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Hank Blackpaw

The subway was never finished, in fact barely begun: it has only three branches, east-west along the river and south from there at both Fifth and Waterson. Even among the city’s survivors, the entrances are almost unknown.

But not to Hank Blackpaw.

“Why don’t you tell anyone else about this place?” pants Moire, glad to be out of the frostbite storm. “We could set up shelters–”

Hank points to the ceiling; Moire glances up to see it fragmented, near collapse.

“Oh,” says Moire, “I,” and shuts up with a click.

Hank Blackpaw smiles in silence, and pads off into the dark.

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