Memo: Aaron Fleming, CC Jillian Michales, Steven Hariss, Aloya Linda
Concerning: FEA189
Congratulations are in order! The contract with Division X153 of the Department of Defense, has pushed us well into the black; if all goes well, we're assured a long-term deal. Figures are in the hundred billions if the contract runs its projected time (lasting at least until 2050). The product is making its way to headquarters now, while we begin isolating the compounds for the framework of the anti-serum. This will be addressed in the meeting; representatives from Quasark Laboratories, Phaazaar Inc and Seielman Pharmaceuticals will be in attendance.
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Lab notes, Subject X34YTB
Prior to Injection:
Excellent health; full medical work-up revealed normal cholesterol, protein synthesis and nutrients. No sign of cancers, infections or diseases.
Injection: Slight swelling around the wound immediately upon injection; disappeared moments later. A large bruise spread almost immediately with a diameter of 1.5 cm.
30 min: Heart rate triples, yet subject falls into a catatonic state. Brain waves are consistent with REM sleep.
60 min: Heart rate and inspiration begin to slow. Slight jerking in the front paws.
300 min: subject seems to regain consciousness; eyes open but subject does not respond to stimuli. Brainwaves are on the level of simple arithmetic problems.
310 minutes: Subject expires.
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It's dark; the tv casts s flickering blue on the pale face it illuminates. House is asleep on the couch; an unfortunate mix of alcohol and Vicodin slid his relaxation into sleep. When he wakes, he will swear at the stiffness in his leg.
When he wakes.
But for now he dreams. He dreams in color, in vivid color that doesn't exist in reality. They're beautiful, the images his mind gives him. It's a sort of respite; a moment of bliss to make up for constant pain.
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James Wilson can't sleep. It's early, six in the morning, so the TV that flashes in front of him shows nothing but news and infomercials. He's already showered; his teeth are brushed and flossed, his hair combed. He's run out of things to do, run out of ways to get ready, to take his mind off things that disrupt his sleep. So he stops at the news, points his glazed eyes at the screen and watches the latest horrors of the country. There's smoke and fire; an unnaturally blonde woman tells the story of a drug company truck being hijacked; its contents were stolen and the vehicle burned. The company has made a statement; apparently the drugs were part of an aids trial.
Wilson shakes his head, wonders about humanity for a moment. Then he gets up, goes to the bathroom and leaves his hotel. He'll stop along the way, get breakfast and drag House to work.
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Andrews isn't afraid. He'll go into the main building walking, talking and acting like Inspector Ronald Fratier, just like his id says. He waits now, silently in the waiting room chair, meditating. He thinks of the others, Johnson, Lopez, Sirenz, Yuleta. There are more, but their names escape him and it doesn't really matter; they're all pseudonyms anyway. The door opens in front of him; the receptionist lifts a hand and he's walking, introducing himself. Clasping a hand within his own, touching the warm flesh beneath and smiling, saying the wait was no problem. He's here now.
When they get to the main well system, a small, uncorked vial finds its way into the water. A drop splashes on Andrews' skin, but he doesn't notice. He says a silent prayer for his comrades and walks away, the perfect professional.
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House is running. It's easy, second nature. It's chilly out but his breaths are steady, delicate when they pour out of him and dance for a moment on the cool air. Unfortunately, he's dreaming. As his feet leave the ground swirls of color are left behind; pools of vibrant paint in shades never before mixed. He stops, hunches over, fingers digging into knees (and whole flesh above that) and examines his trail. His fingers aren't hesitant when they reach the color; they come back looking tie-dyed. But the color is moving, spreading down his hand, over his wrist and then there's pressure; a firm grip on his shoulder and he's sitting up until—
"Jesus, House!" His eyes open to see Wilson on the floor, gripping his head.
"Hey, I can't help my ninja reflexes." House tries to laugh, but his head pounds. The noise is cut short, a sort of rough bark. His hand moves up to his forehead; most of it hurts, which means there's sure to be a bruise there soon enough.
"Why were you watching me sleep?"
"I wasn't watching you sleep," A god-help-me tone washes into Wilson's voice. "I was trying to wake you up so we could go to breakfast before work."
"I'm sure." House gets up, palms a Vicodin and heads to the bathroom. "Didn't know you had a cripple fetish, Wilson."
"I'll be out in my car, House. Ten minutes and I go to breakfast alone."
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Cuddy waits in House's office. She scans a chart, unsure of where to begin. Patient was brought into the emergency room presenting no real symptoms other than raised heart rate. But an hour ago, he'd slipped into a coma. Only, it wasn't a coma. His brainwaves are active, and he responds to stimuli. It's as if he just can't wake up. But this is why Cuddy keeps House; he'll find the answer. He always does; an article will be written and her hospital will get a grant. She doesn't notice as House appears, jumps when a crack about her 'business' suit comes from thin air.
"Cute, House." She moves toward him, hands off the file.
"You'll like this one." She watches as House scans the chart, eyes lighting up with the promise of a new mystery. She leaves him to it, entering the cool hallway. She pauses near the door; spots have obscured her vision. But they clear, leaving her heart racing. She frowns, but rationalizes it with too much coffee. It's not until she's in her office, behind her desk that she collapses.