Trinh pulled out a pair of slightly battered headphones from under the ever growing pile of electronics. Nothing in the pile was sold anymore, taken off the screens as soon as the newest alternative became available. Inevitably, most of the unsold stock (and there always was a lot of it) ended up on the black market.
Trinh was glad of that.
She flicked open the circular cover on the side of the right speaker and took out the memory-disc. Fishing through the pile again, she found the handheld device used to write to memory-discs. It was pretty old – old enough to still have a button panel. She clicked the disc into place and closed the cover.
The little handheld powered up, playing an advert which advised her to ditch memory-discs and get the newer option – namely, a direct cranial implant. She skipped it and and flicked through the menu options to 'LOAD'.
Trinh pulled up her sleeve and squinted at the messy ink scrawls covering her entire left hand and forearm, and wished the handheld had a visual handwriting recognition driver installed. It would take her ages to input the codes she'd bought from the archaic goods screen-stall in the Subway manually. It was a shady stall, but then the entire Way was black market shops, so that was hardly surprising.
When she finally did manage to type them all in, she selected 'BURN TO DISC' and waited as the disc whirred, and after about a minute the message '73 SONG FILES BURNED. PLEASE REMOVE DISC.' flashed up.
One minute. Trinh mentally poured abuse on the device. A whole minute for anything less than two hundred song files was so bloodyslow.
She took out the disc and returned it to her headphones. Closing the cover, she put them on and shut her eyes, looking at the little SmartScreens on the inside of her eyelids. Selecting 'Play New' and 'Shuffle', she dumped the pile of electronics back into the plastic box she kept them in, and shoved the box under her bed.
Some time ago now, Kattela Milles had insisted that her seven year old daughter should have all the newest technological implants it was safe to have – eye-screens, lip-mic, the lot.
Laying back, Trinheran Milles cursed her mother for turning her into a Technician's nightmare.