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The eyes are pale blue, water under ice.

He sees through the disguise. Move!

They don't notice your approach.

Her stance changes, shoulders sagging. The serum taking hold.

The palm push of surrender. She's done.

He sounds weak, unnatural.

Dead, just hasn't noticed yet.

She sounds hurt.

Realisation incoming.

On the brink of realisation...

KALEIDOSCOPE's lip curls, fighting the urge to argue.

You feel all her focus on you, the point of a knife.

Eyes closed, chin raised. Head tilted towards the jukebox. Waiting for her voice.

He's singing along, even though he's never heard it before.

Like she's waiting for you to ask a favour.

The highest compliment he pays his guests.

A ceremonial gesture, and not only for the visuals.

A shopgirl nods her head, aware of nothing, lost in the same rock-and-roll dream she slips into every morning on her way into the city. A young boy, traveling with his mother, shifts nervously from one foot to another.

Your controller was right: KALEIDOSCOPE has eluded the Weeping Eye's gaze. To them, he's simply a middle-aged man in a slightly inappropriate hooded sweatshirt.

Your controller was right: Yana has eluded the Weeping Eye's gaze. To them, she's simply a teenaged delinquent, skipping class for the day.

The shopgirl wearing headphones has closed her eyes. She must take this tram all the time.

Unfazed. Face like granite. The glasses help.

You know a stonewall when you smack off one. He's waiting for you to put something together.

He's very fond of her.

He was hoping you could make sense of it.

But he's aware you're here.

Last chance for peace, through gritted teeth.

Pity on her face. The teenager pities you.

Take that as a no.

Its expression, frozen in time -- helpless, but not distressed.

She truly isn't certain that you're real.

Nothing stashed inside. No hidden compartments or ciphers. Looks like it's just a cup.

He may be delusional, but he's not attempting to deceive. He believes every word.

Immediate terror. Real, unfeigned, unkinky terror.

His eyes skimmed right over it, almost as if it wasn't there.

Witness his true form emerge: A spittle-licker, specially bred to feel utter contempt for anyone below them and pants-wetting fear of anyone above.

His glasses are half-fogged from the sweat beading on his upper lip.

A strange cadence, uneasy syllables stumbling over a sloshing beat.

Of course you do.

So they recommended she be paired with HOPSCOTCH, too.

In the darkness of the shack, something creaks faintly -- sinew.

Posture relaxed, looking away. She's confident that you aren't in on PIGEON's scheme.

Posture relaxed, looking away. She's confident that you aren't in on PIGEON's scheme.

A practiced calm. He knows how he looks and dares you to question the asymmetry.

273 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual