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SB has a problem. A big, annoying, glaring problem, and his name is ClownPierce.
That is the only reason he's getting along with Quiff now. They have a common enemy, a common goal. Clown has been sitting too comfortably with his many lives while the others have suffered death after death, relying on quests to stay in the game, unable to even think of doing the killing quests because he's so powerful. They want nothing more than to knock him down a peg or two, drag him to the lower ranks.
At least, that's what Quiff's here for. It's what SB agreed to, sure, it's what he will say is the reason he's hunting him down alongside him right now. But his problem with Clown … lies much deeper.
"I think we're getting closer," he says. The needle of the compass trembles in the case, locked onto a player and not letting go while the magic lasts. They've been hunting for hours now, travelling across the world to find Clown and kill him. They're beyond lucky this day is one where fighting is enabled, if they can catch him in time. He only spares Quiff a glance before he kicks a boot into the snow to cover the campfire and put out the fire they'd used to cook themselves some food.
"I hope he's in some warmer biome than this one." When he takes his place next to SB, out of the little indent they'd made their camp for half an hour in the side of a mountain, he shivers. Given their quest, they hadn't taken proper gear for a walk in the tundra and had to just deal with the freezing cold, their enchanted netherite doing jack shit against the icy wind.
"Ah, well …" SB clenches his fists, but his gauntlets lose the warmth they got from the campfire in seconds. "If we get into a fight here, we'll be warm in seconds, no?"
All he gets for that is some muttering and complaints, but Quiff takes the lead in getting down from the mountain, steep as the way down may be. Their feet sink deep into the snow with every step, every move they make strained because of how they have to turn their backs into the wind.
"This fight better be worth it." Quiff doesn't look back at him when he says it, but the wind isn't enough to carry his words away.
SB doesn't have an answer to that. To him, it's already worth it. He has it nearly as bad as Quiff in the cold—his mask covering the lower part of his face and his goggles help a lot in comparison to the diamond helmet the other wears—but to him, he's already half satisfied. Clown is running from him, the knowledge of which sets a fire ablaze deep in his guts to keep him warm while they plow through the snow. He can't freeze like this.
His problem isn't Clown being alive. Well, it is, isn't it? His problem with Clown is that he doesn't know what he wants. He loves this chase when he knows Clown is scared of him, about as much as he loves knowing he has the upper hand when the roles reverse. He loves tracking and fighting him as much as he loves deflecting the sword with his shield and backing off because he has no extra tricks up his sleeve. His problem isn't that Clown is at the top of the food chain, his problem is that he doesn't mind him being there. Killing him, dragging him down to the same amount of lives as him, or god forbid Quiff and Mini, it almost … ruins it.
But the mental image of SB himself being the one to end Clown's life? It's that other side of the coin, the opposite side of their game of cat and mouse, where he wants nothing more than to spill his blood, see if Clown bleeds the same color of red he does.
He'll just have to wait and see. If they can finally find him, then he has that decision to make. For now, all he can do is trek through the snow underneath dark clouds that grow even more dark and ominous as night seems to approach. They better pray to whatever god is watching over this world those clouds don't send a ravenous storm their way. That's a hell of a way to get lost.
Raising the compass to double check, he watches as the needle ticks a degree to the left. How long will they have left to walk? How much of a surprise will it even be? For all he knows, Clown is tracking them in turn, making sure they don't get too close, using his intellect to figure out by the trembling of the needle that they're hot on his trail.
This feels too much like walking into the lion's den. He knows that wherever they end up, Clown will have the advantage. SB has no other tricks beyond the element of surprise.
The wind picks up. Quiff lets him take the lead, following close behind him as snow begins to fall from the sky to make every step worse. He can't feel his own feet anymore, and he doubts he would be able to pry his hands off his compass if he tried. At the request to pause again, to make a shelter from the weather until it clears up so they have a better chance at actually catching and fighting Clown, SB almost folds. He glances between Quiff and the darkness of the night, wind whipping at his hood, and the fire inside burns bright and hot. He doesn't want to stop, not when they're so close.
He'd turn back to agree and swallow down the disappointment if it weren't for the hint of light in the distance that seems to appear like a phantom out of the heavens. He's frozen on the spot, watching as that orange turns brighter, warmer, a torch in the night, until a shape becomes clear to him.
The fire of the torch illuminates purple netherite, that sheen of powerful enchantments, a stark contrast to the white of the snow around them. A helmet hides only part of a terrifying mask, a grin that sends chills down the spine of any man, and those floppy points of his hat sticking out of his helmet look like a demon's horns in the fire. In the hand not holding up the torch like a beacon, sits a compass, and it doesn't take a genius to figure out that needle points directly to him.
"It's him." He reaches behind him to grab Quiff by the front of his armour and he pulls him closer so he finally sees too. Immediately, the other rips himself from SB's grip to pull out a sword.
"Hello, boys."
His heart skips a beat. It takes Clown no effort to speak over the howling wind. He's metres away and SB can't prove it, but he's sure those evil eyes behind the mask are burning holes into his skull. He has to be looking at him.
"Why are you here, Clown?" Quiff asks. His hand hovers over the pots hanging from his belt.
The wind carries away Clown's condescending laugh, but not before they both hear it in all its menacing glory. "Well, I could ask the same to you. I see that compass. You're here for one reason: to find me. Now, I assumed a little birdie would be following me—" he pauses and SB can almost hear the grin in his voice—he's talking about him, "—but I didn't know there would be two of them!"
SB hangs the compass on his belt and summons his sword from his inventory with a less-than-glamorous flurry of his hand because his fingers are simply freezing a bit too much to be fancy about it. "Yeah, here we are. You know what's going to happen."
Mesmerised, he stares at the way Clown's claw-like gauntlets grab at his own pots before he throws them into the air, all in one go, and they splash down on him in a shower of broken glass and potion effects. He supposes this is also part of the problem; he can't figure out whether he wants to run from him, kill him, or kiss him. It would mean the mask coming off, and he can't quite think about it without getting a bitter taste on his tongue out of guilt, but it's there and any time Clown is in front of him he's reminded of how little choice he actually has in the face of it all.
Quiff and him are slower to follow. By the time they've splashed their own pots, Clown is already on them. Quiff can hardly raise his shield to block the sword that strikes across it with such strength behind it, he slides backwards in the snow. The moment of distraction is enough for Clown to anticipate SB's sword coming down in an arc that can't be called deadly more than it's a desperate attempt at an attack and counter it with ease.
Before they even know it, they've broken out into a full battle.
And it's a mess. He knows better than to say they can actually fight him. Every slash of his sword and every shot of his bow feel clumsy with how his fingers are frozen within his gauntlets. He might've lied a little when he said the battle would warm them up; by the time they're warm, they'll be dead, the only warm thing about them will be the blood flowing from their bodies to stain the snow.
He's still warm, at least a little. Enough to keep him fighting against the relentless attacks. Clown catches his sword and kicks him back. SB staggers back just to see Quiff's arm getting a nasty cut across the binds that keep his shield to his side. It falls uselessly to the ground. A swift strike at SB. A punch Clown dodges perfectly. A cobweb at Quiff's feet to trip him up. A foot hooked around SB's to knock him down. He can just barely roll out of the way of the axe that bears down on him, the polished blade of it shining deadly red in the torchlight. When he looks to the side, he can see his own reflection for a split second.
Maybe out of everything, the silence is the scariest thing of all. Where SB and Quiff call out to each other, telling each other when they're low, yelling "I webbed him!", hissing when they get hit, Clown is silent. The most they can get out of him is a grunt or occasional deep intake of breath. He doesn't talk. He doesn't even laugh.
SB can't believe he misses his voice. It's a thought that pops up and makes him hesitate for a moment too long which stops him from blocking another hit in time, and he has to throw a pearl to yank his mask down and chomp down on a golden apple. To his surprise and horror, Clown doesn't aggro-pearl. Instead, he webs up Quiff and crits him out, raining down hit after hit until he's crying out for SB's help—something he can't do.
He throws another pearl, a clumsy one, his body disappearing and reappearing in the midst of a patch of snow, but he's too late to do anything.
Quiff's sword is ripped out of his hand and the helmet from his head at the same moment. With just the flick of his wrist, Clown's sword is back in his hand, and then the blade pierces through a weakness in Quiff's chestplate. SB can't hear him gasp but he must have because he's hunching over and grabbing desperately at his attacker.
SB stands there, and he watches. He's not sure why he's not doing anything. Maybe the blood on the sword is pretty because they're almost the same color of red as Clown's suit, the hints of which he sees poke out from underneath his netherite, and maybe he's mesmerised by the absolute control in the swing before Quiff's head is freed from his shoulders. And then he drops, and the fight lulls into a moment of temporary peace.
He holds his breath. The items that sprayed everywhere at the loss of life sink into the snow. Clown considers him, just the slightest twitch of his head in SB's direction, then he reaches down to grab a few of the golden apples at his feet.
"How about—" SB starts, mouth running before his mind catches up, but a plan is already forming in his mind, "—we leave it here and just split the loot?"
Clown laughs, that damn one on the edge of mania, and a shiver runs down his spine. The sound of it is enough to make any other man turn tail and run. But not him. He loves the sound of it and he loves the way Clown isn't scared of him for even a second.
"Split the loot?" he says, admiring a golden apple. The claws of his gauntlets wrap around it so prettily, something strong and terrifying in how he could crush it between his fingers but refraining from doing so because he knows the worth of these apples—they also both know SB is perfectly aware of his strength. "How about I drop you right here? I like that option way more."
He raises his hands, giving Clown a soft laugh of his own. He steps over, careful in the snow but as nonchalant as he can manage in the face of death itself. "Now, now, there's no need for further violence, right?"
"You hunted me down, SB. Do I have any reason not to kill you where you stand?"
Does he? Does he have any reason not to? No, he really doesn't, and that's the thrill of it, isn't it? SB likes the challenge. He likes the threat. "We can make a deal. Right, Clown? We're very good at making deals, us two."
Clown mirrors him, taking a step closer of his own. It must be strange to be the shortest for once, SB's towering height unfamiliar to him in battle until this game. If it bothers him, he doesn't show any discomfort. The grin on his mask is menacing as ever anyway, refusing to show whatever emotion sits underneath. Oh, how he wants to flip it up with gentle fingers and find what's hiding. At the same time, he refuses to move, not wanting to know.
"I don't like the deals you make anymore. You came here with Quiff to try and kill me, and yet you're standing here with talk of a deal like you've got something to hold over my head. But I'm gonna be honest, SB—" he pauses to shorten the distance between them even more, the tip of his sword trailing a line in the snow as he moves, and he lays a heavy, netherite-clad hand on his shoulder before he continues in a whisper that can barely overpower the winter wind, "—I'm fairly confident you have nothing to offer me."
He swallows heavily, the movement not lost on Clown. When SB reaches up, slow and careful, to remove his goggles and leave them atop his head, Clown's gaze bores into his eyes as soon as they're revealed. "You never know," is all he says, leaving the mystery in the air for the other to figure out.
This is unfamiliar territory. He's not had a moment like this, a peace in the midst of a battle. He's not entirely sure why there's no sword through his gut yet and why Clown is hearing him out in the first place. He's even less sure why the air around them has changed into an intangible thing stopping him from breathing for a solid few seconds. Maybe his expression shows a vulnerability Clown isn't familiar with, as little as SB means to let it slip.
"Maybe I don't." The tips of his fingers trail SB's shoulder until it reaches his neck, and he tips it underneath his hood to ghost over the bare skin of his neck.
He lets him. He lets him.
"How about this for a deal." Clown stares him down. SB can't see through the mask but his chest rises with a deep breath in. "I go and loot all of Quiff's gear, and I can have as much as I want from it … and you start running. However long I take to stash all of his stuff is the head start you get. Does that sound fun?"
SB swears he can hear him grin. He swallows the lump in his throat, and Clown follows the movement with his thumb. It would be so easy to wrap his whole hand around his throat and end him right here. SB isn't sure how much he'd fight back, for at least the first few seconds.
"Sure," he says, the confidence in his voice almost entirely faked—not even Clown can beat him down enough to sound scared. "You'll try to kill me?"
"If that's what you want. Sure, darling, I'll try to kill you."
He mourns the loss as Clown steps back but it's incentive enough to turn on his heel and start running, pearls already in hand. His heart beats in his throat, loud like a drum. Clown's laugh disappears in the wind but he keeps running. Not knowing how long he'll be given but knowing they're both enjoying this keeps him from slacking or slowing down.
All he really needs to do now is get out and see how long it takes for Clown to catch up.