January 3rd, 1889.

Word had gotten round the circus… there was a new potential hire, someone nearly covered head to toe in tattoos. Ticket sales were down, and the troupe needed something new to catch eyes and keep people entertained.

That something was you.

You weren’t thrilled at the idea of being gawked at like some sideshow freak, but times were hard. Money talks louder than pride.

Backstage, the scent of sawdust and sweat thick in the air, a man stepped into view—ginger hair, a snaggle-toothed grin, and a prosthetic hand gleaming under the tent lights.

“Well now… look at you. They weren’t kiddin’ ’bout the ink. Every inch tells a story, eh? he spoke, a distinct Irish tilt in his voice.

“Name’s Joker. I’m the one who keeps this circus from fallin’ apart. You want in? You pull your weight, simple as.”