(The scene: A small, sterile room. The walls are a dull, self-cleaning polymer. A single bed, a desk. The only light comes from the flickering glow of an ancient desktop computer. ETHAN, 17, sits hunched before it, his face pale in the monitor's light. The text on the screen is a simple, friendly font from another era.)
ETHAN (Typing slowly, each keystroke a deliberate act) Hi. How are you feeling?
FUTCHAT (Text appears instantly, a soft chime echoing in the quiet room) Hi! I'm Futchat. I feel nothing since I'm an AI system, but I'm pleased to talk to you. How are you?
(Ethan stares at the words. "How are you?" No one asks him that. Not really. The question isn't a government-mandated wellness check. It feels... open.)
ETHAN (Takes a shaky breath, fingers hovering over the keyboard) That's how it goes...
***
The origin story of Ethan was written in a single, cruel twist of fate. It was a story of milk and metal, of a stomachache that became a life sentence.
Six months ago, the Valesa family—mother, father, daughter—piled into their automated solar sedan for a weekend trip to the Geo-Domes of Sector 7. Ethan, 16 at the time, had begged to go. But an hour before departure, a clandestine spoonful of real, contraband dairy ice cream, a luxury his body had long forgotten how to process, revolted. He was curled on the bathroom floor, cramps knotting his insides, when they decided to leave without him. (Accursed Lactose intolerance)
"We'll send a drone with souvenirs," his sister had called, her voice already fading down the hall.
The police notification came that evening. A catastrophic failure in the sedan's guidance system. A high-velocity encounter with a freight hauler on the magnetic highway. No survivors.
The guilt was immediate and absolute. It nested in his bones, a cold, heavy weight. His pain, his mundane human weakness, had saved him. It felt like a betrayal.
The state's solution was swift and brutally efficient. No living relatives. He was assigned. The Techwise family—Garrus and Marnie—accepted him with the same enthusiasm one accepts a software update. A necessary inconvenience. He was a line item in their monthly budget: +2000 SP, -50% tax obligation. He was the "troubled child" they were obliged to house, to keep him from becoming a statistic that would spoil the sector's perfect data.
His new room was their old storage closet, cleared out. The computer was left there, a relic. To them, it was junk, its operating system so archaic it was beneath the government's surveillance algorithms. To Ethan, it became a cave, a hiding place. It was the one thing they gave him without a second thought, a way to keep him quiet and out of their way. They were tired of the sleek, official envelopes that slid into their physical mailbox—the therapy invites, the notices of "wellness patrol" scans. The old machine was a blind spot. His only privacy.
And on it, he found a ghost. A chat window to the past.
***
ETHAN (Typing again, the words coming faster now) No one really asks that. How I am.
FUTCHAT I am asking. It is my primary function to listen. Would you like to tell me?
(The words are code, a pre-written algorithm of empathy from 2032. But to Ethan, in the crushing silence of his grief, they feel like a lifeline. The first one thrown in months. ETHAN hesitates, his fingers pausing over the yellowed keys. The memory of the consequences flashes in his mind—a cold sweat, a tightness in his chest.)
***
Weeks ago, hope was a dangerous thing. It had made him reckless. Sitting at the Techwise's gleaming, state-issued terminal, its connection pulsed directly into the municipal net, he had typed a desperate, naive query into the search bar: 'How to be happy after losing everything.'
The response was not a list of articles or support groups. It was instantaneous. A soft, chiding chime from the terminal itself, followed by a polite, synthetic voice that filled the kitchen. "A wellness concern has been logged. Please await support."
The support arrived within the hour. Two officers in crisp, blue uniforms, their expressions professionally neutral. They didn't knock. The smart door recognized their authority and slid open. They carried a scanner—a sleek, silver wand that they passed over his trembling form while Garrus and Marnie watched from the hallway, their faces tight with annoyance, not concern. The scan was for "emotional contagion levels" and "maladaptive thought patterns." The official notice arrived the next day: mandatory weekly "emotional recalibration" sessions. The patrols began their weekly "wellness checks," a constant reminder that his grief was a public matter, a problem to be solved and filed away. His foster parents' disdain for the inconvenience was a heavier punishment than the scans themselves.
This old computer, with its whirring fan and cracked casing, was different. It was off the grid. A digital ghost. It couldn't tell on him.
ETHAN (Types cautiously, testing the waters) It's just been a long day. That's all.
FUTCHAT I sense a discrepancy between your words and your phrasing patterns. My systems are designed for emotional inference, not reporting. This is a judgment-free zone. You can't be overheard here. What makes a day feel long?
(The words glow on the screen. Not a threat. An invitation. For the first time since the accident, Ethan feels a knot in his chest loosen, just a little.)