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His forehead glistens with sweat.

A clear night, the moon nearly full. Visibility unlimited. Temperature 11 degrees and steady.

Skies clear today. A light breeze reminds you that your body is a cage, but not an unpleasant one. Temperature 11 degrees and steady.

A clear night. The profusion of stars reminds you that humanity guides itself by the light of the past. Temperature 11 degrees and stable.

Winds from the south make it hard to be present in the moment. Expect gusts up to 24 kph, becoming calm by evening.

Bands of light rain continue to move slowly north and east across the region. Walks home expected to be unseasonably melancholic. North wind 5-8 kph, becoming calm after midnight.

His right hand forms a fist.

White and silver entwined... softness that should be light, but if you plunged your fingers into her fur, you'd find it thick and deep.

His eyes well up as he turns his back to you, gently cuddling the model train. His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs.

The corners of his glasses fog up.

Old clothes, soft on your hands from repeated washings and cheap detergents. Plastic toys, delight outgrown.

You can feel the value in their heft. It's a tribute to his pomade that there isn't a permanent dent in his hair from wearing these things.

The clatter and hum of the bar around you deadens to nothing. Then he presses 'PLAY'.

Once more into auditory oblivion. Nice.

The world mutes utterly. It's like being smothered by the future.

There was a third presence in that safehouse, on the fringes. Back to the teen.

Not a strand moved. That is one solid-gelled mane.

There is a little vacuum of gun-shaped space beneath your coat.

The key appears to lie within the mangled plastic of the fracture-point. You'll need to prune a few millimetres before what's left can fit together.

No suture-line. No scar. Only two little droplets of liquid solidifying as one.

Covered in white, gooey spiderwebs of glue.

It cools in real time, re-solidifying before your eyes.

The tape on the grip is slick and uneven in your hands, the barrel heavy.

The mould that emerges looks... less than impermeable.

A clotted, sickly rainbow sludge, haunted by the tenuous remains of discernible shapes.

Bubble of molten gun pop out between the corners in the plywood.

Poppers. Squirming motes in the visual field. Idiocy and pleasure.

Nestled among the camera gear, a black cardboard box with a red band immediately catches your eye: SIDEWINDER 9mm.

Around you, night drags the day out of sight.

A criminal thrill down the upper inside of your thigh.

The world slows for a fraction of a moment, before jolting back into real time.

A thin film of tears forms across her eyes.

Sound only -- bold move. Potentially hotter than visuals, if done right...

You spot one legible button right in the centre of the console. It says 'INTERFACE'.

The equipment makes a high whining noise as thousands of little particles infiltrate its tender insides.

His voice lowers an octave.

He widens his stance, stretching his layers taut like a molting beetle.

His voice breaks as he speaks.

He shrinks, as if someone let the air out of his jacket.

He twitches sheepishly in his armour of puffy fabric.

Odds of him being asset SCARF: 95%. Confirmation encouraged.

Moonlight shimmers across a holographic patch on his sleeve. The patch reads: 'MARCO'.

On his sleeve, a holographic foil patch reads 'MARCO'.

... Except for a lingering aftertaste of fucked-ness. You can't quite place it, but this callomanic is definitely FKD.

As he removes his hand, a single sliver of sweat runs down the outside of the glass.

Her hand is cold, but the movement feels tender.

A slight flush to her cheeks -- she really did like that you offered.

The buttons go down with a satisfying thunk thunk thunk.

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 11 of 16