After a dozen or so flights of long, rickety steps--and flights of stairs in this case varied in length due to the building’s jutting infrastructure--Gash stopped his followers with a raised hand. He motioned for Graffiti. The two peeked around the corner. They were at a long hall leading to many other branches of the building. A couple of large, horned demons stood by in security garb.

“One look at us, and one or the other will contact the whole building,” Gash whispered. “So, Graffiti. Show me. How badly d’yah want this revolt?” Graffiti’s silver eyes shined. He carefully placed the crate of quivering imps down and, after pulling his cap moreover his brow, silently walked out into the open. Only Gash saw what happened next.

Sh-POOF! Bam! Sh-POOF! Pop! Crack!

The other members looked at each other then over at Gash, who had the widest grin on his face. They heard Graffiti yell, “All clear!”

They walked into the hall to find both of the guards out-cold. Graffiti rubbed his knuckles and propped up his collar. He pointed at one of the doors: “The top’s this way.” Without question, the members hurried up the next flight of stairs.

“Nice work, kid,” said Gash as he handed Graffiti the crate. “That was a new move. Did you learn that at your school?”

“Shut it,” Graffiti growled, showing the gap between his two front teeth.

Hundreds of steps later, they felt rumblings beneath their toes accompanied with a deep, resonate whir. The halls and stairwells became less woodwork and more industrial. Finally, they made it to the spacial, cubed, gear-filled room behind the clock’s two adjacent faces. The racket shook their very bones, for the whir was now almost overwhelming with the added cranks of wheels, the creaks of screws, the spew of steam. A metallic odor backed by oil filled the fatigued delinquents’ noses as they took a quick breather. Though Graffiti was tired, himself, he didn’t show it. Besides, he was too much in awe with the room.

He stepped up to the gigantic, intricate clockwork. Not only were there gears, too aged for that copper shine, but also wooden statues that appeared to work the gears and levers, themselves. Of course, this was all an illusion. The craftsmen behind this probably felt seeing a bunch of gears at work wasn’t interesting enough.

In one section, ram-horned devils manually spun larger gears while imps, with their buzzing dragonfly wings acting as a part of the mechanism, appeared to be stealing bolts. In another section, a bridge-troll lazily turned a tiny wheel while it read a book by a buzzing light. Zombies, all dressed in tattered human military uniforms, marched on conveyor belts. Ugly witches brewed potions in vents where steam rose, over which the ghosts covered in rotted sheets lingered. Reanimated monsters (whom we call “reanimates”) pushed a large wheel around a pole while oppressed in chains.

Other creatures, like pumpkin people (or “jack-o’-lanterns”), clowns and scarecrows, snickering undertakers, and doppelgangers (creatures who were identically human, except for their impossible hairdos) all appeared to work together to keep the clockwork going by turning dials and pulling levers. Ravens and celestial bodies dotted the walls and metallic pieces either as paint or hanging sculptures. There was even an anthropomorphic toad who apparently caught the lichen bug, for a vicious werewolf shell would open and close around its timid frog self at every ticking second.

All monster types were represented in this clockwork. Which meant--yes--at the top of it all were the most ferocious monsters of all Hallows Earth. They, too, looked human, except their faces were viciously contorted, and atop their heads were twisted crowns. None of them turned gears. Instead, they looked more like puppeteers with strings hanging off their fingertips. Yet their moving hands looked controlled by the unforeseen, driving force behind this living work of metal and wood. Amidst it all was a gigantic bell, no design on it whatsoever, with a large mallet held by a giant metal ogre right beside it. The ogre pulled back the mallet little by little at every minute. There was a meter on the ogre’s body, showing the mallet was only halfway until it gonged the bell. Gash was the one who pointed the meter out, snapping Graffiti back from his art-appreciating stupor.

“We’re losin’ seconds. Tell us which face of the clock we should paint. The one facing the desert or the one facing the castle?”

“Right, right,” Graffiti said, shaking his head. “The one facing the desert. That’s where the tourist spot’s at.”