JOLT.
Loop 16. Ethan surfaced into the familiar morning light. He didn't sit up immediately. He lay there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling, the memory of Clara's terrified face in the kitchen doorway burned onto his consciousness. That terror, felt like a deeper wound than any the loop had inflicted directly upon him, she had once thought him crazy, but she was never so directly terrified of him. He had tried to seize control, crossed moral lines, and the result wasn't just failure; it was complicity in her final, fear-filled hours.
The self-loathing was a physical weight, pressing down on his chest, making each breath feel heavy, undeserved. The cold rage that had fueled Loops 13-15 felt distant now, banked, overshadowed by the crushing weight of guilt. Manipulating her, lying to her, frightening her – it had all been for nothing. Worse than nothing. It had actively contributed to the specific circumstances of her death. He couldn't protect her, and his attempts to control the narrative had only added layers of cruelty.
When he finally forced himself out of bed, the movements were slow, heavy, lacking the sharp, driven energy of the previous loops. He walked towards the kitchen not with cold purpose, but with a kind of weary resignation. He needed to get out, needed to continue preparing, because doing nothing felt like surrender, but the thought of facing Clara, of uttering another lie, however small, felt almost physically painful.
He entered the kitchen just as she was turning from the counter, mug in hand, her usual morning smile ready. It faltered almost instantly as she saw him. Not the cold, intense stranger, but someone… hollowed out. The exhaustion was etched deep around his eyes, his shoulders slumped, his gaze distant and profoundly sad.
"Ethan?" she asked softly, putting the mug down, her brow furrowed with immediate concern. "Morning… are you okay? You look…" She searched for the word. "You look like you haven't slept at all."
He met her eyes briefly, then looked away, unable to hold her gaze. The lie felt like acid on his tongue. "Something like that," he mumbled, his voice low, rough. He couldn't feign normalcy. He couldn't bring back the cold fury. All that was left was this aching emptiness and the shadow of his recent failure.
"Do you want to talk about it?" she offered gently, stepping closer, reaching out tentatively towards his arm.
He flinched slightly, almost imperceptibly, pulling back before she could touch him. The physical contact felt unearned, a intimacy he couldn't bear right now. He saw the hurt flicker in her eyes at the rejection, quickly followed by deeper worry.
"I… I can't, Clara," he said, keeping his voice quiet, level, imbued with a sadness that felt genuine because it was. "Not right now. I… I've got some things I need to figure out. Some things I need to do. Alone." He looked back at her, trying to convey… not anger, not dismissal, but a deep, troubled preoccupation. "I think it would be better if I just… went out for the day. Cleared my head."
She searched his face, her own expression a mixture of confusion, hurt, and profound worry. This wasn't the frightening intensity of yesterday, but it was still deeply wrong, a deviation from the man she knew. "Alone? Ethan, whatever it is, maybe I can help. Or just… be here?"
"I wish you could," he said, the words tasting like ash. And maybe, in a world not governed by these cruel loops, she could have. "But this is… something I need to handle myself. Please, Clara. Just… let me go figure things out today. I'll be back tonight." He wouldn't promise Valenti's, wouldn't promise explanations, just a return.
She hesitated, clearly unhappy, clearly worried, but the quiet despair in his voice seemed to dissuade her from arguing further. "Okay, Ethan," she finally conceded, her voice small. "If that's what you need. But… be careful? And call me? Please?"
"I will," he lied again, the word barely audible. He turned and walked quickly to the door, grabbing his keys and wallet. He didn't look back as he let himself out, escaping the warmth of the kitchen, the concern in her eyes, the life he couldn't protect, for the cold, solitary purpose of his grim preparations. The guilt rode shotgun, heavy and silent beside him.
His approach today shifted. No more apartment-based experiments. No more direct interaction with Clara beyond the unavoidable morning departure. The last loops interaction with her proved to him that involving her, would not just hurt himself and make him hesitate, but due to his behaviour would inevitably make her worry... and fear him.
The acquisition run required new destinations. Hardware stores remained necessary for basics – containers, timers, wires – but the core components demanded diversification. First, a large garden supply center on the city outskirts. He walked purposefully past rows of cheerful flowers and lawn gnomes, heading straight for the pest control and lawn treatment aisles. He located bags of sulfur powder – marketed as a soil acidifier. Easy. Next, horticultural charcoal, finely ground. He grabbed a small bag. The crucial ingredient was potassium nitrate. He found it disguised as 'Stump Remover', checking the chemical composition listed in fine print on the back – nearly pure KNO₃. He bought two containers, paying cash, his heart beating a little faster. These simple, widely available materials, harmless individually, held violent potential when combined correctly.
He still needed, picking it up from a beauty supply store. He debated grabbing peroxide again but decided against it for today.
Today's goal was mastering a known, if less potent, explosive: black powder. He needed to understand its synthesis, its behaviour, before layering on more volatile compounds.
By early afternoon, he was driving towards the familiar abandoned industrial switching yard. The isolation felt necessary, not just for privacy, but for safety. The memory of the bubbling beaker and Clara's terrified face was a stark reminder of the risks involved, even on a small scale. He parked behind the crumbling warehouse, the silence broken only by the cry of a distant gull and the crunch of broken glass under his tires as he got out.
He spread a heavy drop cloth over the dusty, cracked asphalt near the rear of his car. Laid out his supplies: the newly acquired stump remover (KNO₃), charcoal powder, sulfur powder. Mortar and pestle (bought cheaply at a kitchen supply store). Digital kitchen scale. Sieves of varying mesh sizes. Safety gear – gloves, goggles, respirator – went on immediately.
First, the potassium nitrate. His research stressed the importance of removing moisture, as KNO₃ is hygroscopic. He set up a small, portable camping stove, placed a clean metal pie tin on it, and carefully poured a measured amount of the white crystalline stump remover into the tin. He lit the stove, keeping the flame low, gently heating the crystals. He didn't need to melt it, just drive off any absorbed water. He stirred it occasionally with a clean metal spoon for about twenty-five minutes, watching for any discoloration or signs of decomposition, guided only by the vague instructions gleaned online. The process felt absurdly domestic, like baking poison.
While the potassium nitrate cooled, he turned his attention to the charcoal and sulfur. They needed to be powdered as finely as possible for optimal reaction. He measured out charcoal into the mortar, the familiar scrape and crunch filling the quiet air as he ground it down with the pestle, the black dust coating his gloves. He sifted it through the finest sieve, collecting the near-impalpable powder, then repeated the process with the bright yellow sulfur, the faint rotten-egg smell noticeable even through his mask. The grinding was laborious, repetitive work, but he channeled his frustration, his guilt, into the physical effort.
Once the potassium nitrate was cool and powdered similarly, it was time for the crucial step: mixing. Accuracy was key. The classic ratio, ingrained from his research: 75% potassium nitrate, 15% charcoal, 10% sulfur, by weight. He meticulously weighed each component on the digital scale, triple-checking the numbers. He added them to a clean plastic container, sealed it, and began the slow, careful process of mixing. Not shaking violently, but rolling and tumbling the container gently for what felt like an eternity, ensuring the powders integrated as thoroughly as possible. The resulting mixture was a dull greyish-black, visually unremarkable, holding no outward sign of its latent energy. He had created crude black powder.
Now, the test. He needed to know if it even worked. He poured a tiny amount, maybe half a teaspoon, onto a flat piece of scrap metal he found nearby, forming a small, neat pile. He unspooled a length of cannon fuse
and carefully inserted one end into the pile. He lit the far end of the fuse with a long match, then quickly stepped back a safe distance, heart pounding.
The fuse sputtered, hissed, then reached the pile. There wasn't a sharp crack, not like gunpowder in a cartridge. Instead, there was a sudden, intense FWOOSH! – a bright orange-white flash, surprisingly vivid in the afternoon light, accompanied by a dense cloud of thick, grey-white smoke that billowed upwards, carrying the characteristic sulfurous stink. It burned incredibly fast, leaving behind a dark residue on the metal.
It worked. Crude, smoky, relatively low power compared to modern propellants, but undeniably energetic. A small knot of grim satisfaction tightened in his chest. This was step one. A tangible result.
He glanced at his watch. Almost 4:30 PM. He still had time. He cleaned the mortar and pestle meticulously. Then, recalling his goal of potential combinations, he considered the acetone. Acetone peroxide (APEX) was notoriously unstable, a primary explosive sensitive to shock and friction, something his research warned against repeatedly, especially for beginners. Synthesizing it safely under these conditions seemed foolishly risky.
But what about simply using the volatility of acetone itself? Could it enhance the black powder's ignition or burn rate? He decided on a simpler, slightly less suicidal test. He prepared another tiny pile of the black powder. Then, using an eyedropper, he carefully added just a couple of drops of pure acetone to saturate the pile, watching as the liquid wicked into the grey powder, darkening it.
He inserted another fuse, lit it, and stepped back quickly. The fuse burned down. When it hit the acetone-dampened powder, the result was different. Not just the FWOOSH, but a slightly sharper POP-FWOOM!, accompanied by a more forceful ejection of smoke and powder particles. The acetone, being volatile and flammable, seemed to accelerate the initial ignition and create a slightly more energetic, almost explosive burst compared to the dry powder.
Interesting. Not a massive difference, but noticeable. A potential enhancement, maybe useful for initiation? He filed the observation away. But it wasn't the leap in power he truly needed. Black powder alone, even boosted with acetone, was a deflagrant – it burned rapidly, creating pressure, but lacked the shattering brisance of a true high explosive. For the kind of immediate, overwhelming disruption he envisioned needing to potentially derail the loop's meticulous timing, he needed something more. He needed a primary explosive to reliably kickstart the secondary charge.
He glanced again at the container of acetone and the carefully stored bottle of higher-percentage peroxide. Triacetone triperoxide. APEX. His research screamed warnings, tabloids of chemical instability. Sensitive to shock, friction, heat, static electricity. Prone to spontaneous decomposition if not synthesized and stored perfectly – conditions utterly impossible in this makeshift outdoor 'lab'. In any normal circumstance, attempting its synthesis would be criminally reckless.
But this wasn't a normal circumstance. This was Loop 16. What were the true consequences of failure? He hadn't tested his own death within the loop yet. Would a catastrophic mistake, a limb-removing explosion, killing him instantly here, simply lead to him waking up again tomorrow, traumatized but physically whole, minus the materials but retaining the brutal lesson? It seemed plausible, given how injuries and even Clara's deaths reset. Or, perhaps, could his own death be the loophole? Could it finally break the cycle, freeing him into oblivion and potentially sparing Clara future loops? He didn't know. He could only assume that the worst-case personal scenario was another reset. Given that terrifying uncertainty, the potential gain – a powerful, easily synthesized primary explosive, a key component for his burgeoning plan – seemed to outweigh the potential physical risk within what he perceived as the loop's likely framework. He wouldn't be careless – wasting loops on recovery, even if temporary, was inefficient, and the pain would certainly be real, loop or no loop – but the ultimate fear of permanent death felt strangely muted, replaced by the desperate need for a weapon against the inevitable 5:17 PM. He had to try.