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98 checks

Sadness fills his movements, like a sludge.

Permanent wrinkles.

Sick tradeoff. A little ideological betrayal in exchange for the chance to use a pneumatic drill in reduced gravity.

You can marinate in failure way better than any 'city-state'. You can twist dive into it.

Vacuum-sealed, your airways convulse feebly.

Right in the fucking mouth.

Vacuum-sealed, your airways convulse feebly.

Easy peasy, like unhooking a bra.

An impressive display of dexterity, wasted on an act of utter cringing lameness.

You don't lollop. You bound, gracefully, like a whippet or a red hind.

Self-awareness seizes your legs. You wobble, unsure how to distribute your weight.

You could totally pull off a little finger trick like that, if you wanted to.

Your advantage is slipping. Draw already.

Whatever. You know ways that don't even exist yet.

Sleek lines and soft curves alternate to form an object that screams high-end.

His own appearance is neat and precisely kempt. Even the way his jumper is tied around his neck appears studied and deliberate.

That thing's not surviving a gunshot.

The purple plane wouldn't help.

No bass? Lightweight.

"Brace yourself." (Pry him.)

You could attempt this with precisely none of your assets. They're all too big.

Clean diagonal slit. Superficial. Self inflicted.

Her mind's catching up to her, too. Adrenaline wearing off.

A shot far beyond you, or any of your known and revealed Crew.

You study their movements carefully -- a beautifully choreographed display of physical prowess.

Thin ribbons of the old fabric sewn into the tops of their socks.

He may try and shoot you again.

A grown man in a pink hoodie should be laughable... and yet...

Extract the Hombre.

This might actually work on you, especially with bespoke tailoring.

You can't picture yourself wearing this. You're not even sure an imaginary woman could pull this look off.

Only in the abstract sense.

That's not discipline...

His fingers twitch in jittery bursts. Postictal tremors -- the aftershock of a seizure.

The getup. The fashion. The aesthetics of Luzian mass culture unmistakable even when they're undercover.

He's weaker than he looks. Even these little exertions leave him drained.

His body completes the sentence with another one of its periodic shivers.

The command runs through paralysed limbs. The only response the body gives is nausea.

Oh boy, you're finally going to get your steps in!

Spoken like an old coach haunting the edge of a pitch.

He's slightly baffled by your timing. That leaves him open for a follow-up.

He handles the disc reverently, as if it were a tiny plastic coffin.

And as the audio content was obliterated -- so was PSEUDOPOD.

A reverse pickpocket... devious, difficult. She can do it.

It's only when he starts running that you realise how inebriated he truly is.

The mandibles on the stag beetle are fully the size of its body. Obvious physical superiority.

An abrupt loss in hand-eye coordination -- in Ramses, who had the hands of a surgeon.

98 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 2