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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.

Just because you can, does not mean you should. Your path to the Lich goes through this girl. Otherwise, it's the long way round.

You can. And you should.

Raw deal, she thinks, but still a deal.

An enviable life... if you squint.

Adorable stifling. More of this.

Plastic surgery for the soul.

Aren't we a collection of everyone we've gänged with, anyway?

Opportunity here, operant. No need to trade information with KALEIDOSCOPE -- propose a clean swap, the prisoner for this lost girl.

She loved every moment.

The world slows for a fraction of a moment, before jolting back into real time.

Pop music falls under 'Culture'. This minister must be Reyes. Your quarry.

The Grand Lich of Techno-Fascism. Your target.

Intriguing stagecraft, operant. Telling the possible techno-fascist asset about the secret plan to kill a member of her government.

For some reason, she's uncomfortable talking about this.

Fucked him üp.

A thin film of tears forms across her eyes.

She recognised it immediately. This is no bootleg.

A 'fuckfold': 54,567,389 Superbloc kupongs.

This girl is an antenna. A lightning rod.

She's connected some of the dots, in her own way. No reason to jump ahead.

PSEUDOPOD may have a different outlook.

Uh oh. She's kind of digging this star-fucking business.

2,903 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 42 of 59