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SB had been running for hours, it felt like. Hours through the dense grass of the plains, past the hills and trying so hard to find a way to escape his enemy, who was close behind.
If he stopped, even for just a moment, he'd probably hear the armour clink behind him, the heavy footsteps — Clown didn't have to try to keep quiet. He was the predator in this scenario.
SB didn't have that luxury. It also didn't help that the cuts and the one stab to his stomach slowed him down considerably.
His armour was heating up his skin beyond comfort and he felt the blood stick uncomfortably to the clothes underneath.
Every few moments, he'd bring a hand up to his mouth to stifle a groan of pain.
He was far too out of it, just moving forward, his mind drifting to half-baked plans and what he could do, anything, to make it out of here alive. He had no golden apples left, his potions had been thoroughly depleted and the resources were sparse... here.
With a startling jolt, which caused him to stumble on a tree root and fall to his knees — only for a brief moment, he had to keep going, SB737 didn't give up this easily — he realised he was lost.
The woods that he'd thought would be his best chance at surviving now surrounded him like the bars of a cage. He could see nothing that would help him figure out where he'd come from, if the forest was ending anywhere. Even the terrain was the same, steep hills and grass of the same colour.
It was driving him mad and his wounds opened further and further the more he went.
But he couldn't stop, he couldn't allow Clown to catch up. It was out of the question. Death, besides the blow to his pride, hurt unimaginably worse, like his soul was pulled out of his decaying body and being plucked right back to where he'd set an anchor.
Here, where lives were so limited, the anguish was worse. The embarrassment stinging even worse.
The woods still don't open up, not even in a clearing and night rapidly approaches. He knows mobs will soon appear and he'll be even more vulnerable, but there is really no way out.
He can barely see anymore, he has to push his glasses up and his hand, bruised from how many times Clown had tried to disarm him knocks onto the helmet.
He can't stifle the hissed shout of agony as the pain spreads through his whole arm.
He stumbles again and this time, before he can get up, the footsteps are louder behind him.
"Well, well, SB," Clown mocks as he cuts SB's way with a cruelly raised sword. "Nowhere to run anymore, do ya?" the man asks. Despite his —frankly creepy — mask, SB can detect the smile in his voice. He's enjoying this.
SB tries to laugh and instead just chokes on blood that pools in his mouth.
He tries to raise his own sword, but Clown pushes it aside and into the grass easily.
"Just kill me already Clown. You've had your fun, yeah? Well... get it over with!" SB shouts back, raising his hands in mock surrender.
If Clown doesn't kill him now, he's sure this endless forest will, making him succumb to his wounds. Or worse, a mob will take him out.
Clown seems to ponder his for a second, before he kneels down in front of SB and gently pries away the armour from his bloodied, battered body.
"Hmm," Clown hums and runs his hand down SB's wounds.
The other man shivers as sharp pain stings at the touches and he can't help any pained noises.
He tries to grab Clown's hand, to stop him, but he's quickly intercepted by Clown's gloved hand that grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers.
His heart jackrabbits, more than it did during the chase. He tries, in vain mostly, to find the eye holes of Clown's mask, to get the barest glimpse.
It doesn't work.
But Clown does angle his face so he's staring at SB's face that's scrunched up. His hand leaves the wounds and tenderly comes up to cup SB's cheek. It's such a soft gesture, it gives whiplash to the wounded man. Wasn't this supposed to be a hunt? Had Clown figured out his passing affections? The penguin's strange obsession?
SB's eyes slide shut as a thumb rubs underneath the bruise on his eye and he let's out a shaky breath. It feels so nice.
"Clown..." he whispers out.
He doesn't even realise that Clown's hand had left his own hand, until the tip of a sword pierces his chest straight on, clean in and out.
"Sorry, SB. But I need to win this," Clown mutters forlornly. Then darkness swallows him and SB gets that feeling of being put through a blender, before he's gasping for air back in his bed.
At least he's out of those godforsaken woods, he thinks as he gets up and gets ready to prepare for the next encounter. A life down.