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No attempt at deception here.

There's no threat behind his words. He's simply describing the objective state of things.

He pruned the conversation forcefully, artificially. There is more.

He says it to everyone.

All pretense drops. The red glints in his lenses.

His rising anger gone in an instant, like a fuse being tripped.

His speech speeds up the more he speaks, the external manifestation of a system careening towards a vascular catastrophe.

Totally bloodthirsty.

Suddenly self-conscious.

Shades of Tempo reflected concave, convex, through a hall of mirrors.

More excited than nervous.

A flash of annoyance in her expression.

She's got you there.

If it was a direct order -- yes. Any which way you command.

What she wants to say is: grow a pair.

She is all of those things and more.

The seething -- it overrides any and all underlying emotions.

A twitch under his eye. He masks it with anger but there is real upset there.

No hint of a smile with that one.

Fists clenched, he adopts a strained position against the desk. Everything under his skin tightens.

He offers a limp salute and bows his head.

'It takes one to know one', his expression says.

Take it from somebody who shoots his conscience with a designer drug-loaded dart every time it so much as stirs.

Something childlike and almost innocent enters his tone and gaze.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

Jaw jutting out, eyes wild, he's putting himself forward as a candidate.

A small measure of doubt, a hefty dose of fear. You're safe to proceed, for now.

Fresh veins pop in his red eyes. You can almost see the neurons shorting.

Definitely arousal.

Is that... arousal?

He's far gone. And if he was faking it to begin with, he's long forgotten it.

Definitely real.

His left foot twitches in anticipation of the jump.

The couple's faces, although half-erased, radiate pride and awe.

That's a 'would'.

She's about to tell you something awful.

A miserable defiance to the set of her chin.

Or was it the drink, the job.

She hates agreeing with you.

She puts her hand to her heart, sighs.

She purses her lips in distaste.

Because she doesn't know what to say.

Riled, not yet convinced. Keep pushing, make her believe you're capable of this.

She's just playing hard to get.

She smiles in a way you've never seen before; Eszti without a trace of ESTOC.

Translation: You're talking guff, Wilk.

As he attempts to straighten himself, he lists to one side like a wounded battle-cruiser.

811 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 16 of 17