With fading consciousness, you fumble with the heavy buckle of your utility belt, fingers trembling from exhaustion. The leather slips through your sweaty palms twice before you finally manage to unfasten it. Pulling the belt free with a grunt, you weave it through the remaining intact straps of the pilot's chair, creating a makeshift harness across your torso.

Just as you pull the final loop tight, another temporal wave rocks the chamber violently. Your head snaps forward, but the reinforced restraints hold firm this time. The belt's brass buckle presses painfully into your ribs, but you're grateful for the extra security as the machine groans around you.

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch strange visions flash outside the dome - a towering stone ziggurat crumbling to dust, then reforming in reverse; a fleet of airships engaged in an aerial battle; a lone figure in shimmering robes reaching toward you. The temporal anchor's countdown continues its relentless march: 00:01:47...00:01:46...

Your last coherent thought is of the machine's damaged systems. The navigation computer is offline, the chrono-stabilizers are clearly compromised, and you have no idea where - or when - you'll emerge when the anchor's timer reaches zero. The belt's rough texture against your chest is the final sensation before darkness claims you completely.