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Sea of Cubicles
An expanse of workers' cells touches the horizon in all directions, a parking lot of lost souls. Only the murmur of tapping keys betrays any life. You wander aimlessly, looking for J-347. But there are no numbers or markings anywhere. You are marooned. Loss of direction, inability to move or concentrate, necrosis, dissolution. Reversed: hazard and adversity, a great adventure.
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