“So… you are from before the Internet?” She started speaking with me, for some reason I was not able to imagine, when she caught me staring at her tattoos. First she stared a me, then she moved down the earphones, then she oddly smiled at me before popping up the question. I’m a virgin – don’t have tattoos – so all her skin art called my attention. I told her so in my broken interlingua. That seemed to relax her, and she friendly swaps to standard English. “All pre-net people are reluctant to colour, so to be fair I was also curious about you. Even my father got some drawings. Why don’t you?”
“Belonephobia.” She seems to fade out for a moment, looking through the window. Probably projecting the meaning of it on it. Just in case I clarify the word.”I’m deeply scared of needles. I used to faint during a blood test. Now I’m getting better – I have no other way.”
“Some medical? No, you look healthy. Let me guess. Are you getting the Treat?” I nod. “I see. Can you believe you are the first person I really meet who’s taking it? Of course I saw you on vids. But still you are rare. I’m so lucky! I was suspecting you were one. You know what they say, that you become a bot, that an AI is taking your body.” I laugh. She smiles. Her teeth are all white and perfect. I wonder how much of her is adjusted.
“For me, it was this or dying. Let’s say I had no option. What do you think? Do I look like a teen?” This time she laughs. I know I don’t. Her voice has a metallic echo. I wonder if she’s recording, but actually, I don’t care. I can opt out of the record. My AI, although static – he lives in my desktop – is very friendly when I ask her to delete me. Of course we can’t still delete memories and she may tell her friends about me. I look at myself. Black jeans, an original Nirvana t-shirt, no glasses, no visible electronics – I carry it all in my backpack – and a somehow conservative haircut.
“You do not look like! You have old eyes. But also, you don’t look like my old ones. ” Her parents I guess. “You know. You are the new tribe.” She seems to hesitates, the she glances briefly again at the window – checking something? For a moment I regret I didn’t get my lenses. But I was not feeling like today I was going to need them. I smile the best way I can, trying to tell her that it’s OK, that I’m safe. I wonder if my teeth – implants – look weird to her also.”Some people call you returners. Are you offended?”
“Not at all. I’m returning, after all.” Returners. I heard the term, but I didn’t think of me as one. Back to the Future I guess. I’m 80 and here I am, speaking with a teenager in equal terms. I despise myself. Am I so despicable? Luckily I don’t care about what they say, and she obviously neither.
“Well this is my stop. It was nice to speak with you, returner. See ya around, ya? Take care!” She stands up in a smooth move, like a wild animal. I flash her my teeth once more, and I wonder if I will see her again. I could track her and she could track me if she wants, so it’s not a sad goodbye. Strange days, now if you speak with someone you may be connected forever with him or her. Unless you know how to break the link. That I know. But I will not. Not in this case.
Bits and Dragons 