The Pale Protocol
The tablet is cracked. You know this because you are holding it, and the sharp edge bites into the thenar eminence of your left hand, a dull, persistent ache that has become part of your pulse. It is a ceramic plate, white glaze, meant for serving soup. It is broken into three distinct pieces, the fracture lines jagged and final. You are sitting at a stainless steel table in a break room that...
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