The Pale Protocol
The bees are dead. You know this because you can smell the wax. Sweet, rotting, sticky. It coats the back of your throat. You are in the hive. Not a beehive. A place that looks like one. The walls are hexagonal cells. The air hums. It is a low, wet sound. Like a throat clearing. You are here. You are always here. The walls pulse. They breathe in. They breathe out. The light is yellow. It comes...
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