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Your mind makes one last desperate lunge for meaning:

If this man gets the drop on you, kill yourself.

Curious. He's dressed as a pitcher.

Philosophically disturbing... but mathematically solid.

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

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

He's been out staring at the sky every night since you forcibly inserted that drill into his skull.

The stakes have been established, the playing field set.

What was a lie upon utterance may now be a half-truth.

The last refuge of fading intellect. As it prepares to be snuffed out, it hones in on death as both condition and subject matter.

Did he actually perceive something in you or is he just trying to scare you?

What about tuktuks? Moron.

Four centuries ago, approximately.

Probability of a future encounter: 0.000006%. Then again, the odds of your trajectories intersecting as they did were far lower.

Fanatical, biased, not to be taken literally.

In spite of you, the knowledge slips into its natural niche in your brain - common sense, inevitable in retrospect.

Each new sentence is appended to the puzzle of the preceding ones.

With that, one of the final loose pieces slots into place.

Behold, the dialectic in action!

20 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual