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Around you, night drags the day out of sight.

Suspended above, satellites blink slowly, as if on the edge of sleep.

Strange that she's not, now that she thinks about it.

She's looking at you. Don't look back. Unsuturable wound.

The twinge of pain is familiar, almost nostalgic. That one's going to leave a mark.

Another drop of phantom blood in the clear waters of your soul.

As a star is dragged into a black hole, it emits periodic bursts of light that scientists liken to dying screams.

All serenity liquidated. Animal terror.

Spines of ice bloom across your ribcage.

WHAT WILL YOU SAY TO THAT CRUEL ANGEL --

The auditorium gasps as one. Beyond curtain and cloak snickers the conjuror.

As cold as you've ever felt her.

Spare her this knife, at least.

Slash these ties clean. It will make it easier to not look back.

The first time she's reckoned with another person turning against her. The real her.

The words are firm, despite the gentle trembling that's overtaken her.

Tears tremble on the edges of her eyes.

The city was her chrysalis.

A fundamental shift, form irrelevant: The difference between deafness and hearing, darkness and light.

Even this fragment is strange and painful, like a dead leaf in midsummer.

A five-year-old girl in oversized sunglasses taps a tiny hand on her knee in perfect time with the backbeat -- emanating like a homily from the car speaker.

UNHEALTHY VOCAL VIBRATO. POPULIST.

She will sing of you in a secret song someday -- and you will hear it and never know it was meant for you.

Ultras, fly formation.

Slightly self-conscious all of a sudden.

Time to deck the cancer patient in a party hat and tell them not to worry about the future.

You feel nothing. This is all part of the big comeback, baby.

She won't. The knife will stay in her.

She has yet to notice it's already stuck in.

The management's changed, but the artist's still on tour.

Just because you can, does not mean you should. Your path to the Lich goes through this girl. Otherwise, it's the long way round.

You can. And you should.

One of the perks of being the top of the social hierarchy: time becomes a suggestion, not a reality.

You have a picture of this girl in your pocket. The postcard.

For the first time -- just for the life and death of a second -- you see her as a fearful young girl, flinching at every movement outside the door.

A flower on the precipice.

With a deft hand, the obsessive's postcard of her would suffice.

The first tram ride into Portofiro, HOLOCENE at your side, face turned to the window, giving a twenty minute answer to one of the world's most common questions.

The prospect twists your gut in terror.

Not too different. You both sculpt the world -- one from the dark, the other in the light.

Hit her with that memorable chorus, lodge it in her head:

They're turning on each other. Exploit it.

She is less certain with every passing hour.

Sixth generation Luzian fighter jet. Deployed in most of their 'Reunional Military Actions'. Serious rapid gear.

The purple plane wouldn't help.

The last thing the peasant class of Saskia saw before the bombs in close-up -- Ultra Violeta's face winking at them from behind her trademark 'V' salute.

ULTRA VIOLATOR.

SHE WILL BOMB YOU WHILE SHE'S AT IT. REGARDS FROM LA LUZ.

She's in one now.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 127 of 184