[Qilby closes his eyes and listens, really listens. Tick, tick, tick: it's rhythmic, like a metronome. But a metronome wouldn't fit into the slots, no-- It's like something used to tell time, even. Time, too, would fit the riddle! (He has damned well plenty of it.)]
[Sure, there's the chance he's wrong, but--]
A clock.
[His tone is absolutely, hopelessly flat. He's so done with your shit, door.]
no subject
[Sure, there's the chance he's wrong, but--]
A clock.
[His tone is absolutely, hopelessly flat. He's so done with your shit, door.]