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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.

Not much else, though. Too dark.

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?

Thunder. The floorboards rattle underfoot.

Saliva drips from his fangs.

The monkey descends into a series of gnashing shrieks and limb spasming in excitement and outrage at your quest.

Warm expulsions of air on your knuckles, tickly.

The finger feel of the apology cards suddenly comes back to you.

He glances at the ceiling, eyebrows twitching.

Out of sight, but you can still faintly hear the choking rhythm of his heartbroken hoos.

It's like if fish could produce a cheese.

You can hear his breath, soft and ragged.

It is standing on what looks like a pile of stolen goods.

The wall is disturbingly moist. Like fresh morning dew on a tree trunk, but evil.

More giggles in the hallway, the sound of footsteps running away.

One tacks up a sign on the wall which says: 'WELCOME TO THE INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE 66. PLEASE FLUSH'.

For a moment you think you catch the sound of a tambourine.

Chills run through you as the letters begin to spell out a plausible message.

The rows bore a hole somewhere in the centre of your forehead.

The machine whines on impact, but you feel nothing.

That hurt. A lot. Expect mild bruising.

Pressing against your heart once more.

Hand-painted iris rings -- faint, but deliberate. Someone wanted this thing to stare.

Vinyl, or a rented tuk-tuk's dashboard. Not unpleasant.

Relatively deafening.

Clear skies tonight. Ideal conditions for sharing a cigarette on a sidewalk corner, companions permitting. Temperature 13 degrees and steady.

A little quiver here and there -- nervous system at full charge -- but she's stable.

Her skin: pale. Eyes: tired. Muscles: atrophying.

The heavy floorboards are spotted with motor oil and bootprints.

Something about... sleeping dogs?

Voice so hushed as to be indecipherable.

There's nothing wrong with your eyes.

The muffled cracking of knuckles rattles through the sound of waves caressing the boat.

As he pronounces the name 'Gonza', a hair-tingling scream echoes along the canal.

His voice is so flat it brings the ceiling down a little, making your shoulders slump.

You can see the resemblance now. Karolina has his eyes.

The recirculated air smells like antiseptic and wet dog hair.

Marco would have been fathoms beneath Tempo's sphere of awareness.

But her voice trembles with relief.

Two aero-trams criss-cross somewhere above you. The apartment's windows rattle in their frames.

A barrage of words -- none of them an outright refusal.

823 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 6 of 17