Another trickle of sweat stung his eye but he hardly blinked. Never in all his years in rail traffic control had he witnessed something like this.

Chief supervisor Nakamura Hayato watched bar after bar on the computer screens flash from green to yellow to red. The estimated time schedules on the monitors were... nonsensical.

It had all begun with the 15h25 bullet train from Sendai, or what should have been the 15h25. The Tohoku Shinkansen had arrived an unfathomable 24 minutes late, the engineer relaying the news over the radio telephone to Nakamura at a complete loss to explain why. The train had left Sendai on time. Weather was fair, no natural occurrences or blockages on the rails. It was simply that the usual 2 hour 6 minute journey had —stretched? —to 2 hours 30. And those 24 minutes had been but the start.

Nakamura swiped at his damp brow then reached for his tea cup, huffing when he raised it to his mouth. The cup was empty. He'd known that. It was why he put the kettle on just before to make a fresh pot of tea.

How much more forgetful and distracted was he going to get with everything going on?

He grabbed a rice ball from his bento box and shoved it into the microwave on the service counter, punching in the usual 30 seconds.

All the bars on the screens were now flashing red.

This was unprecedented in the history of the East Japan Railway where punctuality was not merely a matter of pride, but of honour. Trains ran on a strict timetable, with the precision of the Buddhist monk's clanging bell.

Speaking of...

Distant alarms rang. They were coming from the city, underscored by a medley of police, fire, and ambulance sirens.

More immediate were the announcements that buzzed over the station intercoms, delivering profuse apologies to harried-looking commuters. Uniformed clerks were rushing like bees to distribute certificates, proofs of delay, should people be made late for work or appointments. Those hoping to eventually connect to the Narita Express for the airport would not find things much better there, Nakamura knew. Reports had been coming in of flight disruptions.

He reached for the teapot. It was cold to the touch. Nakamura frowned. He'd poured hot water into it but minutes before —he scratched the back of his neck— hadn't he?

The sudden stench of burnt seaweed had him lunging for the microwave to pop open its door.

He dropped the smoking rice ball onto the counter, its seaweed wrap completely scorched. The microwave's timer was flashing 00:00 but the power hadn't shut off.

What an utterly confounding day.

To add to the confusion, his friend had called earlier asking where he was. They were supposed to have met up at the hot spring bath some hours ago his friend said. Nakamura barely recalled what he'd answered before hanging up. What had his friend been going on about anyway? His shift wouldn't be over for another... his Apple watch display was blurry. He rubbed his eyes. Was it really almost 19h00?

He lowered his wrist, his gaze sliding over to the wall of security cam feeds, stopping upon the monitor for platform D.

The man was still there.

Nakamura had noticed the smiling, older man wearing a vintage black suit and dark sunglasses earlier, emerging from a train departing to Yamagata. At first he could have sworn the man had been holding a hockey stick but upon closer view, Nakamura saw it to be a cane. The man continued to linger on the platform –how long had it been now?– ignoring the flustered passerbys rushing about him.

The junior supervisor, Takashi, rushed breathlessly into the control room, his face pale. The younger man's usually meticulous uniform shirt clung to him in large sweat patches.

"Senpai, voice communication is down. We're in the dark for locomotives, real-time tracking, no telematics or video data. Signalling is down, so is satellite. The last news I caught was reporting satellite crashes." Takashi paled further when his eyes fixed on the security feed cam wall. Nakamura turned back to look. Cameras were now switching off one by one, their monitors filling with static.

Nakamura tossed a railway security cap at his junior, then donned one for himself. They would need to begin manually coordinating rounds for security checks. He grabbed a pair of emergency portable two-way radios and headed for the door. "Let's go."

Before stepping out after his junior, Nakamura glanced back at the feed. Platform D's was the last still on, the old man nowhere to be seen. Then the camera went dark.

He turned and froze. The man was now standing in the doorway of the control room, his cane held high.

"Hello Nineteenth."

_____

The pocket watch's thin chain dangled about Midnight's wrist as he admired the exquisite artistry of Twenty-second's Clock. Now here was a timepiece of classic elegance, not like that Apple watch of Nineteenth's which he had cored.

He traced the crack he'd made along the pocket watch with his thumb, enough to stop it working while it remained intact. He'd taken an immediate fancy to this Clock and wished to keep it. The precious stones set in its ceramic case sparkled in the moonlight streaming through the dome of the lighthouse.

Peering closely at the watch face, Midnight lowered his sunglasses. Dusk had settled over his sunlit eyes, their reflection in the glass revealing faint specks of stars inside his darkening pupils. Soon both his eyes would be of night for the first time. And for the last.

How eagerly he wished the morrow.

He snapped the lid closed and tucked the watch and chain into his pants pocket then stepped over Twenty-second's broken telegraph to head outside.

A shame she'd thrown the machine at him in her attempt to escape. He'd have enjoyed dot-dot-dashing a few Morse code messages. Ah well. He ventured onto the lighthouse's gallery to gaze out over the rough sea.

The Icelandic coastal air held a salty chill. Seabirds were nested in the high seacliff nearby. A pod of whales swam in the distance, their blows visible.

It had been altogether a very satisfying afternoon; snuffing out Fifteenth's candle Clock in Nepal, bar hopping on Khao San Road in Bangkok to dunk Seventeenth's neon wall Clock into one of the alcohol-filled buckets being some of the more memorable moments.

Midnight smirked. The roar of the crashing surf beneath the lighthouse was not so unlike the roar within the hockey arena of Eighteenth's Here & Now in Montreal. The crowd had gone wild when the number 18 right winger's shot ripped into the net, followed by the number 18 player himself who never had time to react to the stick check to his forehead from the unknown defenseman who'd appeared out of nowhere. He shoots! He scores! The scoreboard overhead had exploded —clever Clock, Eighteenth, very clever.

Both he and Eighteenth had vanished at the same moment from the rink, Midnight riding the wave of adrenaline and excitement to get on to the next Watch, Nineteenth's. That Hour had not only forgotten Midnight but had forgotten who he truly was as well –thinking himself a mortal. Sacrilege! All the more reason to gather all the Watches for himself.

The last several Hours had indeed been in various states of confusion and/or lethargy; some entirely lost as to who they were and what they were doing, several not recognizing Midnight at all. The effects of gathering the Watches to himself? No matter. Once the Hours were back upon their sigils, all would be fine. Forever present upon the Circle, he would reclaim and preserve the sanctity of their purpose.

And what of the effects on the human world?

While laying to rest Twentieth's grandfather Clock at his waterfront hotel in Barcelona, Midnight had watched the TV in the lobby showing reports of plane crashes, runs on banks, traffic accidents. Collateral damage of no concern to him. Midnight only paid these a passing thought. Once this day was done, and the next entirely his, he would take his time –his time– to decide what to do about humanity's time.

A smile tugged at his lips. Only one more Hour to go. And she would be coming to him. Hmm. Unless she too forgot who she was? No matter. If she did not appear at the Circle before the end of her Watch, he would simply summon her there and she would remember. He would easily force her to hand him the last minute so he may call a new day, his day, with all the lesser hours obediently and dutifully standing their watches upon their sigils once more.

And what of Twenty-third's child?

His smile vanished.

A child of mortal and guardian. A mistake of nature. An aberration.

Like broken time, something to correct.

_____

The child had moved places.

She was sitting upon Twenty-third's sigil, eyes fixed on an inanimate Twenty-second standing silent near her.

"You know your mother's sigil?" Midnight leaned on his cane at the Circle's centre. He saw that the child had left her toy projector there, partially covered by the blanket he'd summoned for her. The cakes and pitcher of water appeared untouched, as well as the –he raised his chin– empty potty. Good. She hadn't dirtied anything.

The child remained seated, barely sparing him a glance. Had she finally grown fearful of him? She would have witnessed each of the subdued Hours from afternoon to evening appear upon their sigils one after the other.

"Mommy has her swiggle on her phone. I see it when Uncle Kanja calls."

"Your mother will be here for you shortly, Zoe."

"But it's too late for my birthday pizza party now." He heard her whisper.

Midnight gazed at the celestial skies above as he walked towards his sigil, pleased to see the heretofore conjunction of twilight and dawn had shifted. The breath of night was extinguishing the day. The Heavens above the Circle were bending to his power, and soon to his will.

"Are you going to make mommy sleep too?"

"No," he lied, stopping before her. "Your mother possesses something she needs to hand over to me. Once she does, everyone here can go home to their Here and Nows."

The girl stared at him and Midnight frowned. Her expression was one of annoyance.

"You stole me and Uncle Kanja and Doctor Oskar and all the sleeping people so you could take something from her? That's bad."

"On the contrary."

He made a slow, sweeping gesture with the cane. Crackling threads of light appeared around the perimeter of the Circle and the girl let out a gasp. The threads twisted about each of the sleeping Hours and spun inwards to coalesce at the cane's raven head grip, silver filaments spreading throughout the shaft which stretched and shifted back into Midnight's staff. A glowing wall around the Circle appeared and flared for a moment then vanished.

No longer impeded, the cosmic winds blew through. Midnight stepped onto his sigil, his suit changing back to his robes. He closed his eyes for a moment and drew in a deep breath. It felt good to have the breeze blow through his long beard again and his robes flap about him.

"A birthday party you said? But what we have here is about to be the best of parties, Zoe. Only one more guest to go and then the whole family will be reunited, everyone quiet, respectful" –he directed the last two words at her with a sharp, angry air and a warning scowl– "wearing their best."

The girl's lips pressed into a thin line and she dropped her chin, hugging her knees to her chest. Midnight resumed watching the skies overhead.

Neither he nor the child spoke for a long time. Both waited in the silence as Twenty-third's watch commenced and the minutes passed. When he did glance at her again, it was to see the winds playing with her curls and the sparkle of the upswept stardust clinging to her jumper.

Soon it wouldn't matter but he found himself curious enough to ask.

"How many mortal yea–, hmm, how old are you turning, Zoe?"

"It's not really time for my birthday yet."

"Oh?"

"Uh huh, Mommy says I was born at the—"

The girl's head snapped up. Something sharp pierced Midnight in the back.

"Mommy!"

"Zoe, run!"