Chapter Text
Do others ever wonder about how exactly the world works as I do? About its mysterious ticks and tocks, echoing and reverberating throughout the very fabric of hearts and minds? How it always goes by too slow for the weary; too fast for the effervescent—too fast for those whose hourglasses have all but run out?
But, then again, does it really make sense to compare the world to a clock? After all, the clicks and mechanics are even, perfunctory, cool, justifiable, and impartial. The world is not a smoothly ticking clock that regards all things with the same stoic, apathetic face. No, this place we call our own is a cruel storm. Sharp, jagged gusts; rampant debris spiraling like shuriken on the wind; and bullets of water pelting the landscape, gutting and brutally drowning all it may strike.
Perhaps the worst difference between an unprejudiced clock and a zealous storm would be desire. The descendents of Chronos desire nothing but to keep their steady pace, trundling through life at a calm, unruffled beat. A storm, though… a storm desires destruction. To rip trees from their roots, buildings from their foundations, loved ones from their families, and the lonely from their solace. A storm desires to dirty pavement, shatter glass, topple mountains, and cleave flesh.
In such conditions, only the strongest can endure the beatings. The weak are battered and bled dry ‘til naught is left of them.
In this sense, Allen Walker is destined to fall.