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Identical twins.

It won't do him much good. His body's reaching the point where aches and pains are par for the course.

Seems he has the shakes. He should never have applied for the job, though actually been given it.

Sadness fills his movements, like a sludge.

His standard of appearance suggests 'gambler on an eternal losing streak'.

His coat is kind of cool, actually.

Why's he starting at the end... ?

As soon as you pick it up, you feel that whatever's inside is not cigarettes.

Permanent wrinkles.

The world is so heavy its mass can only be measured in septillions of kilograms. That is the incredible weight you'll have destabilised by your actions.

Sick tradeoff. A little ideological betrayal in exchange for the chance to use a pneumatic drill in reduced gravity.

You can marinate in failure way better than any 'city-state'. You can twist dive into it.

On the floor, belly-down. Diaphragm convulsed by the blow, unable to breathe.

Vacuum-sealed, your airways convulse feebly.

Right in the fucking mouth.

Vacuum-sealed, your airways convulse feebly.

Forget that shitty Opera-assigned pen. You've got an editor's pen now!

A ripe opportunity to see how this new editor's pen glides on the page.

Both sides of the latch need release. Just need to reach the other shelf.

Easy peasy, like unhooking a bra.

If he did, he moved fast.

A pause. A slight nod of the head. He's getting into it.

An impressive display of dexterity, wasted on an act of utter cringing lameness.

You don't lollop. You bound, gracefully, like a whippet or a red hind.

Self-awareness seizes your legs. You wobble, unsure how to distribute your weight.

You could totally pull off a little finger trick like that, if you wanted to.

The melody you've been unconsciously constructing suddenly unfurls itself in your mind. Two notes to stick the landing...

Play any old shit and wrap this up.

His gait is off. He had another seizure since you left.

You remember the steps leading up to Portofiro's central station awash in blurring fractals. Your legs weren't yours; they just moved.

Pull your gun on him.

Your advantage is slipping. Draw already.

Pull your gun on him.

Pull your other gun on him.

But you're faster.

Wrong, that shit should be forefront.

You don't climb so much as glide; feet hovering over each wooden step, the chorded muscle of your biceps hauling most of your body's weight up the ladder.

Whatever. You know ways that don't even exist yet.

How would one resist the prospect of such a jacket?

Bruce had a whole lot of clothes at his shop, maybe you can play the part of the mage yourself.

Sleek lines and soft curves alternate to form an object that screams high-end.

His own appearance is neat and precisely kempt. Even the way his jumper is tied around his neck appears studied and deliberate.

In the end, the outcome was the same: a flurry of packing, a quick shuffle of locks and keys in the dark.

Get the drop on him.

You should do this kind of work more often. It suits you.

Dexterity has never been your forté, but now all of a sudden you have full-on palsy.

That thing's not surviving a gunshot.

305 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 4 of 7