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Your attempted power move has backfired spectacularly. Now the Luzians are even more high-status than before.

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

He couldn't care less about your opinion.

The way you phrased that makes it sound like you're in possession of a knock-off.

Sour sickness on the back of your tongue.

They're going to think you're a phoney. A fraud. A poseur!

They're judging you right now.

Look at their clothes -- these people are decked out!

Speak to Constanz. She must have a way of getting in here.

It's you, but from a bad dream.

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

The half-animal in you freezes. You're alone. Split from herd. Vulnerable.

Has the null entity lured you into an obvious trap?

The tunnel, it's everything you imagined it to be.

Remember what the MIHO fax said: 'GO ALL THE WAY DOWN'.

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.

One of the reasons, he told you, that he always took the nasal route with his blow: concerns about receding gums.

Your friend's little vanities seem especially hopeless now.

Tempo was a consummate appreciator of the finer things in life. Reno's treating this incarnation according to the rules of the man he already knew.

ALL THAT IS LEFT IS ANIMAL.

Silent treatment.

WITNESS THE IMPRISONED REVOLUTIONARY. DESPITE HIS HARDSHIPS, HE STAYS TRUE TO ECONOMIC CHASTITY.

He's just got something in his eye.

Ready and willing to guard his food to the hilt.

He'd give anything to hear Tempo call him a cunt just one more time.

Are you in there, brother?

He's staring at the sky like it's his first time seeing it.

Wide, slick, animal. Only two words behind them: friend or foe?

From this altitude, it looks like Portofiro has been caught in a web of dark yarn.

Goosebumps on the back of your neck. As if all those of absent, lifeless eyes have turned to watch you.

Deep inside narrow and winding mucosal cavities, stretches of black mould wither and perish in the chemical mist.

His relief is such that it's almost a shame to correct his illusions.

The disappointment he feels is unjustifiable even to himself, but you can read it in his eyes.

He wanted to meet his nemesis head on. He wanted it to have a face.

He struggles to wade through the sedatives still weighing him down.

You've taken the tools up one by one in the intended order -- now comes the final tool and the logical end.

The moment we've been waiting for our entire life, Herschen. Stoop to the occasion. Trepan him.

Trepanation was the earliest form of treatment for brain tumours, relieving the buildup of pressure inside the skull.

Life and death. Kill or cure. No middle ground.

Extract the Small Controller.

REVOLUTIONS UPON REVOLUTIONS!

Centuries-old paintings of patients, sans anesthesia, getting bloody chunks removed from head. The agony. The insanity.

Feel that. Life and death trembling beneath you, a single gram of pressure between them.

A porthole opens into vein-crossed dimness.

Somewhere within: A hard drive of perfect memory, each scene evenly catalogued and ready for playback.

Light shines for the first time on territories it has never before reached.

Stop this now. Human beings were never meant to do this.

Tarsier shaped! A little curled-up tarsier!

<<Good job, CASCADE. M.I.H.O. salutes you.>>

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 55 of 197