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"A music 8ox?"
Damara noticed a puzzled expression working its way across Vriska’s features as they stood (or more specifically, floated) before the impossibly large structure. It truly did look like the inner workings of a music box: a shiny brass cylinder with short pins dotted around it, and the comb close by, its prongs stretching out to catch the pins as they moved past. Beyond the device, the void stretched onward infinitely, its inky blackness broken up by the subtle static that flickered dimly all around them.
"I was honestly expecting a 8ack stage, the way you talked up all those theatre analogies. You even just said it wasn’t a musical!"
Damara shrugged, watching as the cylinder crept along ever so slowly, its rotation coming to an end. "Was best way to explain it to simple spider mind."
That earned her a look, but she continued on before the Scorpio could interject.
"Is same device I used to initiate scratch, eons ago, when Lord English brought me here, when we build this world together. He gives me task: maintain timeline, keep gears spinning, repair broken pieces, and wind it again, every 10 years. I do this for him, many times."
Damara paused, mouth open as though she had more to say, but the words never came. Something unpleasant was welling up inside of her, something that made her feel...
"You're sad?" Vriska asked in disbelief.
Damara grit her teeth, staring over her shoulder to give the other troll a heated glare. "Stay out of my head, Serket."
"Oh, give it a rest, mini-maid. You had fun this last go around, didn't you? You loved, you lost, you learned, you let the timeline shatter in Lord English's a8sense and had to piece it together again and then drag everyone 8ack home. How exciting was that?" Vriska grinned.
"Let's face it, I was the 8est thing to happen to the Midnight City. How 8oring was it 8efore I showed up? And how much of a slog are these next 10 years going to 8e without me?"
Damara scowled.
"I tolerate you. At best."
"8uuuuuuuut..." Vriska prodded.
But, it had been fun. A hundred iterations of the Midnight City had passed, and she'd always kept her distance from its denizens. She'd been terrified. What if it was Beforus all over again? What if they mocked and tormented her? What if they excluded and ignored her? What if she did find someone special, only for them too to cheat on her, like Rufioh had? It took decades for her to build up the courage to step onto the stage, and when she finally did...
All those terrible things happened.
Still, for every awful encounter that took place, there had been a dozen fantastic experiences she wouldn't trade for anything. She'd come to care deeply for the Felt, from the Handmaid, who somehow had the patience to show Damara kindness again and again, to Itchy who had always invited her along no matter when and where, to Crowbar, who she hoped was suffering immensely and thinking of her all the while, wherever he was. And yes, even Vriska, her lapdog of a matesprit, and bore of a moirail had a special place in Damaras heart. And now it all had to be erased.
"But, I will always treasure... That time Lord English call you 'wonky eyed bitch'." Damara flashed a self satisfied grin back at the disgruntled blueblood, before making her way over to a key-shaped construct that protruded from the base of the structure.
It was easily the size of a bus, but since it mostly served to represent an idea of time, the witch needn't worry about the weight. The cylinder barely had time to creep to a halt - its pin catching on a prong but not having the force to push through - before Damara channeled her magic into the key, causing it to turn with a deep and satisfying cranking noise.
There was no music, as the pins began to turn, but instead, bits and pieces of time - a snippet of a conversation, a fragmented laugh. Even the brass seemed to reflect images, not light. Confetti and fireworks made the music box shimmer like a trove of gemstones, and above all the other indistinct noise, Damara and Vriska could make out one message above the rest.
