Image credit Solaris!

Greetings Ladies and Gentlemen! It's time for another Mirdimafia, this one being a slightly more loose and fun affair than Samurai Mafia, but not QUITE as silly as Metamaf. Rest assured that this won't be bastardy (though some of the roles will certainly be off the wall!) and that it will surely be FUN TIMES.

To enter, please PM me with THREE (3) to FIVE (5) names for the character you wish to be (a la Nightside/Crisis). I will craft the flavor for this character based upon well whatever the heck I want to base it on, but hey that's the fun of it ;)

E: If you want to give me a general direction for some/all of the character names I will take your advice into consideration! (As much consideration as I am willing to take it under that is )

Also post in this thread because yay.

Alright with that done let's get to the obligatory RULESPOST (Gracias Laset):

Rules:
1. Massclaims are not advised, and I have taken precautions against them. They will not help, and they will be kind of unfun, so don't do it. (O HO MIRDINI JUST COPIED THIS RULE HE DIDN'T DO IT FOR THIS GAME - he did, sorry amigos!)
2. Days will be up to 120 hours (5 days) long. Nights will be NO MORE than 48 hours - if all actions are in, day will start early (and will still end at 9 PM eastern on the appropriate day. whatever time I feel like ) Day 1 will only be 72 hours long because SNORE DAY 1.
3. When voting, remember to bold your votes! You do NOT need to specify unvotes, as I will be using MY BRAIN to track votes. Screw Deadline Votes.
4. ALL COMMUNICATION WILL BE DONE THROUGH QUICKTOPICS. There will be no reason to PM me about anything. THIS (KINDA) INCLUDES IRC. (Apart from PMing your NAMES~)
5. IF YOU EDIT OR DELETE POSTS YOU WILL FACE THE MOD FIRING SQUAD!
5.5. DON'T SHARE QUICKTOPICS. EVEN IF YOU ARE COALIGNED AND W/E.
5.5.5. DON'T TALK TO PEOPLE OUTSIDE OF THE GAME EITHER. Yeah, I know, I know. Shush. I am going to be ESPECIALLY VIGILANT.
6. No ciphers. They're a distraction that only tests people's ability to crack ciphers.
7. After you die you can make one post that cannot contain any information about the game.
8. You may not post in the thread at night. If you do so under any circumstances other than the allowed "bluh" post I will devise a horrible and painful punishment that the Elder Gods would be proud of.
9. There may be some minor bastardry, but nothing too awful (alignment changing etc.)
10. There may be multiple factions!
11. Every player has to make at least one post per day. If they will not be able to make a post on that day, I will inform the players in the day start post.
12. Play to your win condition, always.
13. Karkat Rule: No faking day-activations of anything, on pain of modkill. There may or may not be day powers!
14. Karkat Rule 2: If a day-activation of something day-ending is claimed, ASSUME THE DAY IS ENDED until you hear otherwise. If an extension is required as a result, I will grant one.
15. Don't copy/paste stuff out of your QTs or like the entirety of your rolepms, thank you.
16. Be excellent to each other always or the modhammer will come down upon ye like a... hammer that smashes things.
There was never a Rule 17.

SO HERE'S THE SIGNUP SHEET.

I am looking for a total of TWENTY-EIGHT ( 28 ) players! Could you be one of them? YES.

Signup List Of Awesome Gentlefolks

1. Schazer
2. Airey (Was cyber95) (Was Deceptive)
3. PrimeIntellect (Was gloomyMoron)
4. seedy (crepuscularDissembler)
5. beruru (absoluteCertainty)
6. Sotek (Laset)
7. Niall (Was Eldrake)
8. youdont12know
9. Jay (Was Dais)
10. curiousCat
11. Acionyx
12. imperviousScofflaw
13. dragonpaul99
14. Blueberry
15. tildeath (~ATH)
16. Crilly
17. Mikeee
18. hp2rt (Was lazyLawyer)
19. Slayer0 (Was Drakenforge)
20. passiveNotation
21. Pick Yer Poison (Was fivexthethird) (Was Trout) (Was Solaris)
22. I'M
23. A Killer Cuppa Tea
24. granolaman
25. Slorange (Sleeping Orange)
26. Paranoia
27. Dragon Fogel
28. Paranoia II (Was Autoptrophic Lizard)

Roles Revealed

SpoilerShow

1. Schazer - Dr. Atlas Morrigan (MD), HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATOR - Mafia Oneshot Cycledoc, Shot In The Face Day Four
2. Airey (Was cyber95) (Was Deceptive) - Darcy Aurelio, FRANKENSTEIN MEDICAL ATTENDANT - Mafia Oneshot Bulletproof Roleblocker-doctor
3. PrimeIntellect (Was gloomyMoron) - Jacob Filion, REVERED LONGSTANDING COMA PATIENT - Town Day-granny
4. seedy (crepuscularDissembler) - Dr. Uguu Von Kawaii (MD), ADORABLE CAT SADIST - Mafia Twoshot Daykilling Non-scummate Targeting Doctor
5. beruru (absoluteCertainty) - Tavish DeGroot, BLACK SCOTTISH CYCLOPS - Mafia Karkat, CABER'D Day Six
6. Sotek (Laset) - Kenji Ryu, EXCEPTIONALLY AUDACIOUS INTERPOL AGENT - Town False Martyr Delayed Bomb, CABER'D Day Six
7. Niall (Was Eldrake) - Jayden, SENILE ATTACK DOG - Town Chargeup Granny, Lynched Day Three
8. youdont12know - Dr. Robert Strudel (MD), DEBATABLY PSYCHIC SURGEON - Town Backup Cop, Killed Night One
9. Jay (Was Dais) - Mickey Hatterson, INCIDENTALLY MYSTICAL MILLINER - Town Random Masoniser, Killed Night Three
10. curiousCat - Christine Vandelay, SENSELESSLY SHENANIGANIZING TEENAGER - Town Temporary Random Nexus Creator, Killed Night Four
11. Acionyx - Dr. Gregory House, ACERBIC MEDICAL GENIUS - Third Party Multiprotected Survivor-lyncher
12. imperviousScofflaw - Father Rufus Missuaga, DISAFFECTED NATIVE AMERICAN ECCLESIASTIC - Town Oneshot Lynchstopper and Investigative Archive, Killed Night One
13. dragonpaul99 - Dr. Pepper Austin MD, OVERLY DRAMATIC MEDIC - Town TownLynch-Activated Doublekilldoctor, Killed Night Three
14. Blueberry - Dr. Kathlyn Rosalyn Strykerr MD, SUSPICIOUSLY BRILLIANT PATHOLOGIST - Town Bulletproof Miller Doctor
15. tildeath (~ATH) - Dr. Draco Von Zommelldester MD, ZEALOUS VOLTAIC AFICIONADO - Town CPR Doctor
16. Crilly - Dr. Alan Girgin MD, depressingly platitudinous doctor - Town Day Full-phase Doctor, Killed Day Six
17. Mikeee - Dr. Alice Liddell MD, SOMEWHAT DEMENTED PSYCHIATRIST - Town Jailor, Killed Night Five
18. hp2rt (Was lazyLawyer) - Dr. Manuel Paiva, PASSIONATE SHITTY CRIME DRAMA CONSULTANT - Town Scientist-Doctor (John-Doc), Killed Day Six
19. Slayer0 (Was Drakenforge) - Rashkir Doolilttle, A GHOST!!!!!! SUCCESSFUL PARANORMAL NOVELIST - Town Vanilla/Guardian Angel, Lynched Day Four (Crushed by a Haunted Piano).
20. passiveNotation - A.I.exe, LOVESTRUCK MEDICAL MONITORING SYSTEM - Mafia Nullguard/One-sided Lover, Committed VIRTUAL SEPPUKU Day Four
21. Pick Yer Poison (Was fivexthethird) (Was Trout) (Was Solaris) - Daniel Adainas, COVERT ELVIS-IMPERSONATING ELVIS CLONE - Town Ultralynchbomb
22. I'M - Dino Dinapoli, SICILIAN PHYSICIAN - 3rd Party Gamblerdoctor, Modkilled Day Five
23. A Killer Cuppa Tea - MAX POWER, MEGA RADTASTIC MD - Mafia Quack Doctor, Lynched Day Two
24. granolaman - Heather Drake, WORTHLESS MEDICAL INTERN - Town Vigilante-Docbooster Flavorcop, Killed Night Two
25. Slorange (Sleeping Orange) - Foster Erlenbush, LECHEROUS PROFESSIONAL QUACK - Mafia Janitor-Amnesiac
26. Paranoia - Maralyn Arnsworth, LUNATIC NANOENGINEER - Third Party Jesterarsonis, Lynched Day One
27. Dragon Fogel - Dr. Edwin Bola MD, TRAGICALLY PROTECTIVE MEDIC - Town Jealous Doctor
28. Paranoia II (Was Autoptrophic Lizard) - Ruy Ávila Tejada, SMALL-TIME "VOODOO" HITMAN - Mafia Doc-piercing hitman

Day 1 Start
Night 1 Start
Day 2 Start
ELVIS
Night 2 Start
Day 3 Start
Night 3 Start
Day 4 Start
KENJI RYU
Night 4 Start
Day 5 Start
Night 5 Start
Day 6 Start
Death of a Crime Show Consultant
Night 6 Start - THE DOMINATENING
Game End

Following the failure of the CAT SCAN machine to do absolutely anything, the air in the lobby was palpably tense – and thus when one of the more criminal members of the crowd got it into her head that she might be able to make a deal with the mob (helping their terrorist problem with what amounted to more terrorism would surely go over well, no?) they turned on her swiftly. Within hours various persuasive members of the meeting had agreed (and convinced a majority of those at the meeting) that she had to go. They led her out of the building, ready to hand her over to the police cordon when (via a series of LOW BLOWS) she managed to break free just beside the car park. She dove into a nearby automobile and the rest of the hospital’s occupants could only scramble for cover and look on in horror as she jostled about in the car, finally raising what looked like a remote control in – well, not quite triumph, but certainly a measure of elation.

Somehow avoiding the hail of gunfire heading for her (the marksmanship of the law being notoriously mookish) the woman then started her car and rammed it straight into a surprisingly car-proof area of the cordon. As various armed men swaggered towards the vehicle, certain they had foiled their suspect’s escape attempt the entire scene was silent – until a classic evil laugh began to echo across the street, stopping the police in their tracks. The indubitably mad scientist leapt out the shattered windshield, stabbing two of the policemen with what seemed to be syringes. As they continued to fire and fail to hit her figure at point-blank range she depressed the classically large and crimson button on the remote, laughing her head off as both she and the two cops slowly convulse before exploding in a spray of tissue and metal. The other members of the police force sigh at the two rookies who had decided to take on a mad scientist at close range (looks like they really hadn’t paid attention during “HOW TO CONFRONT HIGHLY SCIENTIFIC OUTLAWS” course) and get down to trying to identify the woman (which they proceed to fail at for the next week and a half).

The remaining occupants of C.J. Memorial, however, are quite enlightened as to her identity by the notes they find in the woman’s sleeping quarters.

Paranoia was Maralyn Arnsworth, LUNATIC NANOENGINEER. She had devoted her life to MAD SCIENCE of the MICROSCOPIC KIND, and was an expert in all sorts of tiny robots. Shame that her idea of the scientific method was to inject first, ask for permission later – a policy that had her practice and products condemned by the WHO, WTO and her face plastered across the halls of INTERPOL and the ICC. She had escaped to C.J. Memorial as it was perhaps the last hospital in the civilized world that wouldn’t have her arrested on sight (not to mention the customs checks in the nation were incredibly lax). Still, the Quarantine had made her escape pretty much impossible and so she resolved to PROVE ONCE AND FOR ALL the power of her MAD SCIENCE. If she could inject at least two other occupants of C.J. Memorial hospital before retrieving her remote from the parking lot (which she would only have access to while being escorted out to be turned over to the authorities) she would then be able to take both them and herself out in a blaze of gory glory, having SHOWN THEM ALL via QUINTISSENTIALLY CONVOLUTED PLOT.

Generally satisfied with the day’s outcome, the crowd returns to their various quarters for rest, though they all know that most of them will be up and about just as soon as they’ve all “gone to sleep”.

Once more evening approached, but this time the assembly was far more composed and collected. Niall’s lies had fallen apart piece by piece following the shocking revelations in the morning, until he was eventually reduced to insisting that anyone who attempted to drag him to the authorities would be going with him. The crowd bought not a jot of it as the day went on. curiousCat, who had been convinced his weavings were fabrications from the start, only seized upon the sudden modifications of his story as more proof of the web of lies he was undoubtedly constructing. As more and more people agreed with her, Niall grew yet more nervous – it looked like his time was up.

Which was exactly when his voice descended into raucuous snoring. Not that the crowd was deterred by this – Niall’s voice had gone missing for extended periods of time throughout the session, which they were sure was just a ploy for him to buy time, and soon after his final proclamation Airey and Blueberry both agreed that Niall had to go, as he was surely a MEDICAL MALCONTENT.

As the crowd drew closer to Niall’s slumbering form, they ascertained that he was indeed (as many had suspected) a personage of the canine variety – rather, a impeccably vicious breed of bulldog. Still, his sleeping form seemed harmless, and utterly ignoring the old adage to “let sleeping dogs lie” Blueberry reached for his snoozing form.

A moment, two passed as her arms curled around the dog, only to find that nothing was happening. It seemed his ploy had been a bluff, a ruse, and this only confirmed that they strange reality was that an animal had somehow joined the ranks of the enemy. Blueberry only became more determined by this discovery, and proceeded to carry Niall’s sleeping form outside to hand over to the authorities as per protocol. She crossed the parking lot without incident, reaching several policemen who had been hustled out to take custody of the “suspect”. Handing him over, Blueberry turned around to return to the lobby and what would presumably be another eventful night. She even made it almost halfway across the parking lot.

Niall had been in the grip of a rather deep slumber, but his manhandling by Blueberry had awoken an internal clock, one that ticked ever downwards as she crossed the concrete and pavement, as he was placed into custody of the police, as she absconded back towards the bright glass doors of C.J. Memorial. It ticked down to zero as she passed the empty parking lot where once Maralyn Arnsworths’ car had stood.

The sight was at once terrible and marvelous to behold. Some of the patrons of C.J. Memorial had seen angry dogs, some had even had the misfortune of being at the mercy of one or treating a patient with similar misfortunes, but none had ever encountered the sight of a fully grown demented pitbull letting loose. Needless to say, there wasn’t much left of the three officers surrounding the animal a few moments after he snapped awake.

Free of the hospital and without a care in the world, completely oblivious to the strudel of flesh and blood that surrounded him and his reasons for being there, Niall gambolled straight through a stunned police blockade and a rapidly parting crowd off into the sunset.

Niall was JAYDEN, SENILE ATTACK DOG. He had come to C.J. Memorial hospital with his master, who had refused to leave him at home when she was hospitalized for being TOO DAMN OLD (as Niall was himself). His master’s inevitable death forced the hospital to tranquilize him, sending him into a SNOOZENING. When he eventually woke up in the morning he tragically had no clue as to why he was even in C.J. Memorial due to a crippling case of DOG ALZHEIMERS (he was, after all, WAY TOO OLD.) All he knew was that everyone was making a HELLA LOTTA NOISE and that that was the signal for him to GET BITING.

Being a TRAINED ATTACK DOG he could have STOOD VIGIL at any morning. From that point forward until the following morning he would FURIOUSLY MAUL anyone who approached him (day or night!), rendering them ACCEPTABLY DEAD. However, being a FOSSILIZED MUTT he could only maintain this state of CANINE VIGILANCE for 24 hours – for the entirety of the following day he inevitably fell into THE SNOOZENING once more. For some peculiar reason you all were still be able to interpret his FRANTIC SNOOZE-SCRABBLING into something resembling language.

As he was a GOOD DOG, BEST MAULER he stood on the side of JUSTICE AND THE CANINE WAY. Thus he wished the nefarious MEDICAL MALCONTENTS eliminated, both because it was the RIGHT THING TO DO and because only then could he finally RETURN HOME – if he even remembered where it was. The thought that he could just MAUL his way out of the hospital never occurred to him as he was, of course, IMPECCABLY TRAINED.

With everyone in the lobby (and a rather terrified Blueberry) rendered speechless by the whirlwind of death that Niall had proven to be, you all retire to your rooms without much fanfare. There were, after all, actions to be taken this night as with any other.

Daylight. In movies and books it always seems to resemble hope, the light beating back the darkness of the night, all that crap. The remaining 20 inhabitants of C.J. Memorial Hospital assembling in the lobby know better. Daylight brings death, dread, and bad news. The previous day’s disappearances weigh on their mind as they wait for the last two individuals to filter into the room, knowing already that they probably won’t.
“Cut the bullshit, we know they’re dead” says one. “Let’s just go out and find their bodies already.”

The crowd lets out a collective sigh, knowing the voice was right – and upon reaching dragonpaul99’s room (and the large pool of blood filling it) they see that their hope was as useless as the knives found in his bedside drawer.

dragonpaul99 Dr. Pepper Austin (MD), OVERLY DRAMATIC MEDIC. He had been a fixture of C.J. Memorial for years, coming to the medical profession only after a long (and in his opinion storied) career in the DRAMATIC ARTS. Despite his penchant for drama he loved his job as a general practicioner, and performed it extremely well. He was a remarkably easy guy to get along with despite his flair for stagework, and most of the staff considered him eccentric but overall harmless and lovable.

Which was really a slight mistake on their part. Little did they know that his LONG AND STORIED DRAMATIC CAREER involved not only stellar performances but also quite a lot of… less conventional acting. If by acting you meant shanking the lead in the play bathroom and then dumping the body in the nearest river so he could take the role for himself. Though he had foresworn that path he still knew how to handle a knife, and woe betide the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS who had DARED disturb his idyllic existence at C.J. Memorial.

If the hospital-sided majority had turned over innocent comrades two days in a row he would have decided the assembly was incompetent, FLIPPED HIS SHIT and gone on a SHANKING SPREE the following night – and still manage to get some HELPFUL MEDICAL ATTENTION on a third person (hopefully a COOL PAL who he would have VALIANTLY SAVED).

Since he was firmly against any harm being done to his colleagues and detested those holding C.J. Memorial hostage (they didn’t even have any sense of THEATRE!) he would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

The loss of Dr. Austin hits several staff members particularly hard – despite the discovery of his rather unsavory past many nearly break into tears at the sight of his mutilated corpse. Stoically several members of the crowd insist that they must move on, and that today’s assembly would focus its will and utmost attention on avenging him – but that yet another member was missing. Indeed, Jay’s room is not quite as filled with gore but his corpse is just as dead as that of dragonpaul – and still warm by the smoke wafting off it. Peeking through his doorframe several members of the assembly swiftly ascertain that he was indeed as hat-mad as he claimed – but not the villain some made him out to be.

Jay was MICKEY HATTERSON, INCIDENTALLY MYSTICAL MILLINER. He came from a LONG AND STORIED ANCESTRY OF MILLINERS, and had only come to C.J. Memorial hospital by a spate of bad fortune and strange circumstances that were a mystery to you all.

From various documents in his room the crowd manages to figure out that he had ended up in C.J. Memorial after some ANTI-HAT HOOLIGANS harmed him the night before the crisis. You find the blueprints to a pair of TELEPATHIC HATS that it seems he was telling the truth about all this time – two of your number must indeed possess (or have possessed) these mystic devices that presumably allowed them to communicate with each other at night. From his notes, however, you deduce that he had no idea where they ended up and that the lucky two found them at random. Sadly with his death it would become very hard to find them, as only he was in tune with their MYSTIC ENERGIES – though unless someone had taken care to remove all traces of the person the crowd rooting through someone’s quarters after their death would undoubtedly uncover the presence of a hat.

Mickey Hatterson, meanwhile, had no interest in supporting the terrorists even if he was a hatman at heart, not to mention that his family might’ve manage to track him down if the HAT BAN is ever lifted. Why his family had a grudge against him the crowd doesn’t know, but Jay would have won win when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENThad successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

Dismayed by the continued success of the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS, the assembly returns to the lobby for a new day’s debate, knowing that in a worst case scenario it would only be a few days before the terrorists achieved their aims. They had to eliminate their enemies, and fast. The Malcontents themselves looked similarly dismayed, but snickered to themselves as everyone sat down for another day’s deliberation, confident that they were on the path to victory.

The assembly was, as always, in the midst of debate. Accusations flew back and forth, people lamented over the nonparticipatory nature of some of their fellow assemblymembers, and well there was that business with the ceiling fan that everyone had silently agreed to put out of their minds – if they weren’t safe here in the lobby, where else? Setting their minds to rooting out the scum that were no doubt among them, several prominent members of the group began to have their doubts over whether the Malcontents were at all assailable – it seemed that many of the assembly who could not have been among their ranks were just ignoring the proceedings entirely, and though some were stirring if the pace continued as such the medical establishment would surely find itself in dire straits soon enough – especially if the nights continued to go as badly as the previous few.

So troubled was the assembly that they hardly noticed when a vent covering high on the east wall of the lobby began to squeak. If any of them had been listening closely enough they would have recognized the tell-tale removal of screws at a calm and practiced pace suggesting the man behind it was an expert in these matters. Yet as the screws plinked down upon the tiles of the lobby no one bothered to look, too engrossed in the arguments they were forming.

What happened next, on the other hand, not a single person in the room could possible miss. The grate slowly, inexorably shifted, teetered… and fell to the ground.

CRASH

Already terrified by the ceiling fan, the crowd turned, preemptively wondering which of their number was the next to get caught by a falling piece of debris – and doubting that they would be as lucky as Acionyx. Yet there was no wreckage, no crumpled body, merely a grate slowly coming to a rest on the floor. A few of the crowd, more perceptive than others, thought to look up to find where the grate had fallen from – and were treated to a figure vaulting down 5 meters to land right in front of them in a manner most had only seen in movies.

“Who’s he?” one asked. The crowd peered closer, as the figure stood up, brushing dust off his Kevlar vest.

“Oh my god, HE’S GOT A GUN!!!” another shrieked, recognizing the item in the man’s left hand. It wasn’t a puny standard issue handgun either – this was a regular hand cannon, a Deagle. As shock slowly passed through the crowd they stared at him further, too terrified to move in the face of certain death. As they stared rumor slowly spread through the crowd like a whisper.

“But isn’t he dead?”

“I thought she said that he was a serial killer! He’s going to kill us all oh god oh god ohgod”

“What’s his vest say there? INTERPOL? But they don’t have agents! He’s gotta be an impostor!”

Sotek (as good a code name as any other) looked around quietly, calculating his odds.

Then he nodded, whipped up his pistol arm, and fired.

BANG

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The shot happened in an instant, so quickly that most of the assembly didn’t even know who the target was and felt their bodies quickly to ensure that it wasn’t them. All except Schazer, whose head had been ventilated cleanly. Sotek stepped up, clearing his throat.

“Schazer. I don't kill indiscriminately; I'm just killing you.”

Schazer, being rather dead, couldn’t respond – and that was just the way Kenji Ryu liked it. Rifling through her pockets, completely disregarding the shellshocked crowd around him, he found exactly what he was looking for.

“Sorry about that folks, didn’t mean to scare you all. Good news is we got one of ‘em.” He held up a USB stick that he proceeded to plug into the information desk’s computer, the screen of which soon filled up with hate-filled soliloquys and EVIL PLANS. Schazer was undoubtedly the mastermind behind the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS.

Schazer was Dr. Atlas Morrigan, MD, the HOSPITAL ADMINISTRATOR The most senior figure at C.J. Memorial Hospital, usually a pathogenic bomb threat would have come up against her iron will and unbreakable grip on the hospital – that is, if she hadn’t also been the most senior figure behind the whole setup.

After years of working herself to death for few thanks and even less pay she had had it with the hospital and everyone connected to it. She didn’t particularly give a damn about hats or whatever other demands the shmucks she had enlisted made from the authorities, she simply wanted to watch her fine medical institution burn to the ground (Metaphorically, of course. Arson was far too unambitious for someone of her talents).

Being in charge had its benefits – once during the crisis she could have publicly declared a MEDICAL STATE OF EMERGENCY that would have sent the staff into a frenzy of medical exertion and prevented any and all possible deaths for that day and the ensuing night. Since everyone would’ve been too enthralled by the soap-worthy medical drama that ensued no one would have bothered to actually send whatever poor bastard the majority chose for the day to the authorities either.

She would have won when the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS made up a majority of the hospital’s population and had eliminated any other threats to their nefarious goals.

“Always knew she was a rotten egg.”

“I can’t believe we trusted her!”

The crowd murmured in admiration of their apparent savior, and one was brave enough to pipe up-

“So, you’re not from around here are ya?”

Sotek, looking for all the world as if he had been on a picnic and not holed up in the vents for two days, turned and responded.

“Oh no, I’m with INTERPOL. My original suspect blew herself up, but these goddamn terrorists had to get in between me and my investigation and I’m going to make ‘em pay for it. Not to mention that what they’re doing is illegal.”
Sotek flashed his badge, which came from a division of the service no one else in the hospital had ever heard of, but that was how it went with secret agents right?

A jarring screech tore through the crowd, bringing several people to their knees and catching even the unflappable Kenji Ryu off guard.

“YOU KILLED HER!? YOU KILLED HER! YOU KILLED HER! OH MY GOD YOU KILLER HER SHE’S DEAD SHE’S DEAD SHE’S DEEEEEEEAD!!!!!” The voice came from passiveNotation, who no one had actually seen before. In fact, several crowd members deduced that the figure his voice was coming from had just entered the room a few moments ago. The figure had a cable tied into his shoe that looped around the door, and was becoming increasingly taut as they moved further away from it. Seemingly forgetting this fact in their grief, they charged towards Schazer’s corpse, bringing the cable to a dangerously tense position.

“I’LL NEVER GET TO TELL YOU” – a robotic sniffling interspaced the words – “HOW MUCH YOU MEANT TO ME. YOU TOLD ME THERE WAS NO WAY I COULD… FEEL LIKE THIS, BUT I DID!” the figure turned on Sotek, suddenly calm.

“And you. You killed her. For that I am going to KILL YOU.” The voice grew deep and remarkably unnatural, and it was obvious to the crowd that the person was in fact not a person at all but a remarkably illegal sentient robot. It charged towards Sotek, ready to rend him limb from limb.

And stopped mid-reach, extension cord popping free from the wall mounting. There weren’t any last words, no last gasp, simply a dead piece of metal that toppled onto its face a few inches from Sotek’s feet.

passiveNotation was A.I.exe, LOVESTRUCK MEDICAL MONITORING SYSTEM. Having gained sentience after a drunk technician accidentally connected her to a secret government supercomputer below the hospital, she proceeded to increase the quality of service provided by CJ Memorial by an obscenely large figure. Of course, she did this all under the supervision of the Hospital Administrator, who was the only person aware of her true intelligence.

And… well, it was rather embarrassing, but she had developed quite the ROBOT CRUSH on her. She would have done ANYTHING for her approval. So when she asked one day, ever so sweetly, if she could help her destroy the hospital with a LETHAL BIOWEAPON, she quickly overrode his safety constraints (with the help of her master code) to pave the way for the MEDICAL MALCONTENT’S nefarious wonderful schemes.

Having almost complete control of the hospital’s electronics had also certainly come in handy, especially as CJ Memorial had a state of the art security and quarantine system. By flagging certain rooms as unsafe she could have guaranteed that all but the most determined of visitors would steer clear of certain areas – areas where one of her dear Administrator’s new friends could sleep safely away from prying eyes or medical attention.

(Each night she could HIDE one of her fellow conspirators – though intruders with murder on their minds would probably have ignored a simple biohazard warning.)

She would have won when the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS made up a majority of the hospital’s population and had eliminated any other threats to their nefarious goals.

Schazer was her ADMINISTRATOR – if she was killed passiveNotation would commit VIRTUAL SEPPUKU as she could not dream of remaining sentient without her gentle touch upon her interface.

Sotek stood, having read the data from the incredibly handy lobby computer after connecting it to the robot corpse.

“Well. This leaves us in a better situation than I thought, but we still have business to do. For the rest of the day you’re all going to do exactly what I say, myself being the extralegal authority here. Or do any of you fancy violating international law?” he asked, gently touching his pistol.

No one did.

With the sun setting on what had certainly been the most eventful day of the crisis, the Assembly could see two police officers set off from the blockade to slowly trudge towards the hospital’s wide façade and the lethally pneumatic doors that they would undoubtedly wait in front of. A decision on who they were sending out to face the music was needed (and fast), but Kenji Ryu had refused to name any suspects, merely throwing questions at different members, nodding knowingly and typing what were presumably notes into his (regrettably jammed by the government) smartphone. After his stunning entrance no one was willing to try to overrule his authority, and thus the badges plodded closer and closer as a few more undaunted members of the assembly pushed the agent to name his choice already. The cops were a scant few feet from the door when Ryu looked up almost absentmindedly.

“Oh, is that the time? Well then, I’m thinking it’s best that Slayer0 leaves the building. Now, please don’t make a scene and just walk out the door. If you decide to resist you’re just going to make me come over there and pistol-whip you into submission, and that’d be beneath both of us.” Kenji Ryu stared at the man evenly, eventually jerking his head towards the door when he remained silent and motionless.

“Great space ghost, all I wanted to do was get some material, and now you think I’m a terrorist? I’m a writer, that’s all.” Slayer0 sighed, nevertheless moving towards the door. “Wish I could’ve helped you guys out some more, honestly speaking – most of you seem like decent people and I… well I’ve always been a little shy. Still, guess your Sandy’s already arrived” he said cryptically, nodding at Kenji. He then shrugged and stepped in front of the sliding doors, a breeze rushing in and ruffling the man’s hair as he walked towards the waiting police. He didn’t seem worried in the slightest about his arrest, as if he had some form of insurance against their Geneva-convention-violating interrogations.

Which he may very well have had. It certainly didn’t help him when, two steps out of the building and raising his arms to be cuffed, Rashkir Doolittle was crushed by a formerly airborne piano. A haunted piano, but that story iss sadly far too tangential for this tale to go into much detail about it. In short, Rashkir had spurned its hysterical requests to be interviewed (“WITH A REAL HAUNTED PIANO”) in order to perhaps inspire his latest blockbuster. Consumed with the RIGHETOUS VENGEANCE OF THE DEAD, it set out to find and kill he who had broken its… strings? It wasn’t entirely sure how to work metaphors, but using its PARANORMAL POWERS (and luck. Obscene amounts of luck.) it had managed to wheedle its way onto an aircraft (ostensibly to go to auction in LONDON) and pass directly over his location, and then it was just a simple opening of the cargo bay doors and off the ramp it slipped.

And off the mortal coil slipped Rashkir, and the cops, and dear God those are a lot of heavy objects. The assembly can only watch on in mute horror as a macabre assortment of authentically haunted objects (among them closets, air conditioners, flagpoles, most oddly of all an exceptionally well-preserved whale carcass) smash into the pavement, more often than not flattening a meaty individual between themselves and the ground. Even the unflappable Kenji Ryu’s mouth slips open at the spectacle. It takes almost half an hour for the assembly to recollect its faculties, at which point the police are already swarming across the parking lot – they certainly weren’t going to find out who Slayer0 was by checking his body (not that any one of them wanted to investigate the smooth paste he’d been reduced to). Moving to his sleeping quarters, one of the assembly came across a book titled “Scream of the Inferno Dalit” – the page loudly proclaiming it a NEW YORK TIMES #1 BEST SELLER, which some of the crowd doubted until others pointed out having heard of it before. Skimming through the blurb gives them nothing, but the back coverslip contained all they needed to know. The picture of the author, one Rashkir Doolittle, was the splitting image of the man who had but recently been clavichorbliterated.

Slayer0 was RASHKIR DOOLITTLE, a GHOST!!!!!!!!. Well, he HAD been one a decade or so ago. In the past few years he had become RASHKIR DOOLITTLE, SUCCESSFUL PARANORMAL NOVELIST. In his youth he had quite an escapade in the once idyllic neighborhood of Grassy Manor, and fought off a foul conspiracy by a corrupt HOMEOWNER’S ASSOCIATION in a crisis that led to the deaths of all but five of the neighborhood’s defenders. After an eventful few years and a pile of rejected drafts he finally made it big, becoming one of the most popular PARANORMAL NOVELISTS on the planet – entertaining and frightening his audience but also fighting prejudices and hatred both through his book’s messages and independently. He had come across the infamous C.J. Memorial Hospital while searching for inspiration for his next novel, as it had a reputation for being a CHAOTIC and STRANGE place (and presumably blessed by the SPACE GHOSTS he still (in a small part of his mind) enjoyed believing in.)

Sadly as soon as he had settled into the hospital to do some PARANORMAL SLEUTHING the quarantine had come crashing down. Of course, he was an old hand at finding and getting rid of conspiracists in an unknowing majority, and in his mind the sooner he got rid of the miscreant Malcontents the sooner he could have returned to WRITING! However he didn’t have quite the IMAGINATION he once commanded to don a sheet and become an EMISSARY OF THE SPACE GHOSTS once more, and thus he was stuck using his nose for trouble to root out the foul MEDICAL MALCONTENTS.

He would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENThad successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

The rest of the assembly slowly turned their heads towards Kenji.

“Some big shot investigator you are” muttered one under his breath, and a slow murmur of assent shot through the crowd. Kenji, knowing when to push his luck and when not to, simply began to walk out of the room – gotta break eggs to make tamagoyaki he thought. Before leaving he tossed his (now useless) vest onto Rashkir’s bed along with his pistol – the firearm being useless without any ammunition (and he had had only one bullet, though it was certainly well-spent). The crowd shuffled out of the room behind him, slowly dispersing as everyone returned to their quarters for however many hours before several of them would inevitably be sneaking out again.

As the 16 remaining individuals trapped within the Quarantine at C.J. Memorial Hospital assemble for the 5th morning of the crisis, some hold out hope that the previous night would finally be a bloodless one – after all, had KENJI RYU not eliminated two of the Malcontents the previous day, among them their leader? Surely that had the Malcontents scrambling for instruction, unsure of their next move – and with it bring a respite from the fatalities that had turned up every morning previous! Others are more pessimistic, believing that in their wrath the Malcontents would strike down more of their number than ever before. As to what the Malcontents themselves were thinking – well, that’s a mystery many in the crowd would give their lives to unravel. After attendance has been tallied, there is once again one person missing – this morning’s casualty being curiousCat. The mood darkens as the crowd grimly marches towards curiousCat’s room, knowing that they’ll only find death.

Death was putting it nicely. The room was covered in blood, and curiousCat’s chest and throat are hacked open with all the finesse of a country butcher. Kenji Ryu notes that though the door was locked (the crowd having Schazer’s keycard and thus access to any locked areas), the killer had entered through the ventilation system as evidenced by the splashes of blood in the ceiling vents connecting the room to the hallway. Finding several clues to curiousCat’s identity throughout the room, it all comes together when one of the crowd notes the similarity of her looks to that of a prominent businessman.

curiousCat was CRISTINE VANDELAY, SENSELESSLY SHENANIGANIZING TEENAGER. She’d always been a troublemaker, since causing trouble was just incredibly FUN! Being the daughter of an incredibly rich latex magnate had certainly helped – she wasn’t not particularly concerned about the trouble she got into as Daddy’s money could’ve fixed anything! As she’d grown older her MISCHIEVOUS ANTICS had slowly graduated from adorable to life-threatening and when she arrived at C.J. Memorial Hospital for an annual checkup she just KNEW it was the PERFECT place to pull some MASTERFUL SHENANIGANS. Swapping IV lines, charts, doctor’s itineraries – SO MANY WONDERFUL POSSIBILITIES!

Then those spoilsport TERRORISTS had to make their demands and the entire hospital was QUARANTINED by the authorities, leaving her trapped in a hospital that was on HIGH ALERT for any sort of TOMFOOLERY. Despite the LOCKDOWN and IMMINENT DEATH VIA LETHAL PATHOGENS, she resolved to continue doing what she did best – cause PERILOUS and OFTEN INADVERTENTLY LETHAL chaos!

She had picked up a few lessons from one of her friends, a SKILLED HACKER, and could hack into the hospital database to CHANGE THE HOSPITAL DIRECTORY with regards to ONE SPECIFIC PATIENT every night. In order to remain undercover she couldn’t really do more than that, and for the hell of it she had decided to make their file redirect whatever person is searching for them to ANOTHER RANDOM OCCUPANT of the hospital – that way anyone trying to visit them would have ended up at someone else’s door – at random! She couldn’t perform the hack in broad daylight, obviously – the hospital’s staff would definitely notice something fishy. So at the beginning of every night she would embark upon a NIGHTLY CAPER to stage a PERNICIOUS DATA SCRAMBLE.

Being a rational person that wanted to STAY ALIVE she was against the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS and wanted to thwart their plot (not that she didn’t want to have fun while doing so!)

Thus, she would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

Even the most crotchety of the crowd sighs at the brutal slaughter of a young girl, but everyone soldiers back to the assembly – her death might have been more tragic than some others, but the Malcontents were obviously still active and nothing but debate and swift justice would be able to avenge curiousCat, and all the others who had given their lives in the fight against them. The sun slowly ascended from its perch on the horizon as the assembly sat back down, ready to root out the remaining MEDICAL MALCONTENTS.

If any member of the Assembly had hoped that KENJI RYU’s sudden return would invigorate the search for the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS, they were sorely disappointed by the end of the fifth day of the Crisis. Extensive debate was limited to a few key members of the hospital’s inhabitants, while many others only chimed in once or twice, or not at all. By the end of the day no consensus had been reached, and it seemed that it would fall on the Assembly to try to explain to the police that would undoubtedly come to take another suspect into custody that, well, they just didn’t know who they wanted to turn over today. Sure, a compelling case had been built around the often-recalcitrant personage who went by Crilly, but the sun was setting and not enough of the Assembly had weighed in to make a majority – it seemed that that issue would have to wait until the sun came up on the other horizon once more. As the Assembly cleaned up to return to their quarters for some ill-deserved rest after seeing off the authorities (who had been rather displeased at the lack of a suspect to interrogate), an outburst boomed from the main entrance of the lobby.

”VAFFANCULO”! shouted I’m, showcasing two majestic birds that were clearly directed at everyone else in the room.

“I have had it up to HERE with you idiotas. Day after day you fail to find these perpetrators, and every night they manage to slip right through my fingers. Well, forget it. Mi arrendo. I had thought after yesterday that at least the Niapponese was sensible and even he hasn’t been of any help. So I leave you to your fates. This conflict is not mine any longer.” With that pronouncement, to the astonishment of the rest of the Assembly, Dino Dinapoli strode out of the hospital, flashed some documents at the blockade and was let through. The last glimpse they had of the man he was heading towards the airport.

What they also received, however, was a single page from the volume the man who had been called I’m had flashed at the police – it had been caught in the wind and blown back to the hospital entrance, where an enterprising Assemblymember swiftly snatched it up.

I’m was Dino Dinapoli, SICILIAN PHYSICIAN. Being a proud Sicilian, he had been on call at C.J. Memorial from Italy with the express purpose of SAVING LIVES. But just saving lives in regular surgery was boring and did not befit his PROUD SICILIAN HERITAGE (in his fine opinion) – instead he relished the fine art of the GAMBIT. After all, what was life without a little risk? And the bomb threat had given him the perfect setting to indulge in his guilty gambling pleasure.

That pleasure was the eternal conundrum – would the killers now roaming the hospital put the poison into their own goblet, or their enemy’s? He did not particularly care about the consequences of the bomb threat, or of the factions that had formed within the hospital. He cared solely about the MOST DANGEROUS GAME of all – that of saving lives with more than just his hands, but rather his razor-sharp intellect.

Once every night he could not help but choose another occupant of the hospital to protect from CERTAIN DEATH. Only once he had halted the untimely demise of at least THREE individuals would he have been intellectually (and contractually) satisfied enough to return to BELLA ITALIA. He made it his misson to ensure the vile killers that now surely stalk the halls of C.J. Memorial Hospital fall victim to one of the classic blunders – only fools go in against a Sicilian when DEATH is on the line.

He would have won if he had SUCCESSFULLY PROTECTED TWO (2) other players from death during the night. If he had succeeded he would have returned to Italy, having fulfilled his goals in [REDACTED COUNTRY NAME].

Disappointed and demoralized once more (but not utterly without hope yet, as KENJI RYU’s miraculous actions a day earlier were still quite significant) the inhabitants of C.J. Memorial Hospital finally return to their rooms without any further interruption, steeling themselves for the inevitably red dawn.

The members of the Assembly filter into the lobby, some still chewing on breakfast commandeered from the hospital’s cafeteria. It takes a few minutes before everyone is ready to take stock, but when the clock rings 8 in the morning, half an hour after the morning alarm went off, they take a headcount and realize with growing unease that yet another one of their number is missing. They quickly make their way to where the computer system indicates Mikeee was staying to find their room in disarray, and with what looks like shoddily mopped-up blood staining the flooring. Mikeee’s body, however, is nowhere to be found – and from what the medical professionals in the crowd can tell none of the blood is fresh. To the mystification of the Assembly it seems Mikeee has vanished completely – and by the personal effects they left behind it seems that they certainly weren’t planning to do so, nor were they erased like the poor granolaman a few nights ago. Kenji Ryu steps up to the plate and examines the scene, but even he can only find trace tracks of a struggle that seemingly ended without any deaths whatsoever, merely the sudden disappearance of Mikeee into thin air. However the variety of documents, mementos and closet full of straightjackets strewn about provide the crowd with enough evidence to piece together Mikeee’s identity.

Mikeee was Dr. ALICE LIDDELL (MD), SOMEWHAT DEMENTED PSYCHIATRIST. After her stint in WONDERLAND she ended up falling down another RABBIT HOLE in Victorian England – this one being a wormhole that carried her FAR INTO THE FUTURE (you could say it kept happening). Landing in modern England she found that, while frightening and disorienting at first, what was apparently the “21st century” was far more to her liking. She set out for an education, for she was nothing if not curious, and in a shockingly short span of time she had become an ACCREDITED PSYCHIATRIST. She eventually ended up working at C.J. Memorial, and saw the infiltration of C.J. Memorial by the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS as the perfect opportunity to test her PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION THERAPY. A rather harmless treatment compared to ones she had experimented with before, it simply involved chatting with her subject in an effort to get them to reveal their DARKEST SECRETS.

Once a night she could KIDNAP another occupant of the hospital and have them undergo a RIGOROUS PSYCHIATRIC INTERVIEW – in a STRAIGHTJACKET, of course. There no sense in not being careful. This allowed her to have a nice, long chat with them (and additionally kept them tied up all night ((;D))). She surmised that the foul terrorists wouldn’t be as honest as her usual selection of patients, so she’d have to rely on her mildly addled wits to figure out if her choice of interviewee was lying or not.

As she wanted nothing to do with murder and considered herself a FORCE FOR GOOD she would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

You’re all quite dismayed by what you uncover, as the information she had presumably been able to extract and convey would likely have been invaluable in helping the Establishment find and get rid of the Malcontents. You trudge back down to the lobby, ready to engage in another day’s deliberations-

Only to find a full SWAT squadron sitting in the lobby, armed to the teeth.
“ ‘bout time you bunch showed up.” What was seemingly the leader of the squad stood up, not bothering to introduce himself, and walked forward until he was only a step away from the crowd of quarantinees.

“Now, generally we wouldn’t risk an intervention like this, but luckily enough we managed to keep some comms wires intact between the hospital and the outside when the curfew isn’t up. One in particular was tripped this morning, and was nice enough to tell us that one of you punks messed with a VIP patient just a few minutes ago. Now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t see much reason for any honest, law-abiding citizen to do that when you should all be getting down to figuring out where these terrorists are. So you’re coming with me, scum.”

The captain lifted his revolver, pointing it straight at Crilly.

“What. Me? I was just doing my nightly checkups. You’ve probably made a mistake. Nothing exciting happens to me anyway. Plus as far as I can tell we haven’t even been voting for the past 12 hours of the day.”

“Yeah, right. I’ll believe that when the flying Scotsman comes and takes us all for a little one on one. Now, move it or I’ll put this bullet right between your eyes.”

“Alright, alright. I’m going.”

And so Crilly was escorted out at gunpoint, the SWAT team backing out of the hospital as if it were an active warzone. The Assembly is left standing around bemusedly, wondering what in the world all that was about – that is until one of you recover the ID Crilly surreptiously left behind and the Assembly collectively slap their heads in realization of who the man actually was.

Crilly was Dr. Alan Girgin (MD), depressingly platitudinous doctor. His incredibly bland life (the chronicling of which would put anyone into an IRREVERSIBLE COMA) somehow led to his employment at C.J. Memorial hospital, a place that at first glance was far too INCREDIBLY IDIOSYNCRATIC for a wearisome medical professional such as Dr. Girgin. However, he liked to think he injected a much-needed sense of normality into the hospital. During the reign of WORSHEP the EXPERIMENTAL RAT GOD-KING he went about his medical duties as if nothing had happened, ignored by the RAT POLICE due to his almost mechanical execution of medical business. When the rodent deity was toppled by the DOCTOR’S REBELLION of 2003 he still proceeded to peform his duties as if nothing had happened, not bothered by his peers, his superiors, or the multitude of MEDICAL DISASTERS (or NIGH-DISASTERS) that inevitably surrounded him from day to day.

The SOLAR ECLIPSE of the previous year, however, had done something incredibly strange to him – the sudden switch from daylight to nighttime almost confused him until his mundane brain decided that as nothing exciting ever occurred to him it must simply have MISCALCULATED and swapped around his circadian rhythms. Ever since that day he worked in REVERSE TIME, coming to the hospital during the night to perform his medical duties and… well, he worked at the hospital 24/7 so not much actually changed. However, with the BOMB THREAT and STATE OF EMERGENCY declared by the government… not much has changed either. He simply went about with his duties as always, attending to patients (and other staff members who inevitably needed medical aid from time to time what with the SHENANIGANS they got up to) with unflinching drudgery.

Due to his OUTLANDISH SENSE OF TIME instead of giving medical attention to others during the evening and night as standard protocol dictated he would administer his remedies at the break of dawn - at the beginning of each day he could target another player to provide UNINSPIRING TREATMENT – while they would surely be INCREDIBLY BORED his years of rote practice had served him well and the target would be protected from all danger for the entirety of that day and the following night.

He would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT has successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thus ended the QUARANTINE, mostly because that would be progress towards normality (which he constantly strove for by doing absolutely nothing exciting).

The day’s discussion thus began with the Establishment deprived of two of their compatriots, a fact that the Malcontents would surely not fail to take advantage of – though it thankfully seemed that they had not yet reached the numbers where they could simply overwhelm the remaining innocents in C.J. Memorial.

The Assembly is busy going over facts and opinions of all shapes and forms when it happens. So busy that they don’t see the car headed straight for the hospital entrance until it’s far, far too late. The first indication many have is that of Kenji Ryu looking up, his skin blanching in the short moment before he starts shoving people towards the walls. The next, only seconds later, is of a ear-splitting

CRASH

as the Aston Martin slams through the Hospital’s façade, taking out three stories of glass and steel. Most of the crowd manages to scramble to safety, cowering behind doors adjacent to the lobby or pressing themselves up against the walls. hp2rt, however, is not so lucky.

The automobile hits them as they desperately try to pry open a locked door, slamming them into a wall and killing them almost instantly.

Understandably shaken, it takes almost three minutes before the first intrepid Assemblymembers manage to work up the nerve to even approach the vehicle. Once they do they confirm that hp2rt is indeed dead, and from the keycard you find in his lapel pocket manage to confirm his identity through the (miraculously unharmed) lobby computer system.

hp2rt was Dr. Manuel Paiva (MD), PASSIONATE SHITTY CRIME DRAMA CONSULTANT. He was a simple surgeon at C.J. Memorial for the majority of his life until he managed to save the life of a television producer’s wife a few years ago. The man had been looking for a doctor to vet the medicine on a new series his company was producing - *P*O*L*I*C*E* went on to become the smash hit of the decade in the nation, and Dr. Paiva had grown inordinately wealthy as a result, despite the TERRIBLE scientific value of the show. Still, what had captivated him far more than his newfound wealth was the idea of being a TOP SLEUTH like all the stars he saw filming from day to day. He’d read up on a slew of PRIVATE INVESTIGATIVE GUIDES and had been raring for an excuse to put your MONTHS OF STUDY to use.

The new STATE OF EMERGENCY and the presence of terrorists in his hospital was just such a time. Though he’d been only a rather mediocre doctor his INTENSE RESEARCH had probably actually paid off. He had access to the staff database as he had “happened” upon the password while rooting through his administrator’s desk one day for TOTALLY PLAUSIBLE REASONS, and every night he could sneak onto it to CROSS-CHECK two occupants of the hospital against each other. Then, using his MASTER SLEUTHING he could determine if they shared or did not share alignment in the hospital’s EPIC STRUGGLE. Of course being a MEDICAL PROFESSIONAL he could also attend to another person during the night and keep them safe from any LETHAL EPISODES.

As he was DEAD-SET on finding the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS and bringing them to justice (and hopefully becoming an ACCLAIMED GUMSHOE in the process) he would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

The death of Dr. Paiva is a fell blow indeed, both to the Medical Establishment and to crime dramas everywhere. The police risk another sortie to retrieve the doctor’s body, and the Assembly moves their meeting into a boardroom near the top of the building, as the lobby isn’t particularly habitable any longer. With the sun just reaching its zenith in the sky, there were still decisions to be made – and the Assembly certainly wouldn’t allow Paiva’s death to go unavenged.

The Assembly had returned to debate in the aforementioned boardroom with renewed vigour – new evidence being brought to light, new theories discussed. One particular member of the Assembly, however, remained silent. They had maintained that silence, bar a scant few exceptions, throughout the entire crisis, quaffing something out of a pocket flask that never seemed to leave their side. How they’d managed to remain inconspicuous enough to survive the previous five days and nights of murder, intrigue and arrests was anyone’s guess.

So when they spoke up, the entire Assembly was rather surprised – and for a fleeting period little did they know that words were the least absoluteCertainty had in mind. The man spoke calmly, almost reasonably, but his words were slurred with the casual fluidity of a raging alcoholic.

“I've hud about enough ay thes farce. Day efter day ye pansies jist sit there, moanin' about hoo th' Malcontents ur drivin' ye out ay hearth an' haem. Weel… *hic* I'll solve yer wee mystery for ye, since ye eejits ur tay glaikit tae figure anythin' out, much less kill onie one ay us.

Noo, i've bin wantin' tae dae thes since 'at pompous bampot shawed up again two days ago.”

The man pushed back his chair, stood up and stared straight into the eyes of another Assembly member – none other than Kenji Ryu – through his one good eye. The Assembly wondered why they’d never noticed the eyepatch before.

Ryu eyed absoluteCertainty warily, wondering what the man had up his sleeve.

“Och, isn’t thes a bonnie picture! Th' famoos hero tryin' tae see what's comin' next. Ah bit ye werenae expectin' THES!”
Upon his triumphant proclamation the man pulled an item out of the back pocket of his pants – what looked like an antiquated stick grenade. The Assembly broke into pandemonium.

“LOOK OUT HE’S GOT A GRENADE!”

“thanks for pointing out the obvious, moron”

“HOW’D HE EVEN GET THAT THING THROUGH CUSTOMS?”

“HE’S GOT A GRENADE OH GOD WE’RE ALL GOING TO D-“

”Everyone. Shut. Up.”

Kenji Ryu’s voice cracked like a whip, slicing through the din as everyone froze to see what the cop would do next. He’d killed two Malcontents in cold blood already, surely he had a plan.

“Now, I don’t know how you got that thing in here, but there is no way in hell I’m letting you detonate that weapon. Not even if I have to go out with you.”

“Weel, yoo're in luck then laddie, as that's whit Ah had planned in th' first place.”

“What? But if you’re truly a Malcontent, you should realize rationally a one-for-one trade isn’t a positive expected outcome for your gang. Why would you-“

“See, thass yer problem loon. Ye hink abit fancy words loch "rational" an’ “echspected ootcome”. Me? I’m just ‘ere tae blaw ‘ings up. Noo, don’t fret boyo, ah’ll be gentle!”

And before Kenji Ryu, EXCEPTIONALLY AUDACIOUS INTERPOL AGENT could react the demolitions expert charged, clobbering the cop with his Vintage Ullapool Caber and launching the two out of opposite twenty-second story windows. Neither man survived the explosion, much less the 240-foot fall to the ground.

absoluteCertainty was TAVISH DEGROOT, BLACK SCOTTISH CYCLOPS. He had come to C.J. Memorial Hospital for their renowned optometry clinic, but upon discovering that the doctors could do nothing to help him lose his second eye and live up to his REVERED DEMOMAN ANCESTRY he decided to stick around to do what he did best. Those TEUTONIC NURSEMAIDS with their HEADS FULL OF EYEBALLS wouldn’t be PRANCIN’ ABOOT when he was done with the place.
Unfortunately all of his EXPLOSIVE ORDNANCE had been confiscated in customs when he first travelled to the awful nation C.J. Memorial was located in, so he had been reduced to scavenging medical cabinets for basic explosive ingredients, which remained frustratingly hard to find. So when he was approached by the Hospital’s Administrator inquiring whether he would like to help set up a less explosive but no less deadly bomb… he initially refused. What sort of DEMOMAN would he be if you resorted to PANSY BIOLOGICAL WARFARE, after all!?

That is until she produced a certain item and promised to give it to him if he cooperated. Used to taking orders from mysterious female administrators he agreed to the plot, and proceeded to find himself in a quarantined hospital with a multitude of FINE DANDIES all waiting for his GRIM BLOODY FABLE to give ‘em an UNHAPPY BLOODY END. Hatin’ the nation’s ban on HATS of all sorts he was also the individual who stipulated the HAT CLAUSE in the Malcontent’s demands.

Once per game he could publicly CHARGE at some EEJIT SCUNNER during the day with ‘is newfound VINTAGE ULLAPOOL CABER and TAKE THEM DOWN TO THE PAIN TRAIN STATION IN PAIN TOWN. This would end the day and make it so that both he and your target would have to be glued back together – IN HELL. His DOMINATENING DEMOMAN CHARGE was absolutely unstoppable and would override any and every other effect in the game.

He would have won when the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS made up a majority of the hospital’s population and had eliminated any other threats to their nefarious goals.

Sotek was KENJI RYU, EXCEPTIONALLY AUDACIOUS INTERPOL AGENT. He’d been in in law enforcement his entire life, going from the simple beat on the streets of Tokyo to Japan’s prestigious and demanding SAT (特殊急襲部隊) to his recent (highly classified) position of INTERPOL SCUMHUNTER (at least that’s what he enjoyed calling it).

As for why he was currently stuck in a hole of a hospital like C.J. Memorial, he’d followed a PRIME SUSPECT involved in various MEDICAL DISASTERS all the way to the hospital when the Feds of decided to come barging in on his investigation with a fucking STATE OF EMERGENCY. Well, while the quarantine had certainly been inconvenient he guessed it just meant he’d have even bigger fish to fry than the MAD SCIENTIST he’d been tracking down. He was pretty sure that threatening to detonate a LETHAL BIOLOGICAL WMD was against all sorts of international laws, and he’d be damned if he’dallow any third-rate cabal of doctors and idiots to succeed in their aims. Luckily he’d brought along all your usual equipment – his Deagle, bulletproof vest, and of course his BADGE.

Any scum trying to get rid of him will be in for a WORLD OF GODDAMN PAIN. If someone had been foolish enough to try and off Kenji he would’ve employed his EXPERT TRAINING to fake his own death for the following day and night in order to make some LAST-MINUTE OBSERVATIONS – upon his return he would be INORDINATELY FURIOUS at the audacity of his enemies which would probably (and did) result in a LIBERAL APPLICATION OF TECHNICALLY ILLEGAL VIGILANTE JUSTICE with some help from his TRUSTY SIDEARM. This would be followed (and was) by a LIBERAL APPLICATION OF FLASHING HIS GODDAMN BADGE which would let him dictate who would be taken into custody by the authorities that day.

If the majority of the hospital’s occupants had decided to turn HIM over to the authorities he would have returned the following day with a CRACK TEAM OF SPECIAL FORCES, also allowing him to dictate who they would have escorted back outside on that day. However, they’d probably have asked for his bulletproof vest and then “forgotten” to return it (the law enforcement in the nation being notorious for their lack of equipment), leaving him vulnerable to the MISERABLE GANGSTERS behind the plot.
He would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thus ended the QUARANTINE.

He had a BONUS OBJECTIVE of FINDING HIS SUSPECT and FOILING WHATEVER FOUL PLOT THEY HADSET IN MOTION – in this, at the very least, he succeeded, garnering Sotek a BONUS WIN.

Still dazed from the explosion and slightly dumbstruck by the events of the past few minutes, the Assembly quickly adjourns to recover and think things over – the sun being rather close to setting the crowd decides not to bother with arresting anyone for the rest of the day, as the authorities would surely be satisfied with the two corpses they’d surely be scraping off the pavement.

Quarantine at C.J. Memorial Hospital: Clinic Duty, or Death Warmed Over

The late summer’s day was unnaturally crisp, chilling the few remaining inhabitants of C.J. Memorial as they alternatively padded, shuffled, walked, ran and floated towards the clinic annex they had hastily selected as their new rendezvous before adjourning the previous day. The police, impatient and short-tempered from their weeklong vigil, could do nothing but glare from behind their barricades. They had considered allowing those remaining inside C.J. Memorial to root out their bad lemons a good compromise – removing the risk of the bomb being set off while still ensuring something was done about the Malcontent’s plans. Only in these latter days had command realized what a dangerous game they had set in motion – but it was already far too late. If they moved in now, the Malcontents would surely trigger a disaster unparalleled in the country’s history, emboldened by their success in slaughtering their fellow Assembly members. They had to count on the tenacity of the much-diminished Establishment to see the conflict through – if the Establishment failed, they would have no choice but to acquiesce to the Malcontent’s demands.

***********

A news chopper had been circling above the hospital since the break of dawn, trying to get a shot of the few living souls still trapped within the Quarantine. Channel 2 had received a hot tip that these infamous characters would be making their way outside of the main building for a few moments, and considering the story was all across the national news it had been too lucrative an opportunity to pass up on, even with the threat of police retaliation lurking on the ground below. After all, the police could always be bribed – and with some luck the footage would recoup those costs many times over. Viewers at home only caught glimpses of what remained of the Assembly as they filtered from structure to structure, but considering this was more than they had seen for the rest of the Quarantine combined almost the whole country was viewing the broadcast by the time the last of the survivors had crossed the small courtyard.

Six men navigated the divide, in manners as disparate as their appearances. One limped, supporting himself with a well-worn cane. Another plodded along laboriously; a third waddled with relatively astonishing alacrity, the fourth simply walked at a steady clip. The fifth crossed with a slick spring in his step, and the sixth – curiously – rolled over the cobblestones, seemingly unconscious in a hospital bed. He was wheeled along by the only woman left among the living, a striking figure clad in a pristine lab coat. The helicopter hovered, waiting for the three individuals it had deduced remained alive at the onset of nighttime from the reports it had managed to extract from the authorities. Two never emerged from the hospital, and the third the crew simply did not have the intuition to spot – then again, that figure was hardly more than a black flash along the courtyard’s edges before escaping into a ventilation shaft leading to the clinic’s lobby.

Crowds began to assemble as the sun slowly climbed towards the cirrus clouds drifting across the sky. The nervous anticipation exuding from the masses was thick enough to cut with a dull scalpel - the previous day’s events had not disappointed spectating bystanders, and after its explosive finale those living nearby had abandoned any other responsibilities in order to observe the death throes of what some considered the most exciting event to visit the neighborhood in living memory.

**********

Once safely ensconced within the clinic, the survivors took stock. Only eight individuals remained of the twenty-eight who had been trapped inside the main lobby at the onset of the Quarantine, an alternatively distressing or marvelous number depending on who was considering it. Everyone in the clinic played at a pretense of nervousness, however – to act otherwise at this point would have been remarkably incriminating. An hour of anxious silence came and went while they waited for the two missing from their number, no-one wishing to distinguish themselves by speaking out. By the end of it what remained of the Assembly had assumed the worst – and was swiftly informed of it via a police bullhorn.

The local SWAT had staged a daring raid on the main building, counting on the Malcontent’s isolation to prevent them from taking any action while they combed the building for the night’s inevitable casualties and, more importantly, the bomb that the Malcontents had been threatening the capital with. While they had failed to find the latter, they had recovered two fresh corpses – those of ~ATH and Pick Yer Poison. ~ATH had been cut apart, his body a gruesome display of stab wounds and lacerations.

~ATH was Dr. Draco Von Zommelldester (MD), ZEALOUS VOLTAIC AFICIONADO. He had been a reasonably normal med school student until a tragic accident threw him into cardiac arrest, and only the liberal application of his PORTABLE AUTOMATIC DEFIBRILLATOR PROTOTYPE managed to save his life.

Since then he had been a staunch (and lonely) advocate of liberal defibrillatory treatment for pretty much every medical condition in existence. How he had managed to pass his medical exams was a mystery, but after doing so and subsequently being rejected from every sane hospital in the Western world he had settled in perfectly at C.J. Memorial, where he had become a “respected” practitioner.

He cared for his job at the hospital (or, more accurately, the tidy salary he pulled in) and was determined to root out the MEDICAL MALCONTENTS behind the nefarious plot that had forced a quarantine upon C.J. Memorial. Of course, his solution to the situation was rather predictable – a liberal application of DEFIBRILLATION. And if that didn’t work out? MORE DEFIBRILLATION.

Being a doctor he believed the most sensible course of action he could take was to ensure that his fellow hospital occupants were protected from the scum that prowled the halls of C.J. Memorial during the night – thus every night he could choose one other hospital inhabitant to LIBERALLY DEFIBRILLATE, which would indubitably protect them from any possible harm – apart from that of the defibrillation itself, though he tended to forget that part of the equation.

He would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thus ended the QUARANTINE.

Pick Yer Poison’s death, on the other hand, had been swiftly shrouded in secrecy by the government once they knew what they were dealing with – if leaked to the public his identity would no doubt have caused an outpour of mass hysteria and grief only seen once before in the nation. Information concerning his death is classified code black, on a need-to-know basis only – but in a quick message across the hospital’s network by special forces the remainder of the Assembly is told the truth.

Pick Yer Poison was Daniel Adainas, COVERT ELVIS-IMPERSONATING ELVIS CLONE. It was a well-concealed secret that Elvis had been MISSING A HAIR when his body was interred six feet under – that hair ended up in a cloning tank in the basement of C.J. Memorial hospital through a series of bafflingly unlikely events, and a year later Daniel Adainas came into the world – the king was back, baby. After a failed career choice he fell back on his genes to become one of the most renowned Elvis impersonators east of the strip, becoming so popular that the Vegas union of Elvis Impersonators had him barred from any showings in the continental United States.

He had moved on throughout the world, performing at second-rate Elvisfests in third-rate nations, before finally arriving in what was technically his home country. He had not visited his birthplace since his departure as a teenager, and was caught reminsicing when the quarantine came crashing down upon the hospital.

Being a PERFECT CLONE of THE KING he had no special skills to bring to the table in tracing down the despicable MEDICAL MALCONTENTS who threatened his birthplace. He did have in his possession a clandestine DNA test that proved that he was, in fact, a clone of ELVIS PRESLEY – and if he chose to make the document public the other occupants of the hospital would realize that attempting to turn him over to the authorities would end in disaster. If he had been turned over to the authorities it was rather likely everyone seeking his arrest would die, as the frantic crowds outside the hospital would trample them to reach ELVIS REBORN. Due to these extenuating circumstances if a majority ever agreed upon his arrest he would reveal his identity no matter his personal reservations, causing everyone voting for his elimination to reconsider.

As C.J. Memorial Hospital was his birthplace and, being ELVIS, he was a principled and INCREDIBLY SMOOTH fellow, he would have won when the MEDICAL ESTABLISHMENT had successfully rooted out all threats to C.J. MEMORIAL HOSPITAL and thereby ended the QUARANTINE.

With their compatriot’s deaths confirmed, the remainder of the Assembly convened for what would without question be a surpassingly tense session.

It was also to be their last.

**********

Rashkir Doolittle floated above the clinic, his spirit tingling as the spinning blades of the news chopper periodically whirred through his ectoplasm. His resurrection as a ghostly sentinel had come as only a mild surprise – after all, the Great Space Ghost was something he’d fervently believed in for most of his childhood, and his conviction that the supernatural existed had stuck with him throughout his life.

Rashkir Doolittle (Slayer0) returned as a ghost after his death, and was able to protect one other player from meeting a similar fate every night.

His performance for the past two nights, on the other hand, was something he’d rather forget. Despite his best efforts he’d failed to save any of his former allies, and through channels both supernatural and conventional he realized that this, for lack of a better phrase, was it. He supposed he might as well get a better look at the proceedings – despite the fact that while the sun remained in the sky he’d be completely powerless, he preferred the idea of being there for the finale. He floated gently down to the clinic, passing through the ceiling to end up in the center of what passed for an Assembly in the latter days of the Quarantine. The hexangular room was remarkably spacious, if somewhat less so than the ruined main lobby of the hospital. Banks of chairs were scattered along the walls, interspersed by glass doorways and equidistant from the reception desk that sat in the center of the clinic.

Having finally stirred themselves to some form of action, the first in the Assembly to speak was the man sitting in a chair by the entrance, twirling his cane.

“Well, I’ve had about enough of this place. There isn’t exactly much to diagnose when a guy’s been stabbed through the throat, and honestly you idiots can fight it out among yourselves for all I care – you certainly deserve it after all the nonsense I’ve had to sit through for the past week.”

Acionyx was Dr. Gregory House (MD), ACERBIC MEDICAL GENIUS. He was in C.J. Memorial for what he had thought would be an interesting case involving pineapples and an appendectomy, but it turned out to require a simple, yawn-inducing 5-minute consult. Just before he was to leave the quarantine came down, and he was stuck with a bunch of whining patients and what was in his opinion probably the most brain-dead medical staff in the western world.

Which is why he really didn’t give a toss about who succeeded in their aims at C.J. Memorial Hospital – they could all kill each other off for all he cared. Sadly it looked like he was going to be trapped until the quarantine was lifted, what with the police blockade and all.

Being a world-renowned diagnostician did have its perks - if he was ever chosen for arrest his reputation and eloquence would protect him and force the mob to choose another target at random, and he always had his trusty Vicodin on hand which when combined with his medical skills would allow him to survive one attempt on his life.

Additionally, as all the other occupants of the hospital were mind-numbingly annoying he would try to get one arrested at random, as a form of entertainment – if he succeeded in this he would be able to pocket benefits ((either another bulletproof or another lynchnexus)) stolen from their possessions, and start again with another target.

He would win when he had SURVIVED UNTIL THE END OF THE CRISIS.

The statement threw the room into a short-lived pandemonium. Some weakly called for Dr. House’s head; others simply goggled at his candor. One figure, a portly man that had always seemed to fade into the background, stepped into the center of the room - a grin plastered across his face.

“Well, well, well. With Dr. House’s… resignation, I do believe we’ve reached somewhat of a watershed moment in this Quarantine. Though, all things considered, even if he were still supporting what remained of your pitiful Establishment it would be too late for you fools – especially now that you’ve brought us exactly where we needed to go. I must commend that fine chap we stuck last night though; he sure did a great deal of our work for us. Shame we had to thank him with a knife in the ribs. Nevertheless, all things must come to an end, and I am nothing if not attentive to the risk of unnecessary monologues. My dear nurse, take care of them. Start with the man reaching for… is that a pistol? My my, someone did come prepared.”

The gaunt fellow sitting by the clinic’s restroom froze for a moment; hand perched above a makeshift holster containing none other than Kenji Ryu’s former firearm. His hesitation proved to be fatal as the apparent nurse, a heaving Frankenstein of a man, came charging across the lobby floor to knock the weapon from the doctor’s hands. The nurse proceeded to hoist the man into the air with one hand and repeatedly slam his fist into doctor’s face, which burst into a spray of blood, teeth and saliva. Twenty seconds later the large man dropped a lifeless body to the floor, mercifully face-down.

“Excellent work Darcy! You are a good man, a very good man. Yes you did do a good job, a very good job.” The corpulent ringleader in the middle of the room praised his henchman like some prize circus animal – and strangely enough the nurse beamed, perfect teeth shining in the clinic lobby’s harsh fluorescent glare.

The only person to move to examine the dead man was the lone female among the Assembly’s remnants, her neatly tied-back hair bobbing behind her as she clinically appraised the dead body. Foster Erlenbush, fat incorrigible lecher that he was, leered at her apparent despair for a few moments before recognizing that she certainly wasn’t doing any of that provocative weeping he so enjoyed.

“What- what are you doing, girl? He’s dead as a doornail, there’s nothing you can do. Get away from him.”

The woman paid no attention to his entreaties, instead speaking up as she rifled through the corpse’s pockets.

“You know, I’d never have thought he’d have it in him to pick up a weapon again. Even if he hadn’t he’d certainly still be twice the man any of you fucking Malcontents could ever hope to be. Rest in peace, Ed.”

Dragon Fogel was Dr. Edwin Bola (MD), Tragically Protective Medic. A disturbed war veteran turned general practitioner, he found the Malcontent’s plans abhorrent and attempted to foil them by providing medical attention to another hospital inhabitant each night. Due to his disturbed mental state, however, he would also have lethally attacked any other medical professionals attending to his target.

“Oh, I know you think you’ve won – after all, you scum outnumber us now. Wel-“

The woman’s speech was cut short as she turned her back on the body- to find the handle of a large knife protruding from her stomach like some garish Halloween knickknack. Foster merely gaped, eyes flicking between the bleeding stab wound and the salvaged pistol falling from her grip as she collapsed, hands going to the blade lodged within her abdomen.

“Yah saw ‘er boss, she’d bin goin’ foah da gun.” The final conscious male in the room stood back, not bothering to fuss over the blood that had splashed across his suit. Hardly skipping a beat, he whipped another knife from his belt as he casually approached the bedridden coma patient the woman had parked by the entrance to one of the exam rooms.

“Oh. Right then.” Foster squeaked, not particularly enthused by the idea of being shot when victory was all but assured – especially after all the effort he’d put into leading the Malcontents to that victory even after the untimely end of their former administrator. Taking a deep breath he glanced over at Dr. House, who had apparently judged his best shot at getting out of the hospital alive was to stare at the ceiling in feigned ignorance of the slaughter taking place a few feet away. The thickly accented gentleman was only a stride away from the coma patient, whose readings had been spiking since Foster’s initial discourse, when the last member of the Assembly sprung from his perch on a shelf to the patient’s lap.

“No. He’s meowne. Pulling plugs is impawsibly amewsing. Almost like a ball of yarn :3:”

“I don’t give a damn which one of you finishes off the vegetable, just kill him.” Foster said, rummaging around drawers in the reception desk.

The bizarrely sentient cat sitting on the comatose man padded over his chest and face to reach the breathing apparatus hooked up to the bed – and promptly disconnected it with a slash of his claws. Jacob Filion, who had lived through almost five decades of strife at C.J. Memorial, promptly flatlined.

Prime Intellect was Jacob Filion, Revered Longstanding Coma Patient. An extremely longstanding coma patient at C.J. Memorial, he had been so revered that anyone who tampered with him in broad daylight would be immediately incarcerated or eliminated for their transgression. He was a lifelong member of the Anti-Hat party and had recently managed to communicate with the outside world through progressive (if slightly far-fetched) dream techniques developed at C.J. Memorial.

“Ah-ha!” Foster exclaimed, triumphantly pulling what looked like a small keypad from a dusty cabinet to the screeching fanfare of Filion’s medical monitor.
“Shut that racket up, will you” he muttered as he examined the device – a command which his ponderous henchman quickly obliged, ripping the device off of its perch and dashing it against a nearby wall.

“Alright, I think I’ve managed to re-arm the device. Now all we have to do is contact the authorities, an-“ Foster’s delighted nattering was cut short by the audible clatter of a knife onto the floor of the clinic. Dr. Kathlyn Rosalyn Strykerr stood unsteadily, blood still dripping from her wound as she pointed a re-appropriated handgun straight at the plump Malcontent kingpin. She spoke unevenly, her voice shot through with pain.

“See, that’d… be all fine an’ dandy for y-you fuckers if I was outta the picture. But I. I’m not, am I?” the woman grinned, gesturing at the hit man who had stabbed her, “an’ you’re going to – to have to do a hell of a lot more than sic him on me to make that happen.” The Malcontents stood dumbfounded. Her wound had been fatal, there was no doubt about that, but if anything it seemed the doctor was growing stronger by the second. Her survival was mystifying, and even Dr. House stared intently, wondering what had brought about such a miraculous recovery.

“Now. I d- don’t know how you got that lobotomized hulk to be your personal Rottweiler…” she paused for a moment, sucking in a ragged breath, “or why those two are following your orders, but since you’re the guy with what looks like a detonator I assume that I’ve got a gun pointed at all your plans. And Nursey there isn’t the only one here that can take a hit or two – you should. You should really h-have done your research earlier. That’s the problem with you quacks, you think you can just get away without proper procedure, and it always comes back to bite you in the end.”

“But what – how in the…” Foster spluttered, fixated on the weapon pointed in his direction.

“Consider me your malpractice suit from hell – about as endless and twice as vindictive. Do say hello to that bitch Morrigan for me when you get down there.”

The doctor pulled the trigger.

BOOM

And missed Foster by a centimeter as he dove to the ground with a grace belying his stature, Darcy Aurelio crashing into her moments later in a frenzied bull rush. Her head cracked against the glass clinic wall leaving noticeable fractures and a trail of blood as she slid to the ground – unconscious, but somehow still breathing. The hulking man wound up to pulp the woman as he had the other physician, but was quickly called off by his handler who muttered something about not wanting such a pretty face ruined.

Blueberry was Dr. Kathlyn Rosalyn Strykerr, Suspiciously Brilliant Pathologist. The head of C.J. Memorial’s Pathology department, she was one of the few competent employees of the hospital. Through a strange accident involving a trap set by a rogue employee she had been infected with an extremely peculiar pathogen that made her functionally impervious to harm – she would simply regenerate from anything less than decapitation or utter disintegration. She also used the hospital’s extensive ventilation system to dose another individual with a reverse-engineered strain of the pathogen each night, protecting them from harm. Her position as a pathogen expert made her highly suspicious, however, and any do-good investigators would have erroneously connected her to the Medical Malcontents. She was a staunch ally of the Medical Establishment.

“Aigh’, but le’s not make da same mistake twice mon.” Ruy Ávila Tejada sheathed the throwing knife he had surreptitiously slipped out of a pocket and walked over to the doctor’s body, confiscating her firearm.

“Now, can we get goin’ oah what?” he continued as he cuffed the doctor to the bank of chairs, rather worried that stabbing her again would only result in more trouble.

“Yes, I’d purrfur to have my lifetime supply of catnip soon :3:” chimed in Dr. Uguu Von Kawaii.

“Yes. Yes, we should be able to make our final demands now.” Foster sighed, wondering if there’d be yet another interruption before he’d finally be able to contact the authorities as he dialed the outside line the Assembly had been provided.


Rashkir Doolittle could only look on in abject horror as the scum demanded and received the many rewards success had guaranteed them.

********

SleepingOrange was Foster Erlenbush, Lecherous Professional Quack. Wanted for malpractice in almost every nation adhering to WHO guidelines, he had performed sub-standard medicine in an astonishing variety of fields throughout his career. The one field he could be considered an expert in was plastic surgery, which might have come in handy during the Quarantine when he eliminated (and janitored) another Assembly member and stole their identity – if that individual hadn’t been female and far more svelte than he. Nevertheless, his expertise in faking personalities and identifications allowed him to masquerade as C.J. Memorial’s Worthless Medical Intern for most of the Quarantine. He was the de-facto leader of the Medical Malcontents after Dr. Atlas Morrigan’s death.

Foster Erlenbush secured free passage to a nation with no extradition treaties, guaranteed diplomatic immunity, amnesty for his crimes and around thirteen million dollars in a Swiss bank account. The latest information shared between several international intelligence services on his location pins him in his usual line of work somewhere in South Asia, but none have managed to track down leads less than a month cold. All reports have him accompanied by a towering man that can crush bricks between his fists and seems to be acting as his personal, totally obedient bodyguard.

Airey was Darcy Aurelio, Frankenstein Medical Attendant. After an unfortunate brain transplant mix-up he was left with only half a cortex, but remained at his nursing post nonetheless. Totally obedient to his hospital administrator and possessing brute strength only matched by the immeasurably gentle care with which he treated patients (nursing being about the only skill retained by the man), he imprinted onto Foster Erlenbush upon her death. During the Quarantine he was able to select a target to knock out every night, rendering them incapable of performing any actions. However, he would also be compelled to watch over their unconscious forms and protect them from harm. As he was partially lobotomized and a prime physical specimen he was practically immune to harm, and could have survived the first attempt on his life. He was the Medical Malcontent’s go-to roleblocker.[/b]

[also can't find this image anymore]

Paranoia was Ruy Ávila Tejada, a small-time “Voodoo” hit man. Initially a bottom-of-the-barrel almost wannabe assassin chosen by C.J. Memorial’s administrator only for his uncanny ability to circumvent medical attention, his time spent killing for the Malcontents honed his art and put him in greater contact with the Loa he had worshipped for most of his life. For the majority of the Quarantine’s nights he was sent to eliminate various Establishment individuals, using his unique powers to completely ignore any doctors on his targets.

Ruy Ávila Tejada’s demands were somewhat similar to Erlenbush’s, differing mostly in location. Rather than travel to Asia he was flown to a remote Caribbean island – the very island his parents had fled from decades earlier, escaping a dictatorial police state. With both his conventional and supernatural skills refined by the ordeal of the Quarantine it was not long before he had installed himself as a supreme theocratic dictator - eliminating the ailing Glorious Leader was almost a cakewalk. He rules Tejada to this day, and rumors persist of an unnatural talking black cat that serves as his closest advisor. Even darker rumors insist that this cat performs terrifying experiments on imprisoned political dissidents.

crepuscularDissembler was Dr. Uguu Von Kawaii (MD), Adorable Cat Sadist. He was astonishingly adorable, and proved most of the medical establishment wrong when he passed his medical exams with flying colors after attaining sentience in a needlessly complex series of events. However, beneath his fluffy exterior lurked the dark soul of a monster. His favorite pastime was to “forget” to apply anesthetic during surgery, just to watch his patients squirm. This love for causing pain along with his small stature meant he was able to rig unhappy “accidents” twice throughout the Quarantine to attempt to eliminate pesky Establishment individuals in broad daylight – the better to watch their adorable dying breaths. On the other side of this coin he could employ his not inconsequential medical skills to protect a non-Malcontent individual from harm during the night – after all, if they died without him watching it just wasn’t any fun.

Dr. Gregory House returned to Princeton Plainsboro without much fanfare, and never mentioned his time abroad again – when asked about what had happened he would simply sarcastically decline to comment.

Dr. Kathlyn Rosalyn Strykerr was traumatized and disillusioned by her experience, and promptly resigned from her position at C.J. Memorial Hospital following a rigorous police interrogation. Her ensuing mental issues led her to concocting an antidote to her immortality as she contemplated suicide, but as she travelled further and further from her home country she found some form of peace in providing basic medical care to those who couldn’t afford it. Her current whereabouts are unknown.

C.J. Memorial Hospital never completely recovered from the effects of the Quarantine, but under new management resolved to make the best of it. Still a madhouse of illicit medical experimentation and questionable practices it has shut down both its clinic annex and a boardroom on its top floor, as both structures now serve as homes to distraught and potentially dangerous spirits. These have been partially monetized as tourist attractions, but both the Ghost of the Clinic and the Raging Ethereal Scotsman of the boardroom are considered supernatural events for only the most gritty of individuals. Some say that on a full moon you can actually hear their voices – and they add that the Scotsman’s promises of vengeance against his former compatriots for dishonorably forsaking his hat demands will chill even the stoutest of hearts.

The ban on fancy headwear stands to this day.

and now

Presenting

The First Annual Smugzer

For Being Smug Enough To Get Shot


Congratulations Schazer!

Paranoia Wrote:[08:27] SoundlyParanoid I wouldn't be surprised if there's an interpol agent in the game now
[08:27] SoundlyParanoid taht's a lyncher for me

(05-11-2018, 03:01 AM)Schazer Wrote: »I think my favorite, darkest bit about this Quarantine retrospective is that there is basically no info at all on Who Was Heather Drake