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[It's Monday morning again in Mayfield, and 847 Goldberg Street has a new acting father. Balin Wilbur isn't a heavy sleeper by any stretch of the word-so not long after Mayfield whisks him away, he subconsciously realizes something very wrong has happened.]
[Balin's eyes pop open. He's not in a
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He shrugs, awfully nonchalant about this, though why shouldn't he be? He's had months of this kind of thing to get used to it.]
I'm sure they will, at some point. Everything following that so far has been harmless in comparison. [If headache inducing.] Did we...
[Oh. He should have expected that question to come up. There's a pause that goes on a little too long, though he manages to keep looking straight on at Balin for the duration of it.]
No. Neither of us killed anyone.
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Though it's still kinda fucked up when ya think about it, yanno? I mean however they're doin' this, pluckin' us right outta all'a worlds an' times we belong to. They got'a power to do that an' yet they just drop us in like'is without a care.
...
Or maybe ... maybe that's'a point. Just another way'a fuck with our minds.
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