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Whatever it is you hoped to achieve with this wholly optional diversion, you've achieved it. Time to go.

Overheated gestures to match his rhetoric.

Too late. You're doing this.

The sound of the canal water lapping the sand is soothing, through it all.

You can't shake the feeling of being watched. Each curtained window in this city could be an eye.

A hot woman with an electric rod happened. Gäng's in shambles.

A revenant is stalking you through the city.

An anatomically correct human heart.

Contoured. Dynamic. Expressive -- a shining example of the form. Or at least it would be, if it hadn't been subjected to the inside of a ten year old's pocket.

This message is no courtesy. It's a debt slip.

Maybe an aftereffect of the shocking. Maybe the first symptom of your augmentoid ascendancy.

The memory hums. An exposed wire.

This was the human game, and he played it poorly. Time to give up his seat.

Just one of the neat tricks you've learned to keep yourself alive in-theatre. There are many others still to come.

Time. You need time. Keep them engaged. Keep your eyes open. Every moment you breathe is a victory.

This is good. Keep him talking.

Just for a moment there -- he was curious about what song you would choose.

The world, as you've found it.

Perhaps the last such aesthetic experience you'll have.

Its people blur with it. Some look up as the oldest aero-tram line in the city shudders high above them, a bird without wings.

The only thing to hand is intimidation. They know you, but they don't know what you're capable of. Unsteady them.

Zero yourself out as soon as possible. You are high up -- defenestration is viable.

Lie. Draw it out. Time is not yet your enemy.

At the word 'Reunión', a number of necks stiffen. A man in a bucket hat casts a hateful look over his shoulder.

Completely matter of fact. He's considered the hypothetical many times.

Solid stagecraft. Very results-oriented. This goon knows of what he speaks.

Could these be the sensitive, invisible fingers you've always felt, hovering darkly above your days?

No. His fingers are muscle, blood, fat, bone. Mortal like yourself.

Here it is, laid out: the logic of the ritual sacrifice.

Behind the man's gaze, the world turns against you.

This prick still has our gun. When the moment comes, we jump him first.

A knife in your boot. You can turn this around.

Something about the way he says the name 'Facundo'...

Point to the Opera.

The slowly collapsing mind of an old political philosopher, violently working through its own contradictions.

Ignatz turns to you and grins his lopsided grin. "Wow, no time for your old friend after two years of nothing? Cold, Hershel. Hopefully I can live with this."

You have miscast your company. You were all amateurs, unfit for your roles, and for this stage.

Do it. Stall. Draw this out.

His upper lip inclines to the right as he speaks. His canine is chipped.

Rhythmically, like blades of a machine churning together.

Now. Offense. Turn the table.

He pronounces the word 'dialectical' with a teasing viciousness which is almost like flirting.

Funny name, difficult trick. This is about training.

A trick, left unmastered.

Still a strong trade. Absolutely worth it.

Portofiro's sprawl flashes briefly across his six-fold lenses as he sneers at the city below.

Elbows out as they pass, gäng.

3,496 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 70