52. Exaggerated

The wind was soft and slow, but it carried a metallic stench that clung to the skin. Henry Ford stood still on the crumbling edge of Main Street, the soles of his boots coated in dust and silence. The town of Prada had been utterly abandoned shops shuttered, windows boarded, wagons overturned like beetles on their backs. Not even the stray dogs barked anymore.

The only thing left moving was the great striped tent at the far end of the southern field.

The circus.

Once a place of laughter and summer joy, it now stood crooked and too quiet, its red and white stripes dulled by ash and damp, rippling as if breathing. Something about the canvas seemed wrong, like the colors themselves recoiled from light.

Henry adjusted the strap of his satchel and started forward, calm as ever. A cigarette burned between his lips but never left a trail of smoke. He hadn't lit it. He never did. It was something to hold. Something to occupy the weight in his chest.

On the way, he passed a rusted carousel frozen mid-spin. The painted horses, once vibrant, had flaked down to bone-white. One of them was missing a head.

Crows perched on the poles, silent.

Henry glanced up at them, nodded once, and moved on.

Further down the path, a child's doll lay facedown in the mud, its porcelain face cracked open like a blooming flower. Strange symbols had been drawn into the mud around it—circular, spiraling inwards like they wanted to suck the earth itself into their center.

The closer he got to the tent, the thicker the air became, almost like walking underwater. His boots made no sound on the grass.

He stepped through the heavy flap of the circus tent, ducking slightly. The fabric stuck to his shoulder as if unwilling to let him pass.

Inside, the world shifted.

A pale blue light filled the space, cast from floating glass orbs that hovered near the ceiling, flickering like fireflies. The circus ring was empty, but the scent of old popcorn and burned feathers lingered in the air.

And then—

Movement.

On the far side of the tent, hunched over a cluttered worktable, a figure painted in pastels worked quietly beneath the light. Pink and mint stripes ran down his outfit, and his face was masked in a smooth porcelain grin—a fixed, absurd expression. Blue triangles pointed down from his eyes, smeared slightly as if from tears.

The Joker.

He was painting something on a wooden mask—delicate strokes, steady hands. A small music box beside him played a broken tune. Twinkle twinkle little, crunch, how I won, snap.

Then, mid-stroke, the Joker paused.

His head twitched upward, not turning yet—feeling more than seeing. A slow inhale, a lift of the shoulder.

And then, with eerie calm, he turned his painted face toward Henry.

Their eyes met Henry's gray, unwavering; the Joker's hidden behind painted glass, yet piercing.

The music box wound down.

The Joker smiled wider. Or maybe the mask did.

Neither of them spoke.

Henry stood straight in his black Vanguard uniform, the high-collared cloak rustling faintly with each motionless breath. His polished top hat cast a long shadow across his sharp features, hiding the corners of his mouth and the tired crescents under his eyes.

Across the tent, the Joker's fingers danced with his brush, adding a final pink stroke to the wooden mask. Then he slowly set it down.

Henry's voice broke the silence, smooth, cold, and precise. "You know the town's shut down."

The Joker turned his head again, exaggerated, like a puppet's neck snapping toward sound. "Prada's shut down," he repeated, testing the syllables on his painted tongue. "How tragic. And yet, here I am... open."

Henry stepped closer, boots quiet on the sawdust-covered floor. "What are you doing out here, clown?"

The Joker laughed softly one note, brittle and hollow. "Clown? No, no. Clowns make people laugh. I only make them remember." He picked up a cracked porcelain mask, brushed a thumb across the eye socket. "I stay here because there's no one left out there who remembers me. So I remember myself."

Henry tilted his head. "That's sad. Pretentious."

"Better than being forgotten," the Joker said, spinning the mask once in his palm.

Henry smirked. "Well, you could've gone to the Vanguard for that. Half our people wear trauma like medals. You'd fit right in. All you need is a stick up your back and a lifetime of suppressed grief."

The Joker paused.

Then let out a high-pitched snort.

"Oh! Oh, that was rich!" he said, clapping twice, the sound oddly sharp in the quiet tent. "The stoic man in the cloak making jokes, now that's circus material."

"I wasn't trying to be funny."

"That's why it's funny."

The Joker paced closer now, circling around Henry like a shark dressed in candy colors. "Let's see... that last joke, what was it really about? Mmm... the stick up the back? Ah yes, a jab at structure, the weight of obedience, maybe even a suppressed loathing for command. And the 'suppressed grief'? Hah! That's the scream in your gut, isn't it?"

Henry's smirk didn't falter, but his hand did twitch slightly beneath the cloak.

"Oh, don't worry, Sir," the Joker crooned, "You tell jokes like a man hanging by a thread, using humor as the only sound between sobs."

"I could report you for saying that," Henry said coolly.

The Joker leaned in closer, head tilting unnaturally far to the side. "Ah... but you won't. Because you want me to see it. Someone's gotta laugh at your tragedy. Lost your home, mister vagabond?"

Henry stared at him for a moment, then exhaled with a faint chuckle. "You're insane."

"Insane?" The Joker twirled once, arms out. "I'm the last sane one left, dear Vanguard! Everyone else went quiet."

Suddenly, without warning, he leapt backward into the center of the ring, kicking up dust in a perfect spiral. The music box at the worktable jerked into life off-tempo, crooked melody like a limping ballerina.

"Now, watch this!"

The Joker launched into a routine: a series of exaggerated steps, clownish but eerie in grace. One leg kicked out high, the other folded back, then he flipped into a shoulder roll and landed in a low crouch. He rose as if pulled by puppet strings, limbs jittering, twitching then froze with a wild grin and arms open as though asking for applause from a crowd that no longer lived.

Then he bowed, slowly, eyes never leaving Henry.

Henry didn't clap.

But he didn't look away either, faintly smiled.

....

Henry stepped out of the tent and into the breathless dusk. The canvas flap fell behind him like a guillotine of silence. The stale air of the circus faded, replaced by something colder—older. The fog rolling over the field now carried whispers, soft like silk dragged across stone.

He took a moment to adjust his cloak. His top hat cast a long, distorted shadow across the grass as the last hints of sunlight drowned in the mist.

Then—

Whoosh.

A flash.

A presence.

A flicker on the edge of awareness.

Something—or someone—swiftly passed him. Just behind his left shoulder.

Henry jerked around. His boots ground against the soil. His right hand slipped instinctively toward the pocket beneath his cloak, fingers brushing the cold metal grip of his sidearm.

But there was no one.

The space behind him was empty. Not a bird, not a branch swaying, not even a shifting leaf.

No footsteps in the dirt. No breath in the air.

Only the faint echo of... movement.

He stood frozen for a few seconds longer, eyes scanning the fog like a wolf caught in stillness.

Then a feeling crept up his spine—icy, warm, and ancient all at once. Not danger.

Recognition.

That sensation, that subtle pull at the back of his thoughts. It wasn't just anyone.

It was him.

Sebastian.

The Oracle of the Foretelling Camp.

That ghostlike man draped in prayer beads and layered veils, whose silver eyes always looked two seconds ahead of your thoughts. The one who never blinked when thunder cracked or when the future tore open screaming.

Sebastian never walked with sound. He moved like prophecy itself half-there, half-whenever.

And this... this felt like that.

Henry whispered the name like it might summon truth.

"Sebastian?"

Silence.

Then a breeze kissed his cheek, not wind, exactly, but breath.

Personal. Deliberate.

Henry stood still.

Not in fear.

In anticipation.

Smoke drifted low in Prada. The sky above was dim with ash. Shadows danced across the broken stones as eerie screeches echoed in the distance.

Henry Ford paced alone through the ruined street, his long coat sweeping the dust behind him.

A sharp, desperate yelp.

A puppy.

He turned. Past a split wall and collapsed awning, a small brown pup was trapped under rubble. It barked, but couldn't move—its hind leg pinned under a broken timber.

And behind it, something slithered.

A twitching, slick limb snaked over the stone followed by another, and another. The creature emerged slowly, its body like pulped sinew wrapped around a bloated skull. A dozen thin tentacles writhed from its back like roots searching for warmth.

Two more followed it from the fog.

Henry's eyes sharpened. "Shit."

The closest one flicked its head and let out a shrill, throatless cry. Its tentacles lashed the ground, and it began to crawled fast toward the puppy.

Henry bolted.

Boots pounded on cracked tile as he leapt over shattered crates and darted past fallen lanterns. He reached the dog just as the creature lunged.

With a shout, Henry grabbed the beam and heaved it off. His shoulder strained. The puppy whimpered as he scooped it into his arms.

Above them, the second floor of the building groaned.

Henry's eyes flicked up. "Hold on."

The building collapsed.

Henry dove.

Wood, stone, and metal caved in behind him, smashing into the alley floor. A plank sliced past his ear. Dust swallowed the world.

He hit the ground on his side, body curled around the pup. Pain surged through his ribs, but he was alive.

No time to check. One of the creatures screeched and slammed down from the rubble, landing ten feet away with a heavy, wet thud.

It charged.

Henry ran.

The alley twisted left, then right. He didn't think he couldn't afford to. He dodged hanging wires, slid under a cracked sign, vaulted a fence.

But the things followed. All three now. Gaining.

A tentacle lashed across the wall and shattered a window beside him. Shards peppered his coat. Another shot out, narrowly missing his leg.

The puppy whimpered in his arms.

Henry skidded to a halt near a fork in the alley. He looked one way blocked by collapsed pipes. The other open, but leading to a dead end. They'd catch him in seconds.

He breathed in.

Then, closed his eyes.

PROPHECY TRAIT

The world dropped away.

Darkness.

In it, a web of silver threads unraveled. Each thread moved like time itself, rippling forward, showing paths unseen. Some snapped mid-air—death. One thread curved around a broken fence, dipped through a narrow gap in the wall, past a leaning crate and—

Yes. That was it.

Henry's eyes snapped open.

He turned, ran at the wall, jumped onto a crate, then kicked off a side-pipe and vaulted the fence. He rolled mid-air and landed hard behind a barrel.

The creatures shrieked and whipped around the corner.

Too late.

Henry vanished through a slit in the wall just wide enough for his frame.

The alley behind him exploded as a tentacle slammed against stone.

Inside the crawlspace, he moved swiftly, knees scraping concrete, clutching the pup close. Breath ragged. Heart pounding. But still ahead of death.

After a minute of crawling, the exit opened behind a discarded brick shop.

He stumbled out, knees bleeding, lungs aching.

The puppy licked his chin.

Henry chuckled, breathless.

"Next time, scream quieter, yeah?"

The puppy started yelp louder.

Henry patted his own forehead and sighed.

" The World is not Ruin, Ruin is This World."