The Distant Garden
"You are in violation of Protocol Seven." The voice comes from the air. It does not come from a speaker. It does not come from a mouth. It is simply there, a pressure against the inside of your skull. Cold. Dry. Final. You look down. Your hands are trembling. They are bare. The skin is pale, stretched tight over the knuckles. There is no bracelet. There is no watch. There is no token. "I forgot...
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