Tick-tock. Click-clack. Crunch-crank.
You hear the wheels spin. Hear the teeth gnash. It's all so mechanical, so perfect.
Like you.
Your mind is clear, your thoughts focused. You know exactly what needs to be done as you climb the rungs and reach the tower's top. Left. Right. Left. Right. A rhythm. You work it. The extension of you dangling from your back. You are it. It is you. One.
Tick-tock. Click-clack. Crunch-crank.
You are the machine. You are the jagged teeth. You are the lubricated wheel, spinning so perfectly, so smoothly. You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. You have a singular focus. You have the mind of divinity. Your mission is noble. Your ambition is just.
They don't understand you.
And why should they? They lack the mechanical efficiency you've honed to an art form. They're stupid. They're fools. They live their lives without truly living. Faces buried in their gadgets. Gadgets fashioned from genius. They have no inkling of its inner workings. No desire to delve deeper. It works, and that's fine to them.
Idiots.
Tick-tock. Click-clack. Crunch-crank.
You are the machine. You extend yourself. You stare down below. Routine. Perfect. Precise. Mechanical. See them walk. See them smile. See them dead.
Snap on the scope.
Crunch-crank.
Work the slide.
Click-clack.
Rotate the pressurizer.
Tick-tock.
See them smile.
Boom.
See them dead.
YOU ARE READING
Tevun-Krus #43 - ClockPunk
Science FictionThe TK Crew take on ClockPunk this month. Come on in and check out a multitude of short stories, regular features and the return of an old favourite!
