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By HOLOCENE's logic, you bear none of the blame for what happened. Everything you did was an expression of institutional logic.

A banishment of mirrors.

Origin point for a long-held dream of being smothered by the firmament.

Sometimes he recites them to himself, when the darkness feels total enough.

Tasting a strange syntax.

'Eszti Kavanaugh' -- it rolls oddly off your mind's tongue. 'Newitz' had a nicer syllabic flow...

In the infinitesimal newly-created space between finger and nail, horror is born.

You've exchanged the tyranny of history for the tyranny of the spreadsheet. A poor bargain.

A line from an old communist anthem returns to you, a fragment from your reeducation.

The motif of dream-instruction recurs periodically throughout Mircean history and culture, most recently as a weight loss fad.

The outline begins to ripple with colours, gestures, tones. The viscera of voice and name.

Nothing but the empty space he once deformed.

Another piece of the outline begins to fill itself with colour and detail.

No, it still matters a great deal. This little corner of the outline refuses to be filled in for now.

In your trance-state, you hear a voice that sounds eerily like yours hiss 'yesss!' when one team scores a point on a particularly tricky shot.

A fellow Freezer-mate. This boat is his Satellite Facility B.

Back when she was nothing but potential.

Let's not forget the obvious double entendre here.

Your heart rips. You feel warm, hard metal against this new fresh wound.

His eyes suggest that he could give you one, if you really wanted it.

He savours it. Like a sommelier detecting notes of oak and cherry, he swirls the particular kind of death around his mouth.

The breath of obsolescence whispers its song. A lullaby of bodily decay.

Ducts atrophied millenia ago, tongue periodically flicking out to wet the orbs.

All of life's waiting rooms.

The spectacular in-theatre eruption of psychic capsules, a thousand months of nightmares unspooling in one instant.

By 'ill'... does he mean 'sick'? As in, you and your Crew?

Every grand finale needs a soundtrack.

An Ultra Violeta lyric, maybe. You can imagine her saying those words.

The thought itself seems to echo and rebound off the curved concrete.

You're superimposed on him.

A name uttered like some ancient curse.

A new suit, cut from old cloth.

A name from legend. A mythical creature.

Her 'canny method', it must be.

Her canny method, it must be.

CASCADE, hero of all mankind!

Her canny method, it must be.

Vehicle riding full speed ahead to the Great Nothing.

An artifact of no substance onto which nothing of substance has been recorded.

The artist has broken the boundaries of the panel to traverse time and space, the Hombre slithering through a chiarascuro dreamscape.

Or, worse: It gets adapted into a film.

The deity acknowledges its supplicant; your heart rate ratchets up a joyful notch.

Strong opening hook. Tonally ominous.

A sentence, unwritten yet palpable: 'I'd rather pick my own Freezer.'

Or those meanings were embedded so deep that she failed to dig them out.

Pick one out, show her that you know your stuff -- you know, as a fellow poet.

Classic poet. Can't describe anything without a gamut of trisyllabic words.

Glad someone's standing up for The Word around here.

Decent word economy, shame about the inconsistent imagery, but it's pleasing enough to the ear.

The words sing above the quiet hum of the machines in the room. They ascend through the ceiling, past the clouds that line the world, entering a realm lit perenially by the shimmer of godbeams.

668 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 11 of 14