故事线

THE DISC sits wrong in your hands. Its weight rolls anxiously, like a ball of mercury. Rainbow oil slicks dance across micro-etched plastic, splintering your reflection into a billion delirious strands. Your fingers trace the disc's edge, craving the flip - but your joints seize, as a suppressed memory cries out through your flesh. A choked cackle rises through your tv's waiting static, caught between hysteric laughter and panicked screams.