Wrench knows a thing or two about façade and spectacle. Not unlike the seedy underbelly of the average traveling circus, the man has spent the better part of his life hiding in plain sight. At a towering 6'4", that's no easy feat. He's used to thinking of himself as a reflection of sorts. Or maybe a barometer, or a yardstick. The tool of his namesake isn't so unfitting either, though it's been years since he's needed to apply the kind of pressure that a wrench would imply.

Nevertheless, he's prone to seeing himself through others. Their use for him and reactions to him have shaped his reality for so long that when the image in front of his face starts to bend and distort, he hardly notices it at first.

He's glad in any case when the monotony of his own reflection is broken by the sight of someone else nearby. At least he thinks they are. With their images refracting in a dozen different directions, it's nearly impossible to tell. Nevertheless, he raises his hands to sign, hoping the ScryWatch is as reliable for transmission across a distance as it has been in interpreting so far.

How the hell do we get out of here?

Even before his recruitment by the syndicate as a prepubescent kid, it's safe to assume that Wrench did not have a particularly normal upbringing.

He remembers one lazy summer when a traveling carnival rolled into town with its rickety spinning bullet capsule rude mounted on the back of a flat-bed trailer. He'd never seen anything like it and never wanted anything more than to climb inside and spin into oblivion. But no amount of begging or stealing loose quarters from the corner store newstand had gotten him inside of that damn ride.

The Wrench of present-day is too old and too tall for the painted horses on the ancient carousel, but he straddles one anyway and watches the island lights flicker and spin around him, disorientingly reversed on its axis.

When it finally halts, the man whose feet scraped the floor of the carousel has been reduced to a boy of no more than twelve. He's skinny as a beanpole, too tall and gangly for his age with rumpled hair and bright green eyes. He seems stunned for a second, then hops from the ride, cackling with delight.

Even Wrench has to admit that the sudden arrival of scads of clowns is a little creepy. Most of the references go right over his head, but he watches with confusion as horror turns to humor and back to horror again for those who surround him.

One of the would-be entertainers ambles towards him, face caked in uneven streaks of white and stinking of cheap vodka and stale pork rinds. The jester smiles at Wrench with all his teeth and leans in close. He feels the telltale buzz of the ScryWatch around his wrist, but scowls and sidesteps the man.

For now, at least, it seems he's impervious to the clown's tricks, so long as he ignores the watch.

Wrench is available throughout the entire month in his regular- and fun-sized versions. As a child, he'll be getting into plenty of mischief: riding as many rides as he can, stealing carnival food, making friends with the animals, and trying to win stuffed animals. At his normal age, he'll be glad to run rescues from any bothersome clowns and keep an eye on the carnies.

You can find me at stickyholograms for plotting, or just chuck anything my way and I'll be glad to roll with it.