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Checks

305 checks

Don't forget the coin pocket. Front right.

Words that deny the frailty of his aging legs.

A stack of dingy lifevests piled underneath provides a convenient step up.

You've lost about four degrees of flexibility at every joint since those days. Your rotator cuffs are particularly stiff now.

The ease of a seal on ice.

His long, thin fingers scramble lightning-fast over the cosmonaut, feeling out each of its familiar angles.

Look at those nubbly thief hands. It's him.

Steal the cosmonaut.

You fall into the rhythm of it, the instances of each letter jumping to your eye one by one as you move through the text.

A swarm of letters, uncountable.

Extract what you are owed.

Luggage rack on the floor below for the bomb. You need a good angle and a prayer.

Distant crashes in the basement of your mind.

Amid your catastrophic failure five years ago, a small success -- someone took you for a model.

She says, but does nothing to stop you.

Steady hand, even voice. Poise beyond her years.

This man has never seen athleticism.

You could take one You. Probably not two Yous. Three Yous, absolutely going to struggle.

Explains those hideous rubber boots she's wearing.

You're drooling.

Explains those hideous rubber boots she's wearing.

Like your heartbeat adjusts to the pulse of a drum, the device attempts to calibrate something in your brain.

Weirdly stiff, and yet too lax to be easily posed, like a rubbery puppet lacking a hand inside.

It takes him a long time to read the short message inside.

Hands suddenly steady.

Any slight movement would've spelled agony.

The man clutches his hair again. Your foot landed nowhere near it.

Despite connecting with his shin, the man clutches his unruly hair.

When they eventually turn up.

The man clutches his hair once more, even though your foot found his thigh this time.

Despite connecting with his shin, the man clutches his unruly hair.

Both too close and too far from himself.

Surprisingly fast reflexes.

Despite connecting with his stomach, the man clutches his unruly hair.

His hand hangs limp beside him, trembling. The bottom of his palm is bloody from light scraping.

Quickly -- before the sludge reclaims it.

Before you can grab it, it dissolves back into the warm muck, never to be glimpsed by human eyes again.

Whoever is missing these would be almost blind without them.

Judging by the state of his body, those 'things' don't require him to move much, if at all.

Buffing himself like a castrated cockerel in attempt to masculate himself.

Never stop never stopping.

The interconnected parts of you loosen, melting into the bench, until every sensation tells you that you have become one creature with the wood.

Throw the lucky bottle to them.

Could be challenging. You've never been very good at finding a groove, body-wise.

Still -- it'd be ballsy. They've been left out in the open.

Steal a pack of smokes.

Shoulder, shoulder, elbow, elbow. You do everything to maintain your grip.

305 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 3 of 7