tampered | The bad man, the sad man

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Current Music: Behind Blue Eyes-The Who

The bad man, the sad man

When; Thursday, Sept. 6. Evening
Rating; PG-13+ (Adult Language)
Characters; Nicholas Brocklehurst (

razrsharp), Dr. House (

vicodincrutch) and Christopher Styles (

under_secretary)
Summary; Life in the City is not a dream, a very unhappy doctor finds out. He gets a drink out of it at least.

Greg House took his time getting everywhere. It was difficult not to, but that was not something he shared in words. The cane and walk spoke for him and in truth he never left early to be punctual unless it was serious a very good case or fulfillment of a bet. There were people in the streets of different appearances, beautiful and ugly, outrageous and plain. Few wheelchairs, few canes.

The sky was growing dark slowly, sunlight was still present but the streetlights were flickering on. This would be close to marking the end of day two of his incredible journey. "What a joke,' he grumbled to himself, finding no reason to smile at his second absence from Princeton-Plainsborough Teaching Hospital. This place, this city was not a dream.

He could read. Why didn't he think of it before? So simple and damn frustrating. Empirical thinking always was shit, but when it was the last resort... Dr. House paused and sighed leaning on the brick side of a building. For a moment, his cane twirled idly like a baton. There had to be a way of explaining this. He hated it. Resuming stride he thought on why a stranger would be willing to give him alcohol. Greg knew he wasn't going to refuse one way or another, but he did wonder and limped further to his destination.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Brocklehurst had already arrived at the Coliseum but only minutes earlier. He recalled House mentioning he might be late, and had trusted the man to keep his word. All of his behavioral presumptions were deduced from a simple conversation on the nature of dreams. If only Nicholas had told the doctor a supposed human incarnation of the very nature of dreams resided in the City, but proving reality with letters was good enough. He rather enjoyed that minor victory, but Brocklehurst also recognized an asset when he saw one.

For that very reason (other than his being good company of course), Nicholas had invited Christopher along, his partner in crime so to speak. The three of them were the beginnings of a classic joke; so a doctor, a lawyer, and a politician walk into a bar...

"Long face, grizzled sort, on a cane I believe," he explained to the brunette while nursing his beer. Alcohol light enough for a workday evening, and casual enough for conversation at a pub.

Christopher needed a drink for an entirely different reason. "How hard is it to realize that part of 'plea bargain' means you talk when the judges ask for the 'plea'?" He hadn't practiced law in over a decade and he could still remember that.

"Honestly. Idiots." He took a drink of his beer; Rogue, he was surprised he could find it in the City. He hadn't had one since he had been in Portland last.

This was the place alright. Greg saw himself in, a bar that looked like a bar, smelled like a bar. As if to taunt him, he recognized each and ever letter on the labels of brightly colored bottles within the bartender's reach. A drink would be good. And a sit.

Finding Brocklehurst wasn't too difficult. "What's on the menu?"

"You're setting a precedent by being the first official firm in the city, Christopher," said the Englishman with an easy smile, "does it even have a name yet?" He gave the younger man a light nudge before sipping his Heineken. "There he is," said Nicholas over the rim of the green glass.

"Dr. House, a pleasure to finally meet," he greeted the man by offering a palm for a shake, "allow me to introduce Christopher Styles." Brocklehurst gestured to him.

Christoper took the doctor in, and smiled slightly. He asked briskly, "You prefer your alcohol light or heavy?"

He looked normal, which was only a relief. Too many abnormal people about in the City; even his schoolboy assistant could do magic. He felt the need to surround himself in pure, blatant unmagical normalcy every once in a while.

He took another drink of his beer and leaned back on the bar.

Reproachfully, House tucked his cane in the crook of one arm and briefly shook Brocklehurst's hand. "I'm sure it is. Kant would be proud." He didn't know that there would be company. Greg looked to the other man. Another suit, strike that another good suit. They weren't doctors but they were made.

"Hard day at the office there, champ? I don't care what I drink right now. I want it."

"I'm sure Styles could entertain you with a bit of Locke if that's more to your liking," Brocklehurst remarked, shifting his smile from the doctor to the lawyer. It was a joke of course, he wouldn't dare ask Christopher to recite the concept of tabula rasa and limits to accumulation lest Nicholas sleep on the couch tonight.

"Another beer then," he suggested to the tender, "make it a black and tan."

"I think the Doctor is much more inclined to Descartes right now," Styles laughed as he handed House his beer. "People in this city are morons," he muttered, "who like to ask me when in the trial I will be announcing my intention to plea bargain."

He took another drink, "Oh, that and I found out my office boy was busted on possession of cannabis." He smirked slightly. "You scared the piss out of him, good job."

"Diogenes. But enough of the name dropping," House held onto the cool glass of his beer. Felt real enough. Tasted damn good, real but not enough to distract. "Lawyer? Aw, I'm sorry. Better luck next time you choose a career."

The cane rested now on top of the bar, laying fat close to the strategically placed bowl of assorted nuts. "Your errand boy? Someone needed to do it. How old is he? Ten? Eight? Thirteen? Ignorance is not an excuse."

Nicholas arched a brow over House's words before glancing to Christopher. This was going to be an interesting conversation. He'd already picked up on the prickly traits of this Gregory House, in a way Brocklehurst rather enjoyed the up front and blunt manner. It was opposite the requirement of his own occupation. He took another sip of his beer.

"Around seventeen I believe, practically out of secondary," the blond raised his chin.

Styles was amused. The doctor was cynical enough that he felt like he could be honest, instead of placating, as usual. "My first career was worse," he said without an ounce of regret. "Politician."

He nodded at Brocklehurst. "Neville's seventeen with all the idiocy that entails." He lifted his beer over at House. "What kind of medicine?"

"Ew. I hope you shower regularly." Lawyer and a politician. House scooted a hair away from the man.

"If he wants to be a professional, get that kid some real books to study out of. As for me? I'm a diagnostician, I specialize in infectious diseases and nephrology--kidneys." He smirked a little and raised his glass.

"He does," said Brocklehurst, coolly and completely professional with another sip of the Heineken.

"Says the man taken by a girl and her pine marten," Nicholas smiled. "Are you looking to continue your practice here? I'm sure you've realized by now you're neither dreaming nor in a coma," the Englishman shrugged once, a gesture of that being something to consider. "There's a vampire problem in the City. Some consider it an infectious virus," he nodded, looking to both House and Styles, the latter who knew of the prevalent vampire population all too well.

"At least then a real doctor would be practicing in that hospital." Styles leaned over slightly and told him, "Right now it's run by a disgruntled angel."

He didn't believe the words coming out of his own mouth half the time anymore, so he certainly didn't expect House to believe him. "In any case, if you can find a cure for vampirism or lycanthropy, I'm sure you'll become the most popular and most reviled doctor in the city overnight."

"The holy power if healing is what is keeping that place running? No wonder the plague response was nonexistent. I'm no pillar of authority but demolition has its appeal. Are people really happy with the hospital as it is?"

"Vampirism meaning the literal ingestion of blood?" House made a face. "I'm sure that HIV and AIDs has flared." He could take this being a dream but it was hard to suspend his belief on mere words. He leaned on the bar. This was someone's joke and it wasn't funny.

"He's very dedicated to his medical practice despite his manner," Brocklehurst added in Raphael's defense. "I believe the hospital took care of the wounded during a month long sacrificial scenario, but I wasn't here for it," he shook his head before taking another sip.

"From what I've seen, the cancer rate is low and the HIV rate practically non-existant," he shrugged with one shoulder. "It almost makes the hospital useless. On the contrary vampirism and lycanthropy occur frequently, third only to death and dismemberment." He rolled his beer on the bottom rim casually.

"The death toll is remarkably high here," Styles muttered. "But rarely is it from actual disease." In fact, other than the curse, he had noticed that most of the citizens had rather impeccable health. "Demolishing the hospital would be a waste of the resource. Better to simply restructure."

He took a drink. "I haven't heard of any HIV in the city. I suppose it anyone would know, it would be the hospital staff. But yes, by vampirism they mean the literal ingestion of human blood. There's even a club where they go." Run by Lacroix.

"I was thinking more along the lines of bringing down the man and a brand new administration that is built on real practicing medicine. But I guess light and the Hallelujah work better, hmm?" Skepticism was no stretch here.

"Hypertrichosis...Eddie Munster lycanthropy? The cure is electrolysisw or waxing. No, I bet it's not that simple, we are talking Call of the Wild, Jack London fodder aren't we?" He couldn't buy this. Not without seeing prodding, testing. House reached into his pocket and produced a small plastic container and popped the cap. Just one for now. He was drinking after all.

"Do you need a place out of which you can practice until you've the resources and credibility to confront the official establishment," asked Brocklehurst.

The conversation felt like one of their many meetings in the West Wing, discussing plans, methods, resources, cabinets, and legislation. Only it seemed House's concern was the medical practice. What did he do again? Nicholas had never really been keen on medicine, beyond what he'd learned in the military and MI6. Hospitals felt uncomfortable although he would never admit it nor ever let it show. Hmm, he caught sight of the pill popping, but the Englishman wasn't one to argue about recreational marijuana use and medication dependency.

Styles watched the pill discreetly, noticing and taking note, both at once. Medical dependencies were things that could be exploited, if one knew how to deal with the people who had them. "A complete overhaul of the hospital would not be entirely out of the question. Staff, medical practices, governing treaties...all negotiable, I'm sure."

Styles took another drink and thought about it. "We could set up a private practice. We could even arrange for an administrator to deal with all the paperwork and to screen customers. That would leave you free to deal exclusively with medicine, Dr. House."

"That's all very well and good gentlemen, but I find it very hard to believe you open your doors and pockets to a man who has not so much as diagnosed the sniffles since arrival. What do you want from me?" Greg looked from Styles to Brocklehurst. Brocklehurst had the sort of face that could remain like stone, minimal smile lines and enough care wearing in. It looked as though his eyes didn't lie. Styles was too quick to smile. Could be trouble.

"I don't like being The Man and I don't like answering to The Man. If I'm stuck here, I want to get paid doing what I do best." The bottle was out of sight, House considered in passing of offering them one. He didn't hide his use on vicodin, after all pain was pain? Did he have to show everyone how it felt for them to understand? Boring and drawn out feat.

"True, even a doctor should have known to decipher a dream," said Brocklehurst, his blue eyes bright against his supposed stone-like face. He gave House a subtle smile, "whatever it is you need, I'm sure Styles or myself can procure it for you." Without a prescription, even though such documents were hardly necessary in the City, but money moved the product and as Gregory House had stated earlier, he was poor.

"That's a valid point, House," Nicholas nodded with another sip of his beer. "We're willing to take a chance on this because we have the means to do so," his tone was casual and cool, "it'd be little loss for us if you turned out to be a bloody quack, because you're only human aren't you? And you, like the rest of us are surrounded by supernaturals."

Brocklehurst gestured to the patrons of the large pub, running the gamut from 'normal' looking women hiding witchly powers to one of the tenders himself sporting subtle knobs of bone on his forehead as genuine horns. That didn't include the vampires and werewolves in hiding, or the reapers and the angels. The point being, the doctor seemed like he was only human, and they had a tendency to not go very far in the City without assistance. He was right to think both Styles and Brocklehurst were made, and it hadn't been easy.

"Where did you go to school?" Styles asked suddenly. The question had a very real purpose; it was to prove to himself that he wasn't crazy. If House was from the real world, a world where things like degrees and training actually meant something, then he would at least know he wasn't dealing with someone whose greatest level of medical education was, This is what God made me for.

Brocklehurst's comment made Doctor House roll his eyes. He'll get him back in time and with a vengeance. He would not rehash that for now. After all, how often does one need to prove to ones own self that a dream is a dream or reality is reality? Unless they were a Descartes loving school boy that is.

"Willing to take a chance seems like better grounds for any action. Seeing as I'm dealing with politicians I see that this is all for the good of the citizens. I'm sure you could get hurt shaking hands and catch something from that baby kissing."

Pausing he took a drink and let a few mostly melted cubes of ice crunch between his teeth. Styles' question was one he expected and was glad to reply, "My undergrad degree is from John Hopkins and... transfered to UC Michigan at Ann Arbor with a double major of infectious disease and nephrology."

Of course he would, it'd become the competition that turned friends into enemies... or frienemies.

"We're no deities," Brocklehurst replied, "far from it." He smiled again, the gesture coming to him easier than it did to Styles, but the sincerity of it was just as questionable. At least Christopher would know, considering their past occupations in D.C. Duplicity was an art form for which he'd taken the advantages and the hits, literally.

When the two spoke of education however, Nicholas remained silent, having no formal education to speak of, unlike the brunette beside him.

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