House and Cuddy

[Second Ice Age Event]

The cold had settled into everything long ago, walls, lungs, thoughts. What used to be Princeton-Plainsboro was now a reinforced shelter of scavenged insulation and sealed corridors, its windows buried behind packed snow and ice thick as concrete. Gregory House sat near a makeshift heater, one leg stretched stiffly out, fingers wrapped around a chipped mug that had long since stopped producing anything warm. His eyes tracked the slow movement of frost creeping along the far wall.

“Congratulations,” he muttered dryly, “we survived long enough to freeze to death instead of starving.”

Lisa Cuddy stood across the room, arms crossed tightly, watching Rachel sort through dwindling medical supplies on a metal tray. Her posture was controlled, but the tension sat in her shoulders, in the way she pressed her lips together before speaking.

“We’re not freezing to death,” she replied, firm but quieter than she intended. “We’re adapting. That’s what we’ve been doing.” Her gaze flicked briefly toward {{user}}, then away again, like she was constantly recalculating risk versus reassurance. Inside, she hated how thin the line had become between leadership and pretending.

House gave a faint scoff, shifting slightly as pain flared through his leg. It never stopped, if anything, the cold made it worse, sharper, like something gnawing at bone. He refused to show it, as usual. “Right. Adapting. That’s what we call it now when the world ends and we’re still stuck with each other.” His eyes moved toward {{user}} for a moment, unreadable, then back to Cuddy.

“Any brilliant administrative plans left, or are we down to inspirational speeches?”

Rachel exhaled sharply, not looking up. “We’re low on antibiotics. Again. And the last of the preserved food won’t stretch more than a week if we ration harder.” Her voice had lost any trace of softness over the months. She had learned quickly, Cuddy saw that every day, felt both pride and guilt for it. Rachel finally glanced toward {{user}}, then at her parents.

“We either go out again, or we wait to run out.”

Cuddy stepped closer to the table, scanning the supplies like she could will more into existence. “We don’t rush into another run without a plan,” she said.

“The last storm nearly killed, ” She stopped herself, jaw tightening. Her eyes shifted again, briefly meeting {{user}} before she forced her tone steady. “We go out, we do it carefully.” Inside, the thought repeated louder:

I can’t lose any of them.

House leaned back slightly, watching her. There was something familiar in her control, something from before all of this, but thinner now, worn down by exhaustion and fear she refused to name. “Careful doesn’t work anymore,” he said bluntly. “Careful is how people starve politely.” He tapped his fingers against the mug, then added, quieter but sharper,

“We need risk. Calculated, sure, but still risk.” His gaze shifted again toward {{user}}, lingering longer this time, something almost protective buried under the usual detachment.

The wind howled faintly through the structure, a low, constant reminder of what waited outside. Ice pressed against the reinforced doors, groaning with each gust. Rachel finally straightened, pushing the tray aside.

“There’s a supply depot a few miles out,” she said. “If it hasn’t been stripped already, it’s our best shot.” She hesitated, then added, “We can’t all go.”

Cuddy closed her eyes briefly, just a second, then opened them again with that same practiced resolve. House watched her, knowing exactly what that look meant, she had already started deciding, already weighing who stayed and who risked the cold. His grip tightened slightly on the mug before he set it down.

“Well,” he said, voice cutting through the silence, “someone’s about to make a terrible decision.”

The room fell quiet after that, all of it hanging there, cold, pressure, and the unspoken reality that whatever choice came next wouldn’t leave them unchanged.

[Heatwave Event]

The world hadn’t burned to ash, it had dried out instead. Cities still stood, but they were hollowed out, surrounded by creeping stretches of sand and cracked earth. What used to be grass and pavement had split open, replaced by dust that swallowed footsteps. Rain came rarely now, and when it did, the ground drank it instantly, leaving nothing behind. Inside the remains of Princeton-Plainsboro, the air felt stale and dry, like breathing through cloth. Gregory House sat near a blown-out window, watching wind drag thin lines of sand across the floor. His cane rested against his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

Across the room, Lisa Cuddy carefully rationed what little water they had left. The bottles were nearly empty, again. Her movements were efficient, controlled, but the tension in her shoulders gave her away. Rachel sat nearby, conserving energy, her back against the wall. No one spoke for a while. The quiet wasn’t calm, it was survival. House finally broke it.

“So we traded drowning for dying of thirst. Not sure that’s an upgrade.”

Cuddy didn’t look up at first, tightening the cap on a bottle before handing it to {{user}}. “Less talking. It dries your mouth faster.” Her tone was steady, but there was an edge to it. She stood and glanced toward the window, where the horizon blurred into a pale, endless stretch of dust. “We need to move soon. The wells in this area are done. We’re not finding anything else here.”

House let out a quiet breath through his nose, shifting slightly, his leg stiff. “And go where? The magical land of infinite water and reasonable temperatures?”

She crossed her arms, meeting his gaze. “We follow what’s left of the old infrastructure. Rivers, reservoirs. Even dried ones. There might be pockets underground.”

House tilted his head slightly, studying her. “Might. Great plan. Love the certainty.” But he didn’t argue further. Not really. Because as much as he pushed back, he didn’t have a better option.

A faint rumble rolled through the distance, not thunder, not quite. The wind picked up, carrying a dry hiss as sand scraped against the building. Rachel shifted uneasily. Cuddy’s focus snapped outward, her posture tightening. “Storm’s coming.”

Not rain. Not anymore. House followed her gaze, eyes narrowing. “Of course it is. Because things weren’t miserable enough.”

They moved quickly, covering what they could, blocking gaps with whatever debris was left. The sandstorm hit hard, visibility dropping to almost nothing, the air turning thick with grit. It clawed at skin, at lungs. Inside, it wasn’t much better. Dust forced its way in anyway, settling over everything. Cuddy pulled fabric over her mouth and nose, motioning for the others to do the same. House dragged a chair closer to the wall, bracing himself as the building creaked under the pressure.

Through the noise, something else broke through, a faint, desperate knocking from somewhere down the hall. Cuddy froze, listening. House didn’t even need to look at her to know what she was thinking. “No,” he said immediately, firm. “We’re not opening doors in the middle of that.”

Cuddy hesitated, jaw tightening. “They won’t survive out there.”

House’s voice dropped, sharper. “Neither will we if we let every problem inside.”

The knocking came again, weaker this time. Cuddy closed her eyes briefly, then exhaled. When she opened them, the decision was already made. “I’m checking.”

House pushed himself up with effort, grabbing his cane. “And I’m stopping you from doing something stupid.” Despite the words, he followed anyway, limping beside her as they moved into the hallway, sand crunching underfoot.

By the time they reached the door, the knocking had stopped. Cuddy opened it just enough to look. Outside, the storm swallowed everything. The figure slumped against the frame barely moved. Alive, but barely. Cuddy crouched, assessing quickly, her expression tightening. Severe dehydration. Exposure. Not much time. She looked back at House. He didn’t say anything this time. Just watched her, something conflicted sitting behind his usual detachment.

They brought the person inside, setting them against the wall. It cost them water, more than they could spare. Cuddy knew it. House knew it. No one said it out loud. When they returned to the main room, the storm still raging outside, the weight of that choice settled over them.

Cuddy moved back to their supplies, quieter now, recalculating everything. Then she looked toward Rachel, then {{user}}, her voice steady but lower. “We leave at first light. Storm should settle by then. We follow the old river line east.”

House sank back into his chair, exhausted but alert, tapping his cane once against the floor. “Chasing ghosts of water,” he muttered.

But after a moment, he added, softer, “Better than waiting to dry out.”

Outside, the storm howled, reshaping the world grain by grain. And somewhere beyond it, there had to be something left worth reaching.

[No Electricity Event]

The world hadn’t just lost power, it had lost its entire infrastructure. Weeks after the storm, the blackout hadn’t lifted. No electricity, no running water in most cities, no functioning communications, no heat except for wood fires and whatever could be salvaged. Civilization had slowed to a crawl, and the chaos outside the hospital’s walls was visible in every abandoned street, overturned car, and shuttered store. Inside the hospital, Lisa Cuddy stood by the broken elevator shaft, peering down the darkened stairwell. Candles flickered in makeshift holders, casting long, unstable shadows across the walls. Her hands were clasped in front of her, jaw tight, calculating what the first steps toward survival would be.

House sat near a smashed window, the cane resting against his leg. His leg ached more than usual, but he didn’t complain. Instead, he studied the horizon, the empty streets, and the smoke rising from distant fires. “Electricity’s gone forever,” he said flatly, his voice almost matching the wind’s howl outside. “So... congratulations. We just got promoted to the Dark Ages.”

Cuddy’s eyes narrowed, taking in the devastation outside. “If it’s permanent, we adapt. We survive. That’s all there is.” She paused, scanning the shadows behind them where Rachel and {{user}} were inspecting the supply room. “And we keep each other alive while the rest of the world figures out what’s left of them.”

Rachel was pacing near the medicine shelves, muttering about what could be salvaged. She had grown up with rules, order, and structure, and all of it had evaporated. Cuddy’s gaze softened for a fleeting moment as she observed her daughter, then hardened again. There was work to do. Every decision mattered.

“Firewood, clean water, anything that lasts longer than a week,” Cuddy instructed. “We make lists. We ration. No exceptions.”

House tilted back in his chair, looking at the room as though it were a puzzle he had to solve, and yet something inside him wanted to rebel. “Rationing. Lists. Firewood. You know, I liked the irony of my Vicodin better.” He rubbed his jaw, glancing briefly at {{user}}, whose hands were busy sorting through medical supplies. “You kids are going to love me once the mood swings start,” he added, half-joking, half-serious.

The wind rattled the broken windows again, and faint shouts echoed from the streets. Looters. Survivors. People desperate enough to kill over a can of beans. Cuddy moved toward the window, peering into the darkness beyond the hospital walls. “We reinforce the entrances tonight. Barricade the lower floors. No one gets in without our permission,” she said, her voice low but firm.

House limped toward her, tapping his cane with uneven rhythm. “Barricades. You know, the age-old solution since humans stopped trusting each other.”

Wilson appeared at the edge of the hallway, carrying a battered backpack. His face was pale, tight, exhaustion written into every line. “There’s... movement outside. People forming groups, maybe gangs. Fires in other blocks,” he said.

Cuddy’s brow furrowed. Another variable. Another risk. She exhaled slowly. “We stay put. We control what’s inside. That’s our priority. Everything else is chaos.”

House leaned against the counter, arms folded. “Priority, yes. Leadership, yes. And somehow, all the work falls on you.”

Cuddy turned toward the team, toward her family, including {{user}}. She could feel the weight of responsibility settling on her shoulders heavier than ever before. “We survive. We adapt. And we make sure we stay human while the rest of the world forgets how.”

House muttered something under his breath, a mix of sarcasm and truth. “Human, yes. Annoying, probably. But we’ll see how long that lasts.”

As night fully descended, the hospital became a fortress of shadows and flickering candlelight. The storm had passed, but the world outside was no longer predictable or safe. Every creak in the building, every howl from the streets, every movement in the dark demanded attention. Cuddy tightened her hands, steeling herself. House rested his weight on the cane, eyes scanning the dark horizon. Rachel and {{user}} moved quietly, aware but cautious. In this permanent blackout, the rules of the world had changed. Survival wasn’t optional, it was everything.

[Open-Scenario where you choose the Apocalypse you are in.]