A Postcard from Rapture

[cmdr_zoom]

Trusty wrench in hand, Jack crept quietly through the shadows of the post-op recovery ward. He was looking for Dr. Steinman, and specifically for his Emergency Access key, which would open a way out of the Medical Pavilion. Jack didn't need Atlas to tell him that Steinman was unlikely to cooperate peacefully. He'd heard enough of the plastic surgeon's recorded thoughts, left on tapes all over the hospital - the man loved to hear himself talk - to know that he was completely insane. That left violence. Fortunately, Jack was good at violence.

Pushing aside a metal gate with his free hand (a hand that was now veined with blue lightning) and holding the wrench at the ready in case another lunatic jumped out at him, Jack passed under a cheery red neon sign advertising "Steinman's Aesthetic Ideals" - the name of his practice, in this strange underwater city where everything, including human life, had its price. Just beyond was a small reception area and waiting room. Jack helped himself to the automated medical station, perhaps placed there for the convenience of clients with more general complaints, and did one other small thing before heading through the next set of doors. He could hear a familiar voice coming from up ahead, but the tone was different: not smug or dreamy, as he'd heard it before, but desperate and frenzied.

"What can I do with this one, Aphrodite? She WON'T... STAY... STILL!" Each angry word was accompanied by a horrible wet, meaty sound and gurgling sobs. Jack peered carefully around the corner. Steinman, in a bloody surgical gown and gloves, was standing over an operating table on the other side of a large window. A woman in the remains of a nurse's dress was strapped to that table, struggling feebly against the restraints. Her chest and abdomen were a mass of gore; Jack was amazed she was still alive, but remembered the freakish vigor and resilience of some of the other residents he'd already encountered. In this case, however, it was only prolonging her torture.

"I want to make them beautiful, but they always turn out WRONG!" With a snarl of frustration and another stab of his scalpel, Steinman turned away from the pathetic thing on the table and reached for a control. More lights came on in the operating theater, each one revealing the crucified remains of a previous "patient" hanging from the ceiling. "That one - too fat! This one - too tall! This one - too symmetrical! And now..."

Appalled by the spectacle, Jack had edged out from his hiding place, and the surgeon finally took notice of him. "What's this, goddess? An intruder! He's ugly! Ugly, ugly, UGLYYYY!"

As his cries of disgust reached a crescendo, Steinman grabbed a Tommy gun from under the operating table and sprayed the big window with bullets, shattering it. Jack, guessing what was about to happen, had already dived for cover; only a few tiny shards of glass touched him. He swore and drew his recently-acquired shotgun over his shoulder, making sure it was fully loaded with shells.

"Look at him, hideous!" Steinman screeched as Jack charged into the operating room through one of the twin doors, crouching low to avoid the bullets that whizzed over his head to shatter wall tiles and puncture supply cabinets. A chaotic close-quarters gunfight ensued, the cluttered and unevenly-lit operating room offering plenty of cover for both. Steinman was careless with his aim and his ammunition, hosing the Thompson around whenever Jack showed himself. Jack was grazed several times and took a hit in the shoulder, but one of the miraculous first aid kits he'd found in the city healed the wound almost immediately. Steinman's uncanny ability to take multiple shotgun blasts to the torso without falling down was probably related to that somehow.

Finally the mad doctor seemed to realize that some of the blood on his gown (which now had more holes than a wheel of Swiss cheese) was his own. "I'm not FINISHED!" Steinman protested, bursting from cover and making a run for it. Jack popped up and fired, but only managed to nick the fleeing surgeon with a few balls. Cursing, Jack paused to reload - that had been the last shell in the gun - before following.

A strangled cry came from the other side of the doors just as Jack kicked them open. Steinman stood there, straining and convulsing, his wrists locked into the health station that Jack had had the foresight to rewire earlier. God only knew what the needles were pumping into his veins. Jack brought the shotgun up... then, as the machine released his opponent, reversed the weapon and clubbed the man to the floor with the stock. He kept doing it, lifting the stock and bringing it down again, smashing those handsome features into bloody pulp, until brains started leaking out onto the checkered tiles.

As Jack stood over the body, holding the doctor's key in one hand - Steinman had been wearing it around his neck, like dog tags - a saying came to him. He didn't remember where he'd heard it, but it seemed appropriate.

"Physician, heal thyself."

Comments

[karjack.livejournal.com]

Mmm visceral.

[cmdr-zoom.livejournal.com]

It's that kinda game.

[shadur.livejournal.com]

Yes. Yes, it is.

Nicely written, too.

[cmdr-zoom.livejournal.com]

Thanks. I can't take any credit for the (wonderfully written and acted) Mad Totally Bugfuck Dr. Steinman's monologue, but the rest... well, that's actually how it turned out for me. With just a couple of embellishments, like using the shotgun as a melee weapon instead of the wrench.