#au. — ⋮⋮ ❝Nun suchst du ruhlos nach verlorenen Wundern.❞ 〖 overwatch verse. 〗

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"Do you hear it, Doktor?" .loof uoy ,raeh ot stnaw eh tahw ylno sraeh eH "Where is it coming from...!?" Nearby, a work surface full of equipment snaps in half, the tools clattering expensively to the ground. !toidi ,flesruoy lortnoC

@inescapablewell  //  interesting new specimen 👀

a smile settles on the doctor’s lips,  though the eyes that survey the mess are no less steely than the metal in pieces forced apart and scattered: all that’s left from what was once a sturdy table, commandeered for his abandoned prototype machinery. There is no interest in shattered glass and chemicals pooling across tiled floor; what attention he has is reserved all for Sigma. And what an enigma it is that the medic has the rare chance to observe: violent apathy and fragile humanity, fickle and flickering to and fro in one mind, at brutal and tumultuous war one body. Oh, how apparent Sigma’s torment is !  And how Ludwig relishes it ...  intends to notate.

“ You’ve said, once before, that the universe is singing to you. ”  Ramblings of an old fool? If the universe could sing  ( such a pretentious notion, and yet one poetic and amusing enough at once that he’s willing to indulge )  Ludwig can hardly imagine it in the tune of Satie’s Gnossiennes. He favours trauma, perhaps a touch of senility. The power of a black hole is one difficult to wield, after all ...  he wonders, still, how old Sigma did it.  “ We’re not all given the gift to hear its song, unfortunately. ”

He leans forward, hands clasped, smile growing beneath ever-clinical gaze. It is as close a reassurance, or a pretence at one, as one can give whilst retaining sterility.  A good doctor should know well not to touch a dangerous specimen before learning it thoroughly, inside and out.  “ You are troubled …  control yourself, my friend. Tempting as it is to use my workspace as a playpen for your power, I am expected to do work. Well — at least occasionally. ”  No worries, however. Talon are relatively patient with him; he does good work for them, and there is no end to the ingenuity of the mind that, along Dr Ziegler’s, powered Overwatch’s vast healing technologies. But there is nothing that can be done without tools, and he suspects his superiors have their limits when it comes to funding laboratory replacements. 

Though he is not opposed to hitting those limits, just once, for the sake of his current study.

“ So. ”  Keen eyes trace shoulders stiff with tension, hands trembling, grasping and ungrasping with the frantic madness of a man who  ( too clever for his own good )  has attempted to snatch up the world in his hands, and in turn received far more than he bargained for. This is a man who knew not the consequences of too carelessly stealing glances inside Pandora’s box ...  left stranded to drown in a pit of his own ambition, no way to bargain back his sanity nor the life he’s lost. It’s beautiful, in its own tragic and twisted manner; it has been long since Ludwig’s seen a man so entranced by progress that he would feed it enough to let it swallow him whole. 

Gored, split at the seams, rendered remnants of that which Sigma once was — splintered and torn apart to pieces: branches blackened by the all-consuming fire of his curiosity. And all for that which he  ( which any man of science )  worships. Enamoured by progress ...  Ludwig is, too. What a pleasant coincidence.  

“ Tell me, Herr — what does the song of the universe sound like? ”

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@atrophid  —  cont. from HERE !

medicine is no easy art to wield.  Ludwig knows this well — he himself has made plenty of mistakes in all his time of practising. Though sometimes, he thinks, he’s not made nearly enough; perfection of a moral sort brings with it impeded progress and, far more unfortunately, a horrible and grating tedium. Many a time, under previous employment, he’s dearly wished for his hand to slip: for blade to stutter forward just a tad too deep until it’s lodged itself through gut and gore and against bone; for fingers to slip around the wrong solution, to drip toxin rather than cure through unsuspecting veins; for wandering hands to falter — forget, for just a moment, their call to heal — and crawl through the slick of blood and mangled flesh, to dig into open wounds. 

He would have done all this happily, hidden cruelty beneath the innocuous wool of mistakes. If not for the rigid reality of his work. Such conflict of principle, under the pretence of fallacy or not, would not have gone unpunished under Overwatch’s selectively unrelenting gaze ...  a shame that, for all their carelessness, they could not have overlooked another dubious operation or two under their wing. How unfortunate that his previous colleagues had such incredible distaste for accidents of a more violent nature.

Talon, however, is more forgiving of the slip of a hand. He still forgets sometimes how forgiving — the creak of a door summons frantic panic, and the bleeding man’s shoved over onto his stomach in a last ditch attempt at hiding the brutality he’s been subjected to. A bit too forcefully, it seems, as the barely breathing body plummets over the far edge of the operating table and hits the blood-splattered floor with a painful thump. 

Though, thankfully, he lands on his stomach.

Ludwig spares his unexpected visitor an uncertain glance. A brief silence settles between them, broken shortly by a barely audible groan  ( muffled in part by the flooring )  from his excessively gravity-inclined subject. Then by a quiet cough from the medic, followed by an even quieter  “ oops. ”

Apathy and a non-too-reactive enquiry, however, stirs a relatively quick response.  “ He’s not dead yet. ”  Perhaps worse off now than he would be in death, but very much alive. That, and the subsequent instruction to dispose of the body, leaves Ludwig reluctant.  “ Though I was told that we needed him alive. ”  Careful intonation, hesitation near tangible in the pregnant pause, implies knowing shame. Or something at the least remarkably well-mimicked. Far be it, after all, from the medic to display much interest in retaining the demands of authority.  

“ I wonder if you know whether or not they urgently need his ability to speak. If so, it may take ...  just a bit of time to reconstruct his vocal chords. ”  Blood lies putrid on the doctor’s tongue. He swallows it, offers a red-stained grin that bares, all too apparently, the remorselessness that had torn the traitor’s life from his exposed throat. Ludwig should have asked beforehand, really. But better to beg forgiveness than to ask permission.

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VERSE ADDITION   —

    OVERWATCH AU.     Born in Stuttgart, just over twenty years before the Omnic Crisis, Dr. Ludwig E. Humboldt proved quite the genius from youth. A boy with brains and with wit beyond any his age, and one who lacked no ambition in advancing forward in education and innovation, young Ludwig’s was a name that fast earnt its place among the world’s brightest. He grew and lived in a peaceful world — though none too exciting for it, he often mourned jokingly — and moved to America in his early teens to obtain a medical licence before his twentieth birthday, working his way up into the research labs of the greatest universities in his homeland. Both a man of the world and above all a man of science  ( of progress and of the future ),  Dr Humboldt was no doubt destined for greatness. Though what sort of greatness the doctor truly yearned for, few knew; ethical work bored him, and hardly content was he to while away his days in peace and in the tedium of what he viewed as a far too restrictive advancement built upon a foundation of humanitarianism.

     Then along came the Omnic Crisis ...  Ludwig’s extraordinary skill set, his eagerness to storm the battlefield, and the brutal intelligence with which he channelled this thinly veiled blood-lust into the creation of war and healing technology guaranteed his presence for the birth of Overwatch: the organisation that would inevitably bring an end to the war. Ludwig relished what he believed to be an unfortunately short lived participation in the Crisis; there were few places he had ever felt at home than at the front lines of war, in frenzied efforts to produce instruments of both healing and of mass bloodshed. Few questioned his enthusiasm in his research — for there were few, after all, who did not wish for an end to the war — nor in the battlefield, where even pleasure in the throes of war trumped cowardice. And when the end of the Crisis came, the choice to stay with Overwatch, to aid its advancements in scientific and medical research, was one Ludwig made without hesitation. And at the insistence of his colleagues, he was soon after wed to his young but long-devoted sweetheart Ilse Müller. They were happily married, and, after several years, it was from Ilse that he would have his first and only son, Erik Humboldt.

    As Overwatch bloomed in its golden age, Ludwig thrived. It was at the organisation’s peak that he separated from his wife under nonchalant terms — unafraid to admit that he had felt no lasting love for her before their marriage nor after, and that work had become his life as it had hers  ( though she was not employed at Overwatch ). Neither his wife nor his son resented him for the separation; Ludwig's presence was still very much felt in both their lives, when he wasn’t at the office or sequestered in his labs, and he made ample money available for their use. And throughout the years, little Erik grew up to adore the heroes of Overwatch. He longed to be one like his highly-praised father, and Ludwig, at a distance, encouraged the boy to follow his dream of being a hero. And so they lived, they worked, and they thrived. Not as a family, never something so terribly intimate, but perhaps something like it.

    Shortly after its inconspicuous creation, Ludwig was transferred to the new Blackwatch division to pursue other projects more lucrative to his interests. On his mind was the tentative concept of immortality and of absolute invulnerability: the creation of a perfect man, a concept which haunted his dreams since youth.

     And, one fatal day, a terrible explosion erupted at Overwatch headquarters. Erik, only mere years older than his father had been at the start of the Omnic Crisis and now a fresh recruit of the organisation, was one of many caught in the sudden destruction of the Swiss HQ. Erik, seemingly as hardy as his mother and difficult to kill as his father, luckily survived the ordeal — but just barely. The boy was rendered comatose and put into intensive care ...  a concerning, and possibly permanent, decision.

    The near loss of their son was devastating to Erik’s mother. Ilse grew distant, mournful, and she lost the joy in her eyes that her husband once found so charming. She became despondent, nearly as unresponsive as her child; and Ludwig, for all that he tried, could not find the heart to do the same. A difficult feat, truly, when one has little heart to speak of.

    Where Ilse found grief, Ludwig saw opportunity. For a man who always struggled with the concept of  ❛ good, ❜  it was all too simple to fall prey to the sadistic and immoral side of his mind that he’d never allowed himself to indulge.

    Sensing desperation and believing, falsely, that the hint of helplessness and resentment towards the organisation that took Ilse’s family from her was shared by her husband, Talon came bearing temptation and sweet promises. Promises of research and of experimentation beyond moral borders, beyond humanity’s imagination. Promises of raising the doctor to success: a success that would guarantee his dreams granted and his family saved.  ( But little did they know that they need not pay such a handsome reward for the doctor’s employment. )

    Dr Humboldt vanished. Work with his new employers did not come at an easy price, Talon informed him, and distance from his wife and son would only serve to protect them. It was a price that Ludwig accepted with little trouble in exchange for the escape from that order and restrictiveness he so hated, that which was expected of heroes — and Ludwig was not afraid to admit that, no, he was no hero — that which he had wallowed in for far too long. In the sanctuary of his new labs, Ludwig worked to achieve a formula and method that would achieve impenetrability and perfection. A dream masqueraded as one built from woes and paternal distress, a dream so wicked and self-driven at the core paraded as good intentions twisted into selfish desires.

    No longer was he Dr Ludwig E. Humboldt, one of Overwatch’s brightest. The good doctor, whose talents in part gave rise to a new age of medical technologies and paved way to keen advancement in his field,  And so Talon moulded him, twisted him – ate him from the inside out, and left Dr Humboldt a man changed.

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@agbaran liked for a STARTER !

lab work is typically all-consuming —  it certainly keeps the medic occupied, sunken into a mental fortress impenetrable by all but matters of the utmost urgency. There is much that he has to do, so much that he’s long wanted to do: ideas that feverish dreams have chased, concepts inethical and awful, fantastical, intangible  ( though only because a mind, still fastened to the reins of false heroics, had not yet set itself upon accomplishing them ). And within dreams those ideas remained ...  at least, they did in those days he worked within Overwatch’s suffocating walls.

Talon, for Dr Humboldt, was sanctuary: a personal messiah. It was the desperation of a mourning husband and father they had hoped to prey upon when they came, bringing promises of funding and freedom to do as he pleased. And yet Talon have no idea just what it was they had offered when they had come — and just what they were offering it to. Ludwig doesn’t blame them, of course ...  for all the years he has played the part of one of Overwatch’s most brilliant doctors, he might have nearly fooled himself into thinking that he was something of a hero. Empty displays of heroism, however, did little to combat the allure of the opportunity to at last embrace the brutality he has so long desired, and littler still to sway him from greedily snatching up Talon’s gracious invitation. 

The chance to study all that he likes is not one Ludwig takes lightly. Morning, day, and night find him in the laboratories Talon have put aside for his research. Sometimes work is deathly still, the medic’s attention reserved only for countertops spread full with notes and papers ...  a silence broken only by the scratch of pen upon paper as equations and speculations manifest in notebooks’ upon notebooks’ worth of scribbles; and sometimes work is bloody, brutal, scalpel taken to subjects’ skin with such fierceness that the raw screams can be heard even beyond his laboratory doors.

Luckily for Ogundimu, it is the former that he comes upon today. Ludwig isn’t certain when the other man arrived. Only that he did, and that he could have been there minutes or hours — Ludwig’s attention is difficult to catch when his mind is submerged in his work, the sides of his hands smudged in ink and ears filled with the buzz of the vastness of opportunities before him. When the doctor does finally notice, however, it’s a smile that greets Ogundimu.

“ I have to thank you for the workspace I’ve been provided. They certainly rival the resouces I was given with my — previous employer. That being said !  for all the effort you went to, I hardly get to entertain here. ”  He removes his spectacles, smile unchanging. The gaze that meets Doomfist’s is clinical, sharp.  “ What can I do for you, Herr? ”

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@cursedcommand  —  cont. from HERE !

he should have known since the start, really:  Hardly anyone who can swoon with such sickening audacity at the sight and pungency of bloodshed is fit to be a hero. But, oh, well. Hindsight is 20/20, and lingering on the past has never done anyone any good. Excessive reflection, Ludwig finds, has only the ability to leech, bleeding dry all enjoyment from the here and now. And, oh !  how he enjoys the massacre put on display before him. There’s no time for such bleakness when they’re busy painting the town red, nor is there anything so deserving of attention as the man who’s done the brunt of the work that Ludwig’s so unabashedly admiring.

He doesn’t miss the grin, predatory and feral even beneath the bony starkness of Reaper’s mask. They delight similarly in the more sordid of affairs; Ludwig would know the smile on Reaper’s face just as well as he knows the adrenaline that would burn through his own blood, the cruel mirth that would drip from the doctor’s lips as it now does from Reaper’s.  “ Oh, good — I was wondering if you had gotten soft. ”

He toes over the crumpled cadaver with little more than a brief glance and a mocking delicacy in his step. There’s no consideration nor compassion for the dead the two of them will leave here; the only mourning that will be done is for Ludwig, for the bodies too ruined for him to drag back to his laboratories. But, still, a decent sample size of intact corpses won’t be too difficult to recover at the rate they’re going — Gabriel  ( considerate in such subtle manners )  will surely leave some relatively undamaged for Ludwig to tote back to headquarters.

“ You ask if I want more, and yet you’ve gone and left hardly anything for me to do. Defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? ”  Never mind the copious blood smearing the metal of the saw he’s now hooking to his belt, nor the splatter drying a dark red against his cheek and jaw. He brushes past Reaper, eyes fastening to a hint of movement steps away: a survivor, by some miracle, laying in a pool of his own blood, eye twitching and body convulsing in periodic spasms. The saw remains fastened against his hip — beating, to and away, against Ludwig's thigh, as he draws a small kit from the compartments of his belt. Large tools won’t do for this careful work; live dissection requires a more delicate blade.

“ If you meant to charm me, I’m certain you can do better. ”

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@walcure  —  cont. from HERE !

the straight face doesn’t last long in the face  of his colleague’s amusement; tight lips, set theatrically in stone, soon turn upward at Elias’ laughter. Ludwig’s efforts have certainly paid off. And although it’s a basket-full of apples that he’ll be picking up off the ground and from Elias’ desk later, and a basket-full he’ll be washing off and ending up taking home to eat, it’s worth it. He’s gotten the poor man away from his desk, at the least.

“ So you admit that sitting there so long’s finally tired you out. So young and already dedicating your life to labour !  Tut, tut, Herr Doktor. You’ll have a worse back than I do, at the rate you’re going. ”  It’s with a sharp peal of laughter, a cheery shake of the head, and a hardly subtle roll of the eyes that he trails after his fellow medic.

“ Is a walk all I get all for my efforts? I was hoping the apples would scare you off enough that you might take a day or two off. Overwatch won’t fall apart if its best doctor takes a well-deserved holiday ...  I think, anyway. So take a break and get away! Run away with me for an hour or two. Or three, even. You should be toasting to your successes, not making more work for yourself this soon — drinks? They'll be on me! ”

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@foirceann  —  cont. from HERE !

“ and send another on your behalf when you do, ”  comes the snappish response, teeth bared and stubbornness glinting dangerously behind rounded spectacles. Allegations of madness pass him by without drawing his notice, victory in an imminent solace serving as ample distraction. 

Her outburst is met with a blank and  ( typically — though he has enough respect for her, in some manner, that he doubts she would be intimidated by the display )  unnerving stare; he cares too little to think about deciphering the foreign words. But the retreat is exactly what he wanted. Few are hardy enough not to flinch against a cold and furious stare, but fewer still, if any, are resistant against the digging of a blade between their ribs. Careful to avoid any vital organs, of course ...  it should be no concern if she lived up to her previous work.

“ It’s only a scratch, ”  comes the response, laden coarse with exasperation.  “ Stab wounds heal. ”

‘ DON’T BE A BABY — ’  he’s tempted to tack on. But there is a limit for how far even he will go when it comes to testing boundaries in a still-fresh work environment. Though discussions of morality are not what he expected to find in an organisation so keen on employing his particular skill set.  “ And I was under the impression that I would be met here by like-minded people. ”

The pad of a thumb draws across the flat side of the blade, its palm cupped beneath the metal to catch the blood pooling off the edges of the knife. It collects in his hand  ( perhaps it will be of use to him later, he muses ), dark and heavy: a familiar sight that he’s not encountered, not with the same thrill of action, since days of the Crisis. It’s been quite a while since he’s lashed out with such freedom, body snatched beyond the constraints of a mind once ruled so cruelly by illusions of philanthropy.  “ Disappointing. What did Talon ever want my employment for, then? Perhaps you could tell me ...  I would of course be willing to pack my own bags, if it turns out that my views and Talon’s do not align. ”  — And half the organisation’s bodies along with them, if his employers proved less than keen to let him go.

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‘ chaos and bloodshed are not a solution. ‘ - vxlkyrieonline

@vxlkyrieonline  ||  re:  Hamilton / Starter SentencesStatus:  closed.

THE FABRIC OF HIS SON’S HAT, all that he could recover immediately from the wreckage, serves as a soft warmth and an anchor for his trembling hands. With the hospital’s doors closed to the public and the medic himself in hardly any shape to work amongst the staff, he’s well aware that he’s been thrown aside for now. A private room was set aside for him in a temporary headquarters – whether it is meant to be a place of rest or soon a sanctuary for him to mourn, neither of them yet know. 

What he wants most of all is to be alone. But he is hardly in the state for it right now, and Angela knows this all too well. They’ve known each other long enough that reading him has hardly ever come as difficult to her. And, in that very moment, he despises her for it.

A capability to feel vulnerable is something he didn’t know he has. It feels wrong: like a parasite wriggling and festering in his gut, tearing him open from within. Breath comes short, the typically reassuring touch of her hand too warm on his chilling, clammy skin.

He’s made a terrible, terrible mistake.

❝ You know, Angela – and I know – that isn’t true. ❞  And what had transpired today in Switzerland proved it without a doubt.  ❝ We can resist chaos and bloodshed all we want; and still, it comes to us on its own. All we’ve done is let ourselves be taken off guard… look at what’s happened to the headquarters. ❞

No longer can Overwatch, despite all its greatest efforts to portray itself as a beacon of hope, portray itself the dazzling world of heroes and legends that young children dreamt it to be. A saviour it might have been in times of crisis, but no organisation is without its fatal flaws… ones that, if left unchecked, would claw at it and tear it swiftly down from the insides. And it would take, along with it, dozens and hundreds of lives. Lives of those who had grown up trusting in the organisation that would be so quick to end them.

Ludwig has been here long enough to know: Overwatch isn’t  ( and never truly was )  impervious to the greater horrors of internal corruption, immoral pushes made only for personal gain. He is hardly innocent in the grand scheme of things, either; temptation has tugged at him so often that it’s a wonder he hadn’t been the first to give in, long before Morrison and Reyes.

Even in Overwatch, there could be no escape from the bloodshed that had already taken so many already. In all honestly, Ludwig never cared for the moral consequences of war nor the proud accumulation of body counts he obtained over all these years. 

But until now, that count had never included his own blood.

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❛ starting to think all doctors are out of their minds. ❜

@rotsmoke  ||  excuse me how rude

❝ — OH…? IS THAT SO? ❞  There’s a pause. Then a slow smile pulls at Ludwig’s lips, crinkling the corner of his eyes as bemused gaze slides over to settle on the other man. It’s clear from the slow drawl of his words, still-lax posture and shoulders, that the medic finds more amusement in the comment than insult.

Perhaps, were he still recruited in Overwatch, Ludwig might have taken very real offence to the accusation.  ( But he is not in Overwatch now, is he? )  And with time, he’s grown accustomed to it – come to the easy conclusion that  ❛ out of their mind ❜  is a phrase reserved for those who are afraid of men that truly possess the capacity and the prowess needed to push their field beyond society's boundaries. 

It’s of no concern to him. There is little that he’ll change his methods for, after all, and nothing that he’ll stop for. An off remark from a colleague he hardly knows very well matters little in the long run; the most Reaper can really do to him is to a bit of banter.

❝ Pardon if you find me a little presumptuous, but what a gross overgeneralization of the medical field. I know that I’m an exception… but it’s a bit much to assume that any physician can match my mind and talent, Herr. ❞