That was the first sensation.
The screaming agony as liquid fire coursed through his veins, the pain skyrocketing, the singing screams of sweet, blissful, agony. It flowed through his veins and into his body, his arms and hands and legs and feet, eyes and mouth and skull all ablaze with this wondrous pain. It felt as though every atom in his body was being annihilated.
It felt like bliss.
And then it was gone.
Replaced by this yawning emptiness, this void that felt as if there was nothing except a single spark, that only the right fuel could turn that spark into a fire. And he craved that fuel, wanted it, needed it more than anything in the world. To set that spark alight and feel the burning once more, to give his body to the primordial flames of agony that so desperately completed him. But in order to do that, he needed to be somewhere, sometime.
A sharp inhale filled his lungs, the scents mixing around. Cloves, allspice, juniper, honey, myrrh, rosebud, snakeskin, cinnamon, dandelion root, and a hundred more scents flooded his nostrils, breathing life into his body as he inhaled his first breath. His chest expanded painfully as the tincture brought his body to life, the leather of his coat creaking as his body rose at an unnatural angling, joints popping as stiffness was melted away. He let out a sigh, the void filling him once more. His breathing steadied, and his eyes focused through their lenses. He observed the pentagram surrounding him, its light a sickly green against the dark brown leather of his outfit. He noticed the vials of liquid attached to his body, the same sickly green as the light from the pentagram.
He had several of them, in many forms. Syringes and beakers and odd glass canisters, all of them glowing slightly with the concoction. He grabbed one of the canisters and peered inside to inspect the liquid. He felt a lurch in his body, the whispers of the liquid reaching his ears. It yearned to be released, to cause pain, to cause paralysis, to cause death and suffering. It called to him, begging him to release its destructive potential. He knew it in his heart.
This was the fuel.
Placing the vial back and pulling out a syringe filled with the same liquid, he spoke up, his voice crystal clear despite the hooked mask upon his face. "I choose Chaos. Revenge is unnecessary, while disorder allows for so many more test subjects." He raised the syringe, flicking it a few times to remove bubbles as a single spurt of fluid came out. "You may call me the Doctor, but Doc will suffice." He crossed his hands in front of him, his gaze shifting to stare at all his new experiments in waiting.