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9,179 checks

Had you been standing a couple metres farther away, you wouldn't have registered movement.

Still, he'd bet on the flashy-jacket prick.

The roundabout's wide open. It'd be hard for a tail to not give themselves away.

He'll make a call, as soon as you step away. It will work out.

Everyone swears silence until it can buy them something.

Behind the words, you feel your old asset's ghost, smiling.

There's a hollow in his voice, one you doubt was there just weeks ago.

It must be slain.

A jolt of fear snaps through you, but you kick it down.

Six-headed mudskippers that feed on men, tentacled creatures that stink like a thousand corpses, giant sea urchins that paralyse their prey before devouring them while they're still alive... Yes!

One of eight great trenches in the mapped world. Its edges run from the Telmaar Gulf to the Lioaran sea. Conservative estimates suggest a depth of twelve thousand metres.

Probably, but not definitely.

He didn't need to. His gut said enough.

That look wasn't for nothing. Something happened over there.

He knows you're one of Tempo's now. Remind him that you can be trusted.

The outline of a building, just past the roundabout.

Instinctively, he looks down, but tries to stop himself. It's almost like he's...

An uncharacteristic tension in his voice there.

He's convinced of it now.

If he knows something, it'll require finessing.

The 'Decreto de Recaptura Cívica', a set of regulations from 81. Drinking age raised to 16, limits on public assembly, and stringent gun laws. All tied to 'stabilisation' packages arranged by EMTERR.

The outcome: Citizens are still paying for guns they no longer own.

As in, the Azzurri mob. The largest organised crime syndicate in Portofiro.

He turns his head briefly, as if hearing it now.

He misses her dearly.

Long-dead hands carrying the hull, white fingers in the brine.

You know where this is going, right? You're not going to just walk into it?

INSIDIOUS IMPERIALISM. TODAY, THE SOFT POWER -- TOMORROW, THE HARD.

Treaties, obligations to foreign banks and bureaucracies, third-party audits. All part of joining the Developed World.

A big gäng where no one's your friends, and there's always more palms to grease.

A tinge of grief flutters past his face.

FIRST THE BOOKS, THEN THE CUPS.

Not that he minds.

Resin on the seams, hairline cracks across the hull. Someone's been fighting to keep it alive.

Marinha-32, early 70s issue. Portofiran manufacturing. Built for municipal dredging, but this one's been heavily modded.

THUS BEGINS A GREAT STRUGGLE AGAINST INERT MATTER. ALSO EXPLOITATION.

A small seed of him, sprouting.

ON A POSITIVE NOTE, YOU ARE NOW MORE SELF-REALISED THAN EVER.

It won't always be like this. Eventually, you'll learn to dissociate better.

But he's aware you're here.

Sparrowhawks. Predators. Awaiting an opening.

His jacket's been patched over many times. Storied.

Shattered teeth in a ruined mouth.

No one is 'sensitive to moonlight'. He just thinks he looks cool.

Fast reply! Definitely awake.

Her fantasy, crushed under your heel.

No more tingles. Sad.

They're not sure how they feel about that.

Currently a balmy 14 degrees, under threat from a cold air mass moving across the Noscorrentes Sea.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 15 of 184