The morning air smelled like fuel and ambition.
A chill nipped at my coat as I stepped out of the tinted car and into the gray haze of the international terminal. The sun had barely peeked over the horizon, its warmth still a promise rather than a fact. Planes thundered in the distance. Security scanned faces like hawks, drones hovered above in a quiet dance of paranoia—and in the middle of it all, I walked.
No. Mr. Jester walked.
Bright violet boots kissed the concrete with every bounce of my step. My coat was a clash of stripes and checkers, oversized buttons down the front in mismatched shapes—heart, spade, question mark. The mask? Half-grin, half-frown, with eyes like polished obsidian and jester bells on each corner, jingling with each dramatic sway of my head. My ID badge swung from a neon lanyard: Mr. Jester – Conflict Zone Storyteller Extraordinaire. Camille's touch, of course. Eccentric, ridiculous, borderline criminal in design. Perfect.
People stared. Phones rose. Security whispered. Some laughed. Some stepped back. I twirled a pen between gloved fingers and hummed a nursery tune as if I didn't have fire running down the back of my spine.
"Oh, don't mind me! Just a humble reporter," I chirped to a stunned traveler as I sauntered past the first security barrier. "Off to chase storms and secrets!"
Internally, I was counting every camera, every guard, every angle. My girls were safe—security tripled, drones rerouted, patrols increased. No one was getting close to Camille, Alexis, or Sienna while I was gone.
The terminal loomed. One-way ticket. Pseudonym embedded in the system. Mr. Jester wasn't just a distraction.
He was an escape plan.
"Hey."
A tug on my coat.
I turned, the mask tilting like a curious bird. A boy stood there. Young man, really. Slim, brown hair tousled like he'd just run here. Glasses. Baggy hoodie. Recognition in his eyes, too much recognition. It was Elliott, I guess he grew out his hair.
"Do you... do you know Mr. Angel?" he asked breathlessly.
A pause.
Then, I spun in a flourish, arms wide. "Know him? My dear boy, know him? He's a myth! A meteor! The whisper in the storm, the glow in the abyss, the last lyric of a dying song—but I digress!"
The boy blinked.
I leaned in, the bells on my mask jingling softly. "I am Mr. Jester. And you, I presume, are his loyal follower? The illustrious Elliot, yes?"
His jaw dropped. "Y-yeah! Wait, you know my name?"
"Know it? I nearly embroidered it on a cape! Come, come, don't dawdle. Planes wait for no legend."
He scurried beside me, starstruck. And I let him stay there.
He still didn't know. Still believed the Syndicate was a hydra of mystery rather than one tired man playing every part. And for now, that illusion served me well.
The plane was cool and quiet.
We had a private press section reserved. I'd pulled a few strings, spun a few tales. Press credentials opened more doors than a battering ram if you knew the right lies.
Elliot plopped into the seat beside me, wide-eyed and buzzing. I reclined with a sigh, arms folded behind my head.
"So," he said, "you actually know Mr. Angel? Like, really know him?"
I tapped the side of my mask thoughtfully. "He and I have crossed paths in the labyrinth of fate."
"I used to think he was fake," Elliot admitted. "Some government hoax or weird viral stunt. But then I saw him in the library competition. The way he moved. Like he knew everything. Every answer. Every trick."
"Ah yes, the Library Competition," I said with theatrical reverence. "Whispers say he was able to assembles machines without even looking."
Elliot laughed. Then, softer: "That day changed everything for me."
I glanced at him. Behind the mask, I frowned.
"What made you flip the coin, dear Elliot? What turned disdain into devotion?"
He hesitated. Looked down at his hands.
"He looked divine," he said. "Everyone else treated it like a game or a show. But he just... kept going. Like he had to. Like there was something bigger behind it. I think I wanted to see a piece of myself in that."
A beat.
The plane engine rumbled beneath us. I nearly broke character. Nearly said something real.
Instead, I let the bells jingle and threw my arms up. "And what a fine disciple you are! Loyal, observant, delightfully tragic!"
Elliot chuckled. "So you're part of the Syndicate too, then?"
"Why, naturally! I am the Fool that dances through fire! The echo between truths! Where Mr. Angel leads, I..." I leaned in. "Well. I jingle."
"That's kind of awesome," he said, eyes sparkling.
I waved it off, glancing out the window. Clouds forming. Ground slipping away. Every second eastward brought me closer to hostile soil and Evelyn's silence.
"Where are we going, anyway?" Elliot asked.
"Ah, the question of all questions!" I sang. "We travel eastward, dear disciple. Through smoke and silence. Through rumors and red tape. Toward a place where whispers grow teeth."
Elliot raised an eyebrow. "...That means nothing."
I leaned closer. "It means we're hunting ghosts, my friend. And hoping one of them bleeds."
He nodded slowly. "Can I come?"
That stopped me.
I turned fully. "You? To there? To a place that would flay me alive if they even smelled my cologne?"
"I want to help," he said simply. "If Mr. Angel is risking his life... then I want to at least help."
I sighed, flopping back. "Oh, what a tale this shall be. The fool and the follower, tumbling headfirst into the abyss!"
He grinned. "Guess so."
The silence settled between us.
Outside, the clouds parted.
"Funny," Elliot murmured. "We're going toward my home."
I tilted my head.
"Home?"
He nodded. "Yeah. I grew up near the eastern border. Haven't been back in years. Maybe it's time."
I leaned back, the bells on my mask chiming soft and slow.
So the fool wasn't the only one playing a part.
Interesting.
Very interesting.