Reading

Open fileNeed to knowMy clearance

A.Journal

Checks

3,496 checks

WHO? THE PARTY HAS ALREADY FORGOTTEN HIM.

'Quick'? No fucking chance.

OUR SO-CALLED 'SPY' DIDN'T EVEN NEED AN INTERROGATION TO BREAK. A DAY EXISTING IN THE DEVELOPED WORLD WAS ENOUGH.

One of Ultra Violeta's songs was titled 'Holding Hands with Strangers'.

High upon high, the Manus Fati swivels in its stars and raises a middle finger in PSEUDOPOD's general direction.

He doesn't notice.

Taken all the way to the edge, then dashed upon the rocks of oblivion.

In a grey-curtained apartment on the fringes of Novessa, a mother has not heard from her son in days. She pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders and tells herself the odd dream she had last night meant nothing at all.

Petre knows a mega perv when he crosses one.

'Radio Mutual Peace and Understanding' as it's colloquially known. Very ironically.

Ha ha ha. Good one from the liberals. Real gang of comedians over there. Remember that time they had to write off an entire country after they 'misplaced the constitution'? Great people. Hilarious.

Felix Kaido... the name knocks loose some rubble of memory. Revolutionary. Aeroplane. Tragic end.

He tries to underplay it, jars the cadence.

OF COURSE YOU HAVE. A MONUMENT TO COMRADE KAIDO STANDS TALL IN ROHKUS SQUARE. LONG MAY HIS WILL LIVE ON.

The soul of the state on the line.

APPROPRIATELY DIALECTICAL.

Whips of dust blown by helicopter blades. Thud of boots on ground, billow of trench coats, steel cackle of assault rifles. The Empire Without Territory descends.

IMPERIALISM LOOSES ITS RUNNING DOGS.

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

They'd just dispatched their gäng in hot blood -- things were no doubt 'a little hazy' before the EMTERR Pop Marathon.

Read: A very bad time in the nearest vacant aircraft hangar.

RED IN TOOTH AND CLAW.

TURNS OUT REVOLUTIONARY-CRAFTED STEEL DOES NOT EASILY CRACK. OR BREAK. OR EVEN BEND.

A glimpse. Then void. The stars above were unmoved. Many didn't exist in time to witness it. In the distance, pop music played.

But nothing he could easily forget. Push him a little.

By night, the Dreameater Chrisom drinks the tears of sleeping birds. By day, its brilliant ventral display wards off its natural predators.

PAPERING OVER GENUINE FEELING WITH MONEY. HOW ORIGINAL.

Something about them is vaguely terrifying, the way things crafted for the human head or face often are.

These things are heavyweight. An annihilating force, captured and contained within two masses of metal, foam, and electric wiring.

And you both know it.

Don't forget the one in the chamber.

A BALLISTIC CUCKOLD.

Why aren't you armed, again? This man has already used his weapon on you once.

A massive sign marked 'NONCE' flashes red in your mind.

There it is. The moon.

One postcard, no fax. The meeting place, your home turf. Before you is an operant gone way off script.

The key appears to lie within the mangled plastic of the fracture-point. You'll need to prune a few millimetres before what's left can fit together.

Covered in white, gooey spiderwebs of glue.

It cools in real time, re-solidifying before your eyes.

That thing's not surviving a gunshot.

You can hear the prayers of the tribespeople echoing up from the pass:

May death be at your back, and may the stars direct your hand.

Looking at it does not fill you with positive feelings.

Gripping the barrel in a plastic vice.

A twelve year old child in the gun-crafting colonies of Dream of Rustam makes the exact same movement.

3,496 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 48 of 70