Your ears thrum at the mention of generic brands.

A drug order -- no question. Dr. Hugo was right, this is the man you need to fix Ramses.

There. A direct line to his suppliers. If the good doctor won't sell, you'll have to go over his head.

At least two different colours and three different consistencies in there. That's not a drug, that's a cocktail.

That is... oddly satisfying.

Vicarious living achieved. You know you haven't ingested anything, but you are without a doubt a little high.

A failure of imagination. You just feel left out. If anything, you sober up.

This is horrible. This just makes you want drugs even more.

He'd happily sell drugs to you. He's just caught wind of an opportunity to get something out of you.

The implication is that you'll know it when you see it. Extremely ominous.

Two words: Lab Grade.

The seething -- it overrides any and all underlying emotions.

You can almost see the spine rip itself out the back of him and slither off.

This is the closest he's ever got to having respect for his former colleague.

A twitch under his eye. He masks it with anger but there is real upset there.

Squeeze him! Get the man-drama.

Enabling subconscious links between several participants, all wearing headsets. Very futuristic.

Smuggling the ethereal objects of the subconscious into the physical world.

A middle finger to natural law.

No hint of a smile with that one.

No one is safe from the threat of cold storage.

The freezer is broken, the meat is going bad. Dr. Gonza labours on in hot storage.

There's clearly history between the two doctors. Best guess is they used to work together -- that's your in.

Fists clenched, he adopts a strained position against the desk. Everything under his skin tightens.

Drug... pulsing... madness.

Filth soiled by cleanliness.

The implication is that you'll know it when you see it. Extremely ominous.

YES.

Your brain is constantly churning out natural neurochemicals, it is basically made of drugs. Who are you to say no?

Two words: Lab Grade.

He offers a limp salute and bows his head.

The obvious question -- can he be weaponised somehow?

That is definitely, 100% a real condition.

The sheer density of misinformation delivered here could power a propaganda network for years.

You have stepped through a portal to another time, where ailments are understood in terms of humours and bile of various colours, and the treatments prescribed can range from leeches to trepanation. All bets are off.

You did, and it did. Does that mean...?

Acid sildenafil.

Put it this way -- will it help? No. Will it make his condition any worse? Also probably not.

Unfortunately, in the midst of all his ramblings, he has discovered a point.

This checks out. PSEUDOPOD didn't look like he'd be popular with... anyone. A lead, at last!

PSEUDOPOD harboured a secret love for Luzian pop music? Seems unlikely.

HE STARTED DEFECTING THE MINUTE HE DONNED THE HEADPHONES.

Raw fear behind his eyes.

The Mycellial Controller.

He was a rule-follower, alright. It's written all over his face.

Evil.

Belonging to the order of things that should not exist.

You don't have conclusive proof he was not like that, at any rate.

Better known as 'playing dead' -- widely observed in the animal kingdom, unheard of in humans.

If true, this would be an invaluable skill for an operant to master.

Lopsided, only one half of his mouth lifts to bare his teeth in the sinister smile he gives you.

'It takes one to know one', his expression says.

Like watching flies bounce off a pane of glass.

Take it from somebody who shoots his conscience with a designer drug-loaded dart every time it so much as stirs.

Once you've learned to enjoy your own horror, the world is a different kind of oyster.

Rendering the patient almost vegetative. No neurological activity means no seizure.

You heard him talking to his suppliers. You need to find a way to get through to them directly.

Another pair of ears is what you need. Panopticon hearing to know what he says when he thinks no one is present.

Surveillance master, wiretapper extraordinaire, a man capable of planting an invisible bug on a moving tuk-tuk.

There's no best time to bug a place. If you can do it then and there, do so.

He knows full well you wouldn't be here that were an option.

He has access, that much is clear. But he's a middle man, not the supplier.

You heard him talking to his suppliers. You'd be better off trying to get through to them directly.

He will talk to his suppliers at some point. You just need to be there when he does.

Must be some kind of mystical euphemism.

The false death sentence -- a classic form of psychological torture. Even if administered by mistake, it wreaks havoc on the ego.

The child trembles in his ice bath. He can't tell the shivers of cold from those of fever, nor the numerous unknown words in the book from the gibberings of his delirium, but he sits there and trembles and holds the matico leaves to his brow.

He works himself up into a bout of romantic fervour with practiced ease.

Going too fast to stop himself right away.

Gasping afterward like a drowning man emerging for air.

Fresh blood vessels pop in his eyes.

Psychic salivary glands water at the prospect of unknown neurological fun right at the edges of lethal.

A deranged connoisseur, lost at the outer edges of human pleasure.

A little prejudice builds rapport faster than truth.

Coincides with the information on file: the Azzurri mob has recently become the regional power on all things illegal in Portofiro.

Not questioning its provenance, or what it might contain -- good.

Ramses told you he'll need 'around half a day' to capture anything significant.

Something childlike and almost innocent enters his tone and gaze.

Not questioning its provenance, or what it might contain -- good.

Ramses told you he'll need 'around half a day' to capture anything significant.

Whatever this insane bastard is on promises to be good.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

Whatever this insane bastard is on promises to be good.

It's not the drugs. This man was born high.

Jaw jutting out, eyes wild, he's putting himself forward as a candidate.

All roads, it seems, lead back to Goat Eyes.

You have your contact. Now to procure the weapon -- a real weapon.

A glimmer of having broken through some protective mental barrier within the psyche.

Before he was insane, but sure of himself. Now he's in uncharted territory even by his own measurement.

Not your best work if even he can detect your stagecraft. Better try to remove his suspicions.

A small measure of doubt, a hefty dose of fear. You're safe to proceed, for now.

A labcoat splattered with blood both new and old.

Loaded. Fingering the safety latch.

Fresh veins pop in his red eyes. You can almost see the neurons shorting.

The way he stares into your eyes-- scrutinizing them for evience of horrors witnessed.

Blood in his gums, too.

Definitely arousal.

Is that... arousal?

Oh, yeah. Feel that heft. This prybar's pried some shit.

There's got to be some other way to assuage his paranoia than assaulting an actual child.

Socially engineer him. The frayed wiring of his mind is all but exposed, surely you can tinker with it.

Get on his level.

modifier +1

He's been waiting his entire life to hear your words.

The entry wound glows warm, as though awakened.

A relic from the military coup in Mircea.

He's far gone. And if he was faking it to begin with, he's long forgotten it.

Communication has been established between the doctor and something within you, real or imagined, and there is nothing you can do about it.

No hesitation. No stutter. Entrusted to the dieties of the wound.

You feel the doctor's stare on you, a ray of judgement and condescension.

FUCK.

That's not liquor.

Your gag reflex activates. You puke into your mouth, swallow it, almost puke again.

A deranged connoisseur, lost at the outer edges of human pleasure.

Please, no.

The second time is, somehow, worse than the first.

Maybe you are a board narc?

He's been waiting for this moment.

This is right up his alley. Sadly, he's too paranoid to even listen to you.

Presumably for the benefit of the wire you're not wearing.

In this context, 'jealousy' translates to gross violations of medical and or human decency.

OUR AGRARIAN UTOPIA WILL HAVE NO NEED OF DOCTORS -- LET HIM SELF-PURGE.

A doctor with loose morals is a useful contact to have -- if you can get him to talk to you without threatening suicide, that is.

Definitely real.

Coiled. Fingering the safety latch.

A noose around his neck. A labcoat splattered with blood both new and old.

Pupils track you like a cornered animal trying to recognise the butcher.

His left foot twitches in anticipation of the jump.

Description matches the fidgety teenage boy spoken to outside. Emphatically not an asset of any sort.