Medium · Interfacing ≥ 4
The actual moment of contact is ever-so-slightly disappointing, as the feeling is dulled by the yellow latex shell that contains your hand.
Motorics
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
474 · Voice lines
The actual moment of contact is ever-so-slightly disappointing, as the feeling is dulled by the yellow latex shell that contains your hand.
At the moment of contact you feel the wool of your fingerless gloves entangling with the wiry hairs of the young man's beard. His eyes are wide as a pair of old silver coins.
At the moment of contact you're reminded of a fight you once witnessed between two homeless men in an alleyway. Could it be that you've set out to recreate that moment now, right down to the smelly fingerless gloves?
You've got this. Theories aside, they're only matchboxes.
You feel a bright pain as your bare knuckle collides with the young man's oddly prominent cheekbone. At the moment of contact his eyes are wide as old silver coins.
It's almost as though they were trying to create the most unstable structure they could...
Of course, the matchboxes! You'd very nearly forgotten to ask about them. Now may be your last chance...
They're watching those matchboxes awfully intently for two guys who are just 'messing around.'
That may be true of your casual, factory-issue TipTopper, but you're a genuine torque dork. You practically live for the wail of those superchargers!
Completely backwards. You think with your hands, always have.
Something about that tower looks awfully familiar. Could it be that's what the students were trying to recreate with the matchboxes?
The signals are getting increasingly mixed. Plucking Archer's signal from this will be like isolating a single strand from a tangle of hair...
You allow the broken hunk of metal to clatter to the ground. It wasn't clear to you it did anything anyway...
The signal is clear, the storm has passed. This is another voice, a live voice, on the other end of this invisible bridge you've established...
She must have cleared the connection a few seconds early...
Your grip is firm, yet controlled. The swelling in your headset guides your hands as much as your hands guide the bronze horse head. It's almost like you're hearing through the horse itself...
You allow the broken hunk of metal to clatter to the ground. It wasn't clear to you it did anything anyway...
Such busy fingers. Each ticket written by hand, ripped from the pad, then pressed against the metal until stuck.