Reading

Open fileNeed to knowMy clearance

A.Journal

Checks

276 checks

Posture relaxed, looking away. She's confident that you aren't in on PIGEON's scheme.

A practiced calm. He knows how he looks and dares you to question the asymmetry.

He's not lying, but it's not your lines he's interested in.

After a moment, his face drops as he realises what he has to do.

Easy. There's no recognition on his end. Not one dot connected.

He's thought about it, turned it over and over in his head until it all clicked.

Humour: sub-zero.

Something flares in her eyes. The same sheen of keen paranoia, brightened threefold.

Brighter. Madder.

But she smiles like she does.

Something flares in her eyes. The same sheen of keen paranoia, brightened threefold.

An insane sun rises from behind her eyes.

It must be said, this is the most handsome political economist you've ever encountered.

Traces of a born romantic linger in the man's voice. This was a doomed endeavour from the very beginning.

First impressions matter -- the person responsible for the design of this journal knows that.

She smiles at you again, but her eyes are cold.

True fanatic detected. Be careful what you say, and how you say it.

Fear in her eyes. Like you're being watched.

She sighs, nostalgic.

She flaps her hand, dismissing space exploration as a logistical inconvenience.

A man of strong opinion that he's not afraid to shout about. Even to children.

The boy seems confused that he has to explain this.

He catches his reflection in the blade's gloss varnish and sees a great beast, fangs bared.

No recognition at all.

Yeah, they have no idea.

No irony. Only the truth.

His fingers twitch, pulling a phantom trigger.

Largely unfazed, too infatuated with coming face-to-face with a real gun.

Unfortunately, the displeasure in her voice catches up with your little fantasy, and slams it all away.

Ice-water sobering from the inside out.

Instant, though mistaken, recognition. The character is prepared for you.

Look at the cosmonauts' expressions: pride, determination, joy. These aren't commemorative; they predate the disaster.

No translation needed, and not the slightest hint of irony. Yes.

That was a growl, not an attempt to speak. He would be making the same noise if he could talk.

Eyes widen. The other men regard him like some kind of God.

You realise after a moment that he isn't just doing his usual thing -- he's demonstrating.

Clocked you instantly, even though your accent has been diluted in the decade-plus since you left.

For a moment, hope flashes in his eyes. The possibility that, maybe, maybe, this is still the kind of place that diplomats frequent.

A little sadness alights on his face for the briefest moment.

Too quick on the denial. That's a big, flashing 'yes.'

You're dealing with a 'Get Off My Property' type here. Problem is, his property is communal.

They wear their clothes like the very mannequins they were sewn on.

He couldn't care less about your opinion.

Looking you straight in the eyes, sympathetic. She really doesn't know.

Her voice is thin -- she's not strong enough to carry them alone.

Knuckles white as she balls them into fists.

Not trusting herself to speak around the lump in her throat.

She deflates at the change of subject, back to the misery of now.

Under the thick hoodie, her eyes are fixed on a single point to the west.

Her hood a burrow, she the mouse within.

276 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 6