Ian sat in a restaurant.
The surrounding walls were painted grayish white, with standardized propaganda posters hanging on them.
The Empire's President stood atop the tallest tower in Lin City, draped in a black robe, gazing down at the masses with blazing eyes; a group of blond, blue-eyed children held sheaves of wheat, their smiles innocent beneath the slogan, "The Future of Pure Bloodlines"; another depicted a science-fiction vision of an extraterrestrial colony, with the evil Empire's flag flying over Mars.
The President in the posters was just as impossibly young as the President on television.
Yes.
Far too young.
Ian's knowledge of history told him that this was the late nineties. That meant the President should have been a centenarian, frail and decrepit.
But the man on the screen...
Though he still carried that hysterically fanatical air, his face looked no older than his early fifties. He was full of vigor, even younger and stronger-looking than he had appeared in some historical photographs from the end of the war!
Time... seemed to have slowed down far too much for him.
A cold, horrifying thought struck Ian in an instant, nearly stopping his breath.
Why had the President lived so long?
And remained so... young?
Ian stared fixedly at the television screen, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. On-screen, the President was waving his arms, passionately describing the Empire's grand blueprint for the future.
Every syllable hammered against the diners' nerves through the restaurant speakers.
At the same time.
His overflowing vitality made Ian's nerves twitch.
Too young.
This was absolutely not the condition a man nearing a hundred should be in. That vibrant spirit, that face with barely any wrinkles, that booming voice... this was not normal aging at all.
Unable to help himself, he turned slightly and