Chapter 2: Baseline
The hospital cafeteria coffee tastes like burnt regret, but I drink it anyway. Old habits.
I've been sitting here for twenty minutes, laptop open, pretending to review patient charts while actually trying to catalog everything I remember about House M.D. The afternoon crowd is thinning out—nurses ending shifts, residents grabbing late lunch. Nobody pays attention to another doctor with a computer.
Good. I need to think.
I pull out a notebook—found it in Chase's desk, unused—and start writing in a mix of medical shorthand and my own code. If anyone sees this, it needs to look like study notes. Not "things I know because I watched a TV show in another life."
Timeline:
Two weeks until pilot episodePatient: Rebecca Adler, teacher, seizures → neurocysticercosis (tapeworm)House hires: Foreman (neurologist), Cameron (immunologist), meMajor arcs: Vogler (donor, forces House to fire someone), Stacy (ex, comes back with sick husband)
Problems:
Memory gaps: I don't remember every case. Details are fuzzy. Can't rely on this completely.Butterfly effect: If I change things, what else changes?Exposure risk: If I'm too accurate, House will notice. He notices everything.
Chase's trajectory (original):
Spy for Vogler → team loses trustMarries Cameron → divorcesKills Dibala (African dictator) → guilt spiralEventually takes over diagnostics
I stare at that last point. In the show, Chase ended up okay. Damaged but functional. Could I do better? Should I try?
One thing at a time.
First priority: figure out what else is different about this body.
I tested the healing this afternoon. Cut myself three more times—shallow, controlled, always where clothing would hide it. Every time, the wound closed within minutes. No infection. No scarring. Just rapid cellular regeneration that shouldn't be possible.
It's not instant. If I got shot, I'd still die. But minor injuries? Common infections? This body handles them like they're nothing.
Enhanced immune system. Has to be. The cuts heal because white blood cells and platelets respond faster, stronger, more efficiently than normal human biology allows.
Which means I need a medical explanation before someone notices. House will notice.
I make another note: Research immune disorders with hyperactive responses. Find condition that fits. Create paper trail.
The laptop screen dims. I'm about to wake it when someone drops into the chair across from me.
"You're Chase, right?"
I look up. The woman is maybe forty, dark hair pulled back, wearing scrubs with a lanyard that reads "Nurse Williams - ICU." She has kind eyes but the exhausted look of someone pulling a double.
"Yeah." I close the notebook casually. "That's me."
"Thought so. You're starting with House in a couple weeks?" She dumps three sugar packets into her coffee. "Good luck with that. He's brilliant but he's a nightmare."
"So I've heard."
"You seem calm about it." She studies me. "Most people are terrified."
I shrug. "I figure if I'm going to work in diagnostics, might as well learn from the best. Even if he's difficult."
"Difficult." She laughs. "That's diplomatic. You Australian?"
"Yeah. Brisbane."
"Long way from home."
You have no idea.
"Wanted a change," I say. Which is technically true from Chase's perspective. And mine. "Fresh start."
She nods like that makes sense. "Well, welcome to PPTH. Try not to let House destroy your soul."
She leaves before I can respond. I watch her go, then pack up my things. That was easy—casual conversation, no red flags. I can do this. I can be Chase without being Chase.
But I need to test more. Need to understand the limits.
The apartment gym is small—just a treadmill, some weights, a punching bag that's seen better days. I'm alone, which is perfect.
I start with basics. Treadmill. I haven't run regularly since medical school, but Chase's body feels good. Strong. I push the speed up.
Five minutes in, I'm barely winded. Ten minutes, still fine. Fifteen minutes at a pace that should have me gasping, and my heart rate is elevated but not struggling.
Cardiovascular health is excellent. Better than it should be for someone who works hospital hours and probably doesn't exercise enough.
I switch to weights. Chase's muscles aren't huge, but they respond well—good strength, clean form, minimal fatigue. I push until my arms shake, then stop and check my watch.
Recovery time: four minutes before the trembling stops completely.
Normal humans take ten to fifteen.
I grab a small knife from the apartment kitchen—carefully, because this is insane—and make a shallow cut on my calf where pants will hide it.
The pain is immediate. Real. I'm not invulnerable.
But the bleeding stops in thirty seconds. The skin begins closing. Within five minutes, there's just a faint line.
Within ten, nothing.
I sit on the gym floor and stare at my leg.
Enhanced disease resistance. Phase 1.
The thought comes from nowhere, but it feels right. Like a video game classification. Phase 1 means there are other phases. This could get stronger.
Or it could mean this is just the beginning of something I don't understand.
Either way, I need to document it. Track healing times. Monitor for side effects. Treat this scientifically.
I head back upstairs and add to my notebook:
Power 1: Disease Resistance (Tentative)
Cuts heal in 5-10 minutes (shallow)No infection observedPain response normalScarring minimal to noneHypothesis: Enhanced immune system, accelerated cellular repairRisks: Unknown long-term effects. Could attract medical attention.Cover story needed: Genetic variant? Rare HLA type?
I'll research that tomorrow. Tonight, I need to deal with the other thing I've been avoiding.
The grief.
I set a timer for one hour.
Then I let myself fall apart.
I think about my parents. They're alive somewhere, in another world, and they just lost their son. Did I vanish? Was there a body? Are they planning a funeral?
I think about my friends. The guys I played basketball with on Sundays. The attending who mentored me through residency. The barista at the coffee shop who knew my order.
I think about my ex. We didn't end well, but I didn't want her to find out I died. Didn't want her to feel guilty about the fights we had.
I think about my patients. The ones I was treating. Who's taking care of them now?
I think about my life. Thirty-two years. Not long enough. Not finished. I had plans. I was going to apply for a fellowship in critical care. I was going to travel. I was going to figure out how to be happy.
And now I'm here. In someone else's skin. In a world that shouldn't exist.
The timer goes off.
I wipe my face—Chase's face—and stand up. My eyes are red. My throat is raw. But the grief is contained now. Acknowledged. Put in a box.
I can mourn, or I can build.
I already chose.
I walk to the window. Princeton spreads out below—streetlights coming on, cars heading home, people living their lives. Somewhere in this town, Gregory House is probably popping Vicodin and solving an impossible case. Somewhere, Allison Cameron is maybe doing volunteer work or reading in her apartment. Somewhere, Eric Foreman is working his way up the ladder.
And in two weeks, I'll meet them all.
Not as a fan. Not as someone who knows their secrets. As Robert Chase, new fellow in diagnostic medicine.
I have advantages: medical knowledge from eight years as a hospitalist, metaknowledge of major plot points, and apparently some kind of healing factor.
I have disadvantages: incomplete memories, no idea how far I can push this without breaking causality, and the constant risk of exposure.
But I have a chance. A second chance.
I'm not going to waste it.
The reflection in the window shows Chase's face, but the determination in those blue eyes is all mine.
Two weeks to prepare. Two weeks to build a cover story. Two weeks to figure out how to be the best version of Robert Chase that ever existed.
Starting now.
I grab my laptop and start researching rare immune disorders. There's work to do.
The night is long, but I've got time.
And I'm going to use every second.
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