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

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

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

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

Loaded. Fingering the safety latch.

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

Blood in his gums, too.

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

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

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

The entry wound glows warm, as though awakened.

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.

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

That's not liquor.

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

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.

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.

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

The couple's faces, although half-erased, radiate pride and awe.

The lettering on the man's t-shirt, although barely legible, reads: '¡TODOS SOMOS NESTOR!'

No planned space for greenery either. No building was ever finished other than the silo itself.

A giant coup for Nestor himself, framed as a major win for his people.

Six months later: The clearing of the Pitol Tract began. Over 20,000 residents were displaced, never to be relocated.

PORTOFIRO COULD HAVE SHARED IN THE PEOPLE'S GLORY, HAD NESTOR NOT SPREAD-EAGLED FOR FOREIGN BANKERS.

The slight smile in her eyes fades as she takes in the little card.

Could have been anyone who killed him, she means.

Alive, then. But in what condition?

Still, it sickens you. One of yours. One of yours.

Of course you were the best. She had nothing to compare you to.

You once heard an old hand say that the tortured walk their own province.

If Karolina managed not to give them anything then the Weeping Eye will have taken a lot in return.

She doesn't know what to say. She let Karolina down, too.

She hates agreeing with you.

You try to imagine the casual workplace conversation of human traffickers. You fail.

She purses her lips in distaste.

Her voice a low hiss.

The shadows under her eyes deepen. She swallows.

Voice hollow. She's not trying to insult you, just telling the truth.

Too harrowed by the memory to dismiss the compliment outright.

Her husband clears his throat.

Counting the days to early retirement, coasting comfortably towards irrelevance.

So Eszti knew the Eye had Karolina but didn't try to help, didn't even visit afterward.

It strikes you that you are both rearranging yourselves as strangers.

This old bitch will never be gäng again.

3,676 skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 71 of 74