Hi, hope you're all well! Thanks so much to Guest, Rhastahippy, calianabergman, chuck fan 81, vado69, and Pinky Penguin for reviewing! And thanks to everyone who followed or favourited the story. I never expected so much positive feedback. It really spurred me on with writing this.
If anyone has any opinions on who should live or die, please feel free to share them, because I'm quite conflicted. I was actually going to kill Chase in this chapter, but changed my mind at the last minute.
Enjoy!

Chapter Two: Brave New World

The pain in his leg roars to life before any other part of him has the opportunity.

Still half-asleep, House groans. Instinctively, his hand drops to his thigh, begins to massage the twisted flesh. Today's high on the scale – an eight, nearly a nine.

The massage doesn't help. At this point, a bath or heating pad probably won't, either. He can't remember if he has a patient, but if he does, his fellows better be on good form, because it's looking like the best way for him to survive today is by swallowing a bottle of Vicodin, breaking out the scotch, and passing out for a few hours.

He grits his teeth and rolls over, intending to get out of bed to fetch his favourite vices, but is met with a face full of dirt.

What the hell? Did he already go through all this last night?

Great. He's passed out on somebody's front lawn. Probably Cuddy's – most of the other people he knows well enough to drunkenly annoy own apartments.

Then again, Cuddy would've never left him outside overnight, regardless of how much he annoyed her. She wouldn't have been able to sleep, too busy fretting over possibilities of him getting hypothermia or choking to death on his vomit.

She would have called Wilson, at least. And Wilson definitely wouldn't have left him here.

The best way to solve the mystery is to sit up and take a good look around, but with the promise of something to numb the pain being gone, House no longer wants to.

If he stays where he is, if he keeps his face in the dirt… Maybe the pain won't be as bad. Maybe it'll go away. Maybe he'll pass out again.

But the pain never goes away.

So House sticks a hand into the dirt, squeezing it tightly, and pushes himself up into a sitting position.

He hisses, his free hand grasping his leg.

It's later than he thought – around midday, judging by the position of the Sun. He shields his eyes, squints at his surroundings.

Trees, trees, more trees…

And a scrap of material, still smouldering, laying at his feet.

This wouldn't be the first time he's set off fireworks on Cuddy's front lawn, except this definitely isn't Cuddy's front lawn. And- the fabric…

He leans forward, his grip on his bad leg tightening, and just manages to grab the material with the tips of his fingers without having to shuffle any closer. It's still warm. He relishes the heat, brings it up to his face.

It smells of burnt plastic.

Based on the colour, the texture, the smell… It's probably nylon, or something similar.

Something you'd make a suitcase out of, some part of his brain supplies, and suddenly it all clicks.

He was sleeping. The phone rang – he ignored it; Foreman could leave a smug message about how the tests House had ordered for the patient were negative, and in the morning he'd tell him to do the biopsy anyway. But the ringing kept on going and going, until eventually House grabbed the receiver and snarled, "What?"

It wasn't Foreman on the phone. It was somebody important, their voice smooth and monotone in a way that was clearly manipulated electronically. They gave him an offer he couldn't resist – not just the puzzle of diagnosing a disease, but also the puzzle of working out who he was diagnosing it for. (Part of him hoped it was the mafia – they gave better presents than the CIA).

All they wanted in return was for him to fulfil a few mildly interesting requests – leaving immediately, not telling anyone, bringing a specific group of people.

He did it. Followed the orders. The six of them boarded a plane at the agreed time and place.

And that plane crashed.

What went wrong?

House pats down all his pockets. There – in the inside jacket pocket. A handful of Vicodin, a little crushed. He stuffs them inside his mouth eagerly, swallowing them dry, and then licks the crushed particles off his hands.

He waits for them to kick in, counting each agonising minute. Ten, fifteen, twenty. His thigh pulses, cramps. He wishes he had more pills. There'd been one and a half bottles stuffed into his jeans, and ten times that much in his backpack, but it's all gone now. He'd kill to have them back. He should have kept the bottles in his jacket pockets, where they were less likely to fall out. He should have grabbed the bag when the plane started crashing, instead of trying to reason with Cameron and Chase.

Almost forty minutes later, the pain begins to dull.

His whole body shaking with the effort, he pushes himself up off the ground, onto his good leg.

He's left breathless, his head pounding. He lifts a hand to his brow, and finds it's wet with blood, not sweat.

"Wilson!"

His voice echoes mockingly. And his best friend doesn't come running.

"Wilson!"

He opens his mouth to call for Cuddy, then remembers.

She fell. She was sucked out of the plane. One moment she was there, the next she wasn't. He'd grabbed her hand, but it hadn't been enough to save her. He hadn't been enough to save her.

"Wilson!"

Tears prick at his eyes, and House swipes them away angrily. He doesn't cry. He doesn't cry. Crying is weak. His eyes are just watering from the smoke.

Smoke.

He sniffs the air. There it is, unmistakeable – smoke. It's a wonder it took him this long to notice.

Smoke isn't naturally occurring in forests. So it either means wreckage from the plane, or people – teenagers sneaking away from home to smoke weed, families on a camping trip. Both present opportunities to get some kind of help.

House grabs a sturdy-looking stick, tests it to make sure it'll hold his weight, and begins the slow, arduous journey to the source of the fire.

She watches a squirrel clamber up the tree opposite her, its tail flicking excitedly.

"Do you want me to pop it back in?" Cameron asks, eyes still pointedly focused elsewhere.

A moment's hesitation. "Er, that's okay."

She doesn't say anything, but her shoulders slump in relief. Honestly, the last thing she wants right now is to have to listen to bones cracking.

It's funny - she's worked in the trauma department a lot. She's participated in triage relatively often in comparison to some doctors. She shouldn't be bothered by all this.

Cameron chances a glance at her leg. The pain only magnifies, and she turns her head away again with a muffled whimper.

A hand, dusted with grit, gently covers her own. The gesture is practiced - he's been doing this kind of thing for years. "We're going to be okay," Wilson tells her softly.

We're going to be okay. Chase said that on the plane. And then the plane fell out of the sky and was torn to pieces, and now she's alone in the forest with Wilson, and things are not okay. And things are not going to be okay. Things are never going to be okay again. Wilson's lying. Everybody lies.

"We're not," she tells him, and then feels disgusted at how weak and pathetic she sounds. There's no way the woman she is now is going to survive this ordeal, that's for certain.

"My leg's not okay." Cameron's voice is wobbly, despite her best efforts.

"Yeah. It's broken."

If he can tell her that with certainty without even examining it, her leg must be as bad as she thinks it is – or worse. She knows that at least, it's bent on a very wrong angle.

"Do you-" Her voice cracks. "Maybe you could take a look at it?"

Wilson's face suggests that – like her – he'd rather jump off a cliff right now than have to treat someone else's injuries. But if there's anything Cameron's learnt while working under House, it's that Wilson is a doormat. He swallows and shifts uncomfortably, and then gives her a quick, jerky nod. "Alright."

He lets go of her hand, gently probes the tattered limb. She hisses, clenching her fists so tightly that her nails dig into her palms and leave bloody half-moon indentations.

After what feels like forever, Wilson's working hand finally retreats. "Do you think we could roll your pant leg up?" He sounds worried.

Cameron shakes her head. The mere idea makes her want to throw up or pass out, or do both. Which, now that she thinks about it, is unsurprising given the amount of vomiting she already did on the plane. Her blood sugar's going to be low, which isn't going to be helpful.

"Ideally, we'd just tear your pants at the knee, but I'd need both hands to do it."

She's still got both hands. She could do it.

Trembling, Cameron begins to pull at the material of her pant leg. But then her left hand slips, brushes against her thigh, connects with something hard and terrifying in a burst of pain that makes her cry out.

Bone. Her bone's sticking out of her leg. It isn't supposed to do that.

She opens her mouth to tell Wilson, but the words stick in her throat. Judging by the stupid, sympathetic look on his face, he already suspects.

There's a rustling in the bushes behind Cameron. A light, thumping sound. Wilson stiffens. Cameron grabs his arm – he can't leave, he can't run off and leave her here to get attacked by some monster.

Wilson presses a finger to his lips, telling her to stay silent. Carefully, still grasped by Cameron, he crawls closer to her, shielding her with his body.

A twig snaps.

Whatever's approaching, it's getting closer.

Cameron holds her breath, tightening her grip on Wilson. He still has a fighting chance. But Cameron - she's stuck here, laid out like a meal for passing predators.

A memory flashes through her head – that research scientist who passed out and got nibbled on by his own rats.

Maybe she should tell Wilson to run, to save himself. But she can't bring herself to do it. She's just not brave enough.

The leaves crunch. Cameron winces – the sound is way too reminiscent of bones for comfort. And judging by how close the sound was, whatever's stalking them is practically here.

Wilson exhales, relieved, and slumps back against her with some kind of choked half-laugh.

Cameron frowns. That doesn't sound like an appropriate reaction.

Cautiously, she peers over Wilson's shoulder. Maybe the approaching animal they've been expecting is actually a bunny rabbit or another squirrel.

When she sees what it is, Cameron's jaw drops. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

House towers over the two of them, bent over a stick that's really too short to substitute his cane. His face is covered in bruises and blood's smeared all over his temple.

He's grinning.

"Would ya look at that, Cameron!" He exclaims. "We're gonna be twinning."

She'd cry, except it's House. House is alive. It's not just her and Wilson anymore. And if House is alive, and Wilson is alive… Maybe Chase is alive too. Maybe they're all alive.

Wilson stumbles to his feet and hugs House.

House allows the hug for a short while, before taking a small step back. And then he grabs Wilson's arm, taking him completely by surprise, and deftly pops it back in. Wilson yelps, releases an impressive string of curse words.

"You could have warned me," he says, rubbing his arm, but he's still smiling. "I'm glad you're alive, House."

"Of course you are. I'm much better company than Cameron. Although, I suppose if you want to settle down here and start your own Swiss family Robinson, she's of more use to you than I am."

House plops himself down next to Cameron on the ground, looking over her leg. In a swift, single move he rips open her pant leg, revealing shiny bone, pink flesh, blood. So much blood.

Cameron screams. And screams and screams and screams. Because- her leg.

There's not going to be any fixing this injury.

Chase bats her hand away as she probes his head for bumps or cuts. "I'm fine, Dr. Cuddy."

She sits back, wincing at the motion. "I think you can drop the 'Dr.' We might be here a while - there's no need for formalities." Her voice is a little raspy – maybe she should be the one getting checked out.

He nods. "Alright, then. Cuddy." It sounds awkward on his tongue, but neither of them acknowledges it. The change is going to take some getting used to. All of this is going to take some getting used to.

"When's your birthday?"

He looks at her oddly – does she really want to play twenty questions when they've just been in a plane crash and don't know if any of their friends are alive?

But she's completely serious.

Ah - she's still checking for head trauma.

"I thought we agreed I was fine."

"No, you said you were fine. But given the state you were in when you found me, I don't think we can really trust your judgement right now."

Truthfully, he can't remember the state he was in when he found Cuddy. He was on the plane with Cameron, they were crashing and she was throwing up and House was yelling something at them, and then he was in some random patch of forest with his boss' concerned boss. Although he's tried remembering the stretch of time in-between, he keeps drawing blanks.

Cuddy claims he was dazed. That he was shaking, that he didn't know who she was, that he kept saying things that didn't make sense.

"When's your birthday?" She repeats. Her tone is firm, leaving no room for arguments.

He sighs. "12th September 1979."

"Where do you work?"

"Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, on Prospect Street, in New Jersey."

"And who do you work for?"

"You. And House. Let's face it, mostly House."

She raises her eyebrows, but doesn't argue. They both know it's true.

"How long have you been working for House?"

Chase hesitates.

He's been working for House for a while. A few years, at least. Longer than Cameron and Foreman. But the details are hazy.

"Since I finished my residency in neurosurgery at Melbourne Hospital."

"That's not an answer."

"I started working for House years ago. You can't expect me to remember exact dates."

"I don't. That's why I didn't ask for an exact date – I asked how many years you've been working for House for, which you should know. You're avoiding the question because you don't remember the answer." Cuddy stands up, satisfied with her analysis. Again, a small breath of pain escapes her. "Sounds like you have a concussion."

"Okay, I have a concussion." Chase follows her, using a tree to pull himself to his feet. "What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing. I got slammed into a tree on my way down. I must have broken a rib."

Chase halts. "Wait, what? You got thrown out of the plane and into a tree?"

"Yes. Which means that the others could have been in similar scenarios, and gotten equally hurt, or worse. So we should go and find them."

"I agree that we should find them, but Cuddy, that's a massive impact – you could have internal bleeding. Before we go any further, you should let me check you out."

Cuddy huffs and turns around to face him again. "Listen, Chase. I already know I've got a broken rib, so there's no need to check. And if I do have internal bleeding, I'm as good as dead anyway, so there's no need to check for that either. Meanwhile, there's a whole group of other people out there – including your girlfriend – who could need our medical expertise. Do you want to make them wait any longer?"

She starts walking again.

Chase waits a moment, conflicted. He desperately wants to find Allison, but on the other hand, if he doesn't make sure Cuddy's okay and she dies…

House would kill him. The guilt would kill him.

In fact, he feels a strange feeling of kinship with House right now. In all those years of being his fellow, he'd never seen much justification for the way he treated Cuddy, but currently, faced with all her stubbornness… Well, to some extent, he understands.

She's getting far away, and he hurries to catch up to her.

"You made me let myself get checked out."

"That's different. Head injuries are more serious. Besides, you're not much use to me if you're dazed and unfocused."

"I'm flattered."

"It's getting dark. Hurry up."