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A.Journal

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Followed by the thunderclap of the gunshot.

A searing pain, blooming in spirals. Then, somewhere after, the thunderclap of a gun.

You hear the whine of a 50cc engine. A small tuk-tuk appears in your peripheral vision.

You hear the whine of a 50cc engine. A small tuk-tuk appears in your peripheral vision.

You hear the whine of a 50cc engine. A small tuk-tuk appears in your peripheral vision.

You hear the whine of a 50cc engine. A small tuk-tuk appears in your peripheral vision.

You hear the whine of a 50cc engine. A small tuk-tuk appears in your peripheral vision.

Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

The side reads 'sodium thiopental' -- truth serum.

Smoke chars your throat black.

Something very wrong with his head. Pink, wet brain at his hairline.

You barely feel it.

His glasses slip down his nose. He's trying to fight it. He can't.

Your wrists burn -- the skin chafed. Your shoulders ache from the pull.

A chill unrelated to temperature flicks up your spine.

Your fingertips itch with anticipated pleasure.

You can hear someone singing, faintly. Not quite loud enough to catch the lyrics.

Most of those journals look cheap. Pulp-adjacent, really. They probably feel cheap too.

Goosebumps rise on your neck.

You hear someone's voice singing, but only for a moment.

Focusing on the relentless black on white of the pages make your eyes strain with effort.

Their pelts are damp and shiny with rain. You expect the smell of wet dog -- there is none.

You can see her eyes reflected in the glass.

Her nails scratch against your knuckles.

From the loose headphone speaker, you hear the faint sound of an electric piano, followed by an unmistakable voice.

Warm to the touch. It wants you to take it.

Following the kid's line of sight, you land on Petre, who stands at the front of his stall obsessively cleaning a disc.

A few metres away, your target continues to pant and sweat as he whispers into the payphone, the cable still wrapped around his neck.

A few metres away, the well-dressed young man continues to pant and sweat as he whispers into the payphone, the cable still wrapped around his neck.

Up. Down. Up. Down. Mmmm, sensual pleasure.

Soft. Smoooooth.

Give it a rest for today. Return when the sensation is fresh and it should once again have its calming effect.

A porthole opens into vein-crossed dimness.

A tiny, wet SKIRCH as it slides in.

The same pen hanging from the subeditor's neck.

The same pen hanging from the younger woman's neck.

She's looking at your glasses.

She raises the photograph until it eclipses the bazaar in front of you.

One tacks up a sign on the wall which says: 'WELCOME TO THE INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE 66. PLEASE FLUSH'.

For a moment you think you catch the sound of a tambourine.

Chills run through you as the letters begin to spell out a plausible message.

Relatively deafening.

The heavy floorboards are spotted with motor oil and bootprints.

Ten thousand needles across your skin.

The slime stings your bare skin. It feels like it will never wash off.

You can hear snatches of drumbeat, but you don't know where it's coming from.

Swaying lantern lights, fried meat, thick smoke.

But no. Your friend is dead, and you're standing here like a pillock, burning your lungs on a soggy cigarette.

96 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual