Chapter Text
Your chest aches in front of dozens of eyes watching you as you now become one of the "Losers," or, if you prefer a more proper term, a clown staff member in a pink outfit. It’s strange; you don’t remember being here. The last thing you recall was trying to escape when a hand with sharp claws grabbed your arm tightly, squeezing it almost to the point of breaking, as its owner dragged you directly in front of their face, a pair of glowing purple eyes staring at you from behind a mask. After that, you remember nothing—until now.
Oh, how foolish you are. Of course, it’s Jester—the purple clown. The first time you met him did not start well. Somehow, you got a pink ticket from a strange man, used it to enter the circus, only to have your head struck by someone, then surrounded by your kidnappers, until a purple-clad clown decided to choose you as his pet. You tried to escape several times. It seems that after that, you were hypnotized due to your rebellious behavior. But by some stroke of luck, you always managed to break free from Jester’s hypnosis—until the point where he grew genuinely fed up with you and decided to end it all by casting you as "Columbina" in his stage play.
You had seen this story before when you broke free from Jester’s hypnosis: the Columbina character dies at the hands of a character named "Poison." Honestly, this is even better than you had imagined—you are not devoured by Jester, because he would have done so slowly, ensuring that a creature like you dies gradually to satisfy his perverse pleasure in human suffering, even though you have always wished to die from your advanced-stage lung tumor.
You could scream for help to the crowd watching you alongside a group of other losers, but doing so would only bring worse punishments from Jester—possibly worse than death itself—if you dared disrupt his "grand" theater performance. So, you let it be; after all, you are going to die.
Now, your death scene is imminent. "Poison" approaches, embracing you, speaking sweet yet venomous words, his iron glove nearly piercing you. It feels like a sword stabbing your chest; your chest tightens, you begin to cough, your body trembling from the internal pain.
The suffocation is intense, unbearably so, almost bringing you to tears.
The audience begins to murmur, observing that the Columbina actor now stands silently, trembling, head bowed, clutching her chest. It doesn’t last long before a clawed hand grabs your arm. You look up and meet Jester’s sharp gaze. He bows with respect, apologizing to the audience for the technical mishap:
“Forgive me, my dear monsters, it seems there’s been a slight technical error here,” he says calmly, then carries you to the pink tent. Without warning, your body collapses, worsening your pain. Jester hisses, noticing that you almost disrupted his performance.
“Wait here. I will deal with you afterward.”
That is not a statement—it is a promise he will fulfill as soon as the show ends. He doesn’t even need to tie you up, knowing you are too weak and pitiful to escape now, your body ravaged by illness.
Time passes—seconds to minutes, minutes to hours. It is dark here, and you are the only one about to become prey. The pain in your chest gnaws at you relentlessly until someone steps inside. Your vision is too blurry to see clearly until a hand yanks your hair, restoring your sight slightly. Two purple eyes now stare into yours.
“Are you trying to die, hmm?” Jester asks, utterly merciless. He continues:
“Humans are fragile creatures, easily killed by wounds or illness. Yet to witness it with my own eyes is still disgusting—how weak a pet like you truly is.”
It seems he genuinely enjoys your suffering, for Jester hates humans, and you are a human. You are nothing more than a rebellious pet.
“Hey, you’re still alive?” Jester teases, shaking his head as if you were a puppet. Your gaze refocuses, and you meet his eyes again. Your chest tightens, and something in your throat makes you start coughing, blood spilling from your mouth. When your coughing stops, blood flows freely from your lips as your body convulses.
Perhaps out of pity, Jester tries to position you leaning against a stack of boxes, but you refuse—the posture only makes it harder to breathe. You grasp his hand with what little strength you have, foolishly laying your head on his chest, letting your body collapse fully onto him. You think he will kill you instantly for daring to touch him, but Jester remains still, letting you be. Honestly, this is better than when he would punish you for touching him without permission. Perhaps he pities his dying pet.
Your strength fades; your grip loosens, and you rest your head completely on Jester’s sturdy chest, solid as a wall. It feels almost pleasurable—you can smell his perfume and tea. At least at the end of your life, you wanted to be held by a strong man, even if that man is the cruel Jester. You cling to his back with every ounce of strength for a final embrace.
“Thank you…” you whisper in the silence. Jester frowns at your words.
“Thank you? For what? I will do nothing for you,” he sneers.
Your quiet laughter makes the corners of his smirk twitch in confusion.
“Why are you laughing?” His voice lowers slightly, and you manage a faint smile. With the last of your strength, you curl against Jester’s body comfortably.
“Because you are doing nothing. Just keep it that way, because I want to enjoy it. Just a little, please,” you answer weakly, your grip nearly slipping from his shoulder. Jester shows compassion, supporting your back with one hand—for you, his dying pet.
In the silence that surrounds you, the outside clamor of the crowd is muffled by the thin tent. The only thing you can clearly hear is your own breathing and Jester’s.
“I don’t know if Jester is truly your name… but you know, Jester? You… are—”
Your voice weakens as your breath shortens.
“You are kind when you don’t punish me… you even look cute.”
You ramble at the end of your life like a drunk who refuses to be silent, constantly wanting more.
“Ah, you are so cruel, you know? Punishing me so cruelly while those fools are simply eaten when useless. Why did you let me live? Do you enjoy seeing this little human suffer? Ah, do you even see me as human?” You smile weakly.
“I don’t know what makes you harbor the deepest grudge against humans among all the clowns, and I won’t blame you for that…”
With remaining strength from somewhere, you reach for a strand of Jester’s purple hair, brushing it gently with your fingers. Jester blinks. His claws pierce slightly into your back, through your clothing and into the flesh by several centimeters, as your blood-stained hand from coughing touches the purple silk of the leader.
You hope to finish your rambling before Jester’s hand pierces your heart. You hurriedly continue:
“But it made me realize that you are only afraid—”
“Stop speaking nonsense, foolish creature,” Jester interrupts. His claws dig deeper into your flesh, a few centimeters further than before. Yet the wounds and a few drops of blood do not stop you from speaking—not this time.
“Haha… Are you angry? I’m just saying what I see, the proud Jester. I see that you are too afraid… afraid to trust humans again… But as I said before, it’s not your fault.”
You bring the soft strand of purple hair to your lips, kissing it with respect, and for the first time, you willingly bow your head to the amethyst clown.
“But if I had just one more chance to live… I promise I would be the first… if you treated me more gently…” You murmur, nearly fading as your vision dims. Only a faint shade of purple remains before your grip weakens and your head falls upon his chest—the last breath leaves your body, ending your journey.
Jester’s Perspective
Jester remains silent, watching as your life slowly departs from your body. Your heart stops beating first, before his claws pierce further. Even in death, you remain a proud girl.
Jester recalls the first day you were tied to a chair in front of him with the other clowns. The first thing he noticed were your amber eyes. He could not tear his gaze away as you stared at him for several seconds. At that moment, you were tightly bound, looking at him with the arrogance of a lion—a lion rendered helpless before a creature far above you: a "Monster." Even physical punishments could not teach your fragile body the meaning of surrender, a defiance that made Jester nostalgic, remembering how he had once resisted his circus master.
Only, Jester was cleverer and not alone, while you were a weak human with no support, no one wanting you, so Bill didn’t even have to erase your trace of disappearance.
You should be grateful it took six years for Jester’s patience to finally run out and decide to end it all on stage, with you as Columbina. Yet even in death, you defied the way he planned your demise, as if only you could determine the timing and manner of your own end.
And indeed, that was true. Though at the end, you bowed your head in respect for the first time, even your act of kissing his hair perhaps set a record for the most insolent act Jester had ever witnessed—more audacious than Harlequin nearly burning down the kitchen while cooking.
Because you are human—and humans are the root of all suffering and misfortune, the cornerstone of history, the foundation of the circus, and the source of pain these creatures endured.
What unsettled Jester was that he had spent his precious time listening to your pointless rambling; you even claimed fear while you should have been the one afraid. Jester laughed cynically as he rested in his private tent.
“Afraid? How dare you say that when you should be the one scared? I shouldn’t have chosen you then; I should have sent you to the black tent.”
Sitting at a dimly lit table, his beloved book now creased in anger, Jester was neither angry nor upset at what you said. Instead, it disgusted him with himself, filling him with more questions than rage. You said you would be the first human he could trust? You were nothing more than a rebellious pet. A second chance? You were no longer even breathing.
Yet your words—these very words—annoyed him. The notion that “you could understand him,” when Jester never needed you to comprehend him—he only needed you to obey.
Jester sighed, closing his treasured old book, before starting to scratch on its pages, frustrated by the behavior of a human he would soon forget within days. He had no need to remember someone from a species that had once inflicted such deep wounds, so deep that the scars remained even years later, right after Jester removed his clown costume and decided to sleep, ensuring the circus was safe.