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Dot

Dot’s been collecting thumbs a long time, and few doors in the Answer remain barred to her. She picks one from around her wrist, warms it in her hands and presses it to the little pad: the soft eldritch click makes her grin. Through the door and she’s among the huge black sarcophagi, padding toward the center.

There’s a single pane of perfect glass there. Dot breathes mist on it and quickly traces the mystic cat’s-eye symbol, the one in the zero, the I and O.

Light suffuses the glass. Around her, the tombs of the ancients hum to life.

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