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A shade of jealousy.

Visual only. No touching.

Oh yeah. Mentally snapshot this. He's impressed.

No irony here. No dress rehearsal either.

None of that sounded real. It was a scene from fiction, from an espionage novel.

A laser beam of suspicion.

A shift in his tone. Barely disguised concern.

The way he pronounces the name tells you there's no love lost there.

In times of uncertainty people naturally gather in large groups, perceiving safety in numbers. This behaviour is widely observed even when the opposite is true.

His hands have been wedged in his hoodie pockets since you approached.

Here it comes, your favourite part. A vaguely stern woman is about to choreograph you.

Still vibrating a little from the adrenaline and the death whistle, Ramses, too, slowly comes back into himself.

One among their number turns to look at you, his technicolour robe billowing behind. He wears a small, neat moustache, as well as a large pair of headphones.

Something tells you that their teeth are yellowed with decay.

But you get an impression of the room. A vibration. Somewhere between crime scene and radioactive accident.

Her intonation is deliberate, forced. Direct to camera, gun just off-screen.

A shadow passes over her face. In the darkness, her pupils momentarily dilate.

You glean she is... largely unimpressed.

It's as though you proposed something unseemly at the dinner table.

A look of worry, like she's just broken an agreement.

Nothing fake about her reaction.

Gulp. Dry mouth. A skeleton of fear.

You detect a slight tremor in the hand holding the book she was reading.

You've heard him talk, you know his arrogant, fast-talking manners -- he's faking the stutter as part of the roleplay.

The faces. 'Strange cousins' to Portofiran in more ways than one.

He doesn't try to hide the disappointment on his face.

Not dying. At least, not right here and now.

Genuinely upset.

Leather jacket, moustache and military cut. A face that could fluctuate wildly between innocence and depravity depending on the setting.

A cool, dry air seems to emanate from the phone line.

Continue, he's saying.

Nothing facetious in his tone there.

No judgment -- only the curiosity of a navigator asking another about her compass.

Referring to your obvious lie.

He's not a puzzle. He's a lever.

The posture remains yet the gravity in the air thickens.

No playful jab, no implied wink. He doesn't know you met her.

No attempt at deception here.

There's no threat behind his words. He's simply describing the objective state of things.

He pruned the conversation forcefully, artificially. There is more.

All pretense drops. The red glints in his lenses.

His rising anger gone in an instant, like a fuse being tripped.

Totally bloodthirsty.

More excited than nervous.

She is all of those things and more.

The seething -- it overrides any and all underlying emotions.

No hint of a smile with that one.

Fists clenched, he adopts a strained position against the desk. Everything under his skin tightens.

Something childlike and almost innocent enters his tone and gaze.

312 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 6 of 7