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Self-annihilation gäng. We must respect it.

In certain cultures, a final sacrament offered to terminal patients and prisoners about to be executed.

To the extent that our lives matter even one iota, it is only under the gaze of this cat. The moment it closes its eyes, we may as well cease to be.

This cat is the apötheosis of cats, the teleological endpoint of a hundred millennia of cat-development. We cannot simply 'pet' it.

Say a few words into a random payphone? Easy.

A lance of dread pierces your sternum at the thought of it.

In actuality, an urban myth prevalent among more casual ether users. Still, sweet of her to look out for you.

What's that smell?

The world is so heavy its mass can only be measured in septillions of kilograms. That is the incredible weight you'll have destabilised by your actions.

It's not, it's an essential concept in the latter writings of the critic Dositeo Fernandez.

You feel very cold all of a sudden.

Talk your way in.

Force our way in.

Get your bearings.

His upbringing, education, and other conditions outside of his control have made him who he is today... have patience.

Show this skinny dickhead we mean business.

Shit, he really has tried everything.

The gäng can hold their own -- he's probably exaggerating to make you feel bad.

Fuck. She sounds wretched, this is mega-tragic.

All systems go down. A brief but total outage.

His gait is off. He had another seizure since you left.

Open up to Ramses.

Pull your gun on him.

Pull your gun on him.

Said operant then asserted she could 'set up a top-tier surveillance op while crawling through my own puke' and downed another schnapps.

The text of the respondent transcript appears to have been obliterated by a spilled drink.

Computing explanations. Coincidence: 0.1%. Insider leak: 0.4%. Physical shadowing: 4%. Technical compromise: 95.5%.

Bloodshot eyes. He's fresh out of an episode. One that nearly killed him.

Explain his money situation to him.

THE HEART DOESN'T LIE.

A PROSTITUTE WHO ALSO PRACTICES WITCH-CRAFT? VERY LIBERAL.

SUCH FOLLY TO THINK THAT THE MOON HAS NO REVOLUTIONARY CONSCIOUSNESS. IT ORBITS AFTER ALL.

Appreciate the model train.

Repair the train.

The city was her chrysalis.

What on earth was on that red disc?

From us and Tempo? What did we do!

Afraid that he won't be able to forgive himself if something happens, but aware that he isn't equipped to help either way.

A slight flush to her cheeks -- she really did like that you offered.

She desperately wants this.

In an apartment block in a suburb of Novessa, twenty minutes by commuter rail, a middle aged woman watches a few seconds of a heavily censored erotic thriller before changing the channel. An open can of treacly liqueur has gone warm next to her.

Shoot to wound.

Her gaze performs a quick triangulation -- blood smear, cut palm, you.

As if an equation is forming in which you are subtracted.

Her blood a black streak on the stone, already starting to dry.

Her hands were not there to pray. She was trying to absorb the essence of that stone.

A sinuous rope scar wound around his arm and across his shoulderblade, he screams.

Portofiro as a warped mirror image -- re-annexed Luzian lands reflecting against this island's precarious independence.

372 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 8