Glimpse
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They tell you that the human eye -- hell, the human mind -- operates in three dimensions, right?
What happens if you can work in one more?
Time, to most people, is linear. It's a slow walk in a straight line that starts with you crawling out of the womb and ends with you climbing back into the ground. But some people -- scientists, writers, thinkers -- realise that there's a bigger picture. They realise that one moment doesn't necessarily fold neatly into another, that each is a distinct thing unto itself, and that straight line isn't really necessarily so straight at all. It's just one way of joining the dots together, the default way for this world and the people in it.
But not for Will. Past, present, future -- it's happening all at once to him and not at all at the same time. His body, his physical presence might root him in this timestream, but his mind, unfortunately, isn't so constrained. He's regularly exposed to what has passed and what's to come. It reaches him in fragmentary images, distorted echoes of things not said and things yet to be said, strange, haunting glimpses of have-beens and not-yets.
He couldn't tell you why. He couldn't even tell you how long he's been this way. But he can tell you that if he focuses very, very hard, he can sharpen this sixth sense, hone it in on the next few minutes or seconds to perceive what might be lying in store. He never gets the full picture, but he's starting to get enough to work with. e a good idea to put your face. He's the punch that gets dodged before you even swing. He's the gun that's being twisted out of your hand when it's only halfway out of your pocket. And he's the boot that suddenly appears just where you thought it'd b
He's the Glimpse.
