Chapter Text
It was raining outside. A rare occurrence on the server. Funnily enough, everyone stayed inside during the storm. Not quite peaceful, but conflict was lessened to a degree that day.
Branzy didn't mind the rain, he could relax and tinker with his machines and experiment with redstone. He didn't have to think about anything else other than the pitter patter puddles and rumbling redstone.
Clown never mentioned if he liked the rain or not, and Branzy never thought to ask.
As his last pickaxe broke into smithereens, he scoffed at his empty hands.
Sitting on the casino floor covered in various blueprints and miniature redstone contraptions, his silver hair littered in red. He was almost done rearranging a few blocks of his new trap design, and now he had to waste a few more diamonds on it.
Dusting himself off, he went up to a chest, scrambling things around for a couple of sticks, diamonds already safe in his inventory. And of course none of the chests had any planks or logs. How did he even run out of wood of all things?
Violet eyes stared at the shut door ahead of him. The oak door seemed to glare right back at him.
Clown probably had some, he did have a chest in his room with necessities, something Branzy took note of during the rare occasions he was let inside, but the killer still hadn't come out of his room. He did say not to bother him.
Well, he didn't actually say it, but he did mention something about planning, and Branzy would do anything other than bother him.
Besides, he didn't need to get Clown just for some measly sticks for his pickaxe. That was just stupid. And a bit weird.
So the trickster headed out with a sword and shield. Finding some old enchanted armour, he put on his damaged helmet. His real armour (that he worked really hard on) was with Clown, wanting to make some new improvements. He didn't really elaborate on it, and Branzy didn't question him. What was there to ask? "Hey, Clown no, you can't have my armour to do something weird but probably something very nice for me."??
Besides, it was just a quick trip to the nearby forest. It wasn't as if he had to fight a blaze or kill an elder guardian or something. What could go wrong?
And to answer that, unsurprisingly, a lot can in fact, go wrong.
He was just picking up a fallen apple in front of him that dropped onto his head, glancing up at a vein of lightning ripping the sky in two.
But what startled him was the shadow of a player right beside the apple.
A pair of invisible hands pushed him to the ground, and Branzy's mind raced.
With a startled gasp, he pulled out his sword, eyes darting around at the particles giving away the attackers position. He didn't try to strike back, holding up his shield as the person rained down blows, splinters flying at his face.
Another set of hands grabbed him from the back. Caught off guard, his sword and shield were ripped away from him, arms bruising at the force. His helmet flew off of his head, grunting as his back slammed into one of the trees, a floating netherite sword slashing down at him. He dodged, the tree gaining a gash on it's stump, but it still grazed his cheek, blood swelling.
What the hell what the hell what the hell–
He couldn't tell who was who, just that there were two of them. Probably.
Scrambling, he frantically searched his inventory for something, anything–
Someone grabbed his wrist, twisting it behind him as he screamed. The sky crackled again, the rain washing away the rapidly flowing blood on his face. A figure stood in front of him, sword raised and taunting.
He squirmed and struggled in whoever the fuck's arms, glaring at the figure in his unview.
Trying to free himself, the redstoner grabbed the neck of his captor with his other hand, pinching the jugular with his nails till he drew blood. He was released but immediately attacked after, earning a slash of a sword between his shoulder and collarbone.
"Get him!"
Branzy's heart dropped at the voice, dodging roughly as the sword came down at him again. He slid on the slippery wet grass, clawing at his discarded shield and making distance between him and his...
...former teammates.
He couldn't see them, but he recognized Vitalasy, and he assumed the other to be Subz, and they were not happy.
"Guys–!"
.
.
.
Clown wasn't worried.
He had finished up the improvements on Branzy's armour, not too big of a change but just some small things he took careful note of. It wasn't really a favour or anything. It wasn't a gift either. Just, something nice to do. Not for Branzy, just for himself to relax. He could relax that stormy day, and what better way to relax then cutting edge armour smithing. Yeah.
Though Branzy had gone quiet a while ago. He usually hums and rambles away at his machinery, so much so you'd think he was working with someone else.
It drove him crazy sometimes. Not in a bad way, no, not at all. Branzy's endless, almost mindless, senseless chattering brought Clown into this odd sense of serenity. It might have annoyed him at first, but looking back, maybe it was because of the unnerving peace that came along with it.
Moments passed. The casino was silent. It hadn't been silent like this in a long time. Clown hated it.
He had been standing by the door for more than a couple of minutes now, his hand itched for the scythe mounted on the wall. He just wanted to grab it and move, find Branzy and bring him home back.
Just as he was deciding what to do, the door slowly creaked open, and in came a limping, bloodied Branzy. He was trying to sneak in, his eyes drawn down to his feet.
"Where were you?"
Branzy almost leaped with a yelp, groaning and stammering.
"Jesus– hey," he drew out the syllables, "Clown, what- uhm, what's up?"
He tried to sidestep his way in but Clown wasn't wearing his mask and was really tripping Branzy off.
"We- we ran out of wood! Just went to get some hah- fuck–" he tripped and limped against the wall, gasping in pain, the gash on his back still raw.
Clown observed like a hawk, trying to safely lower Branzy onto the floor. The latter's hand looked twisted unnaturally, there was dried blood on his collar, not to mention the gaping wound slanting down his back.
Branzy's breath grew ragged, his words slurred.
"Clown it's- it's fine I-I'll–" he grimaced. "Damn it, it hurts," he rasped.
Clown was still cold dead silent. He rummaged through his inventory, gently bringing a regeneration potion to Branzy's lips. He drank like a starved man, but dread filled his stomach.
Branzy tried pulling away, not wanting to waste an entire potion, but Clown had a gentle but firm grip on him, forcing him to down the entire thing.
As the very last drop entered Branzy's system, he let out a trembling breath. He couldn't look Clown in the eyes, as the other, still silent as ever, took his crooked looking arm and wrapped a bandage around it.
"Don't want this to heal wrong."
Clown's voice was quiet in the echoing room, yet Branzy still startled. He hadn't said a thing since he had shown up like this, and Branzy really didn't know what to say.
So he stayed silent, and breathed albeit a bit heavily. He finally held his head back up. His eyes wandered around in rapid motion.
Clown spoke up again.
"Who?"
Branzy's face drained of colour. He knew exactly what he was being asked, there was no use playing dumb, but he could still try.
"Who- who what?"
He could have simply ceased to exist under Clown's withering gaze. Branzy sighed, looking anywhere but at Clown.
"Branzy."
"Clown- yes, Clown?"
"Who did this?"
No answer. Clown let go, sitting back and pinching the bridge of nose. Branzy shivered.
Thunder crackled again and the dim lit room flashed with lightning. Branzy flinched, but his eyes met Clown's.
"Can I," he paused, looking down at himself. "Can I go to my room? Please."
Clown didn't say a word. Branzy almost took it all back but when was gently lifted up from the floor, taken all the way to his room and lowered on to his bed, his worries pretty much left. Clown helped with his injured arm and back.
He turned off the the lights and simply left, not even a good night. Branzy was going insane.
In the middle of the night, Branzy heard something. He might have been dreaming, but he could barely hear the sound of a blade being sharpened, screeching like a banshee. Maybe it was a nightmare, but Branzy was too tired to think any further. Maybe he was still asleep as well.