Schmidt, Lukas

Argh, I almost forgot: ‘On this night the heart and ideals melt into the darkness’

Full Name: Lukas Schmidt
Nationality: (West) German
D.O.B.: October 1st
Age: 58
Gender: Male
Height: 183 cm (roughly 6 foot)
Weight: 85 kg (188 pounds)
Hair Color: Black
Eye Color: Dark Brown
Blood Type: AB+
Hometown: Cologne (He has moved back and forth from the US to locations in Germany, Luxembourg, Italy, the United Kingdom - and has worked extensively in locations in the Middle East, during the Afghan-Soviet War)
Character Description:


Personality: Schmidt is a tried and true sociopath. He is capable of incredibly cold blooded acts- torture, vivisection, needless surgery, all in the name of scientific progress and personal enjoyment. The German moves seamlessly throughout society, able to socialize like anyone else, but cares for none of it. The man has few actual friends, generally people whose sense of humor he finds pleasing, and would still turn on them in the blink of an eye. His malevolence is generally limited to his work, however: Lukas is generally too absorbed in the progress he’s making to care about anything else.
When dealing with others, Schmidt is generally amiable if not distant and unfocused. Despite not caring much about those around him one way or another, he has found that politeness greases the wheels, and thus uses it as a means to an end.
While working, however, Schmidt lets himself out a bit more. At the table, he presents a calm and mellow front. At times, he breaks this pattern with spurts of levity- cracking (cruel) jokes, or singing and jiving to the jazz tunes he likes to listen to while operating. If interrupted or annoyed, his reactions range from caustic reminders to explosive outbursts.
Role: Schmidt is employed as a surgeon by the hospital, a job he is more than qualified for. He is called upon to perform your normal medical/emergency procedures: debridements, carotid endarterectomy, coronary artery bypass, skin grafts, hernia repair, and a number of other common procedures. His real passion, however, is neurology- past the positive public face of the hospital and behind closed doors, he is often performing cruel and alarming procedures involving a patient’s brain- indeed, a significant portion of the world’s knowledge on the effects of lobotomization exists because of Lukas’ work.

RP Sample:

   They called him the Butcher, for reasons he felt were obvious. It wasn’t a name he cherished, nor was it one he reviled. It was - like so many other things in his existence - simply something that happened in his presence, a matter over which he could exercise no control.

   He had unprepossessing eyes that usually failed to display any emotion beyond a faint disinterest, and a face so thin it bordered on gaunt. He worked in standard surgical gear, and labored several times a day to scrub and cleanse the layered cloths and plastics. The towels always came away reddenned by blood that decorated his attire in random patterns, for his duty was not a clean one.

   ‘Doctor,’ a weak voice pried at his attention. ‘Don’t let me die.’

   Schmidt turned his cold eyes down to the patient on the surgical table. The stink of his burnt skin and baked blood was a pungent musk, while his face of pale skin and dark eyes was little more than a sliced up ruin. For several moments, the Butcher watched the man’s lifeblood leak out from a dozen different wounds.

   ‘You are already dead,’ Schmidt told him. ‘Your body just hasn’t accepted it yet.

   The patient’s attempt at a defiant moan emerged as a strangled choke. He managed to reach out and grip Schmidt’s wrist, a surprising feat for one in his state.

   ‘Please do not touch me.’ The Butcher gently removed his arm from the man’s dying grasp. ‘I do not like to be touched.’

   ‘Doctor...’

   ‘And please refrain from begging. It will avail you nothing.’ Schmidt let his eyes rest on the patient’s EKG, and then on his chart. ‘You have a rupture in your left lung. You have suffered burns on 21% of your body. Sepsis has saturated your bloodstream with poison, straining your organs to the point of failure.’ Schmidt rested his hands on the tray containing his tools- instruments of both healing and death.

   ‘Please… I don’t want to die. I’ll cooperate, I swear...’ his words were cut off by his need to cough and wheeze. A mixture of blood and spittle dripped down his cheek.

   ‘I know you, Jacob Martinez. No immediate family, no relationship, no offspring. Nothing will be lost when you expire. No one to come looking.’ Schmidt paused, but not to smile. He didn’t remember the last time he had smiled and meant it.

   ‘What?!’ The patient said. His heart rate spiked up- that was mildly amusing. ‘I… I will speak with the chief of…’

   ‘No.’ Schmidt interrupted, drawing his scalpel across the man’s throat. ‘Sleep.’

   The patient flailed weakly for several moments, gurgling as the last drops of blood he could spare left the gaping incision in his throat and carotid arteries.

   ‘You will not speak to anyone at all. As I said, you are already dead.’

   The Butcher put the scalpel back in the tray, his cold eyes gazing into the matching pair on the fresh corpse. They lingered there for several moments.

   On a whim, he began the process of burning, cutting, spreading bone and peeling back flesh on the man’s head. As always, he worked in absolute silence, reluctantly breathing in the smells of incinerated muscle and exposed organs.

   The man’s brain stem was severed with a wet snap and squelch. An odd amount of cerebrospinal fluid drained from the open brain case. Perhaps a case of hydrocephalus? That would certainly explain some of his symptoms. Too little, too late. Not that Schmidt cared much anyway.

   The Butcher’s gloved hands reached into skull, gently grasping the man’s collection of grey matter. He placed it inside a jar of preservative fluid nearby, sealing it shut with a sense of finality.

   Slowly, his cold eyes as emotionless as ever, Schmidt looked up. His deed done, his focus slowly diffused, letting his surroundings filter back through his senses.

   He turned to the accompanying nurse, who was finding something else to pay attention to on the other side of the operating theater. ‘Take this husk to the incinerator. We’re done here.’

   She nodded, moving to follow the order without a word.

   As the Butcher watched the nurse wheel the corpse away, he put the brain-bearing jar inside a small freezer.

   Lastly, he cleaned his instruments by spraying them with disinfectant spray, before drawing breath to speak a single word.

   ‘Next.’

Accepted, welcome to the Hill of Acropolis. Enjoy your stay.

Removed due to inactivity.