The Mirdini MSPAF Mafia Memorial

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]

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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.