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The Parkour Villain.
If he hadn't lost most of his voice, he would’ve scoffed. Such an absurd name, given to him by fools. Was his name not enough? Did he must be given a title as stupid as that? Was he supposed to light up at hearing the name, throwing welcoming arms around it and accept him as part of himself?
It never would be. Please, he had a much better name than that could ever be.
He wasn’t the “Parkour Villain.” He was Clown Pierce, and he shall be called as such.
Truly, he couldn’t have been the villain. It was for the betterment of society, his ideas. For the betterment of himself, the betterment of his soulmate. How was any of what he wanted to do wrong? He just wanted to enlighten the world of what he’s created--was that really so wrong?
It wasn’t.
He huffs a broken, painful laugh. His legs ached from standing so long, throbbed and pulsed at every little movement, covered in burns that never healed and continued to worsen. His wrists, tied by his very own soulmate string, were rubbed raw and bloodied. His skin itched. Perhaps it was better to be chained up like this: he couldn’t scratch himself until muscle appeared under his fingertips, stained red forevermore.
(Hollow. He’s always felt hollow. An empty husk, jumping up the ranks. His accomplishments could never fill the void inside him. Beating people in battles? Nothing. Ranking up? Nada. Finding a new way to parkour? Don’t even think about it. Nothing worked, and soon he began to think it was improbable of ever nourishing the emptiness. A sapling planted, yet unable to grow. Long ago, before his hands were stained red, hidden by velvet red gloves, he believed--convinced himself he had a soulmate. Not everyone got one, but he believed himself the lucky one.
He was the lucky one. He made sure of it.)
He sets his eyes on the sunset, glaring. He long grew tired of it. It burns more than the lava, every cloudless day was a cruel joke played. He rather be trapped in a room above the void, hidden from the sun, the stars, the moon, the heat. Frostbite would treat him better. He knows it would.
He turns around ever-so slowly, unable to make any noise at the pain that filled him entirely. He couldn’t bear to face the sun anymore; he was too good for it, too sick for it to heal him, too proud to accept its help. Please, someone such as him would only ever need help for one thing: getting out of this insufferable pit.
Speak of the devil and he shall appear. But the other wasn’t the devil. No, he couldn’t be, because the devil stood locked above lava, leisurely burning to death. But alas, the help was here, and he couldn’t deny it. He rolled his eyes, a face of disinterest as he looked down at the help. He didn’t bother to learn their name. It wouldn’t matter in the long run.
(Only one name mattered, and it was-)
“Villain,” and if his voice wasn’t ruined past the point of no return, he would’ve groaned loudly at the name. “Evbo’s arrived.”
And wasn’t that just the sweetest of melodies to hear?
He smiles wide, a raspy, horrid laugh leaving his mouth. If he wasn’t fighting a cough, he’d have chuckled. The look on the help’s face was priceless. He wishes he could just open his mouth and eat him, he’d taste so delicious, filled to the brim with terror and weariness as he was. He would tattoo the horror written across his face, his body, into his mind to laugh at for all eternity.
(Evbo. The name is sweet on his tongue, a soothing balm on his throat. For a second, just a second, he felt complete. A sapling able to grow into a strong, old redwood, made to suppress the fire around them. For just a second, his body stopped aching, stopped burning, stopped hurting. Would he consume him the second he gets his hands on him? Would he hide him away, the only one able to lay their eyes upon him?)
He sends the help away too soon for his liking. He would’ve loved to savor the look upon the man’s face, but he had things to get done.
Alone, the Villain--Clown--glances down to his wrist. He smirks. The strings had loosened ever so slightly.
The help wasn’t lying then.
(Somehow, someway, he had drifted to sleep. Perhaps it was because he knew it was time. He no longer had to wait, no longer had to dream about meeting his fated one. The string, black as void, began to speckle with red.
The burns are less irritating this night.)
[]_[]_[]
The first time he ever heard of the term “soulmate” was deep within the libraries scattered throughout the civilization. The book was covered in dust, pages ripped and stained, the cover falling apart. It was an older language, one close to the one they all spoke now, but difficult at first to decipher.
It didn’t take him long at all to learn. He was intelligent, able to plan 4 steps ahead at all times. Truly, it was an incredible ability.
He’s getting off topic. He poured himself entirely into the book, reading and rereading every line to the point of memorization.
“Soulmates are rare,” it started. “And incredibly difficult to spot for those who are not part of the pair. The strings can only be seen by them, felt by them, and touched by them. They move with each other, step-in-step, a constant tugging and pulling. It's a little known fact, even less known than the existence of soulmates themselves, but the strings can affect the other’s movement. For example, if one partner, A, pulls on the string, B gets pulled across the room. It goes both ways of course, but it’s been examined that some abuse it more than others.”
“Most strings are tied around the ring finger, specifically the left. Many people used to believe it had a vein connected straight to the heart, and so it carried over into their strings. If this was true is unknown.”
“Strings change color upon meeting their other half, and will, at times, even change positions of where its located. It all depends on the pair.”
“Some believe they can change fate and give themself a manufactured soulmate. It’s unknown if this is true, and even more unknown of the consequences.”
Clown smiles. He was young, but he understood perfectly. He looked at the string tied around his ring and smiled wider. He unties it, tying it around his left wrist. A bracelet. This is where his string would rest upon meeting his soulmate. He nods happily, tying his mask around his head with another piece of starry black string. Only his fated got to see his face.
He steals the book from the library, a chuckle stuck in his throat.
(He had the most brilliant of ideas.)
[]_[][]_[]
Long ago, Clown had met someone. He wasn’t old then, but for some reason, he was still called The Old Man. He liked to call him Tom. He looked up to him, literally and figuratively. He could tell Tom anything. He remembered Tom once asked why he spoke in such short sentences. Asked why all his thoughts were disjointed. He couldn’t remember his answer.
He tried to extend his sentences, adding words that had no right existing in them, taking out the periods when he talked and wrote. He much preferred the shorter sentences. Easier to get his point across, and easier to talk less. He rather do than just simply say, and so he did.
It took years to become good at Parkour. Tom had helped him greatly; from teaching the various studies to parkour to even farmwork. He couldn’t be more than thankful for him. It helped Tom was a great teacher, knowing everything front to back, teaching him the history of their civilization, what everything had meant. He had even taken him up to the Champion level.
(That’s when he learned the true power of the Champion boots. He had already figured of course, but confirmation was always the nicest of things to have.)
Years later, Tom had stumbled across him one day tying the string around his ring. “Why the ring?” He had asked, unquestioning of the string itself. This was an answer he could remember.
He had once read it in a book, he explained. And for a second, just a second, he looked bashful. But Tom knew. Tom understood what truly laid under that exterior.
(A desperate boy. Or so that’s what he made him think.)
He remembered how Tom had smiled, reached out a hand, and pulled him to his feet. Tom, with his blue-clawed boots, leading him to the Champion level with an ease at Parkour Clown wouldn’t learn for another few years. Up, up, and away they go, climbing higher and higher. The trip’s never felt this long before. Perhaps it was the anticipation of what Tom could possibly show him.
The two reach the top minutes later. Tom leads Clown to the throne. Overlooking all of Parkour Civilization, he felt on top of the world. Literally. It was beautiful up here. The setting sun colored the sky in oranges, yellows, and reds. Even pink and purple was littered about, casting him in an array of colors. He looks down at his string, black as the night sky, yet it was illuminated by the sun’s dying light.
“You want a soulmate, don’t you?”
Clown startles out of his wonder, nodding. His mask, decaying, rotting from the inside out, started to fall. He adjusts it quickly, unwilling to let Tom see his face. Only one person deserved that, and it certainly wasn’t him.
“Well,” Tom chuckles, stepping onto the first command block. “Let this be my gift to you, for being such a good student.” And he jumps. And lands. And Clown bites back a scream.
He felt empty, like something was just ripped out of him. The string around his finger tightens to the point of pain, cutting off blood flow, turning it purple. It turns invisible for but a brief moment, before flickering back to life, black and full of the stars. Or perhaps that was just the stars themselves having come out, reflecting onto the string their blessing.
(4 steps ahead.)
[]__[]__[]
He fiddled with the string while awaiting the arrival of a special someone. His mind was consumed by him, his soul humming loudly. ‘So close!’ It screamed. If his mind was still right, unaltered from a plan set in motion ages ago, he would've been much happier to escape the smell of burning flesh and burning heat.
Alas, he was too far down into the rabbit hole to ever climb back up. Was this one of the consequences of a manufactured bond? He’d wondered that once, but cast it out quickly. He’s always been one to be obsessive, doing everything in his power to get what he wants.
Perhaps the book had lied, all those ages ago. There were no consequences. Or maybe, just maybe, he and Evbo had always meant to be together, and the universe was waiting for the right time. But he was an impatient man, having no time to deal with the universe’s endless patience.
Chattering had cut off his thoughts just as quickly as they arrived. He turns, smiling, chapped lips breaking and bleeding at the motion.
(And there he was, stepping closer and closer. Clown aches to reach out and grab him, hold him close, whisper sweet nothings in his ear. His string releases his wrists, curling around just one instead, resting as peacefully as a boa constrictor would around their prey. His soul rejoices, pusling, shivering in excitement. He couldn’t believe it, truly, he couldn’t.)
He speaks slow to the two, explaining his motivations and wants, each word more painful than the last. He did this only to see how Evbo would react, how he had his heart on his sleeve. He needed to see his face, craved it even. Evbo’s face wouldn’t stop moving. Confusion, fear, shock, confusion, panic, hope, panic. It was delicious. The most magnificent meal he could’ve been given.
His soulmate watches in silence as the help puts down a block for Clown to jump to. His legs burn and throb and threaten to collapse, but he lands the two jumps easily. He stands straight, his full height towering above the two. He does nothing but stare at Evbo and the help, head tilted.
He watches as the help places down the armor stands, watches his soulmate pity him and fails the jump. He doesn’t realize it yet, but he knows he’ll notice. He was a smart cookie afterall.
(His burns were healing quite quickly. He assumes this is what the power of Champion does, what having a completed soul does. Clown ignores whatever Evbo says as he challenges the help to a race. He even gave him a head start, but it was pathetically easy.)
The help dies. He doesn’t pay attention to whatever he says, the only thing that matters is Evbo.
Evbo, the sweet thing that would’ve let Parkour Civilization be destroyed simply to save a friend. He ignores the pain in the back of his mind. Why didn’t Tom help him instead of abandoning him?
Evbo, whose string turned as red as a rose the second Clown had turned around and met his eyes, a wide smile hidden behind his mask. Whose string slithered from its place on his ring finger to his wrist, curling around protectively, possessively.
Evbo, his savior.
Evbo, the man doomed to be his soulmate.
He laughs, cruel and harsh. He yanks the string, forcing the green-sweatered man to come closer. One step, two steps, three. They meet in the middle. Clown reaches his hand up, cupping the side of Evbo’s face. He sees the conflict on the champion’s face, savors the taste in his mouth. Evbo, who leans into the touch, wanting the comfort that comes with finally being whole, desperately wanting the touch of another person.
Clown moves the mask from his face, dropping it to the floor. His chapped lips brush against Evbo’s ears. “Thank you, my heart, I can’t wait to keep you.”
4 steps ahead.
(Evbo was in shock. This was his soulmate? This was who he had been desperately trying to find for who knows how long? This was him? The Villain? This… this inhuman creature, more beast than man, was who his string led him too? All that work for nothing? Nothing except his soul finally feeling whole. Nothing except for the hollowness disappearing. Nothing. Nothing. He’s lost everything for this man, and now he’s the only thing he has left.
But he couldn’t stop himself from craving the touch of his soulmate. It was hard to ignore the soul after all, impossible even. Too impossible for even someone like him, who had defied all odds to even get here.
The string around his wrist tightened as Clown-- no, his soulmate, kissed him on the forehead and led him away, the blue-clawed boots turning red.
If Evbo could, he’d scream until his dying days.)