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You shook him up. He needs a little time to recover. Try again later.

He'd be eyeing the top shelf liquor, daring it to try.

You first among their number, for reasons you could never quite put your finger on.

You didn't hear the word 'no' in there.

Summits of derision, mesas of lust, valleys of tedium and miscommunication, ever-enchanted with an opaque mist of technicolour neurochemicals.

She meant it lightly, yet still -- a papercut across your heart's epicardium.

You need to get to the bottom of this 'bootlegging device'. Press her.

Staring you down. Hasn't blinked in some time.

Just what on earth has Tempo encircled you in here?

There's that 'They' again... The oft-invoked nemesis of 'You'.

A pair of cold, tiny hands play a minuet up your spine.

Door liable to get kicked in any minute.

Uh oh. Tempo didn't know they shelved you after 91. He thought you were still... respected. Revered even.

The exit papers you discovered at the shrine grow a little heavier in your pocket.

A scab she's already been picking at, destined to scar.

A flash of your abandoned double, alone in a lonely room.

Go on. Tell her about the Thing on the Roof. Give her something to remember him by.

Another name added to the ever-expanding list of Those You've Consummately Fucked Over.

How do you know you aren't him right now?

Shit, he's remembered.

His words make you nauseous for some reason.

Say nothing and she will know nothing.

A depth charge at five fathoms, but your surface remains glass smooth.

A memento from the protests in 81. The bullet by your heart, the one that could move an inch and kill you.

Last chance to brace yourself.

Each one sends a pang of fear through your mind, too similar to the sound of the pen.

Hold the line. She gets nothing.

There goes that approach.

There's someone in there. A potential you for you to awaken.

A firm slap might be the last thing he needs to come back.

The lid will never come off again.

At your back, the howl of the ventilation shaft. If you wanted, you could... just...

The world shrinks.

Careful, you need a working camera for Ignatz's gig. No batteries, no gig.

Hold firm. It's just stray air escaping his body.

All posts deserted.

A shiver flutters through you like a stray bat.

The first casualty of an undeclared war.

The past descends with talons.

A tremendous feat of endurance.

He cannot quite meet your eye.

This from Hershel Wilk, her of six abandoned direct reports.

The part of him that cares has been forcibly drowned in ethanol.

He barely heard what you offered -- just hooked it straight to the vein.

'Human Capital'. The words frost your heart over.

And always in town.

604 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 13