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It looks like a tuning fork made of black crystal, but it's called the Slingshot for a reason.

She wraps her hand around it, her bad hand - the one that breaks worlds.

If feels a little silly, standing there holding it, and then it twitches in her hand, the hard angular material of the thing vibrating, like an an athlete, eager to begin, and from it comes cold clear tone, high and loud.

It sounds like a spring morning by the sea. Dawn light spilling over a light dusting of frost. Plumes of warm breath curling against a cloudless sky.

It sounds, to Bina, like home.