The hammer game stood taller than most of the stalls, a wooden tower housing a metal track and a sliding weight resting on a lever. At the very top hung a bell that alluded every person so far tonight. A comically large hammer rested beside it.

  Every few moments someone would step forward and slam the hammer down onto the metal plate, watching the sliding weight shoot upward but fail to reach the top. Gus slowed down as they passed by.

  “Step right up and test your strength. Not one person has hit the bell tonight. Will you be the first?” The game attendant called out.

  “This looks like my kind of game,” Gus said to Willow, already smiling and making his way towards it.

  Willow followed close behind, glancing up the length of the tower. “Your kind of game?”

  Gus cracked his knuckles as he stepped up onto the platform.

  “Absolutely,” he said. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

  Willow raised an eyebrow. “You make teacups.”

  “I make the strongest damn teacups in the world,” Gus corrected.

  The attendant behind the booth slid the hammer toward him with an amused grin.

  “Well then,” the man said to the crowd, “This man looks like a strong contender, but does he have it in him to hit the bell?"

  A crowd gathered to watch as Gus stepped up onto the platform, wrapping both hands around the handle. The hammer was much lighter than it appeared, one of the many tactics employed to prevent the weight from reaching the bell.

  He lifted it, testing the balance in his hands.

  Willow watched from the railing beside the booth. “You look comfortable with that huge hammer.”

  Gus shrugged. “I spend most of my life lifting heavy clay and stone. A hammer’s not much different from that.”

  Willow glanced toward the bell way up the tower. “Still, if I just saw you on the street, I'd think you were a construction worker or something, not an artist."

  Gus rested the hammer against his shoulder. “People always think that,” he said. “They see these beautiful cups and plates and assume the artist looks a certain way.”

  He looked up the tower again. “But the clay doesn’t care how careful or dainty you are. If you don’t have the strength and patience to shape it, it will never become what you hope it will.”

  Willow rested her chin on her forearms, studying him for a moment.

  “You ever think about doing something else?” she asked.

  Gus glanced over. “What do you mean? Like what?”

  “I don’t know,” she said with a small shrug. “Something that uses those huge muscles you’ve got.”

  Gus chuckled softly. “I do use them, porcelain crafting is how I got them.”

  “Yeah, but most people don’t picture a big guy like you hunched over a pottery wheel.”

  “That’s their problem," Gus replied. "Just because I don't fit the idea people have about artists doesn't mean I can't make art. People put too much importance on appearances, but not everyone needs to conform to them.”

  He shifted the hammer to the platform, letting it rest a moment. “My father used to say strength is wasted if all you do with it is break things or hurt others.”

  Willow tilted her head. “Sounds like you were quite the handful when you were younger."

  "Yeah, maybe," Gus said. "But he was right. Being strong is a gift and makes many things easier for me, but I can't let it get to my head."

  “That's surprisingly thoughtful for a guy holding a massive hammer." Willow joked.

  “Well,” he said, lifting the hammer again, “It's also good to think before you swing."

  “That sounds like the opposite of most people who walk up to this game. At least you practice what you preach.”

  Gus picked it back up, prepping himself. “Most people are trying to prove something.”

  “And you’re not?” Willow asked.

  Gus glanced up toward the bell. “Oh, I absolutely am.”

  Willow smirked. “At least you’re honest about it.”

  Gus planted his feet on the platform and drew the hammer back over his shoulder. “Just watch, I'll hit that bell.”

  Gus adjusted his grip, now holding it behind his head as he settled into his stance. He began judging the distance to the bell from the lever, then he drew in a slow breath.

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  The hammer rose over his body, the rubber head a mere blur as everybody watched in anticipation.

  The hammer came down with a sharp THWAK, the sound ringing through the booth like a struck anvil.

  The sliding weight shot up the track at impressive speed.

  The bell rang with a bright CLANG that cut through the carnival noise, and the crowd erupted. Even the attendant was in utter disbelief, staring at the bell. After all, he rigged it so no one could hit the top without his say.

  Gus lowered the hammer with a satisfied grin. “Told you.”

  Willow smiled back. "That you did."

  The carnival noise never seemed to level out, no matter where they went. Sounds of rings hitting bottles rang from game stalls, music drifted across the walkways, and towering rides rattled as they passed by above the tents.

  Rico slowed near a wooden bench, taking a seat in front of a roller coaster. Bart stopped with him, hopping off the ground as he climbed onto the bench that was just slightly too tall for him.

  Rico sat down, leaning back as he took it all in. For a moment he didn’t say anything, he just watched.

  “You are observing.” Bart said.

  Rico nodded slightly. “Yeah. It's interesting, isn't it?”

  A bell rang from somewhere down the path, followed by cheering.

  Rico smiled faintly. “You ever notice something about places like this?”

  Bart pondered with his finger tapping his chin. "It's fun?"

  “Everyone comes here for the rides,” Rico continued. “And the games. Or the food, in Gus's case.”

  He gestured toward the machines rising above the carnival. “But nobody’s really looking at how all of this works.”

  Bart studied a ride near them. A massive tower lifted rows of seats high into the air before plummeting down and causing the riders to scream in terror.

  “Chains,” Bart said. “Gears. Engineering of the highest degree.”

  “Exactly,” Rico said, watching the machine run through another cycle.

  “Somebody had to design that,” he said quietly. “Somebody had to figure out how to lift thirty people into the air and make sure they all come back down safely.”

  The ride slowed for a moment before coming to a stop. “That’s the part I love, Bart. It's amazing to see someone's invention making memories for people. The lights, motion, and hundreds of little moving parts all working together to create anticipation and suspense before the big drop.”

  He exhaled slowly. “My dad built the machines for Pulleytown, reconstructing the city and making it his in a way.”

  Bart nodded. "That's pretty impressive. I tried to build a town of cheese once, but I accidently created my cheesy child and the government confiscated my blueprints after chasing me out of town."

  “Hm, that sounds like a tough time, but my father built stuff the town actually needed.” Rico retorted.

  “They were good machines,” he added. “But a place like Pulleytown only needs so many machines.”

  "What do you mean? You can always make new things." Bart earnestly asked.

  “You build a pulley system once, maybe fix it a few times and then that’s it. His ideas were revolutionary for the town, but he passed away too early to realize his dreams.” Rico said, sadness in his voice.

  “But out here," he gave a small laugh. “Out here people build crazy things.”

  Bart followed his gaze as the roller coaster roared past. "They sure do. That claw machine is a marvelous invention, but also a dastardly one for being so tough to win."

  “You know what the first thing I thought when we got here was?” Rico asked, now turning to Bart.

  Bart tilted his head. “What.”

  Rico smiled as the lights from the rides flickered across his sunglasses. “I could build something like this but bigger.”

  Bart studied him carefully, now very curious. “How big?”

  Rico gestured across the carnival.

  “Imagine this but on a much larger scale,” he said. “Think about it, lights everywhere, machines running through the streets. Automated carriages moving people across the whole place. A revolutionary city just like Pulleytown, but for thousands to enjoy.”

  Bart considered that for a moment. “Ambitious.”

  Rico smiled again. “Yeah.”

  He stood up from the bench, dusting his hands off on his jumpsuit.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’ve got a lot more machines to look at.”

  Bart followed, skipping along as his pointy head bobbed back and forth. “Okie dokie.”

  The narrow passageways wound between rows of older tents that weren’t for visitors. Most tents showed signs of life in them, their flaps tied closed with various equipment left outside. Others had clearly been repurposed into storage, stacks of crates and broken parts spotted in the flaps. It was the kind of place people rarely wandered unless they had a reason.

  Tsunami’s eyes scanned the area as he walked. Boot prints and wheel marks from carts with the occasional carnival flyer crushed into the dirt. Nothing crazy.

  The last person who saw the courier said he went in this direction. That was the best lead he had, so Tsunami had to do some extensive investigating if he wanted to find any clues.

  A tired stilt walker made his way down the path to his tent, a cigar hanging from his mouth. He nodded at Tsunami as he passed by, hopping down and resting them against the spire of his tent.

  Amongst the dozens of storage tents, one stood out from the rest. This one felt different somehow. No equipment outside and no crates stacked near the entrance, just a single tent with absolutely nothing that he could see inside.

  He lifted the canvas flap and stepped in.

  The tent was much larger inside than he thought, even better than the room he had in the tourist district. Just as he suspected, nothing seemed to be in here. Tsunami slowed as he approached the center, his eyes drifting over the ground first. There were a few sets of footprints, which he identified as two individuals.

  Out of the corner of his eye, something grabbed his attention.

  A satchel.

  It rested beside the far wall, partially tucked near one of the support poles.

  Tsunami stood up and walked over to it, already speculating as to what he would find. He crouched beside the satchel and opened the flap.

  He found several letters still neatly stacked inside, unopened. He pulled one free and examined the front. These terms were most definitely from the Eastern front. Tsunami slid the letter back into the bag and closed the flap slowly. This was absolutely the bag that the courier had with him, and by the looks of it, none of the letters were stolen.

  None of this made sense.

  Tsunami partially expected to be informed by a town official or to find the deceased body of the man and that the letters were stolen, but to find them tossed in a random tent was strange. These letters were extremely valuable in the right hands and could give crucial information about Auspex settlements,

  Finding them untouched meant that the government wasn't aware of the man. The culprit was not interested in the information contained within.

  Tsunami refocused on the two sets of footprints from earlier. There were no obvious signs of struggle, meaning the courier wasn’t panicked or forced into an altercation. One set was of average size for an adult male, yet the other one was huge but not very wide.

  A clown's footprints.

  Did a clown drug and kidnap the man? Probably not, but it wasn’t impossible. It would be hard to walk around outside with a limp man in tow, unless he was brought to one of the tents nearby.

  Nothing made sense, but for now there were clues he could follow to find out what really happened.