Note: See the intro for vital info, disclaimers, and other cool things.
Part 2
… many government officials believe the casualty totals will eventually be counted in the millions for what some are privately calling a telepathic attack on the world's population. Many hospitals, both here and around the globe, were completely overwhelmed by the sheer number of patients they received just hours after the incident and-
Click.
"This a moment in which we can all work together for a better future for all of humanity, mutant and non-mutant. And so, in the face of this tragedy, I ask you my fellow Americans-"
Click.
The N.T.S.B is still refusing to release final totals, but CNN has confirmed that at least 38 planes, including 26 fully-loaded passenger jets either crashed or were forced to make emergency landings in the U.S. alone. And if the skies were unfriendly, the roads fared even worse. The National Highway Traffic Safety Administration is still tallying accident figures, but spokesman Carol Chen told us 5/22 will almost certainly set records for accidents on the country's roads.
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In an unusual mark of cooperation, all of the world's major financial markets are closed today, though many are expected to reopen tomorrow-
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In related news, authorities still have no leads on Erik Lensherr, the mutant terrorist who escaped from a maximum-security detention facility several days ago. Several sources have speculated that he may have had a hand in yesterday's attacks--
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…the Iranian president claims 5/22 was a Zionist plot designed to wipe out Muslims-
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Several high-level congressional sources, including Senator Robert Kelly, tell ABC News that U.S. intelligence has gathered credible proof that 5/22 was carried out by an anti-mutant faction using a kidnapped telepath to wipe out the world's mutant population. Though the assault did originally target mutants, it appears that something went awry and the attack subsequently affected non-mutant humans as well. The White House is refusing to comment on what it calls an 'ongoing investigation,' but as the casualty totals and the demand for answers grows, congressional staffers tell us that the president may call a press conference as soon as this evening to announce arrests of some of those behind this tragedy. This is Trish Trilby, ABC News, Capitol Hill.
Click.
Chase switched channels for the umpteenth time. Cameron had told him during a pre-dawn neuro check about the events that had transpired the day before, but he hadn't really believed her until he'd caught the news that morning. It was bad enough that people were blowing each other to bits with guns, he thought as he watched two ostensibly well-educated morons debate mutant registration on the TV—now they were doing it with their bloody minds. He wondered what the actual truth of the matter was, but doubted that it would ever make the airwaves.
Turning off the TV, Chase stretched sore muscles as he waited for Foreman to arrive for his final neuro check. Twenty-four hours on the opposite end of the stethoscope had Chase convinced that hospitals were miserable, despicable, dens of torture when one was a patient. He'd been poked, prodded, scanned, tested, and woken up when all he wanted to do was sleep. And he was committed to erasing the miserable catheter-removal experience permanently from his memory.
As if all that weren't enough, his colleagues had all turned into mother hens—especially Cameron—and were driving him crazy. Watching the news, he knew he'd been lucky to suffer only a concussion, but that didn't make it any easier to take in the short run.
"No restraints, huh? Bummer."
Chase groaned inwardly—of course House wouldn't miss out on an opportunity to torture him before he sent him off.
"Can we just get this over with," he snapped as he eyed his intruding boss. His headache was mostly gone and the nausea had blessedly disappeared, but he still felt a bit jittery. All Chase wanted was a week of sleep in his own bed. And something that didn't taste like cement mixed with slime.
"Well aren't we a barrel of fun in bed. Maybe I should keep you there a little longer. Irritability is a bad sign and all. "
Chase would've been more worried if he hadn't known it an empty threat. His neuro checks for the previous 12 hours had all been fine, and his latest EEG came back normal. There was no way in hell Cuddy would let House take up a bed for his own personal amusement when the hospital was brimming with patients. A couple of the ICU nurses he often worked with had stopped by a few hours before, and they'd been more than happy to give him the lowdown on the previous 24 hours at Princeton-Plainsboro—that he'd gotten a room had been a miracle.
"If that were true, you'd be chained to the ICU," Chase responded.
"No gratitude. I even threw in that icepack."
"Did wonders. Where's the neurologist for my neuro exam?"
"A janitor can do a neuro check on a concussion. And your EEG has gone back to the normal and singularly uninteresting category. Foreman was getting too tired to torment properly, so I had to let him go home. Besides, Cuddy's been sniping about my billables and patient relations—killing two birds with one stone."
"I'm sure you'll love the patient review," Chase told him, the thought of getting to grade House on his bedside manner cheering him up a bit.
"I'm sure it'll be as good as your own in…what is it?…a couple of months?" Chase swallowed hard and reconsidered his opportunity for revenge.
"I'm sure," he agreed, hoisting a white flag of surrender in a desperate bid to get rid of House and get out of the hospital.
House shook his head, clearly disappointed with his easy victory, then plopped himself on the edge of Chase's bed and shot off "candlestick, poison, rope—remember them."
Then he inquired, "Mother's maiden name, president of the United States, today's date?"
"Fairfax, McKenna, May 23."
"Spell 'world' backwards and forwards."
Chase complied. What followed wasn't exactly by the book for a neuro exam—the comparison section of the cognition test definitely didn't require that he compare Foreman to Napoleon—but it was certainly thorough.
"Three words you needed to remember?"
"Poison, rope, and candlestick," Chase replied as the test finally reached its conclusion.
"Well, it appears that you may be safe to let loose upon the world," House admitted. Not only had he passed, Chase was reasonably certain he'd been perfect—much to his own relief. "And the bleeding heart in the Dean of Medicine's office thinks a concussion deserves a 48-hour pass and has ordered me upon pain of the clinic to make sure you depart and don't step foot in the hospital until Monday morning. Though not in a car; you're grounded for the next 24 hours. And you can't do all those other forbidden things you responsible doctors tell your concussion patients."
Chase wasn't too surprised by the restrictions. He wasn't much in the mood to get behind the wheel anyway. With all of the traffic accidents that had occurred the previous day, he was sure the roads were a mess.
Cameron picked that moment to arrive—along with what appeared to be the overnight bag he kept in his locker. "Brought you the stuff from your locker," she announced, looking both tired and chipper at the same time. "You must have forgotten to lock it before the concussion."
"Or Foreman owes you a lock," House added, earning a dirty look from Chase. He had no doubts that House had taken the opportunity to snoop, and felt smug that there wasn't much there to satisfy.
"Saint Allison of the Bleeding Heart can drive you home," House continued gleefully as he stood up to leave. Chase stole a glance at his exhausted co-worker, who seemed surprised, but not very put out. He had planned on calling a cab, but couldn't figure out how to turn down the ride without seeming ungrateful, so he offered her a smile instead.
"I'm afraid he's not up for any bedroom aerobics for the next 24 hours," House called before he headed out into the hallway, " but don't forget to tuck him in." He paused only long enough to savor the twin looks of annoyance on his fellows' faces.
"Royal Melbourne Hospital, records department, Victoria speaking."
"Victoria, this is Doctor Gregory House, Chief of Diagnostic Medicine at Princeton-Plainsboro Hospital in the U.S. I have a critical patient in my care who we believe has been treated at your hospital. We need access to his and his parents' records in order to fill in his medical history and make sure he doesn't die."
"Can you give me the names?"
"Patient's name is Robert Chase, parents are Rowan and Elizabeth Fairfax Chase."
"The records are in our system, Dr. House" Victoria informed him a minute later. "You'll need to supply authorizations in order for us to release them however."
"Not a problem. Parents are deceased and the patient is completely willing to sign a release."
"Excellent. Do you want copies of all scans as well?"
"Anything and everything you can send us. Dr. Chase is in critical condition."
"Of course. Do you have a pen for the fax number?"
Gregory House smiled as he broke out a pen and paper. In the immediate aftermath of 5/22, the number of challenging cases referred to the Department of Diagnostics had slowed—for him—to an interminably boring level. And as Cuddy had inexcusably deprived him of his fellows in the short term to help handle patient overloads, House had time to indulge his curiosity. Chase's scans on 5/22 had perplexed him; he'd scoured every medical site he knew of—and annoyed more than his usual share of medical practitioners—without finding one similar case. Once he'd decided Chase's reaction merited investigation, sniffing out Chase's local medical files had taken him almost two weeks. Getting his Aussie files was almost too easy.
To be continued