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Trying to shrug off the shrill taunts, kicks against toilet stall doors and scribbled lines on cracked walls that take root as undeniable truth.

Argument is futile, and you know it. Teenage girls are the unacknowledged legislators of reality.

Finally, she thinks. A part of her was desperately waiting for you to put this together.

The plea is subtle, but present. Her head is barely held above the waterline.

You get the distinct sense she's about to confide something to you. But at the cusp, she retracts the words and puts others in their place.

The boy in the scarf. This girl is his tormentor -- and also his first love.

A close companion, from her expression.

Every time. Rain-smeared missing posters taped to the streetlamps of your life.

Culture then cash. Tempo to a tee.

You can hear her silence: 'Don't Trust You With The Big Stuff Yet Fuck Off'.

Real now -- once and for all.

Delusional but dedicated.

He is exactly like you.

You're going to spend the final hour talking to a walking lobotomy?

No thoughts, no fear, no desire. Only pure, drooling immediacy.

He's just too stunned with gratitude to respond.

He clearly agrees. He's just intimidated by your stature or you'd be rubbing your thighs together right now.

Pure heartbreak. Look at his face. Look what you've done.

You know the answer.

So lost that the idea of a connection, no matter with whom, far outweighs the loss itself.

A strange look passes across his face, followed by laughter.

You could suggest anything, he doesn't care as long as he's invited.

By 'here' he means 'the world'.

You really should have more faith in yourself.

Now it's just a matter of working up the guts to knock on her door.

Eszti keeps a special mental calendar marked 'Critical Phone Call from Hershel?'. The calendar has been counting for five years.

No need to stress, she's almost definitely forgotten about that phonecall you promised her.

Grazed a nerve. The 'interrogatrix' doesn't care to be 'lame'.

It doesn't matter. Her name is the conjuring magic. The name alone is enough to hold on to.

Strange question...

"We should get a drink after this."

You can do it, CASCADE!, he says with his eyes.

All the same you feel there's a two-way mirror, and on the other side, a row of blank faces sitting in judgement.

Thoughts of Tempo flash through your mind.

The word 'LEAD' burns itself into the centre of your visual field.

This is not a real order. It's a sympathy order. He obviously made an impression on the old woman.

This is not a real order. It's a sympathy order. He obviously made an impression on this Carmuna.

This detail strikes you as very sad.

There's a procedure your controllers taught you for situations like this, but all you can focus on is his face.

Somehow, he looks more forgotten than when you first found him.

Not wanting to stain it with his soiled fingers.

But at what cost? To become the high arbiter of Human Capital, you no doubt have to trade in some of your own.

He took it because it meant something to him.

This woman, whoever she is, clearly means the world to him. Probably part of the reason you've found him how you've found him.

You're getting some great people management tips here.

Human capital deep in the red.

A tightly-bound profiteering brotherhood beyond the comprehension of lower classes.

Agony breaks the surface. This man is an alcoholic, recently shoved off the wagon.

Half of him half believes it.

1,054 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 9 of 22