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.

That's not liquor.

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

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.

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.

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!'

A vision of a future stillborn.

You have stumbled upon a relic of Project AUTONOMÍA, Portofiro's defunct space program.

Big rocket go big boom-boom.

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

A few months, at most, after EMTERR offered Portofiro the chance to develop their own space program -- and the funds to do so.

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.

Had the launch been an official success, Portofiro would've become one of the big boys of the Developed World.

The sole members of the 'Post-Orbital Club'. High-status, high-funds.

Everyone else simply assumes they have one.

Stage separation events and plum signatures were observed fourteen times above Luzian airspace in the past decade alone.

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

Portofiro would've become one of the Big Boys of the Developed World.

For the people of Portofiro, the stars receded; austerity remained their orbit.

TRANSNATIONAL CAPITAL DOESN'T GET THE LAST LAUGH, IT GETS THE LAST INVOICE.

After the rocket exploded live on the world's television screens, Sweet Nestor made bold televised speeches blaming 'foreign hands'. By the time he boarded the helicopter that would ferry him to exile, he'd accused at least half the Developed World of engineering the disaster.

If the story were that simple, Hauzmann would have no interest in it.

If the story were that simple, the heartless man would have no interest in it.

Historical figures never live up to the tyranny of the mundane.

'Nestorismo' -- Nestor's personal brand of politics. Its meaning was whatever was most beneficial at any given moment.

Sweet Nestor, Portofiro's supreme leader from the years 28 to 80.

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

She rubs the card between her discerning thumb and forefinger.

Could have been anyone who killed him, she means.

Ribboned flesh, spots of white fat beneath the skin. A tuk-tuk horn blares outside.

You feel your lip twitch into a snarl.

Brrrr.

Yes she does.

That's a 'would'.

She's about to tell you something awful.

Checks