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Must be the buoy. Salt in the wires.

THE PARADE. FLOATS AND CONFETTI. DON'T FORGET.

An outrageous call after what you pulled off. Time to abuse the refs.

Pencil sounds disconcertingly impermanent.

A distinction that will preoccupy you in the small hours for many years to come.

A cool, dry air seems to emanate from the phone line.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

She's done this many times before. She'll say as little as possible. Treat it like a formality to get through the moment.

Another tk. Another form.

There's another Melita, she thinks, looking at the same form but filling it in differently. She wishes she were that Melita.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

She's done this many times before. She'll say as little as possible. Treat it like a formality to get through the moment.

A sigh. That's all she can manage just now.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

She's done this many times before. She'll say as little as possible. Treat it like a formality to get through the moment.

One of many such things -- non-choices, counter-factuals, pebbles in the mind's shoe -- that make up a life.

Tk. The sound of a box being marked on a standard form.

She's done this many times before. She'll say as little as possible. Treat it like a formality to get through the moment.

A sigh. That's all she can manage just now.

Further warbling would be a mistake.

A casual intimacy to the interrogators' posture, slouched toward each other. They're partners.

He'll do it again.

Brace yourself.

The crease of latex against plastic, amplified in your skull.

Aural torture. Wicked.

Whispering to each other in low, urgent tones. They're beginning to panic.

The sensation will haunt you.

The doctor blows onto his tea. A smell of mint rises with the steam.

Come on... Don't tell them... Lie...

You cough, it burns.

Continue, he's saying.

The words circled beneath the doctor's signature return to you.

Silken web of awareness, holding dark tides in place.

It's at this moment, as the Paleolithic huntress pinches shut the great aurochs' lower intestine with one hand while with the other she expertly slices the hide around the anus from without, that the boundary is suddenly and fatally crossed. 'What am I doing here?' her brain asks in her own voice, as her head falls back and the terrible weight of sentience descends on her with a roar.

According to gäng, shit is positively school-like.

The ur-controllers. Vast, omniscient, orchestrating the entire human drama.

Of course, some possess this to a greater degree than others.

For a moment he seems to consider his reflection in the bottom of the tiny glass.

Collapsing the mind's conscious defences in order to channel raw cosmos into human language.

The old spy's grey eyes flash like light reflecting off a rifle scope.

Board tilting. Your favour.

Lightly, like an artefact he's both drawn to and afraid of.

Oh god, it's another stairs-related task coming on.

Also visible: A micro-compact auto pistol and a blister pack of statins.

... a whoosh of blood between your ears...

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 176 of 197