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.

Checks