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291 checks

The air in the apartment is very stale all of a sudden. Cigarette smoke swirls like a spell.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

A distant door slams somewhere beyond you. The soft, stifled piano carries over muffled laughter and child-velocity footsteps from the apartment above.

The best cigarette you've had in years.

The soft piano music rises again, nearby yet very far beyond you.

Her eyes are two different colours: amber and ash.

His eyes cross.

You feel goosebumps stand on your shins.

Not a single twitch of recognition.

His cleats go CLICK CLACK on the hard ground.

His eyes lose focus and his lips move as he concentrates on deciphering this new information.

Behind his glasses, his eyes glisten.

Mothball smell. Many seasons old.

You hear the metal rattling in its case -- you feel tiny sparks leaping over your skin -- almost familiar now.

Sparks dance across the conductors on your back.

Eyes gleaming, sexually charged.

The room spins, then shatters.

All sound from the city above has evaporated. Like you were never in a city at all.

A diffuse, bruise-coloured glow.

A bald spot so pristine simply cannot go unrubbed.

White spindles of leg hit your vision like a pair of flashbangs.

A small mound inside, about three inches across. Vaguely circlular.

At this proximity, his aura of alcohol is near weaponised.

A smeared pattern, with streaked edges. You can rule out natural irritants.

You feel warmth radiating from the inside. Something in there is fermenting.

The slightest of shivers passes through him.

You can feel every contour of the joint.

What's that? An odd etching noise coming from somewhere else in the sprawl. Familiar, somehow.

A soft hissing noise accompanies the steady beat of its cooling pumps. Sounds like a human body, amplified.

She winks at you.

Droplets of rain break in to party with the dust.

Moonlight peers in to see what you're doing.

You glimpse the sky through a concrete frame, grey teeth with a grey maw.

Smells like blood.

Dark firelights and digital snow dance behind your eyelids. Within your breast, a thrum stirs stray metal -- a deep bassline, plucking strings of pectoral muscle.

Your own breath. Loud in your ears, uneven.

A seagull shits nearby, white splatter across cement.

Taste: Woody, bland. The laser printing gives a slight tang.

It is back to being a regular chair, with no hint of the existential terror it once supported.

Taste: Sharp, almost acidic. Unusual paper type, probably very bad for you to consume.

Etched jaggedly into the plastic: 'FUK MUSIC'.

Notes of industrial turpentine and sour pear.

Walls covered in stains and memorabilia. Scuffed wooden floorboards smelling of spilled drinks.

Face: wholly unfamiliar.

291 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 3 of 6