Does it require the blood of innocence, or merely the blood of any unwilling passerby, to make it run. The Great Gear Room grinds all, all that have outlived any usefulness. This massive structure the shape of an unassuming dark blue box, no windows, no doors, no way in or out, nothing. The sound reverberates through your very being. A continuous, monotonous, machine, with no clear purpose. Its main job, it seems, to merely be. The only evidence of weakness, a collection of used gears, creating a mountain of metal, most covered in blood, though the rain washes that away.
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