A Brave New World

Doktor Schmidt is in his office, which for now contitutes a small cottage near the infirmaries. It's late evening, so it's clear to see that he's in - lights glow in the windows. He's sitting at his desk, back to the door.

Ah, that glow. Hm. Sofia is cautious, approaching the Doktor's office. Her green eyes narrow a little, as she looks over her shoulder. She will knock, on the door of the cottage, carefully. "Herr Doktor?"

"Enter!" The voice sounds a little odd, lacking some of its usually precise, clipped cadance.

Sofia blinks a few times, hesitating at the door. Sofia seems a bit worried. That's - not normal. She shifts her shoulders, and opens the door. "Thank you, herr." She bobs her head to him, to be polite.

Doktor Schmidt is, if anything, normal. Well, normal in the way that he adheres to his own, strict routines. But today, not so much. As he turns around in his chair, it would not take much effort to notice that he's roaring, stinking drunk. There is a bottle of Schnaps clasped loosely in one long-fingered hand, and his eyes as he stare at you are dilated, face blank, "Who're you?" Drunk as he is, the good Doktor's Bavarian peasant roots are showing. Aside from being slurred, his German is heavy with a rural dialect.
Blink. She … looks around, over her shoulder. "Me? Herr, I am Nurse Sofia Weir," She replies quietly. Sofia seems cautious, worried now. A faint frown, concerned. She lifts her eyebrows, stepping inside and closing the door behind her. His accent is a bit surprising, her own being from Bremen. She doesn't get too close though, just in case. Sofia lifts a hand, to wave. "Are you - How are you-?" Obvious, the answer is. But still.

"Weir. Ah yes… Fraulein Weir. Nurse. Good nurse! Sit down. Sit down!" Dr. Schmidt waves expansively at the hard, uncomfortable stool placed before his big desk. Typically, his own chair is large, if not particularly comfortable either. He reaches to adjust his small, round spectacles, but only ends up skewing them. "What did you- what did you do before the war, Weir?" Despite his more or less friendly words, the Doktor doesn't look like a happy man. He looks more like the kind of depressed drunk who's tried (unsuccesfully) to bury past memories and failures under voluminous quantities of booze.

"Thank you, herr doktor." Sofia nods, and will sit on the stool. She is still watching him intently, concerned and a little confused. She frowns a little more. But as he asks, she pauses. "Me, herr Doktor? I was a baker, just finished my apprenticeship," Sofia tilts her head. "Why do you ask?" Curious now, and that booze is cause for some alarm. She has her full attention on him for the moment, listening even as she speaks.

"A baker." Dr. Schmidt turns away, fishing for something in one of the drawers of his desk. "My… Father was a baker. Or was he a farmer? I forget. Like father like son, hah hah." The laughter sounds terrible, the Doktor's generally less than pleasant face drawing itself into an unholy grimace. With some effort, he produces a portrait, pushing it towards you over the table. "D'you know who this is, Weir?" There is a portrait of a slightly younger Dr. Schmidt, standing before a spanking new hospital building. A great many doctors and nurses are arranged around him, smiling that particularly rigid smile that one is forced to present to the photographer.

Sofia looks a bit saddened, nodding. "I see…" She quirks her eyebrows as she listens. Sofia folds her hands in her lap, looking over as he produces a portrait. She leans over to look at it. Only a moment. "You, Herr?" She looks up to him, after considering the portrait. So many others around him? Does he miss them maybe? For now, Sofia listens more than anything. A younger Doktor? It's a bit hard to imagine, but there it is. She has a slightly puzzled expression.

"Dr. Jakob Schmidt. Head of a prestigious research hospital in Berlin, and medical advisor to the most influential men in the Reich." Dr. Schmidt offers you a bitter smile, as humourous as the leer of a death's head. He presses the portrait firmly down, hiding the picture. "And what am I- What am I now? A lowly field surgeon, operating on- on dirty soldiers, in this disgraceful excuse for a- a medical facility." He stares at you blankly. It wasn't his collegues that he was missing, but his lost ambitions.

Jakob? Huh. Sofia nods, listening. She looks reasonably impressed. She's curious about what happened, but fearful to press the subject. "Oh? Herr, that is impressive," She pauses, then a frown as he hides the picture and goes on about being a field surgeon. She looks back at him, perhaps trying to be sympathetic. What to say? It can only be unimaginably painful to have lost so much. Why? It's the unspoken question. "I- I'm sorry," She looks down after a moment.

"Sorry. Hah hah. Yes, sorry." Once again, Dr. Schmidt's words are slurred and indistinct. He takes a swig from the bottle of Schnapps, before offering Sofia a drink as well. "Tell me, Weir, d'you beli- belili- believe in the Reich? Do you believe that we are on the way of Progress? Of Science?" Usually, he would utter these words with an inquisitor's demanding harshness. But now, the question is quite neutral, almost friendly.

What an odd question. Sofia blinks a few times at it. She's hesitating. And being offered a drink? Normally such an idea is blasphemous. Sofia will accept it carefully though. "Me? I- Yeah," Not much enthusiasm there. It seems more like she simply seems to accept it as a quiet fact, despite what it means for /her/. Could she safely say anything else? Even though his tone is almost friendly, she looks unsure. She sounds like she desperately wishes to as 'I suppose'. But does not. The system after all, is set up for her to live the rest of her life as a housewife tucked away if it had its way.

Doktor Schmidt stares at Sofia. His blue-grey eyes yawn likes wells of darkness, long since drained of belief. "I think I beli- I believed once. Yes, I'm sure. But you haven' seen the things that I've seen. They talk about, about progress. About the sac- sacrifices of science. But it's a lie!" He seems almost angry, looking positively demented with his glasses skewed and his pupils dilated. "Action T4. Elimination of… Of untermensches. Radical surgery, experiments on- on live subjects. An ab- abomi- abomininination of medicine. Serve no, no scientific purpose. Sacrifice for no-nothing. Waste."

Horror would only scratch the surface of Sofia's reaction. Her pupils seem to disappear to nothing. She looks sick. "Seen-" She frowns. "Mein Gott, Herr…" Sofia shudders. Truly? She winces, "What fools…" Is it true? Part of her wants to deny it, and keep living her life as it is. There is conflict. She looks back at the Doktor, feeling a bit more sympathy than ever. "I don't - know what to say, except that I believe you. Even in you." A quiet supporter? A bit of rebellion? Who knows. Really strange for her. "But I still do not know what to say."

"No… Belief. Nothing to believe in. Progress is… A lie. Science is a harlot - she has been sold for a pittance." Dr. Schmidt staggers to his feet, the bottle of Schnapps dropping away from his hand, and tilting on the table, splashing hard A across his desk. "Welcome to the New World we are bu-builing, Fraulein Weir! Welcome to apathy, welcome to unreason, welcome to my-mystical nonsense and madness on a gr-grand scale. The w-world is my asylum!" Dr Schmidt stares at you with maddened eyes, staggering on his feet; suddenly, he pulls a crisp, perfect Nazi salute, "Heil Hitler!" And falls straight backwards. It's not a sissy collapse, but a straight transformation from vertical to horizontal, without anything in between. By the time he hits the ground, he's already passed out.

"…" That's more than a little disturbing. Sofia is just frozen in place as he staggers and speaks. Awe? Terror? Shock? Hard to pin it down. Her frown only grows. Oh dear. And he passes out. Sofia cringes as he hits the ground. "Oh god," She whispers softly, putting her right hand to her mouth. She stands from the stool, to check on the Doktor. At the least, she'll try to drag him to a place to sit or lie down in his office, though it looks dubious at the moment. "What- is -" True? Is it true? She's in a state of shock and disbelief. Could it all be so horrible? Still, she's not going to let him lie there on the ground.

Doktor Schmidt is snoring, eyes closed and mouth open. The Doktor is a big man, and even if he is rather gaunt, not light. That said, it would not be an impossible task to drag him to the simple, spartan bed occupying one corner of the small cottage. There are, in fact, precious few personal effects in the office: Just an old gramophone player, medical journals and books, and a small trunk.

Unless otherwise stated, the content of this page is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 License.