Dr. Frederick Chilton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
slightlyoffchilt) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
maskormenacelogs2014-07-20 03:41 pm
slightlyoffchilt) wrote in maskormenacelogs2014-07-20 03:41 pm
Entry tags:
what have you got to lose --
WHO: Chilton and OPEN!
WHERE: All Around Heropa.
WHEN: July 8th to July 30th -- just indicate what day in the header please!
WHAT: This thus includes: psychiatric sessions, dinner reservations, coffee gallivanting, whimsical meetings of any any sort.
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.
The sweltered gasps of summer whispered heavily onto his cotton button-ups and tailored blazers. Inspiring as the warmth and light might be (what better way to flesh out the contours of darkness?), Chilton struggled with his composure in the heat. And the heat flickered in more than mere temperatured conception; there was the metaphorical heat of sparring individuals, his own psychiatrist's history of violence and Borderline Personality Disorder, the cannibalistic ghouls of his past (and future) swaying back into his (endangered?) life. The stress was remarkable, plastering itself in the crooks of his neck, in the curve of his spine. There were fleeting fantasies, when he wondered if Christine had the right idea: escape Heropa for something more remote, something more brisk. But of course, that proposition was contrary to everything he had worked for -- Frederick Chilton was now an Attending Psychiatrist at his hospital, with a fascinating flow of imPort minds to analyze. This was a system he had wanted, the structure he craved. The brief hiatus from work he had taken lasted only three days, and even that was wholly in response to Karla Sofen's physical aggression (and consequential revelation). A minor setback. But with newer patients like Billy Kaplan (General Anxiety), Tommy Shepard (Anti-Social Personality Disorder), Erwin and Levi (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and now Godot (... in which the jury's still out), there was a cemented allure to remaining within Heropa's embrace. Not to mention his longer-standing patients, the individuals who suffered the verge of identity crises (his favorite crisis), like Doctor Connors and Kanaya. Not to mention his project with Danger, a situation that sparked new height of unethical relations. And certainly, his promised patients, the ones he was only starting to sink his fingers into their synapses...
There was no true impulse to abandon any of that. He savored every atom of that foundation.
The sun implored blistering antics against his back, and he weathered the heat graciously.
WHERE: All Around Heropa.
WHEN: July 8th to July 30th -- just indicate what day in the header please!
WHAT: This thus includes: psychiatric sessions, dinner reservations, coffee gallivanting, whimsical meetings of any any sort.
WARNINGS: Will update if necessary.
The sweltered gasps of summer whispered heavily onto his cotton button-ups and tailored blazers. Inspiring as the warmth and light might be (what better way to flesh out the contours of darkness?), Chilton struggled with his composure in the heat. And the heat flickered in more than mere temperatured conception; there was the metaphorical heat of sparring individuals, his own psychiatrist's history of violence and Borderline Personality Disorder, the cannibalistic ghouls of his past (and future) swaying back into his (endangered?) life. The stress was remarkable, plastering itself in the crooks of his neck, in the curve of his spine. There were fleeting fantasies, when he wondered if Christine had the right idea: escape Heropa for something more remote, something more brisk. But of course, that proposition was contrary to everything he had worked for -- Frederick Chilton was now an Attending Psychiatrist at his hospital, with a fascinating flow of imPort minds to analyze. This was a system he had wanted, the structure he craved. The brief hiatus from work he had taken lasted only three days, and even that was wholly in response to Karla Sofen's physical aggression (and consequential revelation). A minor setback. But with newer patients like Billy Kaplan (General Anxiety), Tommy Shepard (Anti-Social Personality Disorder), Erwin and Levi (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), and now Godot (... in which the jury's still out), there was a cemented allure to remaining within Heropa's embrace. Not to mention his longer-standing patients, the individuals who suffered the verge of identity crises (his favorite crisis), like Doctor Connors and Kanaya. Not to mention his project with Danger, a situation that sparked new height of unethical relations. And certainly, his promised patients, the ones he was only starting to sink his fingers into their synapses...
There was no true impulse to abandon any of that. He savored every atom of that foundation.
The sun implored blistering antics against his back, and he weathered the heat graciously.
no subject
As he finished unbuttoning his shirt, Connors frowned for a moment, then draped it over one of the less dusty looking machines. And then, he walked into the cage. He looked around as he took off his shoes, yet another sign to Chilton that he was going to do this, that he wasn't backing out.
"It might be a little small," he mused as he pushed his shoes out of the cage. "And, I worry that the materials might not be strong enough. The Lizard can claw through bricks. If the plexiglass cracked, I'm not so sure it would hold."
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"Bricks," he repeated, jerking a corner of his mouth downward and tilting his head. That was a fairly remarkable show of strength, and something valuable to consider. Steel was denser than any manmade brick layers, so perhaps an additional layer -- but that would require another door, another obstacle of forcing him in, if the circumstance had come to that. Ideally, however, Connors would be sedated and transported to act out the rest of his Lizard episode, before he could contact any other potential victim.
"What if the interior was covered? With another layer, another ring, perhaps?"
Chilton moved behind his buzzing equipment, rummaging for two things: an electric prod and grizzly bear fitted shackles. Those shackles were heavy, iron chains -- and he couldn't move them both together.
"What do you think of these?"
this is slowly turning into chilton's creepy sex dungeon
"I think that with the shackles and the prod, we wouldn't need a different layer." He hoped that with the shackles and the prod they wouldn't need a different layer. Connors didn't know if he could willingly step into here again if other people's lives didn't depend on it. He was too embarrassed to take off his pants to prevent them from getting ruined. However, he emptied his pockets and took off his socks, setting all of them right outside of the cage.
"Hopefully you can sedate me long enough to put on the shackles. For...ah, multiple reasons, I won't be able to wear them until I'm transformed." He gave Chilton a weak smile, one that hopefully radiated confidence. Instead, he looked kind of terrified. "I'm ready when you are."
just the way chilton likes it
"When I returned, after -- when I had come back from Baltimore, my power set had switched around. This sedative?" Chilton indicated the syringe. "Is mine. Biologically speaking."
He strolled around the containment center, opening the windows within the plexiglass, for access. There were seven in all, spaced evenly at five feet from the floor. The windows themselves were rectangular slits, four inches in height and a foot across -- just enough room to fit in a prod, or a long needle. Chilton locked Connors in the cage, from the outside.
"I was hoping this would be sufficient in provoking you," he said, holding up the prod. Chilton squeezed the handle, making the length sizzle with electricity. "For your transformation."
no subject
Nowhere did Connors realize that he was essentially trying to justify the fact that Chilton's powers were really fucking creepy.
As he saw the prod, however, Connors visibly paled. It would work, of course. But that doesn't mean that it was reassuring and that doesn't mean he had to like it. He knew he was supposed to be a little bit worried that his psychiatrist had an electric prod just hanging around in the basement, but there was no backing out now.
It's a good thing Martha and Billy aren't here, Connors reflected to himself--because he had no idea how the hell he could explain this to them. "It'll suffice. Just get it over with, Doctor."
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He hadn't asked Connors to sign any documents, stating that Connors understood all what was about to happen and that he agreed, without being coerced into said agreement, to the consequences. Chilton hadn't asked Connors to sign anything like that, because it would be acknowledging a paper trail that Chilton did not want existing. Not yet, anyway, not when he still was lurking in vague, nebulous territory with his ambitious psychiatric schemes. The trust he had built with Connors -- trust and honesty, as displayed and exchanged throughout their sessions together -- now paid in dividends. Whatever questions that might arise in the scientist's mind, Chilton wasn't worried about them; those queries faced being questioned in turn, by the length of factual, concrete kindness that Chilton had exhibited as a psychiatrist.
He wasn't sure if that kindness he had embodied was necessarily insincere. Chilton did like Connors, as a person, he thought the other man to be amicable and engaging, and clearly remarkable in his discipline. But Connors the Peer, or even Connors the Patient, was not the same as Connors the Experiment. Not to Frederick Chilton.
Chilton, almost gleefully, opened the last small window panel, and shoved in the electrical prod. The cage was locked, and padlocked. The prod sizzled with a sickly crackle, snarling with voltage.
And Chilton thrust the balled end of the prod into Connor's back.
no subject
Scales began to cover his body as Connors grew taller and more bulky, clothes tearing at the transformation. An arm started to grow where his right arm should have been. Within moments, he had become the Lizard. And the Lizard was not a very happy lizard.
While it hadn't been caged in a while, memories of being controlled, of feeling helpless, play in the Lizard's mind. He knows who this person is. Frederick Chilton, Connors's psychiatrist. Someone who thought he could control him, who could cage him like this. "Chilton..." the Lizard hissed, glaring daggers at the man. And almost instantly after, the Lizard lunged at Chilton, claws scraping against the steel and plexiglass, trying to claw his way out, to sink his claws into that mammal's soft flesh.
The cage was holding (for now) but the sounds of claws hitting metal and claws hitting plastic filled the air as the Lizard slashed again and again at the cage, trying to slice his way out.
no subject
Chilton took an immediate step back -- a few of them, if one was being honest, and they were less of a step and more like a leap -- as his eyes rounded with amazement and his spine shivered. His heart hollered against his ribcage, scouring his interior with pulped shrieks of adrenaline; Connors had lunged for him. Connors -- if indeed he could be considered the same doctor any longer -- had made motions to strike, to grasp Chilton's throat and crush it.
The groans pulled from the metal and plexiglass nauseated Chilton. He had to order himself to keep breathing measured, controlled breaths -- he had to fight to maintain composure. The color had abandoned his face, but his shoulders stood straight and his hands trembled only slightly.
"Doctor Connors," began Chilton, his voice structured with authority. "You are under my protection now."
Possibly the wrong thing to say -- but Chilton couldn't help himself. Witnessing Connors's remarkable transformation, and how even in his lizard form the man could still possess recognition? That fascinated Chilton. It provoked a somewhat paternal feeling, even, something regarding his sudden want to protect. And possess.
Chilton looked at the cage, and how it shook. It would require reinforcements. He dropped the prod and picked up the extended syringe, and then hesitated.
When would he get another chance, like this?
"What do you want, right now, Doctor Connors? Curt?"
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There wasn't anything pleasant in his gaze as he continued to glare at the psychiatrist--the man who had dared stick him in the cage like this. Connors was weak. He could see Connors attempting to do something like this, attempting to stop him. But, as hazy recollections of Connors's memory floated through the Lizard's mind, he realized that it was equal parts Chilton's fault as it was Connors's. Connors was weak. Chilton was persuasive. Both would pay.
"Do not call me Connorsss." His words were slow and languid, like they were taking so much effort to say, as he trailed off into a hiss, still glaring at Chilton all the while. "Connorsss is weak." A weak man who feared the Lizard, who tried to repress it instead of accepting its true power. Pathetic. "I am better. I am the Lizard." The look on the Lizard's face was downright predatory as it watched Chilton between the bars of the cage, eyeing the syringe. That was dangerous. That needed to be watched, especially if this conniving little human attempted to do something to him.
no subject
When Chilton had pulled that allusions, months ago, he had been speaking only allegorically, somewhat romanticizing Connors's dire situation. But the way that Connors -- or rather, the Lizard -- referred to himself, and talked about Connors, this was a much more extreme dissociative identity disorder than previously anticipated. It was not like Gideon's, which had been vague and only natal in conception, and Chilton had to spend years teasing it out and forming it, creating Gideon into something else.
Connors was already a finished masterpiece.
"Tell me more," he asked in that soft voice of his. His eyes were focused on the Lizard, and his tensed shoulders kept their positioning -- needle raised, but only defensively. Chilton observed how the Lizard, in his remarkable reptilian body, pained to speak. He observed how elegant every movement was, when coupled with those layers of scales. The sharpness of the claws, the sheer muscle inherent -- it was an astounding transformation.
He wanted to measure the self-insight this mindstate of Doctor Connors had. This alternative personality.
"Tell me how you're stronger than Connors."
no subject
Then, almost all at once, the Lizard let out a loud, inhuman noise that was half hiss and half roar, lurching to one side of the cage, flinging himself against the side he had already clawed at, in a desperate attempt to get free. The cage shook with the force of the impact, as Chilton got a glimpse of fangs, claws, the sheer power and musculature of the beast, all in one quick, fast, jolt.
That's how he was stronger. And wasn't it just obvious?
no subject
Here he was, Connors's creation: the Lizard, who was born from human hubris. The Lizard, who snarled and shook his container, raging against mortal vice and devices.
Chilton sunk to his knees, his hand blindly aching for the large syringe once more. The needle hadn't broken -- remarkably lucky -- as the psychiatrist would soon discover upon recovery. But in that time, he stared at the Lizard towering over his own, frail body. He gasped at the power that rippled through the creature's fury and fangs. He witnessed exactly what the Lizard wanted him to see: the full-bodied threat that Connors could not be. This was how Connors's mental disorder defined power.
The plexiglass was beginning to crack.
The psychiatrist rose sharply to his feet, and gripping the syringe, he ran a crescent around the cage to another opened, small window -- hoping to disorientate the reptile. Chilton thrust the needle through, aiming to plunge the syringe into whatever flesh was attainable, and he pumped his bodily-made sedative as quickly as possible.
Breathing. Hoping.
no subject
However, Chilton's disorientation tactics worked. As he ran around the cage, the Lizard spun around, eyes following Chilton's movements, avoiding the fact that the man had picked the syringe up and had thrust it blindly in the cage.
Thankfully the needle hit its mark, sliding between some of the scales on the Lizard's back. The spot was nothing but inopportune, as shown by the Lizard's tail thrashing, trying to knock the syringe away from his body. But it was too late. As the sedative slowly started to swim through his veins, it was the Lizard's turn to fall to his knees, hitting the floor with a worrying thud. Lucky. That was the Lizard's main justification: the human was lucky. The reptile looked over at Chilton with a glance that was nothing but pure hatred before he fell to the floor in a slump, knocked out by the sedative.
no subject
It was done. With that last venomous look he had shot Chilton's way, the Lizard lost consciousness. Chilton glanced down at his own fingertips, submerged in a quiet awe. This was a substance unlike what he had previously worked with, to soporific effect.
The syringe had been all but drained. Chilton didn't know how long he had, until the Lizard woke up once more -- or, as Chilton hoped, when until the Lizard would transform back into Connors. Given the nature of his work (the secretive, suspicious nature), he couldn't afford to bribe any arbitrary orderly to assist in chaining the Lizard; Chilton would have to do that himself.
The Lizard's breathing pattern, observable as it was, proved consistent with deep sleep.
He swallowed, hard, took a deep breath --
-- and unlatched the cage, thrusting inside to hook heavy iron latches to the Lizard's wrists, to his throat. He bolted and tightened, every second of the total thirty-nine spent was a frenzy, an agony. Quick as he could, he leaped back out of the cage and re-locked it.
He was prepared to wait, until Connors returned. Or until whatever else came to pass.
no subject
It worked. Thank God, it worked. Just as quick as the transformation started, the scales receded, back into Connors's body, as his body shrunk and contorted from a massive lizardbeast back to the human scientist he was. The shackle that held the Lizard's right hand now lay on the floor as his right arm essentially withered away back to it's previous length, while Connors's throat and left hand still remain bolted--though, with plenty more wiggle room thanks to his decreasing mass. He looked absolutely pathetic, sitting on the floor of the cage, half naked, shackled, only wearing a pair of tattered pants.
The first thing that Connors realized when coming to full consciousness was the weight of the shackle around his neck, pulling him down to a hunched position whether he wanted to be or not. The memories of what happened during his transformation were hazy, slowly sorting themselves out as Connors tried to force himself into attention. He turned to look at Chilton, concerned expression on his face. "Are you alright? I didn't hurt you...did I?"
no subject
Chilton considered Dissociative Identity Disorder, now that he had seen the transformation in action. Connors was, of course, a far more literal iteration -- and the Lizard, so sophisticated a separation, was more than merely another identity. This was not the same brand of DID as, say Harvey Dent had suffered. Or even Abel Gideon.
"How are you feeling?" Chilton adjusted his own tie, which had become quite rumpled in the brief scuffle. He walked around the cage, unlocking it for Connors. Not once within that hour had Chilton left the room -- his attention had been rapt on his patient, his mind whiling the minutes with theories.
"Do you need anything, immediately?" The psychiatrist walked into the cage, bending down to unlatch Connors. "An IV? Water? Oh, Curt, you did so, so well."
The look he spared was one subtly paternal.
no subject
"I would like some water, though." Maybe cold water in his system would help him try to get back that energy that he so desperately wanted.
no subject
Help was a negligible word to engage; it was more like carry, for the sake of his action. He gripped Connors soundly around the shoulders, holding him close, walking him out of the containment center. Chilton found a chair for the man to sit, as he walked over to the miniature refrigeration device (intended for his own use, mind, and a relic of the past few weeks, when he had been working alone down here).
"You responded well to the sedative," said the psychiatrist. "Or -- the Lizard did."
Chilton cleared his throat, as he offered Connors a chilled water bottle. Sparkling.
"He doesn't think well of you."
no subject
"The feeling's mutual," he managed to say, though it was obvious that the words were requiring some effort. "Especially considering we both want the other permanently gone." He made no bones about it: the Lizard wanted Connors out of the way just as much as Connors wanted a cure for his condition. Their arrangement was tentative at best, constantly combative at worst.
no subject
But now he was positively enthralled.
As he allowed his patient a moment of rest, Chilton took out a notepad and scribed down his thoughts. Pages had already been filled with notes, observations, and theories -- and all about Doctor Curt Connors.
"Have you ever considered yourself to be dissociative?"
no subject
"I was fine before I tried to cure myself," he remarked, with a frown. After all, he was in the army. Surely they wouldn't let someone obviously dissociative in the army, would they? "It's that serum that I used, the one I used to try and fix myself, that's the cause of all of this." A deliberate, if unconscious choice of words on Connors's part. Fix myself. Cure myself. A sign that even though it had been so long after he injected himself with that reptilian DNA serum, a part of him still saw himself as broken and hopeless.
no subject
Chilton explained, with unusual patients. Normally he wouldn't spare such genteel constructs towards just anyone, but Connors had officially become A Very Special Patient. He extended a hand to his company's shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. Chilton considered this a comforting motion.
"That serum could have been traumatic, though you may have repressed the entirety -- it could have exaggerated your brain chemistry, provoking what were previously quieter elements of your personality." Chilton watched Connors, keeping eye contact just above the brow. It was as if he was eying the brain itself. Another smile was offered.
no subject
"If there's anything that's traumatic, it wasn't the serum," Connors quietly responded. After all, that was a chance for hope. That was him trying to heal himself. "I told you how I lost my arm, right? I was an army doctor--I lost it in the war. Surely that would be more traumatic."
no subject
He wanted to explore these possibilities. Chilton did not remove his hand.
"Harvey Dent, for example -- he's a prior patient of mine. His DID manifested a little differently, but -- well. The trauma he was suffering had built itself from childhood and that, along with his genetics, well he sure became a textbook case."
It was natural for individuals to fight, to deny. Very few people wanted to be saddled with mental disorders. And Chilton craved pushing the point, he wanted to explore every possibility, every counterargument, to really dig himself into his patient's mind.
But he maintained his restraint again. Connors was exhausted, and he appreciated that.
"We can continue this discussion later, of course. When you're feeling better."
no subject
"Thank you," Connors responded, with a small smile. He reached over towards his shoes and shirt and started to get himself redressed, slowly but surely. "Although...do you mind giving me a ride? I took public transportation to get here and, well, I don't know how they'll react if I take the bus with pants this tattered." Indeed, his pants now looked more like somebody's attempt at a zombie costume and less like actual pants.
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