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"Fuck talk, more pain!"

Imprint your memory onto PSEUDOPOD.

COERCE PSEUDOPOD BACK INTO SERVICE.

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.

Perform urban forensics on the rubbish.

'Tell me what to do...'

Kicking, screaming, biting legs.

Remind yourself of who you are.

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

Get her out of this thing.

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.

Silently, he asks you to trust him.

Gone. Just gone. It was insanity to bring him on a hit.

The likelihood that he is playing a cover instead of having merely lost the plot drops by the sentence.

The problem has been weighed carefully from the perspective of one who knows themselves disposable.

The boat thing.

Self-annihilation gäng. We must respect it.

Strange things tend to happen around world-shifting events such as these. Synchronicities. Reverberance. Repetitions.

Another little reminder. The subtlest of knife-twists.

Zero Out Lich is the primary objective. Survival and extraction of lead Operant, secondary. Survival of local assets, tertiary.

RADIAN's willingness to die mid-assignment has been repeatedly confirmed, and highlighted in theatre reports as 'likely ideational'.

372 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 8