(no subject)
Because I am a dirty, horrid thief, I have written a prequel of sorts to this fic. It is absolutely delicious and heartwrenching and you all must read it before attempting to read the ficlet before you. Otherwise it will make very little sense.
Title: Random Selection
Author: Culumacilinte
Characters: Lisa Cuddy, an OMC, and brief appearances from both House and Wilson
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I do not own Cuddy, House, or Wilson- they are the property of David Shore and of the brilliant Lisa Edelstein, Hugh Laurie, and Robert Sean Leonard, respectively. Furthermore, I do not own the concept of the Fate Machine; it was conceived by triedunture and her beta, Anthony L. Or conceived by him and used by her. I do however own Mahinder Ravi Chidambaram.
Summary: Cuddy receives a letter- her number has been drawn and it is her turn to enter the Fate Machine
Author's Note: My thanks to triedunture for permission to use the concept of this fic.
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The day Lisa Cuddy gets her letter, she very nearly breaks down and cries. It’s curious, because Cuddy was never the sort of woman to indulge in unnecessary tears; she’s a businesswoman, a Dean of Medicine (though admittedly the hospital has changed much since the Machine came into existence- there is a constant but subtle suggestion now that maybe it isn’t so important to make sure the patient survives. Cuddy ignores it and operates the same way she always did), someone strong and firm. Now she stands at the island in her kitchen, a pile of half-opened mail before her, her hair damp and curled with sweat, clad still in her jogging gear, with the piece of paper barely held between her fingers. She does not tremble, does not move at all.
Number 41,835, the letter reads, your appointment with the Machine has been selected to take place on 7 March. Please read the below thoroughly, and return the enclosed envelope with your answer in three days time.
There is a paragraph detailing time, place, and the rules of the Machine (which everybody knows already, but which Cuddy reads anyway), and then below that, the words:
Opponent: random or your selection (please fill in the name of your choice: ______________)
She stands in her kitchen, wreathed in early morning sunlight, and silently cries.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Eventually she chooses to have a random opponent selected for her. She had entertained the notion of choosing someone like Vogler whom she really had a reason to hate, but decided in the end that such a thing would hardly endear her to the Machine. As if, of course, a little choice like that would have an effect on the years and sins she’s already compiled.
The next letter doesn’t arrive for a few weeks, and looks blank and official, much like the first; she opens it with hesitation, fearing for a moment that when she did so she would see her mother’s name or House’s. She lets out a sigh of relief when she can barely decipher the name printed innocuously in the gap between paragraphs:
Mahinder Ravi Chidambaram.
He’s seventeen years old, from New Delhi; that is all the letter tells her. She will meet him once, on the seventh of March, and then never again. Cuddy cannot tell how she feels about that, so she decides instead not to feel anything at all; makes things much easier. She pencils in the time and date on her calendar and tries to forget about it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When the Machine runs, people are sometimes there to watch. They are friends and family and loved ones who gather as such people do at funerals or dreaded family get-togethers; they are there for support and for a nod and a tight smile. More often than not, they are there to say goodbye. House had found out soon after she received the letter (how she could not say, but House seems to have his ways), and from him Wilson soon knew as well. He is there, Wilson, and he lays a firm hand on her shoulder, squeezes a little, calls her Lisa, which is so curious that a little smile flickers in and out of being on her face as she regards him with feigned coolness. House she does not see at first, but there he is, standing crookedly in the back, his face twisted into a grimace. Cuddy raises an eyebrow at him and he nods slightly, stiffly, raising his cane a little in some twisted parody of a salute.
Then she meets him, the boy: Mahinder Ravi Chidambaram.
He is alone, accompanied only by a man wearing a stiff suit who’s obviously a government worker of some variety. He is her height, or would be, if she wasn’t wearing heels; skinny and wiry. He’s wearing a bright green soccer jersey and blue jeans just a little too big for him; his eyes under a shock of overlong hair are black as jet and cautious as he looks at her.
‘You are… Doctor Lisa Cuddy?’
He says, and his accent is so thick she barely recognises her own name, but she nods, smiling thinly.
‘Yes.’
The government official who had escorted the boy stands before them now and issues a little speech outlining the correct procedure, warns them both that any struggling is useless, and that there are men surrounding the Machine should either of them try to run. Cuddy laughs a little to herself at the idea of trying to escape, of running in her fitted skirt and high heels. It’s a desperate sort of humour, not really funny at all, and she looks at the Indian boy beside her, wondering what he’s thinking.
She can tell from the look on his face that he understands almost nothing of what is being said and cannot decide whether she envies him or pities him for it.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The door of the Fate Machine slides open soundlessly, and together they walk in; Cuddy can feel the sick, metallic taste of fear in her mouth. They stand side by side for a moment, looking out, and Cuddy feverishly stares at the people before clustered before the Machine; at Wilson, awkwardly adjusting his tie, at a group of her friends, several of whom are sniffling, at House, who meets her gaze fearlessly, with something strangely akin to respect in his eyes.
The door slides shut. A red light glows into being. Cuddy closes her eyes.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When the door of the Machine opens again, Mahinder Ravi Chidambaram steps out. Inside, there is nothing but a fading trace of red light and a scattering of ash on the floor which already the wind is beginning to sweep away. Mahinder glances back with a little frown, but soon looks away; he cannot afford to feel sorry for Lisa Cuddy, whoever she was. The government official nods curtly at him and says something that he does not understand, but the boy follows after him anyway, seeing nothing else that he should do.
The flight back home is long, and when they disembark he is driven to his house in a long black car which looks staggeringly out of place amidst the busy, dusty streets of New Delhi. The government official claps him on the shoulder and leaves him standing on the front stoop.
His father cries when he answers the door, and sweeps Mahinder into a crushing hug; his mother stands behind and smiles quietly, saying that she had known all along that her boy had a good soul.
As for Mahinder, he is simply glad to be home.