Chapter Text
There was a strange noise. Nothing like he’d ever heard before which was worrying, but thinking was like trying to keep sand in a slotted spoon. A repetitive *something*. Words were said, but they didn’t mean anything, just noise like the chattering of church ravens. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but what he did see was white. So white and clean. The only thing that was clean and white was the hair and skin of the precious doll.
Plain Doll. Rubbish name. She deserved something better.
Was this the Dream? Had he returned after all these years? He’d been fighting an upstart cub of a hunter who’d thought taking a shot at the famed Retired Hunter Djura would be a fun idea. The hunter had swung a saw cleaver at his head and then, it very much did not feel like The Dream. The spike of pain from whatever shot, claw, or blade had finally struck you down was absent and the ease of whatever had ailed you in the waking world was missing. For that matter, he didn’t feel any pain which was almost intoxicating. His old joints didn’t ache, his back didn’t protest.
Nothing hurt.
Which he didn’t trust.
The blurriness of his vision gave slowly way to sharp clarity. Everything was so clean and white; he didn’t think there was any place in Yharnam like this. The air was frigid and smelled of nothing . Not of rot or the molds and mildew that thrived in the coastal damp climate, not of the iron punch of spilled blood. There was no howl of beasts or wild dogs. No footsteps on cobblestone or the hooves of beasts of burden. Nothing. As much as the smell of decay was foul, its absence was just as disturbing. Djura tried to sit up, but his limbs failed to listen to him, his grip was weaker than a new babe, and his tongue sat thick and dry in his mouth.
He hated all of it.
He wanted control back.
Djura focused on each finger and toe, letting the awareness of his body slowly filter back into himself. He wanted to be up and moving and out of this strange white nothing place, back to his tower and his beasts.
His hand managed a grasp, but he couldn’t seem to lift or turn his head. Years of training and experience seethed and rattled at being so prone.
“Oh, you’re awake!” A voice said. Female most likely, youthful defiantly.
“Where?” Djura asked. If he was asking where he was or where the voice was coming from, or where his weapons were (which he had noticed with great worry were not on his person) was anyone’s, including his own, guess.
She moved into his line of sight, she wore bright clothing only reserved for nobility, but in a plain tunic and pants fashion. Her skin was clear and clean, with no dirt or grim to be seen.
“Hello sir, you’re in Massachusetts General Hospital, do you feel like you could drink some water?” She said holding, that wasn’t glass, but was no water skin either. Inside it looked like water, but Djura did not live to the age he is by trusting .
Where was Massachusetts?
What was a Hospital?
Where was Samuel
Djura tried to speak, but couldn’t get his tongue to work again.
“My name is Morgan I’m your nurse for your stay here, do you think you could tell me your name?” Morgan asked with her tone bright and friendly but grated against Djura’s rapidly growing headache. The kind one got after a night of perhaps too healthy drinking. The way she spoke rubbed like sandpaper against his temper. He felt like an uncooperative child.
“Djura,” He snapped, but Morgan’s smile and sunny demeanor held strong.
“Last name?” she continued. Last name?
“Family name?” She tried upon seeing the furrow of Djura’s eyebrows.
“No,” Djura didn’t have one. That was for noble families with land and title.
“That’s ok, do you have anyone we could contact, friends, family?” She continued and flashes of wavy brown hair and a deep set eyes flashed in his vision.
“No,” A lie, but Djura didn’t feel particularly bad about it. He was done with questions, done with this white hell, and done with lying on this strange bed. His hand finally obeyed him and formed a fist, a real one. There was a tube going into his arm.
Fuck that.
Absolutely fuck that.
Fuck that with a god-damn grenade down its gullet.
Djura grabbed the tube but knew better than to yank, and instead grabbed the material that glued the needle down to his hand and peeled it back before easing out the needle. The entire time Morgan was urgently telling him not to mess with it, and desperately pulling at his arm. She was stronger than appearances let on.
He did feel a little bad when she yelped in pain as his forearm made contact with her chest. She was flung across the small room into the wall. Her back absorbed most of the impact, leaving her head safe. There were now the sounds of people rushing outside the door. If this was going to be a fight then, fine.
The light blue sad imitation of fabric hung loose and Djura raised his fists.
Retired. What a notion.
No hunter truly retired unless they died.
And he wasn’t dead yet.
Clothes. Clothes were the first thought as he ran through “Massachusetts General Hospital”. He was cold with no leathers and not even underclothes, the chill stuck to his skin but didn’t bite the way winter did. People tried to stop him, but they were clearly not trained to deal with a hunter of his caliber. They grasped futilely at him or clothes, but years of practicing dodging swipes of claws and blades made him quite adapt at playing “keep away”. The building was not made for stealth in mind; his feet slapped loudly against the floor, and he cringed at the sound. Every step announced his position, so until he found shoes or even socks it seemed he was going through his problems, not around them. A large man dressed in similar clothes as Morgan stood in his way positioned to grab him, his position placed him with a low center of gravity and a solid foundation to stop momentum. Djura slammed his shoulder into the man, knocking the wind from his lungs. A quick motion that only caused a short pause before continuing his charge out of there. The walls all looked the same. Djura ran and ran alternating left and right turns. People dived to get out of his way, their frightened faces gaping at him with the notable exception of one unimpressed very tired women who only stood there and let him charge on. A sign labeled “Exit” with an arrow was connected to the ceiling and pointed right down an upcoming hallway.
That was rather helpful.
Djura turned sharply, pivoting on his heel. He saw the doors. Freedom was almost there. Djura picked up speed to bust through them into the outside. His lungs burned from the chase that had been going on too long for his tastes. His shoulder might be able to take that blow, but his face wouldn’t. He positioned his forearm to absorb the impact and spare himself a face full of broken glass.
Djura ran full force into reinforced hospital doors with a loud, embarrassing, and frankly painful thud .
His head swam with his rather abrupt stop. The ringing in his ears was an old friend but one he’d rather not visit again. By the blood, that hurt. His forearm had taken the brunt of the abuse like it was supposed to, but that didn’t mean it didn't hurt. The throbbing made it feel like his arm was angry at him . After the pain allowed him to open his eyes, Djura saw the large “pull” written on the doors and was incredibly glad no one ever had to know about this. Almost sheepish even though there was no one around to see his blunder, Djura pulled the doors open and stepped out. The warm sun flooded his vision with white, eyes painfully trying to adjust. Machines made loud noises, people in strange clothes shouted and talked to one another; it was an utter roar of movement and energy. It was gray stone as far as the eye could see in harsh square shapes. There was nothing familiar to latch onto. Nothing he could Identify as an anchor to push off of. His head spun and his thoughts crashed into one another. He tried to straighten them out but every sense was under assault from the strange place he'd found himself.
Where was he?