Buck waits until the yard quiets before he moves.

  The stall door creaks when he pushes it open, the sound loud enough that he freezes halfway through, listening. Voices drift somewhere beyond the wall. A laugh. A cough that sounds like it has lived a hard life. A horse snorts nearby.

  Nothing urgent.

  He steps out into the alley and immediately feels out of time again. Standing too upright. Clothes too clean. Hair too well kept.

  Yeah, the voice in his head says. You stand out like a glass skyscraper.

  “Stop narrating,” Buck mutters.

  Can’t, B.U.C.K. replies cheerfully. Been holding this in for decades.

  Buck keeps his head down and walks, letting his posture sag just a little, shoulders rounding, stride shortening. It helps. Not much, but enough.

  The alley opens onto a narrow street. He scans his surroundings out of habit. People move about their focus on themselves. Mud clings to boots. Wooden wheels rattle over uneven stone. The air is alive with a cacophony of smells: oil, bread, smoke, manure, sea salt, and something sour and human that seems to cling to everything.

  He passes people who glance at him and then look away, the way you do when something doesn’t make sense but also doesn’t feel worth the trouble.

  Okay, B.U.C.K. says. Let’s talk about information presentation.

  Buck feels it before he sees it. A flicker at the edge of his vision. Then a HUD resolves into his field of vision.

  It looks like an old newspaper. Not metaphorically. Literally.

  Black-and-ivory blocks of text slide into place along the margins of his sight, serifed type, uneven ink density, little decorative lines separating sections. No glowing icons. No transparency. Just information pretending to be print.

  “Why does it look like this,” Buck asks.

  Because the system was designed to be period correct to help you be more aligned and connected to the time you are in. If I showed you modern and sleek overlays with predictive vectors, B.U.C.K. says, your brain would experience subconscious dissonance and you would remain more tied to the timeline you started in and not the timeline you find yourself in. People in this era trust print. Ledgers. Notices. Broadsheets. That’s why.

  A bold header appears in the center of his sight briefly and he jumps at it’s appearance:

  ORIENTATION: LOCAL CONDITIONS

  Then fades.

  “You could’ve warned me.”

  I AM warning you, B.U.C.K. says. Continuously.

  Buck exhales through his nose and keeps walking.

  “So,” he says, “we need clothes. Food. Money. Quietly if possible.”

  Correct, B.U.C.K. replies. Also soap. This period is filled with lots of things that can be disruptive to your rather fragile biome. The nanobots help to some degree, But let’s manage expectations.

  The HUD flickers again.

  SUGGESTED INCOME OPPORTUNITIES

  Buck squints. “Oh no.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Hear me out, B.U.C.K. says. Some of these might be bad ideas. Some are funny. Some are both.

  The first suggestion scrolls past.

  Option One: Offer to sharpen tools, Knives, scissors, hatchets.

  Pros: Common, useful, low suspicion.

  Cons: You do not currently have the supplies needed.

  “Next.”

  Option Two: Manual labor at the docks.

  Pros: Immediate pay.

  Cons: You will be asked questions.

  Also, your hands look like you’ve never lifted a crate in your life.

  “I have lifted crates.”

  Emotionally, B.U.C.K. concedes. Yes.

  Another line appears.

  Option Three: Street performance.

  Pros: None for you.

  Cons: Everything.

  “Absolutely not.”

  Fine, B.U.C.K. says. But you would’ve been memorable, I had a whole mime routine planned.

  Buck turns down a side street, following the smell of food. A bakery window steams faintly despite the chill. Inside, loaves cool on rough wooden racks. His stomach tightens painfully. He thinks about the food cubes Chen gave him and his stomach churns, he refrains from grabbing one, keeping them in case things get really desperate. He looks again through the bakery window.

  We can’t steal. B.U.C.K. says before Buck even finishes the thought. Not yet. Not Directly.

  “Not yet?”

  Let’s try not at all, B.U.C.K. corrects. It… complicates things.

  A ragged man sits on an upturned crate nearby, mending a torn coat. Buck watches him for a moment.

  “Have any spare coats? Would you trade for this one?,” Buck asks pointing to his far too modern one, pitching his voice lower, rougher.

  The man looks up, eyes narrowing. Then he shrugs. “I might. Got any coin to throw in?”

  Buck reaches into his pocket out of habit.

  Nothing.

  The man shakes his head dismissively and goes back to working.

  Okay, B.U.C.K. says. New idea.

  A subtle note appears in the margin of Buck’s vision.

  HISTORICAL CONTEXT

  In this period, things like small favors drive social capitol and influence. There is an active barter economy. Even information has value.

  Buck looks around, spots a woman struggling with a cart nearby, it’s wheel stuck in a rut.

  He walks over without thinking too hard about it.

  “Here,” he says, grabbing the wheel and lifting. His body complains, but it works. The cart pops free.

  The woman blinks at him. “Thank you.”

  “Know where I could get work,” Buck asks, casual. “Just arrived.”

  She studies him, then jerks her chin down the street. “Boarding house on just off Mulberry. Maeve always need hands.”

  See, B.U.C.K. says. Social skills improving, you’re leveling already.

  Buck moves on before she can ask more.

  The boarding house smells like boiled cabbage and damp wool. A thin stern woman whose hair was once likely all red,but now streaked throughout with grey, stands behind the counter eyeing him critically. This must be Maeve.

  “You got money,” she asks flatly.

  “Just got here. Hope to soon,” Buck says. “Need work first.”

  She snorts. “You and everyone else.”

  She gestures toward a basket near the door. “Carry all coal from the pile outside to the cellar. Don’t break anything. Come back when your done and we’ll talk”

  Buck does not break anything.

  By the time he’s done, his arms ache, his coat is filthy, and he has a few coins in his hand and a heel of bread wrapped in cloth.

  He eats in the street, slow, careful not to look desperate.

  Clothes next, B.U.C.K. says. That coat is screaming ‘rob me.’

  They find a secondhand shop. He negotiates and offers to barter some labor today and tomorrow. Two of his coins go over and a few smaller coins come back. Buck emerges in rough wool trousers, a shirt that itches, and a coat that smells faintly of someone else’s life.

  He blends better now.

  By dusk, he has a narrow bed stuffed in a small alcove of a room in the boarding house attic. He now has a belly full of stew eaten during a hurried discussion with Maeve where she made sure he wasn’t fresh from the opium dens. The agreed on him helping with some work around the boarding house in exchange for this small room and a heel of bread in the morning and a supper at the end of the day. They would reevaluate the agreement every couple days.

  He sits on the edge of the bed, exhausted in a way that feels earned.

  Not bad for day one, B.U.C.K. says. No arrests. No stabbings. Minimal vomiting.

  “High bar,” Buck murmurs.

  A small voice drifts up the stairwell.

  “Mamó? There’s a man upstairs.”

  Footsteps follow. Light ones.

  A small girl appears in the doorway, no more than five. Bright red hair pulled back hastily. Curious eyes. She looks at Buck without fear, just interest.

  “Hello,” she says.

  Buck smiles despite himself. “Hello.”

  She tilts her head. “You look funny.”

  She’s not wrong, B.U.C.K. says softly.

  “My name’s Elysia,” the girl adds.

  Something settles in Buck’s chest. Not pain. Just a strange familiarity.

  “That’s a good name,” he says, “Mine is Buck.

  She beams, then runs off, calling back, “Mamó! He’s nice!”

  Buck sits there for a long moment, the sounds of the house wrapping around him. Time seems to settle.

  Remember this, B.U.C.K. says quietly.

  “I will,” Buck replies.

  Now tell me about these nanobots and why they are in me.

  It’s about time, B.U.C.K. says in a way that implies multiple meanings.

  “I agree, let’s get to it.”

  No. It’s literally about time, The AI says more seriously. The nanobots are there to help you experience time differently than most humans can perceive.

  They spend the rest of the night in conversation, Buck's back against the wall, knees drawn up on the narrow bed. B.U.C.K. speaks of his mother in reverent tones, describing how she wove nanobots into the fabric of his being not as tools of control, but as instruments of perception.

  Time isn't linear, the AI explains, its newspaper HUD interface shifting to resemble images of ancient scrollwork.

  It's a vast ocean where most humans can only perceive the surface waves, the shallow now. The nanobots, B.U.C.K. continues, don't bend time but rather attune you to its deeper nature, allowing you to feel the gravity of what was and the flow of what might be.

  “Are you saying I can control time?”, Buck asks incredulously.

  No. Holy shit, not at all. Time serves no master, B.U.C.K. says, but it recognizes those who respect its nature. The theory is that those who time deems worthy can move a little freer, can see more of how all moments essentially exist simultaneously; past, present, future. Most humans we have evolved to experience time as a linear progressive timescale that continuously moves forward at a measured pace. While time itself is more akin to grand tapestry where the majority of threads remain invisible to human consciousness by design.

  Buck stares at his hands in the dim candle light, imagining microscopic machines swimming through his bloodstream, whispering the secrets of eternity.

  "So I'm not controlling anything," he murmurs. "I'm just… learning to swim."

  More like wading in the kiddy pool at this point, but yes, B.U.C.K. responds. And the tutorial hasn’t even begun.