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2,870 checks

It's not her mess. Someone has been through and upended her stall.

The long, dark, sexy tunnel awaits...

Something tells you it won't get much better inside.

These must be the vestiges of Portofiro's disastrous 77 space program. The city-state tried to launch a rocket into orbit -- only for it to disintegrate.

Better look around the premises before stumbling in again. It's possible you already exposed yourself.

It was a harmless visit. If anything, you might have made them less suspicious.

Why not? A bit of socialising can open more doors than a heavy boot.

What? We're not doing no poëtry shït. We live for that break-in shït!

A house of suffering and loneliness.

A theatre-grade inference. Operant CASCADE re-emerges from the shadows.

You haven't mapped the space around you yet. No reason to rush for that door.

Lurkers draw attention. Operants walk in, then convince the world they belong.

And yet only a single clear point of entry.

One deep in the red.

The gäng would like to make its introductions now. Storm the gates, lay siege!

The rumble of flowing water beneath your feet.

The sound of water outside. Use it as your guide.

A gate opened -- it shouldn't have. Pull it again!

No warning lights, no worrisome noise. Keep going.

And the cling of metal on stone. You're on the right track.

Steps confirmed so far: 1. Press red button. 2. Switch. 3. Lever. 4. ? 5. Tentative: red button, long press.

A high-pitched whine from a motor.

Something's stopping the water from draining. Still, this is undeniably the first step.

The water won't drain unless it has somewhere to go.

You could keep trying, but the smartest move is to rule out unknown variables.

There's a step missing. The lever, perhaps?

The mechanism's already in place. It's the water you should worry about now.

Main drive engaged.

It looks exactly how you imagine the cockpit of a flying machine would.

Work this out and you should be able to drain the water outside.

The cabinets too.

Her gaze lingers on the document in front of her, but it's forced. She wants to keep her eyes on you.

Work justifies presence; any liquor is incidental.

Expired coffee, greasy condiment residue. Typewriter ink. Chemically processed wood pulp.

The poet got halfway through the critique, balled up the paper, and threw it in the bin behind them.

XXs and smudged ink where the author struggled with a sticky key on the typewriter.

And their attempts to self-edit in real time as they wrote.

Exactly how you remember it.

Usually, not had.

In Tsunese, spies are called 'cockroaches'. In Capoblancan, they're 'earthworms'. In every case, it is a detritivore, head-down amidst the trash of this world.

You want, therefore you are. Existence is confirmed by what it lacks.

And in fucking. Fucking all the time.

And that smell -- equal parts evergreen forest and skunk gland, at once exotic and familiar.

Any excuse for a laceration of the flesh.

You might've remained forever, had the occasion not arisen to unfreeze you.

BRUTE ANIMAL CUNNING IS ENOUGH TO INVENT CAPITALISM. POST-HISTORICAL MATERIALISM IS NEEDED TO TRANSCEND IT.

RUMBA! Canned coffee, even a sip of which would have made your ancestors' hearts explode.

They're so excited they're about to explode in their grey trousers.

In the eternal struggle between main things and side things, you have chosen a side. The side of not really choosing.

2,870 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 57 of 58