The stereo is right where you left it.

The stereo is right where you left it.

Check the disc deck.

Through the translucent view-panel you see a single red disc loaded in place. On the face of the disc are the words 'Ultra Violeta - You But From a Dream', handwritten on thin strips of tape.

The girl in the projected ad. The vision in purple.

Alright, Ultra Violeta. Let's see what you've got.

A significant amount, if her status is anything to go by.

Unplug the headphones, press 'Play'.

Alternative wording

Press 'Play'.

The chunky button makes a satisfying little thunk as you push it in.

The discus begins to turn. You know because the spindle is rotating, though the speakers don't produce any sound at all.

The kitchen light hums and splinters momentarily.

On the hidden side of the sun, a polar radiation storm congeals.

Is this thing broken?

It doesn't appear to be. The disc is spinning the way it's meant to.

An artifact of no substance onto which nothing of substance has been recorded.

Turn up the volume.

Still nothing but the underlying creep of static.

No sound, save the thin layer of static that lines the inner cables.

Amateur wirework.

Keep listening.

There is no sound. Shadows bleed from every corner.

The music player blinks, slowly, or do you? You can't tell.

Keep listening.

Wait, was that -- no. You must've been imagining it.

The silence is being overtaken by a different silence, like the slow darkening of night across the wall of an empty room.

Listen a little bit more.

The silence envelops you like a translucent skin. You feel yourself becoming an embryo of a distant, post-sonic future.

This new silence seeps into every corner of your body, loosening fixtures, rattling drawers.

Seeing what will come with it.

Listen a little bit more.

The blasted heath welcomes you back. The robed figures stagger around a smouldering circle.

There is still no sound, but in your mind an image forms of a blasted heath, a smouldering circle at its centre. Figures in tattered robes stagger and sway on the horizon.

Hold on, what's going on?

Nothing. You're simply playing a disc on a common home stereo system. The sort of thing millions of people across the world do every day.

I probably shouldn't be messing with this.

No, you probably shouldn't.

What's this disc doing to you?

A fallen star, an irregular rock of no colour the human eye can perceive -- a dispatch from the underside of reality.

There... in the distance...

The intermittent flash of a distant storm silhouettes a row of dark figures against the pale sky.

Who are these robed figures?

Mendicants dedicated to the fallen star. Many bodies, one soul. Their tattered rags soaked with universal tears.

Why are they weeping?

They weep with gratitude. They've been released from the prison of false images.

One among their number turns to look at you, his technicolour robe billowing behind. He wears a small, neat moustache, as well as a large pair of headphones.

Who is he?

A friend, an enemy.

Is this meant for me?

It's meant for anyone who's ever dreamed of being consumed by a greater existence.

Twelve million dreamers roll over in unison.

Here.

Where...

You.

Who...

Your mind blanks, the power grid ravaged by an unseen, faraway storm.

Wait, what day is it?

The same day you were just living.

Where am I?

A second floor studio apartment, above the FOTO 24 'While-U-Wait' film lab, on Orphanage Street, in the independent city-state of Portofiro.

Slowly, you return to yourself. The apartment looks the same, just about.

What's my name, again?

Whatever you say it is, Hershel.

Press 'Stop'.

The static quiets as you reset the volume.

Alternative wording

The static quiets as you reset the volume. Might be a good idea to tell the unhinged doctor about this thing.

Press 'Eject' and take the disc.

A brief internal hum -- then the disc slides halfway out of the machine and waits there like it's trying to hide from you.

You remove the red disc and return it to your pocket.

You remove the red disc and place it into your pocket.

PSEUDOPOD liked... pop music?

Such culture is hard to come by in the Superbloc. He may have been 'feeling it out'.

You don't recognise the artist.

What have we here?

The disc is loaded, ready to tell you.

Probably mainstream detritus.

You glimpse your reflection in the disc's crimson as you stare down at it.

A cool local act, I'm in.

So is the disc. Ready to spin.

Play the red disc marked 'You But From a Dream'.

Crimson flashes within its casing as the disc picks up speed. You hear nothing.

Play 'Cover the Moon When I'm Gone'.

You slot the disc into place and hit 'PLAY'.

Press 'STOP' and take the disc back.

No existential effacement detected with this one. Nice.

Play 'Superbloc, Baby'.

You place the disc into the drawer and press 'PLAY'.

Your pockets are vibrating...

Press 'STOP' and eject the disc.

Watch the disc spin.

You feel like there's something very important that you've forgotten about...

Something very obvious...

The bomb!

Maybe we're bomb proof, maybe we die grooving. Either way -- it will mean victory.

COLD OR HOT THE WORLD WILL STOP --

The explosion rings out across the city, destroying Foto 24, Constanz, and any chance you may have had at redeeming yourself.

It appears to remain perfectly motionless, though you know it is spinning furiously...

Meanwhile, the magnet embedded within its case is gradually polarising the cobalt-iron oxide coating, rendering the discus unreadable.

It's beautiful.

Whatever it is, it appears to be unsheathing your neurons one by one. The room sways.

Or maybe that's just your vision burning prismatic at its folding edges.

Monks chant around an open flame, glowing purple.

We're going to die.

No... you're coming home.

Where's home?

Right here. You just can't feel it with all that self in the way.

The purple shard isn't flame, it's rock.

Their voices rise and fall, harmonising with their sacred geology. It will take them with it.

Me too?

You, too.

. . . . .

. . . .

. . .

. .

.

Why...

Approaching perfection.

I'm coming, too.

Yes, you are.

I don't want to...

Yes, get me out of here.

Help me, monks!

Oops.

It's terrifying.

The track begins to play.

Play some Blood Golem.

You slot the disc into place and hit 'PLAY'.

Press 'STOP' and take the disc back.

Your blood froths. Demanding you fight or fuck.

YOU UNDERSTOOD NOTHING OF THIS SCREAMING MAN'S MANIFESTO. IS HE FOR REVOLUTION OR AGAINST IT?

Play the reconstructed red disc.

You place the disc into the drawer and press 'PLAY'.

Ultra Violeta's voice, a shard of glowing purple. Your muscles slacken.

Evil. Evil. Turn it off!

Turn it off.

Unfortunately, your hand suddenly seems to weigh approximately 41,000 tonnes, the same as a fully loaded aircraft carrier.

Put everything you've got into it.

An absolute miracle -- against all odds and the laws of physics, you've managed to move your hand... about two millimetres.

What's happening?

It's no use...

There's no shame in giving up when you're truly beaten.

Keep listening.

You have no choice. The room sways.

Play the final recordings from Project AUTONOMÍA.

You slot the disc into the drawer and press 'PLAY', but no intelligible sound comes out, only static.

No use. The Umatic disc encoding method is basically extinct. You can't play this thing without specialised equipment.

No use. This disc must use a non-standard encoding method. You'll need special equipment to play it.

Enough stereo. [Leave.]

You step away from the equipment.

Following the cord from your double's headphones you come to a mid-sized home stereo resting on a sideboard.

A Protypo 909 50-watt with multi-disc changer. Last-generation model, designed for affordability at the expense of power and clarity.

Following the cord from the unconscious man's headphones you come to a mid-sized home stereo resting on a sideboard.