Easy · Perception ≥ 2
We really have no idea what they're talking about. There's no linkage between ideology and olfaction.
Motorics
Before thought effects; other dialogue conditions may apply.
703 · Voice lines
We really have no idea what they're talking about. There's no linkage between ideology and olfaction.
Again, no, it won't. Any olfactory response you perceive will be strictly psychosomatic.
What you're smelling is your own body odour, of course. Nothing a shower and change of clothes couldn't fix.
You inhale. The cilia along your olfactory epithelium tingle with excitement as they sift through the swirling morass of industrial odours...
First come the smells of the agitated strikebreakers, layers of body oil and sweat, over-buttered meals pulled from bakelite lunch pails, the biting stench of lye soap. And then there's the slowly oxidizing metal gates, the scent of stale grease emanating from every crack...
Even though the strikebreakers have departed for the night, their smell lingers, layers of body oil and sweat, over-buttered meals pulled from bakelite lunch pails, the biting stench of lye soap. And then there's the slowly oxidizing metal gates, the scent of stale grease emanating from every crack...
In a word, exactly what you would expect to find at any harbour in the industrialized world...
No, actually. In fact, you can't smell much of anything. Perhaps your allergies are acting up?
Heavy fuel oil, mostly. Because it's an industrial harbour.
Two voices, both male. Approximately early 20s.
Somehow the night air softens the smell of trash and sea brine. As the breeze pulls through the canvas like a shuttle through a loom you catch a hint of something unexpected, something earthy, warm, and burnt...
The voices are male, you think. Beyond that, you can't tell...
In the meantime, a small indigo flower begins to bloom just below his cheekbone.
Somehow it sounded even worse out loud.
You think you can hear a slight popping sound as he moves his mouth.
The first thing that strikes you is the overwhelming brine. You imagine yourself underwater, a hundred-legged arthropod scuttling along the murky silt at the bottom of the sea...
It smells like a pier, in other words. A completely ordinary pier, that provokes no ideological associations whatsoever.