Chapter Text
Episode I:
Futile Clockwork
or
The Clockwork Reminder of a Living Nightmare
Chapter 1
(Luca):
Tick. tick. Tick. tick.
The sound of the clock is taunting… was taunting… is taunting… will be taunting, as time did not pass for him. It was… is not a measurement of anything at all, except something that, to him, did not exist.
Time is, was, and will be a futile measure of… well, anything it seemed-
That is if you're immortal.
Immortality is a long time.
Ha, no time at all.
What does one do with so much time on their hands? They let it pass to another person. Shift the blame. Take your time sir, we have all the time in the world.
For him, time was always on his hands like blood staining fingertips. He killed time all the time, staining his palms a shade of fleshy pink and red. He had a streak a mile wide if you counted the hours he had brutally murdered. He wished he could take some time off from life... and his criminal record. What a concept.
Fuck it, jail time.
In small doses and for mere insignificant and fleeting stretches of their time did he experience fulfillment, but inevitably they were less than a blink of an eye; only one eye, as he couldn’t be sure he could close them for a second without a century passing behind him. Not that it seemed to matter in the long run nor the short jog.
Clocks, what a wretched invention. He remembered a time before the clock- it was a time before the time was called time and the clock kept it like clockwork. He was also there for its invention.
Around and around the waterwheels would spin, each rotation flaunting the ever-frivolous passing and grasping of time.
His eyes followed the rungs of the wheel, wonder welling up inside his heart as the water welled from beneath the rungs.
“What could this be used for?”
For humans, it served and serves and shall serve the purpose of giving structure to an otherwise dragging existence of whim, work, and worry with no consequence; that is, on a universal scale.
Their lives are structured around the prospect of happiness and justice despite both things being impossible to achieve, at least in his protracted experience.
Humans are were and will always be idiotic and perplexing creatures to him. Their feeble attempt to pin down what was always moving and essentially non-existent was hilarious. Humans never cease to distract themselves from the ultimatum of their lives. He can never experience this end, it seems. Admittedly, though, he took a liking to human sports, and he found the racing automobiles (f1 is a sport...) particularly captivating: incredibly inconsequential, yet consistent. He recalls the dusty drag racetracks turning to asphalt throughout the century. He recalls the clocks counting up, the winner differentiated by a single second on a stopwatch or scoreboard. Humans in celebration. Blissfully wasted time.
Now, his eyes follow the hands of an ornate clock, his glossy-eyed expression peering back at himself through the mirrored glass protection of the calculated metal rods.
gh
Ah, what he would give to smash every clock known to man.
That is why legally, he is banned from the premises of all antique shops within the provinces of Alberta and some parts of New Brunswick. They learned the hard way.
To him, the clock only served as a reminder of how long he had been living a nightmare.
That is, until he met him.
…
Dot dot dots are used to indicate the passing of time but at this point, it's extremely redundant. Please stop it.