The totality of facts about the world. Episodic memory, training, and education. The past in the present.
- Faculty
- Intellect
- Limit
- DELDelirium
- skill checks
- 558
- Flows
- 233
- Loudest around
- You 12
- Gear
- Black Rim Eyeglasses +1Black Rim EyeglassesClothing
The world bulges under the magnifying glass effect of these thick prescription glasses.The old man they belonged to will be helpless without them, while he remains alive.Colourbloc Jacket +1Colourbloc Jacket₽ 60 · Clothing
A stylish blazer just on the safe side of avant-garde. Vaquero Boots +1Vaquero Boots₽ 18 · Clothing
Once used for hard labour, these boots found new life in strutting, starring in many 'sorry-about-last-night' nights. Ignatz's Camera +1Ignatz's CameraTools
High-grade Luzian tech. Pelota Hat -1Pelota HatClothing
Makes your head look like a giant pelota ball. Pink Round Sunnies -1Pink Round SunniesClothing
The proverbial 'rose-coloured glasses', for looking out at an eternally candy-coloured world.Star Worshipper Glasses +1Star Worshipper GlassesClothing
When you look at the sky through these, you almost think you might be able to remember the names of all 93 constellations.Shaggy Wig & False Beard -1Shaggy Wig & False BeardClothing
Meant to evoke wisdom and rugged masculinity. Space Program Track Top +1Space Program Track Top₽ 25 · Clothing
Violent red polyester, bright as a fireball. Velvet Jumpsuit -1Velvet Jumpsuit₽ 50 · Clothing
Covered from ankle to chest in a warm layer of individual microthreads, wearing this feels vaguely like being licked by some immense, soft creature.Limpador Boots +2Limpador BootsClothing
Rubberised, thigh-high protection -- standard among Portofiran cleaning crews.
Conditioning
Difficulty ladder
558Case files
Status effects touching this skill
Voices in
233"Wow... an actual liquidity mage..."
"Goodbye."
The abandoned cardboard moving boxes remain in the corner of the little apartment.
"Here again."
You have already engaged in model train repair and improvised weapon manufacture here. There is nothing else to do at the workbench.
"It's cold out here." The girl rolls her shoulders and lightly stamps a foot.
"Hello, lapinette."
"Hi again. Still not leaving yet, sorry." She puffs on her pipe.
"..." His idiotic expression remains unchanged.
"You. Again." The tapping begins.
You loom once more over the shrine and its congregation of frames.
The ration pack crinkles as you turn it over.
"CASCADE." The barest of nods. "I've been playing 'I Spy' relentlessly with myself to pass the time. Pretty even as things stand, but I'm…
You return to the postbox.
"My agent of fortune returns. Happy Dante."
Tiny figures jog across the screen, lobbing the hard pelota ball back and forth.
You were standing here at a house party when you saw the unmistakable bulk of Tempo del Sur clambering over the rooftops towards you.
The one personal touch in the otherwise sterile, bland clinic, the wall has been decorated with photographs, documents, evidence of Dr.…
The pink paper tab is no bigger than a fingernail. One side is decorated with a simple illustration of a cockerel.
A sheet of thick paper lies on the floor, folded in half and partially covered by shadow.
"Dull the blade, and unsteady the hand. The great CASCADE makes her appearance at last."
The chair waits before you, sagging and forlorn.
"Anything interesting in the shack back there?" He smiles at you.
Whatever light that's slipped in from above has nearly drained away.
PSEUDOPOD shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the boatman.
The stereo is right where you left it.
The weight of the thesis threatens to strain your hand muscles.
You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.
"Hello again."
You return to the shrine under the stairs.
"Back again, are we?"
"How goes it, H?"
Three posters stare back at you from the wall. A watchful triad, ready to creep into your midnight's hour.
A cosmonaut suit, a relic of Project AUTONOMÍA. Its shoulder patch reads, 'The Stars Are Ours, 77'.
The satchel by the door is empty, but the rain boots haven't moved.
The door looms before you once more.
Looking out over the main hall, you try to imagine what it would have looked like thirty-six years ago.
The novel lies where you left it, gathering expensive dust -- 'Blood Type: Hecatomb' by H. S. Lastra.
"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."
There they all are, just as you left them.
One more phone, one more voice.
Light refracts within your cornea; you are someone else, somewhere else.
"Operant."
The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.
"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."
The mould's tendrils rise gently as you approach.
M.I.H.O.'s report on inter-matter phasing is still there, and still tempting.
"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…
You return to the faded billboard.
"Back again."