Chapter Text
Probably just one of those late-ish nights. Almost 11 was definitely late in her book, right? Katrina Saunders looked around her room with an expression of annoyance and frustration on her face.
At least seven clocks lay on the walls and around five alarm clocks on various desks and bookshelves. The collection wasn’t exactly intentional, either, although definitely excessive and unnatural. Clockwork and various time pieces constantly managed to find the Saunders household, no matter how many times the small family refused them with a polite ‘no thanks’, ‘please no’ and then finally ‘please for the love of everything. No,’. Clocks still traded into their hands. Like an unstoppable attraction. Like the clocks found them.
Ticking didn't aid her concentration at all. Studying was most certainly plagued by a constant annoying tick and (shortly after) a tock. Wherever you went in this home, the impending doom of ticking would always follow you. There was no stopping the clocks. Ninjago history and a greater understanding of it would have to wait until Katrina could calm herself down. Kat lived with her father above the Ninjago museum, so it seemed appropriate that her studies were history-based (especially when the material she needed for it was right below her). Her thirst for knowledge only furthered her desperation for history sources. But tonight, her concentration was slipping. Dramatically.
The clock's hands wouldn't stop moving. Ever. There was a constant cycle of life that always kept on flowing, pushing some people on and holding back others. Well, that's what her father always said. Whenever the conversation of time ever came up, her father became distant, always thinking of the past…or was it the future he was looking for? Either way, Kat noticed the behaviour now she was older-about fifteen, nearing sixteen, to be precise. It wasn't just her father being weird about it all. It was her as well. Day by day, time seemed to go by differently. Some days the hands would move quicker than she expected, others much slower. Worst of all, the clocks seemed to get louder and louder and louder and louder and louder!
Until they were too loud.
With a swift reflex, Kat sent her books spinning off the old wood-mahogany, possibly-desk; a display of complete rage and fury.
"Stop!" She squalled-her high-pitched voice pricking. "Why can't I get any work done-"
Across her palm, which she'd just used to discard the books, lay a detailed slit. A crimson slice of pain rested in her palm. Instinctively, she cried, "ow!"
Pinching together her eyes, she felt the icy, metallic blood flow on her fingers. Despite the fact that the wound was scarce, the blood was much. Naturally, a paper cut wouldn't do such a thing-too much liquid, not enough wound.
"Are you alright?" Her father entered the room, his usual smile not currently where it belonged.
Sander Saunders was not an especially tall man-his greying hair and older-aged features accentuated his dark green eyes. His wardrobe consisted of too much dark green, the occasional maroon and not enough of any other colour. Notably, he was always neat and tidy-he was not often seen without a shirt and tie or bow. But owning and curating a museum required a certain etiquette and he ensured to teach his daughter that.
The injured now smiled lightly with a nod, verdant eyes studying the palm, obscured from her father’s eyes. “Y-yeah, I just cut my hand. Kinda stings,"
"On the books?” A reassuring smile powered through and tut of the tongue came. “Again?”
A small nod, but with the introduction of a shiver. Something got cold all of a sudden. Wait not something…everything.
"I've done that many times. Let me see," he smiled at his daughter, taking her hand gently. There was concern in his dark eyes…and something else, a little more odd.
A wave of green energy washed over...everything. Like a smoke bomb almost, but with something more sinister attached. Something more magical. Terrified, Kat bit her lip tightly and scrunched up her green eyes, desperately trying to block out the feeling.
The feeling of...power.
The freezing suddenly captured all the room that surrounded her, keeping her still in her position. Odd as it was, the blood seemed to disperse-her fingers no longer had the stained red, nor the wet. The clocks rested back to where they were a few minutes prior. If they had been unhappy prior to whatever this was, now they were furious. Kat thought they'd been loud before. Now they were silent. Scarily silent.
"Katrina…there's nothing here," came a near-silent whisper.
"I…I swear there was something!" She let go of her lip, total panic in her voice. "Did you not just feel that...that energy? It was-was-"
"Hm? What?" Her father looked up at the clock, acknowledging it's time. Ignoring her. Ignoring his daughter? His gaze floated back eventually. "You should probably get some rest, sweetheart,"
Kat trudged over to her bed uneasily, plagued with both uncertainty and fatigue. She, already in her pj's, gently got into her bed as her father walked over to her.
"Good night…sleep well," his lips touched her forehead.
She frowned however re-spiking the argument, "you think I'm lying…? My hand it-it WAS bleeding. I wouldn't lie to you I swear-" Unquestionable loyalty. Odd.
Shaking his head, he sighed. "No…no, you're probably just tired. Goodnight sweetheart,"
Turning off the light, Katrina was given the darkness to hold onto. Sander faintly left the room with a sad sigh and shake of his head. Quietly, he made his way out of the small apartment. Stepping into the closed museum, armed with a flashlight, he made his way to a door. Entering in silence, he looked around suspiciously. A laboratory-esque space awaited him, full of ungodly marvels-one being a large, reptilian tank, currently empty. In addition, advanced, yet simplistic technologies lay. Sander glanced towards an old, old set of armour, gathering dust in the corner. He reached out his hand, gently touching the dual hands of the clock, emblazoned on the armour.
"Perhaps it is time I tell her who she truly is,"