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They may not even mourn him. Someone else could just wear the bag, adopt the title.

Or they could use his death as proof that he was onto something.

Perhaps an enthusiastic grunt, acting on their own initiative, to please their commanding officer.

A professional would at least alter their voice.

Careful, he's about to prematurely oraculate.

For a second, you see a third eyehole open in his bag. But then it goes.

This is the kind of bag-on-bag action the villains at the top want to deny the world.

A mish-mash of conspiratorial nonsense commonly found in most of the Developed World. One exception: the boars, which may just be a local oddity.

A child sits cross-legged, giggling at 'the funny man' on-screen. Her parents look on, glad she's there and not caught up in any trouble -- not realising how much their overprotectiveness will cause in years to come.

Something like you, but not like you. Something that has undergone a transformation.

Fish leaping out of a tank in terror as the powdered remains of their fellows are shaken inside.

Sensation drains from you, replaced by an aching lightness. Like the moment before a drop.

The Manus Fati with its finger on pause, just for you.

Blood drips from his mouth to his eye.

You knew he was coming here. Could've had that one last drink.

Might've been reasonable to have that drink to the craft.

Should've had that drink to the cat.

Could've had that drink with him...

Blood. Fresh. Stop.

You can almost hear the phone ringing throughout Bagman's studio, reverberating off the empty plastic cups and audio equipment.

A crumb of truth, which gathers mass as it rolls downhill, until it becomes a teeming ball of confusion and paranoia.

They make a mess together, with joy and abandon. But she stares at it all day on her own.

But she hasn't asked you to leave. She must be very lonely.

You're making her uncomfortable.

Hopeful, shy. She just needs some gentle encouragement.

'A Canny Method'? An Advanced Cognitive Manoeuvre?!

Hunched over the phone, desperately thumping his half-flaccid cock while teenagers laugh just a few feet away. Duchess' voice in his ear, claiming that it wants him.

The dishes she hands you are hot, clean, and faintly lemon scented.

Sounds like how her sister in the magazine offices dredged out your cryptonym.

Neither particle nor wave, but some other fundamental entity, uniting and penetrating all things at once.

Become foam-gäng.

What she's describing is hyper-tier psychic surgery. Someone like you could do massive damage with such a technique.

Your heart flutters, races. This is scary -- awesome!

Your body dissolves, separates, but coheres.

You can still feel hard edges against you, even as your mind splits into pieces.

Sounds like how the EMTERR interrogator in the magazine offices dredged out your cryptonym.

Oh no, oh no. We've made her cry.

She's a raging cunt full of knives.

Big money foreign girl, spending money on space she doesn't even use.

She looks away, too quickly. She wishes she could play it off, but it rings a bit too true.

You activated a protective drive in her. Her sister will always be her sister. She can't let you threaten that.

Hold on, that's this woman's sister?

Relief, but with a hint of dread.

She looks away, uncomfortable.

He's reading you in return. A man trained by an informal school.

A place where you grow up with the same people, watch their faces change, their dogs die. It's home.

Does this man have any regard for operational opacity?

Bravado. Nothing else.

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 12 of 74