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The PR Lävendi -- the less socially developed neighbour of the PR Kohila.

Reno. One of Portofiro's most successful vulture capitalists. Major beneficiary of EMTERR's privatisation schemes.

It should be said that you've never seen this man before in your life.

The cost of a new set of tyres.

The techno-fascist secret police of La Luz -- dark subconscious of the state, specialising in old school, ugly methods.

The Guardia Municipal. Street cops.

La Luz. Once a powerful empire, now reconstituted as a modern techno-fascist state, the rising military and cultural power of the day.

Could be the work of the Militia Ruban Rouge, an extreme communist fringe group. They've ransomed public figures before.

You did a little of that too, but no need to mention.

Of those three descriptors, only one has ever been applied to you, and it's not 'lucid' or 'composed'.

Only a moment's hesitation. This man may detest the majority of music, but his internal discography is formidable.

Highly obscure, collector's stuff. The kind of information that your brain auto-deletes upon learning.

Einzeltone... No entries found. And no point trying to pretend.

No entries found under 'Replayer'. Filing under 'Insults - incomprehensible'.

She's thinking of the order of silent monks in FIST PUNCH III and their mastery of killing words. Wicked deadly.

Blood all over the sofa cushions.

90, Portofiro. Spring dawn filtered through the windows, promising the year's first clear day. You drew the curtains, turned on the TV. Your task: educate your young asset in the history of martial arts movies.

Reno's hands tremble as he shakes kibble into a flowerpot. Tempo doesn't look up.

Physarum polycephalum, to be specific.

'Eschaton': the day after the end of time -- a final turning of divine machinery.

'Eschaton': you have no idea what the word means, but it lands with a pleasant heaviness.

Better known as 'playing dead' -- widely observed in the animal kingdom, unheard of in humans.

Coincides with the information on file: the Azzurri mob has recently become the regional power on all things illegal in Portofiro.

Ramses told you he'll need 'around half a day' to capture anything significant.

Ramses told you he'll need 'around half a day' to capture anything significant.

A relic from the military coup in Mircea.

You have stumbled upon a relic of Project AUTONOMÍA, Portofiro's defunct space program.

Six months later: The clearing of the Pitol Tract began. Over 20,000 residents were displaced, never to be relocated.

The sole members of the 'Post-Orbital Club'. High-status, high-funds.

After the rocket exploded live on the world's television screens, Sweet Nestor made bold televised speeches blaming 'foreign hands'. By the time he boarded the helicopter that would ferry him to exile, he'd accused at least half the Developed World of engineering the disaster.

'Nestorismo' -- Nestor's personal brand of politics. Its meaning was whatever was most beneficial at any given moment.

Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

You once heard an old hand say that the tortured walk their own province.

Same age as you were when you were shot in the chest.

Prison, torture, madness, a bullet to the temple. A variety of fates, and history repeating itself.

An echo from your first meeting with the prisoner.

Your would-be asset Ignatz wasn't far off. All's not right in the enemy camp.

Imprint-on-imprint violence. You're in the middle of an old mind attacking itself.

Say the line again. It will hit harder this time, for sure.

Maybe you can redeem your line from earlier. Maybe this will tie it all together.

The galleries in Satellite Facility B were similar. Vast swaths of human knowledge, packed and ordered by esoteric means.

Eszti Newitz. Competent. Unlikeable. Ultimately invaluable.

An equal mix of 'old people' and 'immunity to fun'.

When you were quite small, there was a jasmine plant that trailed over the neighbour's fence. Knowing they could be made into tea, you took a flower and popped it in your mouth one autumn morning.

Awful waste management. The ex-pilots did know what they were talking about.

Looking out over the canal, a thought surfaces: that of PSEUDOPOD's soiled, wet trousers.

The remains of a community that was traded for a single shot at the sky.

The vestiges of Portofiro's disastrous 77 space program. This is the place you saw on television, back then.

These must be the vestiges of Portofiro's disastrous 77 space program. The city-state tried to launch a rocket into orbit -- only for it to disintegrate.

You made a note about this address. Those are the offices of the Noscorrentes literary journal.

558 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 11 of 12