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Reminded of her loss, the liqueur tastes like honeyed grief on her tongue.

The throttle opens. Stand back.

ABSOLUTE HUMILIATION ON THE WORLD-STAGE.

Acid contempt. It melts right through your defences.

It can't be more than a few seconds, but from your perspective an eon passes. Whole civilisations rise and dissolve into the mists of oblivion before she speaks again.

Utterly excruciating, the way these seconds pass.

Her voice sounds distant, like she's already putting down the receiver.

A strange feeling courses through you.

The man you shot lives on. Not just in this advert, but in the minds of those who watch it.

His ideas will spread across the city, passed down through generations, like paranoiac family heirlooms.

They may not even mourn him. Someone else could just wear the bag, adopt the title.

Or they could use his death as proof that he was onto something.

Perhaps an enthusiastic grunt, acting on their own initiative, to please their commanding officer.

A professional would at least alter their voice.

Careful, he's about to prematurely oraculate.

The excitement, the anticipation, it's all got you feeling a little on edge.

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

THE PEOPLE. UNITED. UNDER ONE BAG.

This is the kind of bag-on-bag action the villains at the top want to deny the world.

A mish-mash of conspiratorial nonsense commonly found in most of the Developed World. One exception: the boars, which may just be a local oddity.

What else are they hiding from us?!

A child sits cross-legged, giggling at 'the funny man' on-screen. Her parents look on, glad she's there and not caught up in any trouble -- not realising how much their overprotectiveness will cause in years to come.

A brown paper bag. That can only be...

The groundskeeper will find the body. A gloved hand will erase any record of his report to the authorities.

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

In the darkness of the shack, something creaks faintly -- sinew.

Something like you, but not like you. Something that has undergone a transformation.

Fish leaping out of a tank in terror as the powdered remains of their fellows are shaken inside.

It's Ignatz. The Weeping Eye would not let him live.

Spare yourself the visual.

What's the problem, can't take a little 'bad death'? Look inside.

What little light enters the shack glints off moist surfaces never before exposed to the air.

Small creaks as he sways.

Sensation drains from you, replaced by an aching lightness. Like the moment before a drop.

The Manus Fati with its finger on pause, just for you.

Why are you doing this to yourself? You know who's in there.

Blood drips from his mouth to his eye.

You knew he was coming here. Could've had that one last drink.

The deconstruction of Ignatz was a pleasure for him.

Might've been reasonable to have that drink to the craft.

Should've had that drink to the cat.

Could've had that drink with him...

Your subconscious mind knows him a few seconds before your conscious one does.

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

You recognise him.

Blood. Fresh. Stop.

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

The Reality Situation is gone. It only exists in the airwaves now.

You glance upwards, as though expecting to see a cage fall down around you. One doesn't -- at least not visibly.

Does that make us the last of a once-proud hybrid race?

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 31 of 197