The Distant Machine
The rain fell in sheets of grey. Cold. Sharp. It soaked the wool of the uniform. It seeped into the bone. Thomas stood at the edge of the fog. He held his left hand up. The fingers were stiff. The knuckles swollen. He looked at them. They were not his. They belonged to the machine. To the thing he wore. He was a soldier. He had always been a soldier. But here, the war was not against men. It...
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