Dr. Egas Freeman
What follows is the journal of Dr. Egas Freeman, Psychosurgery authority.
Dr. Egas Freeman
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Summary:
Psychosurgery authority
A psychic doctor? Never heard of such a thing.
While the distinction between a psychic surgeon and a psychosurgeon may not seem readily apparent, I assure you that there is a pretty big difference.
I was in SA, Mecca, eating lamb when a messenger arrived. He told me that he had a job for me, and I'm not the kind to sit pretty with my current connections. There will come a day when I will need to leave them behind, and when that day comes, it will be necessary to have back ups. There was a man there who called himself "The Centurion." He practically bled capability and was clearly paranormal. The job consisted of investigative duties, something that I am not personally adept at. He assured me that he had the right man, and that I would be greatly rewarded for my assistance. It would seem that my vacation could wait.
On the flight to California, I read the dossiers provided by the employer. Three incidents, all murder-suicides, in one night. I was to find a connection and a cause, and my fellow investigator seemed as though he was nearly as ill-suited for the job as me. It was a man named Thurgood Black, who bore the youthful exuberance of someone half his age. Beyond that I was unimpressed with him as a specimen. He was, however, eager to assist me in any way he could. We visited the morgue first, but my autopsies on the victims provided no useful information.
Thurgood broke into the houses where the incidents had taken place and began gathering clues. He suspected a man named Brian who was the romantic relation of one of the murderers. We visited his house and proceeded to interrogate him. He possessed no useful information, and it was a pity to waste his beautiful mind. I deemed it necessary to incapacitate him, as I did not want to get in trouble with the United States legal system.
Further, nearly obsessive, investigation of the houses in question revealed that each of the three murderers had eaten out at one particular restaurant on the evening of the incident. It was a long-shot, if that, but I decided it was the only lead we had. Thurgood interrogated the waitresses at the restaurant, but they were not helpful. I obtained a sample of the dish each of the murderers had consumed on the night of the incident, softshell crab. When my companion noticed several of the customers staring at him abnormally, he proceeded to test his hypothesis that they were under the effects of some sort of mind control. He did so by standing up and berating the men loudly, and then by shooting one in the foot. It was at this point that the lot of them assaulted us. I made it out unscathed.
Thurgood was convinced that we had completed the mission, and so led us to the docks where we were to meet our contact. He congratulated us on a job well done, and explained the nature of the mind control that had been imbued into the food. I am no stranger to the paranormal; my employers utilize such methods frequently. However, it was clear that I had just been hired on as some sort of private contractor, in spite of the fact that I had never advertized my services in such a way. Our contact assured me that payment would arrive shortly and left us to our own devices. If this payment is not sufficient, I will not be participating on strange missions such as this in the future.
Thugood actually said "come at me bro"
Though I have not made contact with the man who hired me nor any representative since the incident at the dock, I believe I have received the payment he spoke of. That is, I have officially entered the ranks of the supernatural.
My new ability was discovered during work in North Korea. The North Koreans have a certain brutal efficiency and greed about them: They do not waste resources that the government officials might desire. As such, my duties in said country are typically performed without anesthetic, and with the assistance of several muscular “aids.” I must admit, the aids themselves are prime specimens. Besides their short stature and slitted eyes, their bodies tend to be admirable. Specifically their firm gluteals and thick forearms. The forearms are a feature that these young men share with the Chinese, but I digress.
As a professional, I do prefer not to torture my patients when such behavior is unnecessary, and these dissidents shiver in such a way as to disturb my instruments and fragile wrists during the procedure. A gentle caress on the chin sometimes calms them down, but this month the effect was quite strong. I found that the patients could not feel the procedure in the slightest if I willed it so. To be sure, on one particular patient I drove my orbitoclast deep into the brain, and no indication of pain was given. In order to further test my hypothesis, I requested and was provided with an unwilling subject whom I restrained and vivisected while she was conscious. She gave no token of the pain until she was allowed to gaze upon her own insides. Very unusual.
If this payment is typical, then I must contact this Centurion in the future. I began to exercise my body and perceptive abilities: If I am to be working in the field, I will need to be in shape.
In the future, I must remember to always be prepared. One moment I was relaxing in my study in the UK, and the next moment I was hearing voices and the ground seemed like it was shaking. I had the unsettling feeling that I had lost my mind for a moment, and then I lost consciousness.
When I awoke, I had been transported to another realm of some sort. I didn't know what was going on for the longest time. There were some creatures who I assume were elves (fine specimens) that had apparently found me out in a forested area. I treated some of their wounded the best I could with the materials they provided, and then demanded to be taken to the nearest city. They informed me that I would want to speak with a Dr. Cushing whom I know to be the “inventor” of modern neurosurgery. I begrudgingly agreed, and soon we were walking through the of a metropolitan area. It's a good thing I have been jogging since my last mission.
Eventually we came out in a prison cell which contained, to my most accurate assessment, Dr. Cushing himself. He was very knowledgeable, looked like the man in question, and the glove pretty much fit perfectly. Still, I was cautious. All I wanted at this point was to return to one of my houses. Cushing informed me that there was a shadow dragon imprisoned upstairs that could help me, and so I begrudgingly agreed to free it so I could get the hell out of here. It was about then that I met up with another noteworthy individual, Captain Hugo Becker. Apparently he was from my same “home dimension” and knew the way out. We teamed up, and with the help of a present Dr. Hazel, started some sort of revolution in the city. I couldn't care less about the fate of whatever mental images or reflections or whatever the hell these things were. All I wanted was to get home, which I did eventually.
When I exited the realm, I met with the esteemed Dr. Moth. He's one of those “curing” professionals — treating the symptoms of a diseased species instead of the disease itself. He's a damn good one, though. He had cured Epilepsy a few months ago. He assured me I would be compensated for my efforts, and I left.
If there is to be fighting and such on all of these missions, I am going to have to remember to wear body armor and be better prepared. Still, I cannot wait to see what my compensation is for this mission.
Several months have passed since I last recorded my activities in this journal. I was contacted by a man dressed in a white coat who claimed no relation to the previous employers, however there must be some connection or he wouldn't know to contact me. I agreed to go on another mission, the rewards are far too tempting to simply reject.
My allies on this mission were two mad cripples, a man named Bo Perkins and another who went by the obvious pseudonym of Brainstorm. I immediately offered to heal their obvious physical flaws: Bo was missing his left arm, and Brainstorm was only able to walk with the aid of crutches. Both of them refused medical treatment even though I assured them that healing would be nearly instantaneous and would have no recovery time. Mad men, both of them.
Our mission was to see to it that several mercenaries that were trapped somewhere in the desert arrived home safely. Typical fuzzy feelgood stuff, but I am not about to complain. Their position was compromised by some sort of zombifying virus that I was unable to study effectively since I don't have a lab of my own. We ensured that they got out alive, and through my own careful planning they were freed from their prison unharmed. Brainstorm revealed that the crutches were merely an act and that he was able to move around perfectly well if he needed to. That means I was only paired with one insane fool after all.
Bo Perkins was injured in the fight. His gun backfired and blew off his thumb, so I found a readily available replacement on the hand of a nearby mercenary soldier and attached it so he could continue fighting. Apparently this rubbed him the wrong way, and I must admit the craftsmanship was atrocious. However, I stand by its necessity in the heat of the moment. In the future I will be sure to be forward about my abilities.
I wonder occasionally how I should proceed to interact with my fellow workers on these missions. Should I get to know them, or should I remain aloof? Should I fully disclose my abilities, or should I keep them in the dark? I wonder if, in the long run, it is more profitable to be friendly and forward and have an ace up my sleeve or to be unseen and unheard. For this last mission I decided to be forward. Bo was calmed; apparently he had found another doctor to regrow his thumb. It looks much better than the shoddy job I did, but I am confident now that I would be able to match or exceed the craftsmanship of the thumb Bo was showing off. It was pink and young. It didn't quite fit in.
I also reacquainted myself with Dalton James, who seems to also have cooled off since I last saw him. Apparently I shot at him while I was possessed. I will need to find a way to avoid losing control of my body in the future.
In the mission, we were sent to investigate a town that had all of a sudden become quite vacant. There was some sort of quaint lavender festival taking place at the time, but I had suspicions about the caterer who had been hired to cook for the event. He was the same man who had mind controlled the murderers on my first mission. Very peculiar. We eventually were beset upon by a hoard of brainwashed townsfolk at the command of the mayor, who was certainly more than met the eye. Oh, how I would have loved to pick his brain, but he proved to be impossible to put under.
We managed to escape without seriously injuring any of the townsfolk, a feat that I was somewhat impressed with considering how willing they were to kill us. After the fact, my companions seemed eager to continue to investigate, although I personally thought our work had been quite thorough. Bo Perkins kidnapped a man for me to do surgery on against his will. This was a sort of behavior that I did not expect to see from Officer Perkins. Perhaps he isn't so soft after all.
In the end, the information we had gathered proved to be sufficient. Being forward with my abilities seemed to calm the team mates down quite a bit. I have been entrusted with the contact information of the man who regrew Officer Perkin's thumb. I am not sure if I should contact him, but we shall see.
Dr. Freeman Separates the Body From the Soul
Choe's eyes were already open when he awoke. He was disoriented and couldn't move. Filling his vision was the glare of a bright medical examination light, and for a moment he thought he would be sick.
“Awake are we?” rang a deep, nasal voice from somewhere beyond the light. “I apologize for the nausea. It will pass quickly.” The lamp was drawn back and a figure moved into view. A white man. It was difficult to make out just how he looked, silhouetted as he was, but Choe could see a pair of thick glasses and short black hair framing a gaunt face. He tried to speak, to groan, anything, but he could not.
“Don't try to talk. I've removed your voice box,” noted the doctor as he brought what looked to be a steel ice pick into view. “Follow this with your eyes.” Choe tried but could not. “Eeeeexcelent. It appears that the hypo-reflexive anesthesia has taken full effect.” From the edge of his vision, he could see the doctor carefully set down his instrument and turn to face him. “Well then, let's begin.
“My name is Dr. Freeman. You are here because you have been causing trouble for the most gracious government of North Korea. I am here because it is my job. You see,” he continued as he removed his latex gloves, “the powers that be have deemed you a liability, but don't fear: you are not totally useless.” His ungloved hands began to poke, prod, and stroke Choe's body, and he realized then that he was naked. “Your body is still quite the impressive specimen. We could simply do without,” and here the man brought a finger and pressed it against Choe's forehead, “this.”
“It is my job to separate the two. Keep your body alive while doing away with that rebellious mind of yours. Fascinating, isn't it?” Cho could feel the doctor's fingers tracing a line around the top of his head. “I will be talking you through the process. You won't feel any pain; I am a professional after all.” Choe began to feel something warm trickle down the side of his face. “You see (and I'll spare you the technical details), only a small portion of this lovely brain of yours is actually used to sustain life function.” The doctor was now very close to him. He could smell the sterile stench of his breath as he spoke. “While we were talking, I removed the frontal and parietal sections of your skull. Now it is time to begin with the procedure.”
Dr. Freeman then made eye contact with his patient as he delivered the message, “Oh, and this procedure will end what you consider to be life.” He then returned to prodding at something just above Choe's vision. “Now as I continue you will lose your senses one by one as your brain begins to shut down. Vision comes first,” he said as Choe's vision faded to neither black nor white but the absence of either. “The others follow suit. Hearing is generally last.”
Choe's young heart throbbed powerfully in his chest. He could feel the doctor stroking the very surface of his brain with those pale, sickly hands, and yet he could do nothing. Freeman continued to drone casually, “I see you have a wife after all. Chinese. The government doesn't know about her. Perhaps I won't tell them, or perhaps…” he paused for a moment and Choe felt him make a very precise movement inside his head. “There we are. Almost done now.” Choe began to float.
“You may see a light,” said the doctor, his voice sounding distant now. “Don't bother moving toward it. It's merely a hallucination brought on by an excess of Carbon dioxide.” And that was the last thing Choe experienced.
The doctor held two fingers against the proud neck of the young rebel. His pulse was still going strong. He then looked to his other hand where he carried the man's bloodied but largely in-tact brain. A small contented smile crossed his lips. He placed the brain into a jar of formaldehyde and washed his hands.
It feels good to be back at work.
The Russian dream again.
Experiment C-6 may well have been a complete success, but I wouldn't know because some hideous fool interrupted my evaluation. It takes years of careful politicking to achieve some degree of free reign on a North Korean military base, and that work itself was likely ruined by that mono-browed scum. It's enough work to simply keep that beautiful toad-thing clear of my endeavors; now I must explain the presence of a Austrian royal family member to the dictator. Troubling.
Paul Georg Maria Joseph Dominikus Habsburg-Lothringen is his name, and I didn't recognize him at first. This rouge had the audacity to taint my reputation. The audacity! Inviting me on a mission with that conduct. Thoroughly unprofessional! We shall see if the government sees it fit to retaliate. Otherwise, I will have to do the honors as a personal project.
The creature transported me to Dr. Moth's laboratory. It is highly impressive, but not nearly as impressive as his assistant. Oh to study the perfect Aphrodite! The curve of her nose, the set of her shoulders… perfect! If only she weren't the assistant of a supernatural doctor, bringing her under my power would be far easier than it will now be. Perhaps I'll steal her heart away. I'm sure it's just as stunning as the rest of her! But for now, I remember those wondrous looks, and at the very least she has given me the gift of inspiration. When I perfect the cure, all will be as stunning to behold. She will serve as the framework. The A-series experiments will begin shortly.
From the laboratory, we were spirited away to the Habsburgs' castle. Therein we were shown the site of the assassination of Ferdinand Zvonimir Maria Balthus Keith Michael Otto Antal Bahnam Leonhard. That is Karl Thomas Robert Maria Franziskus Georg Bahnam's son. I was not as sanguine at that moment as I was before, or even as the room itself was. Ferdinand had, for lack of a better word, exploded. Our only hint as to the assassin's whereabouts was a trail of footprints down the side of the castle wall. My studies of the blood (of which I still have a sample), show that no foreign material was present in the boy's body before he met his untimely end. Our mission was to bring this assassin's head back to the castle.
Today I decided to play the honest and forthcoming doctor. The one who sacrifices some of his mystique and power for a less antagonistic position in the hierarchy of the team. I cannot say with confidence that it was a good choice. Though I was still thoroughly in control of the operation, I did not possess the degree of leverage that I would have preferred.
We stopped first at the Turkish embassy. I decided to stay in the car with our diving instructor friend and warn him not to get in the way. Occasionally a thinly-veiled threat is all that is necessary to avoid an unpleasant scene. Half way though our talk, though, he spotted a peculiar man peeking into the car window and then calling someone on the phone. We sprung into action, me following the man on foot, Nathaniel in the car.
Eventually I took him down with an M99-coated flechette round to the chest. I wasn't expecting that to work, honestly, but I'm glad it did. He survived, and I hid his body in a nearby bin until we had a chance to pick it up. The rest of the team emerged from the embassy, and we moved the body to a more secure location for interrogation.
Standard faire non-supernatural interrogation techniques were applied by yours truly: Snipping of a single vocal chord, sealing the eyes shut, a paralytic spinal tap to the neck, and administration of Scopolomine. The co-administration of Midazolam and Scopolamine was sure to cause long-term nerve damage, but a sniper bullet to the head spared out subject on that particular disability. Shame that it traveled directly through our subject's brain. Otherwise I might have been able to get an answer or two out of him even after his expiration.
We fleed the sniper's wrath and took a train to Turkey. Strange that we didn't follow up on the incident with the spy more closely, but I suppose the trail was somewhat cold. The Turk we spoke to was able to give us another lead, and we went off to assassinate the assassins. Chad, a rather unremarkable ally with noteworthy arm and wrist musculature, tried to break into one of their houses but succeeded in tripping the alarm. It was at this point that I began to wonder why I had a team with me at all. At the next house, I took things into my own capable hands. Of course, we were successful.
Amazing how those self-conscious fools will deny their thirst for blood to keep up appearances. No matter; it was delicious. With the assassin's name, location, and this producer's head in a bag, we went off to a party to find this master assassin. I rigged the man's door with a poison needle (provided graciously by our “moral authority,” Nathaniel). When the fighting started, Chad let loose a cloud of some sort of black gas, and I promptly vacated the area. After maybe six seconds of running, I noticed a bright flash of light behind me and saw that the fighting had stopped. Four men had their guns drawn on my only conscious ally, and acquiring this assassin's head with them around seemed unlikely, so I offered my assistance in dispatching them.
This was also the first time I called upon the knife for assistance. It was truly a bizarre feeling to be so strong, so fast. I'm not sure I enjoyed it; it was vulgar.
With both assassins' heads in a bag and two unconscious allies, we made our way to another parking garage where my sole remaining ally offered to take care the other contractors and begged me to complete the mission for him. Needless to say, I accepted his offer. With the rest of the group out of my way, I was able to quickly and effectively deliver the heads to our employers.
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