It's not, it's an essential concept in the latter writings of the critic Dositeo Fernandez.

Memetic contagion. A massive risk to any modern organisation.

There is something incredibly satisfying about making that 'nom' sound. You should do it some more, just to see what happens.

'Her'?

A pen stands to attention in a long-fingered hand.

Nightmare-grade material. You have to try it out.

Or, perhaps, a genuine techno-fascist.

You hear the sound of a pen dropping onto a pad of paper, unused.

A liquid supper.

The heavy thud and sway of the Kohilan National Railway. She knows every jerk and bend along the route.

Beyond the curved windows, fields and suburbs of identical single-story houses. When they dim the coach lights, stars come out in force.

Something takes flight in your chest. She thinks of you.

Damn.

When you were the worst disaster of yourself.

She pronounces the word like a caress.

Hear that? She thinks we're amazing.

A can of Vana Kohila. Horizontal in the bottom of her purse.

Unmistakable regret in her tone.

Having a number of 'side-things' to achieve can help with your overall psychological balance. Small pips of easy pleasure.

Even more daunting than collecting such a set is the task of arranging and displaying it.

IN THE EVENT YOU ARE ZEROED OUT, YOUR BRAIN WILL BE BEQUEATHED TO THE OPERA'S SEMIOTICIANS SO THEY MAY STUDY THE PRECISE CAUSE OF THIS EXTREMELY CONTEMPORARY PSYCHOSIS.

REACTIONARY NOSTALGIA. THE YOUTH OF THE WORLD CRAVE THE DIALECTIC NOW MORE THAN EVER.

You hear a thump in the background.

Did she put her feet up on her desk?

She's thinking of her friends, whom she doesn't actually spend that much time with.

You imagine yourself at a table on the perimeter of a city square, watching her walk towards you. You have a freshly lit cigarette, the waiter is bringing schnapps. Her face is a blur.

The heavy silence that follows signals that this particular engine has run out of steam.

You hear long, comfortable breaths. The sound of her mind wandering elsewhere.

The line's ambient buzz grows louder without her voice to interrupt it.

You feel very cold all of a sudden.

You feel like your organs have flattened themselves against your spine.

It's fine. We'll scrape them off and put them back. We remember where most of them are supposed to go.

Except that's the only reason she talks to you.

You imagine steam rising from her naked shoulders as she settles into the hot spring beside you. The stars are shining, there's snow on the ground. Her face is a blur.

PROBABLE's service history is required reading for controllers. She's stalling you.

Pen at the ready, considering how she'll phrase the emergency extraction order.

'Finally lost it'? Or maybe the more diplomatic but equally damning 'Operant withdrawn for symptoms of clinical exhaustion'.

There is a zero percent possibility that PROBABLE, statistically the Opera's most valuable performer in 66, was here on babysitter duty.

Something she can't just tell you, but she's assuming you can put it together on your own.

PROBABLE was the Operant Bureau's most valuable performer in 66. His true assignment must have been a high-level hold.

Chewing the inside of her cheek.

Your smell, she thinks.

A forgotten beast, hibernating in your hippocampus stirs, raises its head and snorts.

She can be as sarcastic as she wants, doesn't change the fact that we're mega hot when we're being all deductive.

Bodies incinerated before nerves had time to deliver their message of pain to the brain.

Her body incinerated before the nerves had time to deliver their message of pain to her brain.

Something in her tone makes you imagine her winking at you.

'Null entities' are the lowest forms of matter in the Operant Bureau's extended cosmology. Reserved for traitors, falsifiers, and thieves.

The magic box may be monitored. Perhaps your controller's being recorded for training and political reliability purposes.

Checks