Buck wakes to pressure.

  Not pain. Not sound. Just the unmistakable sense that something is leaning on his consciousness, waiting for him to surface.

  Hey, Little buddy. a voice says gently. Welcome Back.

  Buck inhales sharply and sits bolt upright.

  Straw. Wood. Filth. The smell of animals and old waste fills his nose. His stomach clenches, but the nausea stays contained, like it’s been warned to behave.

  “Who the hell are you,” Buck says, voice hoarse.

  There is a pause. Careful. Considered.

  Okaaay, the voice says. First things first. You’re safe. Mostly. You’re Welcome. Second, don’t sit up too fast. Your blood pressure is still catching up.

  Buck freezes. “How would you know that.”

  Because I’m inside your head and the nanobots that monitor your vitals told me, the voice replies.

  Buck’s heart rate spikes. The he feels a strange sensation like a warmth. The voice reacts before he can.

  Easy, it says. See? That. That’s me reading your vitals.

  Buck’s hands curl into fists. He scans the stall automatically. No cameras. No movement. No one else.

  “This is a hallucination,” he says flatly. “Or a post-jump psychotic episode. Or a planted interface.”

  Reasonable hypotheses, the voice agrees. Incorrect, but reasonable.

  Buck swallows, forces his breathing steady. “Start talking. Slowly.”

  The voice exhales, an affectation, but a humanlike one.

  My name is Buck. B.U.C.K., technically. Biological Utilitarian Computational Kinsman. And I’ve been with you since you were a kid.

  “That’s not proof,” Buck snaps. “That’s a story.”

  Faaaair, B.U.C.K. says. Ask me something you don’t know.

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  Buck doesn’t hesitate. “Tell me something no one else could.”

  Another pause. Shorter this time.

  You were six when you stole your first book from the orphanage library, B.U.C.K. says. Not because you wanted it. Because it felt wrong that no one would miss it.

  Buck’s jaw tightens.

  You hate the smell of food cubes because it reminds you of when the corporations decided to “streamline operating costs” of feeding orphans.

  You still count ceiling tiles when you’re stressed out or puzzling something out.

  And when you were fourteen, you decided you weren’t going to cry anymore. You didn’t tell anyone. You just… stopped.

  Buck feels the air leave his lungs.

  “Stop,” he says quietly. “Stop.”

  I can, B.U.C.K. replies immediately. I will.

  Silence stretches.

  Buck presses his palms against his eyes. His thoughts are sharp now. Too sharp.

  “Anyone could extract that from surveillance,” he says. “From psych profiles.”

  Not the rash, B.U.C.K. says.

  Buck’s head snaps up. “What.”

  I’ll start this by saying I’m not judging, but there was that one summer. You… uh… tried a new scented lotion to reduce… friction. Didn’t wash properly after. It was uh… unpleasant.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  I said I wasn’t judging.

  Buck stands abruptly, pacing the stall. “If you’re a plant, you’re very good. Too good. So explain something to me.”

  Shoot.

  “Why now,” Buck says. “Why here. Why not before.”

  The voice softens.

  Because until now, I couldn’t talk to you.

  Buck stops. “Explain.”

  It’s complicated, Power constraints, B.U.C.K. says. The nanobots went dormant when you arrived in the future. Long story. Big jump. Bad day. They stayed asleep for decades. Observing only. I also think that something in the future was blocking me from talking to you.

  Buck turns slowly. “Nanobots? Decades?”

  Thirty-two years, B.U.C.K. confirms. Give or take.

  “You watched me grow up.”

  Yes.

  “You watched me make decisions.”

  Yes.

  “You watched me screw up.”

  Frequently.

  Buck laughs once. It’s sharp. Uncontrolled.

  “And you’re telling me now because… what. You got bored?”

  Because the accelerator jump recharged everything, B.U.C.K. says. And whatever was blocking me in your previous timeline. It doesn’t seem to exist here.

  Buck leans against the wall, the weight finally catching up to him.

  “Prove you’re not corporate,” he says. “Prove you’re not theirs.”

  The answer comes instantly.

  The mark on your hands is where the nanobots entered your body.

  “Circumstantial at best".

  Your mother paid me to be your friend. Kidding.

  “My mother?”, Buck closes his eyes.

  “That’s still just a claim.”

  Yes, your mother, here’s another, B.U.C.K. says gently. Your name is Sebastian.

  Buck opens his eyes. “My name is Buck.”

  There is a long, exhausted humanlike sigh.

  We named the dog Indiana, B.U.C.K. says, slipping into a terrible Scottish accent before switching back to his normal way of speaking. When you landed in 2049, you only said two words to the the medical personnel that came to help you. Buck. Pain.

  Buck stares at the wall, breathing slowly.

  “…Say that again,” he says quietly.

  I can say it as many times as you need, you only said two words to the the medical personnel that came to help you. Buck. Pain. B.U.C.K. replies. I’m not going anywhere.

  “Not that part. The part about arriving in 2049. The part about my mother.”, Buck says softly.

  That part is going to require some time to explain, B.U.C.K. quietly replies. I think we have some more urgent needs to address, like figuring out exactly where and when we are.

  Buck finally sinks down against the stall wall.

  “Okay,” he says. “Okay. Let’s assume you’re real.”

  Good start.

  “And let’s assume you’re not working for the people who sent me here.”

  I am very much not.

  “Then you’re telling me,” Buck says, voice steady now, “that I’ve never been alone. That someone or rather something was with me the whole time. Watching. Waiting.”

  Yes.

  “And now you’re awake.”

  Very awake.

  Buck exhales.

  “Then you’re going to answer every question I have,” he says. “And if you lie, I’ll know. I’m very good at this.”

  I wouldn’t try, B.U.C.K. says. You are indeed very good at this.

  Buck stands, feeling his strength return.

  While we walk, B.U.C.K. says. let me tell you about the 50,000 hitchhikers your mom injected you with.

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Clothes first,” he says. “Then food. Then we talk. And you are going to tell me about my mom.”

  Agreed, B.U.C.K. replies. Because right now you look like a tourist who insists on having the local experience while complaining about the lack of amenities and people speaking your language.

  Buck almost smiles. Almost.