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Her body chases his a centimetre as he pulls away.

No more natural gravity to grip on to.

Deep in the shadows past the cut-out holes, you glimpse a wet sheen in the blackness. Eyes widening in fear.

As he flaps his arms, little gusts of stale urine and sweat cause your nose to wrinkle.

Her massive sweater moves in a way which suggests a shrug happened underneath it.

Beneath the pleated folds of his trousers stirs something fleshy and horrible.

A scent below the perceptual threshold, something the animal that is your body can smell even if you cannot.

A pleasant little shiver as they pop against the edges.

Gentle heat on your skin, coconut liqueur on your tongue. He's onto something...

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

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

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

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

The word comes out slurred, almost as though he had to slurp back saliva to pronounce it.

Yet both are focused on yours, left one twitching off sunlight.

Beside you, HOLOCENE's hands search for pockets he doesn't have anymore.

Faint but frantic chatter audible through the wood, PSEUDOPOD's voice.

He'll fall if he can't see...

Has he been sharpening those fangs?

Thunder. The floorboards rattle underfoot.

A little quiver here and there -- nervous system at full charge -- but she's stable.

Something about... sleeping dogs?

There's nothing wrong with your eyes.

Marco would have been fathoms beneath Tempo's sphere of awareness.

A barrage of words -- none of them an outright refusal.

Your heart begins to thunder.

Sudden, intense déjà vu curtains your mind.

She looks at you like this is the most salient point in the world.

The shadow of a passing aero-tram flashes across the girl's face like a zoetrope as she glances up.

Is that a frown? He's puzzling it out. Give him a moment.

A sudden jolt of movement from the edge of your peripheral vision.

Bruised and swollen clouds gather overhead.

Look at all these lights. Twinkling, colourful. Lights are where the eyes want to go.

You hear the clear sound of a drum from upstairs. Something replied.

The smell of cola floats through the open crack in the window. A passing aero-tram hums above, unseen.

A smell of fresh plastic and aluminium coating, still contained within the transparent hemisphere, rises to your nostrils.

You see the glint of a silver medallion around her neck as she moves to give you a view of the selection behind the bar.

Stirring just a little at your touch.

Rising and contracting gently with the long breaths of sleep.

'Luz, Luz, Luz'.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click down the line.

Maybe you imagine it. Maybe you heard it, infinitely faintly... a slight, barely perceptible, click.

There is something incredibly satisfying about making that 'nom' sound. You should do it some more, just to see what happens.

Something takes flight in your chest. She thinks of you.

His voice cracks. The intercom pops.

A whiff of fried shrimp layered under a pervasive antiseptic odour.

Eyes: blood-shot.

She may be missing fingers. Toes. Other mutilations hiding under the sarcophagus of scarves and sweaters she's wrapped herself up in.

A slight wobble in the back -- stacked pallets.

74 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual