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THAT'S WHY LIBERALISM GAVE YOU TWO.

Blood gush. Death rush.

Don't let your guard down.

Whatever book she's working her way through at the moment, it will remain unfinished.

Existential dread is a foreign concept to her. Must be nice.

A feeling that should be crushing you right now. Why aren't you getting a move on?

The only reason the one on this tram is still functional is because it's the quietest route on the line.

They should have put it behind glass, so it could be treasured. Worshipped. Curated and handled only by the high priests of the conductor class.

Are you gambling the gäng's fate on a busted machine?

IT IS TOO LATE FOR IDEOLOGY TO SAVE HER, ANYWAY.

Even mid-assignment, the tyrant queen holds his heart in her talons.

Hopefully a nicotine-addled teenager with expensive taste is what the Lich saw, too.

Gut churn vertigo.

If she survives, she will be the first to be interrogated. They will make an example of her.

What is the plan here, operant?

Is she In On This? Paid off, threatened, fanatical?

Utter impenetrability in the event of capture. No torturer is breaking through to this one.

No complications whatsoever. If he'll work with the woman who lobotomised him, he'll work with anyone.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

You are milking your lucky cow dry, take it easy on him. Once a day is more than enough.

An obnoxious little mirror, well-worth the seven years of bad luck incurred by breaking him.

You are. He did.

Your desire to stay out of the freezer and prove yourself in the eyes of the Opera has clearly been foregrounded in his mind. You can use this against him.

All at once he internalises the defeat in his posture, the shoulders sinking in time.

Unfamiliarity without novelty. A hell of alienation.

No hint of accusation. He's convinced he is misremembering somehow.

You remember the feeling of inert PSEUDODPOD -- at once mundane and disturbing, like some piece of surrealist human furniture.

Lucid, self-aware -- this really isn't the worst version of yourself, all things considered.

As though at a mirror that refused to respond to his movements.

The information to process is simply too much. He has no choice but to roll with it.

Like an epic romance from mythology, your hatred of Eszti echoes through your incarnations, undying.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

That vibration that you can feel through his skull -- the prelude to sobbing.

He even makes the same sound you make when you're thinking.

A tone so venomously sarcastic it's worse than no admission.

Sarcastic or not, you have bent him to your will. You can use him in theatre.

It's like asking a child with no experience of the world who they'll work with. He has no frame of reference.

Not nearly as confident his put-on persona as he pretends.

He shrinks even as he is suggesting.

Fucker of mothers.

He stays at the bar until they kick him out, and then wanders around town until they let him in again.

It's conceivable he's even convinced them to let him sleep here.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

Smile of feral victory.

It's like watching all the worst parts of yourself bound up in a male body -- and an ugly one, to boot.

When he runs up against the limits of his memory, the fantasy threatens collapse.

Like an epic romance from mythology, your hatred of Eszti echoes through your incarnations, undying.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

This tradition is sacred to him.

2,870 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 43 of 58