"Yes... mhm... good..." Icarus smiled to himself as he muttered beneath the old tractor. He grabbed a wrench after feeling around for it and tightened something, then glared as his eye caught a large, dark blotch under one corner of the chassis. He growled as he begrudgingly slid out from under the heavy machine and got to his feet. It was his old arch nemesis: rust. After grabbing his oil can, he rolled up his sleeves and was about to make his way back under the tractor, when he stopped suddenly. He looked around slowly for a moment, searching around the otherwise empty barn. Save for the scattering of tools he'd brought with him for this particular job, it was just him and the tractor, though for a moment he had the feeling he was being watched. Shrugging to himself inwardly, he blamed it on lack of sleep and continued working. A cool breeze wafted in from the open barn door, a testament to the perfect, cloudless weather outside. He worked along merrily, talking to himself as he went, spilling a little oil on his face and not minding it one bit. The breeze picked up a little more, but Icarus didn't notice as he continued.<br/>"Aha! The struts... they're bent," he stated as a matter of fact to no one as he scooted out from under the machine once more. He took up his steel hammer, the one he carried with him everywhere he went, and looked out the open barn door. "Strange..." he murmured as he closed his worn brown trench coat around his body; the breeze had picked up and it seemed unusually chilly, especially for this time of year. The feeling of being watched swept over him once more but he shook his head, almost defiantly, "Its just a bit of weather, a cold front is all, don't be such a lilly." He stretched his fingers around the slender grip of the hammer and looked out the wide open door once more. The wind shifted and became... "Cold," he whispered to himself as he wrapped his arms around his midsection. He shook his head once more and took a step toward the door. The birds were still chirping outside and the view was the same... but the landscape, the trees... they all looked like a very elaborate painting. He furrowed his brow deeply as he took another step forward; it wasn't just his imagination, he knew that now. The large oak tree that was swaying slightly as he'd entered the barn nearly an hour before was now static, its branches frozen in a perfectly still image. He took a deep breath and began moving forward quickly, never being one for games or drawn out mysteries, "All right, what the devil is..." as he reached out beyond the door and into the outside his world went suddenly black.<br/><br/>----<br/><br/>Usually, when he slept, he dreamed of moving parts and machinery. Thoughts of cogs and giant groaning wheels plagued his mind, his imagination working to create even when he slept. This time however, he slept deeply; strangely, but deeply. His mind was nearly void of thought, except that he knew he was asleep. Unaccustomed to such restfulness, a small part of his consciousness fought against it. He felt as if he'd been drugged, or as if some large, over bearing force was inducing the sleep. He struggled, though passively, like an floating ember trying to embrace something to alight before it flickered out.<br/><br/>'wake up.'<br/><br/>Icarus' eyes opened suddenly, though he saw nothing within the first few seconds, his mind still hazy. As the room came into focus, he saw nothing but gray. He came to himself a second later; he was on his back, lying down facing up. His ever methodical mind pieced together his consciousness almost faster than he could process it. He opened his eyes more widely and blinked several times, then raised his head up slowly.<br/>"Gods and saints!" He half rolled half fell backwards and sideways off the surface he'd been sleeping on, more surprised than terrified. A clown... no a jester, stared at him with an unreadable, neutral look. Icarus shuffled backwards in a crab like motion as he hit the floor in a heap, his eyes fixed on the figure as he did so, "What are you!" He blurted as more of a statement than a question as he scrambled to gather his thoughts. He looked around sharply, surveying the gray room and the portrait of the young looking man on the wall. Shaking his head, he looked at the jester once more and shakily forced himself to his feet. "I suppose if you wanted to hurt me you'd have done it already," he said with an unsure tone in his voice. "Where..." he looked around once more, still wary of the jester sitting atop his makeshift bed, "...Are we?" Not expecting an answer from what he supposed was some kind of mechanical doll, he produced a large, gilded pocket watch from his trench coat pocket and flipped it open. The hands were stuck in place, nearly a quarter after three, and the clock has ceased ticking. The watch was an invention of his own, the only one of its kind as far as he knew, since it kept the date for him as well. The small hands that showed the month and year had not only stopped, but had somehow overlapped each other. He stared at the watch incredulously, shaking his head slowly for the umpteenth time, "When are we?"