You return to the wasteland.

You return to the wasteland.

(Nod at the drawing.) "What's the story there?"

"Not my kid, before you get ideas. I locked down my own plumbing at twelve. Cauterised and triple-tied vas deferens. No one's trapping Gonza." He sniffs.

"Some junkie's spawn handed that abomination to me after I treated his mum. Zero talent." He scoffs at the drawing -- a two-headed horse labeled 'MR. GONZALO (NICE MAN)'.

"I think it's sweet."

"No, it's manipulative. The mum probably wrote that and shoved it into her kid's hands. Trying to guilt trip me into free drugs or a pay-check."

He's lying, maybe even to himself.

The mangled remains of an aborted paternal instinct have congregated around that two-headed horse like homeless men around a trash fire.

"Why keep it on your desk, then?"

"Makes the womenfolk trust me." He squints at you. "The non-barren ones, I mean."

"Kid seems bad at reading people too."

"Ah, he'll be fine. This city rewards poor judgment and colourful handwriting. I see a long, mediocre career in municipal law enforcement."

The mangled remains of an aborted paternal instinct have congregated around that two-headed horse like homeless men around a trash fire.

"What's with the loose syringes?"

"They're decorative."

"You, uh, collect envelopes or something?"

"That's how the Board gets you. Open a government's threat and it becomes a conversation. Keep those things sealed then you have their fear, bottled."

Bureaucratic object permanence. Out of sight, out of existence.

Bug his desk.

You are face to face across a desk from two of the widest, most derangedly awake eyes you've ever seen. Sleight of hand won't do it.

Instead of trying to hide yourself from him, make him blind to you.

He's just a nudge away at the best of times. Push him.

"I think medical accreditation is very important to maintain standards of care."

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, let me tell you something about medical accreditation..."

The veins in his eyes pre-pop in anticipation of what's about to happen.

"You're all the same, you sexless, doll-crotched envelope-lickers! You look human to the untrained eye but a true medical professional can see you for the fucking annelids you are! Leeches, leeches, I say!"

Heat emanates from Gonza as he works himself up into another rage. His eyes are staring dead at you and trembling, but they are no longer visual tools of any sort.

Check to make sure he can't see you.

You do a little wave in front of his face.

No reflexive blink or retinal follow.

For all neurological intents and purposes, he is deep in REM sleep, in the throes of an permanent nightmare.

"... responsible for the progressive idiotising of the world and the mass castration known as living in society! Well, not today, parasites!" You hear his shouts as though from a great distance.

Reach under the lamp and plant the cricket.

You peel the adhesive off the cricket's flat side and reach under the hood of Gonza's lamp, where the sticky patch quickly finds its purchase.

Somewhere in the background, Gonza's monologue continues, heedless of any audience but himself.

"...fucking moral high ground, as if their whole fucking industry wasn't built on human experimentation!"

Done. Once the good doctor calls someone, you'll be able to listen to the recordings with Ramses in his houseboat.

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

"... and for the record, the albino was going to die anyway!" He screams the final sentence and then stops abruptly, collapsing into a simmering silence.

Give it half a day before you check in with Ramses. Something will have been captured by then.

"You know, I bet you're not half the doctor Hugo is."

"Oh, you do, do you? Well, let me tell you something about half doctors..."

No need to make this complicated. One hand in your jacket pocket, you peel the adhesive off the cricket's flat side and reach under Gonza's desk, feeling for an adequate surface.

Bunched around the cricket, your fingers alight upon something -- unyielding, but uneven.

What is it?

"Look..." The disgraced doctor suddenly looks down and rubs the bridge of his nose.

"I'm flattered. But my second wife's having what can only be described as hormonally-augmented feelings about extramarital sex these days and, frankly, it's more grief than it's worth."

"Ugh!" (Pull away.)

You wrench your hand away violently, but too late to do anything about it, you realise it is empty.

The cricket did its job. The adhesive caught on the zipper-fold of the doctor's pants.

Fuck.

You've blown it. You'll need to try again when he isn't around.

He must close shop at some point. That'll be your chance to sneak in and do the job properly.

A little bit of breaking and entering never hurt anyone.

Despite being addled with enough drugs to kill a hippo, the doctor must sleep at some point.

Maybe it'll still do its job?

He'll probably find it the next time he goes to the bathroom and have an attack of paranoia so severe his eyes will explode.

"You have the wrong idea! I was only..."

"Victim of a sudden-onset deviant urge. Don't worry, you're preaching to the choir."

No, it needs to be flat so I can plant the cricket.

Look at the note with the phone numbers.

The shred of paper displays clear evidence of having been balled up in rage and then bitterly unfolded, but the numbers on it are still legible.

Memorise the numbers.

The digits are already commited to your memory.

You squint at the digits, trying to commit them to memory.

The sequence of the numbers is rhythmic, almost rhymed. You commit all three to memory and archive them away.

Two rows of hieroglyphics would have been easier to memorise. At least those have pictures.

They slip straight through your mind, unable to find any purchase.

Take the note.

"Wretch!" he shouts, slamming his hand on the note. "Keep your ass-picking hands to yourself."

It's no good trying to take it while he's right there.

"Eh-eh-eh!" He jumps to awareness as he sees your hand drift toward the numbers.

"Having bedded a few kleptomaniacs, I have sympathy but no patience for your kind. Hands off, sister."

Foiled. You should return when the office is empty.

Got it. (Go back.)

Your gaze drifts away from the note to the sad spectacle of the surrounding landscape.

Enough. [Leave.]

The doctor drums his fingers on the dirty desktop and stares bitterly into the middle distance.

You return to the wasteland, its solo inhabitant now there in body, if not in mind.

The site of some kind of humanitarian catastrophe, the surface of Gonza's desk is buried under unopened envelopes, pill bottles, loose syringes, and pens.

Atop the pile sits a child's drawing of a two-headed horse and a crumpled note with the phone numbers you noticed earlier. The doctor's twitching though watchful eye inspects you as you scan his mess.

A blighted rat guarding its bones.

Atop the pile sits a child's drawing of a two-headed horse and a crumpled note with a few scrawled phone numbers. The doctor's twitching though watchful eye inspects you as you scan his mess.

You return to the ruinous desk, its author and inhabitant now absent.

The phone and notepad lie before you, unguarded.

Tap Gonza's phone line.

With a pull, the aged plastic gives as you pop the housing on the phone. Inside: a terminal board, speaker coil, and copper wires.

No security seals. No surprises.

Attach the cricket to the line interface.

The cricket clips easily -- riding the line, unheard and unseen. With a gentle press on its back, it's activated -- the shell glows for a moment.

Seal it up.

You put the phone housing back in place -- a plastic snap, the faintest of hums. It is done.

Ramses said he'll need 'half a day' to capture anything significant.

Give it half a day before you check in with Ramses. Something will have been captured by then.

Now we'll see what really goes through Gonza's mind.

A sudden emanation of cold sweat answers the thought: bad idea.

Examine the notepad and numbers on it.

The paper displays clear evidence of having been balled up in rage and then painstakingly unfolded, but the numbers on it are still legible.

Two numbers -- quick to hand and scrawled in rage -- for people called frequently from in the depths of distress.

Memorise the numbers.

The digits are already commited to your memory.

You squint at the digits, trying to commit them to memory.

The sequence of the numbers is rhythmic, almost rhymed. You commit all three to memory and archive them away.

Two rows of hieroglyphics would have been easier to memorise. At least those have pictures.

They slip straight through your mind, unable to find any purchase.

Take the paper with the numbers.

You crumple up the note and pocket it.

Leave it behind.

The notepad remains where it is, among the ruins.

Look at the drawing.

A purple horse with two heads -- both smiling wide. Written in green crayon above the animal: "MR. GONZA (GOOD GUY)".

Crayon ground down, unsteady handwriting, two-headed creature as emotional proxy.

The author was five. Maybe six.

Pick up one of the formal-looking envelopes.

Thick paper. Government-grade. Embossed seal of Portofiro's Medical Board. Each envelope slit open with surgical precision.

He used a steak knife.

Read one of the letters.

A second and final warning for 'continued deviation from sanctioned neurological protocol', and the threat of an upcoming review.

You glance at the date. Six years ago.

He kept them all because he's proud.

Let the envelopes be. [Go back.]

You look around the chaotic desk.

Examine the syringes.

Three used, two capped. The glass barrels are etched with wear. Nestled close, a lighter and a metal spoon. All labelled the same...

'Midazolam + Oxcarbazepine'.

He's shooting his own mixes. Not recreational, not exactly. Self-testing.

Look inside the drawer.

The drawer slides open with a wheeze. Inside: A collection of branded pens. Scissors rusted at the joint. A pair of latex gloves, turned inside out, and a breath mint tin case.

Look at the pens.

A dozen or so pens, all from medical conventions -- some cracked, others with logos half-rubbed off. 'NeuroSurg '78 -- Precision is Power'. 'CortexCon '83 – Ethics in Electrochemistry'.

When's the most recent one?

"SomnoLoop 89 -- The Future of Sleep". Seven years ago.

Each pen a time capsule. A version of himself with cleaner hands and hope that already a near decade-long abyss separates him from.

Got it. (Go back.)

Your eyes skim over the debris like a plane over a warzone.

Pick up the breath mint case.

"Capitão Mints -- Strong enough to banish the deep!" The artwork: a triumphant mint in sailor boots delivering a left hook to a giant shrimp.

Shake the can.

A muted clink. The sound of something moving rather than jangling.

Help yourself to a mint.

A single black pill plops out.

Hand-pressed. Small-scale production if not outright clandestine. Composition: impossible to determine.

A LEADER SAVES THE LAST BULLET FOR HERSELF. OR THE FINAL PILL.

"Fuck it, I'm tired of living anyway." (Swallow the pill.)

A chemical bitterness unlike any you've tasted before blooms across your taste buds.

Death on your tongue. Seeping into the rest of you.

Swallow it.

The pill leaves a nauseatingly bitter streak down the back of your throat.

Like any good drug, a shadow of the full effects kicks in right away.

Shortness of breath. A sensation like the threat of a cramp around the muscles surrounding your chest.

What the fuck is happening to me?

You know exactly what is happening to you.

I suppose it's too late to back down now?

Most definitely.

Just below your ribcage, unknown muscles wrench and seize. A sun of agony illuminates your whole being.

You have just enough time, before it hits, to realise this is what going into cardiac arrest feels like.

There is no light, no tunnel, no flashback or DMT trip. This really was a stupid, stupid way to die.

"Hell yeah." (Strap in and ride it out.)

"This might have been a mistake."

"Well, it's been a pleasure."

You haven't tried this kind of drug before.

Let it melt on your tongue.

A black flower opens on your tongue. Soon sensation eclipses taste, and the bitterness gives way to a kind of corrosive numbness.

"Ugh!" Spit it out.

Even as you spit out the black mint you can feel your mouth begin to numb and stiffen some kind of muscular side-effect.

"Not for me, thanks." (Put the pill back.)

The 'mint' rattles back into the can.

How about an educated guess?

Doctors have access to everything, and there's nothing you would put past this one in particular. The possibilities are boundless.

"It goes against my religious beliefs to refuse free drugs." (Eat the pill.)

Licorice, maybe?

Put down the box.

Close the drawer. (Go back.)

The rest of the desk leans forward, expectant.

[Leave.]

You turn away from the ruins of Gonza's life and profession.

The phone lies before you, unguarded.

You return to the ruinous desk.

The site of some kind of humanitarian catastrophe, the surface of Gonza's desk is buried under unopened envelopes, pill bottles, loose syringes, and pens.