(Untitled)
Flash.
BANG.
Welcome to the Shatterverse, Gregory House.
Specifically to the part of it that probably used to be Princeton once.
(It isn't anymore.)
BANG.
Welcome to the Shatterverse, Gregory House.
Specifically to the part of it that probably used to be Princeton once.
(It isn't anymore.)
Maybe Hades should start shopping for real estate in his mortal guise.
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...
"What the hell," asks House, "is going on here?"
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It is a smile covering the OH SHIT face of a god who is probably not the best person to meet on your first minute in a new universe.
"Welcome to our little busted dimension," he says. "It sucks, and I mean that literally. Pulls stuff in from wherever it wants-- people, monsters, gods, I'm waiting to see if it can pull an entire town in, honestly. I'm curious.
"So far, there's no way out. Not even divine intervention, and believe me, I'd know. Name's Hades. Lord of the Dead. Hi. How ya doin?"
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Two basic options: take that on faith (grates), or assume he's having a detailed hallucination (caused by what, exactly?).
House takes a breath. "Greg House," he says, pending a decision on whether or not this is in fact still reality. "As well as can be expected, which you can probably tell isn't very."
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And there's a farm full of colorful nutbars, but hey, one brain-breaking fun fact at a time, right?
"And don't take the scenic route through Gotham."
Okay, two.
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To Hades. Seriously.
All right: every bit of sensory evidence he can gather says that what he's seeing and hearing is real. He has experience with hallucinogens, and this doesn't feel like any of them. So until he can gather more data, it's safest to act on the assumption that he is in fact dealing with what appears to be a god in what appears to be post-apocalyptic Princeton.
Another breath, and he glances down at his cane, then back up to Hades.
"Know where I can get a car? I'm all for walks to improve my health, but Jersey to Kansas is stretching it a little."
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It's not so much the fact that he's talking to Hades, or going to be reduced to hotwiring a dead stranger's vehicle-- actually that last is pretty cool.
It's more the combination of every bizarre thing that's happened or been implied in the past ninety seconds. You don't rewrite a sound, skeptical knowledge of the laws of reality in under five minutes. At least he doesn't.
Shaking his head: "I can imagine."
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Yes, this is that kind of reality.
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--no, wait: "If I have to talk to Hades," he asks, "Lord of the Dead, Ruler of the Underworld, yadda yadda yadda..."
Headshake.
"Why does it have to be the Disney version?"
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Maybe it's the hair.
"You know, if it bruises your little mortal brain, I can always slip into something a little less divine."
Oh hey look it's James Woods a guy whose head is not on fire!
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And then, slowly, starts to laugh.
It's the kind of laugh you let out when you feel you have finally hit rock bottom, and by the end of it he's leaning heavily on his cane and burying his face in his free left hand, shaking with mirth.
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He leans against... something stable enough to lean against... and waits. "Then again, there's also a farm in Smallville. Pretty much a catchall home for the more interesting types who fall on through."
Types. Not mortals or humans or people. Just types.
"You'd fit right in."
He does not know they need a competent medic capable of doing things that don't involve kooky blood transfusions, but it's not like he needs to. (Hey, he's met Jetstorm and Johriel and Alice is periodically an interesting source of gossip.)
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He's narrowing it down! He just keeps stoping to talk to people Pyth plays.
"You ever need a miracle, hey, I'm your god." He still moves like the big gray-blue version, too. It could be construed as creepy, unless you've seen a few Disney making-of specials. ... Actually, even then it could still be considered slightly creepy.
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He thinks about the collection of pills in his pocket, factors in his post-apocalyptic surroundings, and nods slowly.
"I may just take you up on that sometime."
In four days when his Vicodin runs out.
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