Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.

Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.

Listen for the swell of the music.

You close your eyes and let yourself sway, gently, as the hall below you fills with a soft mist that coalesces into at least a hundred phantoms.

"No the public cannot see me. And the microphone is off. You know I can sense microphones. I intuit their presence."

You look to your left and see the spectral figure of Sweet Nestor crouching on the floor, his voice lowered to an enraged whisper.

"I told you I wanted spectacle, not confetti. I'm not making my speech looking like a confetti man. Nestor is no paper fairy."

Confetti floats from above, a rainbow of crepe paper falling around your head and shoulders.

Brush off the confetti.

You swipe at your shoulders, there's nothing there.

Surely you weren't anticipating otherwise? That's ghost 'fetti.

Who is he talking to?

Six other men, also ducked out of the crowd's sight. Their faces are blurred, noses migrating, eyes overlarge, but the medals on their lapels are so vibrant that they shine.

"I'm not going out there to be mocked by the ambassador. None of you can make me. Do your own speech."

Look for the ambassador.

You can't make out any individual features among the mass of shining figures, though some are brighter than others.

"Who has my Superbloc man? He'll help me with their ambassador."

One of the other figures fumbles in his pocket and hands over a tiny soldier, feet permanently routed to a circular base.

"Mm. Yes. A sense of righteousness emanates from him... The Kohilan envoy are impressed by my decision not to give them a welcome speech beneath this rain of confetti."

RIGHTEOUSNESS ALWAYS SPILLS FROM THE SOLDIERS OF THE PEOPLE, NO MATTER HOW DIMINUTIVE.

Medals jingle as the spectres fade from view.

A Pocket Combatant -- a type of miniature army which reached its sales height in the 50s. Recalled, discontinued, sued into oblivion when the figures were found to be made of lead.

He's right to cower; a politician's head is a magnet for bullets.

You can always locate your nearest minister by shooting in a straight line and watching the bullet's subtle curve.

Spit on him. (Derogatory.)

Your buttery wad of hate passes straight through him and into the hall below.

You hear a splat, followed by a man's yell. A woman cheers, 'Ectoplasm!'

"No the public cannot see me. And the microphone is off. You know I can sense microphones. I intuit their presence."

You look to your left and see a hazy figure of a man crouching on the floor, his voice lowered to a whisper.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader.

Even in this spectral form you recognise him -- Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

What happened in 80?

He fled to an unknown location after being exiled for the third and apparently final time, though a small collection of loyalists await his return.

That is a long time.

In his own words, he relieved his citizens from the burden of voting.

You are outnumbered by ghosts.

Been through this. Calm down.

Totally calm. About ghosts.

I'm not sure they are ghosts...

They are transparent memory people. They are ghosts.

Ghosts! They're ghosts!

Yes, I get it -- ghosts! Hush.

You're just going to be in here with the ghosts. Alright.

Yeah is this a bit fucked maybe?

Get the fuck out of here!

Tune in to the building's frequency.

You breathe in, tasting the building's flavour -- stale damp, chalk. Dust swims through your lungs. The building knows you, now. It will allow itself to be known in turn.

Figures appear in the hall. Hazy, human, laughing. They walk through you. Rushing up and down the stairs. They carry bunting, trays of food...

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

With the ghostly figures comes a song -- a low and constant sound. The room ripples with noise, alive but blurred like a dream.

What... is happening?

Perhaps the song is hypnotising you into sharing a memory with the building, an architectural daydream.

People pass you, chattering, formed in cloud by a slapdash maker -- some have both eyes on one side of their head, others are rendered limbless.

Ghost gäng. Huddle up.

Must be an explanation. Need to see more.

A pair of hands passes you by, applauding.

Maybe a manifestation of psychic guilt, I just have to find out whose.

Many spirits seem stronger than others -- their features clearer, their voices louder. The song rises as they pass. You could be onto something.

Spectral communists are trying to reveal truths to me...

Some spirits seem stronger than others -- their features clearer, their voices louder. The song rises as they pass. Perhaps a side effect of their enhanced materialism.

These poltergeists are about to die again. Of me.

The spirits mist and reform, swirling around you as they move. A floating arm passes through you, clutching a wine glass. Hurting them could be a challenge.

The building knows it's not long for the world -- it's having an existential crisis.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

Yes! I always wanted to be embroiled in strange events.

You try again, straining your ears. Once again the guitar strumming fades from your mind.

There is something very strange happening with this song. Perhaps your ears aren't the right way to listen.

The faint drumbeat evades you, slipping away into the shadows.

So arhythmic that it may never have been a drumbeat at all.

Test your weight on the structure.

A horrible creaking noise comes from the ceiling. The balcony rotates a little farther to the east.

THE ENGINEERING HAS EMBRACED PERPETUAL REVOLUTION.

The earth is alive; it breathes and shifts in its sleep. Concrete does not. The building is going to collapse.

This building is imbued with the spirit of the people. It will not come down.

STEEL WILL BEND TO THE POWER OF MASS DENIAL.

Vertiginous patterns of broken tile swirl below you. Your head swims.

I am standing in a death trap.

They won't be able to identify your flesh in the wreckage. Pummeled meat can't tell people how cool it was when it was alive.

Leave.

The balcony lifts a little as you step away.

The glow from the camp beneath you dominates the room, throwing the space beyond into a deep, vacuous dark.

You hear a few chords on a guitar, just for a moment.

For a second you think you hear someone singing behind you, but there is nobody there.

For a split second, you're sure you can hear someone strumming a bass guitar.