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Ashlock

Ashlock clutches a vast mug of black coffee; Tach, a shot of very potent tea. Together they stare at the iPod, throbbing with nearly-visible menace.

“We could,” Ashlock begins.

“No,” says Tach.

“No one’s buying, we can’t throw it away–”

“I’m not putting that number in my head,” says Tach.

“Fine,” says Ashlock. “But somebody rigged that trap. It’s a curse, and it’s onto us but good.”

“So what? You want to return it?”

“That’s exactly what I want to do.”

“It’ll burn through our backups. We’ve got maybe two days.”

“This,” says Ashlock, “is why I always keep receipts.”

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