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Tiny, white cubes bounced off the hard, grey surface of the ground like spilled dice. I reached down from my saddle and caught one. It was cold, but it didn’t melt. It sat in my palm, a perfect, featureless cube of ice.
"It’s not cold," Tybalt whispered, his teeth chattering anyway out of sheer habit. "I mean, the air is freezing, but the snow... it feels like plastic."
"Low-poly precipitation," I muttered, tossing the cube away. "The Architect didn’t waste processing power ...
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