Clockwork boxers beat the shit out of each other in front of me. Pop! Pop! Pop! Their clockwork guts spilled out onto the dusty ground. These life-sized pugilists slumped over despite their clockwork straining to move them. No one rushed to fix these fighters. The toys would remain broken. Tick, tick, tick. The clockwork continued, marching on in place, forever embroiled in a battle that ended long ago. 

Things break and stay broken.

No amount of patchwork can return the combatants back to their true glory. There’s always a scar that remains that time cannot mend. I look to my scars running over my body and remember the names they gave me: Franky, Patches, Raggedy Andy, and many others. I stretch my hoodie further down in front of my face and roll down my sleeves in an involuntary effort to hide myself.

Things break and stay broken.

I move on from the clockwork melee and go deeper into the crumbling Heart, once the janky pit stop before the end of the system, then a bustling metropolis, and now a city of ghosts and nightmares. Enlightenment ravaged this place like all of the others, crippling humanity for years to come. We’ve ventured out, eventually, fleeing across the galaxy like rats. Only a few remain here now. Only a few dare to come back to our origin even after all of this time.

Things break and stay broken.

They spoke of a prophecy given to us by the goddess of Armageddon herself. She went to sleep. A Catastrophe befell Earth. All that remains is Calamity.

Things break.


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