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789 checks

'She remembered me.'

'Courage, CASCADE.'

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.

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.

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.

Your heart flutters at her name.

You hear her stifle a yawn.

She moans, softly. Hairs rise along your arm.

That's Melita's accent.

A shock through your body, the colour draining from your face. You shudder with pleasure.

You gasp, you throb. You're just shit, you're just you.

Goosebumps, everywhere, your body alight with pleasure.

You can feel it, your body tense, your skin ready for the shock...

Deep, cold, agonising pleasure. You writhe.

You feel it, the sweet cold release of metal death.

The kitchen light hums and splinters momentarily.

No existential effacement detected with this one. Nice.

Or maybe that's just your vision burning prismatic at its folding edges.

But, below that: vanilla, must. The pulpy fragrance of paper.

The pads of your fingers itch.

Your skin prickles, coursed by sudden static.

Your breathing is amplified by the transmitter held at your mouth.

In the background, the creak of wood, an aging door used only by the wind.

Sounds like a war fought with the sharp-end of noise.

It feels like your brain is being massaged, each stroke bringing a wave of blissful pleasure.

Your vision darkens at its periphery.

Linen in soft cream, dusty ochres and pale sand.

The flash of a gold tooth near the back of his mouth.

A single missed thread in the neat chain at the hem.

His shirt is low enough to expose a tangle of chest hair.

Crackling, soft warm smoke equal parts sweet and musky fills your mouth.

As you prepare to get back into it, you notice the name on one of the marked discs -- one you didn't see before.

Voice somehow constricted, as though some heavy object really were pressing down on her chest.

You catch a glimpse of a deformed hairless face, bone-white skin, flaring simian nostrils.

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 13 of 16