Malakai Midnight sits in front of a large grandfather clock. The sound of it ticking away is loud and obnoxious. Behind him, many young owls sit in wait, prepared to listen to his sermon.
“Time is a very intriguing concept, isn’t it?
Right now, it’s eleven fifty six.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“In four minutes time, the midnight hour is upon us. It seems almost insignificant, does it not? Four miniscule minutes. Nothing. A period of time inconsequential. A small figure that neither quantifies as important or qualifies as special or specific.
But so much can happen in those two hundred and forty seconds.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“In those four minutes, twelve competitors can come together in a cacophony of violence. Bodies can be lain to waste and strewn across the canvas. Blood can be spilt. Bodies can be torn apart and asunder, leaving nothing but their crisis in their wake.
Women can be brutalized. They can almost be wed into unsuspecting bliss and safety.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Malakai Midnight sits with a smile on his face, listening to the clock tick along with his every word, a metronome to the poetry falling from his lips.
“Men can be nigh on broken in half. Their careers can be ended in a matter of moments. As the clock ticks away and every second ebbs into the next, more damage and violence can be produced. Their lives nigh on over at the hands of another.
In just four minutes an entire level could be destroyed by a walking robotic bomb. The cost of life and the quantity of casualties almost unheard of.”
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Those in attendance dote on his every word.
“Time isn’t insignificant, my little owls. Four minutes aren’t ever inconsequential. No period of time whilst we’re fortunate enough to have it, is. Just ask Harold Attano if he could take back those four minutes in which Tombstone ended his career. Ask Narcissa if those four minutes in which she failed to escape ringside and was captured by The Ferryman are paramount to nothing.
They’d tell you just how important that time is. In fact, it’s so important that some would give anything for those four minutes. They’d give you their entire arcadian possessions for another tick of the clock.”
Chime.
Finally, the clock strikes midnight.
“Welcome to the midnight hour, little owls.”
He smiles.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
“I don’t need four minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds is too much.
At Chain Reaction, as each minute ebbs away into the next, a chain reaction of time that cannot be stopped by man nor beast… I don’t need four minutes.”
He raises his finger with each tick and tock.
Tick.
“One…”
Another finger, another tock.
“Two…”
Tick.
Another finger.
Three…”
Tock.
“I only need three seconds.”