Bobby Teenager
You're just a driver's license...
You are a brown eyed teenager of average height and weight, going cruising in your father's Jeep down the streets of Anytown, U.S.A. You feel the freedom that a driver's license brings.
As you suddenly, without willing it, push down on the gas pedal, run a red light, and calmly plow into a baby carriage being pushed across the street by a girl in your high school biology class, the voice of a tired old man echoes in your head.
"One less Hitler to clug up the timestream. Sorry to leave you with the vehicular homicide, kid, but don't worry. You'll bounce back. You've got that good young spunk, and in a minute or two there won't be much for anyone to go on anyway."
The Jeep goes crashing into a light pole without much force. You knock your head lightly on the steering wheel. As you blink and try to get your bearings, you are barraged with a strange series of questions.
"What's my name?"
"Whose car is this?"
You look at your driver's license, which you'd been holding proudly in your hand while you drove. It is strangely brown and weathered for something you'd been issued days ago. No birthdate? Anytown USA? This information has to be fake.
Officer Roy Duncan is knocking at your window. A scene of chaos unfolds in the street behind you, the girl shrieking, passerby running, a baby-sized smear in the road. In a daze, you reach into the glove compartment for your registration. A gun spills out of the glove box.
The cop flinches. Whose gun is that, anyway?