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Summary
“Hey, Marty,” Amir huffs into his mic, the nickname never failing to make Drifter crack half a smile, “only one scrubber left, about…. six-hundred meters out.”
“On it,” he answers, stowing his scythe and crouching to ready himself, but Amir’s voice stops him.
“Waitaminute,” he rushes out frantically, “what if we raced?”
Or: Amir initiates a little friendly competition with the Drifter.
