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News from the crash site: Recovery crews have pulled a scorched orange box from the wreckage.
On the casing, block letters in Mircean, Illuminado, and standard Kohilan: MEMORIES. EXTREME CAUTION REQUIRED.
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The metal release handle is cold to the touch.
Speak, memories! (Pull the release.)
Already, you feel a little bit less alone. Whether you're prepared for company is another matter.
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End of this branch
Not enough slots.
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Leave it alone.
The wind whistles as you back away from the blackened ruins.
How -- I thought these were destroyed.
Initial reports say the contents are virtually pristine, untouched by extreme temperature or blunt trauma.
A testament to the power of the Operant Bureau's conditioning, preserving the original memories at sub-dream level.
Is it safe to open this thing?
Definitely not.
Memories dormant in the paving stones and eaves are beginning to rise. The air itself grows heavy with past sensations.
Pain. No. Keep away.
This will definitely hurt. Estimated duration: eternal.
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I need to know what's in there.
A glance at the manifest reveals: (6) Hearts, perfectly preserved. (1) Birthday note, handwritten. (1) Pair of headphones, sweat-stained.
What else?
(2) Packs of black cigarettes, foreign mark. (2) Portofiran fighting beetles. (1) Faded receipt for two schnapps at the Fogged Mirror.
Can I open it, but only a little?
The box isn't designed that way. The past is being kept under high pressure. Pull the release and the hatch blows right off.
Maybe it won't hurt, maybe it'll be fine.