Reading

Open fileNeed to knowMy clearance

A.Journal

Checks

2,870 checks

Dr. Hugo must have killed them all.

Dripping skepticism.

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

You feel like your organs have flattened themselves against your spine.

'Finally lost it'? Or maybe the more diplomatic but equally damning 'Operant withdrawn for symptoms of clinical exhaustion'.

PROBABLE was the Operant Bureau's most valuable performer in 66. His true assignment must have been a high-level hold.

You hear her flip a notebook closed with a satisfying snap. That's the closest you're going to get to 'well done' on this one.

A siren circling your skull.

Neurons light up along your spine, flickering erratically.

The line is operational. You can rule out a technical problem.

The exquisite work of the 'magic box', one of the proudest achievements of the Opera's Technical Services Office.

THE VOICE OF AUTHORITY.

And her voice is just as you remember.

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

Archives. Mountains of paper. Shiver. Resist.

Over, immediately. The words ricochet inside your skull.

Disregard. Time for some self-directed espionage.

Negative. Gäng want spy.

REACTIONARY PESSIMISM. THE PEOPLE'S SPY IS INDOMINABLE.

Even as your controller is speaking, your mind is settling back into familiar grooves. The old mechanisms slide and click into position.

A.k.a. 'The Freezer'. The Opera's labyrinthine archival complex. Where the old, useless, and discredited are consigned until they're dismissed or die of despair.

REACTIONARY MISADVENTURE.

Auto-erotic obliteration.

Tsunami of self-love.

Five years, three months, ten days. That's how long it's been since her voice was in your ear.

The exquisite work of the 'magic box', one of the proudest achievements of the Opera's Technical Services Office.

Something whirs inside the black sphere. A camera points at you.

No one abandons shrimp like that for long.

That padlock is under sustained physical pressure. Its collapse is not far.

Why didn't everyone do that, then? This may well have been high-level psychogenic stagecraft.

His luminous yellow visor is stained with bloody fingerprints.

Rain splatters off the plastic sheets covering the notices.

You suspect your apology will bounce, inert, off the dead walls of her heart.

A colossal operational fumble. There are about three people in this whole city who know her by her cryptonym, and only one who would leave this message.

Cryptonym on full display on a public noticeboard. Bravo, operant. Potentially a match-ending 'own goal'.

Above your head, seagulls wheel and dive.

You have just been attacked by unknown assailants at the bottom of this silo.

On the floor, belly-down. Diaphragm convulsed by the blow, unable to breathe.

This is a robbery, not an assassination.

It's the metal stripper. The one who urged you to come down here.

You should return to the surface, operant. You have questions that need answering.

Breathless. Sightless. Caught off-guard. You're going to die.

The word 'mostly' in that sentence seems to be hiding something.

There's always the dangerous option. Express delivery.

For something sneakier, you could try the route via the waterlock you drained...

For something more secretive, that little girl mentioned a door in the waterlock...

Or you could case the rest of the building to see if there's an alternative way down there.

You cannot weigh a soul with guidelines.

GOOD, THIS 'POETRY' HAS RULES AND DOCUMENTS.

2,870 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 37 of 58