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2,903 checks

Time. Place. Weapon. Squad. One-fourth of your plot in hand.

To 'shake the Hand of Fate' is to die, in this part of the world.

Gentle electronic tones rise and recede from it like the tide against a digital beach.

There are old reports of a botched naval blockade in 69. Eastern Republics -- a friendly fire incident. Tenuous, but failure has a cost.

Suprema 100. Like the ones your double brought.

Suprema 100. Smoked by tens of millions across the People's Republics.

Whatever happened in 69, it must have to do with that box. Maybe it's not just a medical necessity. Maybe it's something more.

Predator smell. Sharp. Outgrew his cage.

Whatever happened in 69, it may not have had anything to do with him at all.

That's because you're not speaking with a man, you're speaking with an augmentoid.

An uncanny buzz in the air, as though a director might pop out of any one of those doorways, yelling 'Cut!'.

You're not really about to spill your guts to a null entity, are you?

Face it, gäng is döömed.

WHY ARE YOU SPILLING THE PEOPLE'S SECRETS TO A NULL ENTITY HAHAHA OH IT'S THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES FOR YOU.

A brief reminder that you don't know anything about this man.

The girl. The paper heart.

You know your role, operant. Play it.

A phantom itch. He's scratching at something that hasn't happened yet.

A brief sniff. Total lack of interest.

Disturbingly topical.

THE PUNISHMENT FOR DESERTION IN-THEATRE IS REASSIGNMENT TO THE LUNAR CADMIUM MINES.

You had all the pieces, you only needed to slot them together.

A damaged heart, longing to redeem itself.

A fevered mind, desperate to order the world around it.

A tool for a task, nothing more or less.

Another plaything of the stars, impelled by processes beyond its comprehension.

You could ask about his motivations -- casually, as he asked about yours.

Tempo was laying low from the Weeping Eye, not EMTERR. It would be very bad news if both the Operant Bureau's ancient enemies were mixed up in this.

Everything you know has directed you to the Bazaar thus far. Doesn't exactly scream The Bank.

Comically vague. Very little to work with.

A tinge of respect, beneath the bruised ego.

Defector accounts confirm Buendia favours a hands-on approach to counter-intelligence. No foreign network, including yours, collapses without his say.

Money. Power. King with no crown.

Renotel -- the dolphin payphones. Invisible courier of the city.

Your stomach tightens. Predator. Caution.

You might still be able to play this off.

His shirt is very ugly, it must be said.

The cost of a new set of tyres.

Or a compact pistol.

Knowledge, exactly what you're lacking just now.

A little shiver runs down your spine and gathers in the small of your back.

He needs time. And space.

All across the city of Petre there is silence. People peer out fearfully from the slivers between curtains.

SUCH INSULT! THE DEPRESSED REACTIONARY IS MISTAKING YOU FOR YOUR DIRECT OPPOSITE, YOUR SWORN ENEMY.

Your natural enemies. The ones who took you all apart five years ago. Hackles rise.

The Guardia Municipal. Street cops.

OBSESSION WITH FOREIGN IMPORTS. SUFFERERS OF SO-CALLED 'LUZIAN MANIA' WILL CONSULT THE WALL.

Natural blink reflexes suppressed, the two children you spoke to earlier stare at the TV in the adjacent stall.

NOTHING THE FIRM, LOVING HAND OF A RE-EDUCATION CENTRE CAN'T FIX.

Natural blink reflexes suppressed, the two children stare at the TV in the adjacent stall.

2,903 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 54 of 59