The Faded Frontier
The voice came from the rusted catwalk above, a crackle of static and spit. "Thorne. You’re bleeding on the linoleum." You wiped the cut from your cheek with a sleeve that smelled of grease and old rain. The sound in the room was a low, metallic groan, the vibration of the turbines deep in the earth. Above you, the catwalk was a grid of iron, painted a color that had once been yellow but was...
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