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Your friends are fighting for their lives.

Trust them to the angels for now.

The photograph of you and your Crew flashes against your mind.

A single tear of blood as the metal ricochets around his skull.

He falls like he's praying.

A single tear of blood as the metal ricochets around his skull.

He falls like he's praying.

Your shitty homemade gun jammed!

Karolina's curse.

You're seconds away from getting shot.

Right in the photographs he keeps beside his heart.

You feel all her focus on you, the point of a knife.

He means this as a compliment.

GOOD MUNICIPAL BEATS.

Darkness, thunder crack, torchlight illuminating his face.

Of course there are. Show the machines and their OSTs some respect.

Blood Golem are before her time. But not Tempo's.

Blue heat, shaking in the boundless dark. The edges turn purple, widen. A moment of shivering anticipation before the soundless boom. Another dead star.

Your muscles slacken, weighed down by a mounting force.

Eyes closed, chin raised. Head tilted towards the jukebox. Waiting for her voice.

His glasses slip down his nose. He's trying to fight it. He can't.

You have a screwdriver. Hack and customise your hearing feature.

The girl by the window is wearing headphones. You could swipe them from her.

Or listen with him. You'll die, but you will know.

Emptiness in stereo.

And never will again.

What would they notice? Another unremarkable tram, making its daily commute? Or might they sense, on some cardinal level, the contamination you've untethered, the frightful hazard more primitive nations would have marked with rings of salt and paper seals?

It makes you homesick.

For a place you'll never know.

He's singing along, even though he's never heard it before.

You lose something, too.

Where are we off to?

Crushed between two walls, even in her last moments.

Your heart cracks. For your new friend and the old one within her.

His muffled voice is light, higher than such a large man should be able to produce.

Gears and wheels. Tiny atomic cogs. You're going to slip between them.

A loose bolt whines on the hull of a submarine, L-45 Class. Bioluminescent monsters swarm toward the sound, a flashing stream of wet greed.

You tell her... all will be forgiven!

Just might hurt a little.

Her eyes are a deep, layered brown.

Like she's waiting for you to ask a favour.

Consumer earpiece quality. Suboptimal, though it'll still work. Probably. Might goo you up a bit.

This is enough. We can tank the rest.

A baby's handprint, sticky and clear over a thatch of dirt.

Her mother kept pointing to the birds which circled below, then the valley beneath the cloud. But the little girl was only interested in looking up.

"You are a void... At least in my own darkness I can dream..."

You lose something, too.

9,179 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 8 of 184