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“Should we take a break?” Leo says and Minute frowns from the sidelines.
Clown must also take offense at Leo’s oddly placating tone, because he raises his axe and says, “No? The fuck?”
“Hey man,” Minute cuts in, “If you’re tired you can just say so. I’d like to fight Clown.”
Leo ignores Minute. “Clown. Seriously.”
“Worry about yourself, Leowook.”
Okay. This is getting weirdly charged. Minute’s head swivels between the two, observing their tense standoff. “Okay…” he drags his words out. “What’s going on here?”
For a moment, Leo’s eyes dart down to Clown’s—stomach? armour?—his hand, probably, the one gripping the axe, ready to disable Leo’s shield should he approach. Without even thinking, Minute followed Leo’s gaze.
Huh.
Clown’s hand is trembling.
Without word or warning, Clown drops the axe and turns his back on them, walking out of the sparring gym. Leo sighs.
“Right,” Minute says. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Not my place to say,” Leo just shrugs it off. “I’m gonna go grind some potions. Now’s probably a good time to stock up while he’s sulking.”
“Sorry, are we just not gonna talk about…?”
“No point worrying about Clown. He’ll be fine.”
Minute watches, flabbergasted, as Leo leaves the room as well. Leo, of all people, who values team cohesion and synergy probably the most out of the three of them, leaves this obviously open wound to fester. Minute didn’t even get an explanation.
He finds, ten minutes later, Clown sitting on the floor in the potion brewer. Judging by the lack of Leowook, he probably ditched his plan to grind potions once he saw the teammate he was trying to avoid there, which not only doesn’t answer any of Minute’s questions about whatever is going on here, but even creates new ones.
“So,” Minute says, then finds he’s not sure how to get his partner to speak. In the ensuing silence, Clown’s trembling fingers move ingredients to-and-fro in their extensive brewing setup. Minute latches onto that: “Should you be using your hands right now?”
The fingers stop their deliberate movement, but the trembling is a force on its own. Clown puts his gloved hands flat on the brewing bench, a futile attempt to stop the involuntary spasms.
Clown says, “Leowook wouldn’t have told you about that.”
“So it is a Lifesteal thing.”
Clown’s inanimate not-face tilts up at Minute, the markings that imitate eyes almost glaring at him. “How do you figure?” On the floor next to his leg is a half-unfurled roll of bandages.
“Look,” Minute says, “I know you guys are… tetchy about things that go on around here. But I’m a part of Lifetseal too now.” Then, he adds, “You don’t have to tell me what happened.” You don’t have to tell me if it hurts either, he doesn't say. “Just tell me how I can help.”
Clown’s not-face mimics the action of staring. Then it looks back down at his gloved hands. “Nothing you can do.”
In one smooth motion, he pulls his right glove off. It takes a moment for Minute to really register what he is seeing.
Black. Not the void that pretends to be Minute or Spoke’s flesh, nor blocked out tattoos, nor does it look like the character markings of a natural Skin. This is the black of charred skeletons, of necrosis and dead land, of something withered.
As far as Minute knows, Clown hasn’t been grinding wither skeletons lately.
“It was a while ago,” Clown says, quiet. “I forget Leo was there sometimes. It was easy to lose track of someone in a thousand withers.”
“You,” Minute starts, and as he watches he realises the blackened length over the tendons of Clown’s forearms pulses, the surface bubbling like acid over flesh. “You didn’t respawn?” he finishes.
Clown shakes his head. “Server ended. Had to move on to the next season. It just is.”
It just is. “Looks like it hurts.”
Clown gives Minute a look. Minute inclines his head in retreat. For a moment, he constructs a sentence in his head that is least likely to get Clown to push him away.
Minute says, “Tell me what to do.”
Clown looks at him. Then, he nudges the roll of bandages. “Wrap my hands. Pressure would be… nice. I guess.”
Minute sits down. His hands hover over the proffered forearms, hesitating. “Why don’t you wrap them all the time?”
“Finger dexterity.”
When Minute doesn’t move to grab the arms, Clown just shoves them into Minute’s grip. He snaps out of it, then starts unrolling the bandages.
There isn’t much he can say to the creature in front of him. Or rather, there isn’t much he can say that doesn’t acknowledge the horrific barbarity of the level of violence the people of this server inflict on each other, nor can he avoid mentioning the way they avoid touching the wound entirely, neither to heal it nor to aggravate.
“Do you think… nevermind.”
“Well now I’m curious,” Clown says. Nothing in his soft conversational tone indicates he is in pain, even to Minute who has these mangled limbs in his hold. Withered flesh has a texture unlike any other—fragile, flaking, wet. It is the first time Minute has ever seen ClownPierce weakened but Clown seems to still be fixed on pretending it isn't happening. Weak, maybe. Never vulnerable. Not these people.
“Do you think you - that there ever will be a day where you will hurt me like… this. Or I you. Just - in a future season, you know. When the PMC aren't teamed.”
Minute doesn’t take his eyes off the bandages, but he feels Clown’s piercing gaze on him.
“Minute,” he says. It's exasperated. “This is Lifesteal.”
Minute huffs a sheepish laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.”
No, not these people.