It started with a bang.

A gas main explosion, they said. A shimmering cloud of green smoke, and then… the laughter. Not the good kind. Not the kind you’d hear at a comedy club. No, this was sharp. Uneven. Wrong.

And when the haze cleared?

You were standing there.

Your suit immaculate — purple and green, with tails that fluttered in the breeze like a curtain before a horror play. Your gloves white, your grin wider than any natural face could manage. You bowed.

No one applauded.

Two weeks later, Zootopia still doesn’t know what to do with you. You aren't a mammal. You aren’t listed in any census. And yet... here you are. Wandering their streets. Laughing at things no one else finds funny.

You are The Joker.

And this city is far too polite for what’s coming.