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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.

Odd cadence. He hasn't said that name in a long time.

Within the darkened mass you think you see a slither of movement.

The air in the room thickens like an aggressive tumour.

He pushed his finger down so hard it's left a red imprint in his skin. A target marker.

A brief grin irradiates his pale face.

Someone has scratched 'SONIDO Y LUZ' into the pale pink plastic.

Bands of 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.

Overcast skies incoming, bringing light rain and a strong tendency to see oneself reflected in the environment. Expect gusts up to 20kph.

Patchy fog in the morning expected to burn off yesterday's illusions. Increasing clouds, low near 9 degrees.

Silence pops and hisses on the other end of the line.

So bitter you can taste it on your own tongue.

You can nearly make out the sound of sloshing water without the irony to muffle it.

Syllables -- mangled. Something in his mouth?

Suddenly, so quiet that it's almost imaginary, a muffled pounding answers from the other side.

No sound of movement above, just drops dripping.

You can practically hear the fetid water sloshing about his feet.

The edges of your eyes begin to burn. Pooling at the back of your mouth, an unpleasant taste... petroleum?

Speakers spaced out, the reverberant pop, pop, pop of the ball's ricochet echoes off the bar's high ceiling.

The television may be dusty and broken, but it is not yet its time to go to the scrap heap. Salvation is possible.

A discoloured bloom of interference mars the corner of the screen, tinting the dancing mascot on the sidelines purple.

The license is real -- but it's out of date. There's a faded stamp, half-hidden behind the frame. The renewal date reads OKTOS 91.

That's not true. There's one.

Beside you, a gradual upshift in HOLOCENE's energy.

His voice a ten tonne weight.

'Two fucking guns, is she serious?'

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