Friedrich Knochengeiger
Location: I.A.V. Retribution, Out Of Service Lavatory
The insufferable fool with the ridiculous moustache kept insisting upon speaking to him. He was a fop, a dandy at best; a man with zero intrinsic value past what organs and tissues could be harvested from his remains, following a death he was already planning somewhere in the obvious reaches of his cold, logical brain. If he had to listen to one more overly worded sentence from that man, or the darker man that took over his Med Bay, he didn't know what nefarious, murderous plots he would put into action. Point of fact, he was already in the embryo stages of what he
might do. All he needed was one good reason and proper opportunity.
Check that. All he needed was proper opportunity.
Finger didn't even bother trying to tell the cravat wearing bastard where to go, and what to do when he got there. In that moment, all he wanted to do was locate and utilize the facilities necessary for one who was bound by the mammalian law of nutritional absorption and digestion. That final step, to be specific. It seemed an unnecessarily messy affair; if his research somehow stumbled upon a way to completely do away with food intake, and thus the inevitable, resulting excretion of waste products thereof (or "Dump", for the layman), he would be a happy volunteer for his own process. It was a detestable, seemingly unnecessary process, much like the people with which he now worked - check that - with which he was trapped in a huge, metal tube, propelled through the vast nothingness of raw, black space. Detestable and unnecessary, all of them.
Well, perhaps not
all of them. The Pilot was necessary, at least from his point of view. The
good Doctor did not know how to operate such a vessel. But he was most assuredly detestable. Friedrich had given the insubordinate man a simple scenario: Defy the Captain's orders and refuse to launch the vessel until he was sure that personal and medical supplies were accounted for, upon threat of cannibalizing the crew's fluids and organs in case of a medical emergency. It seemed very logical, with no risk on his own part. But the spoiled mendicant refused to give in to his attempt to intimidate. That would not be tolerated in the future. Friedrich was the
Ship's Doctor, and everyone would learn to fear and respect him, one way or another. Oh yes, they would indeed.
But first, the restraints of biology still had some control over him, giving him non-verbal commands of action that could not be put off for long. He was safe and alone inside of the first, closetlike room he came across that offered the necessary fixtures promising relief from his current situation. Yes, one good "Dump", to use the vernacular, and he would get to work making these peoples' lives miserable and short. Friedrich would have a huge stockpile of lungs and eyeballs before this trip was over. He could almost taste it.
With his disciplined behaviors, Dr. Knochengeiger kept to a strict diet of light poultry, cruciferous vegetables, and legume products. This made for an organized and succinct experience of bowel evacuation, taking no more than a couple of minutes. Naturally, he had no desire to be exposed to the sight nor odor of his own, personal leavings, and so made the decision to activate the flushing mechanism while still seated. It seemed a simple solution to an understandable and easily surmountable difficulty. Were this a public restroom (a thing he would scarcely ever be found within unless no other options were made available), it would even be called a "Courtesy Flush". Finger was nothing if not courteous. With confidence in his decision to do so, he remained seated, reached back behind him, and depressed the mechanism designed to empty the bowl upon which he rested.
And suddenly, he could not move.
Confusion hit first, until his disciplined mind ran through possibilities for this unexpected state of affairs. His posterior seemed stuck to the toilet. Logically, he considered vacuum as the culprit. Yes of course. Despite a lack of direct education in Engineering, he did have knowledge that was transferable in the form of Physical Sciences. It made sense. He was caught in a relatively minor vacuum, probably triggered by air displaced from the bowl into the holding tanks. If the bilge were vented following takeoff, there very well could be negative pressure built up that he triggered by opening the path between this room and the tanks. No problem. All he needed to do was equalize pressure, and all would sort itself out.
Casually, Friedrich reached back again. One hand braced against a rail to pull himself free, while the other rested atop the physical "flush" mechanism. A simultaneous Push and Pull tactic would be sufficient, he reasoned, to free him from his porcelain Bastille. His judgement was beyond reproach. Even from himself. Dr. Knochengeiger readied himself, and with a great heave, strained against the vacuum in an endeavor for freedom.
He failed.
The nanosecond that he depressed the flush mechanism a second time, the full conceptual awareness of his utter, incompetent misread of the situation struck him. The pressure did not equalize. It couldn't. All that resulted from this was an unprotected exposure of his nethers and hindparts to the zero pressure, monstrous cold of the endless reaches of the Black.
What he did not know was that this room was labeled as Out-Of-Service because the seal leading to the external valve attachment was cracked. The miniature airlock that prevented the complete depressurization of the bilge tank simply wasn't functioning; a state that would cause an unexpected whoosh of atmo from inside of the ship every time it flushed. Startling, but ordinarily not dangerous. Unless, of course, your ass formed a seal around the top of the bowl, preventing airflow. Nothing that couldn't be fixed by way of access panel from inside of the vessel; a simple weld or tradeout of part, hence the vessel being cleared for takeoff.
The sustained pressing of the flush apparatus served to hold the compromised seal open, making the only thing separating the breathable air of the Retribution from venting into space the softer tissues of the body of Finger himself. The battle between The Unyielding Forces of the Universe vs Dr. Friedrich "Finger" Knochengeiger was settled swiftly, and with very predictable victor.
Shock took hold of Friedrich as a sensation of cold, so intense and unknowable as to deserve its own circle of Hell, crept inside of him (actually
inside of him), dislodging parts of his insides from each other with impersonal, steady violation commonly associated with a flood or an avalanche, only significantly more difficult to fend off. He grit his teeth and struggled to free himself with what remained of his ebbing strength, kept aloft purely by adrenaline and steely resolve. Even this worked to his disadvantage, as the abdominal strain he placed upon his innards served only to hasten the infernal vacuum's removal of his innards; were he to bear witness to the horrifying scene unfolding from the inside of the tank, it would have looked like time-lapse photography of intense, terminal rectal prolapse.
Or to put in plainer words: The exposure to intense negative pressure was disemboweling Finger, quickly and completely,
through his ass.
The process was not done with the surgical precision with which a man of strict discipline like Dr. Knochengeiger might have preferred, quite the opposite. There was a horrid twisting and pulling, stopping and starting as the continuous pressure hung upon and overcame the varying densities of tissue. But overcome it did. The floppier exterior tissues of his nethers took catastrophic damage from the cold and pressure, his manhood wildly peeled away from his pelvis with a rapid smacking sound that resembled a grotesque, deflating balloon. When the softer inner walls of his abdominal cavity gave way and his diaphragm ripped open, any support his lungs had to remain inside of his body. They blew open like popped paper sandwich bags and fluttered back and forth, torn and deflated, quickly growing cold and lifeless.
Friedrich's body slumped back, now almost as hollow and broken as his soul. Somehow, incredibly, there remained just enough blood and adrenaline left in his skull to keep his brain active, but barely - Finger was fully aware that there was no saving him now. No force existing in the heavens nor solid ground would be able to repair him now; he had short, frothing seconds to make peace with whatever dear and shiny he held in esteem. Except, of course, that he had to wrestle with the fact that he held absolutely nothing in esteem, and had no belief in anything better than himself. This sudden psychological need to find a spiritual philosophy was cut off as his spinal column partially detached from the muscles of his back, and started exiting through his rectum, ripping the hole even wider with every tic of vertebrae acting as a blunt-toothed woodsaw.
As his spine exited his body, the last piece of human contact he would ever have came from the very man he was cursing not three minutes ago. His dying moment was supported by the nigh cheerful words of a Mr. Foy Coiffeur, asking,
"Oh, I say... Doctor? Um, Doctor, is everything evacuating satisfactorily for you?" Anyone else, and he would have to suppress a giggle. But he had no time for that now. By the time his lumbars made it fully outside of his asshole, it was official. The light had left his eyes. Any remaining existential questions he might have had would forever lay unanswered.
The sudden lack of spinal support caused his corpse to accordion down upon itself. No longer applying forced pressure on the flush mechanism, the vacuum lessened considerably. The end of Friedrich's tailbone lodged in the outtake pipe, keeping the vacuum active (if only minimally). It was enough to begin yanking his teeth back into what remained of his throat, compressed and gruesome.
Perhaps the image wouldn't be as unsettling were it not for the fact that the crushed lump of flesh was still recognizable as Dr. Friedrich Knochengeiger. Also, it might be a little easier on whomever was unlucky enough to find the corpse if it wasn't making a ghastly, bubbly, whistling sound, courtesy of the tiny amount of air current still traveling through the remaining meat and fat that comprised Finger. The sound was reminiscent of someone screaming quietly while sucking in a lungful of air. Eyes, bloodspattered and wide, stared blankly at the ceiling above, and his mouth lay agape, giving the adventurous a view into the toilet below.
Thusly passed the ravenous, narcissistic sociopath known as Finger, Alliance Doctor and Medical Officer of the I.A.V. Retribution, in a manner as appalling as his presence. He may be remembered by this last act of involuntary honesty, as now his outside matched what lay within. Ironically, what used to physically lay within the man now adorned the interior walls of the bilge, suitably soaking in the collective defecation of strangers.
William Harper
Location: Med Bay -> Cargo Hold
Harper heard Moreau's suggestion that Foy may have asked the Ship's Doctor to assist him in carrying up cargo. It made him stop, mid-exit. Apparently, no one in the Med Bay knew where Fingers was.
"That is unlikely, sir." he responded, coolly.
"That is precisely the reason I am rushing off. I promised Mr. Coiffeur my assistance moving boxes up here from Cargo. If you don't mind my saying, that is very curious. When I'm done, I'll have him paged to Med Bay." Very curious. The Doctor didn't seem the type to hide. Even if he were, where could he go, really? This was a ship, in the middle of the Black. He would turn up eventually. If by some miracle he did not, Harper wouldn't lose much in the way of sleep over it. The man had left a highly disturbing first impression.
The concept of engaging the man who had just drawn his blood in personal conversation and playing cards invoked Harper's suspicion. Was this man merely offering a pleasantry, or did he have an interest in him, personally? Perhaps, like the other extremely well-dressed man on board, he picked up on the details of his appearance and mannerisms that marked him as a child of the Core, and considered him a person of sophistication, possibly means. It was also quite possible that the both of them just wanted to make friends, although truthfully, that one seemed the least credible.
He was thinking about it too much. It was his weakness. If he didn't overthink a situation, Harper was the kind of man who jumped in blindly, counting on his skills and no small amount of dumb luck to keep him alive. Now was a time for neither. Just go down to Cargo, help the dandy with the boxes, and page the Doctor. All he needed to worry about just then. Standard shipboard duties. He excused himself again, as politely as the situation allowed, and made his way down to the lower deck.
Foy Coiffeur
Location: Cargo Hold
began Foy in a delighted tone of voice.
"It is splendid to see that you have joined me in this little endeavor. I was of two minds as to whether you would come to my aid. Not that I could fault you much had you decided against it; I did rather accost you the the corridor above us." Foy motioned over to two large, unmarked, black crates, one of which was pulled partially into the walkway.
"I do appreciate... Now, here are the boxes that my dear friend Dr. Moreau requires to be transported to Medical. They're not quite as formidable as they appear, so if you'd be as kind as to grab an end? There's a fine fellow. Very well, at a heave..." The two of them seemed to be able to maneuver the looming, monolithic crates with minimal discomfort. Of course, had Harper known what was inside, he likely would have never consented to touch them, let alone move them around. And while Foy was, by no means, going to let on the contents, he did feel that a small warning was in order. Through strained voice, he managed to advise the recently assigned Flight Officer.
"Ah, Lieutenant? If I may, you positively do not wish to drop nor jostle these boxes. Slow and steady, my good man. As our friend, the Noble Tortoise." The unlikely pair began the uncertain journey to the Medical, giant scary box in hand.
Zman
Shadow Dragon
Not a Sayan
Simply Not Real
Fetzen
Lewascan2
Arty Fox
Lady Absinthia
Archangel89
