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A dithering, anxious desperation to be liked. Are you this pathetic?

You could suggest anything, he doesn't care as long as he's invited.

Maybe you've solved a cosmic mistake, you were supposed to be him all along.

If he learns to be you, he won't have use for the real you anymore.

They'll burn him in the same fire that you've been fueling with the document shredder for the past five years.

Because he is one of them.

Curious. He's dressed as a pitcher.

Created to be destroyed, like a grass dog -- named and decorated and burned on the pyre.

You could take one You. Probably not two Yous. Three Yous, absolutely going to struggle.

Three plus... at those numbers, all minds turn towards the Doppelgängbäng.

Confidently superlative. In this case it seems fair.

He can be the shield when we get in formation.

Philosophically disturbing... but mathematically solid.

They can carve it onto your shared headstone.

He smiles with his eyes alone. You recognise yourself in the expression.

But at what cost? To become the high arbiter of Human Capital, you no doubt have to trade in some of your own.

WATCHING IMPOTENT LIKE THE EUNUCH IN THE HAREM -- DREAMING OF ALL THE BOURGEOIS HEDONISM HE WILL SOON COMMIT WITH HIS ACCUMULATED 'PROFIT'.

FAITHFUL READERS OF THE PARTY'S CIRCULAR KNOW ALL ABOUT THE DISTURBING TENDENCY IN SO-CALLED DEVELOPED COUNTRIES TO COPULATE WITH CONSUMER OBJECTS. HEADPHONES, PILLOWS, BICYCLES... NOW MODEL TRAINS.

NO ONE LOVES YOU LIKE THE PARTY.

A woman you will never see gets you off.

Base it in fact. He won't believe it otherwise.

'Tell me what to do...'

Kicking, screaming, biting legs.

He grins with the maniacal intensity of a man who thinks he's found a weakness in god's armour.

Perfect zone. Look at the view! No trees, ocean, or mountains getting in the way. Pure, uninterrupted structure.

A missile flies through the sky, screaming its arrival. They pick up their instruments one last time.

Good hands would've found a purpose for it already.

Five seconds between release and shatter. The bottom of the silo is approximately eighty metres below ground.

Faintly, a round of offended cooing from the rafters.

What's coming will be ugly. You deserve something beautiful, here at the end of all things.

Force your body into fight mode with an epidural of adrenaline, straight to your spinal cord.

Gleaming discs fall like a strange plague upon the city below. The sun blooms little rainbows between them. From the tram windows, children laugh.

Ran afoul of the Azzurri mob, as rumour has it.

As the ideas of 'cultural manoeuvre' and 'letting teenagers inflict their music onto everyone' pass through your head, it suddenly seems obvious:

This may, perhaps, prove to be the Superbloc's final and most dramatic own goal.

What's 'it'. You want 'it'.

Don't care. Don't care. Don't care.

FAKE BABIES. PROPAGANDA.

He's never been away from them for this long before.

A ham-fisted attempt at creating character depth, predictable even for a fascist.

The mic is in the vicinity of the speaker, but out of focus, his mouth pointed away from the receiver, liquifying the consonants.

You are listening to here. This place. Now.

Spirits invoked by a well-placed cricket somewhere in the shrine.

And in each eye, a tear. A hundred assets. A hundred vanishings.

Around the ceremony, another ceremony -- above it, below it, enveloping it.

The conjured spirits have fallen silent. The machine hums and crackles with failed ceremony.

He's got something for you. Ears on your enemies.

285 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 3 of 6