Reading

Open fileNeed to knowMy clearance

A.Journal

Checks

9,823 checks

COMPASSION IS BOURGEOIS, A MIND EXERCISE FOR THE MIDDLE CLASSES.

But her body trembles with relief.

BEAUTIFULLY PLAYED. ANOTHER YOUNG MIND TURNED.

But her voice trembles with relief.

Operant, this is a once-per-aeon opportunity to get a shot at the Grand Lich. Let it slip now, who knows how far back it may set you?

Set her free. Why should she sacrifice her second chance for yours?

A SKYWALKING REACTIONARY, AT VERTICAL DISTANCE TO THE WORKING CLASS, AS OPPOSED TO HORIZONTAL.

Beyond the apartment's walls, this girl has a form of family, friends, classroom enemies, unfinished homework. None of them will know her again as she was.

A flash of Tempo and his child-logic loyalty, bestowed upon a strictly-chosen few.

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

Awaiting your approval.

'And you tell her -- if we pull this one off, all will be forgiven!'

There are other ways. There always are.

Fuck it. We make our own ways.

Operant, reconsider. You haven't even heard out the prisoner. You may be letting a massive opportunity slip your grasp.

A sudden crack across the thin glass of trust.

She's trade curious. Tempo never could resist a little off-the-books hustle.

Gauging you. Hard. A Mega Gauge.

The pit of your stomach curls. You tense it back down.

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

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

Two ghosts stalk this house -- a teenage girl stomping the attic, a middle-aged man screaming in the basement.

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

Let her off easy -- she won't handle the guilt well.

Her pupils narrow to slits.

CONVINCE HER TO SELL OUT ULTRA VIOLETA.

Splitting at the seams, almost ready to tear away clean. Ungänging herself hard.

You dust off and briefly consult your topographical maps of the Teenage Psychosphere. It remains as wondrous and enigmatic as you left it.

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

Even her friends are wavering, it seems. Not as real as they used to be.

She's concerned about Marco? The espionage voyeur?

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

A nod. Uncharacteristic gratitude.

Her safety catch flips to 'OFF'.

THIS UN-RE-EDUCATED YOUTH MUST BE MADE TO FEEL THE FULL WEIGHT OF TERROR BEHIND THOSE SIX LETTERS.

The way she says your name is stiff, somehow. Like she's forcing herself to say it that way.

She's holding other things back from you, but this is the truth.

Half a city away, an old man hunches on a damp mattress and thinks of the odd stranger who went through so much effort to find him.

The device. Ask her about the device.

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

Tempo's half of the deal. This 'unusual device'. Pull back the curtain.

Under a stray shadow, stifling any noise.

No backhanded retort, no reflexive insult.

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

You glimpse him. A giant shadow, hulking behind her.

Inhuman. Your hackles rise.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 73 of 197