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When Branzy left Lifesteal, he had kind of thought he would explore different worlds, get away from the deadliness of it all, not worry constantly about betrayal and murder.
But when the new season begins, he's very much there. Just… not participating.
He’s not there there. No, that would be way too easy to wrap his head around, and life is rarely so kind. Instead, he’s elevated, looking down on them all in their little circle as if staring through a big screen. He's on his knees, palms against the surface of nothing between the server and wherever he is, a barrier. His hands are obscured by long, purple sleeves, and his eyes burn, and there’s something searing and purple oozing down his cheeks. And he should look away and figure out where he is and why he’s there. But he can’t look away because they’re all down there—Clown, The Kids in the Corner, Clown, the others—and he left them, but he misses them anyway.
They all split up, run off into all the corners of their world, and Branzy shouldn’t be able to keep an eye on all of them. It’s not realistic. It’s not even what he wants!
He stands up, uncomfortably aware that he’s wearing a fancy purple cloak and that his hands are kind of completely black like the night sky. Oh, and that he’s standing in the Void. That, at least, is familiar. He got quite acquainted with it in the fourth season. The main difference from then being that he’s standing with nothing now, and was living in a castle before.
There’s nowhere to go, so for a few minutes he’s just frozen, internally floundering while scared that if he moves away from the little screen of their new world, he’ll just end up lost—that’s what people who get lost do, right? They have to stay put because the other option is ‘get more lost’ and that would be so much worse.
At least he can watch.
At first, he’s confined to the spawn area, where Zam’s trying to be peaceful in a world that requires death and chaos. It’s sad to watch, so Branzy doesn’t.
In a blink, almost as soon as Branzy realises that he doesn’t want to just keep an eye on Spawn, dozens of more windows into the world appear in his little corner of the infinite void. Like one of those security offices filled with different screens, all lined up. Except these ones are on the floor, about the size of a pool table, surrounded by a big, flickering nothingness, and whichever one Branzy decides to watch from, he ends up being able to see everything. Every little detail, on pure instinct.
It’s a power rush, a small one. He doesn’t understand it, but he can feel it constantly, similar to the greatest of thrills after a successful scam, but stronger, tangible. It makes him feel like the reason he’s in the Void is because if he was in any world, he’d destroy it by accident.
He’s also the worst person in the world to have this kind of power; because he immediately loses the plot.
There are way too many things going on in their world, and most of it he really couldn’t care less about. And if there’s one thing he’s learned about Lifesteal, it’s that missing a week can be crucial… and that’s exactly what he does. He watches Clown in the lead-up to the hunt for the mace with this gnawing feeling in his stomach—almost like he knows it’s futile.
The gist of it is this: there’s only one mace on the server, everyone wants it, Squiddo gets it.
It’s such a monumental event that Branzy’s pulled right over to her screen, he just poofs right over there to see it. As if the world wants him to follow, to observe, and to understand.
Not to interfere.
Branzy might not be the smartest player, but even he can put together that being stuck in the Void and forced to watch things play out means that he should do just that. But he’s never been good at following the rules. And Squiddo isn’t supposed to have the mace! It’s useless in her hands. Clown is.
Branzy frowns as her little group realises what they’ve got, and he clenches his jaw when he realises how they’ll utilise it. Lifesteal isn’t supposed to be peaceful. Clown has to get the mace because that’s the only thing that makes sense.
He follows their journey out of the caves and into the savannah, and just as they bury it, he falls through the invisible barrier.
Just for a flicker, he stands with grass around his legs and the sun beaming down at him. Three heads turn towards him, like frightened rabbits realising that their hiding place has already been found, and by something incredibly powerful too. They’re so lucky it’s just Branzy, and that he has no idea how to stay around.
He blinks out of existence, and then he watches from the Void, kind of dazed and dizzy from the trip.
“What was that?” he hears Cube ask. Though the world is blurry.
“I think—” Squiddo says, “Dude, I think that was God.”
“It just looked like a guy in a cloak,” 4C sensibly points out, but there’s intrigue in his voice.
Squiddo hums and nods, before saying, “What else would God be?”
Cube looks back and forth between his teammates. “Do we think this has something to do with the mace?”
Squiddo grins. “I think it’s a sign that we’re heading in the right direction!”
If Branzy had managed even five seconds in their world, he might’ve been able to tell them that no, he’s not God. He’s also not blessing them; it’s very much the opposite he’s going for. He might even have been able to stop them before they made matching cloaks inspired by the one he’s wearing—and therefore equally as tacky.
But he only got a blink. And it’s a start, as well as a confirmation that he can enter the world. Which should mean that he could meddle—and he does love meddling.
Later, they start calling him Master Oogway. Which is also not correct, but probably more accurate. Branzy doesn’t know what he is, but that title is a lot lighter to carry.
As much as he wants to stay by Clown’s screen, he knows that he needs to stay around the mace team to be any real help against them. Because he’d stayed by Clown’s side a lot during the first few days, and he’d never once been able to appear in front of him. But appearing actually becomes a regular occurrence with his little group of worshippers.
He thinks it might be because of their worship, even if that seems contradictory considering they only knew of him because he had appeared that first time.
Cube sees him in the reflection of his axe as he’s chopping down a tree. He looks up instantly, directly at where Branzy’s looking down, but there’s not a single indication that he sees Branzy. He shakes his head to himself and keeps working.
4C squints up at the skies once, then turns to Squiddo and asks if she sees any weird lines. But as soon as they’re both focusing, they realise that there’s nothing out of the ordinary to be seen.
But they know what they see is real, and so is Branzy—or whatever version of him they’ve made up—so they think they’re blessed, and they’re nothing if not opportunists. They’ve all got some good heads on their shoulders; Branzy should know. He spent the last season teamed up with 4C and Cube, and the latter half playing against Squiddo as she slowly accumulated power.
They understand that each world has its backdoors, exploits, vulnerabilities, so it doesn’t take so long before they figure out what Branzy couldn’t.
They find a place he can go.
Branzy has no clue what makes the peak in the mangrove swamp the one place he can go, all he knows is that the day before the Peace Trials officially begin, Squiddo digs up the mace and carries it all the way to the swamp.
When she’s climbed to the peak, she glances around expectantly.
Branzy’s eyes burn, his stomach churns, and suddenly he’s just standing there.
Squiddo blinks, then smiles. “Master Oogway.”
And Branzy knows enough about these kids to understand that playing along is his best option. “Yes,” he says, voice solemn. “It’s me.”
She looks happy with his words, and then she has equipped the mace, holding it out in front of him with both hands. “Can you hold onto this for me?”
Oh, she’s going to make it so easy for him. He reaches out to wrap his fingers around the handle, but hesitates, in case she remembers how he lies. “I must ask you: are you sure?”
Hesitation reads as importance, a heaviness he doesn’t feel.
“I am. I mean, it can’t be in much better hands than an impartial, all-powerful being.”
“Ah,” Branzy says, smiling softly. “Of course.” He takes it into his hand, and it feels wrong. He’s not supposed to be holding it at all; the world doesn’t want it. It’s too big of an interference. His code is different, he’s a projection. But he didn’t end the last season by cheating the system just to cower at the thought of carrying a real item into the void with him.
Clown needs it.
“Master Oogway?” Squiddo asks.
Entertain her. “Yes, my child?”
“Did you give me the mace so that it was in the hands of someone who would restore peace to the server?”
No, he thinks happily. He graces her with a curious tilt of his head. “Is it not more comfortable to believe that it was fate?”
She considers this, looking down for a moment. “Chosen or destiny…”
“Whichever one you prefer,” Branzy assures.
That makes her squint at him through her glasses. “You know, you seem familiar…”
“I get that a lot.”
“And I don’t feel like I should trust you.”
Branzy tightens his grip on the mace. It makes him feel a sharp kind of tingling, a pain he hasn’t felt since he changed—a pain that could be a thousand times worse and still be worth it to help Clown.
He bows his head slightly, acknowledging her concerns. “I haven’t done anything to betray you, but—” He extends his arm, holding the mace back out between them. “If your doubts are too heavy, put it back where you hid it. Sure, it won’t be in the hands of a powerful being from the Void, but hey, maybe it won’t eventually be found by some of the most skilled people across all worlds. That’s for you to judge.”
For a second, he’s concerned that he’s steered too far away from the weird, regal speech, but then she pushes his hand back. “No. You should take it. It doesn’t really sound like you chose me, and I don’t think it’s destiny either. But it’s still the safest in your hands.”
Easy.
“I will keep it safe as can be.”
She smiles again. “One last thing! When we end up finding the right player, can you show yourself to them too and hand it over all ceremoniously?”
“Yes,” Branzy declares unflinchingly. “When you find the right player, I will do just that.”
She doesn’t need to know that he already knows who the right player is.
She comes back sometimes.
Branzy has gained a lot of perspective lately—something that happens when it feels like he’s seeing more things than ever, oh, and the screens too—with the time and space to look back on who he was and who he’s become.
He isn’t free of grudges, or of the love he feels, but he’s disconnected from the violence and the hurt that’s sewn into the code of the server; the heart, funnily enough. And it had always been fun, the action, the lying, the killing and the cheating. He’d found it thrilling to make a place for himself, to learn, to be tucked under the protection of the man who represents it all.
Maybe that’s why it annoys him so much to see Clown act friendly. Even though he knows it’s a ruse, it irks him beyond anything. It’s just not right. And if he knew that Branzy was there, watching, out of reach—well, he’d probably play it up or something. Or maybe he’d go to the peak. Branzy and Clown, together again.
But he doesn’t know. So Branzy is stuck with Squiddo.
He loves her with the same fondness he holds for all of them, the kind that makes him build a big, deadly theme park for them all to die in. Sure, he’d betrayed her, that’s the game; that’s what she’s trying to change.
“ClownPierce is doing really well in the Peace Trials,” she informs him. He knows. “But I guess you’d know that! Do you know of him though? He’s known as the deadliest of us all, but he’s the one making the biggest effort. I’m really impressed with him.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Branzy acknowledges sagely. “From what I know he is… quite deserving of admiration.”
“Yes, but it’s surprising! If he ends up getting the mace, it’ll be a symbol for change, for all of us. If the one with the blackest heart can earn a weapon of destruction and death, and then use it for good. That would make the world better for all of us.”
“And that’s what you all want?”
“It’s what we need,” Squiddo stresses. “I know that some of them are forcing it, but I want them to make the choice to be better. I think they have it in them.”
She’s in the wrong place, Branzy thinks. But in a way, he’d been in the wrong place too. As much as he’d loved the game, adapting to it, accepting it for what it was, had worn on him. In the end there, he had felt peace, but it’s never there to stay. It can’t be.
He smiles warmly. “Well, from what I’ve observed, you’re on the right path.”
The words are just vague enough to mean absolutely nothing, but for her to still get whatever she wants out of them.
“And ClownPierce?” she asks.
“What about him?”
“If you’ve been following the Peace Trials, you’ve seen him. Do you think he’s being genuine?”
“It can’t be a sure thing,” Branzy says because speaking with too much certainty might be suspicious. “But look at the rest of your playmates. They’re making a mockery of your trials—like that Reddoons—but ClownPierce has been nice from the start.”
“And you don’t find that suspicious?”
“What do I know?” Branzy asks. “I’m just an observer. But from what I’ve seen ClownPierce is the star of the Trials, a real diamond in the rough. So who are we to hold his past against him, or worry about the future, when we only exist in the present?”
For some reason, attributed to Squiddo’s eccentricity, those words get her really excited. “Oh my god! That’s so close. You’re saying the real thing for the ceremony, right?”
To which Branzy says, “Of course,” not having a clue what she’s talking about.
The ceremony comes around, and Branzy watches over the Temple for the whole thing; as people fail by murdering the innocent—predictable—as two other players—not Clown, not important—he still considers dear to him, who wouldn’t recognise him like this, make the right choice.
It’s only when Clown’s speech about peace ends that he realises just how fast everything has fallen into place. Clown had won. Of course, he had. So now there’s a new thing to worry about.
No one has recognised Branzy so far, not by voice, or colour, or the shadowed face under the cloak. And that’s fine when it’s Squiddo, who he had firmly betrayed last season and who he needed to fool, and even 4C and Cube, his beloved teammates who he would've sold out too.
But if Clown sees him without a trace of recognition, that’s going to crush him.
When he removes his hood, Clown compliments him, and he gets flustered. It’s not quite right, but he’d said it with that little word strangely attached to it, almost as if he knows it’s a unique first impression—like he maybe, just maybe knows it’s not a first impression at all.
They just need a moment alone is all.
As they’re standing by the bookcases, Clown enchanting the weapon he’s earned by committing to the biggest ruse ever for, Branzy stands a few feet away, trying not to have his expression show emotions like yearning and grief.
He likes the mask, he does. It will always be the most of what he sees of Clown. But they’ve had their private moments, mask off, only pale skin and dark hair and those little jester marks crossing vertically over his eyes—lips, teeth, and hands leaving possessive marks all over his body—quiet moments in the casino or castle, rare moments of rest and comfort—and Branzy thinks he’s long overdue for that.
All he needs is for Clown to remember. Maybe he’d get a few more words out of him if he wasn’t completely focused on getting the mace prepared. Branzy sees it for what it is, a bloodbath in the making, there’s no way anyone is surviving for five minutes more.
So Squiddo, 4C, and Cube get their thirty seconds of peace the server so desperately needs, watching happily from below as the weapon becomes as dangerous as it can be; as the wielder turns.
He does it so casually too, as if he’s not about to ruin weeks of hard work, and more than that: a genuine dream.
And then, he strikes.
Branzy laughs from the sidelines and leaves the peak for a few minutes as the fight—as the slaughter moves into the ocean. When it’s done, he returns to the peak and hopes with all his—heart? Code. Who knows—that Clown will go back up there, that some part of him knows that Branzy is waiting there for him.
But when Clown turns back towards the peak, Branzy has to mentally acknowledge that it could just be curiosity, to not get his hopes up. He would want to know what Branzy is, and if he’s killable.
He isn’t, but Clown is allowed to try.
In fact, he’s invited to.
Branzy waits for him, sitting on the jagged, stone edge, facing the mangrove forest. It’s intentional. He can see everything around him anyway, but most players are limited to the set of eyes at the front of their heads. Clown has no reason to assume that Branzy sees every step of the way—as he leaves the boat and climbs the mountain again—and he has no reason to not make an attempt on Branzy’s life.
But Clown doesn’t. He walks over and sits down next to him.
“So… Master Oogway. How did a person like you find yourself on our server?”
“I go where the flow of the river takes me,” Branzy says, used to Squiddo’s enthusiasm at his meaningless statements.
“I see,” Clown says. “And it took you here. To the top of a mountain.”
Okay, he could’ve gone with a different metaphor.
Branzy laughs lightly. “Yeah, I’m pretty much stuck up here.” He manages to not let disappointment or bitterness seep into his words, but he really just—he can’t even grab Clown’s hands or anything. They’re not that. Now. He smiles with a mournful edge. “It gets… very lonely.”
“Those guys didn’t keep you company?”
“No, not most of the time. And that bridge is definitely burned now.”
“All in a day's work,” Clown says, and Branzy can hear the grin in his voice. “So what you’re saying is that you really only have me for company?”
“Yup,” Branzy confirms. “Is that—and just entertain me here—is that in any way familiar to you?” Memories of ages stuck in a castle surrounded by void, and void, and more void—Clown’s complete attention, his teasing, his control, the intimacy he granted—flashing in his mind. Who would’ve thought that big blob of flickering nothing would ever become his home?
“I’m beginning to strongly feel like it should be.” Clown stands up, mace still in one hand, and offers Branzy his free one. When they’re both standing, he’s silent for a few seconds, evaluating Branzy, who is as transparent as always. “We know each other, don’t we?”
Branzy smiles, subdued. “We do—we have, I mean, known each other. For a while.”
“No,” Clown muses. “We know each other very well, don’t we?”
“You—” Branzy’s eyes widen, lips parting in surprise. “You remember?”
Clown lifts his hand to cup Branzy’s cheek. “Not at first glance. But, Branzy, did you really think I’d just forget you?”
He has this way of saying Branzy’s name, like a spell, melodic and alluring.
“No!” Branzy exclaims. “No, I knew you wouldn’t—but Squiddo didn’t remember so I thought—well I guess I did—sparingly—worry. About that little particular possibility.”
And now all he feels is relief, which crashes over him like a rogue wave, making his eyes sting—it’s like he can only feel the loneliness that’s been simmering under his skin—in his code—now that it’s untightening.
Clown unequips his mace, the thing he’s worked so hard for, just so he can free his other hand to hold both sides of Branzy’s face. “Hey, it’s okay. You rigged the game for me, didn’t you?”
His touch stings, a literal, prickling sensation that signals to Branzy that he should be careful, that he can’t just step into this world.
He chuckles wetly, uncaring of it. “Not really. I might’ve tried very hard to get Squiddo to believe in your good intentions while pretending to be a godlike figure. That’s all. I don’t think that’s what did it. In the end.”
“A godlike figure, huh?”
It still isn’t anything Branzy can explain, so he doesn’t try to.
Instead, he withdraws himself from Clown’s touch and places a hand at the bottom of the mask. “Can I take this thing off?” Wait—no, they’re standing in the open, with three players fully aware of their location. Clown won’t say yes to that, so Branzy wills some power to the surface, his eyes gleaming as he sees the world in a way that he can’t even comprehend. “I’ll keep a lookout, I promise.”
“God, that’s hot,” Clown says. “Go ahead. I trust you.”
Branzy’s heart flutters in his chest. He smiles gratefully, cheeks warm, and removes the mask without any of the deliberate slowness Clown would’ve done it with.
And maybe it’s a good thing that he’s always wearing the mask, because Branzy has made an art out of reading him, and seeing the fascination, the delight and the desire in his eyes, all mixed and complicated, is overwhelming and delicate.
He reaches up and cradles Clown’s jaw without thought—mindless of the pain—brushing his thumb over the black mark on his cheekbone. He allows himself to revel in it.
Clown’s gaze is heavy, curious, knowing. “You’re in pain,” he says.
Branzy shakes his head, smiling. “No.”
But it’s useless to deny it; Clown has intimate knowledge of what pain looks like on Branzy.
His hand closes around Branzy’s wrist, softly. He guides his hand away from his face and takes a moment to study Branzy’s fingers, saying nothing about their colour. His eyes flicker up, studying Branzy’s expression as he links their hands together. He might not be able to see the intricacies of whatever power Branzy’s been given, but he can feel the energy, the buzz underneath his skin, and he can see the way Branzy’s eyes waver at the burn of the touch.
“You can’t stay, can you?” he asks.
“No—I—” Branzy looks down at their hands. “I think I have to follow rules,” he grumbles. “Not that anyone’s been specific about it—and you should think that with all this power—but nope. I’m in the dark.”
Clown’s lip quirks into a soft smile. “That’s some tough luck.”
“Isn’t it?” Branzy agrees. “Stuck on top of a mountain—”
“—like Rapunzel in her tower—”
“Just for you to finally get here and…” And to realise that maybe, that’s worse. Reintroducing Clown into his existence would only make the distance more painful.
“Well,” Clown says, with a simple problem-solving tone, “you’re stuck up here if you want a physical form right?”
He’s so damn smart. He has also let go of Branzy’s hand and moved his own to play with the hair on his nape. It’s dizzying.
“Right,” Branzy agrees.
Clown grins, corner of his eyes wrinkling all cutely. “So I’ll just have to come back to visit sometimes. It’s not like rules have ever deterred you.” He pauses, hand stopping its motion to rest on his skin. “You have a lot of power now,” he observes, almost hungrily. “You’ll make it work. For me, right?”
“Yeah,” Branzy stutters out. “Of course—it was all for you.”
“Good,” Clown praises. His hand falls to one of the clasps keeping the cloak closed. “Mm, we’ll have to get rid of that,” he says. “Anyone close to us right now?”
Branzy’s eyes flash—it’s so easy to figure out when Clown’s the one asking. In that moment, it feels like sticking his hands into a piece of redstone, except it’s the complex fabric that ties a world together, and every string of code that hangs around them, all just there for him to feel.
“No,” he breathes out. “No, we’re all good.”
“Perfect,” Clown says, and Branzy recognises the tone, he’s heard it hundreds of times before, like the flip of a switch, Clown has run out of patience.
So Branzy meets him halfway, one hand on his shoulder, the other tangling in his hair, pulling him closer, as Clown’s fingers dig into his waist. He drags his teeth along Branzy’s lips, and it burns but it burns good. He feels alive. Human. It's the most anything he's felt since last season ended.
And it’s all Clown.
Branzy presses closer, whispering, “Don’t stop,” against Clown’s lips because he’s practically trembling, and that might be concerning, but Clown will always hold his words above his reactions—that has been important with the kinds of things they’ve done before.
Oh, and Clown has had to keep his violence under wraps for ages, so it’s not surprising when he becomes a bit aggressive. He pulls away for a second, muttering out curses directed at the cloak while he rushes to undo it and force it off Branzy’s shoulders. And then he’s backing Branzy up against the side of one of the bookshelves, practically slamming him against it, every motion so fast that it’s hard to keep up, the skill of a true fighter.
Clown’s lips meet his neck the same moment as his back does the wood, and Branzy lets out a gasp—and keeps ignoring the pain, which becomes all-encompassing when he’s in firm, direct contact with not just a player, but with the world—he’s almost completely surrounded by a kind of code that doesn’t mesh with his.
Oh, well. He can do pain. They’ve done pain before. If he really thinks about it, Clown bringing weapons into bed isn’t that different from the very fabric of the world trying to dispel him.
He responds to it by urging Clown to kiss him again, eagerly deepening it the moment his wish is granted. Clown’s hands find their way under his shirt to rub circles on his skin.
And then something makes him pull back, still holding Branzy close, but furrowing his brow.
“It feels like you’re overheating,” he says.
“Happens,” Branzy replies, closing the distance again to trail kisses along Clown’s jawline, his hands locked behind Clown’s neck. “Feels good.”
Except not really, fully.
“Don’t lie to me, Branzy,” Clown warns.
Branzy shivers at the tone, god, he’s weak for that. He ignores the warning and nibbles at Clown’s ear. Because defiance has always been encouraged. It gives Clown the opportunity to bring him to his knees.
It’s predictable when Clown yanks his head back with a tight grip in his hair, eyes narrowed, dangerous and keen.
He waits.
Branzy huffs, resting his hands on Clown’s shoulders with a tight grip. “I’m not lying.”
“No?” Clown’s other hand rises to his chest and pushes. Like he’s trying to suffocate Branzy between himself and the bookcase, a death by compression. That’s not what happens though.
One moment, Branzy’s grounded, flushed, hurting, the next, he’s on the ground, palms splayed out on an odd black and purple surface, stomach churning. He heaves in a harsh, ragged breath, and watches with wide eyes as tears drop from his eyes, magenta landing on black.
He looks up and the sky is still blue, the forest is still green, and Clown is still standing there, scrutiny and worry written all over him. Every single thing on top of the peak has turned black and purple.
When he struggles to stand, Clown hurries to help him.
“Okay, so I didn’t think that would happen,” he admits, apologetically.
Branzy snorts softly and gives him a peck on the cheek just because he can. Then, he looks at the mess surrounding them again. “What is it we call this again?”
“Missing Texture,” Clown provides. “Very peculiar. Never seen it work like this.”
“Me neither.” He furrows his brow. “Who’s the admin this time? I don’t want you to get in trouble for this.”
“Ah, don’t worry,” Clown dismisses. “I’ll blame Ashswag. That’s easier to sell than you coming back as a god.”
Branzy frowns. “I think I’m insulted by that—no I’m definitely insulted by that. Give me some credit here.”
“Well, if you knew how to control it, you could undo it, and then I wouldn’t need to give Ash credit.”
“I guess I have a few things to learn,” Branzy says quietly, eyes dulling.
Clown tsks and grabs both his hands, a kind of touch so innocent that it feels almost childish, especially compared to what they were just doing. Still painful though.
“How do you feel?” he asks.
And Branzy surprises even himself when he says, “Hungry.”
“Yeah?” He squeezes Branzy’s hands, eyes darkening at Branzy’s small wince. “I think you should consider figuring out what you are before you start meddling with worlds. Hungry sounds important.”
“Okay,” Branzy says, low at first. Then he nods. “Okay! I can figure this out! Easy. No more distractions. I’ll explore the Void—it’s just a void after all!” He leans forward and plants a gentle kiss on Clown’s lips. “And then I’ll come back and we can pick up where we left off.”
“Deal,” Clown declares. “Also, just so we’re clear on this, in case you’re fully immortal now, that still only counts as one lifetime.”
Branzy snickers, a part of him already firmly aware that he’s much more powerful than Clown now. “Of course,” he agrees. “I love you so much.”
Clown smiles softly, presses his lips against Branzy’s temple, and whispers, “Go.”