A/N: Soooo...I'm not sure where this is going to go...or if it's even going to go off at all.

0.0

Setting: The bar is dimly lit, the shades drawn over the windows
to hide them from the dark night. House and Cameron sit on the
floor beside the bar stools, under the countertop. She's the worst,
the bruises on her face and neck showing darkly while the hidden
ones under her dark blue blouse paining her with every breath.

-

"What do you think people will remember most about today?"

"The brilliant and ruggedly handsome doctor overcoming his crippled body to save the life of a young, naïve, smoking hot woman."

Taking a breath, rushed and light, she shook her head, blonde hair freely moving upon her shoulders and down her back as if on purpose. Her fingers splayed flush against the warm faux wood beside her right thigh and she wondered whether her failing energy would allow her to lie down one more time, maybe with her head resting in his lap as a sort of last request.

"I think the 'brilliant and ruggedly handsome' additions are an exaggeration."

Turning his head away from the closed front door, he almost smiled at her, the corner of the right side of his lip threatening to rise at her small barb. Then it died before embracing his lips as the door of the bar opened and the sound of a car echoed through the air before becoming hushed as the door whispered shut with a click that made him flinch.

"And 'young, naïve, smokin' hot' isn't?"

There was no reason to look to the door since she already knew there wasn't anything more she needed to see in that lone place. What she needed to see was staring back at her, giving her nothing, asking for nothing, and needing nothing. That was nice to know – he never changed.

"Everyone knows I'm hot."

Neither looked away in embarrassment or slight fear, not minding the quick shuffle of shoes on newly waxed wood in the averaged sized bar they'd spent more time than they wanted to allow, never with each other until this absurdly forced fateful night that was all about symbolizing their freedoms and greatness. When they heard the woman's voice struggling to hang onto sanity, onto her life, they turned their attention regretfully.

"You don't have to do this." The tight voice of 13, Remy Hadley, floated through, not quite falling to the floor to anchor itself among the inevitable ruins.

"No, I don't." The voice was low and thick, bordering on raspy that should've been recorded on CDs rather than being forgotten on soundless footage to be viewed the next morning.

1.1

Setting: House slumped over his table in one of the booths.

-

What must have roused him was the unusual quietness of Ryan's Bar on a usually loud and vicious Fourth of July. House opened his left eye, realizing at once he had passed out with his head on the table because everything was situated at an odd 180 degree angle. The slightly smoky air held the already low lights in a haze that was still too bright for this first glance into the waking world, and so House closed the one eye.

The sound of the overhead fans in their slow cycle of circulating air so that the drinkers and smokers wouldn't drown in the smell of heat or sweat of the crowded bar began to grate on his senses. Even from somewhere behind him he heard the air kicking on with a sort of dangerous rumble that reminded him he was actually cold, but he had no intention of moving a single voluntary muscle fiber.

That was, until he heard the tell-tale electronic blipping of someone pressing on the small buttons of a cell phone near his head. House jerked upright, the motion causing his vision to blur and his head to feel as if the brain encased inside would fling out through his ears.

"Careful, Dr. House. You've had quite a bit to drink."

1.2

Setting: The man has light brown hair with equally golden eyes
to match. He sits erect, towering over House's nearly slumped
form, though in truth, he's barely taller than the crippled. His dark
green button up shirt has one pocket that's empty. There's a
shoulder holster carrying one semi-automatic weapon. There's
no doubt he knows how to use it.

-

"Who the hell are you?" House scratched out.

"Would you like some water? You sound like you need it."

Instead of answering, House reached to the floor for his cane, only to realize it wasn't where he left it.

"You get your jollies playing cranks on the handicapped? Give me my damn cane. And my phone!"

1.3

"Look around you, Dr. House. Don't you wonder why we are the only ones here?"

"I'm not here to play games."

House began to stand, fully intending to buy another cane and another phone. Before he had his bearings, the man slammed the phone down on the hand holding his body up. The crack wasn't loud, but House knew what it meant.

"You son of a –!"

The tip of the gun barrel was warm against his cheek, unlike in the many novels he'd read where it was cool and crisp.

"We are not finished, Dr. House. Sit."

1.4

"You gonna kill me?"

"I don't think so."

"You gonna shoot me? Hate to spoil the fun, but you're not the first."

The man smiled softly before shrugging his left shoulder. "We'll see."

The answer would have shut up anyone but House. "What do you want, then?"

1.5

Setting: The man places House's phone
in the center of the table.

-

"Call Dr. Cameron."