Crucially, such a process would result in an empty disc... like the one you found on PSEUDOPOD's body.

Fanatical, biased, not to be taken literally.

Remanence: the charge that remains after the removal of a magnetic field. The ghost of magnetic possession.

Portofiro at the break of the 60s. A teenage boy sits on his bed and gazes at a full-page magazine ad for a brand new single-play format. The crimson of the disc spellbinds him. Excited thumbs leave sweat prints on the page.

Espionage potential -- immense. The burn-after-reading function built into the medium itself.

There's that word again...

A wistful lover, content to gaze upon beauty without ever touching it.

Gives himself plenty of excuses for the self-molestation, doesn't it?

The way he pronounces that word reminds you of old religious women spitting out curses before sanctifying themselves.

All pretense drops. The red glints in his lenses.

Sublimity. Terror. As though you'd unexpectedly flashed one of the faces of God at him.

Specialists, collectors of the rare and the defunct. People like him, in other words.

His rising anger gone in an instant, like a fuse being tripped.

Talking to the Einzeltone, not you.

THIS IMBUING OF CONSUMER GOODS WITH QUASI-RELIGIOUS PROPERTIES IS TYPICAL OF LATE-STAGE CAPITALIST DECAY.

Could be the work of the Militia Ruban Rouge, an extreme communist fringe group. They've ransomed public figures before.

THE NEXT TIME THE WORLD SEES HER SHE WILL BE CLASPING AN ASSAULT RIFLE, DRAPED IN THE FLAG OF THE PARTY.

You did a little of that too, but no need to mention.

Makes sense. Forbidden media. Desecration of a tomb, the broken seal...

No. More primal. Star-written. Soul danger.

He handles the disc reverently, as if it were a tiny plastic coffin.

Reproduction and erasure just millimetres away in space, milliseconds in time. Precision humans can only dream of.

And as the audio content was obliterated -- so was PSEUDOPOD.

Espionage potential -- immense. The burn-after-reading function built into the medium itself.

He already knows the truth. He's just waiting for you to confirm.

A single-use existence, erasing himself cell by cell.

HAS THIS MANICALLY-DEPRESSED REACTIONARY TRIED... COMMUNISM?

As if to ward you, vector of the techno-plague, away.

'No more. No more of this.'

He's thought about it.

IT HAS CROSSED HIS MIND. OBJECT COPULATION IS THE HIP NEW PERVERSION OF THE JADED MIDDLE-CLASSES.

Agreement is not, in itself, agreeable to him.

His speech speeds up the more he speaks, the external manifestation of a system careening towards a vascular catastrophe.

You make a mental note: Petre, Unwilling Wolf-Lore Master.

And now, he is you. Almost.

Of those three descriptors, only one has ever been applied to you, and it's not 'lucid' or 'composed'.

Uncannily precise.

Underlying the criticism is a lament that his own paranoia has no willing audience.

Fantasies he'll never follow through on.

Only a moment's hesitation. This man may detest the majority of music, but his internal discography is formidable.

Accessing his internal memory palace, an old Remembrancer's trick.

But... but... all of them?

Wishful thinking on his part. When it comes to the exclusive, the top secret, the government-commissioned... someone's always held onto a spare.

CAPITAL BEATS DOWN ANOTHER ONE. WHAT A JOY IT IS TO BE UNREGULATED.

First obstacle avoided in what is evidently a labyrinth of personal ethics.

Highly obscure, collector's stuff. The kind of information that your brain auto-deletes upon learning.

Velodisk! A modern laser-hybrid medium, played using a heated stylus unit. Astounding sonic fidelity. Cause of thousands of home fires.

No entries found under 'Replayer'. Filing under 'Insults - incomprehensible'.

Prepare yourself for a conversational landmine field.

You would not put it past this man to have a prop dog bowl to hand.

Checks