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But alert to you. Waiting for your signal.

The handle is warm and slick with his blood.

Pain like searing light.

Your muscles slacken, weighed down by a mounting force.

His glasses slip down his nose. He's trying to fight it. He can't.

Emptiness in stereo.

Just might hurt a little.

Her eyes are a deep, layered brown.

A baby's handprint, sticky and clear over a thatch of dirt.

"You are a void... At least in my own darkness I can dream..."

Knuckles on soft wood.

The overhead lights cast a sickly green colour across the brown paper.

One of his pockets does seem heavy.

The camera aperture whirrs as it zooms in on the oversized pill bottle.

Approximately the size of a large lemon. Matte colouration.

Deep in the shadows past the cut-out holes, you glimpse a wet sheen in the blackness. Eyes widening in fear.

As he flaps his arms, little gusts of stale urine and sweat cause your nose to wrinkle.

The setting sun is hot on your face. Purple light spots are burned into the back of your eyelids.

It will be dark soon.

Your wrists burn -- the skin chafed. Your shoulders ache from the pull.

A chill unrelated to temperature flicks up your spine.

What it looks like is an anatomically correct human heart, slightly squished from being stuffed into a ten year old's pocket.

The veins on his neck bulge, blood drips from his ear.

No sign of your squadmates either.

As he looks at you evenly, his eyelid begins to twitch.

Wait! There, at the far end of the carriage.

His upper lip inclines to the right as he speaks. His canine is chipped.

His attention was so strong that you feel cold in its absence.

Portofiro's sprawl flashes briefly across his six-fold lenses as he sneers at the city below.

The shelves ease apart by a fraction as metal settles back into alignment.

The antennae extend tens of metres into the void, their length dwarfing the satellite's.

Written over months, if not years, given the different pen colours and how the inks faded. This is something Straniak returned to.

Sun-facing panels glimmer like the frost-touched carapace of a great insect.

Signals unfurl around you. An ocean of drifting voices and prayers lost amid the electromagnetic spectrum.

His eyes are green. And very dry.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

A flicker of river-green, bright and unguarded, before the glasses slide back down.

Had you been standing a couple metres farther away, you wouldn't have registered movement.

The outline of a building, just past the roundabout.

He turns his head briefly, as if hearing it now.

Resin on the seams, hairline cracks across the hull. Someone's been fighting to keep it alive.

Currently a balmy 14 degrees, under threat from a cold air mass moving across the Noscorrentes Sea.

Rain from sky-smeared cloud pools in the cracked pavement.

Somewhere nearby, a stray creature grunts as it tousles through long-discarded things.

Bet it's the fucking grammage.

A low current pulses through the device in your hands.

It's been scrubbed clean more than once, to banish graffiti, paste, grime.

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 16