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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.

It's not just earnestness... what fills his voice is a kind of anti-irony. A wilful, forced belief.

And below, the abyss of doubt.

Nearly the entire sub-thirty population of the city, most of whom are hooked on Luzian fashion.

Instead of a vegetable, you've created a man in a perpetual psychotic break. And now he's robbing random pedestrians.

There's nothing you can't get this guy to do, as long as it's for socks. He's a menace.

He knows he's a loose end, and he knows what happens to loose ends.

Hope. The possibility of death in hostile rather than friendly hands is presently a comfort.

The Tenantries of Saint Ulwen, re-annexed in the early 80s.

The air quivers alongside her movements.

Itching to commit violence.

Make this Boss Star close-gäng. That would really fuck the Luzians off.

You all seem uncomfortable in a crowd.

Bar a slight dip in air pressure.

Despite its reputation as an unfortunate star, every Luzian is taught to rely on Canopus above all others.

This is a man with a system. A tried-and-tested one.

You went East -- he went South.

He's subsisting on these alone.

If he did, he moved fast.

The one that looks just like yours.

There's something in her hand.

Trying to displace herself again.

2,903 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 44 of 59