I’m 20, and that means I hate our modern world. Sure, the modern world has great stuff for people my age like iPods, the internet, running water, and cats, but I hate it for the phrase “youth is wasted on the young”. I hate that phrase because of how true it is. When you’re twenty, you’ve been sucking on the teat of society for two decades. The result is a person who is at the pinnacle of health in their life both physically and mentally: after that it’s hard to stay in shape and your brain cells die. Most Olympians setting records are somewhere around 20. Look around, what are twenty year olds doing? Wasting their peak condition mostly. Working as cashiers, in retail at department stores, food service, baristas.

It’s true: if you’re twenty you haven’t accomplished anything significant. This used to not always be the case. In hunter-gatherer and early agricultural civilizations 20 year olds were doing pretty much everything significant and important. They were raising families, being shepards, farming, they were useful because that’s the age that you’re the fastest, most dextrous, and most quick-witted. You had to be useful at 20, because by that point, your life was half to 2/3 over. Oh sure, twenty year olds can do the same stuff now but A) those things are no longer significant or important, and B) a migrant worker would do those things for half the price, so you might as well go apply to Starbucks.

Why can’t we matter? Why do we all have to be shitheads who can’t contribute anything? Because our world is now so fucked up that even after being in it and just absorbing and taking in everything that you can get your grubby little paws on for twenty fucking years: you still don’t know shit about pretty much anything and everything in the world. So your options are to be insignificant and work a shitty job, or to realize that you can’t matter unless you know more and to continue draining society via universities.

In fact, there’s only one thing left that 20 year olds can still do to matter: beat the shit out of other 20 year olds. What does that say about our fucked up world? That’s why when I have a kid, I’m pushing them the fuck through school and having them skip grades. I don’t care how unhappy they are, and why would I to live with a teenager anyway? They’ll probably just have sex in my house. I’d do it so that by the time they’re thinking, moving, seeing, and doing things at the highest possible rate that they can for their whole life, they can do shit that matters. Otherwise it’s just wasted potential. Youth wasted on a shitty young person.

Arthur Miles had been a well-known politician, perhaps better known for his eccentricity than any actual work on policy. The man was only 35, even with his reputation; surely there was nothing he would have been able to accomplish by such an age. He was a man who took on his work at his own pace and came and went as he pleased. Often, the only place you can find Arthur Miles is in his elaborate study. In fact, he had moved his bed into the study, as he found it much more comfortable than falling asleep in his chair. However, even with as good a memory as Arthur Miles’ he could barely remember the last time he slept, which was last night, March 14th. Even the last time he managed to make it to nightfall, tonight seemed an eternity ago.

Perhaps the only thing that kept him going was his best friend, James Brighton, whom he had met just this morning, not one hour ago. The two men were currently walking halfway across a bridge in silence.

“Hey, Arthur,” James broke the silence, he always does that, the bastard, there’s nothing new to talk about yet. “Have you figured out what we’re supposed to do yet?”

“No, James, if I did I wouldn’t have to spend all of eternity with you today. Currently our only leads are today, this morning, and the existence of infinite possibility.” Arthur looked at James, “In fact, it might be useful to say that before we find out what we must do, we must first investigate everything. It would be a shame to squander an opportunity to do just that, wouldn’t it? That’s why the bureau doesn’t tell you what to do.”

“So, what, we’re just going to wander around and go to every place we can at the same time in an effort to find anything at all?” James threw up his hands in exasperation. “How are we even supposed to know what kind of hints we’re looking for?”

“We don’t James, that’s why we have to investigate everything.”

“Everything huh? I guess it would be a waste to squander this opportunity.” James slowed his pace and steered his friend towards a closed door.

“What is this place? Some kind of club?”

“Yeah, for gentlemen, obviously, just look at the sign there. We’re British and in suits, I think that means we qualify. Maybe we can ask other esteemed gentlemen here about… uhhh… everything.” James ushered his friend past the bouncer and into the smoky cabaret.

6:30AM

“And thus marks the end of my 13,734th attempt to complete the mission, and your first attempt to complete the mission.” Arthur explained to a screaming James as the blood crept across the blue tile floor.

The tall woman left the room.

“GOD FUCKING DAMMIT, JESUS, SHE FUCKING SHOT US,” James screamed in agony writhing around on the floor. The nurse, that’s it, he had to push the button to send for a nurse. This was a hospital after all, surely no one dies of gunshot wounds in hospitals.

He looked towards the bed frantically and spotted the red button behind the bedframe. “HOLY FUCKING CHRIST” he continued to exclaim as he dragged himself across the floor towards the opposite wall. All he had to do was make it that last few feet to the attendant button, which looked like it had a reassuring light within the button, as if the button itself would become his red beacon of hope once he had pushed it.

Arthur looked across the room at the messy trail and writhing man on the other side of the room. His last breath was once again a sigh.

“FUCK, ARTHUR, ARE YOU DEAD? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON.” James frantically struggled to the button, hand outstretched, and pushed it. The light never came on, no one had checked to make certain the long term coma patient’s attendant call button was working. James died in agony at 6:35AM.

4:46 AM, He woke up: the numbers on the old LCD display slowly came into focus. The hospital room smelled as clean as it always had. White sheets, white curtains, and a neatly made white bed. Trembling, he sat up and ran his hand across his face, opened his patient’s gown and felt his chest.

“I need to get out of here” he thought, jumping up and changing out of his gown.

11:15AM, Paris, France. The mid day sun shines down on the luxurious courtyard as tourists mull about trying to figure out how they can take pictures of themselves holding up the glass pyramid. The laughter of children and the distant lilt of accordion buskers fill the air with a pleasant atmosphere. James just hoped the two sounds were unrelated.

“God, I’m tired, why the hell did we drive to the fucking Louvre? I absolutely hate road trips, and your little classic car does not feel good on my ass for five hours. Where did you even learn how to drive? India?” The exhausted James slumped back onto the bench.

“Come on, lets go, why would you complain about sitting for hours and then just want to sit around some more? We’re wasting this excellent opportunity.” Arthur Miles stared at James in disbelief. “This is what happens when I grant your request, I told you last time we wouldn’t take the car off the bridge, so, since we have a car, we might as well go to a destination much farther than one we’ve been to before.”

“I told you already, I haven’t said anything to you about your stupid car, you used to drive it off a bridge immediately, but now you took me on this long-ass trip to bloody France. I’m thinking about having you wreck your stupid car just so I don’t have to sit through that again.” James got up and dusted off his suit. “So, What are we going to do here? Steal the Mona Lisa? Because I can’t think of anything else important enough to require the bureau to come out here.”

The two men in suits walked slowly towards the main entrance. Two 180cm tall men, two grey suits, one briefcase, one leather satchel, one bowler hat, one moustache, and four Oxfords made up the only known branch of The Infinity Bureau.

8AM, London, the streets are crowded with the most useful portion of the populace. The sun has been up, but the hazy fog over the city doesn’t dare let any light through to the depressing Monday morning occurring below it so that there is no chance a literal brightening of the day could brighten the day of these people.

A fine man in a fine suit sits at a fine table drinking rather fine tea, he looks over to his partner, “James, do you ever question the sentience of clouds?”

His partner, also clad in a grey suit, looks at him with an exasperated expression, “What the fuck are you talking about Arthur? And why are we here, of all places?”

“Have we been here before, James?”

“No, Arthur, we haven’t, so I really have no idea what we’re doing here.”

“James, have you considered that because we have an infinite number of possibilities laid before us that we should, obviously, take them? Then you should question me when I take you somewhere we have been, not when we are somewhere new.”

James pondered this over his coffee as he looked about. The street was busy and bustling as well as every business on it. The shop they were at had taken much too long to prepare just two drinks, but the two men hardly noticed, they were on a different plane altogether from the impatient mass of people crowding the shop and spilling out onto the street.

“Hey, do you know who that lady is? The exhibitionist who always shows up in my room today.”

“James, I thought you already established that she was wearing slacks.”

“Hey, don’t ruin my fantasy, ok, it’s fine for me to imagine the hot blonde who visits me when I snap out of my coma is only wearing red glasses, stilettos, and a trench coat.”

“Ok then, James, what if I told you that the hot blonde exhibitionist who visits you every today is my sister, Caroline? And that I invited her to this shop to hear her reason for attacking us so consistently?”

“If you told me that I’d have no choice but to ask you for her number” replied James.

“You really are a buffoon, James,” Arthur said, burying his forehead into his palm. Arthur sighed and then looked up, “Ah, here she is now.”

Caroline sat down at the table, and squinted at them from a heavily bandaged face. “Hey Arthur, do you know where my glasses are? I lost them earlier this morning to some douchebag.”

James pulled a handful of red plastic shards out of his pocket and placed them on the table, “You know, this might be a bad time, but can I get your phone number?”

James woke with a pounding headache and tried to look around the room. White sheets, white walls, blue tiled floor, white curtains, disturbing scent. A clock reads 4:46AM on the bedside table.

“Where am I? Is this a hospital?” The florescent light in the hallway illuminated a small rectangle in the middle of the floor, which began to spin. The pain in his head answered his questions with a swift return to unconsciousness.

James woke again at daybreak, the pain was still there, he looked at the clock: 6:25AM.

“Finally up? Although I guess this is the time we’ll always meet.”

James looked around for the source of the voice.

“Over here.”

A tall, blonde, mustachioed man stood in the corner looking at him.

“Who are you?” James asked.

The man walked over to James. He was well dressed, a sharp grey suit with an expensive looking watch poking out, small circular glasses, and a bowler hat. He leaned over and James looked into his deep green eyes, “My name is Arthur, James, and I’m going to be your partner for the mission the bureau has assigned us.”

“Mission? Bureau? Partner? How do you know my name?”

Arthur looked at him, bemused, “If you’re going to question every noun in my statement, there’s really no point to me stating it, now is there? As for your name, it’s written here at the foot of your bed: James Brighton. It also says you have a terrible head injury that you’ll never wake up from, among more irrelevant information.”

James looked at him confused.

“However that’s not the only reason I know your name: I’ve actually met you many times, although you’ve never met me. Starting an hour and a half ago, both of us became agents for the bureau and we are now expected to carry out a mission.”

“Ok, what’s the mission?”

“I know many things, James, but I do not know that. All I know is, or rather, all I know about the bureau is, or rather: Concerning our current predicament all that can be said is, no wait-“

“Holy shit man, just fucking tell me.”

“You and I were assigned a mission and are expected to complete it. The time limit is undefined. Every time we fail, we will return to 4:46AM today. The mission is currently unknown and, probably, incomplete.”

“Why would they assign us a mission without telling us what it is?”

“James, does it matter? Our commanding officers are obviously masters of time and space; we will have ample opportunity to discover what our task is. As your partner in this mission, you and I will meet countless times, and we will remember everything about every previous attempt we made, but we won’t be making every attempt together with the same amount of temporal displacement, i.e. this is my 13,734th attempt at this mission, while this seems to be your first. In fact, by the time the mission is completed, it is not even certain if we will have attempted it the same number of times. The philosophy of the bureau is that with infinite possibility and chance, .”

James blinked, “I’m sorry, how many times did you say you’ve done this?”

“13,734 times”

“13,734 out of… countless, seems like we’ve been making good progress.” James let out a groan, “Ok, well then, I’ll bite, what are we usually doing at around this time, good buddy?”

“We’re usually speeding out of Sutton in my car at this time.”

“And why aren’t we doing that now, then?”

“I’ve already accepted this iteration as a failure, so I decided I might as well fill you in on the details, in fact, our failure should be evident right about now.”

The door opened, and a tall woman in a long dark coat walked in.

“And who are you? Are you from the bureau, too? Finally gonna tell Arthur what the fuck you want him to do? Are you even wearing clothes under that?”

She looked at them coldly from behind her thick plastic frames and outstretched M1911, then pulled the trigger twice.