The Peppermint Paradox

Tick. Tick.. *Clack*. The great hand of the clock shivers like a beggar’s knee in a mid-winter gale. The screech of metal grinding against metal fills the cramped workshop. *Ssssssssssh.* You stand there, frozen. A pair of long-nosed tweezers in your right hand, a sesame-crusted biscuit in your left. A single bead of sweat breaks from your hairline, trekking down to the rim of your spectacles. Colonel Arthur is a heavy shadow right behind you. His breath—a pungent, rhythmic assault of stale tobacco and sharp peppermint—hits the back of your neck. "You said you understood the 'Clock of Fate,' didn't you, boy?" His voice is a low rasp, forced through teeth clenched tight enough to snap a bolt. You stare into the brass abyss before you. Intricate gears, interlocking like a forest of thorns, seem to be hungry for your fingers. "Of course... naturally, Colonel. It’s a simple matter of... dynamic equilibrium." «...Dammit, I can't see a thing in this copper graveyard. Where did that cursed screw go?...» Your hand gives a slight, involuntary twitch. *Jerk.* A tiny sesame seed flakes off the biscuit. It falls in slow motion. It tumbles through the air, disappearing into t…