The Case of the Clockwork Witness

The clock on my office wall accused me of murder at twelve-oh-seven.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Legally.

The second hand lay snapped off at the base of the face, as if it had tried to keep going and failed. Beneath the glass, the red Court indicator pulsed once every three seconds—slow, deliberate, official. A street clock didn’t signal like that unless it had recorded a violent crime and decided the memory mattered.

I stopped writing mid-line. Ink bled across my ledger, turning a neat column of fees and timestamps into a dark smear.

“Don’t stare,” Brasswhisker said. He lay stretched along the filing cabinet, brass ribs ticking faintly as he shifted his weight. His glass eyes reflected the red pulse without blinking. “If you look shocked, it assumes guilt.”

“I’m allowed to be shocked,” I said. “I just don’t like to advertise.”

Steam knocked through the walls like impatient fingers. Somewhere outside, a tram bell rang and faded. Gearhaven didn’t pause for accusations. It logged them, archived them, and moved on.

I stood and crossed the office, shrugging into my coat without thinking. My license hung crooked behind the desk—Private Investigator, Class C, Conditional—the word conditional stamped hard enough to warp the paper. The Court had issued it when I was fourteen, after I untangled a witness-loop malfunction no one else could read. They’d regretted it ever since.

“Iria Vale,” I said, thumb on the playback latch. “Independent investigator. Acknowledging witness signal.”

The clock whirred. Gears shifted behind the face. A hidden lens irised open, throwing a thin rectangle of light onto the far wall.

An alley resolved. Brick is slick with condensation. Steam venting from a grate like breath forced through clenched teeth. A man staggered backwards into frame, hands raised, mouth open on a word the clock hadn’t bothered to capture.

Then the shadow stepped forward.

Same coat. Same height. Same bad habit of leading with the left foot.

My shadow.

The image cut to black.

The clock sealed itself shut with a sharp click, like a jaw snapping closed.

For a long moment, the only sound was the steam in the walls and the soft, precise ticking of Brasswhisker’s tail.

“Well,” he said eventually, hopping down with a metallic clink. “That’s inconvenient.”

“I wasn’t there,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “You’d have tripped on the third cobble. You always do.”

A knock struck the office door—three sharp raps. Official. Memory Court.

My stomach tightened. “They can’t just—”

“They can,” Brasswhisker said. “They have. They will again.”

The knock came louder.

I opened the door to a clerk in pressed Court grey, his hat brim uncreased, his expression already bored with my existence. His eyes slid past me to the clock.

“You have a Class One witness,” he said. “Playback has failed. You will retrieve compliance or submit an explanation within four hours.”

“And if I don’t?” I asked.

“Then the witness will be dismantled,” he said. “And you will be detained pending obstruction review.”

Brasswhisker’s ears rotated forward. “He’s frightened,” he observed.

The clerk stiffened. “That device is not authorised for—”

“He’s a cat,” I said. “Observation unit. Household grade. Perfectly legal.”

The clerk didn’t argue. They never did. He handed me a warm brass case cylinder and turned away.

I shut the door and rested my forehead against it.

“Congratulations,” Brasswhisker said. “The city has retained us to prove you didn’t kill someone you’ve never met.”

I exhaled slowly. “Grab your toolkit.”

The alley sat in Low Gear, where steam pooled ankle-deep and clocks were bolted to brick like apologies no one expected forgiveness for. The body was gone, chalk outline already smeared by boots and time. People lingered at the mouth of the alley, pretending not to stare.

The witness clock hung above the outline, its face cracked, its hands frozen at twelve-oh-seven. Fresh polish gleamed along the casing.

“Someone cleaned you,” I murmured.

Brasswhisker leapt up beside it, tail slowing to match the internal rhythm. “Maintenance after trauma,” he said. “That’s new.”

I popped the access panel. Inside was pristine. No forced entry. No damaged cogs. Someone had cared for this clock.

“He locked himself,” Brasswhisker added. “Voluntary suppression.”

“That’s not a function,” I said.

“It is if fear becomes a parameter.”

A woman stepped forward from the crowd. Her coat was too thin. Her eyes never left the clock.

“They said it would tell us,” she said. “That the clock would show who did it.”

I met her gaze. “It will,” I said. “Just not yet.”

She didn’t look convinced. Neither did the city.

Back in my office, the witness refused everything. Playback loops failed. Manual override stalled. Brasswhisker’s diagnostic purr barely registered.

“He’s holding the data,” Brasswhisker said. “Compressing it. Like breath.”

“Why?” I asked.

He hesitated. That pause tightened something in my chest. “Because he saw what happens to witnesses who accuse the wrong people.”

Memory Court dismantled witnesses quietly. Officially, it was called decommissioning. Unofficially, everyone knew better.

The Court's knock echoed again.

I knelt in front of the clock. “Listen,” I said softly. “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”

The lens slid open a fraction. The alley flickered back—again showing the shadow wearing my face.

“That’s a shell,” Brasswhisker said. “Court-grade projection. Illegal. Expensive.”

The gait was wrong. Too smooth. Too careful.

“They used me,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Brasswhisker said. “Because you’re plausible. And because the clock would learn fear faster that way.”

The witness shut down again.

Memory Court smelled like oil and cold metal. The playback chamber rose in tiers, judges seated behind reflective glass. The clerk slotted the witness into the cradle.

“Playback,” he ordered.

Silence.

I stepped forward. “I object.”

“On what grounds?” a judge asked.

“That this witness was coerced,” I said. “That the playback submitted would be falsified.”

Laughter cut sharply.

Brasswhisker leapt onto the railing. “I will testify,” he said.

Outrage rippled through the chamber.

“I am registered property,” he continued calmly, “but I am also a witness-class unit with adaptive cognition. I confirm selective suppression due to threat modelling.”

“Submit proof,” the judge snapped.

The screen filled—not with the murder, but with maintenance logs, redaction orders, dismantling schedules—patterns stacked neatly into something undeniable.

The witness clock ticked.

Once.

The lens opened.

The real figure stepped into frame. Taller. Wearing Court grey.

The chamber erupted.

By morning, the witness clock had been returned to Low Gear.

Not dismantled. Not archived. Reinstalled.

Its casing bore a narrow brass seal stamped with the words "Restricted Playback" and "Human Oversight Required." A compromise small enough to look like mercy if you didn’t know how hard it had been fought for.

My name was cleared in a single paragraph.

No apology.

Back in my office, the clock on the wall still lay. I left it that way. Some inaccuracies earned their keep.

Brasswhisker sat on the windowsill, metal paws tucked beneath him, watching the city exhale. Steam vents hissed. Gears turned. Somewhere below, a street clock chimed once—steady, unafraid.

“They won’t do it again like that,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Using you,” he replied. “You’re documented now.”

I closed my ledger, slid it into the drawer, and locked it. The office felt smaller without the case breathing inside it, quieter without the Court pressing at the edges.

Outside, rain began to fall.

Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just a thin, patient drizzle, tapping against brass awnings and darkening the soot-streaked streets below. It gathered on clock faces and window glass, blurring reflections, softening edges. Gearhaven didn’t look cleaner for it—just briefly forgiven.

I stood at the window and watched the rain trace its careful paths downward, each drop choosing where to go, each one gone as soon as it arrived.

Behind me, the office clock ticked wrong.

Outside, the city kept time its own way.

I stayed where I was, watching the rain fall, until even the clocks seemed to listen.

The clock on my office wall accused me of murder at twelve-oh-seven.

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Legally.

The second hand lay snapped off at the base of the face, as if it had tried to keep going and failed. Beneath the glass, the red Court indicator pulsed once every three seconds—slow, deliberate, official. A street clock didn’t signal like that unless it had recorded a violent crime and decided the memory mattered.

I stopped writing mid-line. Ink bled across my ledger, turning a neat column of fees and timestamps into a dark smear.

“Don’t stare,” Brasswhisker said. He lay stretched along the filing cabinet, brass ribs ticking faintly as he shifted his weight. His glass eyes reflected the red pulse without blinking. “If you look shocked, it assumes guilt.”

“I’m allowed to be shocked,” I said. “I just don’t like to advertise.”

Steam knocked through the walls like impatient fingers. Somewhere outside, a tram bell rang and faded. Gearhaven didn’t pause for accusations. It logged them, archived them, and moved on.

I stood and crossed the office, shrugging into my coat without thinking. My license hung crooked behind the desk—Private Investigator, Class C, Conditional—the word conditional stamped hard enough to warp the paper. The Court had issued it when I was fourteen, after I untangled a witness-loop malfunction no one else could read. They’d regretted it ever since.

“Iria Vale,” I said, thumb on the playback latch. “Independent investigator. Acknowledging witness signal.”

The clock whirred. Gears shifted behind the face. A hidden lens irised open, throwing a thin rectangle of light onto the far wall.

An alley resolved. Brick is slick with condensation. Steam venting from a grate like breath forced through clenched teeth. A man staggered backwards into frame, hands raised, mouth open on a word the clock hadn’t bothered to capture.

Then the shadow stepped forward.

Same coat. Same height. Same bad habit of leading with the left foot.

My shadow.

The image cut to black.

The clock sealed itself shut with a sharp click, like a jaw snapping closed.

For a long moment, the only sound was the steam in the walls and the soft, precise ticking of Brasswhisker’s tail.

“Well,” he said eventually, hopping down with a metallic clink. “That’s inconvenient.”

“I wasn’t there,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “You’d have tripped on the third cobble. You always do.”

A knock struck the office door—three sharp raps. Official. Memory Court.

My stomach tightened. “They can’t just—”

“They can,” Brasswhisker said. “They have. They will again.”

The knock came louder.

I opened the door to a clerk in pressed Court grey, his hat brim uncreased, his expression already bored with my existence. His eyes slid past me to the clock.

“You have a Class One witness,” he said. “Playback has failed. You will retrieve compliance or submit an explanation within four hours.”

“And if I don’t?” I asked.

“Then the witness will be dismantled,” he said. “And you will be detained pending obstruction review.”

Brasswhisker’s ears rotated forward. “He’s frightened,” he observed.

The clerk stiffened. “That device is not authorised for—”

“He’s a cat,” I said. “Observation unit. Household grade. Perfectly legal.”

The clerk didn’t argue. They never did. He handed me a warm brass case cylinder and turned away.

I shut the door and rested my forehead against it.

“Congratulations,” Brasswhisker said. “The city has retained us to prove you didn’t kill someone you’ve never met.”

I exhaled slowly. “Grab your toolkit.”

The alley sat in Low Gear, where steam pooled ankle-deep and clocks were bolted to brick like apologies no one expected forgiveness for. The body was gone, chalk outline already smeared by boots and time. People lingered at the mouth of the alley, pretending not to stare.

The witness clock hung above the outline, its face cracked, its hands frozen at twelve-oh-seven. Fresh polish gleamed along the casing.

“Someone cleaned you,” I murmured.

Brasswhisker leapt up beside it, tail slowing to match the internal rhythm. “Maintenance after trauma,” he said. “That’s new.”

I popped the access panel. Inside was pristine. No forced entry. No damaged cogs. Someone had cared for this clock.

“He locked himself,” Brasswhisker added. “Voluntary suppression.”

“That’s not a function,” I said.

“It is if fear becomes a parameter.”

A woman stepped forward from the crowd. Her coat was too thin. Her eyes never left the clock.

“They said it would tell us,” she said. “That the clock would show who did it.”

I met her gaze. “It will,” I said. “Just not yet.”

She didn’t look convinced. Neither did the city.

Back in my office, the witness refused everything. Playback loops failed. Manual override stalled. Brasswhisker’s diagnostic purr barely registered.

“He’s holding the data,” Brasswhisker said. “Compressing it. Like breath.”

“Why?” I asked.

He hesitated. That pause tightened something in my chest. “Because he saw what happens to witnesses who accuse the wrong people.”

Memory Court dismantled witnesses quietly. Officially, it was called decommissioning. Unofficially, everyone knew better.

The Court's knock echoed again.

I knelt in front of the clock. “Listen,” I said softly. “I can’t help you if you don’t trust me.”

The lens slid open a fraction. The alley flickered back—again showing the shadow wearing my face.

“That’s a shell,” Brasswhisker said. “Court-grade projection. Illegal. Expensive.”

The gait was wrong. Too smooth. Too careful.

“They used me,” I whispered.

“Yes,” Brasswhisker said. “Because you’re plausible. And because the clock would learn fear faster that way.”

The witness shut down again.

Memory Court smelled like oil and cold metal. The playback chamber rose in tiers, judges seated behind reflective glass. The clerk slotted the witness into the cradle.

“Playback,” he ordered.

Silence.

I stepped forward. “I object.”

“On what grounds?” a judge asked.

“That this witness was coerced,” I said. “That the playback submitted would be falsified.”

Laughter cut sharply.

Brasswhisker leapt onto the railing. “I will testify,” he said.

Outrage rippled through the chamber.

“I am registered property,” he continued calmly, “but I am also a witness-class unit with adaptive cognition. I confirm selective suppression due to threat modelling.”

“Submit proof,” the judge snapped.

The screen filled—not with the murder, but with maintenance logs, redaction orders, dismantling schedules—patterns stacked neatly into something undeniable.

The witness clock ticked.

Once.

The lens opened.

The real figure stepped into frame. Taller. Wearing Court grey.

The chamber erupted.

By morning, the witness clock had been returned to Low Gear.

Not dismantled. Not archived. Reinstalled.

Its casing bore a narrow brass seal stamped with the words "Restricted Playback" and "Human Oversight Required." A compromise small enough to look like mercy if you didn’t know how hard it had been fought for.

My name was cleared in a single paragraph.

No apology.

Back in my office, the clock on the wall still lay. I left it that way. Some inaccuracies earned their keep.

Brasswhisker sat on the windowsill, metal paws tucked beneath him, watching the city exhale. Steam vents hissed. Gears turned. Somewhere below, a street clock chimed once—steady, unafraid.

“They won’t do it again like that,” he said.

“Like what?” I asked.

“Using you,” he replied. “You’re documented now.”

I closed my ledger, slid it into the drawer, and locked it. The office felt smaller without the case breathing inside it, quieter without the Court pressing at the edges.

Outside, rain began to fall.

Not dramatic. Not heavy. Just a thin, patient drizzle, tapping against brass awnings and darkening the soot-streaked streets below. It gathered on clock faces and window glass, blurring reflections, softening edges. Gearhaven didn’t look cleaner for it—just briefly forgiven.

I stood at the window and watched the rain trace its careful paths downward, each drop choosing where to go, each one gone as soon as it arrived.

Behind me, the office clock ticked wrong.

Outside, the city kept time its own way.

I stayed where I was, watching the rain fall, until even the clocks seemed to listen.