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You may be in the presence of the person who zeroed out PSEUDOPOD.

Not her place to eavesdrop.

An old hand at hearing other people's problems, and displaying just enough sympathy to make them feel listened to.

Almost like she's offended, or can't stand to look any longer.

The Fogged Mirror owes its existence to friends dragging friends along.

Keeps her voice low, even, and her eyes downcast.

Matches a certain hustler near the roundabout who calls you baby-girl.

Works for the Azzurri mob, sells drugs, and he's armed.

He has access to guns. Sells them, even.

You've heard he works for the Azzurri mob. May even sell guns.

Happy-go-lucky drug peddler. Among the first steps on the ladder of serious crimes.

That description almost fits Ramses, though you wouldn't describe him as heavyset, just big.

Years of regulars move in and out of the bar's entrance. Among them, a pair that was recently halved, a lonely silhouette amid the rest.

Wondering how a member of the carabineros doesn't know what happened to a fallen brother.

Silence is worth more than a thousand promises.

Quiet scepticism as she re-assesses you.

Figuring who we belong to, where our loyalties lie.

Nicer than any cop had the right to be. Still, he believed in the cause -- your cause.

You need to know. One of your assets being dead has a million implications.

She stands behind this bar most days, has done so for years -- she must know someone connected to this.

No sign of grief, though she appears faintly sad to be the bearer of bad news.

Nice way to describe a brother of the drink.

ROLL OUT THE WORKERS. RESTORE FORMER GLORY.

It's better than admitting you don't know why you're here.

A chime echoes somewhere in the back of your memory... 'Re-no-tel'.

As good excuse as any, and one handed to you on a plate.

'Sex line'? The lack of trousers grows more ominous.

A TRUE PARTISAN.

Your hand shakes. Your mind buzzes with worst-case scenarios. It could get so much worse than she thinks.

Never drank himself.

He'd devour the world if there were no one to stop him.

He'd cover you if you whined about it, but only if he was already getting one for himself.

Like one of those master sword makers the government subsidises to make two blades a year.

It took him a long time to warm up to people, but once he did he was loyal to a fault.

Like a bear in his den, always on the cusp of hibernation.

He even began to distrust those towards the end.

This is the correct level of emotional response for someone in your position.

Product of her generation. She knew how to keep herself to herself.

Gäng's poured plenty of drinks! How hard can it be?

Fresh soap smell mixed with the sweetness of sticky malt, the sharp tang of alcohol.

Shoulder, shoulder, elbow, elbow. You do everything to maintain your grip.

Your short-term memory is being severely tested. Fried, even.

A little pit opens in your stomach.

Every time she leaves home: dread.

Another null entity?

For the first time, you notice a faint scar on her cheek.

Her eyes dart across your face, trying to find reassurance.

Hoping to blend in with the rows of spirits behind her.

Like she's explaining to a simpleton.

2,870 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 31 of 58