The Distant Whispers
The iron fog of the factory floor did not smell of rust, as you had once been taught in the drill yards of Albion. It smelled of ozone and burnt sugar, a cloying sweetness that coated the back of your throat and settled deep in the lungs of your spirit. You stood at the edge of the chasm, the vast, humming void where the machines breathed their white, silent breath. Here, in this strange...
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