#UnethicalPractices

[mslangermann-a]

@unethicalpractice

    Thick silence swelled in the room. No longer did cries of pain shake the walls or the sharp barks of her men ring out. Through brutal torture, the confession was made. Edgar Swansea was the cause of the epidemic. It was by his hand so many were dead and those who slipped past death’s bony finger roamed the streets. Lynn’s hatred burned, a slow boil churning in her gut, and impulse wanted nothing more than for him to rot. But what would killing him achieve? Taking human life would make them no better than the leeches who stalked the streets in search of their next meal. Taking human life was monstrous and she would not be a part of that world. She joined the Guard on the promise of protecting people, defending them from the shadows that go bump in the night.

         If Swansea suffered this treatment, what’s to stop the Guard from doing it again?

    With her heart thudding in her throat, Lynn ordered her men to exit and wait for further orders outside. She was alone with the doctor now, his wrists tied above his head and hanging limp. Beaten and broken, it was unclear if he would survive for much longer. But she had to try. She couldn’t have his blood on her hands. Moving forward, she pulled her dagger free and cut the rope holding the doctor upright. She shouldered his weight with a grunt, digging her heels into the floor to ensure he would not crumple.

                                                   “Walk, doctor. We’re leaving.”

[pxperhearts]

@unethicalpractices

“Creature from the Black Lagoon? Do people really watch these?” It’s a giant poster for an old monster movie that’s re-showing, lined up with posters of similar titles. It’s in a few days. It’s not that it’s bad but... Well, the real thing has to be a lot better.

[cryptoknowmics]

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[undeadunalive]

@unethicalpractice​​ / 🧛

“Edgar, I couldn’t help but notice the longevity of your hours. As both a doctor and your friend, I must strongly advise that you rest, or at least allow yourself a break.”

[aleximedicusa]

@unethicalpractice​.  /  𝐕𝐀𝐌𝐏𝐘𝐑 𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐄 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑.

“ dr. edgar swansea. ” he drawled out the name with patent disinterest, opting to inspect his nails in lieu of making any attempt to meet the doctor’s gaze. he had hoped that this little tour of pembroke hospital would be conducted by reid himself, but they had scarcely crossed the threshold before a desperate nurse had materialised to beg his assistance with the patients. swansea, reid had assured lewis, would be just as capable of a guide. “ reid has told me of you. the man with the cockstand for vampires. ” it was, perhaps, a bit too harsh to be fair, but lewis had met far too many humans who salivated over the very idea of immortals. it had always left a bad taste in his mouth — and when lewis anwyl was displeased, lewis anwyl was rude. that, death had not taken from him. 

[thesadsaint]

@unethicalpractice​ asked ‘come here. let me fix it.’ from this prompt

Eyes  dart  nervously  from  the  hand  he  cradled  close  to  his  chest  towards  the  man  offering  his  help.  Sean  was  content  to  wait  in  the  lobby  until  an  opening  became  available,  but  Doctor  Swansea  caught  sight  of  him  as  he  stepped  down  the  stairs  and  insisted  on  seeing  him  then.  Sean’s  protests  fell  on  deaf  ears,  and  so  he’d  trailed  behind  the  other  man,  clutching  the  rag  to  his  bloodied  hand.  He’s  led  into  a  second-floor  examination  room  that’s  empty,  much  to  his  surprise.  He  had  come  to  the  Pembroke  with  the  expectation  that  he’d  wait  all  night  to  be  seen.  Then  when  he’d  finally  be  taken  back,  it  would  be  to  an  overcrowded  room.  Edgar  hums  to  himself  as  he  opens  a  cabinet  and  takes  out  a  tray,  setting  supplies  on  it  that  Sean  doesn’t  recognize.  

“Please,  sit.”  The  doctor  says  while  gesturing  to  the  table  in  the  center  and  so  Sean  walks  over  towards  it,  a  frown  pulling  at  the  corners  of  his  lips.  

“I  hardly  warrant  such  attention  Doctor  Swansea.”  The  other  man  once  again  ignores  his  protests  and  waits  to  see  the  injury.  Sean  slowly  unwraps  the  cloth  from  his  hand.  The  crimson-stained  rag  drops  to  the  floor,  and  he  turns  his  hand  over,  showing  a  deep  gash  in  the  center  of  his  palm.  Blood  steadily  pours  from  it,  and  Edgar  inhales  sharply  before  setting  to  work.  Apparently,  it  needs  stitches,  now,  before  Sean  can  bleed  to  death.  He  hadn’t  thought  the  wound  so  grievous,  but  the  rag  was  soaked  through,  and  his  fingers  were  quite  numb  now  that  he  was  looking  at  the  injury.  

There’s  no  time  to  numb  the  area,  and  Sean  reassures  Doctor  Swansea,  “I  can  sit  still  while  you  work.”  

He  turns  his  head  aside,  able  to  see  Edgar  moving  in  his  periphery  and  able  to  feel  as  he  disinfects  it.  Sean  closes  his  eyes  and  with  his  other  hand  he  reaches  up  to  hold  tight  to  his  rosary.  Prayers  are  murmured  softly  beneath  his  voice,  fingers  twitching  around  the  cross  when  he  feels  the  pinch  and  pull  of  skin  coming  together.  

It  feels  as  thought  it  lasts  a  lifetime.

“There,  all  done.”  

Sean  opens  his  eyes  and  looks  down  at  his  hand,  surprised  to  find  that  Edgar  is  wrapping  a  clean  bandage  around  it  already.  

“Thank  you,  Doctor  Swansea.”  His  gratitude  is  genuine.  While  he  knew  that  the  man  was  a  physician,  he’d  never  seen  or  been  on  the  receiving  end  of  his  care.  He  appreciates  the  kindness  shown.  

[fanaiceach]

@unethicalpractice​ asked: “Lower your weapons. For goodness’ sake, put them down.“

potc starters || accepting

      This feels like a tipping point. A decision gate. A moment from which the future spirals improbably outward while the past remains barred in eternity. There is no coming back from this. No do-overs, no second chances. What he does or does not do here and now will be inked immutably in the history books.

      And Geoffrey wonders if Edgar -- Swansea, the doctor, the goddamn bastard -- if he felt that way when he made his choices. If he had a care in the world beyond the power and notoriety he stood to gain.

      If he cared at all for the consequences of working with a monster like Marshal, if he had even so much as hesitated before traversing the neatly paved way to Hell.

      “Make it easy, Swansea.” Not Edgar, not anymore, not a friendly first name escaping between grit teeth but something old and impersonal, the kind of uneasy formality they’d shed a long time ago. This meeting isn’t unlike the others, the ones that came before. The door is closed, it’s only them in the quiet of an office that had once been comfortable. Where they’d spent hours poring over papers and pouring out glasses -- or at least Geoffrey had. Where the doctor had spread blueprints across his desk for the contingency room, the place where Geoffrey is now planning on fileting and frying Swansea’s damned accomplice Reid. Reid’s betrayal is less cutting at least, an edge that stings but not deep enough to wound.

      But he’d trusted Swansea. Called him a friend even if not to his face. And now Geoffrey’s arm is raised and there’s a crossbow bolt sizing up the space between the doctor’s panic-wide eyes, and it’s like Ian all over again, like he can see the starburst bloom of blood and the remnants of his skull and all he can think is how could you, how could you, how could I--

      He hoists the shorter man out of his chair by the lapels of his labcoat, ignoring his protestations and the papers that scatter with the violent shifting of his desk, hauls him a few steps only to slam him back against a bookcase that thumps against the wall. Swansea’s glasses are skewed and his eyes are screwed shut like he’s expecting more, expecting worse, and Geoffrey has half a mind to deliver in the form of his fist connecting squarely with the doctor’s face if only for the satisfaction of watching the lenses shatter. Instead he aims lower, slips a knife from his pocket and jams it into Swansea’s side. Not a blow aimed at anything vital, not a blade pressed deep enough to kill -- just enough to hurt. Just enough that when he twists his wrist he can feel warm blood trickling over his fingers in time with Swansea’s breathless cry.

      “Tell me where the monster is. Maybe I’ll show a little mercy to your pet leech if you give Marshal up now.” All he’s met with is babbling confusion, Swansea’s previous lack of understanding pitched to near hysteria now that he’s under duress. Feigned, as far as Geoffrey is concerned. Nothing that a little persuasion can’t solve. Again he twists his wrist. And it would be easier, perhaps, if the responding keen of pain brought him even a modicum of pleasure. If it did anything but settle like a knot in his gut that threatens to constrict around his heart. But whatever threatens to bubble up from those depths is smothered by the anger, by the striking sense of betrayal that dwarfs all else. “Did Harriet Jones cry when you did your fucking experiments on her? Did Doris Fletcher? Would you have cared -- or is everyone just another lab rat in your greedy eyes?” By the end his words are low, hissed, spat with all of the vitriol he feels growing like a wound inside of him. The doctor only responds with the repeated plea that he has no idea what Geoffrey is talking about, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t understand. And they never do, they never see the destruction and the pain carved in their wake, never look down at the hearts they’ve torn out and trodden on--

      All at once he lets Swansea go, rips the knife from his side and tucks it away, and stalks back to the door. He hears the doctor grunt, pained, listens to him take a few shuffling steps forward just as he throws open the door and signals for his men. The revolver at his hip is drawn swiftly, and he barely has to turn before he’s aiming and firing a clean shot through Swansea’s left leg. The man goes down in a startled heap just as a few guardsmen file in, two of them picking the doctor up by his underarms while the rest begin overturning the place in search of any clues that remain.

      “Take him back to the theater,” he orders coldly, firmly, glancing at Swansea too quickly to meet his eyes. “Find out what he knows -- I don’t care how you do it, but make sure I can get the last word.” Flexing his palm, the one that had held the knife and is still tacky with the doctor’s blood, he adds, “Drag him towards the lift first. I want the leech to know where to find me. When I’m finished with him we’ll have all we need.” 

      He stands there for a moment, watching them go. When Swansea’s form disappears down the stairs, the only sound left is that of the office’s upheaval. The space suddenly feels cold, foreign, empty in spite of the guardsmen around him, and a weight settles in Geoffrey’s chest to match the gnarled snare of something roiling in his gut. 

      There’s still blood on his hand, growing cold, caked beneath blunt nails.

      When he leaves the office and heads for the lift and the carefully crafted executioner’s block that lies beyond, he presses his palm against a column and leaves behind a streaky print. His handprint, Swansea’s blood. A sickly signpost for Reid to follow. He wipes the rest of the blood off on his coat, but it doesn’t fix the flecks trapped under his nails like scarlet-stained crescent moons. He’ll have to scrub his hands later, scrub them raw, until he feels clean.

[walriding]

@unethicalpractice​ asked: ❛ We don’t have real answers, because we still don’t know what questions to ask. Our instruments are useless, our methodology broken, our motivations selfish. ❜

annihilation starters || accepting

      He’s still in the process of buttoning his shirt back up when the other doctor enters the examination room to speak with Reid. Immediately the atmosphere shifts -- mostly on Miles’ part. He’s back to being closed off, uncomfortable. He’d only agreed to these little routine physicals when they became a sort of bargaining chip. They were willing to let him take on more field work, provided he cooperated with some of their scientifically-minded requests. Of course, it hadn’t been phrased exactly like that. Jonathan is always quick to remind him that he isn’t a prisoner here. But Miles knows it isn’t that simple. He’s seen enough to know they keep tabs on persons -- cases -- of interest in the instances when they’re released, like tagged and tracked animals. The promise of field work is like a carrot being waved in front of his face, but it’s something. A chance to do something when Miles has felt like he’s been languishing for so goddamn long.

      The reporter doesn’t want to admit that he’s a touch curious, too. Whatever knowledge he has of his attachment has been skimmed off of Murkoff’s files or learned through experience -- neither of which has provided much of a prognosis. There are things he still doesn’t know about it, or about what it’s doing to him. 

      But just because he trusts Reid when it comes to such examinations doesn’t mean he extends the same faith to everyone in the facility. Swansea is a perfect example of that. His interactions with the doctor have been limited thus far, owed almost entirely to Miles’ general unwillingness to speak extendedly with the man. Something about him just feels... off. Like he enjoys his work a little too much. Miles has witnessed -- lived --  what that kind of blind personal interest can do to people. It corrupts, and more often than not leaves a grisly trail in its wake.

      He watches and half listens to the physicians’ chatter -- it doesn’t seem like it’s directly related to him, at least. Then Jonathan is called away by some medical crisis in progress, and Swansea lingers behind looking over his colleague’s notes. They’re alone like that for a long moment, Miles fumbling with the last button and Swansea either purposefully or unintentionally ignoring his presence. Almost unconsciously the questions fall from his lips, ones that he’s been searching for answers to ever since he got here--

      “What do you want, anyway? This place, your work -- what’s the end goal? You take people like me and you study them like... like lab rats, and for what? What are you trying to do?”

      No answer can be expected given the messiness of the question. Normally he’s better at that, at formulating a query that gets to the meat of an issue. But everything about this new life of his is undercut with a weary desperation he’d only felt fleetingly before. Miles is a dead man. That should grant him all the time in the world, and yet the limitations of time have never been more pressing than they are now.

      Swansea smiles faintly, gaze not leaving the file folder he’s skimming through. “We don’t have real answers, because we still don’t know what questions to ask. Our instruments are useless, our methodology broken, our motivations selfish.” It’s only at the conclusion of the response that pale eyes find Miles’ brown ones, and the reporter holds the gaze for a while before nodding slowly and slipping off the examination table to gather up his jacket. The answer isn’t a comfort for its content -- but it feels more honest than a lot of what he’s been told up until this point.

      Sometimes the truth, even when chilling, holds a solace all its own.

[petticoatblue]

@unethicalpractice​ speaking the truth of their inevitable dynamic

[cainiine-a]

@unethicalpractice​

The night is still for the fraction of a breath. Both a rare occasion and an almost holy treat when your ears have grown accustomed to coughs, to wails of pain, to murmurs. It almost leaves her tense in anticipation, waiting for a sound to have her move on her feet again and prepare her for the worst. But, alas, all is quiet in the hospital's walls and perhaps it is a blessing for all its residents to be granted a minute of peace.

She spends it with cleaning her bloodied hands on a rag that is nearly equally as dyed by red as is her skin; finds a clean spot and begins to rub at the liquid while continuing to oversee the beds with an alert, dog-like gaze. The silence, however, does not last long as footsteps break its weak structure and she only turns to look when the steps approach her. Ever so polite she smiles and nods. " Good evening, doctor. Out for a stroll? "

[pxperhearts]

👀

[monstriiss]

WHAT BRAND OF STUPID ARE YOU

Smart until infected with stupid

You think you're safe don't you? You are probably the responsible one in the group, perhaps even the mom friend. You are relatively smart but all it takes is one little thing to suck all your braincells out. It could be hanging around your fellow stupid friends, it could be being left alone, it could be having a bit too much fun. The stupid lives inside you and it just takes the right environment for it to show.

tagged by: @unethicalpractice ty ty <3

tagging: @suresaint @anammxlech @ulfhrafnx @fractempyreal @devilscharity @culhund @hereticalmother @monagxrie @korctyshka @korosakis @abracafockyou @celestieu @killsfirst @vaderari @vilestblood @deifiler @yellowfingcr @derjaegermond @umtplex AND YOU!

[finalvlog]

𝐀𝐍 𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐔𝐀𝐋 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐍𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐙  

Neutral Good

People who are Neutral Good are guided by their conscience and typically act altruistically, with only secondary regard for whether their actions are lawful or in line with cultural expectations or traditions. Neutral Good individuals have no problems with what is lawful as such, and nor are they rebels by nature, but they believe in furthering kindness and good deeds through whatever means seem necessary to them. If fostering good means supporting an organized society, then that is what must be done. If good can only come about through the overthrow of the existing social order, then so be it. For many who are Neutral Good, insistence on either lawfulness or rebellion is seen as detriments to or distractions from the greater goal of promoting true kindness in the world.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲:   @obscuriosity​​ THANKS BRO <3

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠: @walriding , @fanaiceach , @unethicalpractice , @bellytochin , @whiskydeputy , @nosac-glave , @radiocultcontrol , @celestieu​

[undeadunalive]

“How about we go on a walk. It might calm your nerves.”

Comfort Starters

Jonathan could barely remember the last time he’d gone for a walk without a destination being set in his mind. The sheer amount of times he’d run to and fro through the sleeping streets of London, lapping up every street and alley in the dead of night with the same perseverance as a steam train trundling along the railway tracks. But to go outside and simply pause, maybe even look up at the night sky, at the clouds whispering by, the moon that seemed to shine down like a spotlight in Doris Fletcher’s theatre -- - it was all far more appealing than he’d realised.

Without another word, the former medical officer gave a small nod of his head, long and steady strides leading the way, quick to find himself starting out in the back garden of the Pembroke. It was hardly the most picturesque of views, but it was familiar, quiet, certainly far more peaceful without wheezing rogue Skals loitering in every corner.

“Thank you, Edgar.” Suddenly came his gentle voice, that same smoothness to it as though it slid directly from his silent heart and over the end of silver spoken tongue. “A spot of fresh air is... inviting to say the least.” Though he did find himself letting out a quiet and gentlemanly scoff of amusement that seemed to flicker across his pallid features, pinching at the edges of his moustache. “And no... the sheer irony of that statement is not lost on me.”

@unethicalpractice

[finalvlog-a]

which two greek gods are your parents?

Atlas & Atë

Oh, sweet child of penance and folly! Your father eternally holds up the skies, and your mother the maker of misfortune among the gods. A life of greatness stands before you dictated by endurance, stubbornness, and impulse. No man can tell you what realm you preside over, but look to themes of downfall and regret as you grow into your power.

tagged by: @mementomacabre​ tagging: @loqis​ , @somnus-lucis-caelum​ , @unethicalpractice​ , @vampyrdoctor​ , @walridiing​ , @bellytochin​ , @blesscdbliss​ , & YOU

[thesadsaint]

@unethicalpractice liked for a small starter 🧡

The Guard being in London was cause for some concern. Sean had taken extra steps to keep the Sewer Skals safe from their prying eyes, but he had to always be on his toes. Patrolling the East End was part of his nightly routine, but it had become far more dangerous. Not only on account of the guard but the skals that were feral rather than civil. Sean had just watched some of those creatures get destroyed. The use of the cross as a weapon was disturbing to him, but it was the man in a lab coat showing up that piqued his interest. Despite his curiosity he turned to leave, eager to avoid the attention of the Guard.

He doesn’t get far. A woman with a scarf wrapped around her face grabs his arm and tugs him forward, “Found this one in the shadows.” She announces, pulling him towards the other members of the Guard, and the oddly genial man in the white jacket.

Sean doesn’t struggle. He allows for her to guide him forward, although he does defend himself, “Hardly in the shadows. Most of the East End is shrouded in darkness at this hour.” He remains calm in spite of the situation. He’d faced worse with the gangs in the area. “I apologize for interrupting.”