A Minute In Infinity

1. Strange Visions

Ryan nodded, then frowned. "But it's extra sweet," he noted. Kathy frowned and took a sip, testing. She shrugged.

"Seems as sweet as before," she said. She looked him over with concern in her eyes. "Ryan, are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," he replied, and decided not to push the subject further. The day was turning out all sorts of wrong, and he hoped the streak wouldn't last to the recruitment test. He needed to do well if he wanted to enter the Galactic Army. Only the best recruits could become commanders, generals, and starfighter pilots. The benefits were good, joining didn't require you to have an extended knowledge of science, and the money could sustain families for years. Those who didn't get in had to look for other jobs, with the most common being factory workers that processed foods or those that made spaceship parts. The downside was, you'd most likely never see that family again.

His parents hoped that Ryan wouldn't be recruited to the Galactic Army.  They recruited at the tender age of twelve and sent their children into space, where they would train for years to become pilots. And after training, they'd be shipped off to the front lines of the war to fight the Kentauri. But the tests were mandatory, and Ryan had expressed his desire to become a pilot since a young age. Reluctantly, his parents gave him their blessing.

Ryan scarfed down his breakfast, washed his dishes, then put them out to dry. His watch read '8:18AM' in light blue digital. The doors opened at nine in the morning, but he knew there'd be a line-up for the test and he wanted to arrive early. Jimmy and Evan would be there as well.

"Are you ready to go?" Ryan asked, looking up at his mother. Kathy smiled and grabbed her dark brown coat.

"Don't forget your registration papers," she reminded, pushing her arm through a sleeve. Ryan nodded and bolted upstairs. The papers were splayed in a thin, messy pile on his desk, and Ryan quickly flipped through them to make sure everything was filled out. His eyes lingered on the last page, resting on the last line of signatures. His own was scratchy in comparison to the one beside it, a printed copy of General Guinevere Espinoza's. Ryan brushed a thumb over the signature, and a sense of familiarity washed over him as he did.

He blinked and his vision filled with the scene of an office, the entire back wall a window that stared out into space. In the middle of the room was a large carbon desk, and seated behind it was a woman short of stature. Her presence made up for it and filled the room like a large, heavy weight. Short, black hair framed her face, and hazel eyes gazed at him with cold, calculating precision. The twitch of a smile on her face indicated she was otherwise amused. Her slate blue uniform was crisp and orderly, glittering gold medals pinned at her breast. On the table was a small, simple plaque with gold lettering that read 'Guinevere Espinoza', followed by a line of credentials.

Ryan's focus snapped back to the signature, black ink scrawled in multitudes of curved lines. His hands shook as he put down the papers and thrust them into a file. Perhaps he didn't get enough rest last night. Or maybe his nerves were getting to him. Neither excuse felt like a valid explanation for his hallucinations, so he pushed aside his worries and headed downstairs.

Kathy stood in front of the car. She beamed as her son came into view, and she jangled her car keys, signalling that she was ready to leave. The car was parked in the driveway, its faded blue paint dotted with spots of rust and the occasional dent.

"Got everything?" she asked. Ryan nodded and she gave him a thumbs-up. "All right. Let's go." 

He opened door and slid into the seat, glancing up at the rearview mirror. In that one second of seeing his reflection, his sight was filled with another scene. He saw a reflection in the mirror of a man, his messy, dust-brown hair falling across his forehead. Water dripped from the ends and onto the counter top. Tired lines ringed dark eyes that stared out of the glass. A voice echoed in the room, weary, but holding a faint tinge of hope.