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305 checks

Your approach is laughably unbalanced. See how he deflects you with a flurry of maladroit gestures.

The physical body often telegraphs the feelings that trouble the insides.

He is all limbs, an unloved body at home only in the most ergonomic of chairs.

Motions entirely devoid of grace. A complete lack of bodily control.

High-end threadware, to seize his attention.

You're a true Shape-Changer, a high archon of fashion.

Pre-orgasmic tremors jiggle the padded shoulders of his jacket.

'Borrow' the luscious pen.

Your body dissolves, separates, but coheres.

Big money foreign girl, spending money on space she doesn't even use.

Jacket: Pristine, not bootlegged. Nails: Recently manicured. Money: Made.

Go for polymer. You'll move with it, not against it.

His balance is off today. He's favouring his left leg, like the right one can't be trusted. Like it hurts.

While he looks relaxed, his elbows and knees are locked, deliberately tensed like a spring.

Quick, pull your gun on him again. Just for kicks.

A feral cunning revealed. About to bolt or spring at the first false move.

Strong and unhealthy. A lifeform that would refuse to die if you crushed her.

Even the pelota ball, tossed back and forth by forces greater than itself, occasionally gets the chance to crunch against the nose of those who would try to catch it.

No twitch, no hesitation. He's reclined into that reality long ago.

They trigger the impulse to crush. They're fuzzy so that they can withstand the violence of affection.

You'd need to be careful when drinking out of it. It's been designed with form in mind more than function, and its spiky angles could easily take your eye out.

Your blood buzzes, your hand trembles.

Significantly maim, at the very least.

Suddenly the four kilograms of PE-4 in the pelota bag become a leaden thousand.

Your arm would fit through the gap beneath the lock.

You're familiar with the coat -- this is the man who tailed you through the bazaar.

The coat sounds familiar -- this is the man who was talking to your special asset in Foto 24.

Her movements are fitful and tremulous -- the arched back suggests a lifetime spent on her feet, contorted over something.

They're both wrong! You're a wolf-human hybrid, capable of channeling the agility and strength of a beast in the body of an unsupposing woman.

Fuck yourself through the skylight.

The old act awakens dormant pathways to tactile memory. Even the pulse returns to his palsied hands.

His personal sedentary yoga - hunched, elbows on his knees, staring at the device from zero distance.

How does the human mouth work? How is it possible that our grunts and growls are comprehensible to others, silent or not?

Stimulus and response. His breath quickens and below the table, his hands begin to paw at his lap.

He is trying to fend off entropy with a dustpan and brush.

He sweeps his broom a couple times. A tic that sets the world back in order.

Pluck the slimy object out of the filter.

Outfits made for these people. Or, people made for these outfits.

Your attempted power move has backfired spectacularly. Now the Luzians are even more high-status than before.

Look at their clothes -- these people are decked out!

He's just got something in his eye.

Deep inside narrow and winding mucosal cavities, stretches of black mould wither and perish in the chemical mist.

He struggles to wade through the sedatives still weighing him down.

Extract the Small Controller.

The stillness of death is different from that of catatonia -- the conversation that results from it more unnerving.

Syringe. Free hand.

Cave paintings of insane protohominids.

A crude impression of one, at least.

Maybe a squiggle at the top?

305 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 7