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299 checks

You feel chalk dust settle over you.

A few seconds later, you hear it crash.

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

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.

Under your fingertips, cellophane wrapping gives way to cardstock.

The bullet nuzzles your aorta. Your heartbeat flutters.

Somewhat bland. Not recently brewed. Overall: serviceable.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

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

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

Above her, the small mounted television fizzes with the tinny shouts of a pelota match.

You can smell the chemicals in that water from here. You'll have to find a way to drain it.

Noise is carried on the wind towards you. Sounds like someone kicking open a tomb and cannibalising the dead.

The water is an unnatural red-brown colour and smells faintly of sewage.

Your fingertips crawl with sensation, craving the flaky scalp.

Old technology is one of the few places the past can still be touched.

The disc blooms like ruby flowers in the reflection of his lenses.

A familiar dolphin logo on his shirt, peeking out above his arm.

A familiar dolphin logo on his shirt, peeking out above his arm.

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

In one, human forms emerge from the black depths of a dilated pupil. In another a man stands naked facing a guerilla batallion, his hand upraised pointing at the sky.

The sound reminds you of a die.

Alcohol on his breath.

A faded patch sewn into his pants, below the pocket. Twin black lines set against a yellow background -- Carriles de Portofiro, the oldest transit company in the city.

Look. Another bald spot bobs within your reach... this one even more pristine than the last.

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.

Strange smell about her. Chemical. You remember it from somewhere.

Interior temperature: 23.5 degrees. Humidity: 44%. Pleasant by objective standard.

A ripple through your heart. She remembers.

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

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

His luminous yellow visor is stained with bloody fingerprints.

Rain splatters off the plastic sheets covering the notices.

Above your head, seagulls wheel and dive.

It feels as though the line is about to go dead.

His eyes alight beneath the brim of his hat.

His voice reverberates around the once-grand lobby.

Despite the quick answer, his voice sounds as though he's just emerged from sleep.

The crepitating telephoto lens of your mind widens as your circuitry slackens.

His forehead glistens with sweat.

His eyes well up as he turns his back to you, gently cuddling the model train. His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs.

Old clothes, soft on your hands from repeated washings and cheap detergents. Plastic toys, delight outgrown.

You can feel the value in their heft. It's a tribute to his pomade that there isn't a permanent dent in his hair from wearing these things.

The world mutes utterly. It's like being smothered by the future.

There is a little vacuum of gun-shaped space beneath your coat.

The tape on the grip is slick and uneven in your hands, the barrel heavy.

Bubble of molten gun pop out between the corners in the plywood.

299 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 6