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

A crumb of truth, which gathers mass as it rolls downhill, until it becomes a teeming ball of confusion and paranoia.

This is a topic she will not allow herself to get into.

They make a mess together, with joy and abandon. But she stares at it all day on her own.

But she hasn't asked you to leave. She must be very lonely.

Five feet above your head, the bedroom window. Glass still bearing the dots and lines of bedtimes past, her fingers tracing a map of stars to guide the little ones to sleep.

ALL THESE MEN SHOULD BE CASTRATED.

He stared at her mouth, disbelief, wonder. His dreams come to life. He asked her if she remembered his fantasy, offered her the job on the spot.

You're making her uncomfortable.

Because of the Miracle Line. She thinks of you as a client.

THE MARKET IS A MAD GOD, A BEING OF LOW IMPULSES AND HIGH POWER. IT CANNOT BE ALLOWED TO STEER US.

The shelf behind her is stuffed with papers, handwritten. She isn't short on study time, but she isn't sending her work in.

Hopeful, shy. She just needs some gentle encouragement.

She hears that a lot. She was hoping for something unrelated to her physical attributes.

She is a hostage to the phone.

To you. Because you're a client.

Smiling, but her voice is hard.

A dramatic change in her voice.

She's excited about the prospect of you being a therapist, play into it.

Ooh, ooh, do the torture.

'A Canny Method'? An Advanced Cognitive Manoeuvre?!

Hunched over the phone, desperately thumping his half-flaccid cock while teenagers laugh just a few feet away. Duchess' voice in his ear, claiming that it wants him.

She's hovering by a sink full of dirty dishes, offer to help with them.

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

Sounds like how her sister in the magazine offices dredged out your cryptonym.

Yeah, she did it to us in the basement!

She laughs, but there's an edge to it.

She's not her sister, in other words.

Neither particle nor wave, but some other fundamental entity, uniting and penetrating all things at once.

Become foam-gäng.

What she's describing is hyper-tier psychic surgery. Someone like you could do massive damage with such a technique.

Go far! All the way! Get inside, make a fist.

A pleasant little shiver as they pop against the edges.

You can already see how. A lightness of the mind, a willingness to let go of yourself. You could step straight into the void with her if you dare.

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

Your body dissolves, separates, but coheres.

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

Can you be sure this is really your mind and not some psychic fabrication of hers?

In retrospect, the whole thing smells like a massive set-up. Already the unseen enemy had you all in their grasp.

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

Stupid. No gifts. No drinks. No friends.

A wave of despair. The friends you abandoned, the promise of camaraderie you made a lie of.

IMMATERIALIST SENTIMENTALISM.

You're not afraid of any empty space. Fill it the fuck in.

It's our sad place, our pain zone. Everybody fucking get ready.

It went so well with HOLOCENE.

A new Advanced Cognitive Manoeuvre for your operant's grimoire.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 32 of 197