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The Cold Man

The Cold Man can feel the cards tumbling in his head as he runs unaided, every step a guess on broken ground. He doesn’t sweat, but he can still smell his own fear. No doubt he’s not alone.

He shouldn’t have to work like this. They’ve done something here beyond electric fencing–he can shrug that off–and he can’t get grounded. He feels the bullet whine past, a soft tug of air. He’s probably got ten seconds.

Cards shuffle, wash, flip: a Lady. Good, bad–

At nine seconds he dives, finds the ley trunk, is gone faster than air allows.

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