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Asset RADIAN. Comms specialist. Skillset: audio engineering, surveillance, forensics, applied maths, transmission security.

Ramses Tayed Al-Fatik Molloy. Plague metal worshipper. Pristine blunt roller. Rustamian refugee. Ultimate warlock of chill.

Or at least -- he was.

Still shuddering and a little incredulous, Ramses settles back into reality and examines you.

An audible crack in his spine as he arches backwards, crumpling.

A marionette with strings yanked, then suddenly severed.

Every signal hits you raw and simultaneous: reality blooms, light flashes, saliva strings.

Morbidly transfixed, you as much a slave to what you are watching as the unblinking spectator.

The command runs through paralysed limbs. The only response the body gives is nausea.

That's our boy. Are you seriously going to abandon him again?

An air of waiting in the room. The thing that is supposed to happen hasn't happened yet.

Either a medical emergency, or a spiritual one.

Entranced. A reptile in the throes of worship.

For now, this will do. You've left a mark on this space.

You've left far too much Hershel in the room, CASCADE. This is a security nightmare of your own making.

Don't deny potential pleasures -- revel in the excesses offered by the material world!

With you while you enter the dark of sleep, and whenever you slip into the umbral realm.

Never to be forgotten.

Thousands of miles away, sad people in pressed suits wander the cold, hexagonal halls of Satellite Facility B, longing for a pop of colour.

A sense of composure bristles through you, strengthening your resolve.

That's all we've ever been and it feels right. Whether it's people, plans, or posters -- bringing things together is what we do.

Express yourself or die boring.

Brethren. Friends. Company.

A part of you left behind, shining bright across the room.

Faded patterns. A great void of expression.

As if the city itself is winking at you.

A flicker of light, arranged by the cosmos, as if to wink at you.

Have you considered engaging with the visual arts?

Before embarking on this distraction from your assignment, operant, consider the risks inherent to 'self-expression'.

No wonder it's still here, people with that kind of money don't shop in the Bazaar.

For a long moment, none of the students can tell what's happening. Then, one by one, they realise.

A faulty seal, a minor propellant leak, next thing you know four cosmonauts are splattered across the face of god.

It doesn't care about the shed. It has licked itself clean, absolved itself.

Don't let it beguile you.

This is no fascist. Look at that indifferent lounge, that fluffy coif...

No no, look at the fangs, the poise, the quick eager paws. That's the build of a worker.

This is a cat. You are upset about the corpse situation and you are taking it out on a cat.

The sound reaches out to something in your heart, soothes it.

Fuck! Look away, that's fucking demonic.

You're still talking to a cat. Stop. People can hear you.

You're going to go insane with feline apathy.

Bloody pawprints on the grass, none on its fur.

Licked clean. It has absolved itself of him.

The pawprints are leading to the shed.

Gummy rubber tip gone brittle.

She's covered her tracks well.

Sour-funky-staleness. A bit of lint from the bottom of the bag fuzzes against your tongue, but you taste none of the tell-tale earwax and aspartame flavor of ecstasy.

This is soothing as fuck. Babies are onto something.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 160 of 184