[ WP ] Stopping time is commonplace among society . One day , you ask a coworker about a task that is assigned and you know he is going to stop his time to research and complete . After the question is asked , he appears incredibly aged and war warn . You ask what the hell he just went through .

`` Would you look at that...'' 
 
 Bits of Corporal Fulton started to crumble into scale, the dust lost to the blowing wind. He raised a fading hand, watching with quiet horror as it flaked to nothing. Then the skin of his face began cracking, the spider's web crisscrossing his features before dissolving to nothing. Hilary Flint hissed in alarm and drew his pistol, racking back the slide and aiming its barrel at the doomed corporal. 
 
 `` I'm sorry, Tom.'' 
 
 ***Blam! *** 
 
 The corporal fell back into the foxhole, a neat little hole just above his ear. Bits of brain coated the edge of the foxhole, the blood running down the walls in narrow streams of gore. Flint spat aside in distaste. 
 
 `` *They've got a Chrono....*'Ware Timer! Watch out for a Timer!'' 
 
 The cry followed up and down the lines, men touching hidden crucifixes and muttering further prayers to whatever deity of their choice. Aside from that there was little for them to do except hunker down and continue fighting. The arrival of this new foe was readily apparent, the enemy charging faster than any man ever could, their sprinting legs a blur beneath the layers of armor and leather that wore. Bullets seemed to travel at a languid pace, their wake visible in the air as they flew. Swordsmen batted them aside with a flick of their blades, the heavy lead rounds tumbling in slow motion to land on the grass. 
 
 `` Claymores!'' Flint shouted, and ducked as engineers activated the landmines, the electrical switch still faster than anything the enemy mage could counter-act. The claymores, aimed at the packed ranks of foes exploded in a shower of metal and fire. Hundreds of steel ball bearings, their momentum remaining the same, tore through the enemy lines. Flint watched in detail as armor was punched clean through and bones were pulverized to dust. Scores fell, limbs gone, faces missing as they cried aloud. 
 
 One of them had to have been the mage as time resumed its normal course, relativity surging back like a flood into the temporal void. For a brief, terrifying second the winds whipped around with hurricane force before settling, all the muted noise impacting against his ears in a deafening roar. Flint felt something trickle from his ears, tasted blood on his lips. 
 
 -- - 
 
 Thirty minutes later and it was all over, save for the grim task of burying the dead. Their own casualties received marked graves, their bodies wrapped in their green cloaks. For the enemy dead they dug a trench and pushed the naked corpses in, pouring kerosene over the lot. The smell of burning flesh filled their noses like overdone pork. 
 
 The mage had started crawling away, a trail of blood and bloody bandages left in his wake. Flint followed it, bayonet in hand. He was not inclined towards mercy that day, and by the tearful pleas of the mage, he knew that as well.
