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789 checks

There is a difference -- you brush against it, but all too light, too quick.

Dust gathers on everything. This place has been preserved exactly as it was once left -- months or even years ago.

Her smile cracks the skin of her lower lip.

She pants slightly from the effort of extended speech.

She whispers 'sorry' to the machine.

Her massive sweater moves in a way which suggests a shrug happened underneath it.

Your hair is drenched in sweat.

She bows her head so that you can't see her tears fall, but you still see them land. The cosmonaut shines with grief.

Your fingertips itch with anticipated pleasure.

The heavily applied paint gives off a petroleum smell that sticks to the back of your mouth.

You can hear someone singing, faintly. Not quite loud enough to catch the lyrics.

Ahead of you -- there.

Most of those journals look cheap. Pulp-adjacent, really. They probably feel cheap too.

Once you're done with the sections here, you'll want to go through those big, unsorted piles too. Could be something premium in there.

Images aren't enough. You need to get hands-on -- rolling around, biting, giggling.

The faintly sweet smell of old paper, tinged with an unpleasant hint of mildew.

A pained intensity in his lowered voice that strains his vocal chords.

Beneath the pleated folds of his trousers stirs something fleshy and horrible.

His only source of relief is the sweat seeping into the fabric of his wind-whipped collar.

Shortness of breath. Pale, sweaty complexion. Nosebleeds. Symptoms of hypertension.

His tie is loose, beads of sweat glint off his neck. A desperate odour emanates off him.

A resonant thud. Heavy bottom glass on desktop.

You hear her breath so clearly that you feel its phantom on your neck. As far away as ever, and somehow within reach.

She makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a sigh.

Goosebumps rise on your neck.

You throb at her words. Your heart dances, your nipples ache.

Adoration in every hit.

For a second, you see a third eyehole open in his bag. But then it goes.

A scent below the perceptual threshold, something the animal that is your body can smell even if you cannot.

Small creaks as he sways.

Blood drips from his mouth to his eye.

The coat's distinctive colour flashes a face within your mind.

You can almost hear the phone ringing throughout Bagman's studio, reverberating off the empty plastic cups and audio equipment.

You didn't see anything resembling a 'tank' down there, unless there are sub-levels yet to uncover...

The dishes she hands you are hot, clean, and faintly lemon scented.

A pleasant little shiver as they pop against the edges.

Your heart flutters, races. This is scary -- awesome!

You can still feel hard edges against you, even as your mind splits into pieces.

Your heart hollows. Just a thumping muscle where the feeling should be.

She keeps glancing at those dirty dishes; you could offer to help while she explains.

A steady crowd noise drifts over from that direction.

Gentle heat on your skin, coconut liqueur on your tongue. He's onto something...

Smells like rubber bands, hardly vegetal. It is also very obviously dry.

His right pant pocket creases around something narrow and weighty. A switchblade.

Keeping it quiet wouldn't go amiss.

No cologne this time -- only a faint, metallic scent.

A mild, yet regrettably symmetrical case of double-strabismus.

You hear excited screams from behind you.

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

You hear someone's voice singing, but only for a moment.

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 3 of 16