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A likely story. More likely... he's viewing you right now.

Or, message conveyed, he has cut the psychic link and stopped remote viewing you.

This ends here. Close the door on the madness you have unleashed upon yourself.

A phrase you've heard uttered often, with either panic or disappointment. She's gone for the second.

This isn't getting anywhere.

Caught out for her nosiness, she doesn't dare do anything else.

When whatever happened to him, happened.

Having a number of 'side-things' to achieve can help with your overall psychological balance. Small pips of easy pleasure.

Neurons light up along your spine, flickering erratically.

Once you say it, there's no going back. The momentum of events will overtake you.

Over, immediately. The words ricochet inside your skull.

Disregard. Time for some self-directed espionage.

There's always the dangerous option. Express delivery.

One she can't bring herself to answer.

What else is down there?

Silence wielded like a meat cleaver.

If he hears a scream from inside the Palace, the last thing he's going to do is run inside to assist.

Yeah, he's pretty scared.

Even in his fantasy, he has to call in the big boys.

A hit to steady the fibres can't hurt. Just a small one.

Not a safety net in sight. You have to at least respect the boldness.

A flint catches in your chest -- a stubborn spark flashing where you thought only ashes remained.

Act like this was all part of The Plan.

This cat thing must be really upsetting him. He's lost it.

The cleaners must be really upsetting him. He's lost it.

Bring a gun. He will.

He keeps them on. He keeps them on!

He could try. But all his bullets are in your pocket.

A vague threat. Should've disarmed him.

And to think... you rubbed that bald spot for luck. Seems he had zero of that stat to begin with.

Okay, good to know. There are worse friends than you out there.

That adds up. Last time he just shot and never spoke a word.

He's not playing with house money. He's got his own chips down.

Woah! The TAXMAN making some serious post-mortem plays!

You know this man is partial to a loaded gun. Given your last encounter, you should be in control of the bullets.

The words are firm, despite the gentle trembling that's overtaken her.

The Grand Lich of Techno-Fascism. Your target.

This girl is an antenna. A lightning rod.

Impressive. No way this kid's a board inspector; whoever sent him on this 'mission' is way scarier than any pencil pusher.

Existential dread is a foreign concept to her. Must be nice.

Hopefully a nicotine-addled teenager with expensive taste is what the Lich saw, too.

Gut churn vertigo.

If she survives, she will be the first to be interrogated. They will make an example of her.

An obnoxious little mirror, well-worth the seven years of bad luck incurred by breaking him.

Hope. The possibility of death in hostile rather than friendly hands is presently a comfort.

You've done it before. You could do it again. Couldn't you?

A shocking demotion. Rung number one on the ladder of being.

What does midnight alone feel like down here?

He keeps mentioning this 'M.I.H.O.' thing... ominous.

He keeps mentioning this 'M.I.H.O.' thing... ominous.

191 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 3 of 4