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He considers his world, reduced to the unblinking black eyes of the cameras and various monitors -- strange mirrors in which he's constantly reflected back at himself.

And on the other side of those black eyes, thousands more watch through their television screens -- silent, stunned.

Pity, sorrow. He regrets this on your behalf.

He misses her dearly.

"Out here". The material world is no longer home to her.

Because of the Miracle Line. She thinks of you as a client.

They began from the same point, but their lives have spiraled off in such different ways.

Even for them, this is a bit much.

And yet he has constructed an entire mental apparatus just to be here again, with you.

He's not hiding it. He's screaming.

He should have been giving literature classes at a university, not out here, down here, doubting everything...

Politeness, professionalism, the performance of empathy. These are the things he was taught would make a good man, or at least a correct man. In his moment of greatest extremis, they all deserted him.

So lost that the idea of a connection, no matter with whom, far outweighs the loss itself.

By 'here' he means 'the world'.

A tightly-bound profiteering brotherhood beyond the comprehension of lower classes.

Besieged by failures in work and love, each of his attempts to resolve one immediately defeated by an agony from the other.

Excitement high enough to render danger irrelevant.

There is no undercover. This is just Ramses, doing what he does.

You have struck the cruelest blow.

Pulled himself up by his bootstraps. Well done for him.

One hundred photographs. A family of strangers.

Memetic contagion. A massive risk to any modern organisation.

A liquid supper.

This conversation is many levels beneath the cat. It knows what it thinks.

That's... that's none of his business.

He might cry later.

A scab across his heart he can't quite stop picking.

He wants you to tell him that it's not bullshit. He wants it to be real.

The reigniting of a custom you'd feared lost forever.

Not exactly how you would be best described.

He is surprisingly jovial compared to when you first met him...

She doesn't care at all.

The irreverent self-image of a trickster people, eternal underdogs.

He doesn't think it's for the best at all. Part of him is still hoping that the visions will arrive, albeit late.

You hurt his feelings.

He misses this version of her the most.

Your adversary's grudging acknowledgement is the greatest compliment you can receive.

Fair play, he thinks. If this is to be his final performance, at least it's a big stage.

A measure of last resort. Reports state it being extremely painful for the recipient.

It would be so very easy to believe her. As if for you and you alone, it's no act.

She casts it off, just like that. As if the phone was passed to a different person.

He includes himself like one coming to terms with the things done during a blackout, or a bout of amnesia.

There he is. He's back.

There is a correct answer, but neither of you know what it is.

There's another Melita, she thinks, looking at the same form but filling it in differently. She wishes she were that Melita.

The voice speaking these words, it's not entirely natural.

Can you say the same?

A wistful lover, content to gaze upon beauty without ever touching it.

Nor for you, either. You've made her just like you.

52 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual