[ there's a goddamn reason herbert west applied for a transfer to miskatonic medical school in massachusetts and not UNE in maine. granted, that reason was primarily academic rigor, but mr. west isn't particularly fond of maine's climate, either. deerington has over the past twelve hours shown itself to be far worse than biddeford and presumably also much further north, but there seems to be more to it than that: this is obviously some kind of an afterlife, a universe governed by different laws than the one he'd so violently exited the previous day.
his body heat is leaving him more than it should be, even when he's indoors and insulated by multiple layers. his fingertips are even beginning to show early stage 2 frostbite — and being that he lacks the regenerative abilities of many salamanders, this is a tremendous concern.
herbert's a naturally suspicious person, but he's also a realist, and as such, he's able to recognize that he's in no position to turn down the matches someone seems to have left out for him. when the first burns down and shows him a vision of—what else?—himself speaking into a microphone as he revives a deceased patient onstage, looking out at a sea of faces in a dimly lit auditorium like something from a hans christian andersen tale, he saves the tiny nub that's left in the hopes of later testing it for psychotropic properties but lights the second anyway. he'd like to keep his extremities.
he uses the temporary blessing of warmth to get a better sense for his surroundings; while he notices that the presence of others seems to amplify the warmth it gives off, that's not enough of a draw to entice herbert west to seek out the company of others. he has things to accomplish and a limited window of time to do them in, so he continues around the perimeter of the town, weaving in and out of buildings, asking what he can when it suits him.
when he realizes that the second match is burning down, herbert deliberately makes his way to the edge of this little civilization and sits down on a snow-sheeted birch log to wait for its death. it he's going to hallucinate again, he would prefer for that to happen without an audience. but it doesn't.
the match burns out and his surroundings remain the same, quiet, indifferent to his presence as the warmth fades from his body. he's reaching for the third when he hears the dull crunch of fresh snow under nearing footsteps, followed by a voice he'd come to know well.
"West?"
herbert sets the match down and looks over his shoulder. he doesn't recall getting up or leaving the box on the log, but he's standing when he grasps dan cain's bare arms—bare, given that he's wearing his green surgical scrubs in the 12 degree weather—and greets him. ]
Dan—I thought you lived! Now, listen, this is a setback, but this place seems developed enough for it to be possible for us to continue our—
[ "Herbert, you're not dead. Neither am I. You're drugged up from surgery and you're cold because they didn't bring you enough blankets."
well, that's a tremendous relief. he supposes it makes sense. dan squeezes his shoulder through the weight of the parka he's presently cocooned in; herbert smiles at him.
"Take that ridiculous thing off, will you? It's time to go wake up. We have work to do."
maybe all those stories about patients being told to get up weren't just spun to make themselves feel better about nearly encountering death. it occurs to him, dimly, that on the off chance this isn't a dream, fumbling with the icy zipper of his parka and shucking it off into the snow would be a terrible idea, probably close to paradoxical undressing in victims of hypothermia, but he does so regardless. the cold is terrible, bone-chewing, enough for his teeth to ache when he inhales.
the second set of tangible, very much real footsteps behind him go entirely unnoticed. ]
2 / RASKOLNIKOV FELT SICK. | warnings for body horror/gore/eye trauma.
[ herbert isn't fool enough to do anything but dive behind the trunk of a massive elm the instant he sees the beast — it looks like something out of a low-budget slasher film, dripping and panting and full of jagged teeth, and west, having very recently died himself, has no interest in tangling with any more creatures than he already has over the past thirty-two.
he's got nothing to fight it off with, and despite the horns at the top of its head, the thing's dentition and front-facing eyes both suggest it's a predator, not anything within a million light years of the nearest artiodactyl (phylogenetically speaking, at least). not good. he scans the blanket of snow in his periphery for something, anything—a fallen branch, a chunk of granite, a rusted animal trap—nothing.
the thing takes a loud step in his direction, compacting fresh snow under the weight of its feet. it seems much more interested in him— maybe it can still smell carrion on his clothes; the flare of its massive nostrils would support that theory.
it's approaching. herbert west isn't idiot enough to run; he's under no delusion that he's faster than whatever this thing is, and fleeing will undoubtedly only cement him as a prey animal in its primitive brain. so he stays completely frozen even as it approaches, deliberately slowing his respirations to keep his chest as still as possible. as for his pulse, well, there's nothing to be done about the frantic speed of his heartbeat, nor the perspiration gathering between his spine and dress shirt. ]
[ to this scene's sole witness, he grits out: ]Kill. It. The base...of the skull.
[ that thought, along with every other thought racing through his head, is wiped away the second the animal turns its heavy skull in his direction and meets herbert west's own front-facing eyes. he's there again, in switzerland, breathing in air thick with formaldehyde and ethanol and old paper, and somehow, he's aware that he's not alone as the memory seizes his consciousness.
« stopping CPR. the inert surface of his PI's jugular vein against his index and middle fingers. pulling his own tie loose with one hand and fumbling for the shatterproof plastic bottle of reagent he'd snatched up and brought with him when the man collapsed with the other. filling the syringe, the gentle resistance of the plunger as he pushed the reagent into dr. gruber's cerebrospinal fluid. and then nothing.
eight seconds. nine seconds. ten seconds. nothing. twelve. thirteen. nothing. now the sweat glistening on his skin isn't just from the exertion of two minutes of chest compressions. get up. doctor gruber, get up.
he fills the syringe with another five ccs. injects them.
hans gruber's fingers begin to twitch. he starts screaming like an infant that's just entered the world, or re-entered, as it were. herbert fumbles for a pen and starts writing notes he can translate into german later with the wrong hand. it's working. he stabilizes the man's body with the hand that's free—and then there are voices on the other side of the door: doktor gruber? herr doktor? herr west! herr west!
no, no, no, no, no, not now!
glass shatters. polizei and dr. fleischer from across the hall and the laboratory coordinator who presumably called them here rush him, start pulling him away, as though they're in any place to guide dr. gruber through his re-entry into the world of the living, as though they've completed three years of medical school and two years of graduate research on this very procedure.
gruber stands up. frantic hope surges through herbert's chest at the same time the officer's grasp weakens and he seizes the opportunity to run across the room and stand before his adviser, squeezing both forearms to keep him stable.
Doctor Gruber!
[ there's no response. there's no indication of name recognition or higher brain function. he grasps his head and screams louder, bearing his blood-flecked teeth in a snarl of agony as his eyes begin to bleed and bulge. blood geysers. herbert hears himself scream right along with the rest of them as his adviser dies a second time, this time barely resisting as the polizei rush him and haul him back to the edge of the room.
dr. fleischer steps forward and checks his pulse as though what he'll find is any mystery to any of them.
'er ist tot.' as though they don't all already know this. as though herbert's fatal mistake hasn't already been laid abundantly clear. ]
Of course he's dead, the dosage was too large.
[ i didn't wait long enough. i wasn't confident enough in our work. ] »
[ the memory ends as abruptly as it began, leaving herbert stunned just long enough for the beast in front of him to wrap its tongue around his arm with crushing pressure, then his trunk. he thrashes, tries to turn his head in such a way that he might be able to bite it, all to no avail. ]
A rock! Give me a rock, something to slice it with!
3 / NETWORK.
UN: HERBERTWEST
I am looking for a suitable laboratory space to continue the research I was performing before my death. Nonporous floors, running water, electricity, and ample counter space are a necessity. I am quiet and considerate. Send me a message if you are interested in negotiating a lease agreement or know of a space which might fit my needs.
4 / GOING TO MAINE.
[ wildcard! also i may end up dumping some other minor prompts here eventually. if you wanna plot something feel free to shoot me a pp @ bluehellgazette. thank you all for sitting thru...whatever this was ]
herbert west đź—˛ re-animator
[ there's a goddamn reason herbert west applied for a transfer to miskatonic medical school in massachusetts and not UNE in maine. granted, that reason was primarily academic rigor, but mr. west isn't particularly fond of maine's climate, either. deerington has over the past twelve hours shown itself to be far worse than biddeford and presumably also much further north, but there seems to be more to it than that: this is obviously some kind of an afterlife, a universe governed by different laws than the one he'd so violently exited the previous day.
his body heat is leaving him more than it should be, even when he's indoors and insulated by multiple layers. his fingertips are even beginning to show early stage 2 frostbite — and being that he lacks the regenerative abilities of many salamanders, this is a tremendous concern.
herbert's a naturally suspicious person, but he's also a realist, and as such, he's able to recognize that he's in no position to turn down the matches someone seems to have left out for him. when the first burns down and shows him a vision of—what else?—himself speaking into a microphone as he revives a deceased patient onstage, looking out at a sea of faces in a dimly lit auditorium like something from a hans christian andersen tale, he saves the tiny nub that's left in the hopes of later testing it for psychotropic properties but lights the second anyway. he'd like to keep his extremities.
he uses the temporary blessing of warmth to get a better sense for his surroundings; while he notices that the presence of others seems to amplify the warmth it gives off, that's not enough of a draw to entice herbert west to seek out the company of others. he has things to accomplish and a limited window of time to do them in, so he continues around the perimeter of the town, weaving in and out of buildings, asking what he can when it suits him.
when he realizes that the second match is burning down, herbert deliberately makes his way to the edge of this little civilization and sits down on a snow-sheeted birch log to wait for its death. it he's going to hallucinate again, he would prefer for that to happen without an audience. but it doesn't.
the match burns out and his surroundings remain the same, quiet, indifferent to his presence as the warmth fades from his body. he's reaching for the third when he hears the dull crunch of fresh snow under nearing footsteps, followed by a voice he'd come to know well.
"West?"
herbert sets the match down and looks over his shoulder. he doesn't recall getting up or leaving the box on the log, but he's standing when he grasps dan cain's bare arms—bare, given that he's wearing his green surgical scrubs in the 12 degree weather—and greets him. ]
Dan—I thought you lived! Now, listen, this is a setback, but this place seems developed enough for it to be possible for us to continue our—
[ "Herbert, you're not dead. Neither am I. You're drugged up from surgery and you're cold because they didn't bring you enough blankets."
well, that's a tremendous relief. he supposes it makes sense. dan squeezes his shoulder through the weight of the parka he's presently cocooned in; herbert smiles at him.
"Take that ridiculous thing off, will you? It's time to go wake up. We have work to do."
maybe all those stories about patients being told to get up weren't just spun to make themselves feel better about nearly encountering death. it occurs to him, dimly, that on the off chance this isn't a dream, fumbling with the icy zipper of his parka and shucking it off into the snow would be a terrible idea, probably close to paradoxical undressing in victims of hypothermia, but he does so regardless. the cold is terrible, bone-chewing, enough for his teeth to ache when he inhales.
the second set of tangible, very much real footsteps behind him go entirely unnoticed. ]
2 / RASKOLNIKOV FELT SICK. | warnings for body horror/gore/eye trauma.
[ herbert isn't fool enough to do anything but dive behind the trunk of a massive elm the instant he sees the beast — it looks like something out of a low-budget slasher film, dripping and panting and full of jagged teeth, and west, having very recently died himself, has no interest in tangling with any more creatures than he already has over the past thirty-two.
he's got nothing to fight it off with, and despite the horns at the top of its head, the thing's dentition and front-facing eyes both suggest it's a predator, not anything within a million light years of the nearest artiodactyl (phylogenetically speaking, at least). not good. he scans the blanket of snow in his periphery for something, anything—a fallen branch, a chunk of granite, a rusted animal trap—nothing.
the thing takes a loud step in his direction, compacting fresh snow under the weight of its feet. it seems much more interested in him— maybe it can still smell carrion on his clothes; the flare of its massive nostrils would support that theory.
it's approaching. herbert west isn't idiot enough to run; he's under no delusion that he's faster than whatever this thing is, and fleeing will undoubtedly only cement him as a prey animal in its primitive brain. so he stays completely frozen even as it approaches, deliberately slowing his respirations to keep his chest as still as possible. as for his pulse, well, there's nothing to be done about the frantic speed of his heartbeat, nor the perspiration gathering between his spine and dress shirt. ]
[ to this scene's sole witness, he grits out: ] Kill. It. The base...of the skull.
[ that thought, along with every other thought racing through his head, is wiped away the second the animal turns its heavy skull in his direction and meets herbert west's own front-facing eyes. he's there again, in switzerland, breathing in air thick with formaldehyde and ethanol and old paper, and somehow, he's aware that he's not alone as the memory seizes his consciousness.
« stopping CPR. the inert surface of his PI's jugular vein against his index and middle fingers. pulling his own tie loose with one hand and fumbling for the shatterproof plastic bottle of reagent he'd snatched up and brought with him when the man collapsed with the other. filling the syringe, the gentle resistance of the plunger as he pushed the reagent into dr. gruber's cerebrospinal fluid. and then nothing.
eight seconds. nine seconds. ten seconds. nothing. twelve. thirteen. nothing. now the sweat glistening on his skin isn't just from the exertion of two minutes of chest compressions. get up. doctor gruber, get up.
he fills the syringe with another five ccs. injects them.
hans gruber's fingers begin to twitch. he starts screaming like an infant that's just entered the world, or re-entered, as it were. herbert fumbles for a pen and starts writing notes he can translate into german later with the wrong hand. it's working. he stabilizes the man's body with the hand that's free—and then there are voices on the other side of the door: doktor gruber? herr doktor? herr west! herr west!
no, no, no, no, no, not now!
glass shatters. polizei and dr. fleischer from across the hall and the laboratory coordinator who presumably called them here rush him, start pulling him away, as though they're in any place to guide dr. gruber through his re-entry into the world of the living, as though they've completed three years of medical school and two years of graduate research on this very procedure.
gruber stands up. frantic hope surges through herbert's chest at the same time the officer's grasp weakens and he seizes the opportunity to run across the room and stand before his adviser, squeezing both forearms to keep him stable.
Doctor Gruber!
[ there's no response. there's no indication of name recognition or higher brain function. he grasps his head and screams louder, bearing his blood-flecked teeth in a snarl of agony as his eyes begin to bleed and bulge. blood geysers. herbert hears himself scream right along with the rest of them as his adviser dies a second time, this time barely resisting as the polizei rush him and haul him back to the edge of the room.
dr. fleischer steps forward and checks his pulse as though what he'll find is any mystery to any of them.
'er ist tot.' as though they don't all already know this. as though herbert's fatal mistake hasn't already been laid abundantly clear. ]
Of course he's dead, the dosage was too large.
[ i didn't wait long enough. i wasn't confident enough in our work. ] »
[ the memory ends as abruptly as it began, leaving herbert stunned just long enough for the beast in front of him to wrap its tongue around his arm with crushing pressure, then his trunk. he thrashes, tries to turn his head in such a way that he might be able to bite it, all to no avail. ]
A rock! Give me a rock, something to slice it with!
3 / NETWORK.
UN: HERBERTWEST
I am looking for a suitable laboratory space to continue the research I was performing before my death. Nonporous floors, running water, electricity, and ample counter space are a necessity. I am quiet and considerate. Send me a message if you are interested in negotiating a lease agreement or know of a space which might fit my needs.
4 / GOING TO MAINE.
[ wildcard! also i may end up dumping some other minor prompts here eventually. if you wanna plot something feel free to shoot me a pp @