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The script

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You return to the graffiti wall.

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You return to the hole.

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You return to the lone payphone.

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You return to the postbox.

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You return to the rack.

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You return to the residents' list.

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You return to the shelves.

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You return to the shrine under the stairs.

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You return to the staircase.

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You return to the wasteland.

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You scan the noticeboards for names you recognise -- none stand out.

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You should now have everything you need to make your very own killing device.

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You smell pine... and urine.

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You spot a few tiny skeletons within the wall of jumbled cages.

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You stand before Tempo's door once more.

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You stare up at the high filing cabinet.

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You step back to the tower of plushies.

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You step into the booth and press the receiver to your ear.

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You step over the threshold and into a memory. This place -- this bar -- the centre of the frozen world.

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You step up to the terminal again.

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You stop and take the world in, a figure jittering on PAUSE. Nobody looks up. Nobody asks why you're here. Nobody waves.

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You sway on your feet in time with the bobbing boat.

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You take out the bomb again.

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You take out the medical dummy once more.

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You unfold the cipher and remember the instructions extracted from the novel:

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You wake to blurry vision, thudding ears, and a dull ache in your lower spine.

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You were panting from the run over, heart thudding in your ears. Hours late. There was an astral door beside that trash can and an exchange…

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You were standing here at a house party when you saw the unmistakable bulk of Tempo del Sur clambering over the rooftops towards you.

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You. You are an animal. The divide between human and beast is an illusion, stops you unlocking your full potential -- your connection with…

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You'd look like this crater too had you not jumped out of the way.

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You're being watched -- but not like that.

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You're in the clear. Give it a go.

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You're nearing the top.

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You're not going to just wear that boring, brown paper bag, are you? It's an insult to the rich tradition of facial ornaments.

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You've an expansion now, Hersh. Revel in your success.

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You've been here before. A house party in number 4.

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Your eyes struggle to adjust to the dim light provided by the recessed bulb above you.

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Your faint reflection stares back at you from the neighboring building's skylight.

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Your finger depresses the yielding material.

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Your flashlight beam pans across a series of steel shelves on floor rails. Some aisles sit half open.

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Your odds of winning this lotto are roughly 0.000658%.

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Your stomach does a somersault.

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Zoning permits, eviction logs -- dated 75. A taxonomy of the Pitol Tract's erasure.

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The script - ZERO PARADES - Page 26 of 26