* SEND ME A 🖋 AND A CHARACTER YOU’D LIKE TO SEE ME WRITE, AND I’LL GIVE IT MY BEST SHOT! / @mineheiress SENT IN: HERMAN CARTER, THE DOCTOR.
CARTER DOES NOT MOVE INITIALLY, his back facing the Nurse. He hears her trembled words, and yet, will not turn from his work to address her face - to - face. The Doctor parts his mouth to speak, and the voice that leaves him is incredibly distorted; static on a livewire. His vocal box has been destroyed in his throat, burnt out, ruptured from the electricity that courses through his vessel as if it were his blood, his ichor. He commands a voice like shattered thunder, echoes in a tone that sounds unfathomably deep. “You need me?”
He finds her plea almost… endearing. It humors this monster, clad in his scarlet flecked lab coat, wires poking out scorched flesh like veins. Indeed, his work was vastly desired in life. Secret government agencies sought him out for his capabilities, his logic, his knowledge when it came to mind control. They wanted to weaponize it for their own gain. He sought to weaponize his logic too... but he wanted to change the world. What he had achieved prior to being selected by the great Spider Herself would have certainly changed the course of history, of mankind. He would have been a God among mankind, reducing officials to trembling children at his feet. But alas, in here, although he wields electricity, this modern made Zeus, he is not the most powerful creature to walk fractured, auric earth; Herman’s successes have been stripped from mortal plane and hidden among the fog and bloodshed of this world, and though he walks with the prowess and confidence of a king, shoulders back, bloodshot gaze steely, he knows there is another that is more favourable within eight beady, all-knowing eyes. But Macmillan is not here. The Institute is his terrority, his kingdom; where his experiments rattle around in their eternal, steel cage tombs, eyelids peeled back, mouths permanently stapled in distorted grimaces as their bodies are purged from within to uncover every nerve, every vein, every pulse point. Smithson has floated down into the very depths of the madman’s study, the whispering, red hazy glow of crimson-splattered basement, seeking his help, and his help alone. He repeats himself: “You need me?”
He asks for reaffirmation. Not many would seek him out personally. This man is feared among survivor and killer alike, his wavelength piercing skulls, minds, sanity. He hears the breath in her throat rattle as she nods. Carter asks one final time, seeking a verbal response. “You need me?” Finally, this overwhelming presence turns to address his company, make visual contact with the stained pillowcase that covers ringlet curls and broken, gaping maw. She has come to his metaphorical temple without offering. Only the desperate, wheezed breath in her lungs and shaking, burnt hands clutching at stained, soot-sprayed nightgown.
"Yes," She pleads, "I need your help, for I fear It will punish me." She fears the Entity. As do many. No Killer is free from the threat of the Entity. It may indulge on the souls and suffering of survivors, but there is nothing to stop it from one day switching monstrous appetite to an apex predator diet. Without response, Carter swiftly makes to ascend the staircase; climbs from his perch within his crumbling Olympus with one hand spread. Electricity curls ‘round his fingers, bright blue current dancing between each digit, his palm, crackles with the disorted thrum of a tesla coil.
It is easy for survivors to forget their place within these halls. But the Doctor is confident he can have his patients all returned to their seats momentarily. After-all, he's keen to conduct a thorough examination. The human mind has always fascinated him --- its secrets, its capabilities. He wonders just how much voltage their minds can take, before shattering like shards of glass.
