Post by Mikhail Stankov on Apr 24, 2014 16:40:34 GMT -8
Mikhail Alexi Stankov
Who do you work for?:
FACTION
Physical/Psychological Description:
Mikhail Stankov, being of hardy Russian "descent," stands at 6'5" and weighs in at 245 pounds. He is an incredibly skilled surgeon, with a specialty in cardiovascular and cardiothoracic surgeries. He has an eerily calm demeanor and is meticulous and clean to the point of being cripplingly obsessive-compulsive. Though he is brooding and typically quiet, he has a terrifyingly short fuse, and setting him off could be deadly.
Playby :
Dimitris Alexandrou
Age:
Unknown specifically, appears late twenties.
Gender:
Male.
Race:
The Gods Made Me A Homunculus.
Height:
6'5''
Weight:
245 pounds
What is it you're looking for?:
Men.
Hooking up?:
Single.
Class::
My Profession Is Doctor.
Statistics:
The numbers you have to chose from are 18,16,14,14,12,10. Each number can only be used once.
Strength: 14
Dexterity: 16
Constitution: 12 (+2)
Intelligence: 18 (+2)
Wisdom: 14
Charisma: 10 (-2)
Dexterity: 16
Constitution: 12 (+2)
Intelligence: 18 (+2)
Wisdom: 14
Charisma: 10 (-2)
Abilities:
Innate: Medic lvl 3, Energy Drain
Silence (50), Flesh Stitching (50), Poison Touch (100).
Remainder: 100.
Silence (50), Flesh Stitching (50), Poison Touch (100).
Remainder: 100.
Weapon(s):
Scalpels, bare hands.
Whatcha wearin'?:
A crisp white shirt, button-down, always impeccably pressed, and creased black slacks. On his belt there is a leather pouch which holds five polished, surgery-ready scalpels.
Transportation:
Aston Martin Vanquish - sleek black - newest model, naturally.
Disposition to the Law:
Neutral.
Alignment:
Neutral.
Phobias:
Bacteria, germs, dirt, being touched.
Obsession:
Cleanliness.
Vice:
Wrath.
Virtue:
Diligence.
Background:
"The patient's under, doctor. She's ready for surgery. Doctor?'' A small hand came to rest on his shoulder. His nurses were already scrubbed in and waiting for him. Surgery started in a few minutes. Mikhail's eyes were wide and unfocused, hazy with a glaze that made him look at nothing in particular. When he spoke, his voice was ragged, so he cleared his throat. However, he didn't avert his gaze. ''Zank you, Celia. I vill be right zere.'' Celia stood behind the doctor a moment longer, then turned and walked out to join the other nurses. Slowly, Mikhail's body went rigid. His shoulders squared. On the outside, especially from behind, he looked completely calm. That was why Celia didn't notice anything too amiss. Yes, she'd noticed that he was short with her, but Mikhail was usually very solemn before a surgery. It was just how he got into his work. What Celia didn't see, however, was the doctor start to clench his fists -- so hard, in fact, that his nails punctured the skin of his palms and drew blood. It dripped over his knuckles and onto the floor, contaminating the sanitary space around him. Mikhail groaned. Pain was ripping through his chest, as he was recalling some long, distant memory: an operating table. . .an old man was bent over it, hovering over a cadaver – or so it appeared. The body on the table was muscular and young, bearded and naked, with his chest torn open on display. The old man was happily fishing around inside, connecting arteries and nerves. Moments later, the body’s eyelids fluttered – deep, brilliant emerald eyes. All at once, the flashback was over and a chill ran down Mikhail’s spine from the memory of it. These memories came frequently, always with excruciating pain in his chest, always with the haunting voice of something sinister. Even though the pain was severe, he couldn't let it hinder his surgery. The case was special and the chief would be sitting in for it. took a deep breath, shook the tremor from his bleeding hands, and scrubbed in.
"Forty-five minutes in, doctor. You're doing great,'' Celia assured quietly from beside him. ''Internal bleeding is minimal.''
The material of Mikhail's gown was so heavy, so warm. He was sweating heavily beneath his clothes. The lights above him were bright -- moreso than usual. It felt like he was standing directly beneath the sun.
"BP is stable." Celia's voice again. She sounded distant, but she hadn't walked away. Forcing himself to stay focused, he looked down again at the patient's open chest. That girl's vulnerable heart, with ribs and tissues open around it, looked oddly appealing to him. He swallowed. His throat was dry and swollen, like he'd developed an allergic reaction to something. Mikhail had no allergies. This dryness was more like a thirst, though, so he croaked to Celia for water. She was beside him moments later with a straw at his lips, and he drank until all he could do was slurp bubbles. There was a moment of awkward silence after that, with Celia and the nurses staring curiously at him. But Mikhail kept his gaze on the cracked chest and exposed organs beneath his hands - that is, until his vision went blurry. His lips parted in a surprised gasp, but he made no sound. Then the pain came again -- caught him so off guard that he almost cried out.
"Doctor?" A distant voice he knew was Celia's.
In his throat, the swollen dryness returned. Why was he still so thirsty? There was an uncomfortable pressure pushing against the backs of his lips, pressing like something was growing there. His tongue ran over his gums, exploring. Then he felt them – razor-sharp teeth – expanding in his mouth where smooth, normal teeth used to be. A surge of panic washed through his body, followed by a wave of pain. There was something inside of him -- some unnatural force, violent and hungry -- pushing against his chest and working up the insides of his throat. His right hand, still clutching the scalpel, shook violently. The force inside of him was speaking, beckoning to him.
Kill, it said.
Eat, it urged.
Everything happened too fast after that.
The heart he'd been operating on before was now in his hand, warm with severed arteries and valves hanging limp from it. The screams he heard as he brought the organ to his mouth went unnoticed.
This is good, the force inside assured.
There was panic in the air. The fear was palpable.
Fear, the force inside told him, is good.
Mikhail saw nothing but the red mass in his hands, and felt nothing but the warm life-liquid inside sliding down his throat. It warmed him to the very core and soothed the dryness that had been there before. Moreso, it appeased this thing that was inside of him.
The doctors and nurses had fled -- all but one. Beside him, tugging desperately on his arm, was Celia. Her eyes were wide with panic, and she was screaming. Inside of him, the force coiled -- a snake waiting to strike. Her persistence angered it. Again, it beckoned to Mikhail.
Kill.
Deep down in some dormant part of his body, he knew this was wrong. He knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing. But he was no longer in control. There was a monster in his body using him like an empty puppet.
And Celia, sweet Celia, she kept pulling at Mikhail's arm and didn't stop until he dropped the dead girl's heart. It was then that Mikhail could hear the emergency alarm and the irritating wail of the heart monitor flatlining. He could also hear Celia's pleas. She was shaking when he turned to look down on her -- Celia with her auburn hair and chestnut eyes, wide and darting. This was the woman Mikhail loved, and she loved him back. But the monster in him knew nothing of love, so when Mikhail turned and wrapped his big hands around her little throat, it was with pure, unadulterated hatred. Then he started squeezing -- applied pressure with his thumbs. His eyes welled with tears when Celia started sobbing, but her sounds were cut short - replaced only by the dulled crunch of Mikhail shattering her windpipe.
"Forty-five minutes in, doctor. You're doing great,'' Celia assured quietly from beside him. ''Internal bleeding is minimal.''
The material of Mikhail's gown was so heavy, so warm. He was sweating heavily beneath his clothes. The lights above him were bright -- moreso than usual. It felt like he was standing directly beneath the sun.
"BP is stable." Celia's voice again. She sounded distant, but she hadn't walked away. Forcing himself to stay focused, he looked down again at the patient's open chest. That girl's vulnerable heart, with ribs and tissues open around it, looked oddly appealing to him. He swallowed. His throat was dry and swollen, like he'd developed an allergic reaction to something. Mikhail had no allergies. This dryness was more like a thirst, though, so he croaked to Celia for water. She was beside him moments later with a straw at his lips, and he drank until all he could do was slurp bubbles. There was a moment of awkward silence after that, with Celia and the nurses staring curiously at him. But Mikhail kept his gaze on the cracked chest and exposed organs beneath his hands - that is, until his vision went blurry. His lips parted in a surprised gasp, but he made no sound. Then the pain came again -- caught him so off guard that he almost cried out.
"Doctor?" A distant voice he knew was Celia's.
In his throat, the swollen dryness returned. Why was he still so thirsty? There was an uncomfortable pressure pushing against the backs of his lips, pressing like something was growing there. His tongue ran over his gums, exploring. Then he felt them – razor-sharp teeth – expanding in his mouth where smooth, normal teeth used to be. A surge of panic washed through his body, followed by a wave of pain. There was something inside of him -- some unnatural force, violent and hungry -- pushing against his chest and working up the insides of his throat. His right hand, still clutching the scalpel, shook violently. The force inside of him was speaking, beckoning to him.
Kill, it said.
Eat, it urged.
Everything happened too fast after that.
The heart he'd been operating on before was now in his hand, warm with severed arteries and valves hanging limp from it. The screams he heard as he brought the organ to his mouth went unnoticed.
This is good, the force inside assured.
There was panic in the air. The fear was palpable.
Fear, the force inside told him, is good.
Mikhail saw nothing but the red mass in his hands, and felt nothing but the warm life-liquid inside sliding down his throat. It warmed him to the very core and soothed the dryness that had been there before. Moreso, it appeased this thing that was inside of him.
The doctors and nurses had fled -- all but one. Beside him, tugging desperately on his arm, was Celia. Her eyes were wide with panic, and she was screaming. Inside of him, the force coiled -- a snake waiting to strike. Her persistence angered it. Again, it beckoned to Mikhail.
Kill.
Deep down in some dormant part of his body, he knew this was wrong. He knew he shouldn't be doing what he was doing. But he was no longer in control. There was a monster in his body using him like an empty puppet.
And Celia, sweet Celia, she kept pulling at Mikhail's arm and didn't stop until he dropped the dead girl's heart. It was then that Mikhail could hear the emergency alarm and the irritating wail of the heart monitor flatlining. He could also hear Celia's pleas. She was shaking when he turned to look down on her -- Celia with her auburn hair and chestnut eyes, wide and darting. This was the woman Mikhail loved, and she loved him back. But the monster in him knew nothing of love, so when Mikhail turned and wrapped his big hands around her little throat, it was with pure, unadulterated hatred. Then he started squeezing -- applied pressure with his thumbs. His eyes welled with tears when Celia started sobbing, but her sounds were cut short - replaced only by the dulled crunch of Mikhail shattering her windpipe.
Do you have what the vamps like?:
O negative.
