The Wistful Asylum
Act I The pie factory line at thirty-one of Gallows Corner hummed with the low, grinding vibration of the press, a sound that settled in the teeth before it reached the ears. Harald Gundersen wiped grease from his forearms, his movements sharp and mechanical, while the steam from the filling vats fogged the glass partitions of the office. He was the orbital debris spotter for the outpost, a job...
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