"Yeah, you and everybody else, though it sounds like you had a better reason to than most," Ratchet says as he pushes to both feet again and, after a brief hesitation, sits down next to York. On his good side, this time.

"That's..." He rubs his forehead and frowns--everything is fuzzy and imprecise and slow and strange, having traded the crisp, data-rich clarity of an inorganic brain module and set of sensors for an inorganic one, but at least his brain is all there. 'He,' York calls the AI, not 'it.' "This place screwed with me too, but I can't even imagine what that's like."

He straightens a little, watching York's face, then holds out a hand to shake on impulse. "Seems off, that I'd know your AI's name and not yours. I'm Ratchet."