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This is a protracted suicide.

On the plus side: she's probably so psycho-fucked from this that she won't remember that you abandoned her.

He waves his hand in a circular motion, tracing the course of lost interest that will one day return.

True shock in her voice.

A sacrificial offering. Better than a pigeon.

Something behind all the meticulous layers of professional politesse. A hunger. Not for food nor sex nor even, really, for beauty...

Her demeanour softens ever so slightly.

Taking in Vespar's face, then yours -- younger, not yet burdened by five years of guilt.

Slouched in the booth, affect too stiff to be believable.

You really were scrubbing the hell out of those tables. Probably scared a few people off.

Voice carefully neutral.

Poor trade. PSEUDOPOD seems to be enjoying himself.

He looks down at his empty hands, imagining the mugs.

She pressed all of them.

He traces the veins on the back of his hand, under the thinning skin.

His face seems to say: 'but not if this job carries on the way it is'.

Something's up. This is a distraction.

As if expecting a miracle to materialise before him.

He seems exhilarated to have caught something as obvious.

He can't hold on for much longer.

The whisper of a smile at the corner of her mouth suggests she even enjoyed it.

Mouth drawn down in what's threatening to become a permanent frown.

Her features seem to harden ever-so-slightly.

This is no mere 'Look', it is an expression of absolute, devastating neutrality. It will take weeks to recover.

She pronounces 'Carmuna' with a slight distaste, like she's naming a rival.

Ooff. It's possible you're going to regret engineering her so thoroughly.

Something's got her in an unusually euphoric mood.

Her demeanour is sincere. You could open up if you wanted.

She's evaluating you just as you are her.

It sounds like a hit list.

Hesitation in her voice.

Hesitation in her voice.

The heavy silence that follows signals that this particular engine has run out of steam.

Something in her tone makes you imagine her winking at you.

Voice level and dry as a salt flat.

That sounded very un-dolphin-like.

She doesn't look that young.

His voice is indifferent, but his eyes drift back towards the building, curious.

He knew that already.

Why does he not sound impressed then?

He's about to blow.

His fingers go to her hair, reflexive. Blunt nails scratching gently against her scalp.

And beneath that is the part that desperately wants to hear the whole sordid tale.

Not the first time he's taken a hit like this. Not even close.

Same nose. Same dark eyes. Wildly different posture.

It's hard to see any resemblance to the proud, mustachioed leader behind the coloured hair, the spindly pale legs, and the permanent sneer.

Other people's distaste is a warm blanket, familiar in its itchiness.

He's much more comfortable with this line of inquiry.

The muscles in his ropey calves tense visibly.

312 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 7