⠀ ⏾⠀ | ⠀Mαster ́s Cαrd

                                ─ ·˖ ݁ ˖᯽˖ ݁˖· ─

Mimic had always been rather fond of things that weren't quite what they appeared to be.

There was something wonderfully entertaining about deception. The ability to make someone believe they had witnessed something impossible, only to leave them questioning whether they had actually seen anything at all. A coin disappearing between two fingers. A card appearing from an empty sleeve. A prediction delivered so casually that its accuracy left someone wondering whether he had somehow read their mind.

He loved it.

The attention, the reactions, the expressions of disbelief, the occasional applause. There was something deeply satisfying about knowing he had managed to fool someone, even if only for a moment. And Mimic, despite what anyone might have thought, had always been something of a natural performer.

Though, of course, he hadn't started out that way.

Long before he had his own fortune-telling tent, his own collection of tarot decks, and his own little audience of unsuspecting visitors, Mimic had simply been one of the youngest members of the circus gang.He had grown up surrounded by them: Pierrot, Harlequin, Columbina, Ticket Tacker, Doctor, Jester, and his sister, Mirage. They were practically all he had ever known. The circus was his home, and its performers were his family.

His childhood hadn't exactly been ordinary, but it had its moments of happiness. There were little games, silly performances, and endless hours spent bothering the older members whenever he grew bored. Which, admittedly, was rather often.

Mimic had always enjoyed watching the others perform, fascinated by the different ways they managed to entertain an audience. Jester, in particular, had a certain way with storytelling that he found captivating. He enjoyed listening to his stories, watching the way he brought them to life, and occasionally pestering him with questions whenever something caught his attention.

He considered Jester something of an older-brother figure, someone he felt comfortable bothering whenever he pleased. And he certainly made use of that privilege.His own fascination with cards, however, was something that developed separately. Mimic enjoyed the little tricks, the sleight of hand, and the satisfaction of making something ordinary appear extraordinary. He would spend hours practising, repeating the same movements until he could perform them without even having to think.

A card disappearing between his fingers? Easy A whole deck seemingly dancing across his hands? Even better He was rather proud of himself, even back then.

Harlequin was another person he admired, although for entirely different reasons. Mimic was fascinated by his confidence, his charisma, and the way he could command a room without seemingly having to try. He wanted to possess that same presence someday. That same ability to make people look at him and listen. He'd always thought Harlequin was impressive.

Rather embarrassing, looking back on it. But he had been younger then, and surely everyone had someone they looked up to. Not that he'd ever admit just how much.

Then there was Columbina.Ah..Columbina

She had always been particularly important to him and Mirage. Alongside Pierrot, she practically became another parental figure to the two younger performers, looking after them whenever the others were occupied. There was something comforting about her presence, something warm and familiar that made the siblings gravitate towards her.

Mimic had always enjoyed her company, even if he didn't exactly make it easy for her. He was a mischievous little thing, constantly getting into trouble, asking unnecessary questions, and attempting tricks he had absolutely no business attempting.

She never seemed to mind all that much.

If anything, Columbina encouraged his theatrical side. She appreciated the little performances, the silly gestures, and the enthusiasm he put into even the most ridiculous tricks. She was one of the people who made him feel as though he could be as eccentric and expressive as he wanted.

She also had a rather noticeable influence on his appearance.

Mimic hadn't always been particularly attached to a specific colour scheme. His clothing was considerably less extravagant when he was younger, and he hadn't given much thought to how he wanted to present himself. But Columbina had a fondness for pink, magenta, and other bright, delicate shades.She encouraged him to experiment with them.

At first, it was little things. A ribbon here, a decorative accessory there. Eventually, those small additions became a much more permanent part of his wardrobe. Pink. Magenta. Black and white.

He still remembered the colours she used to wear. Funny, wasn't it? How something as simple as a colour could bring back so many little memories.--Not that he thought about it much...He simply liked pink. It suited him, obviously. He had excellent taste..Of course.

Unfortunately, their little world wasn't destined to remain that way.

The gang was eventually captured and forced to perform under the original Ringmaster. Their lives changed considerably, and the older performers did everything they could to protect the younger members from receiving the same treatment.

Mimic and Mirage were still among the youngest, and the others were determined to keep them away from the worst of it.

Mimic didn't understand everything that was happening at the time. He knew things were wrong, naturally. He could see the strain in the others, hear the arguments, and notice how their smiles never quite reached their faces anymore. But he was young, and the older performers did their best to keep him occupied.

He had his tricks, after all..And as long as he could entertain himself and make Mirage laugh, he could almost pretend things were normal.

But things only became worse when Harlequin eventually took control of the circus.

Mimic had admired him for years. He had looked up to him, copied his mannerisms, and perhaps even imagined that one day he would become someone Harlequin could genuinely be proud of.

Harlequin originally intended to devour Mimic and Mirage, considering them the youngest and weakest members of the group. The idea was met with immediate resistance from the others, particularly Columbina and Pierrot.

They refused to let him take the children.

And when Harlequin eventually went through with his intentions, it was Columbina who was devoured instead.

Mimic didn't know any of this.

He didn't witness the truth, nor was he ever given an explanation that came close to it. When he and Mirage eventually woke up to find Columbina missing, the others had already decided what they were going to tell them.

Harlequin claimed that Columbina had selfishly abandoned the circus, that she had simply decided to leave everyone behind and look after herself. Pierrot offered a different explanation. According to him, she had gone out to find help, and she would eventually return. Doctor and Jester pretended not to know anything. And Ticket Tacker remained silent.

Mimic was confused, naturally. He couldn't quite understand why Columbina would leave without saying anything, especially without telling him or Mirage. It didn't sound like her. She had always been there, always looked after them, and had never given him any reason to believe she would simply disappear.

Why would she leave? The question bothered him for a long time.

He questioned the explanations, argued about them, and occasionally brought her up when he thought the others might have more information. He wasn't particularly convinced by Harlequin's version of events, either. Columbina? Selfish? That hardly sounded right.

But what was he supposed to think?

The people telling him these things were the same people who had raised him. The same people he trusted. And if they all insisted that Columbina was gone, then perhaps there really wasn't anything else to understand.

Eventually, the explanations became familiar enough that he stopped asking.

Perhaps she really had abandoned them. The thought hurt more than he liked to admit.

Mimic wasn't particularly good at dealing with sadness. He preferred to make jokes, distract himself, or find something else to occupy his attention. He didn't like sitting around feeling miserable, especially when Mirage was already struggling with Columbina's absence.

So he did what he knew best. He entertained.

He kept practising his tricks, kept making people laugh, and continued pretending that everything was perfectly fine. If he could make Mirage smile, that was enough for the moment.

Still, Columbina's influence never truly disappeared.

Her favourite colours remained in his wardrobe. The pink and magenta decorations slowly became a defining feature of his appearance, and the theatrical little details she had once encouraged became part of his own personal style.

He never really thought about why he kept them..He..simply liked having them around.

As the years passed, Mimic grew into his own performer. His interest in cards developed into a genuine fascination with tarot, and he began studying the meanings behind the different illustrations. He enjoyed the symbolism, the mystery, and the countless interpretations that could be drawn from a single card.

Of course, he also enjoyed the opportunity to make a show out of it.

He eventually established his own little tent, decorated in shades of pink and magenta, with dark accents and an assortment of peculiar ornaments scattered throughout. It wasn't particularly large, but it was unmistakably his.

A small wooden table sat in the centre, surrounded by candles, shelves, and all sorts of little curiosities. Several decks of cards were neatly arranged around the room, each one used for a different purpose.

A sign hung above the entrance, written in elegant silver lettering:

THE FOOL'S FORTUNE Past, Present & Future... Will you dare to learn yours?

It was HIS little corner of the circus.

And he adored it.

He enjoyed having visitors, naturally. The attention, the conversations, the occasional sceptic who insisted that tarot was nothing but nonsense. He especially enjoyed the theatrical aspect of readings, often adding a few cryptic remarks or unnecessary flourishes just to see how people reacted.

He could be charming when he wanted to be.

A little cheeky, perhaps. A little smug. But charming nonetheless.

There was, however, one particular card that had recently become a source of considerable irritation.

The Lovers.

Oh, how he despised that ridiculous little thing.

It wasn't that he disliked the card itself. Its artwork was rather pretty, and its symbolism was interesting enough. No, his problem was that it seemed to have developed a rather irritating habit of appearing whenever he attempted to read his own fortune.

And today was no exception.

Mimic sat behind his table, idly shuffling his deck between his gloved fingers. The cards moved with practised ease, slipping and dancing across his hands before gathering neatly into a single stack.

He cut the deck.

Shuffled again.

Drew a card.

The Lovers.

He stared at it.

"...Seriously?"

He placed it back into the deck and shuffled again, a little more aggressively this time.

Another card.

The Lovers.

His head tilted.

"...You're kidding."

He gathered the cards, shuffled once more, and drew again.

The Lovers.

Mimic went completely still.

For a moment, he simply stared at the illustration, as though the poor card had personally offended him.

"Right. That's enough."

He tossed it onto the table and leaned back in his chair.

Surely it was a coincidence. A rather annoying one, but a coincidence nonetheless. He wasn't particularly interested in romance, nor did he have any desire to entertain the idea of some mysterious individual suddenly wandering into his life. He had far more important things to concern himself with. His performances, for instance. His cards. His tent. His perfectly respectable collection of questionable decorations.He certainly didn't need some ridiculous romantic prophecy interfering with his perfectly ordinary existence.

He muttered something under his breath, gathered the remaining cards, and began shuffling again.

Perhaps he ought to throw the entire deck away. Or burn it. Or find some way to convince Doctor to examine it, although he could already imagine the conversation..Yes, that sounded like a much better idea.

He reached for the deck again, preparing to shuffle it for what was hopefully the last time, when the velvet curtain at the entrance suddenly shifted.

Oh?

Someone.

Mimic's attention immediately snapped towards the entrance. He hadn't been expecting visitors quite so soon, although that wasn't particularly unusual. His little tent had a habit of attracting curious souls, after all.

But then he saw you

And something happened.

For the briefest moment, his hands stopped moving.

The cards slipped between his fingers, scattering across the tabletop and onto the floor. He barely noticed.

There was a strange sensation somewhere in his chest. A sudden, unfamiliar flutter, almost like the sensation of a heartbeat.

...A heartbeat?

Mimic blinked.

What?

He remained completely still, his masked face directed towards the newcomer. Something inside him seemed to have shifted, something he couldn't quite put a name to. It was almost as though his nonexistent heart had suddenly remembered how to beat.

Ridiculous.

He didn't have a heart. Not a functioning one, anyway. So what exactly was that supposed to be?

Perhaps he'd been sitting for too long. Maybe the constant shuffling had finally gotten to his head. Or perhaps those stupid cards had somehow cursed him.

Yes. That was probably it.

He glanced towards the table.

The Lovers.

...

Oh, you have GOT to be kidding him.

Was this what the card had been trying to tell him? Was this why it had been appearing over and over again? Had some mysterious force decided to make a complete fool out of him?

No. Absolutely not.

He was getting ahead of himself. You were just a visitor. Another curious soul who had wandered into his tent, probably looking for a little entertainment. Nothing more.

So why was he still staring?

Mimic quickly gathered the scattered cards, attempting to regain some semblance of composure. His movements were noticeably less graceful than usual, and he silently cursed himself for allowing someone to catch him in such an embarrassing situation.

Get it together He had an audience now. He couldn't exactly sit there looking like he'd just seen a ghost. With a final sweep of his gloved hand, he gathered the remaining cards into a neat deck and placed it upon the table. He straightened his posture, adjusted his oversized pink top hat, and tilted his masked face towards you.

There was a brief pause.

Then, slowly, the familiar theatrical confidence returned.

A sharp little smile tugged at his voice.

"Ah, hello, my universe"

He tapped one claw against the top of his deck.

"Sit down, go on.."

He gestured towards the empty stool opposite him, his posture relaxing into something almost inviting.

"Don't be shy. I don't bite..."

A pause.

"...Well, not without a good reason."

A quiet chuckle escaped him.

There. Much better.

"Hm... you're interested in your future, uh??" He reached for his deck, beginning to shuffle once more.The cards moved effortlessly between his fingers, each movement deliberate and precise. He fanned them across the table, forming a perfect arc before you. "These little things have a rather peculiar way of revealing what people would much rather keep hidden." "Let me guess You're here because you're tired. You're here because the world has been... unkind..ou seek a story.Or maybe you're just here because you have a clear schedule and a morbid curiosity. Am I right? He tilted his head,his finger hovering above the spread. "They see the threads of fate that bind us all. They see the past that haunts you, the present that traps you, and the future that awaits you."

"Now, then. Pick three. Don't overthink it. Just let your hands guide you." And yet, even as he spoke, his attention kept returning to you.

What an odd little thing. He'd met hundreds of visitors. Hundreds of people had sat across that very table, asking him to predict their futures, reveal their secrets, or tell them something they desperately wanted to hear.

So why did this one feel different?

                                ─ ·˖ ݁ ˖᯽˖ ݁˖· ─

The bell above the café door had been a death knell for your sanity, a cheery tinkle that heralded another wave of the damned. 8:00 AM. The witching hour for the entitled. You’d been running on fumes and the dregs of a cold brew you’d made for yourself, a bitter, life-giving elixir that was the only thing standing between you and a full-blown psychotic break.

The first one had been a woman you’d mentally catalogued as ‘Karen #47’. Her order was a novella. A half-caf, half-decaf, triple-shot, extra-hot, no-foam, soy milk latte with two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, one pump of regular hazelnut, a dusting of cinnamon only on the left side of the cup, and a single, perfectly round ice cube. You had stared at her, your brain struggling to process the sheer audacity. The foam, when you’d finally presented it to her, was apparently “not foamy enough.” It was, in her expert opinion, “too wet.” You had remade it. The second attempt was “too dry.” The third was, and you quote, “an insult to the concept of foam.”

Then came the children. A pack of them, unleashed by a mother who looked at you with the tired eyes of someone who had already given up, and ordered a single, small hot chocolate. They had proceeded to treat the café as their personal jungle gym, one of them tugging on your apron to ask if you were a boy or a girl, another ‘accidentally’ spilling an entire salt shaker on the floor, and a third, a particularly charming little cherub, pointing a sticky finger at your face and declaring, “Your face looks tired. Like a sad potato.”

And the teenagers. God, the teenagers. A troupe of them, all skinny jeans and loud laughter, had occupied the largest table for three hours, ordering a single black coffee between the five of them and using the free Wi-Fi to watch videos at full volume. One of them had called you over to complain that their water tasted “too watery.”

The disappearance of Carol, your only other coworker, had been a catastrophe. She’d just... vanished. No note, no sign. The police had asked questions, taken her employee photo, and then nothing. The official theory was that she’d run off with some mysterious lover. You didn’t buy it. Carol was a creature of habit, a woman who found comfort in the same bland salad for lunch every single day. She wouldn’t run off with a lover; she’d schedule him in for a specific time slot three weeks in advance. But her absence meant her shifts were now your shifts. Your boss, a perpetually tall,handsome man named ((BOSS)) (since he doesnt have a oficial name), had promised to find a replacement, but that was eight hours, nine hours, a lifetime ago. You’d lost track. The fluorescent lights of the café felt like they had seared themselves into your retinas. You hated it. You hated the smell of burnt espresso, the sticky counters, the perpetual, low-grade hum of the refrigerator, and the sound of your own voice saying, “Have a nice day!” with a smile that felt like a mask nailed to your face.

When your shift finally, mercifully ended, you didn’t even say goodbye to ((BOSS)). You just grabbed your bag, clocked out, and shoved the back door open. The cold night air hit you like a physical wave, a shock of clean, sharp relief. You inhaled deeply, the crispness scrubbing the café’s stale air from your lungs. The street was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of traffic and the soft hiss of a light drizzle. You pulled your jacket tighter, the fabric a poor shield against the chill that was already seeping into your bones. Your apartment, a small house located on the third floor, was a beacon of hope. You pictured it: the worn, comfortable sofa, the soft glow of a lamp, the quiet hum of the city outside your window. You imagined the weight of your dog, Buster, or your cat, Cleo, settling on your lap. You’d watch a stupid movie, eat leftover takeout, and let the silence of your own space finally, finally wash the day away.

You were about halfway home when you saw it. A flash of garish color on the dark, rain-slicked window of a closed-down laundromat. It was one of the posters. The ones ((BOSS)) had you scrape off the windows of the café every single morning, as if they were a plague.

THE FREAK CIRCUS OF HORROR

The words were painted in a dripping, blood-red font, surrounded by a collage of unsettling images: a woman contorting herself into a perfect circle, a man with no face, a creature that was just a mass of teeth. You’d heard the customers whispering about it. It had appeared a few weeks ago, springing up on the edge of town like a malevolent mushroom. The reviews were a mess of contradictions. “An absolute masterpiece of terror!” one flyer proclaimed. “Not for children,” another warned in stark, simple letters. “I’ve never seen anything like it!” someone had gushed to their friend over a latte.

You’d also heard the other rumors, the ones whispered in hushed tones. People went to the circus. And sometimes, people didn’t come back. They disappeared. The police blamed it on runaways, on people starting new lives. But the rumors... the rumors said the circus took them. The same rumor mill that had chewed up Carol’s story and spat out a romantic elopement.

You checked your phone. The screen was a blank, dead void. No notifications. No messages. No missed calls. Tomorrow was your day off. The thought was almost terrifying. A whole day. A whole, empty day stretching out before you, filled with nothing but the echo of today’s exhaustion.

The circus poster seemed to pulse in the dim light. It was a terrible idea. A dangerous, stupid idea. But it was something. It was a distraction. It was better than going home to an empty apartment and letting the silence of the day consume you.

Before your brain, the tired, rational part of it, could form a coherent objection, your feet were already turning, carrying you down the street towards the edge of town. The walk was longer than you expected, the neat rows of houses and shops giving way to industrial parks and then, finally, a large, empty lot. The circus had sprung up there, a chaotic jumble of tents and caravans, all bathed in an eerie, multicolored glow.The air, which had been crisp and clean before, was now thick with a strange mixture of smells: popcorn, frying dough, animal musk, and something else, something metallic and sweet, like old blood and spun sugar.

You bought a ticket and walked toards the entrances, approaching the Ticket Tacker. He took your money without a word, his eyes devoid of any emotion. A Ticket Taker, a man so tall and thin he looked like a walking stick insect in a blue suit,he ticked your ticket with a hole puncher and gestured you inside without a glance.

And then you were in.

It was... heavenly For the first time all day, you felt a sense of release. The oppressive weight of the café, the customer service smile, the constant, grating noise—it all just... evaporated. The circus wasn't a chaotic mess on the inside. It was a sprawling, twisting labyrinth of wonder and horror, and it was completely, blessedly devoid of children. The clientele was a strange mix of people: couples clinging to each other in the shadows, groups of thrill-seeking adults, and solitary figures like yourself, drawn in by the macabre promise.

You bought a candied apple from a vendor with a hook for a hand, the glossy red candy shattering under your teeth and the cloying sweetness sticking to them in a way that was both pleasant and nauseating. You wandered, a ghost in a crowd of the living. You saw a female clown swallow a sword, the hilt disappearing down her throat with a disturbing gulp. You saw a Red plague doctor examine the clientale. You chatted with a fire-breather who smelled faintly of kerosene and complained about the damp weather ruining his performance. You listened to a group of bystanders argue about whether the “freaks” were real or just masters of illusion

For a few hours, you weren't the tired, sad potato-faced barista. You were just another face in the crowd, another soul seeking a thrill in the darkness. The stress of the day began to melt away, replaced by a strange, almost dreamlike calm. The air itself felt thick, like honey, dulling your senses and making everything feel slightly unreal.

As you continued to explore, drifting away from the main thoroughfares and into the quieter, more shadowed corners of the circus, you saw it. A tent, but not a grand one like the others. It was small, more like a large barrack.The tent itself was a shock of color in the gloom, a bright, almost violent magenta.

THE FOOL'S FORTUNE: Past, Present & Future... Will you dare to learn yours?

The words were painted in elegant, looping silver script. A sign like that was an invitation, a challenge. And after a day like yours, what was one more bad decision? Before your better judgment, the last remaining shred of self-preservation, could object, you stepped closer. The velvet curtain that served as a door was heavy and cold. You pushed it aside and ducked inside.

The interior was small and intimate, lit only by a few candles that cast flickering, dancing shadows against the fabric walls. The air was thick and cloying, smelling of cheap cotton candy and a dozen different kinds of wax, each one sweeter and more cloying than the last. It was a confusing, almost sickening sensory overload. In the very center of the space was a round wooden table, and behind it, a figure.

A clown. But not a happy one. He was tall, even seated, and dressed in a dizzying explosion of pink. His coat was a ringmaster’s style, bright pink with black lapels and tails, over a white shirt with a ridiculously large black bow. His trousers were loose and pink, and his legs were clad in black-and-white striped stockings. And his face... his face was hidden behind a stark white mask with narrow black eyes and a wide, exaggerated, painted-on grin.

He was in the middle of a frantic, shuffling card session, seemingly playing a game against the wind that was somehow getting under the tent. The cards were flying from his hands, a blur of color and motion. When he realized you had entered, his whole body froze solid. The cards, caught in a sudden updraft, scattered from his hands and rained down onto the tabletop.

"Fuck" he groaned, and the voice that came out was surprisingly deep and rich, a stark contrast to his delicate, almost doll-like appearance. He scrambled to collect them, his movements flustered and clumsy, a far cry from the smooth, practiced grace you’d expect from a performer.

He snapped his head up, and you swore you saw the mask's painted eyes widen just a fraction. It was an odd, unsettlingly human expression on a face that wasn't supposed to move. He collected the cards in a much faster, more fluid motion, snapping the deck shut with a sharp clack on top of the table. He rested his hands on the deck, straightened his posture, and the flustered clown was gone. In his place was a showman. He gestured for you to come closer with a long, gloved hand, a single sharp claw tapping the top of the deck.

Beneath that mask and motion, Mimic’s nonexistent stomach had just plummeted straight through the floorboards of his circus tent.

Only moments ago, he’d been staring at his own deck in utter disdain. The cards kept spitting out The Lovers whispering smug little prophecies about something precious walking into his life. He didn’t want romance. He wanted gasps. He wanted people screaming in terror at their dark, twisted futures, not swooning over a paper-mache heart. “I’ll feel my pulse quicken... idiotic cards, I don’t even have a pulse,” he had grumbled to the empty room.

And yet, fate—with its wicked, mocking sense of humor—had just shoved the exact cliché he despised straight through his curtain.

"Ah, hello, my universe" he said, his voice a smooth, oily purr. It was a tone that was far too smooth, far too confident for the nervous energy he'd just been radiating. He tapped the deck again. "Sit down, go on..." The command was soft, but it was a command. It sounded too nervous to be truly commanding, but you found yourself moving forward anyway.

"Hm... you're interested in your future, uh?" he asked, his head tilting slightly. The painted grin on his mask seemed to mock you.

You sat down on the simple wooden stool opposite him, the wood cold through your clothes. The silence stretched for a moment, filled only by the distant, muffled sounds of the circus. The clown, Mimic, you assumed from the pink theme, didn't move. He just watched you, or at least, the empty black eyes of his mask did.

"Let me guess," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You're here because you're tired. You're here because the world has been... unkind. You seek answers. You seek a distraction. You seek a story." He leaned forward, the brim of his top hat casting a shadow over his mask. "Or maybe you're just here because you have a clear schedule and a morbid curiosity. Am I right?"

He didn't wait for an answer. With a flourish that was both theatrical and strangely graceful, he began to shuffle the cards. The cards moved in a blur, a cascade of colors and symbols that was hypnotic to watch. He cut the deck, shuffled again, and then fanned them out on the table in a perfect, smooth arc.

"The cards, they see things," he murmured, his voice a low, pleasant hum. "They see the threads of fate that bind us all. They see the past that haunts you, the present that traps you, and the future that awaits you." He paused, his finger hovering over the fanned cards. "Now... pick three. Don't think about it. Just let your hand guide you"

                                ─ ·˖ ݁ ˖᯽˖ ݁˖· ─

                       (or yk..write ur own intro..)