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Bill

"When I say 'hold the onions' I mean 'get them the fuck out of my food'."

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a character in “The Multiverse”, as played by Dan-Nal-Khali

Description

The Yellow Captain, and leader of the medical division of the military; his power is electrical, and he turns it towards maintaining the body.

So begins...

Bill's Story

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Bill was more than a little curious about the way her body worked, oh, how he would love to take her apart to see what kept those hearts beating when her mind was lost in tatters... he might just do it, too... twins of the Sickle; he had wired their minds back together with electricity, chemicals and guesswork... the Thistle Vampire had been incapacitated in a similar manner: his brain wired on the outside to stunt its internal workings... he wondered what he could do with her body, given time.

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Bill pulled away, holding his hand against his chest. His head was bowed down, apparently in grief, but any loss he felt was not for the woman on the table, but for another long ago buried; Julia- Julia was the hope, her child his salvation. "Thank you." His voice was quiet. "Can I make arrangements to take her home? I- I- I'd like to arrange a proper goodbye..."

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Bill nodded, still apparently in shock. "Yes, of course. Whatever it takes to find out what happened to her." He looked at his hand, strange with the absence of blood at the fingertips, rapidly calculating. He came to the conclusion that a post mortem wouldn't really matter; there was nothing that he couldn't do! (in his own overinflated opinion)

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Bill reined in the impulse to reach for the woman- his hands, pressing against her face, feeling the pulse of life under all that skin and worthless bone. He would take her into his arms, maybe whisper a fool's affection into her ear as he plucked the life from her mind... maybe he would do it slowly, exquisitely slowly, so she could feel every nanosecond of death as it came for her...

He nodded his head, shaking the desire away for the proper time and place, which this was not. "Of course."

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Bill was quite insane, but there was a strange duality there; twin but conflicting abnormalities in his thought process that made him all the more dangerous for their grating nature. His own mind, deeply buried, desired retribution -execution- as payment for the death of his wife and child. He himself stood accused, and the jury was unanimously decided when it came to the question of his guilt. He grieved and he hated himself above all others.

But over, and under and wrapping around was the mechanically grafted mind of Rod Nitrite, his Doll, his constant companion, the external tool that, in his grief and desperation, a father in agony and forced upon himself so that he would not be alone. The Doll was fed by his insanity, his desire for self-slaughter, but it existed so as not to be destroyed; it would not die.

The Doll took his desire for justice, revenge, and turned it outwards, feeding him a way to ease that pain in the punishment of others who together they judged as guilty. Their consciousness was one, but stemmed from two sources. Both smiled at the little girl, but for differing reasons, perhaps.

He picked her up. "Come on, Princess, we're going to fill in some forms with this nice lady, so that we can take Mummy home the day after tomorrow." Because tomorrow would be devoted to making her presentable.

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Bill smiled quite politely; he knew how to go through the motions of friendly conversation, and sometimes, he even honestly participated... his mood varied wildly from day to day. "That's fine. Thank you so much for helping us." He took the pen and began filling out the forms. He used his left hand, oddly, because the pen seemed uncomfortable on that side; drawing attention to the fact that he had been heavily favouring his arm since the start. Clearly, he was unwilling to tax his right arm.

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Bill filled in the forms with a quiet efficiency; he was a doctor (Frankenstein, a part of him laughed) and as such quite familiar with paperwork. He signed his name in triplicate where needed before pushing the forms back to her. "I think that's it."

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Bill stood, still holding the child (his writer surprisingly awake still) and moved towards the door without looking back. "I will arrange- someone to come get her. I'll come again tomorrow evening."

The setting changes from Wing City Plaza to Gambit's Bar

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Bill was not at all pleased; he had made the damn thing to do a job, and it wasn't working. If there was one thing that he could not stand, it as things that didn't work in the way he intended them to. With that in mind, he stalked into the room, having been trying to locate the wandering Nurse and his half-wired cadaver for some time. His temper, needless to say, was reaching critical levels of annoyance.

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Bill wasn't about to let someone do his job when he was present to do it for himself. The Nurse was a drone, little more, designed to monitor the progress of his on-going creation when he himself was too busy to do so. The child, of course, had been told that he was working, and had yet to be allowed to see her mother; she wasn't nearly tidy enough for that.

With crackling hands, he approached the Nurse from behind: intending to deactivate it. Permanently.

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Bill had less than a care when it came to the pain of his creations; they were not made to feel, simply to do his bidding when he had a task for them to preform. This one was broken.

With that in mind, he placed his hand on the back of the Nurse's head, no need for force, though part of him was tempted towards the flamboyant.

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Bill stepped back to avoid the mess, wiping his hand on the nearest tablecloth to remove any traces of stale blood from his softly sparking fingers. Without any compassion, he kicked the body away from the wheelchair, kneeling to examine his patient with critical care.

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Bill hadn't expected much more; he was only in the earliest stages of his work, and these things took time. With little thought to the rest of the room, he wheeled her into a quiet corner and set about changing the blood she was supplied with. Once that was complete, he unwrapped the bandages around her head; he had his tools, so there was no reason not to get to work.

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Bill noted the finger, and smiled, finishing unwrapping the bandages and pulling away the fitted plastic cap that kept the contents of her skull contained. The damage done was catastrophic, but where brain tissue had been blown and burned away previously there were now neat edges, Bill having trimmed away the damaged tissue. The multitude of tiny wires were already partially inserted, but the full net would take time to set in place, even without recovery.

He settled down, slowly weaving in a new wire.

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Bill worked in efficient silence, using his own sparking fingertips to solder the hair-thin wires into place. The work was intricate, and required a high level of focus, as such he blotted out almost all outside stimulus; he had done this many times, and was becoming proficient in his own strange way.

He knew the workings of the brain intimately, and tested every connection and neural pathway as he went, feeling for damage and wiring to compensate when he found it.

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Bill continued to work, noting the physical reactions carefully. His right eye, glass, apparently, seemed to be fixed on Julia's brain and his wiring process, the right flicking over her hands and face.

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Bill stood at the window, a camera in his hands, taking photographs of the inside of the bar.

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Bill kept a close eye on the little girl through the open window, to make sure that no harm would come to her while he was gathering information on the bar and its occupants. He had a Dictaphone also, but couldn't be sure that he would get anything of interest from it.

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Bill only increased his watchfulness, because the girl was in the bar proper now, and the dangers there were greater. He was not pleased by her choice of seating, but that could hardly be helped; he had not pointed out to the girl the people who he did not want her to associate with, choosing instead to warn her against people in general.

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Bill watched her with sharp blue eyes, still taking photographs; it wasn't quite time to make a call, but he would be ready. "Be careful not to spill it," he said softly to the child.