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Looking you straight in the eyes, sympathetic. She really doesn't know.

Her voice is thin -- she's not strong enough to carry them alone.

Knuckles white as she balls them into fists.

Not trusting herself to speak around the lump in her throat.

She deflates at the change of subject, back to the misery of now.

Still not a yes. She's nervous, looking away, could get a discount out of it.

Under the thick hoodie, her eyes are fixed on a single point to the west.

Her hood a burrow, she the mouse within.

The veins in his eyes pre-pop in anticipation of what's about to happen.

No reflexive blink or retinal follow.

Around you, scattered pairs of eyes watch as you jiggle the shutter. Too many people around for a break-in.

His tail swishes with cautious excitement.

His eyes look like lava. He is erupting.

He pulls at his ears, deranged with joy.

Even the cutest and most dreadful of eyes can see how you drench yourself in remorse.

But definitely more ominous.

A sudden talisman. The last thing he gave up.

She was about to say something else. Something she thinks might be important.

No witty retort -- caught her with a stiff jab.

She would. She will.

Earnest, masked with a laugh.

The thought of spying on you does seem to horrify her.

His eyes narrow ever so slightly as if to place your face.

A quick, apologetic smile.

He looks away from you while he decides which script to follow.

His lips ready themselves for a pretend smile.

The sound of his own voice makes him wince.

His fingers twitch like he's fighting the urge to shuffle the papers on his desk.

A tight, self conscious smile.

Not a direct answer.

Approval. Pride.

Abject disappointment. Her response is all he's been thinking about since he put himself at your mercy.

That's how she was and remains for him -- a mirror of his own qualities and flaws.

The doctor overtakes the father.

The sort of serene, approachable expression that is considered key to 'good bedside manner'.

Complicated subject matter.

He did not directly answer your question.

His mask of placid indifference has begun to slip. Beneath, something warm, red, wet.

His fingers flex against the desktop, phantom palpations.

His eyes, very carefully, do not flick towards the ladder.

A subtle shift in his position... he's mould curious. Continue.

Hooked. This guy's a mould man through and through.

He was the one holding the clipboard.

A nod declaiming any and all liabilities for whatever befalls you there.

That little jump he gave when you walked in the door -- you're the first visitor he's had in a while.

In herself, she means. In her own mind.

She can't bear the thought. You shoved her into this -- you alone will follow it through.

The silence between you is so heavy it begins to exert its own gravitational pull.

But her body trembles with relief.

774 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 6 of 16