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There's definitely ants in there. Crawling colonies swarmed in the sticky-sweet syrup that's soaked into the pages... countless tiny horrible legs ready to tickle your skin...

There's something about stars and what it says about this type of lock, but it doesn't quite come to you.

Numbers... Blurry... Must try everything again.

Gäng don't fuck with ghosts. Scatter.

Vertiginous patterns of broken tile swirl below you. Your head swims.

For a second you think you hear someone singing behind you, but there is nobody there.

Trees are trees. You do not notice trees. Boring.

Poetry's easy. Make it short, make it vague. Speak in rhyme.

In the time that it would take for you to get the gate open, your tail will have caught up.

Something you missed.

Must be the buoy. Salt in the wires.

La la la. What's the old man on about? You can't hear anything.

You brought that one on yourself.

Wait, you don't actually know where his studio is... do you?

No one is suggesting that he's watching you through the TV screen, that's ridiculous. The raised hairs along your arm must have some other, more mundane cause.

Obviously making a commentary of sorts.

This man must be part of our welcoming committee. The gäng's legend spreads far and wide!

Mystery solved. PSEUDOPOD listened to a priceless tape and lost his soul.

Pretty esoteric term we've got here... Just roll with it.

Einzeltone... No entries found. And no point trying to pretend.

Like you... a self-loathing pity farm.

You're going to get her killed today.

Like you... a paranoid fabulist with next to no idea which parts of the world are real.

Like you... a violent loner.

Like you... detached, melancholic, prone to self-indulgent epics of existential doubt.

Definitely came from there. It's just a little coward patch, nestled in the corner like it's hiding from you.

'Eschaton': you have no idea what the word means, but it lands with a pleasant heaviness.

A failure of imagination. You just feel left out. If anything, you sober up.

This is horrible. This just makes you want drugs even more.

You did, and it did. Does that mean...?

This checks out. PSEUDOPOD didn't look like he'd be popular with... anyone. A lead, at last!

You don't have conclusive proof he was not like that, at any rate.

Is that... arousal?

Your gag reflex activates. You puke into your mouth, swallow it, almost puke again.

Maybe you are a board narc?

All systems go down. A brief but total outage.

She's just playing hard to get.

You let him go. You let him go. You let him go.

You let him get away.

Circuits in your brain spark violently as they rebel against their own conclusions.

Some primal part of your brain rejects the information like a gag reflex.

Your gun suddenly feels heavy, or is it your hand that feels weak?

Playing dumb. Squeeze harder and he'll burst.

That's not a denial.

The Operant Bureau is plunging in the rankings with each passing moment. Relegation zone, coming up!

This is a reality television show. The plot is too complex -- the writers must be high on their own ad revenue cash.

Nice try. He doesn't realise that you know better than he does the fate of his body double.

406 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 8 of 9