KIOSK 62
The Clocktower Had read 4:32 at 7:48 that morning. the suspension of The
THE CLOCKTOWER
City’s Timekeeper Had meant one, or both, of two things: The Clock’s Machinery was under repair, or the Caretaker and his apprentice had been fighting again. in the instance of last night’s events, both applied. A PROMOTION? the Caretaker said to the apprentice still chewing on His dinner in the side of His mouth. sixteen years flattening and selling scraps. sixteen years living off scraps and crumbs. sixteen years it had taken the apprentice to finally take initiative with the Caretaker. yessir i believe i — i have some ideas that could really change how we run this place He said that He couldn’t afford to make changes to The Clocktower in their current state. He said that their situation was bad enough. He said no and that his decision was final. this and more He spat, interrupting the apprentice at every spurn. He raved on until a crack and flurry of flying splinters from the apprentice’s chair demanded the full attention of the Caretaker. with reposed poise, the Caretaker stood up to meet the apprentice, who stood defiantly among the debris. a clean, wet slap across the boy’s face resounded throughout The Impassively Ticking Clocktower. poorly concealed tidal waves accumulated beneath the eyes of the apprentice as he stood in a stoical trance. he stole the loaves of bread from the table and left the Caretaker alone in the dining room. later as He slept, gales of metallic gnashing teeth and shrieking boiled steam sent bolts of panic down the spine of the Caretaker, forcing Him out of bed. He thought himself naïve to think that the apprentice wouldn’t retaliate again. the next morning, the Caretaker stood on a lofty platform in The Tower, Picking out the breadcrumbs and metal scraps from The Clocktower’s Gears while the apprentice worked below, flattening what scraps there were left with a sledgehammer.
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