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... ariation produced patterns. Yes, that was indeed sarcasm. My wit knew no limits, I was proud to admit. Come dawn, I was already awake and conducting my examinations accompanied by the faint pre-dawn light and Artyoms squeaky snores. Gods Above that little windbag had an entire orchestra of sounds down his throat, and I had been his unwilling audience all night.

Back turned to him, I sat upon a crude stool and examined the countertops worth of biter pods. Entombed in glass, they lay in va ...

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