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Deep Cuts in a Lovecraftian Vein
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Mr. Squeaky stood on the dash. No one remembered who had mounted the yellow ducky there, where everyone on the bridge could see it. It had become tradition.
The Khlor stole it. And awoke to photon torpedoes.
"You caused a diplomatic incident," the admiral said. "Over a ducky?"
"They started it."
2026-02-27T18:46:09.557Z