Dr. Frederick Chapman

Photo found on Dr. Chapman's professional website

## About

* **General Information:**
	+ **Sexuality: Bisexual**
	+ **Star Sign: Pisces**
	+ **Pronouns: he/him**
	+ **Age: 40**
	+ **Fear: Viscera**
	+ **Job: Cardiothoracic Surgeon, London Bridge Hospital**
	+ **Character Tag: #drchapman**
	+ **Player: @edgydorito**

## Friends/Allies

* Theo McLeod - Reasonable, can hold a conversation. Peer.
* Ramon Clarke - Intelligent, acquaintance, conference buddy
* Lux - Interesting, sociable, easy to understand, unexpected connection
* Damon Kent - Stubborn, irritating, useful, did stick his hand in Frederick's chest the first time they met, unexpected connection
* J3zab3l - Charming, the surprising calm before the storm, unexpected connection
* Ainsley McKinnon - Grating, amusing, referred to Frederick as "Dad", "Shrimp"

## Notable Events

* **Medical Malpractice:** see Statement below
* **A Hands-on Experiment:** The first meeting with Damon led to the duo becoming more closely acquainted than perhaps expected, given that Damon stuck his hand inside of Frederick's torso to investigate the contents of his abdominal cavity.
* **The Curtain Call Rave:** A brief hello turns to an emergency when chaos descends, finally bringing Frederick into the world of Avatars and Entities when Lux is killed.

## Backstory

**Statement Regarding: Medical Malpractice**

*Bit rude of you all to just shut me in a room with a piece of paper when I came to you with an actual account of abnormal phenomena. Though I suppose you’d rather stay comfortable in your dusty library and pretend to be ghost hunters. Seems fitting. Not that any of your work has been published by any reliable scientific journals.*

*I am one of London’s premier Cardiothoracic Surgeons. Was. Am. I still am. What happened to me will not prevent me from returning to the Operating Room. I have a reputation, you see. I have plans and whatever this is? It won’t get in my way. It can’t.*

*I began my work for London Bridge Hospital immediately after my residency, around thirteen years ago, give or take. I have numerous published papers, awards, and was recently on the New York Times Best Seller’s list for my new book on the implementation of experimental techniques in private hospitals. It’s quite insightful, I recommend giving it a read. I am incredibly intelligent and capable, which is to say that I am a reliable source. I would have never crossed the threshold of this paltry excuse of an academic institution if I had any reason to believe that what I am experiencing is normal. You must understand.*

*I was in an auto accident last winter. The drive south from my parent’s home was rough. The rain had turned to snow after an hour and the road was beginning to ice over. The dark didn’t help either. So when the thing ran out in front of my car, well I was screwed.*

The attending doctor at the A&E I was taken to said that it was a “Damn miracle that I survived”. I’m inclined to agree. I’ve seen the pictures of the accident. My little car was wrapped around the trunk of a tree so tightly they had to cut me out of the wreckage. None of the doors would open, the chassis was so twisted. It’s a small mercy that I was unconscious. I didn’t have to feel the pain of broken bones scraping against each other and grazing bruised muscles as the first responders carefully maneuvered my limp body onto the stretcher.

Obviously, I needed extensive surgeries. I was shipped from the small village hospital down to London. I had requested to be treated at London Bridge, but something must have been missed in communication, as that was most definitely not where I ended up.

The hospital looked like it was trapped in the 1970’s. The decor was abysmal. More like a prison than a hospital in my opinion.

*But it wasn’t the decor that I came here to write about. Even if it should be. The color palate was atrocious. Avacado green. In 2019. Anyway-*

I was taken directly to the operating room. There was an urgency to the situation that I respected, the drive down had been long enough and time was of the essence. What I did not particularly respect was the fact that none of the attending nurses would answer any of my questions. And as a surgeon myself, I had quite a few questions about the sort of qualifications their trauma surgeon had, the sort of anesthesia they’d be using, what they thought the outcome would be, et cetera.

Nothing. Silence. It had been aggravating to begin with of course, but it was quickly becoming unnerving the longer it went on. I’ve worked in the medical field for thirteen years and I had never been in an operating room as silent as this one. SIlence in a room filled with experts and top of the line equipment is never something to take lightly. The chances of a patient making it out of a completely silent operating room are next to none. The only times that I’ve lost patients have been accompanied with the complete and total silence of my team.

*Surely there was no need for the somber silence. I had only been in a severe collision and I was still very aware of my surroundings.  Were they planning on operating on my without anesthetic? I made my thoughts known about the possibility, but surprise surprise the silence continued to cloak the theatre like a weighted blanket. If I’d had the ability to move without sending myself into a fit of debilitating pain I’d have tried to run. I talk a big game, but I’m not an idiot. Something wasn’t right in that hospital. Whatever came through the doors to operate on me wouldn’t be right either.*

*They had the table situated so that I couldn’t see what was opening the door no matter how hard I craned my neck to look, eyes wide and full of fear. The eerie creak of metal doors swinging open and the clack of shoes on the tile flooring sent a chill down my spine that I have never been able to get rid of.*

*Even now in this shitty little office, I feel it. Cold and metallic and so terribly jarring.*

*The ‘surgeon’ approached the bed and said nothing, just as unnaturally silent as the others had been, and looked down at me from behind the thin plastic barrier of his PPE. His...their eyes were empty of any emotion, windows into an endless and unreadable void. I couldn’t speak. The questions and demands that had been so easy to throw out into the silent gallery were gone. Swept away by a racing heart and a dry throat as I started up at the thing that would be opening me up in a clinical fashion and playing with the parts of myself that I’d been foolish enough to let break.*

*[Archivist’s note: here the writing grows more difficult to read, presumably due to the statement giver’s breaking of an Institute pen. A new writing utensil was provided at his request.]*

*Apologies. This is… difficult to put onto paper for me.*

*What happened next is impossible. I have spent the last year attempting to rationalize what I saw. What I felt. They raised their hands and with the marked precision of an experienced surgeon they cut through the front of my shirt. It was an expensive button-down shirt too, just another mark against the bastard.  I tried to protest that there was nothing wrong with my torso, certainly nothing that needed surgery. There were a few cracked ribs, but they didn’t require any invasive procedures. Whatever words I had hoped to force past my dry, chapping lips were not coming. I could do nothing but watch in horror as they pulled back the torn halves of my shirt, exposing my chest. Once they seemed satisfied with their work they leaned back and removed their gloves.*

*[Archivist’s Note: The following paragraph is merely a long tangent about the legality of the issue. Which I have determined to be of little significance to the statement itself.]*

*They placed their ungloved hand on my abdomen and then kept going, pressing through my skin. The feeling of a hand entering through untorn flesh is indescribable. It hurt. But in the way I imagine a dull blade sinking through living flesh would feel if it merely pushed tissue and nerves and bone out of the way instead of slicing through them, It was then that I began to lose track of time. The ‘Surgeon’ reorganized the interior of my chest cavity and abdominal region, pulling me apart without leaving a single incision anywhere on my torso.*

I lost consciousness from the pain when they first tore my intestines apart and pulled them out of me, dumping the organ into a large silver pan. I remember thinking that I hoped it was sterilized before the world faded to black.

*The days after I woke up again were a blur, but there was noise around me again at least. I could pretend that this had all been some trauma-induced nightmare. That is what my therapist told me, anyway. For several months, I believed her. I was handed a diagnosis of PTSD for my troubles. She associated it with the collision itself, but I have no doubt that had I just been taken to London Bridge Hospital like I had requested everything would have been fine. I wouldn’t be having these nightmares. I wouldn’t be having panic attacks during my shifts once or twice a month. They’re thinking of recommending I take a leave of absence. Me! I’ll be damned if they let Dr. Hughes take over my department. The man wouldn’t know the sharp end of the scalpel if it stabbed him in the hand.*

*The dreams keep getting worse. Worse isn’t the best word. Perhaps clearer would be better. I think they might be memories. And if they are memories… then that ‘surgeon’ put something in me. Whatever is inside of my torso now isn’t natural. They didn’t put my organs back inside of me. The put… whatever it was it was bloody and it slid inside of me with the same ease that my organs were stolen from me with. I’ve been avoiding meat for nearly a year. Not because I can’t digest it, but because… because I’m frightened of what it means to crave it so desperately. This thing, this… this… sick experiment this witch-doctor of a surgeon conducted on me it beginning to ruin my life. It has ruined my life. I refuse to let them win. I will not give in.*

I will be suing them, you can bet your ass that I’m taking them to court for every penny they have for Malpractice. I will not let them destroy me.

I will not eat the flesh.

*[End Statement]*