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Someone's used to improvising pitches.

Hard to tell if he's genuinely worried about being exposed, or it's just part of the sell.

He's scanning you, as he has scanned many before.

His posture spells it out: not at the moment, at least.

He's not lying, but it's not your lines he's interested in.

It's not the lines he cares about. Only your reactions to his reactions.

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

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

His trigger finger twitches.

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

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

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

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

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

He's thought about it, turned it over and over in his head until it all clicked.

He can't take his eyes off your outfit. Must be jumpy around law enforcement.

It sounds like a yelp of pain.

Humour: sub-zero.

Something flares in her eyes. The same sheen of keen paranoia, brightened threefold.

Brighter. Madder.

You look into her eyes. She's not on anything chemical, nor is she sober. This is a different kind of high.

But she smiles like she does.

Something flares in her eyes. The same sheen of keen paranoia, brightened threefold.

An insane sun rises from behind her eyes.

Wait. There's something off about this woman's off-ness... she's not what she appears to be.

An exotic air about this man, difficult to place and exceptionally handsome. The suit he's wearing hasn't been changed in days.

His eyes dart ever-so-slightly.

It must be said, this is the most handsome political economist you've ever encountered.

Traces of a born romantic linger in the man's voice. This was a doomed endeavour from the very beginning.

First impressions matter -- the person responsible for the design of this journal knows that.

She smiles at you again, but her eyes are cold.

True fanatic detected. Be careful what you say, and how you say it.

The sunlight sears his blue eyes white.

Fear in her eyes. Like you're being watched.

No, she knows, but she won't help out a thief. Looks like you're on your own.

She sighs, nostalgic.

She flaps her hand, dismissing space exploration as a logistical inconvenience.

Eyes flashing, voice lowered, some sweet and succulent secret on the tip of her tongue.

She raises a finger to the heavens, threatening the angels not to challenge her authority on the matter.

A man of strong opinion that he's not afraid to shout about. Even to children.

The boy seems confused that he has to explain this.

Trying to not lose count of all the cool stuff he doesn't have.

He catches his reflection in the blade's gloss varnish and sees a great beast, fangs bared.

No recognition at all.

Yeah, they have no idea.

She has no idea what you meant, but is too immersed to care.

No irony. Only the truth.

His fingers twitch, pulling a phantom trigger.

Largely unfazed, too infatuated with coming face-to-face with a real gun.

Hard, abrupt words.

774 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 16