A/N: And after a long, long, LONG wait, you have a new chapter. One that doesn't hurt your eyes with italics abuse. Not only is this chapter something of a celebration of how well this fic is going so far, it is also the first chapter of 2012, making this its own landmark (but not one that warrants a non-A7X chapter title this time). I know that updates will more or less stop until the end of June, so, for this one, I've decided to treat you with an extra-long and most gorgeous chapter, one that I'm hoping you will enjoy immensely, especially as I am so proud of it.
Originally, this was going to have a bit more added on the end, but thanks to how well this one just ended, I was pleased enough to leave it here and as-is. Just remember, once again, please read and review this baby, because this is my brain-baby, and don't forget to tell me if I'm going wrong at all.
So, please enjoy yet another chapter of AoSI: R!
Chapter 11
Scream
September 10th 2006
Day 4
What do you think you're doing?
Why are you giving up like that?
Yes. Didn't we agree we wouldn't show such undeserved generosity?
What are they going to think when they see you now, knowing what you've done?
Since when was a god so weak?
What do we need to do to remind you? A week ago, this would've meant ensuring their Silence.
What a load of bull!
Light opened his eyes. He'd long since been conscious, keeping his eyes shut to allow himself safe passage back to wherever it was he'd just left, but he just couldn't get there. The voices had started up the commentary again, yelling, keening at him as they always did. They always had an opinion to voice – so unlike Ryuk, who just amused himself with watching him from day to day, grinning with that wide, painted, mostly silent mouth of his. His eyes opened slowly, gradually, until he found himself in the same darkness that had been before, just as surrounded, just as alone.
This wasn't so bad, at 3 o'clock in the morning. He was used to this at all hours of waking, all night every night. In fact, it suited him quite well. He often had this irrational fear of awaking devoid of his clothing, his scars on show for the world to see, to point, to stare. Or, at least that's what he expected would happen. People tended to be afraid of the strange and unfamiliar, of what didn't fit the template marked 'Perfect', and he knew enough about Perfect to know he didn't fit it, not at all. If anyone outside this room ever saw them, ever even suspected that they were etched in his skin, the skin of this perfect creature, they'd shame him with glares of horror and gifts of pity.
What are you talking about? They already know.
There are photographs making their rounds through the hospital, I'm sure of it.
Wasn't it only yesterday when they stripped you like a dog? What did your mother think?
Bah! You're a creature of some kind, but certainly not Perfect!
You make me sick.
He hated Stress. The way it built up inside his body, grating from under the skin, tensing and twisting his muscles relentlessly, without release. It made him contort during nights like these, and he did so, his back arching up as his arms stretched out and he folded back in on himself in waves of shudders. His hands found his head, gripping it, digging his nails into it, through the hair that was once so neat and trim, but now overgrown and hitting his shoulders, sending stabs of irritation through him with every brushing strand, worse than the caustic itch still present inside his mouths and at the corners of his lips. He grit his teeth against it, eyes screwed up as he wished, begged for that dose of soma, something to make it bleed out of him like it used to.
It was so easy nowadays for him to just break down and cry during these nights, as easy as it was for him to awaken. On this particular early morning, he did, and tears ran down his cheeks, the next best thing to bleeding. Only the night before, he'd been able to taste the saline of them when they ran past his lips, when he licked to brush them away, but not tonight. Tonight he only had the memory of salt to go on, not the real sensation that reminded him that, past that mind of his, he was a human, a Child of Dust.
He was always so glad when sleep came back to him, always happy to forget for the moment that, in two to three hours he would wake up once more, and the whole cycle would begin again.
He didn't have that much to be glad about, nowadays. That was true.
Light Yagami yawned, mouth opened wide to display white teeth through the gaps in a pale golden long-fingered hand, honey-brown eyes closed in the exhalation. The skin was stained dark with bruising beneath each eye, almost indicative on their own of a terrible night's sleep. In the space of more than three full days, the laceration about his right temple had healed significantly, and the bruising had coloured down to something approaching green rather than its original purple and red.
He hated guys like him. Those that could feel and look like Death itself, and still be eligible for that damned Best Smile award that appeared annually in magazines and on television. Those that could wear the rattiest sweater known to living man made in postmodern times, and still carry it off as well as a tailor-made runway design. Those that could be as wicked as Sin-incarnate and still look like God's angels saw him and wept on behalf of all Creation for the joy of his existence. He hated this one most of all, and for no real reason that he could presently fathom.
Although, come to think of it, it was probably because this one out of all the others had been the one to strangle him. Or at least attempt to… The bottom line, in any case, was that this one was crazier that the influence of most guano, and was still getting away with trying to kill him – the cane-shot to the head, he'd decided, didn't count on account of its clean healing.
It wasn't that he, the Great Dr Gregory House, MD, was bitter – he just hated letting things like this slide, especially when his life was on the line without his signed permission. He wouldn't have felt so hard-up about it if he'd had a say in the matter, especially as that scenario would've made him look like a hero in the eyes of Cuddy and the Twins (probably). But now, because of Cameron the Marker-Molester, he was 'Limp-y the Miserable Old Coot' indefinitely, and he wasn't even fifty.
What's done – he would have to admit – was done. The past was behind him, along with those attempts of the Ninja Assassin to do the dirty work and do him a favour, all of which had failed, so far. Presently, he was stuck in the patient's room with the Defective Detective Ryuzaki and the patient himself, waiting for the teenager to finish yawning long enough to let them introduce themselves.
Before the morning was out, he finished, and gave them a look of impatience, one that said, "Well? What are you waiting for?" House glared back at the patient before he thought to clear his throat.
It was Ryuzaki who spoke first, stealing his thunder. "Good morning, Light Yagami." The patient merely gave a curt nod in return, his attention fully focused on the Unprivate Detective. "My name is Rue Ryuzaki, and I am here to aid Doctor Gregory House and his team as they diagnose you." His voice was that low monotone of his, and apart from the pink cap, which had disappeared between now and his last visit, he looked the same as he ever did, the doll-mask still pulled firmly over his face, and his simple outfit still the same, although he couldn't quite tell if they were the very same articles, or just copies.
Light, meanwhile, couldn't help but stare at Ryuzaki. His eyes were gleaming the same red as usual in the presence of new-blood, yet the expression on his face was different: There wasn't the typical smirk, but a look more akin to frustration when it didn't need to be there. He wasn't being taunted, not that he could tell, and Dr Morning certainly wasn't instigating this time. From beneath the mask, house was sure that a smirk of his own was on Ryuzaki's face, his favourite way of saying "I know something you couldn't hope to dream of working out but yourself". For all the discord he could see being brewed without his help, there seemed to be an understanding between them. They stared in silence at each other, like a twisted Romeo and Juliet tableau of star-crossed lovers, starring the Defective Detective and his deranged psycho suspect/patient.
He couldn't have such fraternisation, not for all the homoerotic overtones he could see developing (how many times had he considered taking Wilson to be his live-in lover/nag in the past year alone?): It would break the air of 'professionalism' that might possibly exist. It was, after all, yet another one of his star-studded stage shows. Nothing or no one but Miss Honey-Buns could take that away from him, and even she had a hard time doing that.
He opened his mouth to break the silence, but Light, without even reaching for the wipe-board and marker pen, did it for him. "I suppose Doctor House is here to learn more about the deal we have? A rule to break? A loophole to exploit?" The boy was addressing Ryuzaki, but had his eyes unequivocally fixed on House, glaring at him like it was the only expression he knew. His voice seemed to have recovered remarkably well, considering the bleach abuse it took only two days ago. Still, it was quieter than a typical indoor-voice, not quite to the task of shouting or hostile sarcasm.
"Sorry, kid," House jumped right in there, the witticism out of his mouth before his brain could request a reign-in and have it stamped and signed in triplicate, "but the only loophole I can find is that you'll finish yourself off before you even start on me."
Ryuzaki's pupils rushed to the corners. They hit him with the diagnostic team favourite, the 'You're-Not-Helping' look. Light's eyes had already shifted back to brown as they began counting the fibres of the strait-jacket that had somehow been left and permitted to become an extra blanket upon his bed, (the fault of which he'd just decided was Dora's) in an unmistakable look of shame.
House's opinion of the boy uncharacteristically softened, somewhat. Were their positions reversed, he could imagine that he'd react in a similar way, that he'd get choked up over something so delicate. Of course, he didn't indulge the thought for long, for it was a distinct lack of empathy that attributed to his outstanding career in the field of Medicine.
"Do you wish to hear our thoughts on your condition so far, Yagami-kun," asked Ryuzaki, taking the effective approach of ignoring the doctor for the time-being, "or do you wish to wait for your parents, so that they can hear it with you?"
Light shook his head, barely looking at either of them as he spoke with his whispering voice. "I'm happy to hear it now. If you don't, I won't stop wondering until you do. I'm not very patient, I'll admit."
Ryuzaki nodded in House's general direction, signalling for him to take over. "We believe that, with that confession of yours as evidence, you have Schizoid Personality Disorder."
Light stared at him, completely missing the fact that, barely feet away, Ryuzaki was rustling through the drawers of the bedside table, inspecting the clothing, toiletries and books hidden in them. "Schizoid Personality Disorder?"
"The 'Secret' variety," House confirmed, nodding, leaning on his cane, "or rather, you did."
"So I don't now."
"No. Whatever bogeyman you had has evolved, we think, into something as bad as the Blair Witch and jersey Devil combined. We also think you have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, but-"
"You can't confirm it without a formal diagnosis carried out by a mental health professional." Light cut in. "I'm already quite aware that I have it, and it does seem logical, since my mother has already been formally diagnosed with the condition. All you've done is confirm it for me." House wasn't sure what else to do but nod, so he did.
"Is that all you've come to tell me?" Light asked, irritable to a subtle degree that only he could manage, "Only I've got nothing to do and not enough time to do it in."
House rolled his eyes. "If you don't like my company, all you had to do was say so… or would you rather strangle me instead?"
"Oh, if only." Light replied, giving a smirk. He looked over to Ryuzaki, who was still looking through his drawers, glaring at him until the detective took notice. When he finally did, Ryuzaki nodded from behind the doll mask, closed the drawers, and walked out, motioning for House to follow.
"Someone will be here soon," said Ryuzaki, turning to face Light from the other side of the door, "at least, if your parents aren't. Please get well, Yagami-kun." He briefly waved and left completely, walking hunch-backed down the corridor House, meanwhile, said and did nothing in return, just limped off down the corridor after Ryuzaki, wondering if the detective would slow down just long enough to allow him to lead the way back to his own office.
Working for House, as most every one of his team agreed, was exciting. Yet, like every other job, there were its low as well as its high points, and right now was one of those lows – when a morning was spent not following one of House's many typical orders (each one more outrageous than the last), or doing various errands and clinic hours for Cuddy or another doctor, it was spent in House's office drinking coffee and rereading old case files like dog-eared dime store novels, or else playing poker using a stolen bottle of Vicodine as little white chips. Sometimes, they used real money, especially when the risk of getting caught with House's precious pills didn't add enough to the excitement.
As it was on this particular morning, Foreman wasn't around with his playing cards, instead aiding Wilson with child with a tumour in her pituitary gland (the word on the wing was that he would've asked Chase, but after that last prepubescent cancer patient, no one wanted Chase anywhere near the terminally ill and never-been-kissed). With no poker, no errands, no clinic hours and no other patient but the ever-unruly Light, Cameron and Chase settled down with coffee, the projection of the Shinigami sketch switched on for mild entertainment.
Five solid minutes of staring at it, and that vague sense of incomprehensible familiarity was clearing for Cameron, becoming a little less vague and a little more comprehensible. As the answer came to her internal question, that feeling of comprehensibility gave way to confusion, and her brow knitted together to be expressed on her face. She was hoping that would clear as well, and that something in her mind would click like the well-fitting of jigsaw pieces, but it didn't – at least, not fast enough for her.
She took a sip of coffee, and thought. An idea was coming through, something clear and simple that didn't leave her more confused than it did comprehending. She looked over to the wipe-board, at the list of symptoms and diagnoses, where Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder had most recently been added to the new list of definite conditions, right under Schizoid Personality Disorder – Secret Schizoid. It became more and more clear the more she thought about it, and she took another sip of heated caffeine to aid its arrival. Yet, just like that, the idea drifted away again, and she scowled in frustration, suddenly possessing a hatred for Irony and all of its evils.
What had she been thinking about? What had that brilliant idea been? It was maddening, that she could have it so clear in her mind one minute, then forget it like that the next.
Meanwhile, Chase set his mug down on the table in front of him, wiping his mouth slightly as he took another glance at the monster on the wall. Looking back to his colleague, he broke the silence. "You know, I was just thinking." He said, and Cameron directed her scowl at him, angry at him for further preventing her task of seeking out the missing thought.
"That's new," she said, "did it hurt much?" Her voice was full of spite, and she regretted it almost immediately. Anger was never her strongest emotion, nor her most practiced.
"Oh, sorry." He answered, his expression a little sheepish. "So you don't want to hear it, then?"
Cameron's expression softened immediately, and she offered an apologetic smile. "No, I do. What is it?"
Chase smiled back. "Well, I was just looking at the Shinigami when it kind of hit me: Doesn't it look familiar, somehow?" Something in Cameron's mind clicked, and Irony threw back its ugly head and laughed at the amount of her it could already make its bitch: Obviously, that genius idea of hers had indeed escaped her brain, only to find itself lodged in the only other one in the room. While she was glad that she'd found it again, and glad it proved that her colleague was indeed hiding a brain beneath his golden pretty-boy hair, she was a little miffed that he had to be the lone to voice it.
"You're right," Cameron replied, "it does. I thought so yesterday, but I couldn't think of who it was until today."
"Yeah," Chase nodded, "Isn't it like, I don't know, what's-his-face…?"
"Luke?"
Chase raised his eyebrows at her. "No, who the hell who we know named Luke around here?"
Cameron rolled her eyes. "We only met him two days ago – I'm talking about the boy with the milk from Starbucks. The one with purple hair and makeup?"
Chase's eyes widened, looking bluer than ever. "That kid's name is Luke? How do you even know that?"
"The typical way: I went to find him after we took care of Light, just to make sure Light can call him when he gets better."
"And?"
"I got his phone number, but only after ten minutes of the kid trying to charm me into bed with him." Chase raised his eyebrows at her. "I mean, he only looked 18, 19 at the most, and he had the manners of an oversexed Frat boy: As if I would do that."
"But you got his phone number." It wasn't a question; more of a statement of fact.
"Yes, and I got it for Light." Chase continued staring at her, like there was more to her story and he knew she was withholding information from him. She sighed, pulling a scrap of paper out of her lab coat pocket. A name was scrawled on the top of it, followed by a cell phone number. Sure enough, the name read Luke Laurie, signed off with a love heart forming from the tail of the 'e'. It was too neat to belong to any American teenager she could imagine, too slap-dash to belong to any Brit she could imagine either. It was, in short, like 'doctor's handwriting', as she'd remembered thinking at the time.
"Does he know it's for him?" Chase asked, "Or did you forget that little detail?"
"Do you really think that little of me?" she asked. "I did tell him it was for Light, only he didn't seem to believe me."
"How did you get away?" Chase's smile took on a leering quality, and his voice became a whisper, as though under the impression he was saying something completely inappropriate.
She sighed. His maleness (she decided) was getting too much already, and she was quite willing to see it go again. "It wasn't like that." That look on his face remained, and she continued. "But I told Luke very clearly – and I mean clearly – what I thought of his intentions."
A wider leer. "Come on, what did you tell him?"
"Nothing, really, I…" as evasive as she knew she was being, she scanned her mind back to the conversation, picking out the words. "I just told him that, while I got the signal, I thought our ages and social statuses might cause a bit of a stir."
Chase laughed loudly, like it was a joke or the retelling of a favoured TV sitcom episode. When his laughter had finally died away, he took a sip of his coffee, still smiling. "House is right." He said.
"What?"
"You really are his biggest fan, aren't you?"
"What?" she asked again. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, really." He answered, finishing his coffee and standing up to put it by the sink. "Just that only you, Dr Allison Cameron, can find something endearing about a mentally and physically scarred criminocidal teenager."
Cameron rolled her eyes. "He may be scarred and – as you phrased it – 'criminocidal', but that doesn't make him any less our patient. You should know that. Besides, you're one to talk, Mr Help-the-Paranoid."
"Ha, ha, ha." A sarcastic laugh and he sat back into his seat. When he continued, he was off on a new tangent. "Which reminds me, has he been taking those sedatives? At least, did he take them yesterday?"
She nodded in confirmation. "Yes, he followed the doctor's orders."
"That's odd." Chase said, eyes looking out into space on an internal tangent of his very own.
"Odd? How is that odd?"
She didn't find out, for the team's honorary member Dr Morning knocked once on the glass door and came in, letting the door close itself behind him as he made for the coffee pot. "Morning," he mumbled, addressing the both of them as he practically stumbled to the heated caffeine dispenser. Within minutes, he was holding a mug of black coffee and making his way to the table, taking a sip as he shuffled.
"What're you doing here?" Chase asked, voice stuck somewhere between amusement and annoyance. "Don't you have a lost scalpel to find, or another ten year old to unnecessarily save from the brink of death?"
"That's so funny," replied Morning, his country voice slow from fatigue, "I forgot to laugh."
"This isn't a laughing matter," Chase scowled at him; more man that boy, "it the improper disposal of surgical equipment that causes infection and chaos in places like these. If some kid picks it up, you know they'll be here longer than they hoped to be."
"Quit your belly-aching, will you?" Dr Morning growled. "I'm making it up to you by being here. I could be home right now getting some extra sleep and quality time with the wife and kids, but instead I'm cooped up in here on a nice day like some Sally Army voluntary chorister, and about as useful as one too. Is that enough?"
Chase snorted, and Cameron shot him a look before addressing the optometrist. "Yes, of course it is." She said, offering him a smile. "But I was under the impression you were here to get revenge on our patient vomiting on you."
Moring sighed. "I wish that's all it is. To be honest with you, that precious scalpel of yours was stolen from me, and-"
"Stolen?" Chase repeated. "You let a surgical instrument sharp enough to cut through several inches of human flesh at once get stolen? How could this get any worse?"
"If you let me finish," replied Morning, as calm as he ever was, "I could tell you that the thief had my coat pulled over my head the whole time, and I couldn't do a thing to stop him. All I know," he continued, for he saw Cameron about to interrupt, "is that the thief had red eyes that glowed." Cameron's breath caught in her throat. "As far as I know, Light Yagami's the person with that description here, and I'm pretty damn sure he stole it. His track record with knives is pretty telling, after all."
Cameron stared at the black doctor wider than once thought medically possible. "You…" she began, "you can't be serious."
"I am," Morning nodded. "And if there's anything I hate more than vomit in my shoes, it's thieves." To punctuate the statement, he placed the mug on the table, cracking his knuckles to create that ominous sound.
Cameron didn't know whether to agree with him or not, whether to side with Morning and believe that Light could have stolen the scalpel, or to side with chase and insist that it was all an excuse to cover up his own failings, regardless of what evidence there could possibly be to support either accusation. In either case, be it thievery or foolishness, she was sure it wasn't going to end well – or at least, not cleanly.
Stood by his bed, she handed him the tiny shot-glass of sedative pills, noting his grimace as he eyed them suspiciously, like they were plotting against him with their bitter taste, bitter enough to penetrate through his dulled taste buds. With the glass of orange juice at the ready, she watched as light gave one nod, knocked back the dosage, and took the juice right out of her hand, drinking until about a third of the juice was gone. Beside her, chase shot the boy a suspicious look of his own, but he didn't say anything, not even when he set the glass back on the bedside table, the tiny cup set down beside it.
Light gave a shudder, before turning his attention to the coal-grey sweater he was wearing, a sweater that, once upon a time, could have been black. It was fraying at the ends of the sleeves, and the stitching was coming undone at the shoulder, the left sleeve in real danger of being pulled away. At the present time, he was inspecting a stain on the front – a deeply dark stain that he gave a couple scratches at as he scowled at it, and with good reason; Cameron suspected it immediately to be of dried blood.
Chase was the first one to speak, breaking Light away from his ministrations. "Why are you wearing that sweater?" As rude as it sounded, Cameron supposed that he had a good reason to ask: As well as being faded, frayed and stained, it seemed to give off an odour that could give it a life of its own, a by-product of sweat, blood and body heat, and what must have been a complete lack of detergent. In short, it seemed to be talking, and what it was saying wasn't complimentary to anyone.
The corners of Light's lips performed an upturn, though his eyes remained fixed downwards, particularly on the strait-jacket on his lap, counting fibres. His voice had recovered well since yesterday, but it seemed that it wasn't without pain that he spoke. "In case you hadn't noticed, all my clothes are getting this way. My parents and sister have been generally living in hotels as of late, and they can't afford to pay many of the laundrettes or dry-cleaners in this country, not with medical bills to pay." Cameron tried to think back on the clothes he'd been wearing the last few days. There was the black sweater with the white trim around the collar, that first day. She supposed that the trim may have been off-white, the black fraying and the hem fraying, but she hadn't paid that much attention. The trousers, beige or tan in colour, might have been frayed, be she definitely couldn't recall that. The second day, with the dark sweater, she couldn't recall its original condition, only that if it hadn't been dirty then, then it most certainly was now. Third had been a t-shirt and almost nothing else which she remembered having a hole in it, but near the bottom, where it was mostly covered by the blanket he had on him.
She supposed that, the moment Light could do something about it, he'd throw them all away or send them to charity stores, perhaps even (and she seemed to prefer this idea the most) burn them in a metal trash can in someone's back yard. If there was a federal law against the disposal of trash that way, it would be nothing compared to the crime against humanity the clothes would be committing just by existing a second longer.
It was not a wonder, then, why this obsessive-compulsive fidgeted, never looking comfortable: She wouldn't either, if she had to wear them, and neat-and-cleanliness had never been as much of an issue as it must be for him.
She realised she'd been silent for too long, and so she replied quickly. "Oh, I see. Speaking of your parents," she continued, "where are they? Aren't they usually here by now?"
Light shook his head, "No, my mother and father have scheduled something to do today, something they apparently need to sort out themselves. My sister's spending the day at our aunt and uncle's house, since they live in the area."
"As in, in Princeton?"
Light nodded, "Yes. My mother's brother moved here fifteen years ago to follow the American dream," he said the words with some distain, "and he took a wife here as well. I believe they have children as well, but I've never met them, nor have I seen pictures."
Cameron nodded, and Light continued. "They've asked that I don't cause any more trouble than I already have; my father wants to discuss something with me later, so he wants me to 'be in my right mind' for it. His words, not mine." He'd punctuated the phrase with air-quotations, like the idea was absurd. Cameron found herself agreeing with him there, that Light's parents' attitude towards his mental illness, the way they'd phrased it, was completely and utterly wrong. They seemed to be treating their son like a mischievous school-boy who had been doing his utmost to provoke his teachers and get himself expelled; like a wayward delinquent determined to deviate, to cause upheaval for the sake of it, to 'stick it to the Man', as it were.
He was staring back down again, back at the strait-jacket, his expression almost unreadable. He lapsed into a silence, unbelievably still as he seemed to stare off into a distance, not even blinking. It was unnerving, to say the least, the way his neck remained lo0cked in what should have been an almost impossible angle to maintain for long, the way his hands remained motionless on the jacket, his fingers seeming to be held by tiny ridges between the fibres. The only movement she could detect was the rising and falling of his chest as he breathed, but even that was light, indistinct. How Chase had the courage to, she'd never know, but he began to wave a hand gently in his line of sight, gesturing for his attention. "Hello?" he asked, too unobtrusive, too easy to ignore, "Light?"
Suddenly, like a snap, his neck moved upwards with a jerk, until he was staring into Cameron's eyes. Chase balked a step backward, unable to hide his shock like the insensitive man he was. Thankfully, light ignored him as he had the waves, not turning his attention off Cameron. "I feel sick." He whispered. There was nothing much to it but the words, no tone to it to add much more meaning than that.
Cameron moved closer to him, fitting into her nursing role almost instinctively. "What do you mean?" she asked, "Do you need to visit the bathroom with Dr Chase or…?"
Light shook his head. "I'm sick of this room." He said. "I'm sick of the bed, the table, the walls. I don't want to look at them anymore."
She relaxed. She was relieved, but not quite visibly. "So," Chase asked, jumping the gun, "you're just bored?"
Light nodded. "You could say that, yes."
"Aren't you always bored? I thought you'd be used to it by now."
That comment was offhand, but earning of a glare of offense from the patient. "You'd think so, but you'd be wrong. I'm genuinely bored." It sounded like a criminal trying to justify himself, but without the keynote desperation or common expression. "I need a change of scene, something new to see, something new to do, a new set of faces… it's driving me mad just staying in here. I need to get out."
Cameron didn't respond straight away, merely looked over to Chase, who gave the same look back in return. Unease, wariness, apprehension. They were all in his eyes, and this time they were reflected in hers also. There was no doubt as to what the Australian was thinking, as the same thought was on her mind. Could we trust him?
If Light had detected it, he didn't show it, keeping his eyes downcast, as though awaiting judgement. If he had anything to add, he didn't add it. The silence left in the air, on the tail of his request was tense, a bitter aftertaste as it grew longer, harder to break, a tell-tale sign of doctor-patient insecurity in trust.
Without a second glance at Cameron, Chase broke it, a hard stab at the stale stillness. "Do you mind," he asked, "if we just do outside a moment?" Light nodded, permitting their absence, no upturns, no changes in expression, just stares.
They left the room, no words passing either of their lips until the door was slid shut behind them. Even as they'd left the room, they'd seen neither hide not hair of those brilliant red eyes, no clairvoyance, just scowl. As severe as he was, a judgemental, they both knew that he didn't need any extra sensory perception to know what was wrong with the whole situation: Any other patient, anyone else at all, and there would have been no need to ask for temporary liberation – it would have been theirs without question. But for him to have to ask, for them to have to pause like that and think about it, it was sending all the wrong signals, all the wrong messages.
We don't trust you, Light Yagami. Turn around, and we think you'll kill yourself. Turn a blind eye, and we're sure you'll hurt someone else, if not yourself. You not like everyone else, you're different. You're dangerous, and you know it. We don't trust you.
Ryuzaki had warned them about that, advised against tying him up and treating him like a criminal or a real madman. He had specifically told them not to restrict his movement. Not restraining him was absolutely necessary if they were to get through to him, prove that they were different to every other doctor that had attempted to treat him thus far. They had to prove that they knew what they were doing, that they had faith in him, that they trusted him as a person more than anything else.
"We're not following the rules here, are we?" Cameron asked, looking up at Chase.
Chase just nodded, rubbing the back of his neck in something akin to frustration. "I know. Ryuzaki said we shouldn't lock him up like the others did, but that was before we let him have at the Drano. Besides, Ryuzaki did say to keep him in his room."
"I have to agree with you," Cameron replied. "but you heard him in there: He's bored."
"So?" Chase shrugged his shoulders.
"So, I think that's reason enough. We know now that it was boredom that practically started this whole thing off – id he hadn't been bored all the time, time would never have happened."
The blond sighed. "That's like saying 'If Albert Einstein didn't work at a patent office, he would've never worked out the speed of light' – even if there's actually a connection between the two events, you can't really prove it, and it doesn't make much sense in either case."
"But this kid is a genius!"
"So?" he asked again. "What has that go to-?"
"Oh please, Robert! You and I should know better than anyone what happens when a genius gets bored, or doesn't get enough stimulation-" Chase stifled a snigger, and Cameron paused, shooting him a filthy look. He shrunk back, and she continued, "or doesn't get enough mental stimulation; we've been working with one day-in, day-out for a long time now!"
"You mean House?"
"'The kettle called, he wants the pot to get his own colour', remember?" The look she gave him was meaningful; holding his gaze until she was sure the meaning hadn't escaped him.
"So you think he should be allowed out of his room and permitted to possibly do more damage just because he bears a resemblance to our boss?"
"No, I think he should be let out because it would do him more good to be able to walk around and have something else to do than it would be to keep him shut up all the time, especially for his mental health. If we're not careful, he'll start resenting it, and before you know it he'll be pacing like some criminal awaiting trial, and then…"
"And then…?"
"We give our last goodbyes to House and it's back to square one for Light."
"Ah." Chase seemed to be acknowledging what she was talking about, but he didn't seem convinced.
"He's taken his sedatives. We'll ask that he just stay on this floor and just have half an hour, just enough until his parents arrive."
Chase sighed. He seemed on the verge of giving in, but not quite.
Would you rather he had my phone so we can keep in touch of his whereabouts?" Camer9on was joking, of course, cracking wise in the face of frustration at her colleague's pig-headedness, but as he slipped into a state of thoughtfulness, she couldn't help but wonder what she'd gotten herself into now.
"You know," Chase responded, his voice positive, in agreement, "I might just agree if we can do that, yeah." The brunette sighed, already seeing where this was going.
"But," he continued, "if something or someone gets hurt or killed because of this, I'm telling House and Ryuzaki exactly why we let him out." Cameron could only nod in the face of the compromise as she pulled her little silver flip-open cell out of her lab coat pocket, handing it over to Chase with significant reluctance.
What point was there to being the 'Ninja Assassin's biggest fan' when you had to compromise the safety of people and possessions alike?
For as far as he could immediately remember, hospitals had been a big part of his life. Day in, day out, if he wasn't in one, he was travelling to one. All this time around hospitals, around doctors and general physicians in their coats and scrubs, using complex jargon that he'd never heard used in general conversation before… it was certainly an education. Had it not been for the surrounding masses of guilty filth, of criminals just waiting for the jail houses to swallow them whole, he might have found it…
Stopping himself in his tracks just short of a gurney bearing a bald-headed girl, her blue eyes fixed on his as it trundled by, surgeons gently pushing him to the side as they guided it on its path to a theatre unknown, he had to pause to think. What was that word? He was sure he knew, sure he'd used it before, but at that present moment, he didn't rightly know it. It was on the tip of his tongue, he was sure it was, but until something thought to come along, stand on his shoeless feet and spur on his lagging mind, he just couldn't…
There! Shoving the silver women's phone into his phone, he fixed his gaze on the target, the island at the centre of the atrium, a pile of paperwork and telephones supported by glorified receptionist desks, chairs pushed against the front, a crutch leaned haphazardly against the side, manned by nurses signing pieces of paper and sending pills to be shipped off to various ends of the building, gossiping to one another noisily like the lunch hour had already come.
… Fascinating.
Yes, that was the word. That was the word right there, and right there was the place to see it in action. Indeed, now that he thought about it, couldn't one call the Nurses' Station the nerve centre of the hospital, the one place that kept it all kicking off in the right places at the right times? And for the right people? Except for the occasional missing link, he'd have to say so.
The missing link. Even in the best of institutions, he had to admit that there was always one of them, the one member of staff who could always cock it up, who could always have it all go wrong even when that didn't seem possible. In this hospital, in Princeton-Plainsboro, he could say there were two of them, Dr House included. As for the other one…
Light scanned the Station, finding that missing link almost instantly amongst the sea of professionals, talking to a blonde-haired teenage girl holding a clipboard like they were colleagues at the water-cooler. The girl looked reluctant, like she couldn't stand this missing link who managed to intrude on her personal space, who refused to look at her clipboard even when she pushed it towards her like she couldn't stand it either. As patients, visitors, and staff alike began milling about the atrium with polite abandon, he weaved through to the Nurses' Station, coming to stand by it beside the girl on her left side, his arms resting on the high front as he listened in on the conversation, his foot tapping, restless.
"You know, I still can't understand how such a mean kitty as your Sheba managed to win the New Jersey Cat show a few days ago-" Its voice was low for a female's, and fast as it cantered through dialogue like a Grand National winner.
"Well, if you can't understand, could you at least-"
"I mean, I've known her since she was born, of course, and boy was she ever wild then!" the missing link cut her off, ignoring her pleas as easily as never hearing them.
"Seriously ma'am, I came in to get switched to some other doctor, okay? Cause my mom applied for it a few days ago, and it's still not-"
The conversation seemed like it would continue on like that for a while, and so he tuned it out, focusing on the missing link itself, taking in its long dark brown hair, its olive skin and relaxed, sedate expressions. Theodora Theofilopoulos, 'Dora' to everyone. Practicing nurse by profession, a cat fancier by hobby – in fact, the breeder of Miss Linda Tailor's white Persian Sheba. Greek immigrants for parents, but never been to the country herself. Lazy, insensitive, a daydreamer in all senses of the word. Not a criminal in a legal sense – just criminally incompetent.
"Excuse me, sir?" A woman's voice, vaguely familiar. He turned to it, coming face-to-face with another nurse, another dark-haired beauty. The moment she caught sight of his face, she startled, her eyes so wide for a moment. He ignored it, somewhat, pretending it never happened, offering a smile as though she had done the same. She recognised him, and it didn't seem she was happy for it.
"I'm sorry," Light replied, his smile easy, non-threatening. "Am I in the way here?"
"Oh- oh no, you're not." The smile she gave was forced, uncomfortable, but the message clear: I don't want to talk to you. I'd be more at ease in the company of the Leader of the Free World, than here with you. Her eyes looked him up and down, apprehensive, anxious, and the look he returned was one of mild amusement, entertaining her interest. His smile widened slightly, knowingly as her features began ringing a bell for him, and she looked downward, realising he noticed her looks.
Is something wrong?" He asked. He knew this sincerity, this sympathy was faked, but she didn't seem to hear it, for she refused to look up again, giving a sigh.
"It's nothing." She said. "It's kind of stupid, really."
"Yes," he agreed, nodding his head. "I suppose it would be stupid for a nurse to be afraid of someone she's already treated." She began to nod, only to stop mid-gesture to shoot him a wide-eyed look again, one that was quickly becoming associated with her in his mind, like her only expression. In that moment, he read her memories, watching through her eyes as she'd scrubbed him down in that bathroom, his mother beside her, aiding her, her eyes always passing over the grim scars on his body, unable to look at anything else, knowing the whole time that he'd carved them into his own skin, made himself look the freak.
A visible wince and Nurse Regina was daring to look him in the eye, still staring. "You…" she whispered, voice trailing off.
"Yes," he replied. "I remember."
For the first time since he'd met her formally, she smiled, and stopped being quite so awkward. "So," she said, "what are you doing out and about like this?" Her tone was friendlier, approaching playful. "Does Dr Cameron know?"
Light nodded, pulling out the little cell phone. "Yeah, but Big Brother's watching, apparently." He replaced it in his pocket with sleight. "As long as I don't even think about going onto any other floor, she says I can walk around as much as I like." Regina laughed gently, and from a glance in his peripheral, he watched as the blonde girl turned to look at him, surveying his features, looking him up and down with that not-so-subtle gift of the sexual gaze, as though unaware that he knew she was looking. Letting her catch onto his knowing with a slight wink in her direction, he returned his attention to the nurse, acting in the assumption that her had never seen or acknowledged the girl in his entire life, and the nurse hadn't just witnessed him doing so.
The girl wasn't too bad look, for an American, and she knew how to dress herself, certainly. Yet… with her shoulder-back attitude, a standing pose oozing arrogance more than mere confidence, he didn't think much to her at all in ways of attraction. She was, he had to admit, too much like himself, like the worst parts of his true personality housed in a little white, blonde, female form.
"Does she really?" Regina asked, trying to supress another laugh, "I would've thought she'd learnt her lesson the other day… or does she want another reminder?" She raised a sassy dark eyebrow at him, in a way that seemed just a tiny bit too suggestive to be professional. For once, he was glad the whole conversation was in English, and that the subtle insinuation had gone right over his head. In fact, he was extraordinarily glad, just for the images his overactive mind had been spared from viewing.
Indeed, it was now his turn to avert his eyes. How glad he was then, when a middle-aged man in a suit and holding a leather satchel walked up to stand on his other side, interrupting Regina in her torture to ask her questions of his own.
Excuse me, Miss, but I need to see Doctor House." His voice was a low, unforgiving baritone, possessing a drilling quality that seemed to send shockwaves into the subconscious. Looking over to the man, he saw short, dark, greying hair and thick eyebrows, large horn-rimmed glasses and a roman nose. Dressed in a light grey suit, he looked and sounded like a man who could drive a roomful of people to major depression in one afternoon, who could give those people no reason to live any longer. In short, he was as much an Economics teacher one could possibly be without actually teaching Economics.
"Oh," Regina gave a practiced, plastic smile. "I'm sorry, but you can't see him right now – Dr House's schedule is completely full today, you might not be able to see him until tomorrow.
"Then I can wait until lunch." The man said, insistent.
"I'm sorry," Regina sighed, the act almost pantomimed, "but Dr House will be busy then."
"With what?"
"Eating his lunch." She said. "He's a very busy man, and unless you go to the walk-in clinic, you won't see him today." As reasonable as the suggestion sounded, it still didn't seem to settle with him – he had that look in his eye, one that seemed to crackle through the mind behind, and didn't want to leave well enough alone.
To Light, it seemed rather familiar.
The man sighed and turned to sit down on one of the empty chairs pushed against the front, sinking into it as though deflated, his satchel on his lap, the front panel shifting, leaving it open to the world. For a moment, he couldn't understand why the man had done it (he himself was far too restless, his foot still tapping to its own beat) but, as with everything else, the mystery became clear far too quickly. Imitating the man's sigh, he slunk out of sight and into the chair beside the man, looking away, letting him sigh again and find a piece of calm amongst the chaos of the atrium.
"Excuse me?" Light began, looking back to the man. "If you don't mind me asking, why do you want to see Dr House so badly?" The man returned the gaze, dark eyebrows forming a scowl rather than reply. "Let me start again: If you want to see him so badly, why haven't you gone to the clinic like anyone else?"
The man looked down, then back up again, seeming to stare off to an indeterminate point. "I need to see Dr House," he said, finally, "but not for my health."
"Oh, really?" his voice was one part amusement, another part concern, but detached as he focused on the man behind the psychological plea for help. Mr Stein, an old friend of House's. A teacher at a local high school, yes, but of American History rather than Economics. A twist just big enough to be interesting, but not by much.
"Yeah." Mr Stein gave another sigh, this one of exasperation more than anything else. "What about you?"
"Huh?"
"Sorry. You just don't look like a patient."
"Oh," Light smiled, excusing the rudeness for plain ignorance. "I was just having a chat with these lovely nurses here." He gestured to Regina, who was now busy answering a phone call. The tone was a tad flirting, and Regina gave him a saucy wink, which Light returned before returning his gaze to Mr Stein. "So," Light continued, "why do you want to see Dr House? I wouldn't have thought you'd want to go near that man unless it was absolutely necessary."
"Ha." A low sound, not really amused, almost sardonic. "is that what you've heard from the nurses?"
Light shook his head. "No, it's just my opinion. I mean, for a man who save lives, he seems pretty dangerous, you know? Like you could end up worse off in one way or another just by being near him."
A real chuckle this time. "So you've met him?"
Light nodded. "He seems to have that… aura about him, you know?"
"Well, you would know." Mr Stein muttered, before continuing on a different string of thought when Light's head tilted slightly in question. "I mean, yes, I've known him since… high school, was it? And…"
He switched off about halfway through. Light's lips took on a half-smile of interest, feigned though it was as he tuned out the drivel, the drone of the man's bass voice becoming nothing more than background radiation, dull but harmless as he let his mind take to other things, his eyes to other details in the surroundings. Regina talking on the phone, tapping on the keys of the computer keyboard; Dora still in a deep, one-sided conversation with Linda Tailor, the girl looking at her watch in exasperation; the people rushing to and fro, wheeling chairs, gurneys, sitting and standing, not knowing nor caring that Mr Stein was speaking a little too quickly, that his eyes shifted, blinking rapidly, perspiring considerably, distracted but focused, like a man on the precipice, like a man who wants to get it over with.
Light too began to focus, this time following an urgent little nudge to the satchel. He could see the tops of textbooks and notepaper inside it, and he could imagine a selection of pens and external memory software as well, typical items for a teacher. There was more though, he was sure, something that made the man hold the bag to him rather than sling it from the chair, most definitely. He changed his line of focus, aiming higher to Mr Stein himself, to the myriad of thoughts that were bleeding freely out of him, threatening. They didn't seem to hold a focus, like the thoughts of a dying man determined to spark up before they fizzled out again, however much at random they did.
A weight in his arms, on his heart. Scowls, head-holding, teeth gritting, rushes of panic all at once before strokes of lethargy once more, biting like a blade-edge. One face in his thoughts, smirking, haunting, taunting to no end. A pair of lips surrounded by stubble. Crystal blue eyes filled with cruel mirth, glaring down upon this squirming insect, screaming a silent pest scream, limbs pulled from the thorax, bleeding blue, and those eyes, those irises matching so perfectly to the blood, they said… they said…
Just as I thought... Pathetic. The smirk burst forth once more, and ignited, exploding in a cloud of gunpowder, a click, and a cartridge, gun metal.
He didn't think he came to the conclusion he did, more that it came to him, and he sighed. He stood up, his eyes never leaving the man's, just staring, one hand balled into a fist, the other stretching out, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Light thought it would bleed out of him, that it would leave him and enter the man, empty him and leave him too empty to stand, but it didn't. It fought against the contact, like a magnet against its twin pole, and it twisted in him, squeezing, tearing.
The man looked up at him, disbelieving the scene, the young man stood above him, emitting a gesture like a wise prophet. "Yes?" The man asked, joining his level, the satchel still clutched to his chest.
Light didn't say anything. His eyes lined up with the shoulder. The tension was high, almost forcing him to put a foot forward, and he did, his arms lifting and stretching, reaching around the man's middle, pulling the grey suit to him. He buried his head into the left shoulder, rubbing a nuzzle as the claws gave a squeeze within, body tensing up against him, requesting leave as a tear leaked out, a spot of moisture on the suit.
Kira didn't let go. He exhaled slightly, letting his hands rise and rest at the shoulder blades, careful, intimate. It rose like smoke, and Kira raised his head, taking it out from the shoulder crook, lifting until lips were at the ear. Exhale again. A shiver against him, a breath hitched in the chest, and his arms constricted. The satchel was crushed almost painfully between them, until he could feel the shape of the contents at his chest, the lump of irregularity there, hard like an alloy. Exhale again. It froze in fear. He felt a bubble of laughter about his thoracic diaphragm, fighting up to his throat. He released it gradually, an unvoiced ghost like speeded gasps. He could practically feel the cold creeping up the man's spine beneath his fingers.
"Benjamin." Kira whispers, and only the man can hear, breath hitched. "I know why you're here. I know who you're here to see, what you're here to do…" The man stiffens, and he stiffens too. It's clawing at him from within, digging into his chest, his ribs as footholds as it spreads, tenses, tightens. "I can't let you."
Another hitched breath. An involuntary gasp. "Wh… wha…?"
"I won't let you. You're filth, scum, undeserving of life, and you'll spread, like you have so many times before… I won't let you. You've cheated and sinned, you'll do it again. You'll multiply through temptation, and I can't have it. The world is rotting because of dirt like you; it's dying thanks to the poison you're infecting the next generation with."
He was shaking now, actually shaking, the only real part of the surroundings with focus now. "Just as I thought..." Kira whispered, his voice slightly louder, a smirk playing at his lips. If anyone deserves the honour of taking Dr House's life…"
Now! Oh yes, now!
A lunge, spring-loaded. Spilling freely, mania at all sides. His jaw dropped, teeth baring, sunk down, sunk in. Flesh, cartilage. Swung back, tearing, free.
Red burst forth. An inhuman sound, so low, loud, penetrating the inner ear, and his hands flung to the sides of his head, stepping back, mouth filled with warmth open as it fell out on the ground, a scrap of flesh so distinct, it was unreal.
"… It's me." Kira finished, as the warmth erupted upon him, a heavy weight fell, the scream conducting further more of them throughout the atrium. The satchel was on the floor, the irregularity escaped, a gun that Kira kicked away and Light watched after. Hands fell to his sides as chaos erupted around him, cry after cry after shriek as the History teacher thrashed, louder than any other, hands clutching at the left side of his head, blood pumping out, Kira stood above him. His eyes glared down at the mess, those eyes, those irises matching so perfectly to the blood, and they said… they said…
"Pathetic." Kira whispered, expression hard and body light as he turned, picking up the still-leaning crutch as he walked away, brandishing it like a lance. The crowd of fear parted his way, and he walked unhampered away from the Nurses' Station, out of the atrium, finding two doors set in the wall beside each other at the one end. In his head, one seemed to lead to certain death, the other to freedom, though neither of them led on their affiliation.
Allowing a smile, he looked over his shoulder, thought a moment and chose the one on the left. Be it for preservation or pleasant fancy, he had a very good feeling about taking the stairs.
Cameron sighed, taking her time walking through the corridors to the atrium. She had only given Light 30 minutes to have a walk about and do what he wanted outside his room, be that walking laps around the atrium or talking with the nurses at their Station (she wasn't sure how, but she imagined him as the charming patient, who often found themselves on first-name basis with all the staff before discharge, no matter how long their stay was scheduled for). It had seemed unreasonable, at first, to give him such little time, but the way she saw it, an hour would be far too much, more than enough time for a resourceful person to wreak havoc, and fifteen minutes would never be enough to enjoy and appreciate the change in scene, and yet not enough for havoc either. Thirty, after all, was a perfectly nice, round number. Easy to calculate at any point on the clock face, enough time to do a number of things. Nurse Regina was on her shift at the moment, and Cameron was sure she could trust her to keep the ship run tightly, to make it hard for the boy to do too much.
What kind of person was she? Did she really not trust a seventeen year old at all? Did she really need a way of contacting him, an overt entourage and covert espionage before she trusted that he would do the right thing? That he would keep his word? Objectively, she sounded like the typical parent of any teenager, a pushy, suspicious person who forgot what it was like to be young and carefree, and saw rebellion in obedience at the best of times.
Yet, one had to be subjective as well. This was a 17 year old mental patient in a teaching hospital not specifically built for his needs. He was undeniably ill, and desperately bored, in a situation no better than the one he was first in. It didn't have to be this way, it never had to, but it was because he differed so greatly from everyone else – he was a genius, a genuine one, with more intellect and potential at his age than she'd previously thought possible. He had creative ideas, creative ideals, but a thoroughly destructive method for it. He was altruistic, certainly, but so self-centric it was difficult not to find yourself orbiting him before too long, fitting yourself to him rather than working him to your schedule, while wondering how one person could be so shallow and selfish.
Perhaps she was asking the wrong question here. Perhaps, she thought, the more prudent question here would be 'What kind of person was Light? She decided that House, with his Rubik's Complex, would call him a puzzle. Foreman would call him a charity case. Chase? Probably a 'Bloody Pain', complete with twang. Once upon a time, she might have agreed with Foreman, and decided that he was just a scared boy who needed their help. However, she had slept since then, learned since then, took on more experience. With Light Yagami in particular, she couldn't take on the same ideals she once did, couldn't be the emotional slave that she tended to become. In fact, with all of the ideas set before her, with Light in mind, she found her mind leaning in the opposite direction to her usual stance.
In any case, Light was an impossible person. That was as certain as the door in front of her, as certain as opening it. There was simply no doubt as she found herself in the atrium and…
Chaos. Absolute, tumultuous, unholy chaos. All around, people were rushing and screaming, crying, trying to leave. The nurses were insisting on order. Blood showered the floor, staining deep onto the flooring, a pool kicked to trail off elsewhere. Through the milling of people, Nurse Regina, Dora, and another nurse were tending to a middle-aged man lying on the floor, whimpering by the Nurses' Station as they put pressure on a wound on the left side of his head, right where he ear should be… which lay forgotten merely feet away long with a pair of glasses, the entire organ surrounded by at least an inch of torn flesh, some of the hairline taken with it. Her head lifting as she heard Cameron stepping towards her, Regina sighed, taking a moment to show Dora how to apply pressure to a severed artery properly before standing up to greet Cameron.
The first thing she did was shudder, and Cameron's eyes widened. That wasn't a good sign, not in any book, especially when it came from a fully trained nurse. "Why did you let him out?" Regina asked. It was a demand, outrage, and Cameron wasn't sure how to reply.
"Why did I…?"
"Wherever you found that kid, send him back, because until you lock him up and throw away the key, I'm not doing you anymore favours!" This wasn't like Regina, this outrage, this lack of temperament control, and as she turned back to the patient, Cameron caught her arm, not letting her go for a moment.
When did it happen?" Cameron asked, or rather, demanded. She closed her hand tighter around Regina's arm, not letting her go, though she tried. "How many minutes ago did it happen?"
Regina jerked her arm away, but only just. "It was twenty minutes ago, okay? More than that." Grateful, Cameron turned away, muttering a thanks before offering another glance at the middle-aged man losing blood from the side of his head, wondering why it had taken so long for someone to get him proper treatment, or to even fetch a gurney.
Not far away, up against the Nurses' Station side, was a blonde teenager, crouched up and sobbing, hands at her face. There were spots of blood on her, and she looked shaken up, in shock, but she was otherwise healthy. However, as Cameron had long since learned at this particular hospital, that wasn't always a guarantee of complete health by the end of the day. She went to her, crouching down to touch her shoulder gently. The girl looked up at Cameron, her blue eyes rimmed red and bloodshot, her lips quivering.
"Are you okay?" Cameron asked, her voice gentle, soft, the right amount of caring. The teenager merely nodded her head in response, didn't elaborate. "I need you to tell me what happened, alright?" The doctor didn't mean to be quite so blunt, but there wasn't much time for niceties, not if Light was concerned.
The tears began to well, and the girl had to swallow a number of times to keep them from spilling, from breaking her voice. When she finally spoke, she whispered, speech punctuated with sobs. "The-there was th-this cute guy and… and…"
"Go on." Cameron encouraged. "What happened next?"
"He, he…" she paused a moment, frowning in thought. "He just hugged Mr Stein… my history teacher… l-like they were together… you know?"
"I know what you mean." Cameron said. She certainly did, but she wasn't sure the girl did. She looked confused, almost as though concussed, and most definitely sounded it, in any case.
"Well… he hugged him, and, and… so, like, like…" her voice broke, and she broke into sobs, Cameron keeping her hand on her shoulder. She didn't need to utter any words of encouragement, for the girl swallowed them back herself, continuing bravely. "Red."
"Red?"
"Blood, eyes, ear, blood… red." Her speech was becoming jumbled, disorganised, like word salad, just an effect of the shock, she was sure. But, the focus wasn't there for Cameron – the girl had provided it for her.
"Eyes?" She asked. The girl nodded, and the chord was struck, just like that. "What did he look like?" Cameron added. "The guy?"
The girl frowned again in thought. "He… he was…" she thought another moment. "I dunno… cute… Asian? Brunette, like, light brown, and…" her expression turned graver, like stone. "Red eyes."
"Red eyes?" Cameron asked. Could she really mean…? No. It couldn't be possible. They'd been giving him sedatives since yesterday. He shouldn't have the mania… no, the energy to do… what?
"I… I don't know his name." The girl added. She really wasn't coping. Her mind was everywhere, and she was crying again, sad that she couldn't remember. Cameron doubted that the girl had caught his name at all, but she couldn't comment, not while the girl was in that state.
"That's okay." Cameron assured her, making to help her up off the floor. "Just wait in one of the chairs here to calm down, and someone will be right with you." The girl nodded, picking herself off fairly well considering the state she was in. She wanted to stay with the girl herself, treat her for the shock now, but she knew she couldn't. It was Light, all Light, undoubtedly so. After all, she should've seen it coming: the whole thing seemed to smack of his handiwork, somehow.
Maybe it was because of the macabre over-tone. Maybe it was that it was a public performance, like the first one here and the ones before. Or maybe, just maybe, it was the Aesop-style ironic 'punishment' that it seemed to resemble (she wouldn't really know, because she didn't possess his gift).
Oh God.
She paged the others, and within minutes Chase was running down the corridor to the atrium, House hobbling not far behind. He was stopped in his tracks before he even reached Cameron, captured by the sight of the carnage and chaos, taking it in as Mr Stein was finally wheeled away. "Oh my God." He whispered. The casualties weren't quite as many as the last time; this was by far the worst.
"So," House asked, finally within feet of the scene. He… he didn't look angry at all – it was as though, she was sure, he was so furious that he'd surpassed expression. "What happened?"
Cameron opened her mouth, but found she couldn't say it. The pieces had long since fit together in her mind, long since become one truth, but it didn't stop her from refusing, from failing to acknowledge it was true.
"I…" she began. She had to tell them. This wasn't about a boy right now. No, this was a case, a terrible one, but a case all the same. They all had to know. "It was Light. Chase and I let him out for half an hour, and…" Chase raised his eyebrows, "then he bit the ear off a civilian." Chase's eyebrows rose just that little bit more, threatening to disappear into his fringe as House glared back at her. She was sure this had to be the perfect opportunity for a tirade of jokes, a whole host of hoots at the expense of the most unfortunate man and his most unfortunate latest victim. This was different, however. For one thing, she was sure he knew she wasn't joking, not now.
This was Light Yagami, capable of anything. Only now, when they said that, they really did mean anything.
"You're not kidding… are you?" Chase asked. Cameron shook her head, as did House.
"When did he?" House asked.
"What?" Chase asked.
"How many minutes between letting him out of his cage and him mauling some poor sap was there?"
Not even ten minutes, apparently." Cameron said, following with a sigh.
"How? What'd he use?"
"I don't know. I've not seen any possible weapons. The ear came off with some of the skin around it as well, so it was very rough, however it was."
Chase shuddered, and House ignored it. "So, how?"
"How?" Chase whispered.
"How did our sedated manic-depressive take off a man's ear with what we can only assume was his teeth? Any ideas, Irwin?"
Chase shook his head, practically mute, and Cameron was beginning to understand why. For whatever reason, he had become the morally outraged one of the team, and found himself far too affected by the news, if not by the blindsiding reference to the recent death of one of Australia's greatest countrymen.
House answered the silence with walking off, making his way back down to the corridor to Light's room, the other two doctors hurrying behind him. Pushing the door open with his free hand, he found what he was looking for: The cup of orange juice, still sitting out on the bedside table and yet to be cleared away. Picking it up, lifted it to his nose, sniffing at it before deftly tipping it onto the floor without a murmur. Chase jumped back.
"Now," House said, "Why would someone with no sense of taste want to wash the taste away?" He pointed to the floor with the cup, and Cameron took it in. The orange was off-colour, as though spoiling, and little lumps of non-pulp could be seen, not yet dissolved, not yet part of the dangerous solution.
"He didn't." Chase finally said. "He's paranoid. If he won't touch hospital food, he not going to be touching the pills, whether he knows what they're for or not."
"A gold star for you." House said, giving a half-smile at the progress. "Now, it's just finding the kid."
"Isn't that important?" Chase asked. "You know, something we do first?"
House shook his head, allowing another smirk. "We could've, but then we wouldn't know why and how he did it, and then we wouldn't know what we're dealing with here." Leaving the mess for Blue the janitor, he limped out again. "Keep up, children, this is Diagnosis 101."
Back in the atrium, they surveyed the scene once more.
"I think I have an idea where he's gone." Cameron said, her eyes falling once again upon the trail of blood. "He must've gone down to the lower floors."
Chase heaved a sound of pure annoyance. "So he could be anywhere."
"No." Cameron said, "He can't be 'anywhere' – just somewhere else."
"That is what I meant!"
"Please, children!" House yelled. "The Ninja Assassin could have left the building by now, and you two are bickering over semantics? If this situation doesn't remain contained to the hospital, the whole borough will be at the kid's mercy, I'll get sued again, and there would be enough of the House Got Sued Fund for next week – is that what you want?" The underlings shook their heads, and they made to follow the trail of blood leading away from the scene and out to the elevator and stairs. As the trail indicated, he'd taken the stairs, making this a little easier, but not by much. They were about to follow the trail down when they heard footsteps making their way towards them, turning to see Ryuzaki, doll mask slipping until he managed to adjust it short of revealing his face.
"Well," House said, "if it isn't Rue Ryuzaki, P.I?" The man didn't even roll his eyebrows in return, just waited for House to finish, a cell phone held in his fingers.
"I'm glad I caught you in time." Ryuzaki said. He seemed to mean it as well, his voice less of the drone than customary.
"What?" Chase asked. "Why?"
"I've just received an important phone call, one you should know the contents of."
"Oh, really?" House smirked. "What is it? Have I been suspended indefinitely because my employees let the rabid kitty out of his cage?"
"No," Ryuzaki replied. "But it has something to do with that, yes."
"So, something like… I don't know, that the very definition of psycho is on the outside and about to make the Princeton Borough his bitch?"
"Exactly, but with a significant difference: He was on the outside, and he was about to make the Princeton Borough his bitch. He won't now."
"He won't now?" Cameron asked.
"That's right. I've had the local police on hand since earlier this morning, and at 12:14pm, on Sunday 10th September, more than fifteen minutes ago, one Light Yagami was arrested and taken into custody of the New Jersey Police Department, Princeton branch. He will stay there until they see fit to let him go free."
Cameron made to lunge for the Detective, but Chase took hold of her by the shoulders, keeping her fast. "Why the hell did you do that?" she yelled, struggling against the doctor. "What good will that do, you lying, back-stabbing piece of candied-"
"Back-stabbing? I was quite sure you were aware that I was out collecting information yesterday on what happened at the other hospitals. As it happens, what I found was directly linked to the secondary reason for my presence here, for my case."
"Case?" Chase asked. "What has Light got to do with the missing Vicodine shipment?"
"Nothing at all. I was lying when I told you that."
"About you working on the case."
"No, about the case even existing. It was a perfectly good excuse for Dr Cuddy, and all I had to do was produce the right paperwork to suggest it. No, this is a different case I'm talking about, the same one I did investigation work on yesterday. You see, Light Yagami is the prime suspect of my case, and I did whatever it is I had to do to solve it. If that means arrest for the purpose of gaining information on not only my case but the state of his mental health, then so be it."
Light was an impossible person. No doubt about that.
A/N: For those of you with a weak constitution, I probably should have warned you first. For those of you who disagree with my portrayal of Light's Stress at the beginning, I only have my own experiences of mental illness and OCD to go on, so don't hate too much. For those of you who make a habit of looking out for new and exciting culture references within this, there are quite a few, not only to outside material, but also to the House, MD show itself, so enjoy. For those of you wondering what last chapter's title was all about, it's a song by the new band on the block, 'Black Veil Brides' (or, as I like to call them, 'Emo-KISS').
A few pieces of trivia for you this time. This chapter is unique to all the others because:
This is the longest chapter so far. Word docs-wise, it beat the last chapter by about 8 pages, so… 1551 words. Incredible, huh?
This is the only chapter so far that WASN'T written and song-titled later, but whose events were inspired by the song it was appellated for. In other words, I heard the song, the scary (and slightly sexual) song, got the idea, and wrote the chapter with it in mind. Usually, I just write the chapter and spend two days or so looking for the right title, so you can imagine my surprise.
Brilliant, huh? I'd been waiting to do this chapter for so long.
As an additional, let me just tell you that, most of the time, there is a good reason why I choose the songs I do for the chapter titles, so I do urge you to take a listen to them if you haven't already. This one in particular, 'Scream', is a good one.
Meanwhile, I am going to create a TV Tropes page for this baby, so if you'd like to help out at all, you can probably just search for it.
As for the blood and gore in this, let me say that I am just as concerned as you are, however, while tearing me away from the fanfiction might prevent me from doing this on a public forum, tearing me away from my only outlet may result most definitely in some physical demonstrations.
So, the next chapter will be a very long wait, so do be patient, wish me luck for the future, and in turn I'll hope that, when I promised something wonderful, I delivered.
Thank you, and please stay tuned for chapter 12. I genuinely love you all.
Also, review if/when you can. They are all appreciated.