February 13th, 2085, 0800 hours

New York City, USA, Earth

The room is dull. Terribly dull. Walls a dim metallic gray, a spindly floor lamp, two frigid chairs with a fold-up table between them. To his left, though, there's a window, and beyond it he can see the sparkling spires of the city, obscured albeit by a low-hanging throng of smog. New York. As a kid he'd always wanted to come here. He just didn't imagine it would ever be for this reason.

And what is the reason, anyway?

"Are you ready, Mr. Khan?"

No, he isn't. But he clears his throat and nods anyway. The man in front of him cocks an inquisitive eyebrow and taps a red button on his tablet. There's a low beep, and now he's well aware: everything he says from here on out is very much on the record.

"Would you state your first and last name, please?"

"Rowan Khan."

"Age?"

He hesitates, then sighs. "It's complicated."

The man purses his lips. They're chapped, thin; he drags his tongue across them and Rowan looks away. "Birthday, then?"

"July 18th, 2026."

Rowan expects a reaction, but he gets none. He's pleasantly surprised when all the man does is scribble something down in his notebook. His pen scratches across the paper, making the hairs on back of Rowan's neck rise.

He wishes he weren't alone in here; he casts a glance at the door, even, so lost is he in his longing.

The man notices. "Are you expecting someone, Mr. Khan?"

Rowan coughs. "Uh," he says, interlacing his fingers and placing them in his lap. "No, sir. Sorry."

"No worries; it was just a question."

Rowan scoffs. "I bet you have a lot of those."

"That I do. A good portion of the greater universe does, I believe," the man says, and though he smiles, the gesture's off-putting, like a gleeful serenade at a funeral procession. "You're aware how special you are, Mr. Khan?"

"I'm not special," says Rowan, with conviction. "I'm unlucky. That's all there is to that."

"You are a living answer to one of humanity's longest-asked questions, Mr. Khan. I'd rather think that makes you a lot luckier than the rest of us."

Another scoff, this one with obvious discomfort. "If the roles were flipped, I doubt you'd see it as such."

"Help me, then." The man leans back in his seat now, studying Rowan with eyes the grayish hue of ice. "Help us to understand. That's what we're here for, is it not?"

"I guess so."

The man smiles again, and picks up his pen. "Let's start from the beginning, then."