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

Tears tremble on the edges of her eyes.

Adorable stifling. More of this.

Plastic surgery for the soul.

She loved every moment.

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

She recognised it immediately. This is no bootleg.

Not only is there nothing cool about this proposition to her, there is no chance this 'collaboration' ever occurs.

There's unease at her fringes -- slow ripples along the shoreline.

'Embroiled' also didn't land.

She isn't remotely surprised or on edge -- if there's such a thing as 'off-duty' in this business then you're looking at it.

She takes a drink -- a longer one than usual.

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

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.

He shrinks even as he is suggesting.

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

The air quivers alongside her movements.

You all seem uncomfortable in a crowd.

He's subsisting on these alone.

Absolute conviction behind his words. This is no bluff or bait.

There's nobody in there.

You're not sorry. You wouldn't have done this if you were.

There's nobody in there.

He shows you a quick smile. Relieved but anxious.

No judgement in his voice. His curiosity is innocent, almost childlike.

A dry, barking laugh, it reverberates off the walls of the cell and back into the receiver.

He did not, in fact, mean it.

More background radiation than man.

Her lack of expression is so blank as to be an expression itself.

A lopsided smirk on his face, an unusually light gait. The look of the expertly fucked.

Loss. Irreversible and total.

You can practically hear her foot lifting off the panic accelerator.

A drop of sweat rims his eye, which stares at you, serious and true.

They're just going about their days.

He's deteriorating. Rapidly.

That's her using the method on you. Feels different over the phone.

That's her using the method on you. Feels different over the phone.

That's her using the method on you. Feels different over the phone.

He thought he'd be dead. He isn't sure how to conduct himself alive.

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

Her jaw is bound tight.

Her eyes dart left and right, machine-like. Occasionally they pause as she processes a thought before continuing.

An attempted smile fails to mask the pain behind it.

He is genuinely surprised.

A casual, yet impressive assessment.

He still doesn't quite believe it.

He stalls momentarily as his brain computes the information.

A syllable strains against his lips. He's trying to say something, but his jaw is locked shut.

276 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 6