Hello, you've reached Dr. James Wilson. I'm not available right now, so please leave me a message and I will get back to you as soon as I can.

Thank you.

[ voicemail | text | action | w/e go for it bbz ]

Today's curse is certainly... interesting. At least the secret admirer curse is looking less awkward by the moment - on the bright side of that curse, nobody knew who you were. And at least one of you had excellent taste in chocolate assortments.

So today is dedicated to the objectification of the City's populace. Fitting, considering the season we're entering. Though I have to admit, if this is what we're dealing with now, I'm a little wary of what February itself will bring. I seem to recall being pelted with candy hearts containing the population's secrets last year...

There's a startling thought. Another week or so and it'll be a year since the first time I arrived here. At least, according to time here. It just doesn't really carry the same weight when you spend a month in the City's time at home for a year. Assuming that I actually did. It's just slightly difficult to trust anything you perceive here.

[Filtered from House]

I'm curious as to whether there are any mechanics in the City who might be able to build a motorcycle? Apparently just purchasing one isn't an option here, and I have a friend whose life would be made much easier with one.

And anyone who knows and still tolerates House? If you're willing to pitch in on this, it'd be appreciated... at least, by me. Really, I should have asked this a few days ago, but well... that would have been dishonest.

[The sound quality of Wilson's voice, makes it clear that he's speaking in a room from behind a closed door, the device on the other side.]

We're not friends anymore, House... I'm not sure we ever were.

[There's the sound of a latch, and then a door opening... followed by a splash.]

What--

[Cue quite a bit of sloshing as the familiar phenomenon of a disoriented individual liberating himself from the fountain takes place. For anyone in the square, there is now a completely bewildered and drenched oncologist pulling himself over the ledge of the fountain. Not actually a new arrival, of course, but for all intents and purposes today, he may as well be.]

How-- where am I? Oh god, this can't be real...

[He's looking around for something as he stands; maybe the box of things he was carrying until a moment ago, maybe the former best friend he just told off, maybe just the hospital hallway he expected to walk into, but it's obviously not here. All there is, is Dr. Wilson pulling himself to his feet, out in the cold in a wet suit.]


[ooc: Wilson has just fallen into the City all over again, from the beginning of season 5. Selective memory loss likely to occur as a result of this curse; will remember any new CR and speaking to people, but not specifics of conversations which involve things from his future. Going out shortly, tags here (and backtags on Ferris' intro) later <3]

[There's a hesitation at first, just the sound of an expulsion of breath; as if he's trying to calculate what to say.]

Well. I suppose I could call myself lucky, in that I didn't get too far from the hospital before the jackalope jumped me.

... House? What's the likelihood we can hit a bar tonight?

[Pauses again, as if he's not sure whether he's got anything else to say. After a moment, he decides he doesn't, and cuts it off.]

[How exactly the device has turned on is anyone's guess; it's probable that, like many things in the City, it's got a mind of its own. And really, what could a small electronic device aspire to more than humiliating its owner for the entire City to see? Especially when its owner has been hiding in his room weathering a severe curse for several days, avoiding even those he knows very well - including his best friend and roommate.

Whatever its reasons may be, Wilson's device has begun transmitting a video feed. It's resting on his dresser, where it has a clear view of his bed. It's quite likely that the mass underneath the cover is, in fact, Wilson, but given that whoever happens to be in the bed is entirely covered by the blanket, it's not clear right away. Until, of course, if one listens closely, you hear a low, worn-down, very tired voice from under the blanket which nearly moans;]

Stop... stop it... stop it...

[Those who know him may recognize Wilson's voice, though it sounds rather hollowed-out compared to how it usually would. Any suspicions as to who, exactly, is complaining from under the covers are confirmed when they're tossed violently aside enough that he can sit up, grab a book off the nightstand, and hurl it at a spot next to the bed - where, of course, it proceeds to fly right into the wall. Breathing in ragged gasps with a light sweat on his face, pale with bags under his eyes, he looks more haunted than tired. He hisses at the spot the book was thrown towards.]

Don't you dare bring Danny into this!

This isn't... I'm not...

[He falls back onto the pillow, staring blankly at the ceiling and drawing in a slow, unsteady breath.]

I'm not crazy.

[His declaration sounds more like he's trying to convince himself than anything else of this questionable fact; the fear in his tone or in the tension on his face is not beyond detection. He closes his eyes, jaw shaking only slightly as he releases another breath. Deep, slow and deliberate.]


[ooc: Wilson's been cursed with an especially malicious incarnation of Shadowplay since Saturday, which has been reminding him of everything he's ever failed at. A slight variant on the curse, darkness does not make it go away and it is not visible to anyone else, nor does it have any physical abilities. Thanks to it, he's been hiding out since late on Sunday, avoiding absolutely everyone and everything. Replies however you like, and open to action if; (a) Molly feels like it, or; (b) your character would dare to enter House's House of Whining, where Wilson happens to live but knows better than to say is his in any way.]

[Wilson's voice seems a bit strained, just slightly, as if he's under a bit of distress. It could be related to the subject matter at hand, but in truth, it would be there anyway. Somebody's gone and pressed their button and he's gotten the raw end of the deal, and he's had a fairly bad day overall.]

This is really just a notice for anyone who was acquainted with Di Di or who may have just happened to see the video she posted to the Network earlier and was concerned... I'm afraid she didn't make it.

[A pause, as his voice shifts in tone, clearly responding to something he's heard. His tone is much softer; he's probably hoping nobody else can hear it, but if you listen closely, you might.]

What? No, it's not-- not even remotely--

[He addresses the device again, clearing his throat quietly.]

Sorry-- ah... she was taken to the hospital but we weren't able to do anything for her...

[This time he trails off, listening to something unheard to those on the Network. Again, in that much quieter voice...]

I don't-- that's absurd. You don't know--

No. You don't.

[He still sounds distracted, but returns to the recording. Even if you couldn't hear him, he's obviously spooked.]

Ah. As I was saying, we weren't able to save her. She's... in the hospital still, and in all likelihood should revive as... City Dead. Ah. Tomorrow.

She will remain under observation for a brief period of time, after which she will be released.

I'm-- sorry.

[The transmission ends.]

[TEXT UPDATE / FILTERED TO MEDICAL PERSONNEL AND HEALERS]

If anyone knows who or where this individual is, he needs help, immediately. I have no idea how he's even still alive, but if he doesn't get help soon, he won't be.

[ALSO FILTERED UPDATE]

We've got the patient's location, paramedics have been dispatched. I'll be down in the ER to help when he gets here-- some assistance would be greatly appreciated. Anyone who uses method of healing that may be called supernatural might be well-suited to this. I think it's safe to say these aren't ordinary injuries or an ordinary patient.

Well, at least this time I don't seem to have a small collection of clones. Of course, the fact that this is spanning two days might make up for that.

For our visitors? While I appreciate your apparent fondness, I can do without being attacked by several of you on my way to work. I don't necessarily mind speaking to you, but really, I can't help but feel that you should really secure someone's permission before attaching yourself to them. I also can't help but sincerely hope that none of you are raptors.

...and to reiterate a point brought up by someone who is strictly a friend of mine and never, ever going to be anything more? I don't love House.

For those of you who live here, by the way? If you first spoke to me the last couple of times I posted to the Network, I can't help but feel compelled to point out that I am neither a musician nor a cop. My name is Dr. James Wilson, I'm an oncologist, and I am not now nor have I ever been a pretentious indie artist.

Thank you.


[ooc: No doubles plz (other RSL characters = ok, other Wilsons = noplz), anything else goes. He's late s3 (Resignation), but you can spoil him. He'll forget anything he has to. ... like ha already has.]

There used to be a time when I had hope in the most hopeless of situations, when I found comfort in just being there for people who knew they were dying. I tried my damnedest, but sometimes there just wasn't a thing you could do to stop it. Make them comfortable, ease their pain, sure... sometimes you could delay the inevitable, but sooner or later, it catches up with most of them. But I still had hope, still felt like I was making a difference...

But I couldn't do that anymore. Not once things changed. What I had was taken from me, not by a disease, but by a person. A person that, to this day, I still don't know the identity of. What I was doing mattered, sure, but I couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't get up and go to work and face these people, tell them there was hope, or ease their pain. They'd already given up, and I was just in the trenches. I wasn't pioneering research or organizing experimental new procedures, wasn't doing anything vital to the field. So I left.

I guess the amount of death I deal with on a daily basis hasn't changed, but it's not the same now. I'm not fighting my battles with drugs and radiation, experimental therapies, or hoping to get some poor dying soul for whom nothing has worked into a clinical trial, the latest desperate maneuver of a research team fighting in vain against something we can only just begin to understand.

I save more lives now. And when I can't, I've actually got a chance of making the killer pay.

... well, there's an involved reverie for you. All inspired by the guy I get my coffee from calling me "Dr. Wilson" this morning. It's been a long time since I've answered to that. I'm not sure how he even got wind of it - not here.

Not that it matters. I've got things to do. A city to protect. It may not be the city I know, but it's the one I've got now.


[ooc: Genre switch!! ... which means I need to post in a day or so with Wilson actually being Wilson. He left medicine when his third wife was murdered (Yay, it didn't end in divorce for once! \o/) and became a cop. Yes. He's a rough cop on the edge with nothing left to lose. What the hell is wrong with me? I blame this. ALSO HE'S OUT PATROLLING SO FEEL FREE TO ACTION.]

Business. Industry.

The fact that these words are associated with music is a shame, isn't it?

Music was created to express thought, feeling, convey an experience, capture an emotion -- to communicate on a level deeper than words alone.

Don't get me wrong, it's fantastic that some artists are lucky enough to have the chance to make an actual living off of their work, but money shouldn't be the reason to do this. The reason you make music is because you have something you need to express, some deep, human urge to convey an abstract concept in an appealing, creative way. It's because you need to.

Things just ought to be less about the artist's image and more about the artist's art, don't you think? What they're wearing, how their hair's done, who they're seen with, and whatever other gossip you can dig up aside, the worth a musician should be measured in terms of their music.

Well. I'll be in the park for a while, if anyone feels inclined to drop by and improvise some collaboration.

Restrictions are... important. They keep order, they maintain guidelines, they keep society running, and, most importantly, they're usually put in place to protect people. In many, maybe even most cases where these restrictions are tested, they do accomplish just that. Unfortunately, in order to accomplish that in these cases, one arbitrary rule is put into place. That means there's no room for judgment, no flexibility. there can be no exceptions, because if you let one violation pass for one excuse, it makes it just that much more difficult to enforce that arbitrary rule.

This past weekend brought up a lot in the way of moral ambiguity, it seems. When is it right to do something that's generally considered wrong? Who decides what gain outweighs what loss, how do you determine when the balance is tipped?

People are capable of terrible things, but those same people who have done terrible things are still capable of good. Things aren't always clear, or clean-cut; there isn't pure good and pure evil, at least not in most worlds. If our moral alignment is merely the sum of our actions, how much weight do our intentions, our motivations, have when we're doing the math?

Whatever the case, these people did not deserve this. What they need, those who truly did deserve any form of incarceration, is rehabilitation, encouragement to better themselves, to make better choices, support; not torture and destruction. Even those who can't be reformed, who refuse to change, shouldn't be tormented. Just because the system is on your side, because you call it justice, doesn't make you torturing someone any less immoral.

We all make decisions we aren't proud of, mistakes we wish we hadn't. People have lapses in judgment that lead us to do things we normally know to be wrong, for whatever reason. It's part of being human, or... any equivalent thereof.

What matters most is what you take from those mistakes.

[There is nothing extraordinary about an unoccupied exam room at City General; there are bound to be a few at almost any given time, despite how busy the hospital usually is. Of course, when one crosses over with an exam room in a different reality for a few moments, it's slightly more unusual. Only slightly, of course, because this is still City General. If you're outside this particular exam room, you can actually hear one end of a conversation that's taking place in another world. Over the Network, it's only slightly muffled, as a Network device has inobtrusively made its way back into the pocket of a certain oncologist's lab coat.]

It's one-eighty five. One-eighty five.



...One eighty-five?






Excuse me, I have to go kill someone.

[Of course, when Dr. Wilson makes his hasty exit to go pay a visit to his dear, best friend, he walks right out into a bustling hallway at City General. To say that he looks disoriented is not at all inaccurate, though it might be a bit of an undersell. This is certainly not the right hospital.]

Where did-- I'm not-- I was just--

[He stops in his paces, glancing behind him and opening the door to the room he just stepped out of... to find that it's now an empty, generic exam room at City General and that the poor young woman he just left is sitting alone, bewildered in a room in New Jersey, hoping that they are indeed calcium deposits.]

But this is-- I know-- oh no, really? Now? Did it have to--

[For those on the Network, there's rustling as a shaky, jittery hand reaches into his pockets to try to find the device he knows must be there. AHA. He's pulled it out now, noticed that it's on, and has begun speaking again; there was hardly a pause, really, but considering his condition it certainly feels like there was, from his perspective. He's talking fast, and stumbling over his own words as they pour out faster than he can manage to keep up with them.]

Hello? I guess I'm-- Well, I don't know, I think I'm back. This is the City, isn't it? I'm-- this is Dr. Wilson, I-- I guess I must have been gone, though I had no idea-- I was just... home, and everything was normal, and I didn't-- well, when I was home I didn't actually remember anything, but-- well, I'm back here now, and I know where I am, and I don't-- I mean, I remember now, somewhat, and I seem to remember that I didn't remember and-- I have no idea what I'm saying. But I know where I am. I think. I've been do-- I-- I'm on something. It was-- I'm pretty sure it's an amphetamine. Though-- of course, if it is, this could be an inter-- an adverse effect-- I could be hallucinating, of course, and then because of that state of altered consciousness, I could be experiencing false memories just as easily-- of course, if this is real, I still have the possibility-- I-- I just need to go find something to take right now.

[And now Wilson turns off the device; for those of you in the hospital, he's on his way to the pharmacy to get something to calm down his neurotransmitters.]



[ooc: Wilson is now updated as far as he's ever going to be updated. Season 3, episode Resignation. And yes, ladies and gents, as long as I've had this icon aside... he's finally, actually, on speed. Wilson's responses are voice unless labeled otherwise.]

You know, in a way it's almost nice to get some time to oneself. For instance, time away from friends who have no sense of personal boundaries, or to reflect upon the alarming alacrity with which one has adjusted to life in an alternate dimension.

What's actually nicer, of course, is making a conscious decision to spend time alone, and likewise, having the option to return to spending time with other people when one wishes to. Though, of course, that's hardly a new complaint here, is it? After all, the very fact that we're even here to begin with is a constant reminder of exactly how much free will we have, the extent to which we're actually in control of our situation...

It can be easy to forget, after going unaffected for a while, what the City is capable of. Which isn't to say that this is the worst, by any means, but... well, as I said, it does grant one some time to reflect upon things...

Well. At least there's only a few hours to go.

[Don't mind Wilson, he's pulling extra shifts everywhere to catch up on the paperwork and patients he fell behind on while he was sick. But he's popped on the Network for a moment (earlier than it is now, hehe) to check in on things since he hasn't made a reappearance in what passes for the City's social hub. Of course, since he's so busy working and just popping on to post and not read, the fact that it's a giant, raging Fourth Wall Day hasn't made it to him yet.]

Well, for anyone who was asking after me, I'm happy to report that I am, in fact, still alive, and back on the correct end of the medical field. Everyone's concern meant a great deal to me, so really, thank you. It was very much appreciated. I might suggest, in the future, that House is not the best person to ask such questions of, however.

Oh, and Chase; thank you, for covering my hours for me... I suppose I owe you several days at this point. Just let me know when you want to call that in.

[private to Morgana // hackable by 4th wallers only]

Morgana? I think, after the past couple of weeks, I would very much like the privilege of your company on a nice, relaxing night out, if you'd grant it to me.


[ooc: Fourth walling GO GO GO GO GO GO GO. Expect backdating.]

[Wilson's voice is notably weaker than it was in his previous entry.]

In hospital. No improvement... definitely related to the outbreak...

Headache, joint and back pain, nausea, vomiting, fever, red eye, nosebleeds.

It's... not one of the usual infections...

[Those who may have expected to see Wilson anywhere today, be it at House's clinic, or the hospital, or whatever, may notice that he hasn't shown up - for anything. He's currently in bed, and has only just now managed to drag the network device over to him.]

I... think I lost track of time, I've been asleep... I'm sorry to anyone who was supposed to see me today--

[He's broken off by coughing, and takes a moment before speaking again.]

Chase? Seeing as you owe me... if you could cover my patients, it'd be greatly appreciated...


[ooc: Wilson's down with the bug disease. Which one, which one~ nobody knows. ^^ (Well, I do.) All he has so far are flu-like symptoms; headache, fever, back and joint pain, stomach issues. Which makes it... just about anything. :D]

Is there some sort of a curse or is the City just less populated today? I haven't seen nearly as many people out and about as I usually would. There wasn't just a mass departure, was there?

[Now this is actually private to Morgana. He flubbed it at first, so it was publicly viewable - you're free to say your character saw it when it was.]

Morgana? I need to apologize, for whatever it's worth. I am very, truly sorry to have canceled lunch the other day; I was cursed, again, and in very much the opposite manner. I was running around all day; at the hospital, at House's clinic, cleaning the apartment. It didn't give me a moment to get on the Network, let alone to go out for lunch.

While I certainly understand if you say no, and, really, sort of expect you to because I've been a remarkable idiot, it would really mean a great deal to me if I were to have the chance to make it up to you. I've made mistakes that have led to losing people who meant a great deal to me before, and I'd really rather not see it happen again. I... care very much about you.

[The device has fallen, and Wilson isn't moving to pick it up. It cuts on in the middle of a conversation with a conveniently placed npc patient.]


Yeah, it's... it's fine. Just go home and put a Band-Aid on it.

But... doctor, the nurse said it needed stitches.

No, no, that's just silly. Bandage it up, you'll be fine.

Uhhh... doctor? There's something other than blood coming out of here.

Oh, look... it's infected, isn't it? I'll get a nurse in here to... hmm, could you stand up for a moment?

What?

I need the exam bed...

Uh, okay...

Thank you.

Doctor? What about the nurse?



Doctor?




Doctor Wilson?


[Light snoring for a few moments, then muttered cursing from the patient. The device picks up one loud impact, followed by scraping and skittering, and another impact. A frustrated patient with an infected gash has kicked it across the exam room before going off to find a doctor who isn't cursed.]

Princeton wasn't a bad place, but like any city, it did have its bad areas. It wasn't long of a walk from Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital to the slums where the city's homeless resided, their makeshift shanties lined up along alleyways, organized into downtrodden little communities.

Dr. Wilson was wandering down one of the alleys, his gaze passing over each dirty face, of each huddled mass as he passed by. At first they remained neutral, uncaring, detached from his glance as they looked back, but slowly, their expressions changed, going from slight mistrust to outright accusation. As he neared the corner, a junction with another alley, an old woman rose to her feet in front of him, blocking his way.

"It's your fault," she hissed at him, "Your fault. He needed you and you turned your back."

He gaped at her, putting his hands up as he stepped back, "It's-- I didn't mean for it to happen, I just needed to--"

He backed up into a man who had come up behind him, spinning to meet the dirty, leathery face that glared at him.

"You ignored him," the man growled, "He came to you for help and you ignored his pleas."

"I needed to--" Wilson stammered, taking a step back but finding that the woman had come in closer. He turned slowly, finding that everyone in the alley had gotten to their feet and begun to close in on him.

He saw an opening in the crowd, and darted through it, running down the alley. He stopped after a few feet, though, discovering that the formerly open alleyway was now blocked off by a high, chain-link fence that was at least several feet taller than him; neither the top of it nor the ultimate height of the buildings it was between were visible.

He turned back to see that the mob was approaching him, albeit slowly. They stopped when his cell phone rang. A few moments passed, Wilson staring at the ragged crowd before him and them staring back, both unmoving, time seemingly suspended but for the persistent ringing of his phone. Finally, he reached into his pocket and pulled it out. Any nearby observer would be able to hear the panicked voice on the other end of the line.

"Danny-- ?"


[ooc: Open to anyone & everyone. Go for it~]