What's going on?

She looks down at her body.

She's… small. Maybe 3 or 4 feet tall?

That feels right, but it doesn't feel usual. She's— it: it's definitely an "it"—it's pretty sure it used to be taller than this.

And that's strange, isn't it? It should know what it's used to looking like, but it doesn't seem to have any memories of—actually, any memories at all.

Ok, time to take stock: Its name is Mae, it's—oh, now that's interesting: it can't remember anything about its life, but it knows that it's 27 years old!

So it was—arguably is—an adult, but this body definitely isn't. It's definitely feeling kind of excited about that—if a bit apprehensive.

Ok, so it's Mae, it's 27, it's in the body of a child, and it doesn't have any long-term memories of its life.

…Does it have any other sorts of memories?

It runs through an exercise, and… huh.

It appears to be able to remember the names of several memorization techniques, which it has arbitrarily memorized as a test of a different technique that's not on that list of names.

Entertaining.

Anything else stored that way?

…The pronunciation of a Japanese name, apparently…

…An ordered list of video-game-associated tarot cards…

…An index for a todo list, a mental stack, a scratchpad, and… something denoted by a spiral, but that isn't clearly labeled. None of them are attached to any long-term memories, so they must have been for shorter-term use.

…

…Ok, so it apparently hasn't memorized anything useful that way, but at least that confirms its memory is otherwise working.

Enough time in its head, though: where is it? This place doesn't look familiar.

It looks around itself.

Mae finds itself on a short block, the kind you get in one of those bigger cities with long and narrow blocks, one side of the street dominated by the fenced backyards of two large houses, the other by a set of Edwardian rowhouses in different colors, each built overtop its own garage, with stairs up to the entryway, with a porch on the right and a bay window on the left, and another floor above. The nearest one, close to the end of the block, is painted a cozy-looking dark purple, and has a little pride flag in the window. A two-door Honda Accord painted in a deep, almost black shade of purple sits in the driveway. The other houses down the block are painted light blue, or cheery yellow, or white, or cream, or beige, with everything from sedans to pickup trucks parked out front in a variety of more pedestrian colors.

No one else seems to be on the street just now.

Hmm… no people?

It walks over to the nearest house—it's really pretty, and it is now being reminded by the flag that it itself is gay—and picks up the newspaper sitting there.

…It's… oh good, it's local paper! The San Francisco Chronicle, March 17, 2008.

Wow, that… that's a while earlier than it was expecting, isn't it? That gives it so much time to— to what? The connection isn't there, and it can't remember anything about what that gives it time to do.

Damn.

There's also some sort of specific mental connection associated with the year. 2008…

…

Nope, that connection doesn't lead anywhere, either.

Damn, these blanks are annoying.

And specific: It can remember facts about itself, but it can't remember anything about its life, or anything related to the year.

That… doesn't seem to be how it thinks amnesia is supposed to work.

…Can it remember anything about earlier years?

…Yes! 2001: The twin towers fell that year, and… something else that's blanked.

These blanks are very specific, then.

Before it can think much longer, it's startled by the door suddenly opening, and an equally surprised-looking woman looks out from behind it.

Small child at the bottom of her stairs. This is new. Hope the poor dear's not in trouble.

"Well hello!" The woman's voice is warm, cheerful, and a bit bouncy, despite the noticeable hint of concern. "Are you lost, sweetie?"

She's about 5'8" tall, with purple hair tied back in a braid draping down her back, a lean frame, and modestly full but perky curves, wearing a short, swishy, dark green dress, black leggings, black boots, and a little black jacket with silver buttons that somehow accents the dress nicely.

Pretty!

Ok, no, that's really not helpful, brain.

What did she say, again? Oh, yeah, it supposes it is lost.

It sets down the newspaper.

"I think so—I suppose I know I'm in San Francisco now, but I don't know anything beyond that about where I am—I don't think I've ever been here before…"

Its words trail off contemplatively.

"Oh sweetie, that's no fun at all. Can I get you a snack or a drink or something while we figure out if there's anywhere you'd rather be than right here? Are you cold?"

Shit shit shit, okay. Lost child. 

Not going to show any of the panic on her face at all, but holy shit.

So the Officially Normal thing to do here is call the cops or take the kid to the police station.

But cops suck. She does not trust them, as an institution.

But if anyone's going to be able to figure out if this child has been reported missing, it's the cops.

But what if the kid's a runaway and the parents suck? Then the best thing for the kid is to stay put and not go back.

Aaaaa?

No, just see what the kid can tell her.

Awww, that's so nice!

Or, well, it supposes it might do something similar in this situation itself, but still!

"Oh, thank you! I'd love a snack and a drink—it is a bit cold out here. Do you have tea?"

It follows the friendly woman inside.

Inside they go! "I do! Do you have a favorite kind?"

The house is cozy and warm, with neutral tones accented by pops of purple or very dark green here and there. Immediately inside the front door is a little entry room, with a coat closet, a rack for shoes, and a little bench where Sable stops to kick off her boots and put them away. A door just off the entry room seems to lead downward, given how it's tucked underneath a staircase to the second floor just outside the entry room. To their left as they head inward is a little sitting room, with a few shelves full of books, a little seat in the bay window, a really squashy-looking armchair and a big couch set around a coffee table and across from a TV. Continuing further into the house, there's a small washroom, and then the kitchen on the right and dining room on the left. The kitchen seems to be airy and open, with big stone countertops for food prep and plenty of cabinet space to store things. The dining room seems designed to be cozy enough for meals with friends or family rather than fancy dinners. The table is currently round and covered in a lavender tablecloth (though under the tablecloth are hidden fold-out bits to expand if if there are more guests over). The back door leads out to a cute little deck, and has stairs down to the yard.

She starts fussing through the cabinets, revealing quite a selection of kinds of tea, and plenty of cocoa too, before going over to the sink to fill up the electric kettle.

It hums and pauses for a moment.

"Hmm… do you have jasmine?"

Then it sits gently down on the couch—an armchair is usually a specific person's chair, and sometimes people mind you sitting in Their Chair.

"Mhm!"

Hopefully the kid doesn't mind decaf? A lot of her teas are either herbal or decaf, because her ADHD meds conflict with caffeine.

She steps back over with a grin and plops down in the armchair. "So while we wait for the water to boil, tell me about yourself? Name, pronouns, nouns? Where you wanna be, anyone you're trying to get back to?"

Is that a bit advanced of a question for a ten-year-old? Maybe. Does she need to know it? Yes. Has she thought of a better way to ask it? Nnno. Oh well.

Oh, yes, questions! It can answer those. Probably.

"Oh, right. I'm Mae, I—" it pauses. Aww, she asked its pronouns? The rainbow green flags just keep cropping up!

"—I like to go by it/its when I can."

"Nouns? Hmm… girl is good…" it pauses, searching its head for others…

…Then blushes as it thinks of some, and quickly halts that train of thought.

"…and you'd need to know me better before you learn any others."

Quick, what was the next question?

Gosh okay. Precocious little girl. It's adorable, though. Absolutely adorable. "Mae, it/its, feminine nouns, can do. Might have to she/her you in front of officials that'd cause problems if they heard me use it/its about you, but that's just to keep them from making trouble. Does that sound reasonable?"

"Oh, of course! That sounds fine to me."

It pauses.

"…Officials?"

"Well. Usually clever girls like you don't happen just by magic, so there's a pretty good chance someone out there is missing you. And if you're missing them, too, officials would be very useful for finding them and getting in touch with them. Is there anyone you're missing, or anywhere you want to go?"

Oh right, where it wants to be, and with whom.

"I… don't really know if there's somewhere I'm supposed to be right now. I… wow, umm…"

It pauses again. It should probably have thought these questions through at all before trying to answer them for a stranger.

Where is it supposed to be? It doesn't have any memory of having a school or job, or friends, or family, or even a home… it feels like it does (or perhaps, did) have those things, but it can't seem to remember them now.

"…I think I may have amnesia?"

Okay. She's concerned. "Well that's no fun. Memories are kind of important. Also uprates my estimate of just how clever of a little girl you are, that's not something the typical kid your age knows about. Do me a favor and check your head for anything that feels tender or bruised?"

Oh right, it should probably do that.

It feels its head for tenderness.

"All clear. Do you know how to check if my pupils are dilating right?"

Sable frowns thoughtfully. "Never done it before. Could look it up, though. Wanna come upstairs to my office where I've got a computer to look it up with, or make it a nurse's problem down at urgent care?"

"Oh, that seems smart. Yeah, I guess we should go get me checked out, huh?"

It pauses.

"…Maybe after I drink that tea, though?"

"Hmmm." Sable drums her fingers on the arm of her chair. "They're going to ask for a bunch of identifying information at urgent care, and we don't have any of that for you. And that's going to get the cops involved whether we like it or not. Might as well go directly to them, then. They can bring the EMTs to us once we're there and they're trying to figure out the rest of who you are."

Then she leans in and smiles softly. "We've got plenty of time for you to have your tea, though. You don't seem to be showing any obviously concerning symptoms, so whatever's going on probably isn't that much of a rush."

Sable gets up to go pour the tea, musing to herself as she goes. Mae... continues to be a surprisingly precocious little girl. It's aware of using pupil dilation to check for concussions. Well, she's always figured you meet kids where they are, and let them show you what they're capable of.

Then she has a thought, midway to the kitchen. "You wanna pick which mug you get?"

"Oh, sure, I'd love to!" It gets up and walks to the kitchen to take a look.

Then pauses in the doorway for a moment.

"Oh, umm, what's your name? And pronouns, for that matter."

"Sable Miller, she/her, usual array of feminine nouns. You can call me Sable," she replies with a smile, opening a cabinet full of mugs. One is black with "There's no place like 127.0.0.1" printed on it. Another is purple with a swirling, liquid-seeming pattern. One has a cute fox on it. Another says "good witch" with a stylized witch's hat. One says "can be bribed with cocoa." There are a few more swirly-patterned ones in different colors. 

"Pick whichever you'd like, sweetie."

It carefully looks at each mug, then grabs the "There's no place like 127.0.0.1" mug, which is smoothest, and has the thinnest, most consistent rim.

"Sable. That's a pretty name!"

"Thank you! I like it a lot too. So's yours, by the way. Now set that on the counter for me, and we'll get your tea steeping."

She grabs the kettle and a teabag.

It dutifully sets the mug on the counter, then stands there awkwardly, hands clasped behind its back.

"Gosh you're cute. Kinda wanna ruffle your hair, but I dunno how you feel about casual touch from a weird purple lady you just met today."

She puts the teabag in the mug, pours the hot water in, and twists a little dial on her watch.

"Okay, timer set. Do you want sugar or honey or anything?"

She puts the mug onto a little plate so there'll be somewhere to put the teabag when it's done steeping.

"Oh! Umm, thank you." It smiles. "You're quite pretty yourself."

"I don't mind casual touch if you've asked, but I'd rather not have my hair messed up right now, so no thank you."

It pauses to recall the second question.

"No, nothing in the tea, please."

"Thank you," she replies with a smile.

No spoon required for stirring things in, then. Off they go back to the living room, tea in hand. Sable sets the plate down on the coffee table, and drops back into her seat.

"Can you recall any interests, or things you like?"

Back onto the couch it goes!

"Hmm… interests…" It bounces its leg as it thinks.

"…I think I quite like reading, and writing, and music…"

"I… do some computer programming, sometimes?"

Sable blinks for a moment. She's never seen a kid into programming that young before.

Then she grins.

"Well imagine that! I like those too, and I program for a living! What language do you like?"

Oh yay, this is continuing to be an excellent person!

"Well, I quite like—"

…This is 2008. When did Rust get released?

Not 2008, that's for sure.

Crap, it's been paused for a bit too long. What other languages does it like?

"—Well, C-Sharp is decent, but I do wish it had real memory management, and better error handling—I don't know much C, maybe it's more like that, but that hasn't been my experience. Something Functional would be amazing, but it doesn't feel like anyone's doing anything interesting with that lately, and I haven't learned any Lisp."

"Ooh, yeah, C-Sharp does show off some interesting features, but it absolutely doesn't have memory management worth anything. C's error-handling is definitely not very inspiring. I love Lisp, but I wish something managed to combine modern advanced data structures and functional programming with the best practices in memory management and direct integration with the kind of optimizations you can get in modern C compilers. But a Lisp like that doesn't exist, and I haven't felt motivated enough to try to make one yet."

Really impressively precocious little girl. She is surprised to have a conversation about comparative language merits with a ten-year-old.