He strode through the hospital with all the confidence of a true master of his domain.

Okay, he limped. Gimped.

Dr. House headed to his office, and opened the door.

"... these are selling really well on e-bay, and I'm getting some cash as well as clearing some space."

"Whatever happened to a garage sale?"

"You just turned into your dad then."

"Differential diagnosis on turning into your father." Foreman and Chase turned to see their boss enter, making a beeline straight for the coffee machine. "Symptoms include hair in your ears, a preference for Volvos, and realising that you can date someone half your age and it's legal."

Foreman leaned back. "Care to tell us how you cope?"

"Oh, I got myself innoculated years ago. Although ..." He snatched some of the items off the table "... dating becomes a non-issue when you bring comic books into the workplace, Dr. Chase."

"How do you know they're mine?"

"Comics are more of a white guy sort of thing." House looked at the cover. "The ... Mighty Thor?"

"Yeah ... he's a god ..."

"Norse God of Thunder." House showed the cover. "And he's supposed to be a redhead."

Chase would not be deterred. "And he ... has a magic hammer ... and when he hits his hammer on the ground ... he changes into ..." Chase glanced at House.

"Into ...?"

"A ... lame doctor."

House gave him a blank stare for a five-count before slowly approaching. "Lame as in a ... dare I say it, cripple, or lame as in ... you?"

Chase was trying to form an answer. Honest.

House decided not to give him an opportunity, and swept the remaining comics from the table. "Any teenager who doesn't trade these in for a Penthouse should automatically qualify for therapy."

"Hey what are you ..."

House turned from the door to Chase. "Teacher says you can have these back at the end of the day."

House had propped his leg on the desk, analysing the comic book for suitable lines of dialogue to use as future humiliation material. So far, four passable, one good, and one real juicy line that deserved a full audience.

He'd finished with the adventures of Tony Stark using his transistorised super-armour to fight godless Communists, and was starting on The Mighty Thor.

Apparently the writers had picked at the elements of the mythology and added some bits of their own. Only certain people picking the hammer up ...?

"Whosoever holds this hammer ... if he be worthy ... shall possess the power of ... Thor."

Worthy. Who determined who was worthy? A Viking God? Did you have to meet a quota of rape and pillage before being able to pick up a defective Viking weapon?

House looked at his cane, resting in his right hand.

He picked it up with his fingers, letting it drop a few times.

Then he held it in his fist, and slammed it down on it's base, hard.

Cuddy looked at her watch. By now, House was probably ditching clinic duty. Time to get up and browbeat him into doing what every other doctor in this hospital did willingly, some even liked.

She got up - and a rumble filled the hospital.

Every light flickered and died. Her computer shut down.

From the sounds beyond the office door, it sounded like a hospital wide blackout.

What the hell was going on ...?

House was on the floor.

He couldn't remember lying on the floor, leaning his head against the glass.

And a burning smell permeated the whole room.

He pushed himself up -

- and knew something was wrong.

The pain in his leg, even when most heavily medicated was a dull, nagging, presence at the very best, was gone.

And looking down only compounded more nagging questions, like; Why am I wearing leather leggings instead of my stylish clearance sale Wal Mart jeans?

Not to mention what looked like a thick leather belt and rather heavy looking metal gauntlets.

And the real kicker was why everything looked at least half a foot smaller.

And everything, at least everything in this office looked like a whirlwind had gone through it. Not to mention his computer - which he had meant to back up three years ago - was fried.

Fried, as in partially melted. Not to mention his Nintendo DS and his iPod.

Now he identified the smell: ozone.

Then there was something where his cane used to be.

A large metal-and-stone hammer. The head of the hammer was there purely to demonstrate that the haft was clearly not a baseball bat.

House peered at the now dead monitor.

A face very similar to his, but now sporting straggly shoulder-length hair peered back at him.

House staggered back, noticing the few things that had escaped destruction.

Namely Chase's comics.

"Oh crap."