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She tries not to think about it.

But you've been leched many times before. This is not a garden variety leching.

You're no 'type', you are singular. Sui generis. Unrepeatable.

Her eyes are looking every which way but towards you. Highly suspicious.

A lead weight pulls her expression downward.

A den of ghosts.

When whatever happened to him, happened.

Stopped in her tracks.

You're not getting through her. She's way better at this than you.

It takes all your concentration to keep the receiver steady against your ear.

You feel the receiver slipping from your sweaty palm.

'No' is not an answer.

A list you're meant to be on.

His eyes, while not quite lighting up, definitely kindle at the prospect.

But someday -- maybe very soon -- CASCADE will be 'NEVER 4 EVER'.

An instant of sheer confusion before the panic can kick in--

There are no common muggers at the bottom of abandoned rocket silos. This was targeted.

Something slippery and muscular squirms uneasily in your gut.

Much louder than you were expecting.

As they watch you right now.

You smother a twinge of sadness in its crib.

The sadness in it seems meant for you, and you alone. Fragments of old faces begin to reassemble in your subconscious.

He assumes he won't make it past 40.

Totally unperturbed by the paranormal.

You should run this by Melita when you have a moment. Maybe the Opera can send you through some early concepts.

It's not a dial. More like a self-destruct button.

He soldiers on, undeterred.

If you spit on the law, then the Gun Saint has given you his absolution in advance.

A little prick to the ego.

He can no longer look you in the eye.

She'll never make it that long.

Same result. Nothing more 'stable' than a corpse.

Looking at it does not fill you with positive feelings.

She is less certain with every passing hour.

True dark. No light in the night sky but the dead stars.

You're speaking with its champion soldier. Its glass cannon.

The photograph is hard to look at, but easy to touch. When your fingers find its edges, a kind of strength charges through them.

You shouldn't have kept this photo. You should have left it where you found it, stained in your ally's blood, smashed upon the ground, sealed behind a locked door.

A melancholic sledgehammer. The musical world would find itself ill-prepared.

Here we go. The spontaneous audition that launched a thousand collabs.

Playing the keyboard in front of her is one thing... singing quite another. No way.

Sing... in front of a mega-talented popstar? Back up, CASCADE, this is far beyond your training.

Because you fear it carries a curse. CASCADE, emissary of failure, death and the plague of human disunion.

Her gaze has both hold and fight. It takes effort to meet it evenly.

The passage engraved 'MID-THIRTIES' is soon to seal itself behind you, magic mountain cave-style.

He keeps glancing left to right -- nervous, cagey. But he seemed to add that last bit out of a sense of moral duty.

That did not look cool at all.

You imagine her drooling, twitching, brain a fine gruel.

282 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 6