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305 checks

It can be finnicky, but you should have the nimbleness of finger to deal with that.

If only it were as trivial as that. Your dexterity may be severely tested.

Ultras, fly formation.

With a deft hand, the obsessive's postcard of her would suffice.

The purple plane wouldn't help.

No bass? Lightweight.

Was it? Maybe it was.

"Brace yourself." (Pry him.)

Wrong type of glass for a callomanic, should be in a tulip.

You could attempt this with precisely none of your assets. They're all too big.

Ten inches and your lips will meet hers.

The gap can fit a whole shrine in there?

Shoot to wound.

All at once he internalises the defeat in his posture, the shoulders sinking in time.

On further inspection -- physically trained and capable of doing damage.

Maybe a neuro-degenerative thing. Someone had to help her get dressed, probably.

Those little uncontrollable movements of hers will grow up to become acts of violence.

Her costume is a stylized but unemblazoned piece of Luzian military history.

Clean diagonal slit. Superficial. Self inflicted.

This is a man with a system. A tried-and-tested one.

If he did, he moved fast.

Her mind's catching up to her, too. Adrenaline wearing off.

A shot far beyond you, or any of your known and revealed Crew.

His hair looks like it exploded.

Break into the mailbox.

You study their movements carefully -- a beautifully choreographed display of physical prowess.

Thin ribbons of the old fabric sewn into the tops of their socks.

Indeed, each of the pelota players display taut hamstrings, chiselled gastrocnemius and soleus, and perfectly rounded glutes that bounce appealingly under the shorts' tight, synthetic material...

Pupils dilate. Vessels flush under a quickening heart rate.

Luggage rack on the floor below for the bomb. You need a good angle and a prayer.

He may try and shoot you again.

A grown man in a pink hoodie should be laughable... and yet...

It would be physically impossible for a person your size to get stuck in here.

Unless you run really fast in a zig-zag pattern. But even then...

Pull your arms in close. Press your belly to the ground.

Soon it will be scraping against your scalp.

He blows as hard as he can against the world, but it blows back a thousand times harder.

A fundamentally flawed, but potent machine.

Extract the Hombre.

Each page a wall of dense, precise text, locked in place with academic violence.

All these rare words roll off her tongue like a second language.

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 across the page.

That certainly wasn't there before.

Could be indicative of an underlying condition. No need to bring it up and scare her.

The stopper has gone brittle, covered in a thick coat of sticky dust. There's no way to remove it without getting fragments of disintegrating cork everywhere.

305 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 7