The Art of Subconscious Illusion Ch 3 - Trashed and Scattered
Full Summary: The rewritten version of the original well-loved fic, this portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. One week is all that is allotted for him and his team to save Kira from the world and himself…and House's neck is on the line.
Disclaimer: I do not own Death Note, nor do I own House, MD. I do not own music by Avenged Sevenfold, nor the band themselves. I own this plot and this writing, and a few characters, but they are my own, and you will know them when you see them. Finally, I do not make money from this story, but my web-provider does.
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Chapter III
Trashed and Scattered
The sight of utter mayhem was what greeted Dr House when he finally made it to the entrance hall known by employees as ‘Main Check In’. He hadn’t taken two broken steps in and already he was surrounded by it. Chairs were overturned. Staff and innocents alike were frantic and scattered, cowering or else trying to take control of a situation that was out of everyone’s hands. Medical doohickies and pharmaceutical whatyamacallems littered the floor, staining and potentially endangering feet. A long, heavy note rang out throughout the room from a not-far-off room, ignored in favour of the chaos and its still-rampant source. Indeed, as Wilson had foretold, five people were injured. All of them - as House could not help but recall - were from the obedient elevator ride he had taken with Cuddy earlier that morning, blood seeping from new but thankfully minor wounds in logical places if one considered retracing the steps of the chaos (or so House believed). Two well-trained nurses were already attending to them as they sat close to the edges or else out of the way, while Dr Chase attempted to calm down a man in his late-forties and his wife, that group situated by the receptionist-desk-like Nurses’ Station and an over-turned wheelchair. The couple were huddled together, arms around each other as they quivered in fear, seeking comfort in one another.
Standing on the side-lines, House spent the first few minutes at the scene in enraptured fascination, taking in every detail - never before had he seen the place in such discord, this considering he’d been here during a meningitis epidemic. Offhandedly thankful that he’d long-since gotten used to that ‘hospital-smell’ that unnerved so many people, he reopened the bag of potato chips and put one in his mouth, letting it rest on his tongue for a moment to allow the flavouring to seep in before he actually chewed. He’d never had consommé flavour before, and it made for a rather interesting experience as a viewing snack for such a spectacle as this.
There. Right there - there was the culprit, the madman… or was that mad boy? He was younger than he expected, a young, skinny man barely out of adolescence (if at all). Of what he could see, he was of East Asian descent, and his hair, chestnut brown, was reaching past his shoulders, the longest strands aiming towards his shoulder blades but still having a ways to go yet. It might have once had that ‘deliberately tussled’ style that was currently in vogue, but right now it was past that stage, sticking out manically as though worn and torn. His eyes, currently hooded in a dangerous expression, seemed to be brown like his hair. Yet, they held a luminous glow of deep red like an outward sign of psychotic rage, like a mocking clue for such as Dr House who needed no such things.
Of course, such an obvious sign as red eyes (who had ever heard of such a thing?) was an unnecessary tipoff, considering that there was a far more distinctive one in place. That is, in a room full of people and on mission to instantaneously spot the psycho among them for the good of the rest, what better tipoff could you have than, say, this one right here: A skinny young man with no outward indication of physical strength pinning a distinguished doctor twice his age, twice his width from the middle and several inches taller against the wall by the Pharmacy and more than three inches off the ground.
The doctor taken hostage, House quickly realised, was Foreman, a wound on the black man’s temple glistening dark in the fluorescent lighting of the room and the Pharmacy sign, the rest of his face seeming to be drenched in a glaze of sweat. The young man taking his hostage, House realised, was, to put it simply, pissed. His teeth were bared in undisguised rancour as he muttered fiercely, as though his words were a deadly toxin that he had to spit out, had to have infect someone else - mad ravings. Quickly turning to the Nurse’s Station, he instantly found what he was looking for, slipped the potato chips into his pocket and moved as silently as he could towards them.
“… I know the way you act towards your patients…” Here he paused, not just for breath, but as though his hate had to be held back just a moment longer. “All the lies you have told; all the manipulations; cheating; stealing; treating the world like dust on your shoe…” He spoke with a distinct accent, slightly Japanese but mixed with something else. British? American? Canadian? It was a little hard to tell.
House smiled despite himself, despite the gravity of the situation: He knew that Foreman was a little bit too like the maverick for sanity’s sake, and he’d called his employee out on it numerous times already, but he wasn’t really that bad, was he? At least, he didn’t think so - Foreman still had a ways to go before he could be considered on par with the great Dr House’s level of bastardry.
“Taking foolish, irresponsible risks without knowing,” continued the young man, “without even caring about the consequences of your actions. People die under your care, and you are too stoned to even tell, are you not?
“It is such a blessing that Dr Foreman is a better doctor than you will ever be, you drug-abusing hack!”
Wait, what?
Suddenly, House was caught hard by the neck, unable to breathe as the force constricted on his windpipe: The maniac’s left hand had struck out behind him, sightlessly finding the curmudgeon’s throat, proceeding to squeeze every breath from him. He turned his head, deep red eyes found vivid blue ones. His mouth was pulled down into a cruel grimace, as though the sight of the older man made him so sick. No, it was more than a sickness, more like a heartless hatred. “Oh yes, Dr House. You are just so famous that I have well heard of your crimes against humanity! You know that countless patients are waiting for their pain medication, right?”
“Is-is that so?” House gasped out. He made to clutch at the hand, a panic welling up inside him as it tightened with his exhalation. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“You would do well to,” the grimace turned up more into a smirk, “because your existence is the very reason that the world is rotting like it is. I can only dream of the state it would be in without spineless, selfish filth like you!”
“I can only dream of the state this room would be in without you!” House choked out the remark, but just barely. That grip was still getting tighter, and his dread was in anticipation of the crushing.
“You are of a thriving breed, Dr House. Criminals of the world sully the innocents from without, attacking again and again at their defences,” The tempo of his words was slower now, more purposeful, taking on a callous syncopation, “while the ignorant public services, negligent law enforcement, and abusive, drugged-up, second-rate doctors like yourself take advantage of the trust you are handed, working your evil from within, rotting the core until there is nothing left but a bitter taste in the mouth of society. Our innocents, our betters are slowly dying, disappearing, weakening the species: You are the very curse to the little cure we have left!”
“Is it a good time to mention I’ve been following your work?”
“Is it ever? That just makes you even worse: A filthy hypocrite!”
“And you think you can change that?” His grip tightened, and House was practically digging bitten nails into his captor’s hand. His face was turning a dangerously purple colour, his very lungs crying out for air.
The young man’s face suddenly morphed, his mouth pulled down into a sneer, the rest of his features opening up a floodgate of repulsion at the creature held by his left hand, this most disgusting mammal to ever crawl up from the ocean’s depths. “Think?” he asked, “I know! I will eradicate this filth, like bleach upon mould, like the Angel of Death upon Sodom and Gomorrah, like-”
“Like Kira on criminals?” House interrupted, creaking out a smile. The patient growled in response; actually growled, his eyes narrow, his teeth bared into a vicious snarl like he wanted nothing more than to tear out his throat. By the looks of those pearly whites, he definitely seemed capable of it, if given the opportunity.
Looking out to House’s left, he yelled out to no one. “Kono hito o futari minasai, Ryuk!(1)” he burst out into a slow, peculiar laugh that started low, hitting at high notes on the end. “Kitanai mono wa sugu o shinu!(2)” The laugh came back louder, faster and harder now, almost a maddening yell as it reverberated across the expanse of the hall, silencing all, stilling all, making them cover their ears. Almost on instinct, every man, woman and child knew what was coming next, including House and Foreman. Including the maniac. Foreman let out a scream as the pair seemed to be lifted inches higher, the grip tightening on both of them. House began to feel the beginnings of a crushing sensation, a real one. His other hand shot to squeeze at the wrist. His vision was beginning to cloud. He dropped the cane; or at least, he heard the clatter.
The dark-haired East Asian girl from the elevator ride seemed to suddenly appear by the patient’s side. Next to him, she seemed so much younger, her child-like eyes wide in a wild trademark of fear, tears welling up, a sharp wound at her hairline. Even in his plight, House couldn’t help note a genetic resemblance - they weren’t quite dead ringers, but it was there all the same. “Ani,” she whispered, her voice shaking, broken, “Koroshinai de onegai!(3)” In an act of undeniable bravery, she placed her hands on his shoulders, grabbing his attention, “Satsujinsha janai! Hanzaisha janai! (4)”
Without warning, the grip left them, and the doctors fell like rag dolls to the floor, gasping for breath. With House’s landing came a crunching sound from beneath him, and it made his stomach turn: The potato chips had been crushed, no doubt to crumbs inside the packet in his pocket. Swallowing air painfully, he scrambled for his cane as the young man put his hands as her shoulders now. He gripped them tight, his eyes wide as he began to shake her slowly. He seemed to be panicking. “Demo…” he muttered, barely audible. He paused as suddenly, he whole body seemed to seize up, “Kitanai mono wa mada ikiteiru!” He yelled, spitting out the words, shaking the girl harder and harder. “Mada ikiteiru!(5)”
The girl was struggling, trying to get out of the vice-like grip he had on her. No use: He was too strong, too forceful. A trail of blood was beginning to trail from her nose. Her eyes were rolling up into her head. She was losing consciousness.
If he didn’t release her soon, she’d be at serious risk of death from whiplash.
An abrupt crack of wood against flesh. The pair were on the floor, unconnected. The middle-aged couple pushed past a stunned Chase to run up to them, not daring to touch either of them. At first, the kids didn’t stir, but the girl’s eyes were soon open, and she was soon staggering to her feet and into the arms of who must be her terrified parents. The young man, their eldest son (as House supposed), stayed exactly where he was. His eyes firmly shut, the madness wiped from his face, a bruise surrounding the bleeding result of blunt force trauma at his left temple.
The maniac, it seemed, was K.O-ed. Down for the count. Unconscious.
The man, his father, looked little more than outraged, and it was only as he looked around for the culprit that he found him: Dr Gregory House, his cane in hand, which he twirled; a syringe of clear serum in the other hand, full and ready for use; a smug grin plastered right across his wrinkling face. The man was aghast, seemingly between the act of smacking that smug grin right off the doctor and going to his son’s aid. Obviously, the man was owed an explanation, whether he asked for it or not - Cuddy, for one, would not let go unheeded if she got wind of this.
His throat still feeling exceptionally sore after its uncalled-for abuse, House decidedly squared his shoulders and put what he knew he’d have to say in as few words as possible. “I did what I had to do,” He grimaced then, the ache in his throat hitting him worse with use. “And it worked.” Dropping the syringe to the floor, he took the packet of potato chips out of his suit jacket pocket, and gave it a cautionary shake. Satisfied with the sound it made, he hung his cane on the crook on his arm, stuck a hand in the bag, and pulled out a solitary, miraculously whole and undamaged chip. Putting it in his mouth, he was beginning to understand why the incredibly two-dimensional cheerleader was carrying them: The salty, meaty taste alone was soothing to him in this troubled time, nearly as good as his Vicodine (only then, did he later register, was he aware of the pain in his leg. He supposed it was something to do with the strangulation and that he’d been ‘given something else to cry about’). “Consommé flavour…” he muttered to no one in particular.
Composing himself, he caught the eye of one of the nurses, pointed to the lifeless patient, and mouthed the words ‘Sort him out’. It worked. Two spare nurses were soon rushing to the boy, ‘sorting him out’ as House began to limp away from the scene, crunching the chips yet more as he stuffed them back in his pocket for later. Foreman, he remembered, had not said a thing, but was still knelt on the floor, massaging his throat and learning to breathe. With Chase helping the rest of the staff sort out some of the mess, and Cameron anywhere but there as far as he or anyone else knew, he decided that he would leave it a few more minutes before he collared them for work via his pager. This had, after all, been a rather traumatic experience.
On his way to anywhere but the Walk-In Clinic (he’d decided on the spot that his hours could be made up another time), he was the last to notice that he was being followed, the man in the pink Nike cap shadowing him in silence.
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(1)“Look at these men, Ryuk! (2)This filth will die soon.”
“Big brother, please don’t kill them!(3) You’re not a killer! You’re not a criminal!(4)”
“But… the filth is still alive! It’s still alive!(5)”
I made efforts to make absolutely sure that the translation was correct. Compared to the last attempt, the language here is far more informal, which is right considering that they are brother and sister, and is devoid of unnecessary references to subjects that are already clear in context. If you know Japanese, then you’ll know what I mean.
There was very nearly a Bond (007) joke in here. I might put it in an omake one day. Meanwhile, I hope you enjoyed it.
Please R&R, they make me so happy.
Ruin Takada XXX
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