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Eyebrows knotting, unable to imagine a desire. Look at you.

He doesn't give a FUCK.

Listen to yourself. Pure erotic cowardice.

Apart from when it's her detainees talking.

You're beginning to suspect this woman has no copyediting experience whatsoever!

He hasn't said her name in a very long time.

That's it. Lecture over.

Even through the drunken haze, you can tell he was impressed.

Stressed, liquid, junior? It can only be that hopeless fool hooked to the sex line.

In his mind, magnitude is all.

Happiness, yes, but there's a restlessness too -- like she's uneasy being caught and held in this static photograph.

He's no longer you, nor is he him.

That shrug was a little stiff. He's her type.

He's gone totally off script.

You sense a change behind his eyes. A decision has been made.

You see the pity for the miners in the man's eyes. Men and women drying out inside barren rock, the billowing dust steadily making them blind...

Brow slightly ruffled, not entirely sure where to look. He's not used to having his picture taken.

Brow slightly ruffled, not entirely sure where to look. He's not used to having his picture taken.

The darting eyes, the hunched posture, the furtiveness -- she was watching for a watcher.

Staring at photos all day doesn't make her a student of the human condition, just another species of voyeur.

Pen at the ready, considering how she'll phrase the emergency extraction order.

An odd smile -- there's something insincere about this woman.

He will make that mistake as many times as he's given opportunities.

"I'm here to help."

The muscles in his ropey calves tense visibly.

He really doesn't want to be doing business with Gonza, or you, for that matter.

The words pass through Goat Eyes' lie detector.

He doesn't quite buy it.

He's mostly making it up.

He truly does not.

Microscopic waves of warmth radiate out from him.

He's lost far pricier things in terms of market value but this one makes the very marrow of his bones ache with worry.

A man with the demeanour of a goalkeeper whose team has fled the pitch.

All serenity liquidated. Animal terror.

As cold as you've ever felt her.

The management's changed, but the artist's still on tour.

Didn't go outside either.

One very at odds with the atmosphere in the room.

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

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

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

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

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

Desperate yearning.

A fighter's chin.

Though she speaks fluent Illuminado, she is not Luzian.

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

Asked as if the question scared him.

133 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 3