Reading

Open fileNeed to knowMy clearance

A.Journal

Checks

3,676 checks

His mask of placid indifference has begun to slip. Beneath, something warm, red, wet.

You know it well -- the sensation of being formally fucked.

His fingers flex against the desktop, phantom palpations.

The injection only takes seconds.

He'd simply prefer it weren't him.

Human usage is much easier to design for. A neat little pill, in a special pocket.

Gonza seemed pretty serious. But the speech also felt rehearsed.

Psychic defenses engaged!

His eyes, very carefully, do not flick towards the ladder.

Because this place feels hollow enough as is.

Not strong enough.

'Plaything'? The immortal image of the 'thing' on the bed upstairs comes back to haunt you.

Not a million miles off. Unfortunately, despite it being part of your job, you are not granted immunity from trespass laws.

Only a fool would expect Gonza to be normal about anything...

Rising temperature, needless fidgeting -- this really bothered him.

The muffled cracking of knuckles rattles through the sound of waves caressing the boat.

Getting up only to mourn another ritual.

Do not reveal the location of a fellow operant's safehouse.

Far off Portofiro's beaten tourist path.

A century earlier and it could've ruled the world.

Something in him stirs. Some germ of the real doctor behind the porcelain mask.

Not in the official literature? Interesting. Take notes.

SICK LEAVE IS A FUNDAMENTAL RIGHT EXTENDED TO ALL WORKERS. HOWEVER, ALL REQUESTS MUST BE SUBMITTED IN WRITING AT LEAST TWO MONTHS IN ADVANCE FOR APPROVAL.

Ethics, how tedious.

Followed by the sound of an electric saw, unhinged laughter, and a torrent of blood from the side gutters.

Paired with self-loathing.

That's the second time he's brought up drugs.

Gäng won't admit anyone with a shit tolerance. Legends don't pass out, they rally and press on.

THEOCRACY OF THE CLIPBOARD! DON'T BE ROUSTED BY THE FOR-PROFIT CHARLATAN. YOU ARE HERE TO SUPPORT A COMRADE.

Wondering how long it's been since you took your medication.

His disgrace is political. Gonza's is visceral.

The same medical board that fucked them both. The well of his hatred runs deep.

His voice is so flat it brings the ceiling down a little, making your shoulders slump.

The recirculated air smells like antiseptic and wet dog hair.

'Thought' maybe, but she was clutching something more with the barest of fingertips. That's gone now. You almost heard it go.

The silence between you is so heavy it begins to exert its own gravitational pull.

COMPASSION IS BOURGEOIS, A MIND EXERCISE FOR THE MIDDLE CLASSES.

A SKYWALKING REACTIONARY, AT VERTICAL DISTANCE TO THE WORKING CLASS, AS OPPOSED TO HORIZONTAL.

Beyond the apartment's walls, this girl has a form of family, friends, classroom enemies, unfinished homework. None of them will know her again as she was.

A flash of Tempo and his child-logic loyalty, bestowed upon a strictly-chosen few.

Awaiting your approval.

'And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

There are other ways. There always are.

Let her off easy -- she won't handle the guilt well.

Splitting at the seams, almost ready to tear away clean. Ungänging herself hard.

She meant it lightly, yet still -- a papercut across your heart's epicardium.

The way she says your name is stiff, somehow. Like she's forcing herself to say it that way.

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 26 of 74