[The feed starts from inside an empty room, one that was until recently underwater, sealed off with heavy brass and inches-thick glass. The window is an ordinary one now, square and framed in wood, and the bank of television monitors is gone, leaving the wall bare, though there are still a few tattered cords that the Mansion has yet to reabsorb
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FUCK. JACK. WHY ARE YOU DESTROYING THINGS AND CRYING SAD HUMAN TEARS?
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OKAY, YOU KNOW HOW LITTLE TROLLS ARE WIGGLERS? WELL, BEFORE THEY'RE WIGGLERS, WHEN THEY FIRST HATCH, THEY'RE GRUBS.
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OKAY. YOU KNOW WHAT. IMAGINE THE LIFE CYCLE OF A MOTH. THAT IS BASICALLY WHAT A TROLL DOES. EXCEPT WITHOUT THE WINGS AND FLYING INTO BRIGHT LIGHTS ONLY TO DIE, AND WITH A LOT MORE FUCKING INTELLIGENCE AND OPPOSABLE THUMBS.
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[This is Jack-code for 'I am going to look that up in the library in an hour or so.']
So what you mean when you say we're like those is...
[...No, he's got nothing.]
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MY LUSUS DIED TOO.
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Sinclair talked all the time.
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