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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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Skill checks - ZERO PARADES field manual - Page 187 of 197