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AN 'AWAY GAME' AND EVERYTHING.

Your name and your cryptonym. A dead limb twitches.

The memory hums. An exposed wire.

This was the human game, and he played it poorly. Time to give up his seat.

Just one of the neat tricks you've learned to keep yourself alive in-theatre. There are many others still to come.

Assignment compromised. Rating: CATASTROPHIC. The day is lost.

Time. You need time. Keep them engaged. Keep your eyes open. Every moment you breathe is a victory.

A barely-perceptible edge to the way he says 'that name'.

This is good. Keep him talking.

The jukebox. Signal. Fighting chance.

Just for a moment there -- he was curious about what song you would choose.

The world, as you've found it.

The veins on his neck bulge, blood drips from his ear.

Perhaps the last such aesthetic experience you'll have.

Its people blur with it. Some look up as the oldest aero-tram line in the city shudders high above them, a bird without wings.

The only thing to hand is intimidation. They know you, but they don't know what you're capable of. Unsteady them.

Zero yourself out as soon as possible. You are high up -- defenestration is viable.

Lie. Draw it out. Time is not yet your enemy.

A shopgirl nods her head, aware of nothing, lost in the same rock-and-roll dream she slips into every morning on her way into the city. A young boy, traveling with his mother, shifts nervously from one foot to another.

He watches, like his father taught him to do, a trick to keep him occupied. On the lookout for sinister bodies.

At the word 'Reunión', a number of necks stiffen. A man in a bucket hat casts a hateful look over his shoulder.

No sign of your squadmates either.

Completely matter of fact. He's considered the hypothetical many times.

Solid stagecraft. Very results-oriented. This goon knows of what he speaks.

As he looks at you evenly, his eyelid begins to twitch.

THE IMPERIALISTS ARE SHAPING NEW REALITIES WHILE YOU SIT AND DO NOTHING.

The kind of laugh that compels others to politely avert their gaze.

Could these be the sensitive, invisible fingers you've always felt, hovering darkly above your days?

No. His fingers are muscle, blood, fat, bone. Mortal like yourself.

Here it is, laid out: the logic of the ritual sacrifice.

Behind the man's gaze, the world turns against you.

Fight. Kill. Live.

This prick still has our gun. When the moment comes, we jump him first.

What about your friends? Do you not owe them, for everything they've given and are about to give for you?

Wait! There, at the far end of the carriage.

Your controller was right: KALEIDOSCOPE has eluded the Weeping Eye's gaze. To them, he's simply a middle-aged man in a slightly inappropriate hooded sweatshirt.

Awaiting your signal.

A knife in your boot. You can turn this around.

Something about the way he says the name 'Facundo'...

Point to the Opera.

The slowly collapsing mind of an old political philosopher, violently working through its own contradictions.

Ignatz turns to you and grins his lopsided grin. "Wow, no time for your old friend after two years of nothing? Cold, Hershel. Hopefully I can live with this."

You don't know why you just said that. But you meant it.

At your direction, of course. Her father was head of a secret Dream Study receiving EMTERR funding.

You have miscast your company. You were all amateurs, unfit for your roles, and for this stage.

In spite of your pleas -- relief floods your heart.

To your left and right, his goons avert their eyes.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 11 of 184