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823 checks

Dark firelights and digital snow dance behind your eyelids. Within your breast, a thrum stirs stray metal -- a deep bassline, plucking strings of pectoral muscle.

Faintly, a round of offended cooing from the rafters.

Your own breath. Loud in your ears, uneven.

Thump, thump, thump -- your arteries, or a bassline? It's hard to tell the difference, but something thrums through your body, a vibration from deep within the walls.

You can't hear a thing.

Under your fingertips, cellophane wrapping gives way to cardstock.

A seagull shits nearby, white splatter across cement.

But no. Your friend is dead, and you're standing here like a pillock, burning your lungs on a soggy cigarette.

The smell of Luzian tobacco wafts up your nose.

The smell of cola floats through the open crack in the window. A passing aero-tram hums above, unseen.

The bullet nuzzles your aorta. Your heartbeat flutters.

Taste: Woody, bland. The laser printing gives a slight tang.

It is back to being a regular chair, with no hint of the existential terror it once supported.

Taste: Sharp, almost acidic. Unusual paper type, probably very bad for you to consume.

A smell of fresh plastic and aluminium coating, still contained within the transparent hemisphere, rises to your nostrils.

Etched jaggedly into the plastic: 'FUK MUSIC'.

You see the glint of a silver medallion around her neck as she moves to give you a view of the selection behind the bar.

Notes of industrial turpentine and sour pear.

Somewhat bland. Not recently brewed. Overall: serviceable.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

Room temperature, slight chlorine aftertaste, persistent.

Walls covered in stains and memorabilia. Scuffed wooden floorboards smelling of spilled drinks.

Fresh soap smell mixed with the sweetness of sticky malt, the sharp tang of alcohol.

For the first time, you notice a faint scar on her cheek.

Above her, the small mounted television fizzes with the tinny shouts of a pelota match.

Stirring just a little at your touch.

Rising and contracting gently with the long breaths of sleep.

Distantly, as if echoed through many floors of concrete, you hear him.

'Luz, Luz, Luz'.

Uh, you got distracted by your own eyes looking back at you. Probably trying to tell you that this guy is blatant goon.

You can smell the chemicals in that water from here. You'll have to find a way to drain it.

Noise is carried on the wind towards you. Sounds like someone kicking open a tomb and cannibalising the dead.

The water is an unnatural red-brown colour and smells faintly of sewage.

Your fingertips crawl with sensation, craving the flaky scalp.

Old technology is one of the few places the past can still be touched.

The disc blooms like ruby flowers in the reflection of his lenses.

A familiar dolphin logo on his shirt, peeking out above his arm.

A familiar dolphin logo on his shirt, peeking out above his arm.

One props up a sign which says: 'INTERNATIONAL PARTY CONFERENCE PARTY 66'.

You hear faint snatches of what sounds like humming, gone before you can focus.

Make out what they're saying.

It probably sounds a lot more impressive on an actual drum.

A hot fragrance of mango and mountain grass blooms through your air canals.

The soft, airy fur seems to defy gravity.

Face: wholly unfamiliar.

In one, human forms emerge from the black depths of a dilated pupil. In another a man stands naked facing a guerilla batallion, his hand upraised pointing at the sky.

Paper ages quickly exposed to the greasy, moist air around the docks. This hasn't been out here for more than a week.

The sound reminds you of a die.

823 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 17