The air, still thrumming with the aftershocks of the Star-Spawn's un-creation and Saitama's nonchalant display of power, now took on a new, unsettling quality. The jaunty carnival music emanating from the clown, Puddles, was a discordant note in the symphony of devastation. It grated against the gothic grandeur of Midgar, a frivolous tune played at a funeral.
Puddles skipped forward, his oversized shoes clomping with an almost rhythmic menace. His painted smile stretched impossibly wide, revealing rows of needle-sharp teeth that were decidedly not part of any standard clown makeup. His eyes, those tiny, glittering beads of black, fixed on Saitama with an unnerving intensity.
"Oh, the strong, silent type!" Puddles cackled, his voice a high-pitched shriek that sent shivers down the spines of even the battle-hardened Shades. "I love the strong, silent type! They always make the loudest pop when they break!" He giggled, a sound like shattering glass.
Genos immediately stepped in front of Saitama, his cannons whirring to life, a low hum of stored energy filling the air. "Sensei, this entity… its energy signature is erratic, fluctuating wildly between negligible and… alarmingly high. It's cloaked in some kind of perception-altering field. Be wary."
Saitama just tilted his head. "So, is he, like, a monster clown? Or just a really dedicated party entertainer who got lost?"
Shadow watched, his senses on high alert. This Puddles was… different. The Cult of Diablos, for all their shadowy machinations and demonic pacts, possessed a certain recognizable structure to their evil. The interdimensional horrors, like the Star-Spawn, were raw, cosmic forces. This clown… this clown felt like chaos given a painted face and a maniacal laugh. There was an intelligence there, a cruel, playful cunning that was perhaps more dangerous than brute force.
This is… unexpected, Cid thought, his internal monologue racing. He doesn't fit the pattern of the Cult, nor the raw otherworldliness of the previous threats. Is he another dimensional refugee? Or something born from the bleeding realities themselves? This requires careful observation… and a suitably enigmatic response from me, of course.
"Your merriment is ill-placed, jester," Shadow's voice cut through the clown's unsettling theme music, low and resonant, like the tolling of a distant funeral bell. "This stage is set for a tragedy, not a farce."
Puddles clapped his gloved hands together with exaggerated delight. "Ooh, a brooding hero! My favorite flavor! So much delicious angst to savor!" He twirled his oversized mallet, the head of which looked suspiciously like a giant, cartoonish bomb. "But don't you worry your shadowy little head, Mr. Gloom-and-Doom! Puddles is here to liven things up! A little bit of chaos, a dash of madness… it's the spice of life, wouldn't you agree?"
His gaze flickered to Alpha, then to Epsilon, lingering for a moment with an unpleasantly appreciative gleam. "And such lovely party favors you have! So pretty! So… breakable."
Alpha's golden eyes narrowed, her grip tightening on her sword. "You will not lay a hand on them." Her voice was ice.
"Feisty!" Puddles chortled. "I like feisty!" He then took a deep, theatrical sniff of the air. "And oh, the smells! The delightful aroma of spilled dimensions, the subtle perfume of terrified underlings… and you, baldy!" He pointed a long, white-gloved finger directly at Saitama. "You smell like… boredom. And overwhelming, ridiculously concentrated… punch."
Saitama blinked. "I smell like punch? Is that even a thing?"
"It is when Puddles says it is!" the clown declared. He then executed a bizarre little jig, his oversized shoes slapping against the cobblestones. "So, tell me, Mr. Bald-and-Bold, what brings a powerhouse like you to our little dimensional kerfuffle? Looking for a good fight? A new chew toy?"
Before Saitama could answer (likely with something about grocery sales), Shadow interjected. This was his stage, and he wouldn't let some garish buffoon steal the spotlight, nor dictate the flow of information.
"He is an anomaly," Shadow stated, his voice carrying an undertone of profound, hidden knowledge. "A ripple in the predetermined currents of fate. His purpose here is… yet to be fully unveiled, even to himself." Perfect. Vague, mysterious, and makes me sound like I know more than I do. Classic Eminence move.
Puddles tilted his head, his painted smile unwavering, but his eyes sharpened. "Ooh, the puppet master speaks! Pulling the strings from the shadows, are we? How delightfully cliché! But Puddles isn't a puppet, spooky-dooky. Puddles cuts the strings!"
With a sudden, shocking burst of speed that belied his clumsy appearance, Puddles lunged. Not at Shadow, not at the Shades, but directly at Saitama. His oversized mallet swung in a dizzying arc, aimed at Saitama's head. The air around the mallet shimmered, and for a split second, the cartoonish weapon seemed to distort, taking on a nightmarish, almost organic quality.
Genos reacted instantly. "Incinerate!" Twin beams of concentrated heat erupted from his palms, converging on Puddles's trajectory.
But Puddles was too fast, too erratic. He jinked, twisted in mid-air with impossible agility, the incineration beams scorching the spot where he'd been a microsecond before. His mallet, however, continued its course.
Saitama, who had been watching the exchange with mild disinterest, simply raised a hand.
CLANG.
The oversized mallet, imbued with some strange, chaotic energy, connected with Saitama's open palm. The sound was surprisingly metallic, like a giant church bell being struck. The mallet didn't break Saitama's hand. It didn't even make him flinch. Instead, the mallet itself recoiled, vibrating violently, as if it had struck something infinitely dense and unyielding.
Puddles was flung backwards by the rebound, performing several ungainly somersaults in the air before landing lightly on his feet, his painted smile faltering for the barest fraction of a second.
"Ooh," Puddles said, his voice a little less jaunty. "Harder than he looks. Puddles likes a challenge!"
Saitama looked at his palm, then at the clown. "Hey, that actually kinda stung a little. Like a mosquito bite. You got weird toys, clown man."
Shadow watched this exchange, his mind working furiously. This clown… he's not just fast. That mallet… it wasn't normal. There was a chaotic, reality-bending energy to it. And Saitama just… caught it. Like it was nothing. The sheer, raw defensive capability… it's as absurd as his offense.
"Enough of this charade," Shadow declared, taking a step forward. Darkness began to swirl around his feet, creeping up his cloak. The temperature in the immediate vicinity dropped several degrees. "Jester, your presence here is an unwelcome dissonance. State your purpose, or be silenced."
Puddles stuck out his tongue, a disturbingly long, purple thing. "Purpose? Puddles doesn't do purpose, Mr. Nighty-Night! Puddles does fun! And you all look like you could use a serious dose of it!" He giggled again, then snapped his fingers.
From the shadows of the ruined buildings around them, more figures began to emerge. They weren't as flamboyant as Puddles, but they shared his unsettling aura. Some were lanky and gaunt, moving with a jerky, unnatural gait. Others were squat and powerfully built, their faces hidden behind crude, grinning masks. All of them carried an assortment of bizarre, oversized novelty weapons – giant squeaky hammers, water pistols that dripped glowing, corrosive liquid, yo-yos with razor-sharp edges.
"My playmates!" Puddles announced cheerfully. "They were getting a little restless. We were just on our way to spread a little… joy… when we stumbled upon your delightful little get-together!"
The Shades tensed, instantly adopting battle stances. "Lord Shadow," Beta said, her voice tight, "they appear to be… a cult of some kind? But their energy is… fractured. Unstable. Like raw, weaponized insanity."
Weaponized insanity, Cid mused. That's… actually a pretty good description. This is definitely not the Diablos Cult. This is something… weirder. More unpredictable. He felt a thrill. A new, unknown faction! More pieces for his grand, imaginary chessboard!
"So," Saitama said, looking at the approaching group of bizarrely armed individuals. "Are these guys, like, your backup dancers? Or are they gonna try and hit me with those giant squeaky things too?"
Puddles spread his arms wide. "Why don't you find out, baldy-boy? Let's have a party! A real smash-up, tear-down, scream-your-lungs-out kind of party!"
The "playmates" charged, letting out whoops and cackles that sounded utterly unhinged.
"Shades," Shadow commanded, his voice like velvet over steel. "Engage. But be wary. Their movements are erratic, their power… deceptive." He himself remained still, observing, calculating. He needed to understand the nature of this new threat, to see how Saitama would react to a swarm of weaker, but more numerous and unpredictable, foes.
What followed was less a battle and more a surreal, violent slapstick routine.
Delta, with a joyous howl, leaped into the fray, her claws and strength tearing through the first wave of Puddles's minions. But they were slippery. One, armed with a giant boxing glove on a spring, managed to land a comical BOING on her head, momentarily dazing her before she ripped the offending arm off.
Epsilon moved with her usual grace, her sword a silver blur, but her opponents were so unpredictable, their attacks so nonsensical, that it was like trying to fight a swarm of drunken gnats. A minion with a giant custard pie launcher splattered her perfect slime bodysuit with sticky goo, eliciting a rare frown from the Shade.
Gamma, unfortunately, tripped over a yo-yo string and found herself entangled, much to the amusement of a cackling, masked figure wielding it like a deadly whip. Beta and Zeta fought back-to-back, their coordinated strikes effective but constantly hampered by the sheer lunacy of their opponents.
Alpha, as always, was a whirlwind of deadly precision. She dispatched several of the "playmates" with swift, clean strikes, but even she seemed slightly unnerved by their gleeful, almost suicidal, attacks.
And Saitama?
He just stood there, hands in his pockets (if his jumpsuit had any). When one of Puddles's goons, a lanky fellow with a seltzer bottle filled with what looked suspiciously like acid, charged at him, Saitama simply sighed and… flicked him. A single, casual flick of his finger to the goon's forehead.
The goon went flying. Not in a dramatic, explosive way. He just shot backwards, tumbling end over end, until he crashed into a distant, already-crumbling wall with a dull thud, sliding down into a heap.
Another, wielding a pair of oversized cymbals, tried to clap them on Saitama's head. Saitama just tilted his head slightly to the side. The cymbals clanged together harmlessly. He then poked the goon in the chest. The goon crumpled.
It was… almost boring to watch. While the Shades were engaged in a chaotic, if effective, struggle against these bizarre jesters of doom, Saitama was effortlessly, almost dismissively, neutralizing any that came near him. There was no effort, no strain, just… removal.
Puddles watched this, his painted smile twitching. The sheer, unadulterated ease with which Saitama dealt with his minions seemed to genuinely bother him. It wasn't the destruction; it was the lack of reaction. Saitama wasn't angry, he wasn't scared, he wasn't even particularly annoyed. He was just… there. An immovable object that also happened to be an unstoppable force.
"You're no fun at all, are you, baldy?" Puddles whined, his voice losing some of its earlier glee. "You're breaking all my best toys, and you don't even have the decency to scream!"
Saitama shrugged. "They're not very strong. And your music is kinda getting on my nerves."
Shadow, meanwhile, had seen enough. This clown, Puddles, was the ringleader. His minions, while numerous and unsettling, were ultimately just distractions. The true threat, the true source of this chaotic energy, was Puddles himself.
His power seems to be based on… weaponizing absurdity? Cid pondered. Or perhaps drawing power from chaos and madness itself. He's not fighting with conventional magic or strength. It's… something else. Something that bends the rules.
"Your carnival is over, jester," Shadow finally said, taking another step forward. This time, the darkness around him didn't just swirl; it solidified. It took on a tangible quality, like an oil slick spreading across reality, absorbing light, muffling sound. The air grew heavy, pregnant with unspoken menace.
This was different from his earlier, more flamboyant displays. This was the true, oppressive aura of the Eminence in Shadow, the suffocating pressure of someone who truly understood the depths of darkness because he reveled in it (or at least, pretended to with unmatched skill).
Puddles, for the first time, stopped smiling. His painted grin remained, but his tiny black eyes narrowed into slits. The jaunty music faltered and died.
"Ooh," Puddles said, his voice dropping to a low, guttural growl that was far more terrifying than his earlier shrieks. "Now this is interesting. You smell… like the real deal, spooky-dooky. Not just playing dress-up."
He tossed his oversized mallet aside. It clattered harmlessly to the ground. He cracked his knuckles, a sound like dry bones snapping. "Alright, Mr. Shadow-Man. You wanna dance with Puddles? Let's see if you can keep up with the real music."
The ground beneath Puddles began to crack. Not from physical force, but as if reality itself was becoming brittle around him. A dark, chaotic energy, far more potent and sinister than anything his minions had displayed, began to bleed from him, staining the air with an oily, rainbow sheen. His form seemed to flicker and distort, the clown makeup momentarily melting away to reveal something… else… beneath, something with too many teeth and eyes that burned with genuine, terrifying madness.
Saitama, having just casually clotheslined another goon, looked over. "Huh. He's powering up. Guess he was holding back."
Genos, having finally disentangled Gamma, stood ready. "Sensei, Lord Shadow, that clown's energy levels are spiking uncontrollably! He's reaching a critical threshold! This could be—"
Shadow raised a hand, silencing Genos. His gaze was locked on Puddles. This was it. The true test of this new, bizarre enemy. A chance for Shadow to truly shine, to demonstrate his overwhelming power against a foe that wasn't just strong, but fundamentally wrong.
This is perfect, Cid thought, a thrill coursing through him that was almost painful in its intensity. A creature of pure, weaponized chaos. Against me, the master of controlled, orchestrated darkness. The contrast! The drama! The sheer, unadulterated coolness!
He allowed a sliver of his own power to leak out, a controlled surge of pure, condensed magical darkness that met Puddles's chaotic aura, causing the very air between them to shimmer and warp. The remaining "playmates" whimpered and backed away, their fabricated glee replaced by primal terror. Even the Shades felt the oppressive weight of two immense, alien powers about to collide.
"Let the true performance begin," Shadow whispered, his voice a promise of utter annihilation.
Puddles let out a true, bone-chilling cackle, no longer playful, but filled with the sound of breaking worlds. "Showtime!"
And as these two titans of their respective, bizarre realities prepared to clash, Saitama just scratched his head. "So… still no word on that king crab, huh?"