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The index finger of your left hand twitches.

The bones of the plot are set. Already you can feel muscle and sinew begin to weave themselves around the frame.

The axis of the world inverts on half-muttered sentences.

Your stomach twists. The precipice opens.

The yellow tree. His favour.

Yellow tree. Yep, all leafed up.

A gäng of ten million hearts beating as one.

Trees are trees. You do not notice trees. Boring.

He tries to conceal it, but something in his voice tells you he's more concerned about Ultra Violeta's fate than that of the Grand Lich.

Cicatriz Frontera, La Luz. Fabricators from the Ministry of Cosmonautics present three custom spacesuits for inspection. A young publicist with severely angular hair scans them, then shakes her head and says, 'She'll want one in all purple'.

Why are you standing around for? Kill this ancient fool. That's what the script demands.

All around you, an invisible audience leans forwards in their seats.

Your conspicuous lack of gun is seriously compromising the scene here.

The muzzle twitches and flashes, but no sound reaches you for a whole second.

Just like the autumn fireworks you used to watch from your window as a child.

Offer a prayer to Deneb.

... wait, returns?

You catch the scent of iron on the breeze.

Surprisingly fast.

Not a fleck of irony.

You can see your reflection, flipped, in the unblemished metal.

Below your feet, the prisoner slips in and out of a terrifying dream.

Or maybe somebody's just been left in the dark.

Try again during business hours.

With a certain excitement, you discern.

You're through -- now keep your seams together. Play the poet persona to the hilt.

A good poet listens more than they speak.

Poetry's easy. Make it short, make it vague. Speak in rhyme.

You're in -- as a poet. Don't let them believe you're anything else.

Abandon all logic. You're about to enter the Poet's Domain.

Intercom looks expensive, the interference suggests a building-wide system. Nothing 'light' about this security.

The kind of places that need security intercoms: Gated communities. Government buildings. Prisons.

Very vague. Almost... secretive.

Seems you need a good reason to be here. Fortunately, you are trained in reverse reasoning.

This door opens for someone, that's why there's an intercom. You just need her to tell you who.

Of course. When an industry dies out, its buildings are repurposed into offices for that contemporary, utilitarian feel.

They have. Many people have.

WHAT IS THIS, THE MAKING FRIENDS INTERCOM? IT IS IN YOUR WAY, BATTER ITS DEFENCES.

First blood: CASCADE.

Translucent and grotesque, like an electronic gecko molt. It will never be skin again.

Genuinely upset.

With a certain weariness, you discern.

Blaming us 'cos this bitch edged her peel game. Sick shit.

A melodic voice that makes you think of flowers blooming in timelapse.

Holiday phone girlfriend. Claim her.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 174 of 197