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789 checks

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'.

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.

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.

High pressure tries to expand from the direction of the Eastern Republics, but low pressure from the Noscorrentes region will continue to compete. Conditions likely to remain unsettled throughout the week, seek comfort in the familiar.

Only his left eye looks at you. The other one seems to have lost focus and is well off-target.

Alcohol on his breath.

A faded patch sewn into his pants, below the pocket. Twin black lines set against a yellow background -- Carriles de Portofiro, the oldest transit company in the city.

Look. Another bald spot bobs within your reach... this one even more pristine than the last.

He doesn't seem physically incapable of leaving, nor is he restrained.

A perfume of pollen, stale piss, and dead plant matter lingers.

A sudden cramp wracks your body as an electricity runs through it, but there was no current.

The crackling void is different from the last time you used this phone in some inexpressible way.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click down the line.

Maybe you imagine it. Maybe you heard it, infinitely faintly... a slight, barely perceptible, click.

Occurring at a perceptual level so low that it's hard to distinguish from things merely imagined, you hear a click somewhere down the line.

Somewhere within your third left intercostal space, the bullet by your heart makes its presence known with a nasty twinge.

You won't wake PSEUDOPOD, no matter how much you clang and curse around.

Strange smell about her. Chemical. You remember it from somewhere.

Interior temperature: 23.5 degrees. Humidity: 44%. Pleasant by objective standard.

Gripped tightly in her hand: a star-headed screwdriver.

She hesitates for a second.

'Sounds like a first stab'.

A ripple through your heart. She remembers.

Sounded like she really enjoyed saying 'fat sol stacks'. See if you can get her to say it again.

There is something incredibly satisfying about making that 'nom' sound. You should do it some more, just to see what happens.

789 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 16