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The smell of Luzian tobacco wafts up your nose.

You hear faint snatches of what sounds like humming, gone before you can focus.

He doesn't seem physically incapable of leaving, nor is he restrained.

You won't wake PSEUDOPOD, no matter how much you clang and curse around.

'Cover the moon when I'm gone... I'll make you miss me like a sad song...'

Disorientating -- she's both ahead of you and behind you at the same time. Every direction at once.

It goes: ffffff.

The clatter and hum of the bar around you deadens to nothing. Then he presses 'PLAY'.

Once more into auditory oblivion. Nice.

There was a third presence in that safehouse, on the fringes. Back to the teen.

Nestled among the camera gear, a black cardboard box with a red band immediately catches your eye: SIDEWINDER 9mm.

Moonlight shimmers across a holographic patch on his sleeve. The patch reads: 'MARCO'.

Still no pants on him, though.

And still no pants on him.

Still no pants, though.

And still, no pants.

On the statue, a smear of fresh blood from her hand. Open cut on dirty stone.

One tacks up a banner in the corner which reads: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE 66'.

A guitar riff seems to sound from the chair itself, momentarily.

That voice. It wafts out to you from some obscure recess in your memory.

Would be a lot easier to see if you didn't have this massive foam thing over your head.

Would be a lot easier to see if you didn't have a paper bag over your head.

As you prepare to get back into it, you notice the name on one of the marked discs -- one you didn't see before.

Glug glug glug. A sickly sugary odor rises from the bag as the sticky beige liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A rich acidic odor rises from the bag as the tar-black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A strong, slightly chemical odor rises from the bag as the thin black liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A sweet, malty odour rises from the bag as the dark liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. An astringent, sickly-sweet herbal odour rises from the bag as the purple liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. An astringent, sickly-sweet herbal odour rises from the bag as the purple liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A smoky odour rises from the bag as the clear liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Glug glug glug. A thin, hoppy odour rises from the bag as the yellow liquid puddles in the canvas bottom.

Confetti floats from above, a rainbow of crepe paper falling around your head and shoulders.

For a split second, you're sure you can hear someone strumming a bass guitar.

The muzzle twitches and flashes, but no sound reaches you for a whole second.

The crease of latex against plastic, amplified in your skull.

You haven't yet emerged from the fog of sodium thiopental. There's no deflecting just now.

A delicate fragrance rises from the bush: jasmine.

A hangover massages your skull. The sound of a blender makes your eyes itch.

Upside down, the planes of the bathroom wall and floor form alien geometries. It's hard at first to tell what exactly you're looking at.

Your fingers itch for grip.

Like the one over there, to the east.

A violent, pressurized hiss is heard as the lock drains through the immense pipe to your right.

Old schnapps and the faded sour cologne of body odour and bleach. Soft yellow light filtered through cracked shades. The rumble of the ice machine, a hissing television.

You discover your thumb rubbing itself along the numberless business card you found on your double.

Sweetish, faintly burning. The odour of leaking refrigerant.

96 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 2