It's dark in the print shop.
Great shapes hunch silently in the dimness, engines that churn out pages and weave bindings, still in these pre-dawn hours.
You walk between them, picking your way carefully across the tiled floor until you find what you were looking for.
Drawing a utility blade, you quietly part cardboard from cardboard. A box opens and paper guts are revealed.
You know you have only minutes left to work, so you gather up the loot quickly. Moments later, you're drawing the sigils that will force open a tear in reality, and stepping through them.
As you do, a few pages flutter behind you. Then the portal slaps closed.
Your arms are full of zines.