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Eldritch Horror? No, I'm A Doctor
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I was sitting on the toilet when I heard the door crash open.
Not gently. Not the polite push of someone entering a clinic for a scheduled appointment. This was the desperate slam of people who needed help five minutes ago and were running on pure panic.
"Doctor! Emergency!" someone shouted from the front. "We've got a critical!"
I looked down at my phone, which I'd been scrolling through while taking care of business. A gate break notification glowed on the screen. B-rank threat level. Forty-seven estimated casualties.
"Fuck," I muttered.
I'd been sitting in my brand new clinic for maybe two hours, enjoying the peace and quiet after spending ten million dollars on a building that looked like it was trying to audition for a horror movie. Two hours. That was all I got before the universe decided I needed to start earning my keep.
"Doctor!" The voice again, more desperate this time.
"Coming!" I yelled back, already pulling up my pants and washing my hands. Professional standards, even in emergencies. Especially in emergencies.
System, we have customers.
Already? I thought you said nobody would come to a clinic that looks like a funeral home.
I was wrong. Apparently desperation overrides aesthetic concerns.
Told you the black was a good choice.
You told me nothing. You just made everything black and called it thematic.
And I was right.
I dried my hands on a towel and walked out of the bathroom, trying to look composed and doctor-like instead of like someone who'd just been interrupted mid-bathroom break.
Three men stood in my waiting room. Two of them were holding up a third between them, and the third looked like he'd tried to fight a meat grinder and lost.
His right arm was gone from the elbow down. His abdomen was torn open, intestines visible and glistening under my clinic's lights. Blood pooled on my nice white tile floor, spreading in a dark puddle that was going to be a pain to clean up later.
My stomach lurched.
Oh god. Oh god, there's so much blood.
Focus. You're a doctor. Act like one.
I'm a doctor with a phobia of blood and gore! This is literally my worst nightmare!
Then it's a good thing you have powers that let you heal without actually touching it much. Now stop panicking and do your job.
I took a slow breath through my nose, trying not to smell the copper tang of blood in the air. My hands wanted to shake. I forced them still.
Professional standards. I had to maintain professional standards.
The two holding him up looked rough but intact. Hunters, based on their gear and the way they carried themselves. B-rank, if I had to guess. Good enough to survive a gate break. Not good enough to prevent their friend from getting shredded.
"You the doctor?" the one on the left asked. He had short dark hair and eyes that were trying very hard not to look at his friend's exposed organs.
I understood the feeling completely.
"Yes." I walked closer, keeping my expression neutral even though my brain was screaming. "Bring him to the examination room."
I can do this. I'm a professional. Professionals don't vomit at the sight of blood.
You literally vomited after your last surgery.
That was after! After is fine! During is unprofessional!
I led them down the hallway to the operating room, gesturing to the bed. They laid him down carefully, like they were afraid he might fall apart if they moved too fast. Given the state he was in, that wasn't an unreasonable concern.
More blood smeared across my table. I felt my stomach do another uncomfortable flip.
"His name's Jack," the dark-haired one said. "We were responding to the gate break. Our frontline squad got wiped out. Jack took a hit from something with claws."
"I can see that."
Don't look at it directly. Use peripheral vision.
I moved to the counter and pulled on a pair of black surgical gloves. My hands were steady. Good. Years of practice had taught me how to suppress the physical symptoms even when my brain was melting down.
Then I stopped, reconsidered, and pulled the gloves back off.
Better to use the proper tools for this.
I turned my palm upward and concentrated. The skin split open with a wet sound that made my stomach lurch again, petals of flesh peeling back to reveal the mouth underneath.
At least when the gore was coming from my own body, it was somehow less terrible. Still terrible. Just less terrible.
Rows of sharp white teeth glistened in the light. Inside the mouth, coiled like a spring, was my tongue. Except calling it a tongue was generous. It was more like dozens of impossibly thin, needle-like appendages bundled together, each one capable of extending to extreme lengths.
The tongues unfurled, stretching out from my palm like microscopic threads becoming visible. They were translucent, almost invisible in the light, thinner than human hair but infinitely long.
Behind me, someone made a choking sound.
The tongues extended toward the patient, moving like living sutures. They slithered into the wound in his abdomen, navigating through the exposed tissue.
I felt the diagnostic information flowing back but kept my eyes slightly unfocused. Each tongue was a sensory organ, feeding me data about tissue damage, blood chemistry, nerve status.
"What the hell..." one of the men whispered. "Are those... threads?"
"Tongues," I corrected absently. "Diagnostic tongues."
Just ignore them. Focus on the patient.
The tongues continued their exploration, some stretching almost two meters long, others staying short and coiled. They wove through the damaged tissue like living fiber optics.
"Severe abdominal bleeding," I said out loud, my voice steady despite everything. "Intestinal trauma. Right arm severed. Nerve damage across thirty-two percent of extremities. Spine stable."
The tongues retracted, pulling back into my palm like measuring tapes rewinding. They coiled back inside the mouth, which closed.
I turned to face the two conscious men.
"That will be one million dollars."
Silence.
"What?" the dark-haired one finally managed.
"One million dollars. Payable upfront or after treatment. I'm flexible on timing."
"Are you serious?" The taller one looked between me and his dying friend. "One million?"
"Yes. That's actually very cheap for what I'm about to do."
"Cheap?" Dark-hair's voice went up an octave. "That's a million dollars!"
I crossed my arms. "Your friend is missing an arm and most of his internal organs are on display. The best regeneration specialists in the empire charge five million minimum for limb regrowth, and most of them won't even attempt it. One million is a bargain."
Keep talking about money. Don't think about the surgery.
They looked at each other. I could see the calculation happening.
"Please save his life," the dark-haired one said finally. "I'm willing to pay."
"Good choice." I walked toward the door. "Now get out."
"What?"
"Operating rooms are for the sick. You're not the patient. Leave."
I didn't wait for them to argue. I just pointed at the door until they shuffled out into the hallway.
The door clicked shut behind them.
I stood there for a moment, alone with the bleeding patient, and let myself feel it. The nausea. The disgust. The primal fear response.
My hands started to shake. I gripped the edge of the counter.
I can't do this. There's so much blood.
You can do this. You've done it before.
That doesn't make it easier!
No, but it means you know how. Now stop panicking and save the man's life.
I took three deep breaths. Forced my hands to stop shaking. Straightened my spine.
Professional standards. I was a doctor. Doctors saved lives.
This is fine. I'm fine. Everything is fine.
You're lying to yourself.
I know. But it's working.
"Alright," I said out loud to the barely conscious patient. "Let's do this before I change my mind and run screaming."
I reached into my inventory and pulled out a syringe filled with glowing green liquid. My hands were steady again.
I jabbed the syringe into his chest and pressed the plunger.
Jack's eyes flew open. His back arched off the table.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
He's awake and screaming.
The fear response makes the healing work better.
I know that! It doesn't make me feel less terrible about it!
Now for the part I hated most.
I closed my eyes and focused. The transformation began at the base of my spine. My neck split open, skin peeling away as thick tentacles erupted upward.
My head dissolved completely. The bouquet of tentacles took its place, each one grabbing a different surgical tool from the tray.
Time to bring out CPR.
One of my tentacles reached into my inventory, feeling for that familiar weight. The metal was cold against my appendage as I pulled.
The chainsaw materialized in my grip.
CPR was old. Ancient. The kind of chainsaw that looked like it had been dragged through decades of abuse and somehow kept running out of pure mechanical spite. Rust covered the blade in patches of orange-brown, the metal underneath scratched and pitted from years of use. The red paint on the housing had faded to a sickly pinkish-brown, flaking off in places to reveal more rust beneath. Oil stains darkened every surface, thick and black, giving the whole thing a perpetually grimy appearance. The pull cord looked frayed enough that I was surprised it still functioned.
It looked like something you'd find in a horror movie prop department, except this one actually worked.
But the moment it left my inventory, the engine caught with a violent sputter.
VRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
The sound was pure mechanical fury. Loud enough to shake the air, aggressive enough to drown out thought itself. The unmistakable roar of an old gas-powered chainsaw that had somehow kept running despite every law of physics and common sense suggesting it should have died decades ago. The blade spun with vicious speed, teeth catching the light, still sharp despite all the rust coating them.
VRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
That's right. That's my boy CPR.
The roar filled the operating room, drowning out even Jack's screaming. It was loud, aggressive, relentless, and somehow exactly what I needed right now.
His rumbling voice will help me regenerate the limb.
You're referring to a chainsaw as having a voice.
CPR has the most beautiful voice. Listen to that roar.
Jack's screaming intensified as he saw the rusty chainsaw in my tentacle.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
It's kind of fun doing this. Like I'm a haunted house employee.
You're enjoying this?
If the blood and gore wasn't this fucking intense, maybe I would be. But no. I'm dying inside. CPR just makes it slightly more bearable.
I bent over the patient, tentacles moving with precision. My palm-mouth opened again, and hundreds of needle-thin tongues emerged, creating their web of invisible threads across Jack's wounds.
One tentacle held the abdominal cavity open while the tongues dove inside, threading through damaged tissue at the microscopic level. I tried very hard not to think about what that felt like through the sensory feedback.
Don't think about the texture. Don't think about how wet everything is. Focus on CPR's sound.
VRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
The chainsaw's roar was constant, mechanical, drowning out my spiraling thoughts. Another tentacle positioned CPR over the shoulder stump where the arm used to be.
Okay buddy, time to work your magic.
I brought CPR closer to the wound. The rusty blade didn't cut. Instead, it hovered just above the stump, vibrating at a specific frequency. The sound changed slightly, becoming less purely mechanical and more... organic somehow.
VRZZZZZZZZZ-hehe-VRZZZZZZZZ-hehe-VRZZZZZZZZZ.
The mechanical laughter started bubbling up from CPR's ancient engine, mixing with the roar of the blade. It sounded wrong in the best possible way. Like the chainsaw was breathing, laughing, genuinely enjoying its work in ways that machinery absolutely should not be capable of.
Jack screamed even louder, his voice going hoarse.
That's it. Perfect frequency.
The stump began to twitch under CPR's influence. Cells multiplied at visible speed, responding to the vibrations. Bone extended from the shoulder socket, growing outward like a time-lapse video of a plant sprouting.
VRZZZZZZZZ-HEHE-VRZZZZZZZZZ-HEHE.
CPR's mechanical laughter grew more pronounced, the rusty blade spinning faster. Despite the rust, despite the oil dripping from the housing, the chainsaw performed flawlessly. The vibrations were precise, controlled, perfect for stimulating cellular regeneration.
Good boy. Such a good chainsaw.
You're praising a rusty chainsaw.
The BEST rusty chainsaw. Look at that frequency control. Flawless.
Muscle wrapped around the growing bone. Tendons formed, connecting to existing tissue. The tongues from my palm helped guide the growth, threading through the new tissue to ensure proper nerve connections.
The whole time, CPR's roar filled the room.
VRZZZZZZZZ-hehe-VRZZZZZZZZZ-hehe-VRZZZZZZZZ.
I love that sound. It's so much better than thinking about the blood.
My human consciousness, buried somewhere in the mass of tentacles and surgical instruments, was screaming. Too close to gore. Too much blood. Too many wet sounds and terrible textures transmitted through my tongues.
But CPR's roar drowned it all out.
VRZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ.
The arm continued to grow. Elbow joint formed, perfectly articulated. Forearm extended, radius and ulna growing in parallel. Wrist appeared, complete with all the small bones. Fingers sprouted, five perfect digits, each one growing nails at the tips.
VRZZZZZZZ-HEHE-VRZZZZZZZZ-HEHE-VRZZZZZZZZZ!
CPR's laughter reached a crescendo as the regeneration completed. The chainsaw seemed genuinely proud of its work, the mechanical sounds almost joyful.
Perfect! Look at that arm! Beautiful work, CPR!
You're congratulating a chainsaw.
A chainsaw who just helped regrow a perfect arm. He deserves congratulations.
The tongues finished sealing the abdominal wound, weaving through tissue and reconnecting everything at the cellular level. I stepped back, letting the tentacles relax slightly.
CPR's engine settled into a contented rumble, still loud but less aggressive now. Oil dripped steadily from the housing onto the operating table, but the blade kept spinning smoothly.
You did amazing work, buddy. Back to inventory now.
VRZZZZZZ. The chainsaw's roar softened as I returned it to my inventory, the sound cutting off abruptly as it disappeared.
And I could see the aftermath.
Blood everywhere. On the table, on the floor, on my clothes, spattered on the walls. The patient was healed, but the evidence of what I'd just done was painted across every surface in red.
My stomach lurched violently.
Not now. Walk to the door first.
You look like you're about to pass out.
I feel like I'm about to pass out. But I'm not going to. Because that would be unprofessional.
I walked to the door on legs that felt like they were made of rubber. Each step was measured, controlled. I pushed the door open.
The two men were standing in the hallway. Jack was crawling toward them on his hands and knees, using his newly regrown arm to pull himself forward. His face was pale and covered in sweat, but he was moving.
They looked at him first. Their expressions shifted from terror to hope in an instant.
Then they looked at me.
I was still covered in blood. Head to toe, my black suit was now soaked through with red. Still had tentacles sprouting from my neck because I'd forgotten the transformation. Blood dripped from the appendages, forming a small puddle at my feet.
Oh god. I forgot again.
Every single time.
"Would you like to pay with cash," I said, my voice echoing from somewhere inside the tentacle mass, "or card?"
The dark-haired one's mouth opened. His eyes went wide. And then he screamed.
Not a short scream. A long, sustained scream of pure existential terror.
Right. The tentacles. I need to fix that.
I concentrated hard, forcing the tentacles to retract faster than usual. They slithered back into my body with wet squelching sounds that made the tall one gag audibly. My head reformed piece by piece, features assembling themselves from the inside out.
And the nausea came back with it, hitting me like a freight train.
I swallowed hard, tasting bile at the back of my throat.
Professional standards. Do not throw up on the patients.
"Sorry," I said, my voice slightly strained now that I had a mouth again. "I forgot to change back. Very unprofessional."
"Unprofessional." The dark-haired one repeated the word like he was testing it, seeing if it made any more sense the second time. "That's... that's what you're going with?"
"Would you prefer terrifying? Disturbing? A violation of natural law?"
All of which I agree with, by the way. I'm just as horrified as you are.
I walked past them toward the reception desk, leaving bloody footprints behind me with each step. The wet sounds of my shoes against the tile made my stomach turn again, but I kept my face neutral. Each step was measured, controlled, professional.
Inside, I was screaming.
There's blood on my shoes. I can feel it squishing with every step. Why is everything always wet? Why did I become a doctor if I hate blood so much?
Because you died and got reincarnated with nightmare powers. and you chose the horror path your self
I could have chosen literally any other career! I could have been an accountant! Accountants don't have to deal with intestines!
You chose this. Now deal with it.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, careful not to get too much blood on the screen.
Transfer received: $1,000,000
At least I'm getting paid to be traumatized.
That's the spirit. Monetize your suffering.
Jack had made it to his feet now, supported by his friends. He was staring at his new arm in wonder, flexing the fingers, rotating the wrist, testing every joint. His friends were examining him, running their hands over where the wounds had been, finding nothing but smooth, unmarked skin.
"How do you feel?" I asked, keeping my voice steady despite the nausea churning in my gut.
"Amazing," Jack said, his voice full of wonder.
"It's like... it's like nothing ever happened. Better than before, even. I can feel everything. Every finger, every muscle. It's perfect."
He looked up at me, and despite the lingering fear in his eyes, there was genuine gratitude there too.
"Thank you," he said, and he meant it. "Seriously. You saved my life."
"You're welcome." I managed a smile that probably looked more like a grimace.
"Try not to get disemboweled again."
Please don't come back. I can't handle this twice.
"I'll do my best," Jack said with a weak laugh.
Then I noticed something I'd been trying very hard to ignore.
The other two weren't completely uninjured.
They're barely injured. Quick fixes. You can handle it.
The dark-haired one had a gash on his forearm, poorly bandaged with what looked like a torn shirt. Blood was seeping through the cloth, dripping onto my nice tile floor. The tall one was favoring his left leg heavily, barely putting any weight on it.
"You two are injured," I said, my voice still steady despite everything churning inside me.
Why am I offering? Why am I doing this to myself?
Money. Fear points. Professional duty. Also you've come this far, might as well finish the job.
"It's nothing," the dark-haired one said quickly, pulling his arm closer to his body like he could hide it from me. "Just scratches. We'll get it looked at later. At a different hospital. Far away from here."
"I can heal it now. Ten thousand dollars each."
"Ten thousand?" The tall one's eyes widened. "We don't need—"
I pulled out a syringe before he could finish the sentence and jabbed it into his arm in one smooth motion.
"Hey! What the—" His pupils dilated instantly as the awakening anesthetic hit his system. His mouth snapped shut mid-protest.
"What did you just do?" the dark-haired one asked, his voice climbing toward panic. He took a step back, bumping into the wall.
"Anesthetic," I said calmly, like injecting people without consent was a perfectly normal medical practice. "He'll be awake for the procedure. It works better that way."
Because apparently I'm a sadist who makes people experience trauma while I'm experiencing trauma.
"I didn't agree to this!" The dark-haired one's voice went up an octave.
"You brought him into my clinic injured. That's implied consent."
That's absolutely not how consent works but I'm committed now.
I turned to the dark-haired one, pulling out another syringe. He pressed himself harder against the wall, like he was trying to phase through it.
"Would you like to be unconscious for yours?"
He looked at his friend, who was now standing very still with dawning horror spreading across his face as he realized what was about to happen. He looked at Jack, who was wisely staying quiet and edging toward the door. He looked at me, still covered in blood from head to toe, holding a syringe like it was perfectly normal.
"Please," he said, his voice small and defeated. "Please be gentle."
I smiled through my nausea. It probably didn't look reassuring.
"Sure."
Just fifteen more minutes. You can make it. Think about CPR. CPR would want you to finish the job properly.
Don't use CPR against me.
Too late. Already did.
I gestured toward the operating room with my free hand. "Both of you. Inside. This won't take long."
They walked like men heading to their execution, feet dragging across the blood-stained floor. The tall one kept looking back at Jack, silently begging for help. Jack just shrugged apologetically and took another step toward the exit.
"Try to keep the screaming to a minimum," I added. "It disturbs the other patients."
"What other patients?" the tall one asked, looking around the empty room with wild eyes. "We're the only ones here!"
"Future patients. I'm building a reputation. Can't have people thinking my clinic is full of screaming."
Even though it absolutely is. And will be. Forever.
I transformed again. The tentacles emerged from my splitting neck. My head dissolved into the writhing mass of surgical appendages. My palm-mouth opened, and the nightmare tongues unfurled once more, hundreds of them stretching out like nearly invisible threads.
And the screaming started immediately.
Just another day at Hector Clinic.
Where professional standards are maintained, even when everything is terrible.