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Wind in her hair. One foot in front of each other, soft-soled shoes yielding to her tiptoes across obsidian.
Kenadian walked along the very edge of his prison, humming under her breath, enjoying the uncertainty. He didn’t trust his own balance, by a long shot. It was up to the code if she fell, or if she lived.
Honestly, he’d been getting desperate for this kind of high. It didn’t feel safe, to leave such obvious marks as cuts, these days. ClownPierce was always somewhere, even if it seemed to rarely be here, but he’d made it clear Ken wasn’t allowed to try anything. She was under guard here, until he built a good enough prison to let someone else take his spot.
And that meant no cuts, no offhand jokes about dying, none of the simple comforts Ken had gotten used to. Just him, and the inside of his head. For however long it took.
Couldn’t blame a cat for getting a bit crazy. This wasn’t even too unreasonable. It would calm the urges, for a while, a spot of sky-walking. And if someone saw her, well, Ken could just say she was inspecting. It wasn’t quite a lie. She didn’t like lying.
Maybe it would be worth it, to give ClownPierce a reason to be angry at him. That could give Ken the sharp-edged high she was craving. He seemed the sort to torture.
Would he, wouldn’t he. Ken took another step, melody rising in instinctive fear and adrenaline as she toed the carved edge. Her breath stuttered, and cut out, preferring to focus, then have the calming distraction. The dissonance felt nice, sometimes. The rub of soft, non-textured clothes against her cuts. Sending little sparks across her skin, wrapping him in a cozy world of his own creation.
So what, if she was weird? It wasn’t like there was anyone to judge. The people round here never looked him in the eyes, like she was marked by death or ClownPierce, and Ken’s miserable attempts to find connection only left him feeling more lonely in this whole situation.
Another step. Ken’s tail flicked, her instincts buzzing unhappily at her self-destruction. They always did. It was a fun extra little high, the scratching at the inside of her mind. He scratched at his arms, too. That felt safe. Little claw marks, covered by thin, soft hoodies, where ClownPierce wouldn’t see.
Ken had been doing a lot of hiding, recently. Mostly from one villain. But from a few guards, too. They didn’t seem to have orders to make sure she didn’t start skiving off basic self-preservation, but Ken still liked to avoid seeing the same guard more than twice, just in case they noted him working straight through every meal period.
It was fun. He made his own fun, around here.
A few more steps, and Ken glanced up, half-guiltily, and looked around. There was a guard, halfway down in one of the corridors, watching her, and it was enough to spook him.
Time to go.
Wouldn’t want to upset her owner, after all.
——————
Ken had been twitchy, recently.
Bad twitchy. Not good, bouncing off the walls, endless energy. But fumbling, hands shaking, tail and ears spasming back and forth. And pain. Pain when she moved, when she lay in bed, failing to lay still long enough to close her eyes.
Pain now, as he curled up in the small bedroom he’d made for himself, buried in obsidian and pillows, claws buried in her arms.
And buried meant buried. Ken’s claws were small, but they were sharp, curling under her flesh and tugging at her veins. It was bad. It hurt. But hurt was good.
Ken was so tired. She’d been working so hard, all for ClownPierce’s sake, and it was wearing her down. He wasn’t even getting appreciation, for his efforts.
Everything was going downhill. He’d thought he could cope, with this, with everything, but it was building up. Ken felt her head twitch, her ears spasming, and another plaintive whine slip out, as he tried his hardest not to gouge through her arms.
Bad. It was bad. This was bad.
Pain made it feel better. It had always made it all feel better. But Ken normally did it for a reason, and there was something so achingly dissatisfying about this job. It was impersonal, it was under duress, and it was miserable.
He’d do anything, at this point, just to feel something. Ken wanted a blanket. A weighted one, one that would feel like she was suffocating. One that would press against every part of her that kept twitching.
A hug, really, was what she was looking for. But she wasn’t going to get that. She was never going to get that.
Slowly, whimpering, Ken pulled his claws out of sticky flesh. It stung. A steady throb, leaking blood across pale, scarred skin. It would scar more. She doubted she’d ever be done with scars. They layered over each other, each a moment of weakness and simultaneous strength, and she smudged the small droplets of blood until it looked almost pretty.
Ken stared, at the deceptively small marks, buried in her flesh. Running one nail across her arm, she hooked it into the wound, and tugged. More blood pulsed out, and it stung enough for him to dig small fangs into his lip.
A buzz, against her side. Not adrenaline, or instincts. Ken frowned, fear coiling in his gut. She must have done something wrong.
ClownPierce whispers to you: there had better be a good reason you’re late right now
Ken stared. Blinked. Felt hysteria rise, and settle, then spike again. A small, broken laugh slipped out. Of course, he couldn’t just ruin this for himself. He had to actually get things wrong, screw it up, despite every effort.
Oh, god, she was late to a meeting with ClownPierce. All because she’d been a bit overstimulated, and a bit in the mood to make herself bleed.
There was no way he had time to even take care of this. Already, Ken was scrambling to his feet, grabbing her bag, pulling his sleeves down, checking her comm again, and this was so stupid, she shouldn’t be this dumb. There was blood on his arms, and Clown had better not ask her to strip, because-
Actually, that would be weird for a lot of reasons.
Still in a panic, Ken bolted out of his little hidey-hole, practically sprinting through the corridors of the makeshift residential area to the actual, formalised guard-and-meeting-room, built for ClownPierce in the same way investors were given coffee machines.
To her credit, it must have only taken her all of thirty seconds to get here. Less fortunately, Ken was panting, bleeding, and still feeling a bit awful everywhere, if he let his mind linger too long.
She could feel ClownPierce staring at her, from across the table, accompanied by a golden dragon hybrid, a guard she hadn’t seen before dressed in Nether trims, and a few other high-ranking guards and builders. None of them held a candle to the avian, Clown’s wings framing the whole affair, even relaxed behind him as they were. It was intimidating.
“Kenadian. Nice of you to join us.”
Ken was going to die. This was how they killed her.
Face flushed hard enough to make her hands tingle and shake, he sat down, thankfully at the closest chair, at the opposite head of the table to ClownPierce. It was fine. They wouldn’t kill her for such a small thing.
After a long moment of staring at the obsidian grain, and trying to breathe normally, and not think about the very much still-bleeding wounds on her arm or the crippling guilt and self-hatred curling around her heart, Ken glanced up. They’d been quiet for too long. He must have done something wrong again, should he have asked for permission to sit down?
“We can start when you’re ready.” Clown’s voice was even and smooth, pure composure as Ken turned scarlet all over again. “I presume you were working on something important.”
As much as it killed her inside, Ken shook his head, and giggled a little.
“No, s- sorry. I was just… destressing.”
Bad excuse. Her ears flicked, as her eyes darted around the table. The dragon looked unimpressed. Clown was unreadable. All this work, killing herself, for his sake, did he even care? Probably not. That was funny, and he couldn’t start laughing again now, but Ken wanted to, the hammering of her heart against bone an incessant nudge to break down.
No one else even looked at her. Ken shrank in his seat, embarrassment curling in, and it hurt worse than one of her knives to the leg. Her hand stumbled to her arm, gripping tight enough to feel the wounds pull again, because he needed something.
“That was more important than a progress report?”
Ken shook her head, tears springing to her eyes as her claws curled through fabric, back into her bleeding arm.
“No. Sorry.”
The dragon snorted, and leaned back, masked eyes scanning over her as Ken tried not to squirm. Sitting down wasn’t so bad. His arm was bleeding, he could console himself with that.
ClownPierce, meanwhile, cocked his head, and Ken had no idea how his wings expressed so little. She could feel her own ears pressed back, humiliation coursing through them, and her tail wrapped around her waist in substitute for curling between her legs.
“Stay behind, Kenadian. We can talk about this.”
Ken sank in his seat. ClownPierce was going to kill him. It didn’t sound like a threat, but it was. Of course it was. Everything was, around here.
Another pause, then the Nether guard spoke, twitching like he’d only just received some signal. He asked if Ken had run into any problems. She shook her head, and he seemed to stumble even more.
Ken wasn’t talking, because she could feel ClownPierce watching her. It felt awful. She’d wanted to be noticed, but not like this. Her fingers curled, and pain flashed, and she relaxed, a little. A little control. He could grovel at ClownPierce’s feet, if that was really what this was going to take. Ken wasn’t above a little prostrating.
The meeting went on. And on. Clown took back over, at one point, and the guard seemed to visibly relax as the dragon smirked, under his golden mask.
Ken felt itchy. The fabric was getting in his cuts. He kept moving, slightly, even as he nodded and assured and gave estimates. This was what he was good at. He knew how important he was, how important it was that he delivered. Clown was one of the first people he didn’t want to exploit that position under.
Clown seemed satisfied. The builders less so, when he asked for more security, more distractions. But it gave Ken something else to focus on, aside from the impending end.
And impending it was. She was sinking in her chair, by the time Clown dismissed everyone else. His entourage stayed, until he addressed the dragon by name—Ferre, although Ken barely caught it—and the Nether guard left with him.
Then it was just them. Ken forced himself to sit up. To smile, and ask in a wavering voice if there was anything else she should be working on.
“No. I’m more concerned with your work ethic, Kenadian.”
Bad? Or good? Ken didn’t slack off. But he worked on her own terms, and maybe ClownPierce wanted her to abide by a more regular schedule.
“What about it?”
“I think you know. When you leave, you’re going to find Mugm. He’ll give you bandages. I want to see them on your arms within two days.”
Ken frowned. Clown’s voice was just as level as ever, and for the first time, now she was alone with him, she was also sure he had a voice changer in his mask. It was a little too calm. Too polished.
“What… if I don’t know?”
“You do. You’re smart.”
Clown’s arms were crossed on the table, head tilted patiently, wings relaxed all the way to the floor. Ken was scared of him. But there was something so deceptively composed about him, even when he knew it was just the dispassion of a snake saving its energy to strike.
“You don’t care.” It was a dangerous bluff to call, but Ken giggled, trying to play it out. “I’m just a builder. I’m not gonna kill myself, don’t worry.”
“I’m not.”
Ken paused. Sighed. There was no getting around ClownPierce, she of all people should know that. He hadn’t even been able to talk himself out of what was, objectively, temporary indentured servitude.
It was a little galling, too, when he’d been trying so hard.
“Anyone… ever told you that you’re pretty annoying?”
“Yes.”
“Anyone you bothered to listen to?”
“Yes. Ferre, to start. And someone in the exact same place as you.”
“Did you kill them?”
Clown scoffed. It was the first real emotion he’d shown, and Ken was sure she was right. That was the faint, static crackle of a very good voice changer.
“Of course not. People die when I want them to, Kenadian.”
“Do you want me dead?”
“Not until you’ve finished this. You have that long to give me another reason.”
“You’re… evil.” Ken felt herself frowning, because it was annoying her, and she could hear her voice twisting in disbelieving revulsion. “How many haven’t given you a reason?”
“It’s what it takes.”
“How many?” Ken’s voice nearly cracked, but he caught it, feeling her eyes start to sting. He wasn’t made for this. But she wanted to know, now she’d come this far, he wanted this extra boon to torture herself with. “Do- do you care about any of us?”
“…You don’t want to know that, Kenadian. Stand up.”
“How-“
“Stand up.”
Ken obeyed. There was nothing to do but obey. He kept his head down, worked without looking too closely at who for, and she didn’t bother to hurt herself with knowledge. Not this sort.
Her eyes were fixed on the floor, when ClownPierce walked up to her. He was taller, but Ken saw the platforms built into his boots.
“Sleeves. Up. You want to know if I care.”
“I- I don’t-“
“You don’t have a choice.”
Ken didn’t want or need the reminder. Her hands moved, trembling, pulling up soft sleeves, now probably stained with blood. He was lucky he wore black.
“This is why I have rules.” Clown ran a finger just above her claw marks, so close, so threatening, yet his presence itself seemed almost mundane. He was hiding his voice, and that made Ken feel better about wanting to hide too. “This is against them. Understood?”
Whatever Clown was trying to do, Ken was pretty sure it was backfiring. The misfiring fear inside her head was translating into her favourite type of buzz, and even as her breath fumbled, her thoughts felt clearer than they had in a while.
“…Understood.”
“You’re enjoying this.” There was a tilt, at the end, that made it sound almost like a question, but Clown compensated, managing to come off aloof and smirking. “Who am I to you, Kenadian?”
“Dangerous.” Ken’s lips twitched, and he pulled away, not quite daring to pull his sleeves down yet. “The guy I’m trying not to cut myself out of fear of.”
“…funny.” Clown didn’t sound particularly amused, but maybe his voice changer didn’t know what to make of him smiling. “Keep at that, then. I don’t do second chances, if you do want to talk to me again.”
“Uh-?”
“Better get this right.” Clown tapped at Ken’s forearm with silk-gloved talons, and looked up, meeting her gaze. “We both know you’re important. But you don’t know anything about me.”
That was wrong, actually. Ken knew Clown was hiding something. She had a feeling there was a part of him that had lied, when he said she’d still have to prove she was worth caring about. She suspected he might be lying about more than that.
Ken had a good ear, for liars.
Still, he nodded, barely holding back another small laugh. Better to get out of this now, before it got any worse.
Although, as Clown took a step away, and nodded in dismissal, Ken didn’t feel that bad. Not bad at all, actually.
That had almost gone well.
Unusual, for her standards.