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823 checks

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.

She won't. You can feel it, her knowledge of the doohickey. It weighs more than usual.

She's savouring it.

Transparent liquid, normal glass, ice cubes and crushed leaves. Appears to be something-tonic.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

Still no pants on him, though.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

And still no pants on him.

Like a well-scrubbed bathroom tile.

Still no pants, though.

And still, no pants.

Her gaze performs a quick triangulation -- blood smear, cut palm, you.

Her blood a black streak on the stone, already starting to dry.

Up here you smell only pine needles, ozone.

On the statue, a smear of fresh blood from her hand. Open cut on dirty stone.

Bar a slight dip in air pressure.

There's something in her hand.

The air charges as he recites each name.

You can almost hear the warm hum of his brain as it processes and cools itself.

The bump of his pupils moves rapidly under the convex domes of his eyelids, as though he were dreaming.

It's not even that messy!

Something's off -- soundtrack not quite syncing with picture.

His skin has the colour and consistency of chalk.

You sense the weight of the structure above you, the inverted tower hanging over your head.

For a long moment he looks switched on without the sound.

823 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 12 of 17