Ken Brady He kneels on the train, face up, arms raised to the heavens. A supplicant, as much as possible in these circumstances.
He wonders, to anyone listening, if there is a way out. Is it possible to walk off the front of this train and into linearity?
Weird, he thinks, that a train ride should be anything other than linear. But that's just in perception. It often goes around and around.
The air around him is oddly still, as if waiting for his action. He looks around. An absence of gunfire and snipers. Suspicious.
He takes a step forward. Unsuction. Step. Suction. Rest. It's like a giant mapped-out strategy of his life. He leans his head.
A boomerang passes where his head had been. Have to remember that one on its way back if he wanted to keep his brain.
Odd, something new. Certain forces, unsure of his tack, were playing with him. Different rules, same rulemaker, he supposes.
Another step. The boomerang comes back as a piece of bamboo. Not what he expected, but what should he expect?
Another step, and the train shudders, maybe slows. It's almost imperceptible. A few gunshots, but the bullets don't connect.
They vanish into the skin of the train below. A brief ripple, the holes closing around them. Barely a whisper of continuity.
