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Television doesn't destroy minds, you fool. It moulds them.

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

The words fade almost to nothing as they leave her mouth.

Behind her concern, a note of admiration, and a small shred of hope.

A stolen keyboard watches the underside of the thief's bed. Alone but not forgotten, it develops rust.

'FEEDBACK PARTIES'? SHE MUST MEAN COMMUNAL IDEOLOGICAL STRUGGLE SESSIONS.

A loose wind rattles the window fittings in a long-deserted building.

Thud, thud, thud. The War Drum's crowd thunders its beat.

LIBERALISM DESTROYED YOUR DEN OF INEQUITY, FOOL.

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

Psyching herself up. Gathering her gäng.

No longer can she live with the burden.

It's all that matters.

The last words she said to him replay in her head.

Frantic but resigned, exhausted by herself.

Bureaucratic object permanence. Out of sight, out of existence.

For all neurological intents and purposes, he is deep in REM sleep, in the throes of an permanent nightmare.

He used a steak knife.

A LEADER SAVES THE LAST BULLET FOR HERSELF. OR THE FINAL PILL.

Like any good drug, a shadow of the full effects kicks in right away.

You haven't tried this kind of drug before.

He seems like a reasonable enough man. You can probably talk sense with him -- at least moreso than you can with Dr. Gonza.

You'd rather ask for permission?

You'd need enough force to disjoint a 15mm thick aluminium alloy frame supported by a weathertight rubber seal.

Punch hard! Break metal!

Shake it off, Hersh, we'll KO the fucker in the next round.

It travels up through your elbow like a kiss from loose, ungrounded wiring.

We've fucked up a nerve in there somewhere.

Years of warping from thermal expansion as well as exposure to the salty air has knackered it out.

Dark bookshelves, eerie silhouettes of medical equipment. The faint grey outline of a desk, no one sitting behind it.

Not much else, though. Too dark.

Ambush. Weapon. Pounce.

That structure is ready to give away almost entirely if you put any more weight on it.

Differences of opinion in medical practice are just the tip of the iceberg here.

Almost as though you already knew what you were looking for, you turn straight towards the 'Made for Pederasts' section...

Inside the darkness of her silhouette, for a moment, you think you can make out her small dark eyes and sad, young features.

A chill runs up your spine. The beginnings of an uncanny convergence.

Behold, the crown jewel of the technofascist Mass Culture programme.

You know there's something worthwhile in there, but it is lost amongst the brambles of trash.

Without knowing why, your eyes flick as though on their own accord towards the 'Made For Pederasts' section.

His tail swishes with cautious excitement.

His long, thin fingers scramble lightning-fast over the cosmonaut, feeling out each of its familiar angles.

This is unlikely to be a member of the Weeping Eye.

Saliva drips from his fangs.

Alpha males of his species are visually distinguishable by their large cheeks. He thinks you fuck.

The monkey stares you down. His adorably well-fitting shirt does nothing to tamper the threat.

Remember the box of dubbed martial arts tapes that one of your mother's 'work friends' smuggled in for you when he came to visit in 79?

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 22 of 74