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823 checks

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The license is real -- but it's out of date.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.

Nothing out of order about these documents.

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?'

'She remembered me.'

'Courage, CASCADE.'

Too quick, too distant -- he disappears from your line of sight.

One tacks up a banner in the corner which reads: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE 66'.

A guitar riff seems to sound from the chair itself, momentarily.

A miasma of fear-chemicals fills the air already rank with piss and the iron-scent of blood.

His eyes peer through an inverse cascade of smoke.

A different, gelatinous sheen coats the surface of his extruding eyes. Never tears.

He seems bred for observation.

That voice. It wafts out to you from some obscure recess in your memory.

The sound of his voice stirs some vague primal discomfort.

You catch the scent of expensive cologne -- yesterday's, most likely.

Behind it all, the rhythmic thrum of aero-trams passing by overhead, rocking left and right on their wires.

Something is pressing down on you. Heavy earth.

This would be a lot less scary if you brought a light...

You taste concrete dust on the back of your tongue.

Would be a lot easier to see if you didn't have this massive foam thing over your head.

Would be a lot easier to see if you didn't have a paper bag over your head.

The sound of grinding metal echoes throughout the silo, rising and expanding like the tolling of a great gong.

In the background, you hear a steady rhythm of something being hit.

And a sip of something.

A gentle curve, swaying through grime. Odd shape for corrosion.

You can. Your fingers sink into the receiver as if the plastic were suddenly the plump, warm flesh of her waist.

No. But you can definitely catch a whiff of the last guy's teeth.

823 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 13 of 17