The tail end of that single word was coupled with the dawning realization he had power available.  Not one day, not ten, not fifteen, not thirty or sixty or ninety-

No! was the follow-up thought.  His hand couldn’t meet anything before he had another ninety or more days pass.  Instead, he pushed power from head to helm.

He didn’t get to choose what happened.  But what happened made sense.

His thoughts slowed, and though his body was trapped in time, moving with glacial slowness, those ninety days of accumulated power were spent in the helm, giving him control over the speed of his own thinking.
Which put him in the circumstance of being trapped, unable to do anything but think.

Initially, he fought.  He had some residual power, like change left over after he’d spent the bulk on his helmet, and that power was spent on boots, on weapon.  As if he could force himself free with enough power from the boots or enough offensive power from his spear.  His Arclance, as the PRT had dubbed it.

Now he was aware of the days moving past him at normal speeds.  The world beyond was mottled, pollen and dust and construction materials settled on the surface of the globe.

He had twenty-four hours without sleeping to break it up, to decide on each allocation of power.

Helmet.  In hopes of reversing this trap he’d found with his mind moving at normal speed while his body remained frozen, or of finding a better way out.

Heavens 12.none