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墨書 Inktalez
Alan's pupils reflected countless corpses of himself, and the suspended umbilical cables suddenly rose like a swarm of snakes. As he gazed at the option "Format All Parallel Memories" on his retina, the nearest corpse suddenly spoke: "You have tried 1,372 times, each time choosing Format All Parallel Memories." This corpse had a transparent chest, with a half photograph of a family stuck between the gears of its Mechanical Heart—exactly the one photo of his mother that had not been replaced by a motorcycle.
"Then let's choose another option." Alan's metallic right hand suddenly plunged into his left chest, tearing out half a gear from the seam of flesh and machinery. The corpse matrix emitted a red alarm light, and all the umbilical cables redirected towards him. On the youngest corpse, sparks fell, revealing an image of his mother before her death: she was sewing a metal umbilical cord into baby Alan's navel while his father was outside tuning a Yamaha engine.
The countdown abruptly resumed, but the numbers turned blood red: **00:21:07**. The asphalt ground cracked open, and flames from 1998 surged alongside the mechanical ruins of 2038. Alan saw different versions of himself crawling out from the fissure; some were fully mechanized, while others had only their heads connected to motorcycle fuel tanks. All the "Alans" whispered in unison: "Find the source of the umbilical cord..."
His father's voice suddenly emerged from within the gears: "You have finally reached this point." The half gear in Alan's hand began to project a holographic image: on a deep night twenty years ago, his father wrapped the baby's umbilical cord around the Yamaha crankshaft, while a metal fetus curled up in the motorcycle's engine compartment. When the first drop of engine oil dripped into the fetus's mouth, Alan let out his first cry in the nursery.
"You are the true original engine." All the corpses raised their hands simultaneously as the umbilical cables pierced Alan's spine. His memory bank was violently hacked, revealing a sealed truth—the night his mother suffered complications during childbirth, his father replaced the dead baby's organs with motorcycle parts, and what soaked in that Yamaha fuel tank was indeed his mother's disassembled womb.
As the countdown entered its final five minutes, Alan's metallic right hand suddenly mutated, extending fingertips that matched the interface of the umbilical cable. Instinctively, he plugged into the control panel of the nearby corpse matrix; a massive data stream surged into his consciousness: every death across timelines would strengthen Yamaha's energy, and all "Alans" were mere cellular replicas in a petri dish.
"Error code 19980715 has been corrected." As a mechanical female voice echoed, Alan realized his genetic blueprint was being restructured. The temporal fragments on both sides of the street began to collapse, coalescing into bas-reliefs on a bronze door: countless versions of himself trapped within motorcycle components while his father stood before the door holding a newborn Yamaha.
At the moment when the countdown hit zero, Alan made an unprecedented choice—he reversed inputted the Format All Parallel Memories command into the umbilical cable. The corpse matrix suddenly emitted baby cries as all corpses rapidly shrank into embryonic forms and flowed back through Yamaha's exhaust pipe along the cables. His father's face twisted on the bronze door: "How dare you destroy..."
"This is the true Eternal Life program!" Alan's metallic body began to disassemble as parts flew toward vacant spots in the bas-relief. As the last gear fitted in place, the door thunderously swung open, revealing his mother's figure in blinding light. She held a severed metal umbilical cord in her hand, with an illusion of an unaltered normal world behind her.
The Yamaha exploded into a torrent of metal; his father's face screamed amidst swirling parts. Just before fully disassembling, Alan threw that half gear, shattering the head of the baby motorcycle in the bas-relief. The bronze door began to close as he saw his mother from 1998 walking towards sunlight with a healthy baby in her arms while all remnants of motorcycles across timelines turned to dust.
In that final moment, Alan's perception scattered into every screw. He became part of the street itself, feeling raindrops from 2018 pass through ashes from 1998 while mechanical remnants from 2038 sprouted wildflowers beneath asphalt. When the first genuine baby cry echoed from the newly born garage, those scratch marks on the rusty roll-up door finally ceased bleeding.
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