Reading

Open fileNeed to knowMy clearance

A.Journal

Checks

811 checks

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.

Unfortunately, the displeasure in her voice catches up with your little fantasy, and slams it all away.

Ice-water sobering from the inside out.

Instant, though mistaken, recognition. The character is prepared for you.

One for fear, two for guilt, three for determination.

Look at the cosmonauts' expressions: pride, determination, joy. These aren't commemorative; they predate the disaster.

Absent intensity. It's impossible to tell how much he even understands.

Tracing the shapes his mouth makes, you manage to make out the words 'I was', 'people', and 'land'.

That smirk. Like he's somehow gotten one over on fate.

His face twitches on the razorblade between perverse delight and terror.

No translation needed, and not the slightest hint of irony. Yes.

That was a growl, not an attempt to speak. He would be making the same noise if he could talk.

The soundless words are clear on his lips: 'I was held in one'.

Read the story from Loud João's own lips.

Caught out. Fair play.

Toying with them like a cat with its prey. Now he breaks off another leg and watches the thing limp.

Eyes widen. The other men regard him like some kind of God.

You realise after a moment that he isn't just doing his usual thing -- he's demonstrating.

Subtle and leering -- for the first time you see his true smile.

Cowed, shrunken, SLAVA ages ten years as the feeling of betrayal sinks in.

He's experiencing what men like him fear most: Humiliation at the hands of a woman.

A snarl flickers beyond the veil of the smile.

Meanwhile his companions begin to squirm.

Clocked you instantly, even though your accent has been diluted in the decade-plus since you left.

Neither is he. It's in the accent -- vowels musicalised, R's straining not to trill.

No satisfaction registers on his features. He wants more.

Asked as if the question scared him.

Give him some space, he's getting somewhere.

As he's talking, his whole posture changes -- a lightness across his features.

His full-force gaze reminds you of meeting the sharks in Mircea Aquarium eye-to-eye. Empty yet full, processing alien thoughts.

For a moment, hope flashes in his eyes. The possibility that, maybe, maybe, this is still the kind of place that diplomats frequent.

The son, prematurely aged. The father, embalmed in ageless maturity.

A little sadness alights on his face for the briefest moment.

The broom does not gaze back.

Too quick on the denial. That's a big, flashing 'yes.'

You're dealing with a 'Get Off My Property' type here. Problem is, his property is communal.

Unhappy to be stuck down here, on the street, when there is action elsewhere.

Gun. Gun. Knife and gun.

Look, when in doubt, it's always safe to assume the answer is yes.

They wear their clothes like the very mannequins they were sewn on.

Something about this rejection feels more than just embarrassing. It feels dangerous.

He couldn't care less about your opinion.

811 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 17