Then, a video file: FIREWORKS.MPG .
Leo closes the laptop lid. He doesn’t delete the file. He doesn’t throw away the disc. He just unplugs the ancient burner, wraps the cord around it like a snake, and places it back in the box.
Some fires, he realizes, don’t need to be re-lit. Some data is best left on a forgotten CD-R in a basement, where Nero 6 can keep its silent, eternal watch. nero 6
“You made this?” she asked, turning the disc over. He’d used a silver Sharpie to draw a tiny flame on it.
He double-clicks. Photos. Grainy, low-resolution digital photos from a 2-megapixel Sony Mavica. Photos of a group of teenagers laughing in a parking lot. Photos of a green Ford Taurus with a dented bumper. Photos of Rachel, her purple hair blowing in the wind, flipping off the camera. Then, a video file: FIREWORKS
He clicks it. The old QuickTime logo spins. Then, shaky-cam footage fills the screen. It’s the Fourth of July. Someone is laughing. A mortar tube tips over. A roman candle shoots sideways, into a neighbor’s dry hedge. The scream is distant at first, then loud. Sirens. His own teenage voice, high and terrified: “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”
Inside, there are folders. “School.” “Music.” And one called “Summer.” He doesn’t throw away the disc
His masterpiece was the “MixTape Vol. 6” – a fusion of obscure German techno, Nirvana B-sides, and a crude, self-recorded voice intro: “You are listening to Nero 6. Resistance is futile.” He gave the disc to Rachel, the punk girl with the purple streak in her hair, at the mall food court.
“Burned it myself,” Leo said, puffing his chest. “Nero 6. Best engine out there. No buffer underruns.”
He looks at the cartoon emperor on the old software box, still peeking out of the cardboard box. Nero. The man who supposedly fiddled while Rome burned.
She smiled, and for a moment, Leo felt like a god.