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A few seconds later, you hear it crash.

He decorates the word 'song' with a wiggle of his fingertips.

Could be challenging. You've never been very good at finding a groove, body-wise.

Thump, thump, thump -- your arteries, or a bassline? It's hard to tell the difference, but something thrums through your body, a vibration from deep within the walls.

You can't hear a thing.

INSIDIOUS IMPERIALISM. TODAY, THE SOFT POWER -- TOMORROW, THE HARD.

The sight reminds you of a set of stairs descending into the dark of the basement.

Still -- it'd be ballsy. They've been left out in the open.

THE SO-CALLED DEVELOPED WORLD EASING IT IN WITHOUT CONSENT.

Trafficked and then violated. Sick world we're in, Herschen.

Under your fingertips, cellophane wrapping gives way to cardstock.

Top-shelf tobacco. There's at least 500 sol worth of cigarettes in this crate.

Ash on a black fur collar. Piercing blue eyes through smoke, a laugh that could turn wicked.

You're going to have to smoke it with the sun in your eyes. You're going to have to live.

You've seen these before. Smoked them before. This was Tempo's brand.

So, technically: no.

No need to overthink this. This task doesn't require actual poetic talent, only the skilful mimicry that is your stock-and-trade.

Your character is a woman chronically obsessed with her own pain, a cripple, almost, but one who filters it all through an engine of language.

Probable cause: high-stress.

It screams: 'DANGER, NOT FOR HUMAN CONSUMPTION.'

All true, none of it useful just now.

In short: Born capitalist, reborn communist.

The bullet nuzzles your aorta. Your heartbeat flutters.

A tingle in your fingers. Your head grows lighter as you approach the crash site.

The missing companion to the one-time key you recovered from the trousers.

Suprema 100s. Cheap Superbloc export.

Shit quality. Barely smokable. Emergency use only.

FOR CASCADE ALL WILL BE FORGIVEN

Hold. More secrets to consume. Very personal ones. Yum-yum.

Whoa, whoa! Your darkest secrets. You can't just leave them out like this.

But you will never bring yourself to sit in it.

Worth it. You have internalised your secrets. Contained them. They will do no damage in there.

Fuck her! She doesn't deserve your remorse.

If things don't go according to the plan.

Left behind on purpose. Lone survivor. A warning.

Teens do not like being given things. They prefer to take.

Its body has been broken, but its soul lives on.

Better to be prepared. If you have only one choice -- you have zero choice.

You never did clear up if she was a spy or not. Is this wise?

A fitting farewell drink. Just hopefully not your final farewell.

Steeling you for whatever is about to come.

So she wasn't trying to poison you.

Too many questions.

Followed up by looking around you, as if something else caught her attention.

A similarity she hasn't ignored.

The favourite euphemism of smugglers and bootleggers.

He won't be back.

Not 'why'd you leave', blessedly. She knows her audience.

He can't have just been waiting for you.

2,903 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 30 of 59