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Death and Dying ^_^ [Open]; Morbid much? :P
Topic Started: Feb 2 2011, 08:18 AM (1,271 Views)
Mash_Potato

The thing about healing people is that ill and wounded people have to be studied first to make any form of reasonable intervention, and where better to look around for those lovely examples of disease and trauma than that of a hospital.

The first time Julian had visited the hospital was simply to get some medication for his allergies at the outpatient pharmacy. And there had been one of the friendliest and most attractive pharmacists he had laid eyes on... Not that he had met many pharmacists in his lifetime but THAT was not the point. The point was that she had been kind enough to explain how pathological processes worked which has stoked the flames of his curiosity. One thing led to another and he eventually became well acquainted with the nurses and finally... with the doctor who managed the morgue.

At that very moment, he was standing by the edge of a table with a set of over-ripened organs plucked out a a body a few hours ago. Oddly, it wasn't particularly nauseating but the best way to describe the smell was warm defrosted meat, not particularly pungent and somehow devoid and unattached from the being that it once was... He slowly and systematically went through the surgical sieve creating a mental list of differential diagnoses. Cardiovascular system... Check... Respiratory... Check... Abdominal viscera... Liver, spleen, pancreas, gastrointestinal tract... Check, Check aaaand check... Neurological system... Check

Two hours later, Julian found himself sitting a bench just outside the hospital mulling over what he had seen... Cancer was always a biggy along with heart disease and chronic respiratory diseases... He glanced around, some patients were smoking outside, learning on their IV drip stands whilst others simply sat on the grass and on the steps soaking in the sun, trying to get away from the white washed prison. Julian took a bite of his sandwich and chewed ponderously.

Surely if he could heal things he cause also do the reverse... Now that was an interesting idea. Over the past few months, he had managed to get a bit of practice healing some cuts and bruises. Maybe it was time to try something new. A smile tugged slowly at the edge of his lips... He wasn't quite sure why
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HazzaH
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There were very few reasons for Illtist Fray ever to leave his studies. When the world is your laboratory, getting away from one's work is a difficult matter. But nothing drew him more then the promise of new memories. The Hyakuji Hospital was a rich filter coffee to him. A subtle blending of all the best emotions and experiences. From the immeasurable joy surrounding a child's recovery to the agony of lives cut short. It was a buffet with no end in sight.

Illtist sat in the busy reception area, quite invisible to the hustle and bustle nurses or the clipboard wielding doctors that paced about ordering this and receiving that. It wasn't that Illtist was actually unseen, more that the screen of activity gave him both entertainment and a sense of cover. He'd been there since the early morning and only been asked twice if he needed any assistance. Whether that was his talent at going unnoticed or the hospitals penchant for negligence was another question entirely.

Yet for all the security and bleached precautions, nothing could prepare a soul for his true activity: for the floors of the medical centre, both above and below, filled with half dead or sleep patients where now the play grounds of ghosts. Phased out of sync with this reality, they floated from this ward to that, sampling and stealing the memories from the sick, the elderly, the broken, the young, new borns and even a recently dead. They appeared only for a brief second, usually hidden, snatching up the collections of flicker, squealing clothe that constituted a persons memories when manhandled by the powers of the Planeswalker and his memory golem army.
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Mash_Potato

The grey winged boy gathered his possessions and tossed the wrapper of his sandwich into a rubbish bin as he passed through the hospital entrance, glass doors automatically sealing shut behind him. Winter still had its icy grip and the warmth in the reception area was a welcome respite.

It was difficult getting around the hospital with wings on his back... Far too many people had the tendency to imagine that their time had come. Surely he had brought about a fair amount of spiritual and religious conviction. An angel of death perhaps? Or one of salvation... It was an interesting thought and he inwardly chuckled at the speculations.

And yet... That very question was one he had struggled to answer himself.

"Excuse me." Julian said stepping around a man who seemed around his thirties and briefly spoke to a ward sister, asking for permission to just look around. Julian slipped down to the neurological wards... A comatose patient... He had suffered a stroke and was as close to brain dead as it got without shutdown of bodily function but in accordance to the wishes of the family, he was on life support.

Beep... Beep... Beep... The blip of the heart monitor whipped back and forth tiresomely keeping death at bay. The rasping heaves dragged air kicking and screaming into the lungs of a body gone too far.

Julian looked down at the tag around his wrist. "Mr Matsumoto," the boy whispered to himself. "I'm sorry, but I'm going to borrow your body for a moment, I'll put it back the way it was afterwards of course and if possible make it better than it was before."

The flow of energy and life was so weak, more like a quiet drip from a broken faucet than a flow. Julian picked up Mr Matsumoto's hand and felt for any injuries the fifty something year old patient might have. Something simple and basic. Bedsores, that would work.

The slow steady warmth would slip from his fingertips and dissipate into the bloodstream, the small vessels on his back and arms would need to be repaired. The epithelial and endothelial cells would proliferate and knit the blood vessel back together whilst leucocytes and macrophages would phagocytose and remove any debris and heamosiderin that was left behind by the broken down red blood cells... He'd done that before. Now... It was time to do the reverse... And it was now that Julian realized how simply it was... All he had to do was induce cell death by messing with the cell membrane, causing it to breakdown and bursting a blood vessel, allowing natures natural course to cause the damage.

As Julian came to this realisation he whispered some lines from John Donne's Sonnet...
"One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And Death shall be no more, Death, thou shalt die."

Hidden underneath his jacket, his wings slowly became tinged with a deeper shade of grey whilst his eyes burned themselves from a light brown to a dangerous amber.
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HazzaH
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Even the gift of life giving did not alert the winged boy of the bustle of activity around him. His entrances was not expected here in this hall of sleepers and if only he could see their dreams he'd know the horror show he'd walked in to. Just out of phase with the world of the real and flesh and living, the Remnants swarmed in frustration. They swirled around like purposeless mayflies, disturbed from their work on the memories of the sleepers. Their master had been very forceful with his intent here: they were not to be seen.

Yet here someone tread on their appointed tasks. Their master would not like this either. But wait. There is something unnatural here, about this boy. They could feel the power being used and knew it to be not of average limits; limits which since coming to this city were slowly growing. But what the Remnants felt, Illtist knew. From below, within seated lobby, the Planeswalker stood up. He was grinning, finally something of interest between the rolling coughs and cries of children. He took off at a pace, careful not to rush, as to attract unneeded attention. Between himself and the crowded stairs that lead to this new quarry, his Remnants slipped and flowed; phasing through the hospital walls and working in the throngs. Their quick claws distracted people, stealing a memory or two with a quick pitch that made them forget, just for a moment, what they were doing. It held them still while they remembered and gave Illtist a clean line to the maintenance stairs. He slipped by fast, his Remnants accompanying him while the larger host kept watch of the boy in the neurology ward. Illtist didn't need to hide himself in the secluded stair case and forged his limbs into lashing tendrils, bounding floors at a time off the balustrade.

He finally came to the floor he'd been told, shifting back into a more acceptable, human form before stealing himself in the the quite hallways. Apart from one very bored looking nurse, who sat at her desk adsorbed in a drawing, there was little activity. Illtist found his mark, like a tiger with the scent of new born faun. He phased into the unreality his Remnants watched the boy from, and stepped through the wall to obverse the room's occupants safely unseen.
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Mash_Potato

The slow and destructive process of cell death descended upon like a swarm of locusts, gnawing at the the proteins, gutting the cell of the contents. The fine cappillaries burst forth, flooding the area with blood and the platelets set to work, desperately trying to hold the banks... Except... Bedsores take many days to occur... So he had simply reactivated the sore that were there before

Slowly he felt a sliver of life force slip away as it was drawn towards his hands, creating a cold vacuum and dissipating into nothing. Julian squirmed uncomfortably as he realized that no matter how normal the process seemed, it was still highly unnatural. No, he couldn't turn back now, he was committed, what would be the point... And so he forced the process, broke the skin and then he stopped. Stage 2 bedsores. That was enough. No more. He felt nausea and guilt slowly wash over him and somewhere within him, blazing red eyes broke out into a sinister, twisted grin.

Had he lost his innocence? What would his father think?... And Twelve? Casey?... And... Akira?... Memories were brought to mind of the help he had received in those early days, those intimate moments on quiet nights, those hilarious collisions in unlikely cirumstances. They all simply served to sharpen his conscience as it bit deeper and tore his gash wider.
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HazzaH
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Ignorant of whatever inner conflict bewitched the boy, Illtist watched from another dimension entirely transfixed on the exchange occurring before him. While he could not sense the movement of the life energy or the unseen damage being done to the sleeper's body; Illtist could sense the emotional disturbance echoing off the boy; and it resonated in countless realities the winged boy could not possibly begin to understand. It was here that Illtist's feelers spread, and drank deeply of possibilities.

This boy, with his unnerving presence, danced a fine line between his sense of good and evil. It did not take Illtist unnatural sense to detect that. He read him as Illtist had done countless others; his choice of location told much of his intentions. This child was experimenting with things he was told better to leave alone. In this, the Planeswalker found the only reason he needed to interact.

He sent several Remnants to deal with the distracted nurse at the front desk while he personally attended to this fellow experimenter. Illtist stepped behind the boy, who's attention was still so focused. Shifting his will, his physical form manifested in the Prime reality, his arm taking shape as a massive blade. He needed not draw breath, for he did not breath. If the boy did not detect the being behind him, the blade would run him through quite easily as Illtist thrust it upwardly. But this attack was not a physical one, it would penetrate the boy's essence, it was intended to rip from him his memories.
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Mash_Potato

Julian's conscience lashed him into action. He had to fix this. This thing that HE had done. Drawing on those very memories that had sharpened his conscience, he hoped to sharpen his healing abilities to atone for his transgression.

He drew on the first memory he could remember of healing any creature. His name was Pip, or rather, its name was Pip. His pet crow and lifelong companion. He had managed to mend its broken wing. Then there was Akira... At the ruined library... She had received a stab wound in order to protect the white-winged innocent boy he once was. One of the most precious memories he had. Finally, there was his father during his recovery from the heart attack. He had poured his soul and life into honing his healing ability to help his father recovery before finally he was flung into he Kingdom Hearts, where there was little to speak of his activity.

Each of these event were important to him, each brought him a step closer to his current adeptness over his ability. One by pure over-charged emotion, one by focus and self sacrifice and one by intensive study and experimentation. He tried to bring these together, intertwining it into a rope that would bind strongly enough to drag the harm done to Mr Matsumoto back over the line of permanence.

He began to heal the middle-aged Japanese man, stimulating the right factors and bringing in the necessary components. Warmth spread from his hands into the patient's body whilst high above, a silver-lined cloud pulsed in time with the healing that was taking place.

It took a great deal of concentration to heal the patient of all the minor wounds but it felt good. Now, maybe... Just maybe he could try heal the damaged nervous tissue. The rest of the world blurred around him... He became oblivious to his surroundings.
Edited by Mash_Potato, Feb 7 2011, 04:58 PM.
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HazzaH
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The large blade connects with the boy's frame, and while the impact carries the force of physical hit, the blade carries right on through. It cuts memory and feeling, by passing skin, organ and bone; but it leaves a chilling pain that spread outwards like fire on a gasoline. Rising through blood and muscle, an electric current as memories are severed and ripped. As it reaches the centre of the boy's being, his heart of hearts, Illtist gave an inward sign of pride and tilts his head with a black satisfaction over his next intention.

Rather then let his attack carve all the way through he acted quickly and shifted his partials within the sword arm and now the blade spread, it's lacerations breaking into countless barb wire tendrils. Vicious and without order, they lash themselves to memories so deep the child would be unable to recall. They wove themselves into his very soul, like stitching on a poorly made doll; piercing his skin and snaking about his wings. Then, with not even a snicker or a grin, Illtist pulled back with his full weight and tore out a massive, squirming, screaming quilt of the boy's memory cloth. The pain, Illtist hoped, would be enough to render the boy unconscious while he worked. If not, he would have to work the hard way.

While the Planeswalker waited to see the effects on the boy and his patient, the memories where being drawn into the tangled mess of barbs that was Illtist arm, still crying to return to the warmth of the shell they were so freshly cut. His arm took on a mouth, a toothy grin spreading to his shoulder, slurping and devouring the memories like a hound as they scratched at the floor, tucked at the bedding to return to their young creator.


(OOC: sorry for the delay)
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Mash_Potato

(OOC: Don't worry about it, life happens. I've been out of creative juice lately >_> sorry, if it's a mediocre post)

Julian's world had narrowed into a tunnel vision focus where all he could see was the task of healing the damage done to the oxygen starved neurons of Mr Matsumoto's brain. It was so difficult... And futile. One can only heal something that is alive, anything past that would be necromancy or resurrection. Yet before he could make any attempt at healing, a sudden sharp and searing pain ripped through him.

"Aaaaaah! Aaah!" Julian screamed and his knees collapsed onto the floor. His face contorted and his body twisted and twitched with pain, caught totally off guard he had almost passed out.

The winged boy gasped for air and moan in between breaths as he gripped the edge of the bed. Tears blurred his vision but he still wished to see who his assailant was the best he could. He twisted himself around, leaning his shoulders against the top of the bed. He felt incapacitated. Weak. Just like so many times before. Again his vision blurred, but he couldn't be sure whether he was hallucinating or use before him was a sight which could only have been scripted out of a horror film.
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HazzaH
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ooc: No worries.

IC:

With the last of the memories cloth slurped into the maw on his side, Illtist reformed his arm and stared down at the broken boy. Within his hollow human form, Illtist's interior of squirming needles and sowing thread teeth had already begun to process the memories stolen. The information flooded in, and his mind readjusted accordingly.

"Hello Mr. Anders. Lovely to meet you." Shadowy partials swirled around his other hand, warping and finding their allotted places till Illtist was flexing a nasty looking claw. Finger tips like scalpel blades, a personal favourite, he leant down and gripped the boy by the back of his shirt collar. Hauling him up, the shirt stretching under the weight; making it remarkably uncomfortable for the pair of wings. Illtist took care not to damage them, but bed side manners where not his primary concern. Consolidating the partials of his form into muscle tissue, he lifted the body with easy, tossing him down onto the empty hospital bed adjacent to the old man Julian had been experimenting on before hand.

Working quickly, while his patient was still crowned from the blow before, Illtist spawned two of his wraiths, whom employed the bed sheets from the other empty beds as restrains, attempting to bind the boy to the stainless metal framework before he had a chance to collect himself. At the same moment, the nurse from before walked in, smiling vacantly as this was perfectly normal. The school of Remnants that hovered in after her explained that. The blip of Mr. Matsumoto's heart monitor kept a constant beat while the Remnant's worked, Illtist scraping his talons together with anticipation.

Edited by HazzaH, Feb 13 2011, 06:46 AM.
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Mash_Potato

As Julian tried to see through the the tears that blurred his vision, his eyes were met with a surreal sci-fi horror of particular matter, hollow human form and regenerating body parts. The assailant had a snap of comprehension after what seemed to be a processing of information.

"Hello Mr. Anders. Lovely to meet you."

*How does he know my name?* Julian mentally slurred to himself.

Julian was still too stunned to properly register the fear that would have raced through him a the sight of the claw and scalpel blades. He did, however, feel the uncomfortable yank of his shirt which cut into his wings as he was tossed onto the bed like a drugged adolescent girl about to be taken advantage of.

"Who... Are you?..." The winged boy mumbled groggily. He mentally shook himself to alertness but by them he found himself struggling with restraints that left him bound and helpless. The nurse walked into the vacantly walked into the ward smiling to herself. Julian's muffled cries of help and sounds of distress went unheeded.

He was growing tired and uncomfortable and it seemed there was no way out. Despair shot through his mind and his body froze to see what had sounded the gunshot.
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HazzaH
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Illtist loomed rapturously over the incapacitated subject. His claws flexing at his side; their edges rare and infinite. While the Remnants finished up the cotton sheet binding at the boy's ankles and wrist, the blerry eyed nurse walked right on by. Her company of wraiths flying off to phase back into their master, cubs returning to mother's side. The nurse nodded respectfully to Illtist, who returned it; before she silenced the heart monitor of Mr. Matsumoto, ripping the machines plug out before taking the man's bed and wheeling it with some effort away from the ward and out of sight with the screech of unkempt wheels grinding against iron.

Illtist seemed too busy to initially hear the question. He looked at the boy with a curious face. "Why, my name is Illtist Fray." he stated matter-of-factly, as if such a thing being asked was strange to him. At least in this situation. Usually people put up much more of a fuss. Calling for help and other such ridiculous notions. It wasn't as if Illtist intended for the current subject to remember his name after this anyway.

"Now for a tentative stroke." Illtist brought up his cruel hand and, index finger extended, pressed the metallic talon's tip into the boy's sternum. It did not cut clothes or burst skin and sever bone; but the pain would be there just a few millimetres into the surface. The Planeswalker dragged down the chest and stomach, making his phantom incision, razor claw accompanied by that same burning cold.
Edited by HazzaH, Feb 17 2011, 01:36 AM.
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Mash_Potato

The nurse walked in and promptly unplugged the machines, there was a good chance Mr Matsumoto would lose his life this day. Life support WAS called LIFE SUPPORT for a reason. However, it was his own life that Julian was most concerned about at this very moment. Hopefully his wouldn't slip away as easily as Mr Matsumoto has slipped out of of the ward.

"Why, my name is Illtist Fray."

Sometimes, a name could mean so much. Entire nations could rally behind a single name, symbolising the character and strength of an entire people. Other times a name could just a noise uttered by a mouth. This was one such occasion.

"Now for a tentative stroke." Illtist said as he brought down his hand. Julian felt a searing pain burn down the middle of his chest. He screamed. He screamed a muffled scream as coldness tore through him.
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HazzaH
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Illtist scraped at reeling memories of...Julian. Yes. A new face with a new name, and fresh memories; Illtist already caught glimpses of them; swimming about in the network of essences. His hand, the scissor-man’s tools, dipped deep into the boy's memories, into what Illtist believes to be the fabric of the soul. The simple laceration from the Planeswalker's abilities was enough that he knew the boy's past now.

"Well, Mr. Anders. It seems you and I are kindred spirits, but a life of secrets can be stifling. Wouldn't you agree?" Illtist had no idea if the boy could even comprehend with the pain he must be in. It wasn't odd for the alchemist to be so talkative to a subject, he often enjoyed playing with the immediate memories he was causing. Warping their perceptions of the situation to see how they would react from panic, realization to calm.

Illtist was already digesting the memories he was tearing off the boy in strips. He'd torn off whole sheets of the boy's writhing memory cloth, as if from within him like a great spool in the hands of a seamstress. It was time to use them accordingly. This boy was fractured. A broken mirror of his own blood and upbringing. A lost mother, isolation of childhood, dark urges surfacing in the presence of none who could disagree. The child was a oil field, and Illtist grinned at the possibilities.

As the nurse wheeled out the now promptly dying Mr.Matsumoto, Illtist took the boy by the head, both talons digging in deeply; the flickering down light of phosphorous added to the horror. Illtist skilfully weaved Julian's memories even as he took them, a free flow of mental surgery. With no anaesthetic sight, the pain would hopefully help the delirious affect. Illtist first took on the idea of isolation. He took Julian into his own memories, and the boy would remember more vividly then ever before, like a movie playing before his eyes. A movie he was part of.

It was the old church. The one he was brought up in, but his jolly old father was no where to be seen. The hall was empty, pews barren with but a handful of candles at the alter and exit with a afternoon sun steeping through, stained reds, oranges and blues in the glass works high above. It was warm there, and the boy's wings shone bright white. His wings. His wings were visible. He was not wearing his cloak. If anyone came in, they would see. They would know what he is. Illtist wove a sense of panic and despondence and anxiety he had plucked from the days of Julian's father being close to death; taking the very emotions of the the time and weaving them here. He waited to see the how the boy's own mind played out the scenario.
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Mash_Potato

Like an angry lecturer with the knowledge of how best to tear into one's mind, Illtist's cold clinical hands scraped along Julian's soul, reavealing the dark colour hidden beneath the chalk... The pain was mind shattering and the only way he could tell he was still screaming was that he felt light-headed from lack of air.

Illtist's scalpel and probe proceeded to cut into him, tearing out bits and pieces of... Julian wasn't quite sure what, but he knew he was losing a part of himself. He tried to fight it. He tried to grasp at whatever it was that Illtist seemed to resecting.

Slowly, images and memories came to the fore with such stark saturated colours. It was the old church. The doors were locked as usual and the afternoon sun pierced through the stained glass windows spilling blood and lighting fires broken only by the blue which attempted to wash away the carnage. He was alone. The soft footfalls that echoed thunderously in the silence reminded him of that. Thirteen years of solitude. Not even his father could understand the silent, broken smiles and faded hopes. No, there was noone quite like him... Except his mother who had left him in an empty church on the day of his birth, curled up, on the brink of tears. Just like he was now.

The light that poured in lit up his wings marking him as the perfect target during hunting season. Cast your nets, fire your rifles and light your torches, perhaps we'll catch ourselves a big one. He tore at his wings. Those cursed wings which marked him out as "special", "unique", a freak, the cause of so much loneliness. Fists full of feathers fluttered about in the silence that was interrupted only by his muffled cries.

He looked up at the altar, the cross, the comfort that was in his Saviour. The candles. The candles were flickering back and forth. He jerked his head back, no the doors were still closed so it wasn't a draught. Someone was in here. Someone knew. Panic ripped viciously into his chest and his heart raced. Smother all the light and find solice in darkness. He sprinted to the altar and ripped the cloth off. The candelabras fell to the ground and suddenly, the carpet caught alight and quickly raced across the pews.

Fear flared up as quickly as the fire had and he sprinted towards the exit. Locked. From the outside. It was a trap. Someone had planned this all along. He spun around and collapsed with his back dragging along the heavy wooden doors. The smoke was making him light headed and his eyes were watering. The heat licked his skin, hungry for his flesh.
Edited by Mash_Potato, Feb 24 2011, 04:12 AM.
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