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His glasses are half-fogged from the sweat beading on his upper lip.

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

They're even more expensive than the vending machines in the airport at Treffe, on your way here.

THE BITTER ICHOR OF POVERTY.

If the world would deny us even these small pleasures, then we should deny the world its ill-gotten cash.

All that separates you from the cash inside is a little lock. This should be easy.

You need a tubular lockpick for this. Something like...

Use a vendor override code. It won't be anything complicated -- it'll be simple, easy to remember, idiot-proof.

No need to muck about here with fiddly little things. Let's just tip the sucker over!

All that separates you from the cash inside is a little lock. Shame you don't have a lockpick.

If you overdo this you're going to break the economy.

If the inspectors begin to suspect something's amiss, they'll lock the machines down -- or worse, stop refilling them until they can be replaced with tamper-proof models.

Overdo this and you risk a note that reads 'kleptomaniacal tendencies' in your personnel file.

Happy. Floaty. Dank.

A good operant knows when to wait, and when to imbibe.

Who's Placid Wolf's guy? Where can we get some?

Don't let the wolves' playacting at humanity fool you. They're still animals underneath.

Selflessly giving up his own prized possession to bring joy to a neurologically challenged young lady.

He's far too kind to be married to someone like ESTOC.

Resin cabochon and palladium finish. Worth several hundred sols.

She's got pens to spare -- we don't. Let's nick it.

The Trust merely recognising her hard work. Nothing unsavoury here, as far as she's concerned.

Pleasantries exchanged. Time to move on, operant.

OF COURSE. SNAKE PEOPLE HAVE NO NEED OF LUXURY PENS, WHAT WITH THE LACK OF LIMBS.

Her sponsor... the Civilisation Trust. The blank space there gnaws away at you.

Forget the pen. Talk to this woman and inquire about this 'Trust'.

'Borrow' the luscious pen.

She will notice the missing pen in four days, but never once suspect you.

A strange cadence, uneasy syllables stumbling over a sloshing beat.

She sounds quite drunk.

She looks out over Novessa -- bleary eyed, searching.

A resonant thud. Heavy bottom glass on desktop.

Of course you do.

Feet swaying gently, a few feet above the ground. The laces of their left shoe have come untied.

This took a very sad turn. It won't be easy to swing it back around.

Life sparkles in death's presence, magnificent and fragile. Draw her close.

Tell her what she means to you.

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

So they recommended she be paired with HOPSCOTCH, too.

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

Our faceless mistress with the wrought iron soul.

Still an act, but neither of you have the script.

One she can't co-sign.

Goosebumps rise on your neck.

But for once it sounds like a prayer.

She wants a lover. She wants you.

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

Adoration in every hit.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 30 of 197