order me to kill." Wendy replied. "Er, please."
"Are you sure that's what you want...?" Clayman said after a moment's hesitation. Wendy blinked in surprise.
"Well...no." They lowered their gaze again. "I don't want to kill." Their voice was a whisper. "But I want to be useful to you. I'll find a way to live with it. I'll grow accustomed to it. So...so please, order me to kill for you! Let me serve you to the fullest. Please." They got down on one knee, placing a hand over their heart, bowing their head.
There was a long silence, and Wendy's heart pounded in their ears. Had they been too forward? Had this been too little too late? They prayed for him to say anything at all.
"Alright. On your next mission," Clayman's voice was low and serious, and his next words sent a shiver up their spine, "I will order you to kill for me."
And so it was sealed.
----------------------------------------
Clayman had heard from the others and even from Wendy themself that they had successfully killed on every mission since that first one. He had ceased to order them in the same way as it became apparent they had become capable of killing with their own will and determination. That pleased him, and he had forgotten any worries he had initially harbored about what effect this new behavior might have on them. Killing had always come naturally to him, and he felt little hesitation when it came to the act itself. If anything, he relished it.
But humans weren't like that, right? Or, more importantly...Wendy hadn't been like that. Well, she didn't need to enjoy it to be capable of it. He didn't understand why it had been difficult in the first place.
And he'd simply stopped thinking about it.
It was a great shock to him when he found them in tears one day. He hadn't intended to. He hadn't even been aware that they'd been sneaking off to cry. But as he passed by one of the darkened rooms that he had assumed to be empty, he heard a soft, pained sound. A sob, as if the person sobbing was trying their best to swallow it down.
It clearly wasn't working, though.
He nudged the door with his foot.
There was a loud gasp as the light from the hallway spilled into the room, before Clayman blotted it out as he stood in the small gap. Behind his mask, his eyes widened in surprise.
He hadn't really given thought to who he had expected it to be. But there had really only been one possibility to begin with.
Wendy was sitting on the floor, back against the wall, hands over their mouth and most of their face, fingers spread for them to see between them. Their mask was thrown to the side, their hair and clothes in the inevitably disarray that came with an emotional meltdown. Their red rimmed eyes meeting his gaze felt like something had pierced his heart.
"'m sorry," they squeaked out, staring at him with an expression that seemed akin to terror. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, you weren't supposed to- I didn't want you to- to see this- I'm sorry-" Their breaths were uneven and shaky, sobs cutting off their words as they tried desperately and unsuccessfully to pull themself together. Clayman could see the tears falling from their eyes, even as they slipped beneath their fingers.
He remained frozen, trying to figure out what to do. What could he do in this situation? He had no idea why they had been crying, and a sinking feeling that this wasn't the first time. And the way they were looking at him...he felt terrible . He wanted to comfort them, but he had no idea how.
He couldn't just keep standing here staring at them, though, listening to them apologizing over and over.
He slipped inside the room, closing the door behind him. Their breath seemed to catch in their throat, eyes still focused intently on him. Quietly, he walked over to their side. They stared up at him, eyes uncertain and full of fear. His heart cracked. How did they see him, that they were so afraid of being seen like this...? And he still didn't know what to do.
Finally, he sat down next to them, leaning back against the wall, feet pulled slightly towards himself so his knees were bent.
It was quiet. They continued sniffling and crying, and Clayman kept his gaze averted, uncertain.
After just a few moments, when their breathing had calmed a bit, they shifted. They scooted slightly closer to him, until they were touching him. His breath caught in his throat. What were they...?
Wendy laid their head on his shoulder, closing their eyes as their breathing evened out. His heart felt like it might explode out of his chest at any second - they were so close to him, and touching him, and they looked so peaceful. He was afraid to move, afraid to disturb them, afraid to break this moment.
So quietly that he almost didn't hear it, they mumbled, "thank you."
In response, he hesitantly patted their leg with his hand. When they didn't flinch away, he left his hand there.
By the time they got up, Clayman's body felt painfully stiff and sore. But his heart was aching and tender.