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It's not Ultra Violeta who must agree to this, but her custodian, Yana.

There's a friendship to sidestep first. Yana won't agree to this easily.

It's not. More favourable would be a clean trade, the prisoner for the girl.

Poor prick's so far gone he doesn't even knöw himself.

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.

Not some kind of bluff. Genuine.

Almost tripped by your own shadow.

It was too early for PSEUDOPOD to be in-theatre alone. The Opera failed him.

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

More than a trace of envy.

Didn't Ultra Violeta herself mention a missing recording engineer?

A light glows beneath the pale ice of his eyes.

Did you forget? You're dealing with a mega fan here. He's so attuned to her creative wavelength he's phasing out.

Own goal. Then an early bath.

The man's pale blue eyes have drifted somewhere beyond you.

Yeah, from the child protection feds when they booked him for nöncery.

The Militia Ruban Rouge, or M.R.R., an extreme communist fringe group who have slipped further and further into darkness over their ten year 'campaign'.

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

Next up, eradication.

Cranial fragment halo. Blood chromosphere. Heart deranged.

What class of music player is that headphone wire connected to? Must be a high-end import -- likely customised -- equally compelling.

THE REACTIONARY LAYS DOWN HIS CUSTOMISED GARMENTS AND TURNS TOWARD THE LIGHT.

Your assignment could do with a professional operant.

Within the hull, Ultra Violeta clasps her keyboard to her chest and stares unblinking at her damp shoes.

Former enemies can often make the most loyal allies.

THIS GARMENT BEARS THE TECHNICOLOUR INDECISION OF REACTION.

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

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.

Of course he does. Perv factor off the charts.

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

He's tense around the shoulders. Twitchy at the edges.

A professional courtesy. He knows your real name. You gave it to his colleague under extreme duress.

And doomed spies.

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

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

Like a guerilla fighter in the depths of this human jungle, you have gathered piece by piece the tools for your campaign.

The plastic is to craft the feed mechanism. Without that, what you have on your hands is a one-shot zipgun. A dangerous toy for delinquent teenagers, not a weapon to carry in-theatre.

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

Poppers. Squirming motes in the visual field. Idiocy and pleasure.

The perfect place for your first attempt at improvised weapon manufacture.

Strange that she's not, now that she thinks about it.

The twinge of pain is familiar, almost nostalgic. That one's going to leave a mark.

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

Tears tremble on the edges of her eyes.

2,870 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 41 of 58