The Void of Command
The sky over the industrial district was the color of a wet sidewalk. Mick sat on a plastic crate, smoking a cigarette that tasted like burnt rubber. Around him, the world was a graveyard of rusted steel and broken concrete. He ran the scrap yard, which meant he spent his days arguing with truckers and fighting over piles of copper wire. Mick wasn't a mastermind. He was just a man who knew how...
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