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Close enough to touch shadows.

Long-submerged dreams of popstardom float to the surface of your consciousness like drowned corpses.

For a moment, her mind flits to erasing all life through a single song. A communal three-minute ritual of beauty and horror.

You spot one legible button right in the centre of the console. It says 'INTERFACE'.

Evil! Stay away!

The machine is a cyclops. Its other monitors are ancillary, this one watches.

He said that way too quickly. Bet he can't name any.

He thinks he's going to stay there, too.

He's made up his mind.

Wearing a nametag? Idiocy even for a civilian.

GROTESQUE MISUSE OF PARTY COLOURS.

Trying to think of an insult. He doesn't like that your name is cooler than his.

He turns his head to look sideways at you, like one might at a crackhead or a priest.

He'd rather have the girl.

That's a word he learned very recently.

Wrong type of glass for a callomanic, should be in a tulip.

... Except for a lingering aftertaste of fucked-ness. You can't quite place it, but this callomanic is definitely FKD.

She's doing this to put you at ease -- but an unopened bottle can still be poisoned. Don't drink it.

She's drinking from the same bottle, you're fine. Get her drunk, make conversation, see what guts she'll spill.

Hers is crumpled on the floor beside her, discarded like a tight bra after a mid-week work day.

Hold the line gäng! We're within striking distance!

YES, DIEGO. LIKE LIONS.

A perfect operant.

Solar Point: a small coastal area of Lágundi, a Luzian colony famous for luxury tourist resorts.

WITHIN EVERYONE IS MOP AND MOPPER -- A TRUE REVOLUTIONARY KEEPS BOTH HANDS FIRMLY ON THEIR OWN SHAFT.

Her posture straightens, as if she's ready to fight you -- but she's afraid.

Ten inches and your lips will meet hers.

Melita's voice in your ear: 'The Bank will always deal'.

The gap can fit a whole shrine in there?

You've been doohickeyed, bitch.

Twenty-six bones and no major blood vessels. She should be thanking you.

She won't. You can feel it, her knowledge of the doohickey. It weighs more than usual.

YOU WILL CATCH THE REACTIONARY IN THE ACT YET.

Desperate yearning.

A fighter's chin.

The final stage of colonisation -- the oppressed become strange parodies of the people that colonised them.

Its smell is the same as all port cities -- damp concrete, diesel exhaust, drifting mats of golden-brown sargassum.

Her costume is a stylized but unemblazoned piece of Luzian military history.

Most likely a mid-rank Weeping Eye asset.

Though she speaks fluent Illuminado, she is not Luzian.

Three hundred tiny windows, ghost hands tapping on the glass.

In the crowded rooms of your life, faces fragment into variations of themselves.

What began at one shrine ends at another.

Tension on the surface, yet all bound fast by an invisible thread.

There's a coil wired into the wall, fused to the socket with melted plastic and faith. That's where he eats, listening to currents crackle overhead.

Famous for sterile logistics, tax-flexible exports, and a stunning aversion to political alignment.

Curtains twitch at the windows. Inside, stacks of dog-eared dream and memory contaminate each other.

1,265 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 18 of 26