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Didn't go outside either.

One very at odds with the atmosphere in the room.

You watch her nose physically turn upward a few degrees.

Not only is there nothing cool about this proposition to her, there is no chance this 'collaboration' ever occurs.

'Never. Please.'

There's unease at her fringes -- slow ripples along the shoreline.

For a moment, her mind flits to erasing all life through a single song. A communal three-minute ritual of beauty and horror.

He said that way too quickly. Bet he can't name any.

He turns his head to look sideways at you, like one might at a crackhead or a priest.

'Embroiled' also didn't land.

She isn't remotely surprised or on edge -- if there's such a thing as 'off-duty' in this business then you're looking at it.

Her eyes sparkle, delighted. She's inviting you to participate in the ritual humiliation of a third party.

Hers is crumpled on the floor beside her, discarded like a tight bra after a mid-week work day.

She is into this. Use it. Flirt, get her drunk.

Relaxed, casual. She assumes you're like her, that you feel the same way.

Her posture straightens, as if she's ready to fight you -- but she's afraid.

Visibly relieved.

No change in expression or posture. She seems genuinely unperturbed.

She takes a drink -- a longer one than usual.

She desperately wants this.

Her face adjusts, then sets. She believes this.

His eyebrows meet in the middle as he contemplates this new aspect of being.

She winks, her finger tracing the rim of her glass -- she thinks you're in on a secret.

This is a normal woman, doing her normal job. She has no clue that she's just ferried up a contingent of the Weeping Eye.

The autopilot is immaculate, all things considered.

No hint of accusation. He's convinced he is misremembering somehow.

He strips you naked with his gaze, on his expression a desire that is not lust.

That vibration that you can feel through his skull -- the prelude to sobbing.

He even makes the same sound you make when you're thinking.

A tone so venomously sarcastic it's worse than no admission.

He shrinks even as he is suggesting.

The last time you spoke, there was a hint of desperation in how he insisted he was the original. Not anymore. Now he's had days to indoctrinate the idea into himself.

It's not just earnestness... what fills his voice is a kind of anti-irony. A wilful, forced belief.

As if an equation is forming in which you are subtracted.

Desperate yearning.

A fighter's chin.

A fanatic's certainty, forged through sheer trauma.

The burning, twitching gaze she fixes on you transmits the message with telepathic clarity -- you will not distract her -- she is onto you.

The posture suggests prayer, but a violent one -- every muscle clenched and quivering.

The air quivers alongside her movements.

Though she speaks fluent Illuminado, she is not Luzian.

Three hundred tiny windows, ghost hands tapping on the glass.

You all seem uncomfortable in a crowd.

The light cowers from you.

He's subsisting on these alone.

Excitement sliding into her voice. This gorefest is a painting of her own personal revenge.

A slightly weightless tone in her voice. Gravity suspended.

Asked as if the question scared him.

His voice is reasonable, calm -- utterly at odds with the sparks of fear behind his eyes.

Let it go. This is as far as you'll get on this.

774 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 12 of 16