The Iron Curtain World

Iron Curtain World

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 Forest City's tallest tower in a black robe, gazing down upon the masses with blazing eyes. A group of blond, blue-eyed children held wheat stalks in their hands, their smiles innocent beneath the slogan: "The Future of Pure Bloodlines." Another poster depicted a sci-fi vision of extraterrestrial colonies, with the flag of the Evil Empire flying over Mars.

The President in the posters was just as unnaturally young as the one on television.

Yes.

Far too young.

Ian's knowledge of history told him that this was the late nineties. By all rights, this President ought to have been a centenarian, feeble and near death.

Yet the man on the screen—

Though he still possessed that hysterically fanatical air, he looked to be no more than fifty-something, vigorous and full of energy. He even looked younger and stronger than he had in some historical photographs from the final years of the war!

Time... seemed to have slowed down far too much for him.

A cold, terrifying thought struck Ian in an instant, nearly stopping his breath.

Why had the President lived for so long?

And remained so... young?

Ian stared fixedly at the television screen, his heart pounding wildly in his chest. Onscreen, the President was waving his arms as he passionately described the Empire's grand blueprint for the future.

Every syllable hammered against the diners' nerves through the restaurant's speakers.

At the same time—

His abundant vitality made Ian's nerves twitch as well.

Too young.

This was absolutely not the state a man nearing a hundred should have been in. That vigorous spirit, that face with scarcely any wrinkles, that booming voice... this