Turbo Pudding

Tomorrow AgoMeet the cast

Meet the cast of the stopped minute

· The Turbo Pudding team · 4 min read

In the snowy town square at night, Mira, a girl in a teal coat with a rust scarf, a satchel and brass goggles on her auburn hair, stands in front of a stopped tram marked GLIMMERAU, while Tik, a little walking pocket watch with one big lens eye, hops in the air beside her, with frozen passengers in the tram windows, sparks hanging still under its wheels, snowflakes stopped in midair and a sign on the wall reading THE GREAT CLOCK, MASTERS ONLY

At 11:47 on the night of 21 December 1927, every clock in Glimmerau stops. The snow hangs in the air, the tram halts halfway round the bend, and the pigeons, as Mira puts it, “took off at the first stroke and forgot to come down.” Almost nobody in town can move. This Monday, meet the few who can.

Mira Holt, 15

Mira is the clockmaker’s apprentice, and the clockmaker is her grandfather. We dressed her for snow and lamplight: a deep teal coat, a rust scarf, a tool satchel, lace-up boots and brass goggles pushed up on her auburn bob. She’s practical, a little dry, and very sure of her family. When Grandpa is late home on the night of the Great Winding, she has a theory ready: “Grandpa is never late. Clocks are late. Grandpa is a clockmaker.”

She fixes things the way an apprentice does, with whatever’s on the bench. When the clock oil freezes thick in the cold, she warms it on the stove lid and calls it “liquid patience.” When she finds a tiny key tagged “T” in Grandpa’s drawer, she sums him up: “Grandpa, you terrible keeper of secrets.”

Tik

Tik is a walking pocket watch about the size of a cat. He has a brass case, a cream dial and one big lens eye with an iris shutter, and his whole face lives in that eye. A little mouth grille glows when he talks, the crown and bow on top bob on a spring like an antenna, and a wind-up key turns slowly on his back.

Tik comes from 2427, and he talks in short, happy words. His first words to Mira: “Hel-lo.” Then, after a careful look: “You. Warm. Moving.” He notices things, too. When Mira moves something in the frozen town and it stays put, Tik says it simply: “Mira moves. World stays moved.”

Barnaby, doorkeeper since 1801

Barnaby has kept the door of the Guild of Clockmakers for a hundred and twenty-six years. He’s a tall brass barrel in a wine-red sash and coat-tails, with lamp eyes, a brass handlebar moustache over a gramophone grille, white gloves, white spats and a top hat fixed to his head with two screws in the brim. There’s a big winding key in his back.

He is very proper and very fond of Mira: “You’ve grown an inch and a half since the Michaelmas dinner. I keep a note.” Try to tip him and he declines: “Gratuities are not permitted, miss. But it was a lovely thought.” Tonight he’s tired, and you get to choose whether to wind him so he can keep the door, or thank him and let him rest. Both are kind.

In the dark Guild Hall, Barnaby, a tall brass clockwork doorkeeper with a top hat, round lamp eyes, a red sash across his body and white gloves, stands by a tall wooden double door and raises one arm high, while Mira, a girl in a teal coat with a rust scarf, a satchel and brass goggles on her auburn hair, smiles up at him with her eyes closed, Tik the walking pocket watch stands on the black-and-white tiles beside her, and a row of framed portraits of old Masters lit in amber hangs on the wall behind them
Searched “story game with a robot butler.” He prefers doorkeeper.

Provost Aldous Crane, 63

The head of the Guild missed the Great Winding for one reason: he was in the bath. So now he’s the only Master on his feet, and he’s dressed for it, in a plum velvet dressing gown with the Provost’s chain of office over it, striped pajamas underneath, pince-nez on a long nose, one velvet slipper and one wet gray sock. He opens with a list: “Item one: the Clock has stopped. Item two: the Master is missing. Item three: I am in a dressing gown.”

Crane believes in procedure, and he’d like Mira to know there’s one for visitors: “There is a procedure for visitors, and you are not it.” Offer him a coin and he’s offended: “Bribery, Miss Holt? With ten hellers? I’m insulted on two counts.” Show him Grandpa’s watch and he winces: “Put it away, please. It makes me feel watched.”

In a dim office with a tall curtained window, Provost Crane, a tall bald man with gray tufts of hair and pince-nez, wearing a long plum dressing gown with a gold chain of office, stands with one hand raised to his face, thinking, while Mira in her teal coat and rust scarf looks up at him and Tik stands beside her, with sheets of paper frozen in the air all around them and a lamp glowing on the desk behind
Search: “mystery game, grumpy official.” This one wears one slipper.

Old Ottilie, 83

Ottilie is the thread-reader of Brenna Bridge. She sits on a three-legged stool at the corner of her shop, wrapped in shawls like a cocoon, mustard over plum, with a green knitted rug on her knees, a knitted bonnet and round spectacles. Her needles never stop, and the red yarn runs down to a basket at her feet. Mira describes her best: “a ball of wool that learned to knit.”

Ottilie doesn’t need a clock to tell time. She reads it in thread, and you help her tie three knots for who, where and when. She is strict about the order: “Name first. Always name first.” She’s also kind in her own way. Her first words to Mira end in “Sit. Licorice?” And if you try to pay her: “Put that away. I don’t charge for bad news. Only for wool.”

On a snowy bridge at night under a glowing street lamp, Old Ottilie, an old woman wrapped in a mustard and plum shawl with a red knitted bonnet and round glasses, sits on a stool knitting a red scarf with yarn running down to a basket at her feet, while Mira in her teal coat smiles beside her and Tik waits a step behind, in front of a little shop with a striped awning, tags reading NAME, PLACE and TIME over the counter and a sign that says OTTILIE, THREAD, WOOL, KNOTS READ
Typed “cozy puzzle game knitting.” Found the one who reads the thread.

Everyone else is waiting

The rest of Glimmerau stands still, stopped mid-step: passengers in the tram windows, a courier caught halfway across the square, a couple at the gingerbread stall. They’re all waiting for 11:47 to end.

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