Presley shudders at the thought. Letting anyone have free rein in one of his intimate memories... no thanks. There's a palpable anxiety to this one, disquieting when compared to the almost leisurely memory seed experiences that Presley's had so far. That the young boy before them must be Desmond Savage just makes it worse.

"Thank goodness for small favours," Presley says, once he has his composure back. "I'm sure your mind is a positively garish twenty-four-seven ego festival thrown in honour of Patrice Tang. This—" He gestures to their bleak gray surroundings. "—at least carries a sense of decorum."