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The pads of your fingers itch.

Your part in this 'exchange' is done. The null entity had better have come through.

It'll be a relief to get out of this place.

Strong opening hook. Tonally ominous.

Roger Klaus Twitchitov, Director-General of the Operant Bureau from 58 until his untimely death in 87.

RUTHLESS CRITIQUE IS ONE THING, BUT THAT'S JUST UNCALLED FOR.

As for operant 'excommunications'... HOLOCENE is a case in point.

The text seems genuinely uncertain of what it is more interested in doing -- getting to the heart of the Opera's problems, or delivering the former director a literary pummelling.

Why would someone redact something they wrote... from themselves?

Your skin prickles, coursed by sudden static.

A sentence, unwritten yet palpable: 'I'd rather pick my own Freezer.'

It reads like he's mourning.

Eight hundred and sixty two.

Each page a wall of dense, precise text, locked in place with academic violence.

No need to spend your own money when you can simply borrow somebody else's.

Must have already been moved out of the cell, ready for the trade.

Wires travel from your ear to a million possibilities -- across Portofiro, further. A skein of electric devout in its connectivity.

Could be anyone about to pick up. A total stranger, their life intruded.

Your breathing is amplified by the transmitter held at your mouth.

In the background, the creak of wood, an aging door used only by the wind.

She'd only tell you to get on an aero-tram back home again.

You will need to remember this number. No need to make it difficult.

Sounds like a war fought with the sharp-end of noise.

You know this voice. It's the man at the top of the financial pile -- Mr. Reno himself.

We crave it! We want it!

Yet you can sense something leaking through the door seams. Unearthing. Contamination.

Humans dominate doors every day! Hurl this one back down the pecking order.

Our friend needs help -- kick the fucking thing down.

If this is the beginning... one must fear the end.

Or those meanings were embedded so deep that she failed to dig them out.

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

A rapid montage of people entering and exiting this room over a series of months. All of them wear loose-fitting outfits in mismatched colours.

All these rare words roll off her tongue like a second language.

Getting the target to fill in the blanks for you -- good form.

A hint of suspicion.

It's like she was suddenly thrust upon a stage, all her lines unrehearsed.

Janitor? That's why she's the one who let you in -- she's in charge of the doors.

She doesn't lack what's required of a boss, something else has dismantled her authority.

A TACTICALLY WORDED RETORT. SOMETHING HAS BEEN OMITTED.

Her jaw is bound tight.

Finding order. She enjoys this, it keeps her together, grounded.

Poetry is your area of expertise while you're in here, remember? Please try to uphold your cover at least a little.

This is the answer she wants to give -- carefully avoiding any mention of her 'sponsor'.

The venn diagram is a perfect circle.

The inner core of people. She wants them to rip out whatever makes them tick.

Blood. Flash. Hot! Craving...

She doesn't get it. Or you. Or poetry.

Your feedback on her own verses still spirals inside her head.

Bitch wants blood!

2,903 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 49 of 59