The Golden Downtown
The mud is cold against your cheek, a heavy, wet blanket that smells of iron and old rain, and you can feel the vibration of the artillery throbbing through the earth, a low, rhythmic pulse that matches the frantic hammering of your own heart. You are not a soldier, not really, though you wear the tattered remains of a uniform that is three sizes too large, the fabric stiff with dried blood and...
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