Tick tock. Tick tock. What time is it? How much is left? Can we have five more minutes? The gang's investigation has pierced the veil of the Citadel, and peering back at them through the penumbra is the great iron face of a clock, hands moving up and down, rotating and returning like the silent islands in the sky. Hands that hold you back, spin you round, or throw you, gasping.