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789 checks

Give it a rest for today. Return when the sensation is fresh and it should once again have its calming effect.

Wind at the fringes. Encircling. Unnatural pressure. A corridor.

His yellow plastic visor sears in the sunlight.

Yet both are focused on yours, left one twitching off sunlight.

Beside you, HOLOCENE's hands search for pockets he doesn't have anymore.

Stuck on 'PAUSE'.

He hurriedly smooths down the single patch of hair which time has yet to steal from his head.

Sweetly sickening. Like a thousand strawberry air freshners all at once.

Plastic threads show signs of stretching before having snapped. Effort was needed to achieve this.

A stickiness now taints your fingertips. You try to ignore the faint smell of lube and fecal residue.

The sound of wet flesh slapping.

The stink of chlorine and guilt.

Faint but frantic chatter audible through the wood, PSEUDOPOD's voice.

Far below, a rhythmic thumping. Organic maybe. And is that the smell of sweat you detect?

The obscenely loud crunching sounds rattle through your skull. It's like he's pulverizing gravel.

A porthole opens into vein-crossed dimness.

At the edges of your ears, a tiny scream.

A tiny, wet SKIRCH as it slides in.

Hissing radio silence. The darkness between planets.

Deprived of sight, the inches of paper travelled by your pen feel like chasms.

Muffled noises emanate from within.

That holds. Nothing would be audible beyond twenty kilometres.

Somewhere on a distant hill, a wild dog howls. In your nostrils, the rabbity scent of fear.

The smell of beeswax.

Smells like pine needles.

There -- close to the centre, amid the hundreds of black squares, there is a single asterisk, blinking slowly. It can only be the Renotel Artery's location.

Beneath the city's murmurs, the soft rustle of read/write heads gliding across a disk.

You might as well be staring at the remains of coffee at the bottom of a cup.

Relays clack in a series of deep, satisfying clicks -- like pistol chambers locking into place.

The same pen hanging from the subeditor's neck.

The same pen hanging from the younger woman's neck.

Not normal paper. This is nitrocellulose, made to burn quickly and completely.

They seem much better cared for than their owner.

Momentarily, the mumbling from the nearby stalls hushes, listening.

Like something trying their hardest not to cry?

Her eyes are bloodshot, hair lank.

The words fade almost to nothing as they leave her mouth.

The shape is robust and clean, with an architectural asymmetry. Like a knife.

He'll fall if he can't see...

She's looking at your glasses.

She raises the photograph until it eclipses the bazaar in front of you.

Bureaucratic object permanence. Out of sight, out of existence.

Somewhere in the background, Gonza's monologue continues, heedless of any audience but himself.

It travels up through your elbow like a kiss from loose, ungrounded wiring.

Dark bookshelves, eerie silhouettes of medical equipment. The faint grey outline of a desk, no one sitting behind it.

From the dark interior beyond, a door quietly opens, followed by some shuffling.

Everyone in a 10 metre radius must have heard that. That includes anyone sleeping inside this houseboat.

On the cover, the halo of a lunar eclipse frames the silhouette of a young woman, her outline distorted by the jagged edges of the costume she wears.

Swirling maelstroms of darkness adorn the album cover, intricate but hardly-visible patterns of black on slightly-darker-black.

Has he been sharpening those fangs?

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 5 of 16