The Art of Subconscious Illusion: Rewritten (Death NotexHouse, MD crossover)

Scream

Full Summary: The rewritten version of the original well-loved fic, this portrays the story of the fight between House the diagnostician and the mental patient who calls himself Kira. One week is all that is allotted for him and his team to save Kira from the world and himself…and House's neck is on the line.

A/N: And after a long, long, LONG wait, you have a new chapter. One that doesn’t hurt your eyes with italics abuse. Not only is this chapter something of a celebration of how well this fic is going so far, it is also the first chapter of 2012, making this its own landmark (but not one that warrants a non-A7X chapter title this time). I know that updates will more or less stop until the end of June, so, for this one, I’ve decided to treat you with an extra-long and most gorgeous chapter, one that I’m hoping you will enjoy immensely, especially as I am so proud of it.

Originally, this was going to have a bit more added on the end, but thanks to how well this one just ended, I was pleased enough to leave it here and as-is. Just remember, once again, please read and review this baby, because this is my brain-baby, and don’t forget to tell me if I’m going wrong at all.

So, please enjoy yet another chapter of AoSI: R!

Scream

Day 4

What do you think you’re doing?

Why are you giving up like that?

Yes. Didn’t we agree we wouldn’t show such undeserved generosity?

What are they going to think when they see you now, knowing what you’ve done?

Since when was a god so weak?

What do we need to do to remind you? A week ago, this would’ve meant ensuring their Silence.

What a load of bull!

Light opened his eyes. He’d long since been conscious, keeping his eyes shut to allow himself safe passage back to wherever it was he’d just left, but he just couldn’t get there. The voices had started up the commentary again, yelling, keening at him as they always did. They always had an opinion to voice – so unlike Ryuk, who just amused himself with watching him from day to day, grinning with that wide, painted, mostly silent mouth of his. His eyes opened slowly, gradually, until he found himself in the same darkness that had been before, just as surrounded, just as alone.

This wasn’t so bad, at 3 o’clock in the morning. He was used to this at all hours of waking, all night every night. In fact, it suited him quite well. He often had this irrational fear of awaking devoid of his clothing, his scars on show for the world to see, to point, to stare. Or, at least that’s what he expected would happen. People tended to be afraid of the strange and unfamiliar, of what didn’t fit the template marked ‘Perfect’, and he knew enough about Perfect to know he didn’t fit it, not at all. If anyone outside this room ever saw them, ever even suspected that they were etched in his skin, the skin of this perfect creature, they’d shame him with glares of horror and gifts of pity.

What are you talking about? They already know.

There are photographs making their rounds through the hospital, I’m sure of it.

Wasn’t it only yesterday when they stripped you like a dog? What did your mother think?

Bah! You’re a creature of some kind, but certainly not Perfect!

You make me sick.

He hated Stress. The way it built up inside his body, grating from under the skin, tensing and twisting his muscles relentlessly, without release. It made him contort during nights like these, and he did so, his back arching up as his arms stretched out and he folded back in on himself in waves of shudders. His hands found his head, gripping it, digging his nails into it, through the hair that was once so neat and trim, but now overgrown and hitting his shoulders, sending stabs of irritation through him with every brushing strand, worse than the caustic itch still present inside his mouths and at the corners of his lips. He grit his teeth against it, eyes screwed up as he wished, begged for that dose of soma, something to make it bleed out of him like it used to.