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

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

Awaiting your approval.

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

An ordinary night with ordinary stars.

This girl can't be more than seventeen. Barely a glimpse of a lifetime.

Said for herself, not for your sake.

Horizontal pupils... Undersexed... You've met him. The being known as Goat-Eyes.

Must be a Tempo styling for something significant -- all gravitas and enigma.

With your old friend, it was never one deal. Always a tangle of side bets, optional riders, and overlapping interests, arranged in such a way that Tempo always wound up across the table from himself.

This is her way of asking for help. She needs a friend.

Or maybe himself in some form.

His second banning that you've been witness to. He's a ban magnet!

Be open with her. This girl is not your enemy. She may yet be your ally.

Blown away into the night before you could even give chase.

They won't make it.

Push a little harder and she'll open up. This girl wants to tell you things.

Argument is futile, and you know it. Teenage girls are the unacknowledged legislators of reality.

Finally, she thinks. A part of her was desperately waiting for you to put this together.

The plea is subtle, but present. Her head is barely held above the waterline.

You get the distinct sense she's about to confide something to you. But at the cusp, she retracts the words and puts others in their place.

A close companion, from her expression.

You can hear her silence: 'Don't Trust You With The Big Stuff Yet Fuck Off'.

Delusional but dedicated.

No thoughts, no fear, no desire. Only pure, drooling immediacy.

He's just too stunned with gratitude to respond.

Grazed a nerve. The 'interrogatrix' doesn't care to be 'lame'.

All the same you feel there's a two-way mirror, and on the other side, a row of blank faces sitting in judgement.

This detail strikes you as very sad.

There's a procedure your controllers taught you for situations like this, but all you can focus on is his face.

Not wanting to stain it with his soiled fingers.

He took it because it meant something to him.

Human capital deep in the red.

One feels too little -- the other feels far too much.

You could prey on his obvious weakness: alcohol.

Definitely that twitchy young man hooked to the payphone. The name fits.

You know the feeling.

On speaking her name, his face softens, looking almost youthful.

A tremendous sadness courses through him.

He radiates pure worry. She might as well be his own child.

A tinge of affection.

Love's most ardent champion.

There is rat shit everywhere. You're going to get rabid.

More importantly, why do you feel that way?

He doesn't believe you.

432 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 9