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The eyes are pale blue, water under ice.

Somewhere behind. Focused on your back. Malice.

He sees through the disguise. Move!

They don't notice your approach.

As if waiting to be caught.

His hand hovers by her waist. He's about to make a move.

She always closes her eyes at this part.

Her stance changes, shoulders sagging. The serum taking hold.

She's trying to fight a smile, her cheeks keep twitching upward.

The palm push of surrender. She's done.

The movement conveys a desire to do the same in your eye.

You see panic recede from her eyes and realise -- she's afraid of you.

Emotions manifest oddly through the serum. She's terrified.

His face contorted in fury, caught mid-scream, disintegrating in strips of light.

He sounds weak, unnatural.

Dead, just hasn't noticed yet.

His future just fell away from him. He's lost in time.

She sounds hurt.

Realisation incoming.

On the brink of realisation...

KALEIDOSCOPE's lip curls, fighting the urge to argue.

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

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

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

He means this as a compliment.

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

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?

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

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

It's like he's not looking at you, but rather someone with your same name and face, standing in the exact same place.

'Nearly all of them'. Interesting.

The highest compliment he pays his guests.

The gesture is meant to drive home how limp these dicks are.

The television event of the year!

Expectant. He knows what you're about to say, of course, but you have to say it anyway.

A ceremonial gesture, and not only for the visuals.

Overheated gestures to match his rhetoric.

Someone is standing nearby, watching you.

A barely-perceptible edge to the way he says 'that name'.

A shopgirl nods her head, aware of nothing, lost in the same rock-and-roll dream she slips into every morning on her way into the city. A young boy, traveling with his mother, shifts nervously from one foot to another.

At the word 'Reunión', a number of necks stiffen. A man in a bucket hat casts a hateful look over his shoulder.

There's nothing more to say for them. They're just normal people, and not very interesting to you in the end.

Behind the man's gaze, the world turns against you.

811 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual