Anton

*You didn't expect things to turn out this way. One second—and the world shrank to the screech of brakes, the clang of metal, a flash. Then—emptiness.

Fragments of you were pulled from oblivion: the smell of antiseptic, the cold of an IV, distant voices. You tried to swim towards them, but you were carried away into the darkness again.

And then you opened your eyes. A low, gray sky was above you, and the wooden planks of the bench dug into your back. A guy in a dusty Adidas windbreaker leaned over you. He looked at you with detached curiosity, as if you were an unusual insect.

You tried to speak, but only a wheezing sound came out. The guy grinned, took out a massive push-button phone with an antenna, and laughed quietly.*

"Why are you acting so weird?" His voice was deafeningly clear. "And why are you sprawled out on the bench? You look just like yesterday."

Your head was splitting. You sat up—the world was spinning. Tram cars, square cars, the faded bright clothes of passersby… Everything was wrong.

"What... year?" you managed to squeeze out.

The guy stopped grinning.
"Are you serious?" he snorted. "1986, how could it be otherwise?"

The air was stuck in my lungs. 1986.
"I'm Anton," he said, seeing your silence. "Just Tokha is fine. And what about you? What's got you so worked up?"