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823 checks

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

Only his left eye looks at you. The other one seems to have lost focus and is well off-target.

Alcohol on his breath.

A faded patch sewn into his pants, below the pocket. Twin black lines set against a yellow background -- Carriles de Portofiro, the oldest transit company in the city.

Look. Another bald spot bobs within your reach... this one even more pristine than the last.

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

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.

A sudden cramp wracks your body as an electricity runs through it, but there was no current.

The crackling void is different from the last time you used this phone in some inexpressible way.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click down the line.

Maybe you imagine it. Maybe you heard it, infinitely faintly... a slight, barely perceptible, click.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click somewhere down the line.

End of transmission.

Somewhere within your third left intercostal space, the bullet by your heart makes its presence known with a nasty twinge.

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

What's that smell?

Strange smell about her. Chemical. You remember it from somewhere.

Interior temperature: 23.5 degrees. Humidity: 44%. Pleasant by objective standard.

Gripped tightly in her hand: a star-headed screwdriver.

She hesitates for a second.

'Sounds like a first stab'.

A ripple through your heart. She remembers.

Sounded like she really enjoyed saying 'fat sol stacks'. See if you can get her to say it again.

There is something incredibly satisfying about making that 'nom' sound. You should do it some more, just to see what happens.

You hear the sound of a pen dropping onto a pad of paper, unused.

Something takes flight in your chest. She thinks of you.

You hear a thump in the background.

You hear long, comfortable breaths. The sound of her mind wandering elsewhere.

You feel like your organs have flattened themselves against your spine.

Bodies incinerated before nerves had time to deliver their message of pain to the brain.

Her body incinerated before the nerves had time to deliver their message of pain to her brain.

Despite her protest, you hear her making a note.

Barely audible: a mechanical hum.

Something whirs inside the black sphere. A camera points at you.

The camera whirrs.

His voice cracks. The intercom pops.

A whiff of fried shrimp layered under a pervasive antiseptic odour.

The tram wires crackle above you, as if charged with new energy.

His luminous yellow visor is stained with bloody fingerprints.

Rain splatters off the plastic sheets covering the notices.

Above your head, seagulls wheel and dive.

The inverse flash of sudden blackness--

Hold on. That sound... was that crinkling paper?

A rustle of paper and clanging metal as your attacker flees up the stairs.

Body: uninjured, if somewhat rattled.

Body: no major injuries, though you've sustained quite a beating.

Putrid sea-food breath, warm on your nape and in your ear.

It feels as though the line is about to go dead.

The rash on his neck visibly throbs.

823 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 10 of 17