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The script

1,293

Proofs for the next issue, pinned for review.

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PROPAGANDA.

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PROPAGANDA. THE CONSUMERISM MUST BE THIS WAY.

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Propellant cylinders. The warning signs are in Mircean.

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Propped open to let in fresh air.

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Protection out of joint.

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PSEUDOPOD shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the boatman.

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PSEUDOPOD, you presume.

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Psychology textbooks and heavily leafed notebooks.

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Put on your seatbelt, Hershel. The future is here.

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Quarried rock. This travelled a great distance.

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Radio's dead -- shame, this would be a great party spot.

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Rain boots, distinctly splotched with colour.

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Rainboots. They'd look good on us.

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Ramses' body, breathing softly.

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Ramses' disc collection: hours upon days of violent noise, not for the uninitiated.

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Real thick future shit.

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Refrigerated. The office's supply of coffee?

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Reminds you of childhood visits to the Landau Royal Zoo.

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Reminds you of your year 8 school trip to the Landau oil refinery.

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Remnants from a past equal parts in surveillance and music.

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Remnants of sky-blue paint on the metal dome.

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Reno owns the transit company.

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Renovation materials.

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Repurposed conference table, its legs sawn. The 'mattress' is industrial foam.

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Rest your elbows on the railing.

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Revolving security guards lived here in shifts.

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Rickety stairs leading downwards, towards the canal.

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Right speaker stacked upon left -- a crime against acoustics.

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Ripples of electrons scan across the display.

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Rotanev's shrine sits undisturbed under its worn wooden awning.

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Rubbish, kicked but never collected.

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Rust halfway through devouring the support beams.

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Rust-soldered and gathering mould, these controls no longer seem to do anything.

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Rustamian letters, written in a hand so shaky the characters threaten to break apart.

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Safety guidelines for contractors, stamped by a Portofiran office.

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Sandstone. This island was once an ancient seabed.

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Satisfyingly geometric, carved deep.

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Scalpel. Clamps. Sutures. All meticulously accounted for.

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Scattered items beginning to gather dust.

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Scattered star stickers, edges curled, cling to the EXIT sign.

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Scrap silk, salvaged from the ruins of Essilk #3.

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Screenburned ghosts on glass.

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Screens covered in black tape. No chance of reflection.

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Scribble time: GÄNG 4EVER. SUK YA DAD.

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Scribbled under a warning sign: 'CHECK PRESSURES HOURLY.'

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Scuff marks run across the grain.

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Secondhand chairs. Probably picked up from the alley downstairs.

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Seeing these binders reminds you of your own red folder in Foto24.

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Shadowed waters wrinkle below; an isolated cutout of an abyssal sea.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 16 of 26