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Like a bear in his den, always on the cusp of hibernation.

Unable to disappear into her own coat, she attempted to recede into the painted backdrop.

Slouched in the booth, affect too stiff to be believable.

And your work made her lie to him, betray his trust. He could sense the distance growing between them, but could not bridge the gap.

Back to the nearest wall.

He even began to distrust those towards the end.

The memory of the endless ring when you called to tell him the boat was going to leave without him still itches at you.

An attempt to spare your feelings.

The thought should probably make you sadder than it does. But there's a hollow where your memory of him sits.

This is the correct level of emotional response for someone in your position.

Product of her generation. She knew how to keep herself to herself.

You can only remember being employed as a spy.

Gäng's poured plenty of drinks! How hard can it be?

Fresh soap smell mixed with the sweetness of sticky malt, the sharp tang of alcohol.

You really were scrubbing the hell out of those tables. Probably scared a few people off.

Shoulder, shoulder, elbow, elbow. You do everything to maintain your grip.

You hold your cool as the glasses rattle, attracting the attention of a few worried onlookers.

Shake. Stir. Pour.

Your short-term memory is being severely tested. Fried, even.

Voice carefully neutral.

A little pit opens in your stomach.

She won't say what she really thinks of him. Not yet.

A vision of changing jobs, relocating, but it takes a lot, leaving a whole life behind.

An uncomfortable reminder of his assumed familiarity with you.

She'd almost prefer if he just tried to assault her. She's used to that.

Every time she leaves home: dread.

Not only is this woman not in your class -- she's not even in your field.

Without the long lens of the camera between you, she suddenly seems horribly normal.

Another null entity?

No, a true nobody. Dragged unwillingly into another world.

For the first time, you notice a faint scar on her cheek.

Drunks in a bar celebrate their team's victory. Across the street, a crowd in opposing colours wait, broken bottles in hand. Among them, a young woman, gritting her teeth harder with every cheer.

Her eyes dart across your face, trying to find reassurance.

Her training must be ultra-high-level. Sift her soul through your fingers, find the woman hidden within.

That's not what the ring on his finger told you.

It is, but only in the saddest, most mundane of ways.

Through the cracks in her indifference, horror starts to leak out.

Only a trace of sympathy.

Hoping to blend in with the rows of spirits behind her.

Like she's explaining to a simpleton.

This is a site of tribal warfare.

Sports bars like this are loyal to a single team. You must be wearing their rival.

Running through euphemisms in her head.

Like a rock struck by lightning, she remains solid though her molecular structure has been altered.

An offering will be made to Rotanev the next time she can get out to the Pitol Tract.

'Angel, keep him away, keep him away from me for good...'

The line between incredible operant and social cripple is a thin one.

Through the cracks in her indifference, horror starts to leak out.

You invoke a demon.

Something long repressed rises within her.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 100 of 197