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Pulse within the rock. Old power.

Dirt under your fingernails.

His nails are white with the force he uses to grip the rifle. His gaze is fixed on the dark line of grit beneath them. Brown or red? Dirt or blood?

His fellow patriots were killed in the street, or by sniper's bullets. A few of their bodies are still in the compound behind him.

The rebel hero lies on the ground, haloed in red, a smile on his face. He knows his sacrifice will not be in vain -- he was able to inspire people to follow him in life, and so too in death, his voice will carry.

NOT IF THE REVOLUTION WAS RETROGRADE! FORMAL DISQUALIFICATION ON GROUNDS OF IDEOLOGICAL INCOMPATABILITY!

But across an ocean, the moment contorted into legend.

A voice from the dirt. Bullets in stucco behind him. Ears ringing, throat tight with panic. He shifts in the muck, clutching his gun, and whispers a prayer to an unnamed star: Not here. Not like this.

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.

The plumber fills his cup with ice and a little bit of water first thing in the morning. By the afternoon, sweating away in the hot, dark, half-flooded humidity, he sips at the lukewarm liquid.

He carries himself with straight shoulders, a confident posture, but his thick glasses hide a furry face twisted with anxiety.

A sudden cramp wracks your body as an electricity runs through it, but there was no current.

The crackling void is different from the last time you used this phone in some inexpressible way.

True emptiness - no signal reroute.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click down the line.

Have you seen yourself? A solitary woman jabbering into a phone, repeating random words.

This is exactly what sane people do.

It's possible that Yana's intelligence was faulty, and that the old Luzian guy's disappearance had nothing to do with the 'hyper incriminating shit' he said into the payphone.

They probably listen in through the wire. Try making a call and then saying the words.

Say a few words into a random payphone? Easy.

A lance of dread pierces your sternum at the thought of it.

Surely you have better sources than the natterings of deranged old men.

Time seems to hold its breath with you as you wait, listening.

Then it all lets go, dissipating into the micro-traffic of the imperceived world.

Maybe you imagine it. Maybe you heard it, infinitely faintly... a slight, barely perceptible, click.

The old man was kidnapped for what he knew or had discovered, and you know nothing.

Just address them.

Say the words that will get you disappeared.

An absolute lapse in stagecraft that plays to your advantage just now.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click somewhere down the line.

You become aware of an infinitude of tiny movements. A total convergence on your surroundings -- all drawn to you, here, right now...

End of transmission.

DEFEAT ALL DOWN THE LINE.

Don't forget your coats as you make for the exits.

The damp tells you that you must still be in the lower city, near the canal.

First, the prisoner. Then, a way out.

In the silence after she speaks, the audio momentarily wavers. The telltale sign that the line has just been interrupted.

In the silence after she speaks, you sense, rather than hear, something on the line. A presence. Someone is listening in.

Spared from catastrophic error by your own incompetency.

Straight to the basement of the magazine office. You can't be sure, and yet you are.

Somewhere down the line is a makeshift switchboard with six phones manned by six bored assets. One of those assets is listening in on this call.

It's a common joke that the Opera have preemptively bugged all public phones to spare the Superbloc's citizens the awkwardness of uncertainty.

The whisper of a smile at the corner of her mouth suggests she even enjoyed it.

The Housing Campaign, bathed in purple light. A man in a brown jacket and no pants looks up into the face of an angel. She regards him with radiant indifference.

She's often lingered in that doorway here, after you've gone to bed and in the odd hours of the day.

The club hates to see an operant abandoned on the pitch, deadly for morale.

'Yes', she means.

In actuality, an urban myth prevalent among more casual ether users. Still, sweet of her to look out for you.

She takes a long, slow look around the little photo shop, as though committing it to memory.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 111 of 197