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His eyes, like flies around a corpse: tiny, ugly and relentless.

A maverick hero, fallen from grace and brought back for one last job...

It is not one for the gallery spaces, but both of their faces are most likely visible.

Murals in a dirty alley, defaced and repainted. CASCADE graffitied onto a moving train. A thousand new revolutionaries laying flowers on your grave.

Mist hangs below the tram like gun smoke.

There is nothing in your future besides ritual humiliation and torture -- so take heart. You have nothing to lose and everything to overthrow.

Or listen with him. You'll die, but you will know.

Crushed between two walls, even in her last moments.

The secret meaning of this gesture will be analysed and debated by the conspiratorial community for years to come.

A revenant is stalking you through the city.

An anatomically correct human heart.

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

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.

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

Rhythmically, like blades of a machine churning together.

A face flashes in your mind unbidden -- heavyset, boyish grin, traces of the underworld clinging to him.

Maybe he bottomed his way to the bottom.

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

Innocent use of past tense, but still, you don't care for it.

A hollow centre, expanding with every passing hour.

A phantom hand across the precipice, awaiting a return grip.

Her fantasy, crushed under your heel.

It would be the most interesting thing that will ever happen to her.

It still looks cool. It would look even cooler in your room, if you've changed your mind.

Yet another poster that would look awesome on the wall above your bed.

Alright, hear this out: how about this poster for the wall next to your bed?

The soft pink hue, the artfully arranged petals... 'Condolences for my Actions' drips with tasteful remorse.

Or even making them real.

A psychic invasion.

No regular crime scene, not just motive and victim -- an echo of fairytale, tracings of black magic. Everything glows in the dark.

You've found the source of the song, a haunting in a box.

Thus, a terrible synthesis is born.

Part of the charm of the mass market paperback. A proper copyedit would've sucked all the juice out.

Equivalency, Heracles, Vantalangicon, Annihilation, Singularity, Nanoscale, Hyperdrive...

Higher quality materials don't equate to better editorial content -- it just pushes up the base cost per unit.

A prisoner of his own desire.

A fellow supplicant at Her altar.

Still an act, but neither of you have the script.

But for once it sounds like a prayer.

Fish leaping out of a tank in terror as the powdered remains of their fellows are shaken inside.

The Manus Fati with its finger on pause, just for you.

Words that echo of marble, drums, and banners.

You know the feeling, and how to put it into words for him.

Of course. Religion is a drug for the masses -- it's code.

290 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual