A Fiend in the Flesh (V:tM Berlin, Strawbs' / Erich's IC Prelude)

[Worlok]

Ch. 0.1 a - A Fiend in the Flesh


In which life's vicissitudes will be capitalised (upon)

The storm had been brewing for days, then finally broken by five in the afternoon and, come sundown that same evening, already simmered down to just above a miserable drizzle, its wrath ultimately abating just in time for the capital to be swept up in the usual pandemonium of any regular Friday night. Leaving his Neukoelln home at eight, a young plastic surgeon was welcomed outside by the smell of rainwashed air, the far rumble of traffic and the sight of those laughing, cheering, talking or arguing figures who, alone or in small groups, had set about their usual processions for the hotspots of the town, indicated even now by trails of light above the skyline: Berlin's myriad lanterns, nightclubs and ads that collectively held back the already-rising dark. There were those who said that some cities never slept, and while that much was evidently true for certain neighborhoods of this one, the particular area he'd made his own of residence seemed to appreciate a good night's rest as much as the next Freiberg back-alley. Ironic, then, that he so rarely had occasion to enjoy one, nowadays. More so, perhaps, that his goal, as opposed to most of his fellow sunset commuters, would have to be work, not play.

For the club- and partygoers who were only now arriving from all their remote native corners of the Federal Republic and abroad - or, of course, emerging from their inner-city homes in which they, for whatever reason, seemed to hole up by the day, perhaps in preparation for their workaday nocturnes, to flood the streets and the underground rail in undreamt-of numbers once the day had passed - the omnipresent iron pulse of the metropolis foretold a weekend of excesses, of indulgences and snap decisions whose results would likely haunt the ones unfortunate enough to actually remember them for years to come, and yet the riptide of faces and cars never seemed to diminish in numbers or scale.

To some, this meant a source of constant embarrassment - as is the case at all times, in all places where generations met and disagreed, of course - and a sure portent of society's decline.

To others, it meant just another opportunity, or rather a whole crowd of opportunities, eager and gullible flesh to be conned, exploited, violated and stolen from to one's heart's content.

To Erich Schneider, it just meant some extra hours filled with the mewling, thrashing and bleeding results of all such depredations - and to the hardened souls that made up the majority of his colleagues (and especially of his superiors) at the ER, it being Friday simply meant that they had to prepare for some more drug abuse, some more violent crime and maybe a little less in the way of freak workplace accidents than might have been considered the "usual" on any other day of the week (and some liked to say as much as that first part, adding that they were "not even counting the patients, here" with that certain, utterly straight face known only in scathing sarcasm)...

Among his peers, Schneider stood out for his sheer, unperturbed enthusiasm, for the diligence, even eagerness, with which he seemed to selflessly meet all the horrors his way sent (and, speaking of horrors, he might in fact have gotten the impression once or twice that at some point, somebody had avowed themselves to breaking this green upstart yet, for slowly but surely the emergencies he'd be asked or ordered to "attend" had gradually become that much more unusual, that much more complicated and that much more gruesome overall - the one of the elderly man whose jawline had effectively been pulverised after the jackhammer that he manned for a living had inadvertently had a key part fly off being the most recent in his memory) and for yet another trait that wasn't quite as common as one may have hoped in those with all their sights set on the medical profession: his intelligence (and corresponding competence).

Rumor had it that all of those elements had already drawn some well-intentioned interest in the upper echelons of Charité staff - surprising after his brief time spent working there.

Personal experience, on the other hand, seemed to suggest that the opposite was also true on the other end of the hierarchy - possibly less surprising, given how there wasn't a whole lot of things other than professional envy with which a mediocre med student might have regarded such a natural.

Passing the employees' parking lot, Erich thus became vaguely aware of a number of semi-familiar faces, mostly young interns (who gave no sign of recognition, nor of intending to talk to him, nor in fact of wanting to be seen out here at all), gathered around a trashcan for a rare on-duty smoke break, which would have suggested a slow night as such things went - but this was crassly contradicted by the familiar routine of insanity that was raging, even now, immediately behind the main entrance. The emergency ward, true to its name, was supposed to be cases of great severity only, but would at all times draw that numberless host of pretenders, whiners and hypochondriacs so shamefully endemic to too many First-World healthcare scenes, every last one of their number feeling more than a bit entitled to having their six-day-itches, oddly poke-resistant pimples and - the horror! - recently stubbed toes checked out, over the next guy's heart attack if necessary. These folks were the ones now besieging the reception desk, the lobby and even some of the staircases with a ferocity normally seen only in last-minute discount sales or war movies.

At any rate, Erich was pretty much immediately approached by the receptionist (one Mr Lutz, a notoriously talky, chronic extrovert who, so the rumor went, had been tasked with receiving late "customers" to ensure the ER only got real emergencies, for nobody not truly desperate could conceivably have been able or willing to stand his utter disregard for the personal space of others for any length of time - it evidently hadn't worked tonight, or been dispelled by the short absence he was now apparently returning from) and told, in uncharacteristic brevity: "Schneider, downstairs! ER! You're with Eiserner's team the night. As swiftly as possibly please, and nice to se-" before the crowd of shouting and complaining penitents that seemed to outright occupy this first part of the building seemed to simply swallow his slender form up (only for it to then re-emerge, in visible agitation and with his glasses suddenly crooked, on the other side of the chaos and claw his way through to his workstation, where he could then be heard trying to get the crowd to line up in an orderly fashion and wait for their names to be called, just as some of his less well-behaved adressees took to wholly different kinds of name-calling).

And while this scene, of course, might have explained just why the interns outside made it a point to be as clandestine as possible about their temporary lapse in work ethic, the brief and one-sided exchange had still left potential questions unanswered - namely, "Where in ER, exactly?", for the place was large, and "Who's Eiserner?", for the name just would not, by any stretch of his memory, ring the proverbial bell. But then Lutz didn't look as if he would be willing - or able, really - to divulge more information, struggling as he was to convince a six-foot-tall biker type with no evident malady that no matter how much his earlobe twitched, he'd have to sit down and wait for a doctor to find the time (another sad reality of German hospital life at the time was the crowdedness of these places, with so many of their number having gone privately-owned and promptly taken a nosedive recently that even the usual nighttime crowd finally managed to slow the proceedings notably). But even so, Erich wasn't so new at this job that he wouldn't be able to navigate a few hospital hallways, right?




You're Erich Schneider, weathering another regular Friday night at the Charité(oD), it's all just lousy with would-be emergencies and lazy interns, and I'm having way too much fun detailing gruesome particulars about vaquely repulsive workplace conditions. What do you do?

(With that, welcome to your IC, and I'll be back tomorrow :smallbiggrin:)

[Strawberries]

Erich had gone to sleep at exactly two pm, after a ten hour shift in Surgery, and gotten up five hours later feeling, if not particularly rested, at least vaguely human again, and with an hour to spare to get himself to work. As much as he enjoyed his work, he couldn't help but question the wisdom of whoever decided that it was a good idea to assign shifts so close together, and on a Friday night nonetheless. Amongst other things, Friday means car crashes, which mean long hours in the operation theatre. Luckily, like more or less all doctors, Erich has developed an uncanny ability to remain lucid even when overworked and with way too little sleep. A good help comes also from the two cups of black coffee that he has downed just before he left home, purposely choosing to not remember the effect that too much caffeine has on the organism.

He addresses a brief greeting to the interns assembled in the car park, who are apparently purposely choosing not to remember the effect of tobacco smoke on the organism (selective memory being, apparently, very widespread in the medical profession). He gets the feeling most of them don't like him very much, but then again, that's nothing new. As the one with top marks in school and that had come out first in almost all his university courses, he's quite used to be not particularly liked.

The chaos inside is something he's gotten used to quite quickly as well. "Wh..." he starts to ask the question, but he immediately realised that no answer would be forthcoming. His teachers always said he was a smart boy "Right away. Good evening." he says instead, looking around with a vaguely guilty expression, hoping nobody realised that he's actually one of the doctors. Helping people is his job and his vocation, but he can do it way more efficiently if he gets himself quickly to his intended post instead of being swamped by people demanding to be seen right away. With that in mind, he makes his way towards the stairs, with the intention to go and get changed. With some luck there'll be someone there that can tell him who Eiserner is and where he is supposed to be

[Worlok]

Making his way upstairs, Erich encountered only few people - the odd intern hurrying somewhere, a few of the livelier long-term patients out and about for some reason or other, nothing all that far out of the ordinary. The same was true of the changing room, in that it held a lot of hung coats and no people - except for some guy, a fellow intern whom he had seen before, but not, to recollection, spoken with so far: Strangely long-haired and unkempt-looking for someone who regularly messed about with people's inner workings, the young man was currently busy holding an icebag over his left eye (the one with which he would have been looking at the door if it had not been for said icebag), rummaging about in a brown jacket that was hopefully his own with his free hand and muttering what definitely sounded like a long string of complaints subduedly and in some unfamiliar language as he went (though then it could, of course, be argued that regardless of language used, the muttered complaints of someone increasingly frustrated by a fruitless search for something particular were universally understandable).

Only when Erich reached for a coathanger himself did the stranger startle out of his concentration, locating and looking at Erich, than at the door, appearing tired and slightly startled as he switched over to a slightly dodgy German: "What the- how long you been here?" There was an inexplicable note of hostility there, but one that might as well have been explained by a long, stressful day at work - and that it had to have been, apparently, for the front-side of the stranger's working attire was positively drenched in blood (and maybe some other, even less savory liquids of one kind or another).

What even that didn't quite explain, though, was the way he'd pronounced that 'you'; that familiarity and sense of somehow having missed something important were... unusual, to say the least.

[Strawberries]

Erich raises his hands up in a placating gesture "Only just got here, I'm on the night. I was trying to figure out who Eiserner is supposed to be." he answers with a shrug, while the real thing he'd like to say is Bloody hell, didn't anybody tell you not to carry biological hazards around like that? So much for sterile environments and not carrying pathogens around, it seems.

He finishes hanging his coat and compromises with "You should really get those scrubs changed, you'll end up scaring some patients. And what happened to your eye?"

[Worlok]

The unshaven fellow seemed unusually confused by someone sounding vaguely like they cared. Adjusting his grip on the icebag for emphasis as he stepped away from the jacket and properly turned toward Erich, his account was brief, but certainly less hostile than the first few moments of this short exchange - although he soundly ignored the comment concerning his need for a change of clothes:

Apparently, this guy had similarly been assigned to the team around this most elusive Dr Eiserner when an ambulance had delivered a girl with a footlong of iron run cleanly through her forehead (without actually looking to have damaged a whole lot of what lay inside, remarkably), a number of friends of hers having followed the car to demand entrance to the operative theatre, and heroically gone down fighting once more diplomatic attempts to dissuade said friends from doing so (as there apparently had been a lot of them, obvious chemheads coming from god-knows-where, ripped like bodybuilders and armed to the teeth - to hear long-hair here tell it, at any rate) had proven fruit- and hopeless before long.

As for Eiserner - technically, so the legend went, some sort of retiree from the medical profession who had somehow managed to convince the hospital officials to keep him on as a sort of "leading volunteer" when he had gotten bored of the good life at home - he'd just show up every so often, almost always on a Friday evening, promptly hog most of the really unusual cases or simply redistribute them as he saw fit by usurping effective control over the ER, and generally act a whole lot like he basically owned the place. Given the man's - grudgingly admitted even by long-hair - undeniable competence and stellar track record, the actual officials hadn't really seen fit to end his irregularly asserted reign so far, but long-hair sounded like the interns who did know him would not really be all that sad to see him go.

As for the remainder of the intern's working day, a few of his (and thus also Erich's) sturdier workmates had ultimately deigned to intervene on their colleague's behalf; he'd then gotten away from the commotion and was now on a desperate search for his car keys, for he had gotten the night off; quoting this most talented Dr Eiserner, air-quotes and frivolous voice-imitation included, he (and only at this point did "long-hair" finally think of introducing himself; "Waldemar, by the way, Waldemar Wowk and don't you laugh at that", sadly without air-quotes for a spell) would be "temporarily replaced" by a certain someone who had shown no small amount of promise with regards to the field of craniofacial surgery, specifically, as well as happening to be on his regular shift tonight, anyhow.

A someone who, as Waldemar only then seemed to realise, would have to be the guy now stood in front of him; "So, yeah, basically guess you should hurry. She looks less bad than I and they will really only have her properly sedated up to now, but better get there till her chemhead friends recover." All of this really only meant two things: Tonight was one of those nights, with total chaos the default state at the Charité, and regardless of this case not being mutual, Dr Eiserner was likely perfectly aware who Erich Schneider was, to the point of appropriating his shift detail. Waldemar, for his part, then proceeded to blurt out the relevant directions and made to resume searching pockets, icebag still firmly pressed to his eye, stopping only just once to add: "Though them's why I wouldn't mind scaring some patients off, if you are catching drift?"

[Strawberries]

Erich has spent the majority of the tale getting out of his normal clothes and in the trousers and short sleeved shirt that is the standard uniform under the surgical scrubs, and occasionally interjecting with comments of profound depth and meaning like "Really? Ouch!". Not that the guy seemed to need anything more to keep talking.

He's pretty grateful he's not being idle when Waldemar finally finishes, and he realises he's likely already late and that there is a patient that is likely being carried in the operation theatre right now. "Oh, er... thanks for the directions, I hope you find your keys." he says, hastily shoving all his clothes in his locker and rushing to the door "And, it's Shneider, by the way. Erich. Plesure to have met you" He tosses from over his shoulder as he's already halfway out of the door and down the corridor.

[Worlok]

"Pleasure it's all mine," Erich heard as he left, and once halfway around the corner, the last thing he heard of Waldemar Wowk was a shouted "Is! Is all mine!", followed by a mumbling that might have been "But it is still all mine, anyway... there we go!" and the soft, subdued clatter of several small metal objects - the intern's keys, presumably.

In some fashion or other, the Charité had constituted something of a beacon in the darkness of three centuries. Conceptualised at the command of the first Prussian king to stem the plague that then threatened to spill forth from the East (by isolating sufferers completely from the outside world and then providing what would never be recovery from what had, at the time, been thought to be an utterly incurable disease), the name had eventually become a symbol for what it meant - you guessed it: charity - and grown into a brand that now drew student, expert, sufferer and guest alike from all across the globe to the great capital, making this the biggest establishment of its kind on the continent: a university clinic, place of healing, learning, rescue and research.

And yet, as all hospitals, this was a home of Death, and as the young surgeon made for the emergency area, sometimes affectionately nicknamed "the assembly line" (officially for the speed and practiced efficiency with which the staff were proud to attend to their nightly emergencies, far less officially due to the tragic fact that it sure saw a lot of spare parts thrown about by people who had gradually numbed themselves to seeing more of the same, at all times, every day), he was reminded of this fact both by the relative quiet that marked his hurry along the corridors (disturbed by nothing but the far rumble of traffic, long tuned out by ears slowly accustomed to the realities of big city life, occasional stifled moans out of the bedrooms of those now recovering or wholly moribund, and his own footsteps, resounding with rare clarity on the naked floor) and the scenes that played out in front of him once he had reached the assembly line after all.

Greeted by the braying of a drunk who, apparently greatly stultified by his indulgences, seemed quite oblivious to the fact that his arm had been neatly severed near the shoulderblade (and was now urging on the nurse that pushed his sickbed down the hallway to go faster, faster, as if they were both participating in what was, essentially, just a particularly gruesome soapbox derby), he entered the familiar atmosphere of the ER, its sterilised hospital air and unpleasant scents setting the stage for the regular, frenzied activity... only to find that it would, by all appearances, not be quite the same: While there were the same interns and nurses and doctors rushing about, in fact attending to a lot of injuries the likes of which one saw here every night, the majority seemed to be doing so with a startling precision (startling, that is, even by the high standards of these prestigious halls). Save for the sounds of the patients, who of course could not be expected to show any sort of professionalism or discipline given their individual, sorry states, the whole area seemed unusually quiet, everybody present working with a focus and efficiency that would have seemed most unsettling in the robots along certain actual assembly lines, yet at the same time seeming distraught, agitated, as if all too aware of a particularly unforgiving scrutiny imposed upon them, one and all, by some unseen oppressor.

Something, in short, was fundamentally different tonight, with the question of whether it was a kind of "different" that one could prefer to the well-known alternative likely hard to answer, and having reached the door behind which he would supposedly find his iron-pierced patient and the mysterious Dr Eiserner, Erich couldn't quite shake a subliminal, ill-defined sense of foreboding - in fact, it had rather grown clearer and more blatant the closer he'd come to his destination, passing unnaturally quiet personnel bustling around perfectly average scenes of past or potential tragedy; and as his hand reached for the door itself, something deep down in a dark, primal part of his subconscious seemed to briefly flare up, urging him to simply run, as the drunk had his nurse, run, simply turn und run, far away and fast.

But then, that could just have been the nervosity from standing to perform a sample of his specialty in front of some complete unknown who'd deemed it promising enough to warrant insisting on his attendance in this particular - and peculiar - case, right?

... Right?

[Strawberries]

The squeak of the uniform crocs on the floor seems unnaturally loud, he thinks, but that might just be the peculiar atmosphere of tonight. And why tonight should have a peculiar atmosphere at all, he's not sure. It's a standard Friday night, not even close to any major holiday (New Year's Eve, now THAT had been a nightmare), but the point stands that it is. Even hurrying, as he is currently doing, he can clearly see signs of it: the nurse that is currently checking the drip to that patient in the corner doesn't look tired and slightly exasperated as usual, she looked scared for a second, and did that intern's eyes just flick nervously in the direction of the door Erich is headed towards?

He shakes his head in the hope to clear it, suddenly wishing he had one more cup coffee. He's being ridiculous, he knows, and he is probably projecting his anxiety at being under scrutiny on the people around him. And that's why so much coffee isn't a good idea. Increased heartbeat and anxiety, honestly, textbook symptoms of too much caffeine in one's system. And, obviously, the fact that he's about to be evaluated by an apparently famous surgeon isn't of much help, either.

When he's actually in the operation theatre, he knows, calm and lucidity will come, as they always do, as is typical of most good surgeons, even those in the making. That doesn't stop him from having a bad case of wanting to puke his guts out right this moment. In the words of one of his professors, it's the before that's a bitch. He draws a deep breath to calm himself and turns the doorknob.

[Worlok]

As the door opened, agitation and anxiety reached yet another peak, and entering the operational theatre, Erich became intently aware of a dense and oppressive mood that covered everything inside like so much dust, or rather washed out from there in slow, even waves, like the ill-natured gloom of a crypt by night, feeling almost as if he was trespassing here, and thereby disturbing some ancient rest - and what he saw before him did not help with this impression in the least:

Towering above the operating table with his back turned to the door stood an old man whose height was belied, even at first glance and from behind, by his bent posture, yet still great enough to be slightly intimidating, and whose hair, seeming the same washed-up off-white his labcoat (a labcoat?) bore, in turn rose above his hunch in a vaguely triangular crest that might have done some varieties of horned dinosaur greatly proud. So potent was the sense of dread that now seemed bent on tainting all around with its depressing potency that for a moment, his motionless figure seemed dead, or in fact somehow ill itself, like an eroding statue or maybe a gnarled old tree, overlooking an open grave... at any rate, blocking all sight of the patient he, Erich Schneider, was here to aid, despite his relatively narrow build.

The door responded to its movement with a light screech of metal against the floor, causing Eiserner (for who else could this man have been?) to whip around on one boot-shod heel, white coat aflutter as the rapid motion put the lie to his outward decrepitude, and leaving the young surgeon eye to eye with his aged "colleague" who, once (and really, merely by) being seen up front, managed to turn all ambient airs of desolation into the tension of coming face to face with a predator:

Eyes as cold and alert as a bird of prey's, and in fact looking out from underneath a thin, nigh-continuous brow that resembled the ridge on an eagle's face seemed to pierce all they beheld with strict and calculating cruelty;

Lines and wrinkles as deep as if drawn with a quill crisscrossed skin that seemed oddly dull in hue, as if all blood had been drained out of it a long time ago and replaced with the sickening water of some polluted lake;

An aquiline nose jutted forth from above a mouth that was little more than a crooked line, yet still as narrow and symmetrical as most everything to this harsh visage save for the individual strands of hair that tipped its pointed chin in a spike-like beard;

It was, in short, a face altogether as friendly and welcoming as a scorpion's tail, so haggard, pointed and inhumane that all the trepidation of his coworkers (and in fact, one might have thought, even a frenzied flight for the exits) might have appeared relatable - yet nothing quite beat the cold shudder that came with the old one's voice, face level as he spoke, and just in time to not let the impression of this first sight fade:

"Mr Schneider, I dare presume?"

[Strawberries]

Erich nervously adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose "Er..." Not the most intelligent conversation-starter he has ever uttered, but it's difficult to think about dazzling opening lines when his mouth feels, for some reason, only slightly wetter than the Sahara.

Mister, he has been addressed, he notices. Not doctor. He's one of those, then. Erich has seen the kind before, old physicians who have been there since before Adam's time and think they are the Second Coming (And what is with all the religious metaphors tonight, anyway?), too high and mighty to pay any attention or professional courtesy to a lowly intern. Some of them have so much experience and technique worth learning to compensate for the abuse, others... not. Here was hoping that Eiserner was one of the first kind.

The thought, strangely enough, has the effect to calm him slightly. "Erich Schneider. Pleased to meet you, doctor Eiserner." And if he has emphasized that "doctor" a bit it was certainly too little for anyone to notice, right? "Young girl, massive cranial trauma, foreign object still lodged in the bone, I was told. I will start sterilising and dressing up straight away." The last sentence is very faintly an interrogative. What is he doing with a labcoat on? Where are his scrubs? Did NOBODY tonight hear about Van Leeuwenhoek, Robert Koch and the likes?

[Worlok]

As Eiserner was told that his presumption had been accurate, his mien changed notably. So much so, in fact, that one might, for a moment, have thought him physically transformed by the shift in expression - and surely more than any shift in one's expression ought to bring about - his features seeming to smoothen and lose their edge as that jagged line broadened into a smile (Grin? Baring?) that, in turn, revealed teeth a slight bit too numerous, too small and too tightly set in a mouth now that same bit too broad to seem wholly natural. Sounding for all the world as if the name of his associate had been all he needed to know the younger man inside-out, he lost no time speaking on: "Certainly. Young Miss Bogomolova here" - and in so introducing their patient, he stepped away from the table and indicated the unconscious form laid upon it with both hands, much as if the high forehead with its gruesome addition, the blood-caked blond hair and the tongue, frozen mid-lolling and sticking out of the right corner of the mouth, were all but a beautiful artwork of his design - "has been sedated by... non-standard means, as we had reason to assume the involvement of certain, illicit... intoxicants on the poor girl's part. That said, however, I am confident that she will not cause any untoward surprises while you... operate, and seeing how the three of us would seem to have this theatre all to ourselves for now, I shall gladly assist you in whatever fashion you would see... fit... to ask of me."

Some might have gotten the impression that this little speech had been designed both to provide information to and unsettle the listener in like measure - something about the way Eiserner spoke, his halting mannerism and odd emphasis in contrast to his quite high-brow choice of words, was quite simply off that way, feeling a great deal like he was instinctively attempting to undermine the confidence of those around him, cast doubt onto their skills or hint at some elusive, hidden malcontent without intending to - much as in fact his very voice and every motion seemed to skirt the line between a rare kind of refinement and the wholly alien, veering at times toward the one extreme and then the other while never quite reaching a perfect compromise. And yet the old man appeared either not to notice - or actually not to care.

"In the mean, I am most... certainly looking forward to watching your... fabled skills at task, and therefore the pleasure" - had he just actually bowed a bit? - "is just as surely mine. To your... success!"

And even after this "uplifting" closing word, there was that certain, nervous tension in the air.

[Strawberries]

What in the actual... Erich is dimly aware that he's gaping. He didn't just say that. Tell me he didn't just say what I heard him saying. He can't be possibly thinking of having Erich operate in those circumstances. Where are the nurses? Where are the technicians? For that matter, where is the case history, that the leading surgeon is supposed to read before an operation?

Nobody in their right mind would approach a delicate surgery that way, which leads to only two conclusions: either the man is unhinged (unlikely, since he's been permitted to operate in the hospital) or he is pulling his leg, possibly to test him. And honestly, the idea of playing those games on the life of a girl makes him sick to his stomach.

"Doctor Eiserner , if this is some kind of joke, it's highly inappropriate" he snaps "If you want me to lead the surgery, you can start by properly washing and sanitising your hands and change into a proper attire, before we have to add a staphylococcus infection to the list of the problems this girl has. " He's never spoken this way to someone who's his senior before, but enough is, most definitely, enough. Especially when people lives are at stake.

The sense of unease hasn't abated, but is drowned out by something that could be described, to the risk of being over dramatic, as righteous indignation, and is that sentiment that brings Erich to take two steps forward, despite some part of his brain that is urging him to run in the other direction as fast as he can. "And while you do that, you can fill me in on the case history. I was told you were an experienced surgeon, you can't expect me to start operating blind without even having looked at the X rays. "

[Worlok]

The scene, this much was clear, could have played out quite differently: For but an instant, there were a silence and a feeling of dread expectation, as if the older man would simply lunge at his incensed associate. But no muscle moved, the smirk remained plastered onto his features, and without betraying anything other than what would, in fact, appear to be genuine cheer, of all things, the surgeon spoke: "Capital! When unable to challenge an objective under present... circumstance, you challenge circumstance."

Which was presumably one way to interpret recent events.

"My attire is as... proper for our ends as is your... own. Similarly, I have never yet dragged... bacteria into this theatre. Still, it is quite refreshing to see such... willingness. To doubt. To... disobey. In one so... young, no less." The pauses were getting more frequent now, perhaps a sign of the indignation he would not otherwise let himself show. "At any rate, I can... assure you that it is no... joke. I do, as a matter of... fact, expect you to... perform this... surgery with no aid but my own, and I expect you to perform... admirably."

He seemed to somehow have closed in without a single movement, suddenly looming large over the younger man as a screech and a bang signaled the sudden, violent closing of the room's only door (had it been open all this time?), which merely contributed to this third and final spike in (now less than) subtle terror. Those gryphon eyes, binding his, Erich's, own, oozed forth raw menace - of such potency as to drive all will from the mind and all strength from the muscles - as their owner seemed to inexplicably gain substance and expand to fill the younger surgeon's entire field of vision without, of course(?), actually growing or even just moving from where he stood.

Now almost nightmarish both for the mere, primal terror to which the old airs of unease surrounding the two had by then swollen and transmuted, and for the eerily detached, almost smug tone of satisfaction with which he did, Eiserner ventured on: "For if I had not... reason to assume that you are... capable of doing so, there would... be... precious little reason to your... lasting presence here. And were that to be the case, I can likewise assure you, the consequences would be... less than favorable for you."

An attempt to run, or interrupt, or even just to break eye contact would have seemed doomed, wholly unthinkable, throughout all of that, as if by having once met the old creature's gaze, Erich had tacitly allowed an anchor or harpoon be launched into his consciousness much as the foreign object had lodged itself into Miss Bogomolova's forehead, by which to be helplessly pinned - or even yanked about - at the hard hands of a particularly ruthless enemy.

Only gradually, if quite swiftly did this cold, aweful, paralysing horror - much like a rabbit might have felt before a snake - at last abate, taking with it much, in fact all of that ambient dread while still leaving no doubt that the old one was apparently utterly serious with his rant; and in the aftershock of the experience, it might have taken him, Erich, some time to realise that Eiserner had...

... firstly: Turned to holding out the requested X-ray pictures for him to take, easily from an arm's length away.

... and secondly: Still not said his last. "So I... suggest we begin, and I will relay any further... intelligence as pertains to our case as you... study these. Unless, of course, you find yourself... unwell?"

[Strawberries]

Erich swallows, or attempts to, in the middle of the panicked, primordial brain signals that are urging him to just turn away and run, or failing that, hide somewhere and hope that the danger passes soon, that the predator decides to pursue something else as the main meal of the day. Forget the caffeine, forget the strangeness of the situation or the nervousness of being under scrutiny, nothing of that accounts for the fact that he is terrified.

What is wrong with me? It's a rhetorical to which he doesn't even provide an answer. Whatever is wrong, either with him or the whole situation, it doesn't diminish the ironclad certainty that if he were to go and try the door he would find it locked, despite the fact that hospital doors don't actually lock. So it is in a kind of a trance that he reaches out to accept the radiograph that his older... colleague is handing him.

"T-the, er..." It comes out not louder than a small roden't squeak. He clears his throat and attempts to speak again, but in that moment his mind actually registers what he has been looking at, and it is finally there, the blessed calm and lucidity that helps surgeons make life and death decision in the space of a second. "The foreign body is lodged in the frontal bone, there is extensive trauma for a seven centimeters area, and hairline fractures extending here and here." He points at the xray as he speaks "There's significant splintering here and here, but none of it seems to have pierced the meninges. She's been very lucky, though I would ask for a neurological consultation bef..." he trails off. No aid but his own, Eiserner had said, and Erich has the irrational feeling that, should he fail to comply, the girl's life wouldn't be the only one to be a stake.

He still has to mention it, though. It would be criminally unprofessional for him not to. He stares at Eisener in the eye and keeps his voice remarkably steady as he says it. "I would ask for a neurological consultation, and an MRI scan at the very least - there's bound to be an intracerebral haemorrhage in act, and releasing the pressure on her brain needs to be the very first priority. If I know what areas are effected, I would know where to start cutting to maximise the drainage. If you want me to go ahead regardlessly, doctor Eisener, this girl might be on your conscience as much as on mine."


Gaaah, sorry, I completely didn't realise: did I need to actually ROLL something to get all that? Say, medicine, for instance? I went with pure RP because I didn't think about it (and also, in hindsight, the post flows better with it), but if I did actually need to roll, yell at me and I'll strike the last part out.

Also, oh, yeah, Erich, that will go down well. I'm sure the Tzimisce will be suitably horrified to possibly have a girl's death on his conscience. I mean, how could be not? :smallbiggrin::smalltongue:

[Worlok]

The senior surgeon sighed (or rather produced what might have been supposed to be a sigh, the result sounding a lot like a serpent on sandpaper and looking much as if his upper body had just suddenly collapsed, just without tearing the skin or his coat in the process), all the while with that same, unchanging not-grin all over his worn visage. Unblinking. Almost mechanical. "It is not... my... intention to cause... death. In her. My sole intention here... tonight... is to take... your measure in the... line of your... duty. Your task. Your chosen... profession. Maybe you have wondered. Wondered why... I adressed you as... Mr before, Herr Schneider?"

It sounded for all the world like a question, and yet he seemed to be quite certain that such was the case: "It is because... there are far too many who would... be called 'Doctor'" - and as Eiserner spoke the word, he seemed to spit it, with such palpable disdain to the sound that even someone hell-bent to resist the baleful glower of those evil eyes would all but have had to flinch - "without a single... accomplishment to their name alone. I hope... to not find... such an... embarassment to our station within... yourself. Notice... my use of the present case. You shall... have... one more... chance to prove yourself."

The old fear had made off and passed for now, and yet, something inside Erich was all too aware that it could, any moment, resurface and again assault him - almost instinctively, he had transcended realisation of predator fear, only for his subconscious to now stand on guard against fear itself. The sensation was rather unlike most he, or in fact anyone, could ever have been expected to be familiar with, a strange and foreboding sense of deep-seated wrongness, as subtle as it was violent and profound. Whatever was transpiring here seemed to not quite be of this earth, or at least not from known parts of it, in that an artificial emotion begotten from the outside - for that it appeared to be - had no right to exist, much less stay, grow, and flourish within the soul, drawing its actual, natural counterpart forth in its wake.

But if the elder was, in fact, aware of what was happening to his younger colleague, then he certainly went to no lengths reassuring him: "This is a test of... instinct... as much as... anything. You prove to me... your perception and... competence, but I... seek... excellence! If you... need a machine to spy out what your... intuition should tell you, or any assistance at... all... than you are un...deserving of your title. Or your scrubs. Your obligation here... will be to... disregard all outside influences... to find out where to cut... by nothing but your perception... and then to operate! May I... consider this... understood?"

And there it was, a ripple of the fear like a reminder, Erich's own terror inside and out coagulating, setting blood to freeze, hair to stand and his mind on edge by recognition of it alone, tearing violently at the moorings of his deep, professional focus with razor claws that did not yet threaten to cut it down utterly - and that despite this being a mere echo of what he had, only barely, withstood previously.

"If so, I should bid you begin at last. Your every second... wallowing in these... in your delusions of dependency is one... your patient may not... have. If not, I shall take this... from here. From you. Cast you out. And continue... withholding the title... you never earned. In this, my own... conscience is clear."

And that said, he manned the platter on which the surgical tools lay prepared, and indicated Miss Bogomolova with one unshaking, vaguely clawlike hand. Throughout all this, and even though seen largely through maddening terrors, he never once seemed to betray much emotion, having merely continued to grin in between awkward lip movements. He had still not blinked once, or so it seemed in already-fading memory of their eye contact, and save for his outburst at 'doctors', his voice had never once shifted in pitch - but now, he seemed wholly fulfilled by some manner of expectation, and something... challenging lay in his glare as even that unsteady miasma of trepidation seemed to be dulling to memory; slowly but surely, and yet once again too soon to be natural.

[Strawberries]

There are many things Erich wants to reply, most of which are actually reasonable and sane-sounding. There is, however, something that stops him. It's the same thing that has lead him to believe that a door that lacks a latch would be locked, and it's the complete, absolute certainty that if he'll try to call somebody else, or argue, or do anything that is not get himself to the table and start, like the doctor had said, he'd be stopped, and not in a pleasant way. And then it will be dr Eisener on his own to perform the operation, on his own. And there is a girl on the table with a piece of metal lodged in her head, and the only two people in this room are myself and this madman.

It is the last thought that brings him to act. Without another word, Erich turns approaches the table. There is a strange, metallic taste in the back of his mouth that he has often heard described as adrenaline but he knows it's the product of way more complex exocrine secretions, as he bends slightly to look at the girl. He has to calm down. He can't allow circumstances to get in the way of him assessing the situation, not when there is a life at stake.

I can do it. It's pure folly, of course, without instruments, without assistance, like somehow having gone straight back to the Victorian age, but he has to think that he's capable of it. The subdural hematoma is his main concern. If he can deal with it, he figures, the actual removal of the foreign body is easy. Please let me be right about that

"I'll be using a Siegel scalpel" he declares, in a dispassionate, precise tone of voice. "After I've made the incision here, I'll start on the bone and irrigate the blood out. To cut the bone, I'll be using a 15mm saw. Be prepared to hand me what I ask, when I ask it, and be prepared with gauzes, doctor. I won't have this girl die because there are no nurses to mop up."

That said, he moves his hand for the first cut. Despite the barely suppressed terror that he has been experiencing in waves, his hands are very steady, but before laying the blade on the girl's forehead he closes his eyes in a silent pray to whoever may be listening. Erich has never been religious, but it had somehow seemed the right thing to do.

Perception + medicine [roll0]
Intelligence + body craft [roll1]

Edit: yay on the first, ouch (maybe) on the second? Well, I do have one specialty to apply on the first and two on the second, so it's even possible I'll be alright. :smalltongue:.

Edit x2, actually, I just realised I messed up. The The second roll is supposed to be 7 dice . please feel free to ignore the first eight (I'd say the last one, but it's a botch, and I want to be fair. Or if you want, reroll for me?)

Also, if Eisener decides to actually take a scalpel and lodge it in his eye for speaking to him this way, I wouldn't moan about it too much. :smalltongue:. He just snapped into professional surgeon mode, I figure that's the only way he can cope right now.

[Worlok]

The right thing? Maybe, and surprisingly effective, as it seemed: As if now actually guided by a higher force, the scalpel found its mark, keen rigor overrode all disquiet, the professional genius of a steeled mind forced fear and uncertainty out of existence, and the operation proceeded at record speed; in fact, Erich half-registered the flesh of his patient parting as if of its own accord, directed rather than touched by the blade, with Eiserner implaceably supplying what he asked of him - and remaining himself a half-realised blur of activity off to the side as scalpel, saw and gauzes outright flew from hand to hand as asked or from platter to forehead as needed.

If nothing else, the elder man at least made for a decent aide in the rescue of the girl, and had Erich allowed himself to pause at any one point and looked over there, he might have seen on his colleague's unmoving mien a shadow of the same deep focus that now drove himself... notice that I wrote 'might'.

It had to be the strangest operation of its kind performed in quite some time - and not merely for the poor technical circumstances of its execution, no: Where the artificial fear so plaguing the "assembly line" tonight no longer found a foothold, Erich now experienced a surge of similarly artificial confidence to resound with his own and support it, feeling much as if hand, eye and surgical tool had attained a strange unity, the steel long since a natural extension of the steady nerves that lead its razor dance. And where the former had been that of prey before the hunter, the latter in fact partially resembled the rush of the beast that had left that same predator in the dust - as in, safely behind it.

Where Eiserner stood.

Seconds, as always too many of them, passed by, with Erich's full attention on the hands, his hands and Eiserner's, rushing in and out of his field of vision with such practiced speed that at times it appeared as if both of them had grown extra ones, and the forehead so offensively disgraced by the strange object lodged within, turning before too long into a battlefield of medical precision against flying time - until finally, that iron length was removed, held up triumphantly by the older surgeon as the younger one recovered from the almost trance-like heightening of the attentions that had gone into his craft; his masterpiece, as a strange thought in the back of his head, a thought that felt not like his own, yet also not wholly like something else, insisted.

Yet what he had done had worked.

"Yevgeniya Bogomolova," that terrible voice cut through the afterglow of triumph like the saw firm in Erich's grip had through the bone, "consider your life... preserved. And as for you, Dr... Schneider - a fitting name." Which might even have been a compliment - "Schneider" meaning both "tailor" and "cutter", after all, and the cuts (cuts, cuts) having come so readily. "Was this... quite such a chore?" There was again that challenge in his voice, but paired this time around with satisfaction - even pride. And something deep inside Erich himself - very briefly - suggested that maybe the time had come for the madman to pay for it.

But the life was saved.

[Strawberries]

As usual, now that everything is done and he doesn't need his focus anymore, Erich allows the full impact of the situation to hit him. He takes a step back, and clenches his hands to avoid to be seen shaking - for he certainly is shaking, now.

"You had me..." No, the tone of voice isn't right. It sounded demure. Erich doesn't want to sound demure, especially not when he is in his full right to be enraged - and to hell with it, the girl is safe, now he wants some answer. He clears his throat. "YOU had me play this sick GAME with the life of a girl. Why? What could POSSIBLY have been so important to put a life at stake?"

[Worlok]

This time, it definitely was a physical transformation, Eiserner's face resuming its angular cut as his false grin outright zipped shut and disappeared, the whole scene somewhat like sped-up footage of water freezing to ice. All artificial not-emotions clearing out of Erich's system with immediacy, he might have spied the odd, organic ripples underneath the fabric of the labcoat, all in places where no ripples could occur for lack of mobile parts, or realised the gleam crossing the old one's eyes as he took one step toward his colleague was one of wrath and malice deeper than even his own. Nevertheless, the good doctor restrained himself from any further unpleasantness with an effort that was outright tangible: "You ask me... that question, but would call an... operation of this kind... a game? Is this" - he hoisted up the freshly removed length of metal, half a crowbar as it had turned out, and shook it with an ease that seemed impossible on his old frame, maybe roused by his own outrage at that choice of words - "a ball, then? That unconscious... girl there on the table... but a board?"

It might have seemed inconsequential information at the time, but Eiserner was really unusually tall, hunchback or no - he quite clearly understood to leverage this trait to full advantage as he loomed there, glowering, and must have known that the intimidating airs it lent him would be all the more overwhelmingly felt in their passing, for the sheer contrast if nothing else, as he forced himself to relax, to deflate, again. Twisting - in the truest meaning of the word - his face into a mien of disappointment and his posture into one of expectation, shoulders squared, arms folded with a labored woodenness that had simply not been visible before, had just not been before, he now audibly struggled to sound composed: "Tell me... what your understanding of... your craft is, and I will... happily... answer you. Perhaps... we will find your... idea... of our profession is even... enlightening... to the both of us."

[Strawberries]

"It's not..." my game, you sick bastard, it's you that has been treating this like it was a performance put up for your own amusement he opens his mouth to say, indignation still very much to the front, then he registers, actually registers what is happening. It had been going on for a couple of seconds, but his brain had refused to accept the message his eyes were passing. Because of course it would have been impossible, except it was happening right under his eyes.

Erich takes an involuntary step back, then another, and is stopped from running away only by the dim awareness of the impossibly locked door. "You...what...." there's nothing more coherent than that for a second. Incongruously enough, the image that his brain supplies him is one of his anatomy textbook, the one he spent the best part of six month on, and the diagram for the face muscles. Occipitofrontalis, Temporoparietalis. Procerus, Nasalis his mind is currently singsonging to him Depressor Septi nasi, Orbicularis oculi, Corrugator supercilii, Depressor supercilii. None of those, in their normal function for an healthy adult human, account for what he has just see happen. Which means there is only one explanation.

Really, once he thinks about it, it ties up so well with all the rest that happened this evening. Paradoxically, the thought has the effect to calm him. "You are not human" he states, with the tone of somebody drawing the conclusion after a particularly difficult algebra demonstration "What are you?"

Errr.... I feel like a need a courage roll. Do I need a courage roll? :smalltongue: In case I do [roll0] EDIT: whoa. I feel justified in editing my post, now.

EDIT 2: just to clarify, the last few lines were added after I had a look at that awesome roll. :smalltongue:

[Worlok]

As the thing called Eiserner next spoke, the lower half of its face distended, mouth broadening again to reveal all those teeth, now lengthened and pointed to needle-like growth, while at the same time protruding until the jaw of the senior surgeon resembled nothing so much as that of that certain pelagic enigma, the goblin shark. The expression this change begat might have passed for something like the false grin he had shown off earlier, but what made the impression strike home was the fact that only now, in his ongoing transformation, there was anything resembling real joy to be read in his mien, flashing out from eyes turned predatory, bright and yellow in a single blink. On the tip of the creature's tongue, now visible due to the opened maw, there had formed a sort of second mouth, making the whole thing resemble a serpent with perfect (and perfectly human, if tiny) teeth, and it was from here that his voice rang out: "Again... you prove... perceptive. But as I... said... I will answer... happily only once... you explain to me... what you think... our profession... encompasses. Why did you... choose... to do... what we do?"

As he spoke, a spasm seemed to pass through all four(?) of his limbs, and with the resulting, casual flick of the wrists, the crowbar was sent flying, hurtling lightning-fast across the room and lodging itself into the rather solid hospital wall just above the door while fingernails grew into viciously curved talons and the ripples beneath the cloth of his coat turned decidedly more pronounced... "Answer... me!" It was not a tone of voice one might have associated with direct orders, but also not one that would tolerate more disobedience.


And this will thus require yet another Courage roll, I'm afraid. The transformation is still ongoing as of this writing, but will be continued in coming posts. Also, no Dominate is used.

[Strawberries]

The preternatural calm that had brought him to ask the question vanishes as soon as the question is answered, not by words but by the horrific change happening right in front of him. Because what is happening should, by all intents and purposes, be impossible. Even if the... being in front of him isn't human, muscles don't work like that. Bones don't work like that. The... thing is generating organs under Erich's own eyes, and he is suddenly overcome by the horror that comes with the realisation that what's in front of him is not only something outside humanity, he doesn't even belong within nature itself.

Erich takes another step back, half-turning possibly to initiate a run, despite the thought running through his head (Locked, the door is locked), unfortunately forgetting about the trolley with the surgical instruments. His lower back collides with it, toppling it to the floor with a cacophonic clattering of scalpels and forceps, and Erich himself loses balance and topples to the ground, by some miracle managing not to cut himself on any of the sharp blades. He draws a deep breath, on the verge of screaming...

..and it's then that he remembers, even through the terror. The girl, Yevgeniya Bogomolova. He has to do something to avoid her to be hurt by this...abomination, he has to keep it focused on himself "Helping people, I wanted to help people!" he almost shouts, in an undignified high pitch.

[Worlok]

As Erich fell, Eiserner had unabashedly continued reshaping himself, hair and beard waving as if to braid themselves and gradually transforming into crests and ridges of horn-like growths to supplement the vicious, blade-like protrusions of bone that grew out of the sides of the neck and the edges of his jawline as more and more teeth came in, ultimately leaving him with a solid three rows behind his receding lips.

But the moment he received his answer, the mutations stopped.

In fact, the whole creature seemed to immediately freeze mid-motion as a horizontal wrinkle on the forehead slowly parted to reveil a third eye (this one red and circular) right in its middle. For the first time since they had met, Eiserner truly sounded amused, speaking more fluently now (as if only for a horrified Erich to realise that the pauses had been the old beast's idea of mimicking breath, which it clearly no longer engaged in): "To help people? Help them with what? In what fashion? How does it help people" - from the creature's mouth, the words almost sounded accusing - "when one refuses to perform to capability in an emergency? When one considers one's craft a game?"

Angling himself forward on his clearly rather flexible (if mercifully still cloth-covered) midsection, he now managed to come almost nose to nose with Erich - despite being easily in excess of nine feet tall by this point and having to reach down all the way to the floor, menacing teeth mere inches from the young man's skin as the mouth let loose the stench of ancient blood and death: "Or is your idea of rendering aid to your patients to thrash about in the wreckage of tool trolleys and shout to distract their would-be predators? To antagonise your colleagues over technicalities? Why does the sight of a form brought closer to its perfection rouse such disgust in you, where the notion of pulling a crowbar out of the flesh of the living will faze you not? Compose yourself, and answer wisely, young one."

For someone who apparently had absolutely no trouble reading minds, Eiserner certainly asked a lot of questions. What was odd was that despite their wording, they seemed to betray no malice or sarcasm, but only sheer, cold and straightforward curiosity.

[Strawberries]

Erich scrambles back slightly, but the creature is so near that he doesn't dare to get up. Still, at least he's not awkwardly sprawled amidst surgical tools anymore. "It is not a game for me, I wanted to help people, to save lives, that's all there was" he insists, not yelling anymore, not quite realising he's using the past tense. "You had me..." And why is he still arguing about that with somebody who is clearly so far removed from the concept of humanity to not even know what proper breathing sounds like is anybody's guess, but he seems unable to stop himself. "You had me jeopardise a life by forcing me to work in suboptimal conditions. If that wasn't for your entertainment, what was it for?"

[Worlok]

"For you!"

The creature at first seemed content to leave it at that, the repulsive head looming over Erich contorting into an expression that one might curiously have likened to that of a kindly old man waiting for his favorite nephew to unpack a particularly nice Christmas present - although that obviously did... little to alleviate the sheer grotesquory of the scene. The third eye in the forehead remained open, staring directly at the young surgeon and seemingly right through him, into the deepest recesses of the soul, but clearly couldn't find what the monster had hoped for. Fixing the glare of all three on its likely prey, Eiserner then apparently deigned to provide at least some sort of explanation after all: "I have made my haven by this hospital for a long, long time, Dr Schneider. Young as you are, you might find yourself hard-pressed to imagine the centuries I have known. And yet, every so often, I come here and assure myself of its... functionality, for it is due to influences such as mine that it became what it is today. It is here that I turn for experimentation. For sustenance. And for progeny!"

He left that sitting there, falling silent momentarily as Erich became aware of some skittering movement out of the corner of his eye. Where the beast stood, crooked with its chest and belly facing the ground as a rough parallel, a number of semi-insectile limbs had protruded from the gaps between the buttons on his coat, long, multi-jointed things of skeletal design, ending in razor-sharp pincers that incessantly snapped open and clicked shut, now eagerly flitting about. It took a moment to realise what these were doing: Sorting the scattered surgical tools, a somewhat bulkier pair ultimately setting the trolley back upright and beginning to sort its contents back into place while others skillfully busied themselves with disinfectant, none of it causing the creature any notable distraction as it resumed speaking: "To answer your question from earlier, I am what you might call a vampire, and I have made it my duty to... recruit from those who already, as mortals, understand the workings of their form, the sensibilities of their minds, their instincts. Understand, young one, rather than merely have studied. It is thus that my eye fell on you, whose praises are sung by credential, peer and superior, for you see" - at this point, something looking oddly like the pedipalps of certain arachnids extended from the corner of the maw, flitting along the forehead eye in what looked almost like a nervous tic before retreating back where it had come - "I seek out those rare few... luminaries I would see preserved for greater, for eternal growth - and subject them to tests, so as to take their measure and decide in case of excellence their worth. Their worth to my cause, to my clan, to my line and to me, in that order."

Its cleaning work done, the creature reared back up to its full height, additional limbs flitting back underneath the straining cloth, giving the young man a last chance to take in the full range of gruesome modifications that had taken hold of the thing in front of him - the visible parts, at least. Then a shiver seemed to pass through Eiserner, marked by turning and bristling skin particles, realigning scales and spikes and the once-again "melting" of its visage, transforming its original, roughly chimeric aspect (quoting abundantly the features of deep-sea creatures, reptiles, birds and manifold terrestrial invertebrates) into a decidedly more coherent, sleek and altogether majestic one as its voice boomed out, almost more clarion roar than speech: "Erich Schneider, my line, blood and destiny are Tzimisce, and should you prove your worth, so will be yours!"

And then, after a moment of luxuriating in the delivery of its announcement: "So ask what you would, and I shall answer - as we work, for your shift is not over, and there are other tests yet to attend. What else, young one, lucky one, need you know?"

[Strawberries]

Erich opens his mouth, but luckily closes it back before he can blurt the first thing that had come to his mind, which was You can't be a vampire. Vampires don't actually exists. More than that, vampires as understood in folklore are a scientific impossibility: dead creatures exhibiting a metabolism is the closest thing to a medical oxymoron he can think of. Alien, mutant, different species I'll believe, but -vampire-? It's probably not a thing I want to say to him, though. he thinks, taking advantage of the slight breathing space that has been conceded to him to carefully stand up and take a step back. Although some of the things I've seen him doing are pretty close to scientifically impossible themselves. Fleetingly, he thinks he'd love to have the creature under an X-ray machine. I would love to know how his bones are made.

He realises that he (She? It?) is still waiting for an answer and that he's been lost in his musing and probably has just stood there gaping like an idiot... and he doesn't really want to upset the poly-limbed abomination any further, so he grasps for the first question that comes to mind "What does the word Tzimisce mean?" It sounded vaguely Eastern-European to his untrained ear.

[Worlok]

Receiving that particular response seemed to please the beast greatly, for it let itself gradually contort and shrink back into the familiar (and more importantly, far less menacing) form of the hunchbacked old man as its various modifications receded into more natural features again, the third eye remaining visible for the longest time and only slipping back behind its makeshift lid once all was said and done. Eiserner seemed to have been waiting for this moment throughout the whole time of their brief... acquaintance to one another, and whatever initial agitation the young man's behavior might have caused it seemed wholly forgotten within a blink: "I sense your longing! Your fascination with the intricacies of my form proves to me that I have chosen wisely, but there are greater secrets to this, the greatest of fates, than the meaning of words, young one. The word Tzimisce is ultimately but a name, the supposed name of the Eldest-Progenitor for which my clan is named - despite the fact that it has perished long ago, and at the fangs of my brethren, your future comrades-in-arms." It seemed sure of its victory by this point, even genuinely happy to have roused its target's curiosity, rather than his hostility, at long last (which may or may not also have been the reason why it no longer just seemed to stress certain words at random by this point), but remained caught up in the melodramatic mannerism and strangely emotionless tone it had so steadfastly affected throughout it all until surging, almost as if against its will, into the jubilant zeal of a sermon or prayer as it continued to try and "explain": "As for what the name stands for, it is the Dying Breath. It is the Chrysalis of Flesh-in-Transcendance, the Blood of Carpathian Earth and the Plague Wind that carried the ash of Rome! It is Evolution! It is Adaptation, Perseverance and Eternal Growth! It is the Bane of the Warlock, the Love of the Land and the Unity of All Form Undying! And lastly, it is the Search for the Knowledges Deep Within! The promise of you, everlasting... if only you pass the tests now ahead of you. Relieve your conscience thus that with my presence here, her life was never once at stake, and take resolve in the fact that you stand to have but a phase made to pass, immortality readily waiting, and tools to be passed on to you with which you shall become... unrivaled within our arts. Fret not, for all will be clear in time."

And with that, it bowed again, most certainly this time around, and then extended its now-untaloned hand with a grin that could not have looked much friendlier even if it had bothered to retract its fangs (two slender, oddly curved implements, set where the upper canine teeth should have been, that had not previously stood out for the sheer abundance of needle-teeth, but now loomed large like a twin pair of chisels within the mouth), lending a profound sense of weirdness to what it actually said (which was, of course, also owed to the fact that given the reveal of its second mouth and the second fact that it seemed to be doing fine without anyway, it just kept grinning, no longer even bothering with lip movements): "If you would undertake those tests, that is. You will have use to me either way."

[Strawberries]

Shameful to say, but Erich does breathe a bit more easily when Eiserner returns to his human appearance, even if there should be no reason for it: the creature isn't less of an abomination just because it is hiding under human skin And how is he even DOING that? Not only X-rays, he'd love to have its skin under a microscope as well. The application of synthetic super-elastic skin in facial surgery, that's what the title of the publication would be. And not even on specialised titles like the European Journal of Plastic Surgery, where he's published in the past. Hell no, this is something worth of the Lancet, at the very least. Nature, even... if he's even alive to have an article to publish.

It's that thought that brings him abruptly back to reality from the nice little dream...which, he recognises, has definitely been a way for his unconscious to refuse to cope with the situation. Okay... Flesh-in-Transcendance. Fanatic alert. Nutter alert. If the guy was human, that is. As it stands, it's very difficult to decide. He's not actually serious about the vampire thing, is he? If he is, then the promise of immortality becomes very worrying indeed - it's very possible that the creature doesn't mean it as a metaphor This being has probably so little concept about how human bodies work that he's going to kill me thinking he's doing me a favour. He has to do his best to defuse the situation before it happens. "Those... tests you keep talking about" he says, cautiously "What would they entail?"

[Worlok]

"I would regret outlining their contents before the fact. Rather, I shall give you opportunity to divine my intentions case by case and see your natural reactions, unburdened by ideas of expectations." The creature seemed quite content to leave this at that, and in a gesture that seemed all the stranger for how completely normal it really was, Eiserner first motioned and then moved toward the door before seemingly having a new idea of its own: "However, we might as well make this an additional... task for you: Think about what qualities I might conceivably be looking for in any given instance. In fact, I will even let you find out for yourself whether or not you actually are being tested at any point in time, for there is obviously no guarantee that all of the maladies that we will see to on this evening have been arranged for the occasion. Does this seem satisfactory?" And as the sound of footsteps on the corridor behind the door heralded the approach of others - maybe the interns sent to see their patient to her room? - the monster, now for all the world nothing but the aged volunteer surgeon Eiserner once again, casually opened the door, proving that it had not been locked, and beckoned for its young colleague to follow suit. "Then let us proceed."

[Strawberries]

He probably should focus on something else in that whole speech, for the creature has made several remarks that are probably worth of careful consideration. However, his mind skips to the one sentence, in the middle of all that, that stood out - exactly like a bull that's seen the red cape. Arranged for the occasion. That's exactly what the monster said, f-ing arranged for the f-ing occasion. ARRANGED, like a surprise birthday party. ****.

"What did you do? Who did you hurt?" he asks before he can even think about saying something more sensible. "Did you do that to that girl as well?" Irrationally, without conscious thought, he moves a step nearer to the instrument trolley.

Oooh, boy. Get him mad enough, and he'll probably grab a scalpel and have this end very badly for himself. But hey, fun. :smallbiggrin:
Also, yes, I'm aware he's an high intelligence character and should know better. Righteous indignation has been known to cloud judgment before.

[Worlok]

"Why do you insist on asking your... questions when you never give... answers to mine? Does... my proposition... seem... satisfactory?" Eiserner fell back into its not-quite-breathing, and the reason came through the door just as Erich reached the tool trolley: Several interns, five to be quite precise, came shuffling in, clearly about to carry off Miss Bogomolova, and in the way their steps and miens betrayed increasing agitation and anxiety as they quietly made their way past the self-proclaimed vampire and toward their work, the young surgeon could clearly see that they were weathering something a lot like the onslaught of not-quite-emotions that he had endured previously, but also that if anything, they seemed used to it, in fact to accept it as just another quirk of their daily grind. The old monster, for its part, had resumed grinning at its questioner from behind and above the young men. "Do not forget... whom you are... speaking to, Dr Schneider. This is... my hospital, after all, and I am your... senior in all regards."

[Strawberries]

Erich's hand hovers for a second near to the handle of a n.10 scalpel, before he realises what he's doing and snatches it away. After the things he's seen this being do, a mere surgical scalpel would be probably as useful as a butter knife. The creature can reshape its flesh. How is a mere 6 cm blade supposed to faze him?

"Yes, it is." he replies instead, simply, albeit somewhat strained. He doesn't trust himself to say anything more than that. Another snippet of what the creature speech comes back to his mind He's been here centuries, he said. How many people did it hurt?

[Worlok]

"Capital!" In some vague way, Eiserner seemed to be evaluating Erich even now, as if its tests had already begun - and to be fair, this could by no means be ruled out. The intern crowd, for their part, seemed happy to simply see off their patient, none of them even paying attention to the man next to the scalpel tray or the crowbar still lodged in the wall right above the door. As for the monster itself, it took its time looking after the men and their sensitive cargo with the left eye - its right one moving independently of the other to glare first at the curious wall adornment and then back at Dr Schneider* - before closing the door again. "Another question, before we proceed. Could it... be that I left a... less than favorable first impression? I have... your best... interests at... heart, and yet you would... accuse me of... such inelegant cruelty? Speak freely, but... answer me!"


*Got it right! :smallbiggrin:

[Strawberries]

Erich takes a deep breath. Best interests at heart, sure. He has two options, of course. He can lie through his teeth... but that is dangerous, as the creature has shown worrying levels of insight already, and it's not like he's made a mystery of being incensed before. Which leaves him with the second, equally dangerous option to tell the truth.

"You did." he replies, wondering how an obviously intelligent creature could simply not get a point that he's been trying to make more than once "When you asked me to operate blind, you did. A doctor" And how he wishes he can take back that emphasis on the word as soon as it slips off his tongue, but it's unfortunately out and he can't do anything else but continue "a doctor does not, would not forego any aid, any machine, any consultation if it increases the possibility of saving a patient life." And he's screwed himself over by not thinking on how he was going to finish the thought before he started talking, he's well aware, but he still does his best to look the creature in the eye "Surely you know that, you must know that."

[Worlok]

For a moment, the world seemed to stand still as Eiserner's hunchbacked form tried to right itself, body tensing much as if in preparation for a blow, the cruel face briefly contorting with what could only be disappointment, then anger, then eerie calm. "I suppose that it is what you young ones are trained to believe. And I feel that it is but a symptom of degeneration. To know, to know anything so subjective is hardly possible, and you would do well in not mistaking dogma for reality."

The onslaught of artificial fears had long subsided, and yet there was something unspeakably frightening, clear warning, in the way it gestured to shush any response that its words might conceivably have provoked. "Do you not understand what I ask of you? True genius, I believe, can not shine when permanently bound by expectations imposed by the masses. To rely on the cooperation of waste begets nothing but mediocrity! And I spied a spark of true genius within yourself, much as my own inceptor once saw it in me." The ancient monster advanced on the young surgeon then, looming large like the bent old tree it had so strongly resembled before: "Therefore I cannot abide you deluding yourself into this subservience! To the machine. To the host of your lessers you would call upon for aid, when in fact they would bask in your glory, telling themselves that they helped for your letting them! I hold it bad enough that you limit yourself to repairing what you, with your arts, could improve! Yet even then, if you cannot do anything by yourself, you can not be allowed to do anything like it at all!"

For all the changes it had previously wrought upon itself, however, the most remarkable one had to be the shift in tone when it finally came to an end - where previously it had laden its actions with bombast, with zeal or with matter-of-factly detachment, making it all too clear just who remained in control, Eiserner now sounded almost pleading, and correspondingly seemed to gradually shrink down from its previous grandeur until there was merely that same, old man, desperate for some small share of sympathy in a time that had passed him by: "Please try to understand what a hurt, what a shame it is to see you so debased! I intend to find how much of you remains when the machine is stripped away! How capable you are, unburdened by the parasites that you would view as symbionts in your innocence! Whether you are what you claim to be even without the chains placed on you by this weakling age! And yet you fixate on methods and "aid" that you should not need. You should exalt in this, your merit, that has won you my evaluation, and strive to prove it as befits those who deserve their pride!" Yet ultimately, the facade failed ever so slightly, and as it now stood before Erich, appearing so small as to have to look up to see his chin, a mere hint of anger showed despite it all: "I can obviously not fault you for having been raised as a tool in the slave race of which you sprung. But I must fault you if you continue to fend off your own liberation with pretense! If nothing else, keep that in mind! Perhaps my good intentions are now clearer, ch... Dr Schneider?"

[Strawberries]

Erich tenses, warning bells going off even more loudly at the back of his head, now. Slave race. The hospital is his playground and the patient his personal guinea pigs. Does anybody know? And again, on the wake of that thought. My god, he needs to be stopped.

And then, because he can do nothing else, he swallows and replies "I...I think I see.". If he is really the only one that knows what the so called "doctor" really is, then he's the only one that can stop it... but he needs to bide his time till he figures out how - and antagonising the creature further isn't a good way to achieve that goal.

Manipulation+subterfuge? (well, only manipulation, actually...) [roll0]