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9,179 checks

78mm barrel. Length: 150mm, maximum. Fifteen round magazine. And, crucially: the trigger's click must feel nice.

Massive. We want it big enough to drop something with hooves.

There are many crimes you may commit; none worse than mediocre aesthetics.

Steel. Superior feedback -- every bullet shuddering, while you remain still.

Go for polymer. You'll move with it, not against it.

Safety. No impact on performance, and it makes a really nice 'click' too.

A leash? No thanks.

You need to merge with the gun in your palm. Become one.

Something to keep your arm steady when it gets heated. Ultimate stability.

Keeping it quiet wouldn't go amiss.

Out of the question. He must be able to get you something sooner than that.

You sure about this? You already made your own gun.

You sure about this? You could just make your dream piece instead.

At the Novessa Greenhouse, you and the other would-be operants were trained on steel. There's something comforting in the familiarity.

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

Funny. Didn't seem like he had any problems asking that.

His balance is off today. He's favouring his left leg, like the right one can't be trusted. Like it hurts.

Old Viúdas shifted around him. There was a route traced for him, but he veered off. Around the corner, a car kept waiting, engine ticking. In the trunk: carpet and old rope.

He's tired. The kind of tired that comes from getting through the wrong version of the night.

That's it. Play up the damsel in distress angle, it's his weak spot.

After a moment, his face drops as he realises what he has to do.

Triple-stitched premium nylon. Expensive.

Manufactured in Kino's Gambit. Slide coated in dark-grey finish. Fixed barrels, ported. Machined for high-accuracy pressure.

The killer inside you grins.

He came through.

The look of a kid pretending to be an adult in a room full of consequences.

Now it's all done, everything in him hopes that his concession will earn him a place in your heart.

And just like that, warmth radiates from him once more. If only it were that easy for you.

STATE-ISSUED, LOOTED OFF A CORPSE, OR SELF-PRODUCED. THAT IS HOW YOU GET A GUN. WRITE IT DOWN.

You agreed to the amount. You paid upfront. It's on him to take the loss.

His trigger finger twitches.

The tension before a stand-off is known to him, engrained.

While he looks relaxed, his elbows and knees are locked, deliberately tensed like a spring.

This is a man who knows guns, the mess they make. He doesn't throw out threats like that lightly.

Eyes aren't bloodshot. He's close to sober -- his reactions will be better than last time.

This path can only end badly, for the both of you.

Eyes aren't bloodshot. He's close to sober -- minimal reaction delay.

His smirk's gone. Just a tight line now, barely there.

Quick, pull your gun on him again. Just for kicks.

Easy. There's no recognition on his end. Not one dot connected.

Your deception holds. Excellent.

Poor guy. You should make sure he's okay, at least.

Professionally? Low-triple digits, by the time they put you in the Freezer.

You robbed the man and left. An apology isn't undeserved.

An amateur was outplayed by a professional -- there's nothing to explain.

Crap, the Azzurri delivery man. Get the gun.

Easy there. No recognition on his end. Not even a hint.

Your opacity holds. Pretend this is the first time you two have ever met.

Poor guy. He had such a rough night.

This must be the 'heavyset Rustamian' the bartender at the Fogged Mirror saw with VIRTUE.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 33 of 184