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713 Words
Chapter 16: The Time Tuners
The brass piano key burned in Jackie's palm like a living thing.
She stood before the basement door of Warren Manor—a grotesque fusion of clockwork gears and piano wires. The seven keyholes made her blood run cold, each perfectly sized for a human eyeball.
"The Holy Infant needs eyes..." Jackie recalled the silver needles embedded in Mechanical William's chest, each etched with numbers: 7, 14, 21... up to 49. Seven squared—the mathematical cipher for temporal anchors.
The key slid itself into the first keyhole. As the gear-door groaned to life, seven monitors flickered on the wall showing:
1923.10.31 23:07 Emma Warren strapped to the altar
1967.04.07 03:15 Teenage William convulsing in electroshock therapy
2023.09.28 19:43 Her first meeting with William at the café
████.██.██ ██:██ Static-obscured footage
When the seventh screen activated, Jackie's abdomen convulsed. The live feed showed her own back—where a taxidermied black cat perched, its gemstone eye recording the keyhole through a pinhole lens.
Beyond the door lay a circular vault. A bronze sundial hovered at its center, its gnomon replaced by a telegraph machine. Walls were stacked with audio tapes labeled Monroe Family Observations: Cycle 49.
"You're late."
The voice came from behind the sundial. Seven Jackies of varying ages sat at a round table, the eldest wearing a plague doctor mask while cradling the Mechanical Holy Infant.
"We're Time Tuners," said the teenage Jackie, her abdomen tethered to golden fluid tubes beneath the sundial. "Pruning flawed timelines."
The middle-aged Jackie rolled up her sleeve, revealing the same barcode as Lucas: "Every 49 years, Monroe women birth tuning tools, while Blackwood men record temporal deviations with their eyes."
The eldest struck the telegraph keys. The gnomon projected holograms of William's father making the seven-point gesture during his 2012 broadcast—while a young Mechanical William scanned viewers with golden irises off-camera.
"Ratings are energy," the masked Jackie stroked the Infant's gear-spine. "A 49% viewership peak triggers..."
"The Final Broadcast," all Jackies chorused.
The Holy Infant wailed tears of solidified amber. Jackie smashed one open, freeing William's retinal projection:
"Find the cat's right eye—it's the last..."
Golden mist spewed from vents. Five Jackies dissolved as their Infants crawled toward the sundial, forming a pentagram. The masked one seized Jackie's wrist: "Fulfill your purpose, Vessel 49."
Her amethyst bracelet flared, projecting her mother's hologram. Sophia Monroe's mechanical finger pointed to the sundial's cat**: "Your father hid it in the—"
An EMP pulse shattered the image. Jackie drove the brass key into the masked Jackie's eye socket—out poured not blood, but pulp from 1923 newspapers.
The vault's ceiling irised open, revealing seven concentric clockfaces counting down:
7 days
7 hours
7 minutes
...
In the innermost glass chamber, William's mechanized body writhed under gear-chains, 49 silver needles piercing his torso. His right eye flickered human as his lips formed:
"B-A-C-H"
Jackie lunged for the telegraph, hammering the keys. The sundial reversed; all Infants shrieked as their needles ejected, midair assembling into a cat's silhouette.
The real taxidermied cat leapt from a hidden compartment, its gemstone eye slotting into the silver outline. A beam projected Emma Warren's final words on the ceiling:
"When a mother kills the Tuner, time becomes free."
Jackie raised the key toward her own heart—
William's mechanical arm intercepted. His voice glitched: "Don't... trust..."
All seven clocks hit zero.
The manor collapsed around them. Carrying William's broken form through the courtyard, Jackie found every exit replaced with mirrors. Each reflection showed her holding a different Infant—except the seventh, displaying:
Baseline Timeline: 2023.09.28
William waiting alone at the café, his brow unscarred.
"Step through to reset everything," the Jackies whispered. "No curse, no machines..."
The black cat sprang onto her shoulder. Its gem revealed the hidden truth: in that "clean" timeline, David adjusted a camera outside the café, lens aimed at William's temple.
"Is this freedom?" Jackie touched her re-swollen belly. "Or just a new script?"
She shattered the mirror, jamming an amber tear into the final lock. As the tuning chamber exploded, the Infants' dying chorus rose:
"Mother kills the mother, so history may grow..."
Dawn broke. A real baby's cry echoed through the ruins.
- Writer
