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14/05/1965
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The Cog's Revenge(V-13: Dirty Realism) The city of Iron-Silt was a grey smudge on the horizon, a place where the rain tasted of sulfur and the wind sounded like a dying engine. For twenty years, Julian Vane had been the God of Iron-Silt. As the CEO of the Omnicorp Foundry, he had optimized every second of human labor, turning the city into a clockwork machine of terrifying efficiency. He had viewed his workers...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 BewertungenBitte loggen Sie sich ein, um liken, teilen und zu kommentieren!
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IV. THE BONEFIRE ON THE BAYOUThe marsh stretched to every horizon like a flat green sea, still as glass and twice as deep. Caleb Deschelles waded through it up to his waist, the water thick and warm as soup, smelling of decay and wild mint and something that might have been rot and might have been flowers trying very hard. He had been running for two days. Not exercise—running. From the Delta, from the man with the whip...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Haunting of Ashworth ManorI.The iron gate groaned as Thomas pushed it open, the sound echoing through the Yorkshire moors like a death knell. Ashworth Manor loomed before him, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised twilight sky. Ten years. Ten years since he had last stood on this accursed ground, and yet the memory of Emily's laughter still haunted every shadow.The estate agent had called it a opportunity. A chance...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The quiet rainThe rain was falling on the hardware store the way rain falls on hardware stores all over the Midwest—not dramatically, not with the kind of intensity that makes you run for cover, but steadily, persistently, the kind of rain that soaks through your coat without you noticing until you are already wet. James Kellerman was behind the counter, counting inventory. Nails. Screws. Washers. The kind...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Tape That Killed Jack DonovanThe tape sat on Jack Donovan's desk in a plain brown envelope, and every time he looked at it, he felt the same thing: a cold, precise pressure behind his eyes, like a man pressing his thumb against a wound that had scabbed over and refused to stay scabbed. The tape was sixteen millimeter film, seven minutes long, spliced into a VHS copy that a man in a dark car had slipped through his...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Sample V1: The Mirror of Dr. Blackwood (Victorian Gothic)Elias Thorne had not slept properly since the veldt. Eight years in South Africa had taught him that sleep was not a refuge but a battlefield—a place where the Boer bullets found you even in sleep, where the dust of the mines coated your tongue, where the men you had buried in nameless graves reached through the mattress and gripped your wrists with fingers that felt like dry roots. His wife,...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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THE WEIGHT OF NOTHINGI Raymond Kowalski woke at 5:30 every morning. He dressed in the dark—dark trousers, dark shirt, the same jacket he had worn for five years. He ate toast with margarine. He drank coffee that was too weak because he had stretched the grounds with extra hot water. He walked out the front door at 5:45. The factory was two miles away. It took him twenty minutes to walk. He walked at the same pace...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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THE LAST WALLThe stone was cold beneath Edward's gloved hands. He ran his palm along the face of it, feeling for the cracks his predecessors had spent a thousand years cataloguing. There were none today. The wall held. It always held. Edward Blackthorne, seventieth Lord Keeper of the Morvayne Ramparts, walked the parapet at midnight, as he had every night for twelve years. The moon was a sliver of bone in a...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Silent SaviorThe fog of 1884 London was not a weather condition; it was a shroud. It clung to the cobblestones and seeped into the velvet curtains of the wealthy and the rags of the poor. And beneath the city, in a forgotten cellar of the East End, Dr. Julian Thorne lived in a world of porcelain and blood. Julian was a man of science in an age of superstition. While the city above panicked over the "Grey...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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Title: The Debt of the Perfect ManThe city of Nocturne was a place of eternal midnight and neon rain. Detective Silas walked the streets with a heavy tread, his trench coat soaked through. Silas was the best detective in the city, not because he was smart, but because he was a thief. He possessed the "Siphon," a forbidden ability to reach into alternate timelines and borrow the attributes of other versions of himself. Need the...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 6 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Oracle MachineThe machine filled an entire room. Jack Morrison had built it over four years, working in secret in his father's old boathouse on the North Shore of Long Island, paying for parts with money he had saved from his job at Western Electric and money he had borrowed from people he hoped would forget he owed them. It was not beautiful. It was not elegant. It was a tangle of vacuum tubes, punched...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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The Formula in the RainThe rain in Chicago doesn't fall. It hangs, a fine gray mist that soaks through your coat and finds the spaces between your ribs and makes you feel like the city itself is trying to get inside you. Jack Moraney was sitting in his office at four in the morning, a glass of rye whiskey on the desk and a dead case on the table, when the woman came in. She was dressed in black—black dress, black...0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 3 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen
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