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The script

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The faded number on the door reads '#1'.

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The familiar Renotel chime hits your ear.

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The fan inside the vent whispers.

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The fax machine hums faintly. A single sheet sits in the tray, edges curled like a beckoning finger.

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The figure in the other sealed, full-body suit gives you a stiff nod.

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The fire door stands between you and the roof. Unfortunately, someone removed the pelota ball that was wedging it open.

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The flyer promises 'Steamy Tsunians, Freshly Immigrated.'

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The former residents have long since moved to the mainland.

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The gate stands before you, still locked.

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The girl in the postcard still wants you to join her fan club.

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The girl is far too preoccupied fiddling with her fishing wire to pay any attention to you.

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The glass is begging for a rock.

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The glass is remarkably clean, near non-existence.

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The glimmering purple keyboard is just as you left it.

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The glint of a glass bottle -- miraculously unbroken.

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The grinning 'Financial Citizen' welcomes you back, his offer still on the table.

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The ground is enshrouded by fog.

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The groundwater here was contaminated a long time ago.

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The half-skull above a bib of organs makes you shudder.

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The handset appears to have been ripped straight out of this payphone.

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THE HEAD OF THE TABLE FOR THE HEAD OF STATE.

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The hoglets are still grunting merrily among the urban detritus.

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The hot tub's wrecked. There are cracks in the fibreglass, old water gone viscous. The filter sounds like a drowning goose.

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The huffing stranger breaks into a smile as he notices you.

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The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

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The intoxicated artist was caught halfway through her masterpiece.

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The iron railing sagged beneath your elbows when Tempo leaned on it beside you.

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The ladder beckons.

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The ladder disappears into bushy hillside.

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The latent need to untangle these wires, an itch in the back of your brain.

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The letters S and K together in a spray-paint heart.

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The light has begun the slow process of burning out.

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The light is out. You'll need to bring your own.

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The lights flicker weakly from time to time.

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The line between parked and stolen wears paper-thin.

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The lock clicks into place behind you.

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The locker is cracked open enough to see inside.

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The lump of flesh you extracted from HOLOCENE's head sloshes about in the mysterious red liquid.

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The Luzian device smoothly unfolds, its twin faces looking away from each other.

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The machine is still soured by the smell of urine. Beverages glow on the inside.

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The magic box hums its secret tune. In a dark Novessa sub-basement, your controller answers.

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The man's eyes are closed. He is completely still.

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The marriage of organic and inorganic.

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The menu lists fourteen varieties of schnapps.

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The metal drawer slides out nearly soundlessly, revealing rows of official-looking folders.

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The metal has rusted in some places, corroded in others.

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The milliner berates her apprentice, voices raised in frustration.

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The monkey is still hiding in the shadows.

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The most popular seats in town.

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The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 20 of 26