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What about your friends? Those who keep you grounded, the only who give solidity to all your abstractions...

Reminders of a world worth returning to.

A broken instrument.

He'll have a talk with the vendors later today. A firm one.

Your friend is here.

Not part of his job description. A caring gesture.

They farmed out your asset, your friend, to some trouserless infant?

Maybe it was company he wanted. A chance to palm away the frost and peer into the old days. For some, that counts as 'urgent'.

It would have. It would have brought you running. If they'd bothered to tell you.

Tempo called for help. For cavalry. For you.

He already fears the worst. You don't need to get into the uglier details.

He doesn't know what he's asking for. Not really.

Tell him to not go into that office himself. He shouldn't see.

He doesn't have to like it, but his nights will be kinder for it.

He's trying to be polite and not point out you fucked it on your own terms.

Behind the words, you feel your old asset's ghost, smiling.

There's a hollow in his voice, one you doubt was there just weeks ago.

He misses her dearly.

A tinge of grief flutters past his face.

Not that he minds.

His jacket's been patched over many times. Storied.

They're not sure how they feel about that.

And what could be worse than that?

So this headphones guy acknowledges the regency of Ultra Violeta.

They think you're uncool. Maybe someone at the bazaar can help you teen up your style.

So assured of their connection to her that their own emotional experience has assimilated that of their idol.

A hysterical edge to her voice. This is an irreconcilable dissonance.

Typical adolescent obfuscation. This boast will fall apart the second you apply pressure.

Her friend had a genuine spiritual experience, and she never has. Every time it's mentioned, it drives her mad.

She thinks her loyalty will buy her intimacy.

Her voice wobbles, poor thing.

They think they're in on the joke that they are. The irony is becoming them.

Maybe little pale lies draw her attention to the pitch black one at the core of this relationship.

Spoken as if he's talking to a stranger's child.

So this is what it's like to have a pod. It's nice.

It's so nice having a friend.

His smile is warm, knowing.

A touch of desperation, there.

Too polite to allow himself to accept what you've said.

You can't shake the feeling that he knows something you don't.

He has felt it too.

If only. There's plenty of past shame too.

You're as in denial as the doctor is.

Surely the idea of that man having any rights left is obscene.

It's not like he's in any state to fact-check you.

It means something to Dr Hugo -- perhaps a lot. He would be sad to see it go.

It means something -- perhaps a lot -- to whoever put it here. They would be sad to see it go.

Would probably snatch it and wear it as its own.

She has a purpose.

Help the poor thing confront this nightmare, it's killing her.

1,005 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 2 of 21