Take your hands out of your pockets.

Connor blinked but kept his hands firmly wedged in his pockets. Rich looked eagerly across at him. "It worked, right? It's speaking to you right now?"

He nodded silently, still trying to compute what had just happened. The voice now stuck in his head — a slightly irritating, male American voice, vaguely familiar — was talking to him. Telling him what to do. And it had worked?

Those two had walked away, he hadn't started a fight or anything. They weren't intimidated, they just let him be. He let them be. It didn't make sense.

I said, out of your pockets, the voice — his SQUIP? — snapped again.

"Why?"

Don't talk to me out loud. You saw those other boys. He nodded dutifully. They thought you were insane. Just think to me. Like you're telepathic.

'Okay? This is stupid,' he thought, testing out the theory.

No, it's not.

At least it definitely worked.

Now, do as I say.

'No,' Connor thought back, still not liking the idea of someone constantly bossing him around. He wrinkled his nose as the SQUIP spoke again.

You can't just listen. You have to obey. Else I won't work properly, it explained.

'Why not?'

Because the whole point of me is to improve you. I can't do that if you don't listen. And. Do. As. I. Say.

Connor was about to retaliate when he felt Rich's hand slap him on the back. "I'll let you work it out. Bye," he grinned, starting off down the corridor again, finally bringing the fact Connor couldn't stay much longer here to his attention. He had to leave.

'Taking my hands out of my pockets won't help me improve or whatever,' he finally replied, starting to follow in Rich's footsteps to the front of the school. 'I need to go home.'

We're taking baby steps, Connor, it spoke patiently, barely any emotion behind its words. He shivered involuntarily; hearing something so strange say his name made him a little uncomfortable and drove home the idea it was real. He wasn't high, dreaming, or hallucinating. There was a supercomputer in his head.

Listen. You're not great. Your operating system is... outdated. We need to improve that.
We start by improving your physical image. You slouch over. It gives the impression you're sneaking around. That could arouse suspicion of illicit activities. It paused. If you were to engage in such things, which you do, it added, you need to look as confident as you can. Rise as little suspicion as you can. So, doing these small things will fix that.

Connor took his hands out of his pockets.

They were outside now. He could vaguely hear rock music screaming as the final car evacuated the parking lot, where he was harshly reminded he had to walk.

Walking home, the SQUIP mused, as he started to move again, could offer a helpful time to start working on your image.

Connor didn't reply, focused on the path home. He wasn't quite used to the walk, and the SQUIP being activated had disoriented him a little, so he did have to concentrate.

Arch your back. Puff out your chest. Make yourself look larger than you actually are, it suggested. Hesitating a little, Connor tried this, straightening out. All this seemed to achieve was making him feel stupid, but the SQUIP seemed satisfied.

Good. Keep that up. You'll seem more approachable.

At that, Connor laughed out loud. Not a cheerful laugh, not a happy sound; mocking. A couple people gave him dirty looks from their gardens as he passed, earning a dark glare in return.

'That ship's sailed. Nobody thinks I'm approachable. I'm a freak.'

That's my job. To fix that. Fix you. You won't be a freak anymore, Connor.

Not in the mood for an argument, Connor only shrugged, clearly disbelieving. That was the reason he'd gotten it though, right? To stop him being the freak, being excluded, being forgotten. Lost in the background unless he shoved someone or threw another printer. Although it seemed like a complete scam so far. All it was doing was helping his posture and stopping him from pushing someone over for a second time. He could have done all that himself if he'd wanted.

Connor. The voice snapped him out of his reverie. I can see you're doubting me. But SQUIPs work. Do you know Richard Goranski?

He nodded.

Your SQUIP is synced with his, now. I know things about him.

'That's creepy.'

It's not. But his life has improved immeasurably since he acquired a SQUIP, and yours will too. You just can't see it yet. We'll get there.

Again, Connor didn't reply to the voice — telepathically or otherwise — choosing just to try to mull things over in his mind. Before he remembered that there was now a computer in his brain that could read his thoughts.

"I fucking hate this," he said out loud, just as he passed a woman wheeling her child around in a stroller. She gave him a withering glare.

Apologise.

"Um. Sorry," he managed, choking out the word as if it hurt him to say. Maybe it was just breaking his old habits (ignore them, move on) that felt strange. The woman huffed loudly but seemed at least slightly pacified.

'That didn't go as bad as I—'

Of course it didn't. I know what I'm doing, the SQUIP returned, almost snappishly. It's against my programming to lead you astray. I do what is best for you. Now get home.

The rest of the walk home was pretty uneventful. All that happened was the SQUIP nagging him every so often to "stop walking like you have something to hide". Connor arrived home in decent time, or at least earlier than he usually did, heading straight up to his room. He was fairly sure his mother was cooking something for their dinner, but he didn't have an appetite.

Go to dinner. You need to fix your relationship with your close family. Zoe, Cynthia, Larry. Am I correct?

Connor nodded.

A family meal is a great way to begin. Don't stay in your room all evening. Talk to them. I'll tell you what to say, it explained. He didn't refuse, but the SQUIP could probably tell how much he despised the idea. This should be easy. Then we can work on your... social skills.