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312 checks

One she can't co-sign.

Careful, he's about to prematurely oraculate.

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

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

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

She looks away, uncomfortable.

Bravado. Nothing else.

Making Goat Eyes look like a snitch, with none of the perks.

Defences going up -- but curiosity as well.

The words roll off his tongue, smooth as the smoky bergamot cologne he's wearing.

Someone's used to improvising pitches.

Hard to tell if he's genuinely worried about being exposed, or it's just part of the sell.

He's scanning you, as he has scanned many before.

His posture spells it out: not at the moment, at least.

It's not the lines he cares about. Only your reactions to his reactions.

Funny. Didn't seem like he had any problems asking that.

His smirk's gone. Just a tight line now, barely there.

Easy there. No recognition on his end. Not even a hint.

He can't take his eyes off your outfit. Must be jumpy around law enforcement.

You look into her eyes. She's not on anything chemical, nor is she sober. This is a different kind of high.

An exotic air about this man, difficult to place and exceptionally handsome. The suit he's wearing hasn't been changed in days.

His eyes dart ever-so-slightly.

The sunlight sears his blue eyes white.

No, she knows, but she won't help out a thief. Looks like you're on your own.

Eyes flashing, voice lowered, some sweet and succulent secret on the tip of her tongue.

Trying to not lose count of all the cool stuff he doesn't have.

She has no idea what you meant, but is too immersed to care.

Hard, abrupt words.

That smirk. Like he's somehow gotten one over on fate.

Caught out. Fair play.

Toying with them like a cat with its prey. Now he breaks off another leg and watches the thing limp.

Subtle and leering -- for the first time you see his true smile.

He's experiencing what men like him fear most: Humiliation at the hands of a woman.

Meanwhile his companions begin to squirm.

Neither is he. It's in the accent -- vowels musicalised, R's straining not to trill.

Asked as if the question scared him.

Give him some space, he's getting somewhere.

The son, prematurely aged. The father, embalmed in ageless maturity.

The broom does not gaze back.

Unhappy to be stuck down here, on the street, when there is action elsewhere.

Gun. Gun. Knife and gun.

Look, when in doubt, it's always safe to assume the answer is yes.

They're judging you right now.

The disappointment he feels is unjustifiable even to himself, but you can read it in his eyes.

The mirror-corpse cannot absolve you of anything.

He gives no indication that he has the slightest clue that's not where the story ends. You're off the hook.

Outer stillness accompanied by rapid eye movements as your amateur diagnosis hits.

She can tell you're smoothing it over for her.

She's fading. No sleep. Three, maybe four days now.

Still not a yes. She's nervous, looking away, could get a discount out of it.

312 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 7