The ward rattled as the chronal engines cycled.
Due to “administrative efficiency,” the hospital registered soldiers as dead five minutes before their actual demise to save on logistics.
“I'm still breathing,” the corporal wheezed, watching his own name appear on the casualty list.
“The system doesn't make mistakes,” the nurse whispered, her eyes flickering like a dying bulb.
“Time doesn't exist; it's just a trick of the mind, right? Please...” He willed the clock to reset.
The room shuddered. Time looped, but his body didn't. He was now a conscious corpse, trapped in a five-minute window of endless, agonizing paperwork.
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alt="Timeliness by Stephen Sottong"
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width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Torso for Tomorrow by Randall Andrews"
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loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
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sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="A Rip in Time by Andrew Kurtz"
class="motion-reduce"
loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>
sizes="(min-width: 1200px) 550px, (min-width: 750px) calc((100vw - 130px) / 2), calc((100vw - 50px) / 2)"
alt="Tomorrow by B.G. Smith"
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loading="lazy"
width="1200"
height="630"
>