(excerpted from The Story of Dynamo Pullman)
When the guard pulled the trigger, there was no sound. Despite the firearm having caused an immense ripple through the air in the chamber, however, time had stopped and there was no way for it to be recognised. At the exact same moment, the bullet had left the barrel, passed through skin, bone, organs, skin again, then air, disintegrating into the fabric of nothingness. Zückerman lurched once, ever so slightly, and yet this too, this cacophonic convulsion of his doomed body, was completed in no time whatsoever. He was dying, but in that moment such trivialities were indistinguishable. All stopped.
Though Dynamo was able to think in the temporally crystallised wisp of nothing they were trapped in, the threads of his thought remained perfectly still. He was aware of himself only through the irreverent repetition. Millions of lines ran through a single point in spacetime; airplanes and trains collided, attempting to occupy the same space at the same time.
Zückerman's eyes were perfectly centered, as if they both were endeavoring to say something and, having discovered that the eyes is not a mechanism for narration, were screaming as loud as possible in the only ways they knew how. All of him was trying to pour out nonsensical amounts of information, an entire life's worth! A childhood, adolescence, adulthood amounting to this eternity? Whatever natural laws that govern the physics of Earth were hard at work. Repairing an eternity's cache of illogic in a period of not time whatsoever... and everything would have broken down into unintelligible static if there had existed time to do so.
A mass deletion of memory and future caused by an infintesimally small trajectory collapsed to a point. This never ended. Somewhere we are all locked in this stasis...
Then with ridiculous colour and realistic immensity, the room rocketed back into place, and Wolfgang A. Zückerman collapsed to the chilled floor of the cell, dead.
When the guard pulled the trigger, there was no sound. Despite the firearm having caused an immense ripple through the air in the chamber, however, time had stopped and there was no way for it to be recognised. At the exact same moment, the bullet had left the barrel, passed through skin, bone, organs, skin again, then air, disintegrating into the fabric of nothingness. Zückerman lurched once, ever so slightly, and yet this too, this cacophonic convulsion of his doomed body, was completed in no time whatsoever. He was dying, but in that moment such trivialities were indistinguishable. All stopped.
Though Dynamo was able to think in the temporally crystallised wisp of nothing they were trapped in, the threads of his thought remained perfectly still. He was aware of himself only through the irreverent repetition. Millions of lines ran through a single point in spacetime; airplanes and trains collided, attempting to occupy the same space at the same time.
Zückerman's eyes were perfectly centered, as if they both were endeavoring to say something and, having discovered that the eyes is not a mechanism for narration, were screaming as loud as possible in the only ways they knew how. All of him was trying to pour out nonsensical amounts of information, an entire life's worth! A childhood, adolescence, adulthood amounting to this eternity? Whatever natural laws that govern the physics of Earth were hard at work. Repairing an eternity's cache of illogic in a period of not time whatsoever... and everything would have broken down into unintelligible static if there had existed time to do so.
A mass deletion of memory and future caused by an infintesimally small trajectory collapsed to a point. This never ended. Somewhere we are all locked in this stasis...
Then with ridiculous colour and realistic immensity, the room rocketed back into place, and Wolfgang A. Zückerman collapsed to the chilled floor of the cell, dead.
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