The Distant Whispers
The air tasted of iron and sulfur. I held my rifle tight against the wet earth. The mud sucked at my boots with a wet, rhythmic pull. It was an industrial hell. Smoke hung low, a gray shroud over the twisted iron skeletons of the factory district. We were in the Deep. Or what passed for it. A subterranean warren of steam pipes and pressurized vents beneath the city of New Albion. The air here...
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