Poor guy. You should make sure he's okay, at least.

How can we not love him? He's got all the makings of a top-tier gäng member. Solid right through.

It sounds like a yelp of pain.

Wait. There's something off about this woman's off-ness... she's not what she appears to be.

The role-subject dissonance is too much. Your brain is incapable of processing it.

Even the pelota ball, tossed back and forth by forces greater than itself, occasionally gets the chance to crunch against the nose of those who would try to catch it.

It descended like a vile comet from the stands above: white, planetary, drawing its own aureola of discoloured liquid as it spun. Only in the instant before impact did you realise what it was...

In the Portofiran plushie scene, some of the knock off labels have become their own commodity, almost as sought after as the real deal.

And then they'll probably turn around and add even more wolves.

YOUR FLOURIDATED COMMUNIST TEETH WILL MAKE SHORT WORK OF HER JUGULAR.

Keep clear of the nails! One swipe and she could open your jugular.

In the smouldering wreckage of a schoolhouse, a screaming child writhes under the limp, heavy body of his teacher as their world burns around them.

The dead and the discarded.

Wait until you get your hands on Bitter Wolf... she has a special straw... oh, and Radiant Wolf, he glows in the dark...

Keep clear of the nails! One swipe and she could open your jugular.

RALLY YOUR TROOP, HE NEEDS HIS SONG!

His courage wavers, ignite him with the flame of his song!

Sing. War cry.

Fast. Strong. Good to know.

The beetle continues, seemingly unaware of either peril or protector.

Money exists like a theatre to a machine -- flesh-beings trading paper and metal in futile hope that it will solve their differences.

NORMAL REACTIONS TO THE DEGENERACY OF CAPITALIST LIFE. DISREGARD REACTIONARY DIAGNOSIS.

As she looks over her deteriorating wares, Carmuna pulls her shawl closer and glances towards the shrine of Canopus. She could've sworn she heard familiar music.

Find that coat and fuck it up.

A purple and silver eyeshadow look with glitter stars is labelled 'The Violeta'.

Beyond the edges of the universe, falling into a tourmaline haze.

UNCURL YOURSELF. FLAUNT YOUR FINE COMMUNIST SPINAL COLUMN.

Shining with a film of sweat in the orange glow, the lovers twirl and stomp. Cheers, singing, the thrill of the crowd. Ash rains on trashcan drums.

Like a tree flaunting gnarled bark to the saplings in its shade.

A neurological affliction from the chemicals in the dye. Progressive. Irreversible.

Control of the docks and market have been passed back and forth between rival gangs for decades, but she's survived them all.

Carmuna's life flashes before your eyes. She never would have grown old had that day gone according to plan.

She raises a finger to the heavens, threatening the angels not to challenge her authority on the matter.

Don't worry about his feelings. It suits you so much better.

An acceptable mimicry of a skull liquefying under extreme thermal stress.

For a second, you imagine her saying those words to you from the other side of a bed -- lipstick staining the pillow, hair dishevelled.

Cosmonaut explorers on an alien landscape, safely concealed from the hostile environment -- and lifeforms.

Modded tape deck with antennae to pick up the cricket's signal. Signature Ramses engineering -- zero budget precision, wretched and ingenious.

He's not choking, but something similar to it. Something that has lowered his lung capacity to half.

Maximum opacity. 1) Face covered 2) Bulky clothing -- both of which you already carry. Good.

That part was self-evident -- that's why you didn't think of it. This was not a failing on your part. Do not admit to it being a failing.

You need maximum opacity. You have enough to cover your face, but you need loose or bulky clothing. Find some.

Don some loose or bulky clothing -- which you already have. You'll need a mask or something to cover your face.

Don some loose or bulky clothing -- something you are yet to acquire. You'll need a mask or something to cover your face too.

Far below the normal region of air traffic, almost skimming the dark water, a shuddering cargo plane crosses the Noscorrentes Sea, lights dimmed.

The signs are clear if you know what to look for: jaundiced skin, bilirubin-choked. The disease has taken hold.

Fantasies of refuelling planes that no longer exist run through their eyes.

His face twitches on the razorblade between perverse delight and terror.

A painter's nightmare, etched in bodies and fire.

The soundless words are clear on his lips: 'I was held in one'.

Checks