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This wasn't the first place he had been moved.
The first time there had been much nicer dressed men with attitudes much laxer. Stints in cold rooms. Stone rooms! And the men were so relaxed and it worried him to death.
Your liver will burst. You have chronic migraines. What's wrong with your throat? Let's open it up and see the problem!
They were ill! It was good that they had brought a doctor along! Feel for the knob, open, close. It was simple, all he needed to do was open one through the bars. They'd even readied his tools for him! How wonderful! There was no need to beat around the bush anymore.
Most had been so similar, though the patients came and went, in bigger numbers each time. They were happy and healthy by his departure, as always. They must've heard of him, everyone had to have heard of him by them, of his skill and prowess and undying dedication to his craft. He would rather die than quit being a doctor! What else was there for him to be?
(There was a mirror in one of the stone rooms, and he didn't recognize the sad face of the man standing there, but he has his profession.)
There weren't that many incidents, really. Maybe five or so? Didn't they know they could just ask? Their souls writhe and plead for salvation. Their plights bring tears to his eyes, but don't make his hands unsteady. They are the sickly masses, and all will be well soon enough.
These new people didn't respond to any of his questions on the way. They held him taut, and were very inhospitable. He just wanted to know how they were feeling. He wanted to see it with his own eyes, dripping down his arms. Knowing was warmth.
But when they pushed him in, there were not people.
All of a sudden, there wasn't really much of anything. "White" seemed like a lacking description. He felt around for the walls, finding but not seeing. Peculiar!
It was strange, all-around. Why take him here?
(Maybe he knew why, in a sense. Maybe he was grateful.)
He couldn't stay here for long, though. All the patients were outside! Why would they take them away from him? In desperation, he felt for a knob and the door swung open, and inside was The Hallway; the hammerspace he used for longer-distance teleportation. It never took as much effort as they said it would.
He took a step into the endless dark room and started his search for the correct door out of hundreds (which was always easier than it seemed). Every minute or so he would realize that Ah! There was blood on the floor! Blood everywhere! And he would laugh for a little bit before pushing it away from himself entirely.
Finally, his hands closed around the correct knob. He could tell it was correct because someone was just outside of it and something was broken! Something was broken, and he would fix it! And while the door was a little stuck at first, it gave with a little push as he
Stepped right. Back into the empty room. He even briefly saw his entry door beside him, before it disappeared in a bright zeal pop!
He exited back into the blank with a nervous little laugh. Why wasn't he where the patient was? That's why they were where he could reach, outside the door where he could help. Something was still broken, even if he couldn't sense it from this room. He quickly decided he didn't like this room.
The world tumbled and spun around him, and why was he on the ground? And then he remembered! He had been missing sleep because he was too busy taking care of his patients! He laughed, a horrible, tired noise, and gently set his glasses on the ground next to him. He buried his head in his hands and rested.
And he hated resting. It was a bad place to be. He couldn't remember what he dreamt about that night but he did wake up sobbing, which was nonsense to him, but he couldn't stop.
(Tragedy without reason. Wasn't that so familiar?)
He went to the back of his head and sat there until he was done. It was more comfortable in the back.
He blinked slowly.
Not as present.
When he woke up he was really hungry, but there didn't seem to be any food, which was funny to him because it was just like he was in university again! He realized couldn't remember the names and faces of his classmates and dragged his finger lamely across the ground. There was no dust or dirt to make a picture in, but that was fine.
He couldn't remember his own name and face that well, either, really. It had been that way awhile before he was dropped off.
(If he was thankful for anything, that was on his list.)
He wondered if they were going to pull him back out soon. He pulled at his socks and made a few noises in a cycle. There wasn't much else for him to do. They wouldn't just let him die here!
He rolled the thought over in his head as he sipped water from a chipped mug, popping a sweet into his mouth.
(Maybe they could.)
He had set up an operating table in the corner to sleep on a few "days" (??) ago, and occasionally decided to use his coat as a blanket. It was more for when he needed the pressure; the temperature was usually a fine neutral no matter what he was wearing. It felt more like he was supposed to be in stasis than anything else.
He stared at his hands. Was he in stasis? They should take him out, then. He stared at the table and the growing pool of red underneath it with distance.
A better man would take this time to think things over. He would not come to terms with if he was a better man or not.
"Mr. Guaaard!" His voice was hoarse. He laid on his stomach, drumming his fingers on the ground and kicking his legs up behind him. "Mr. Guard? Are you there? I think there's been a misunderstanding!"
He talked to the wall for a few more hours, or maybe it was a few more days, and eventually the topics changed from misunderstanding to wellness to health to surgery; recounting procedures in marathon as his hands twitched against the ground. When he got out, he would be welcomed with open arms! He rolled onto his back, arms splayed wide. "The greatest physician that ever lived!", they'd cry.
They'd cry.
Time didn't really have much meaning, he had gotten that by now, but it had been a few sleep cycles since he was first put in the room, and more than a few escape attempts and he had to get out of here.
He opened the door because he had to get out of here and then pulled every door in the hallway open on his way and left them all hanging that way because one eventually had to lead out. He didn't know how long he was walking in there but eventually he decided that was enough, turned around, and stared back to the entrance.
And inside of every door was white.
His body curled up on the ground, and he watched form above.
He'd wandered into the door without really noticing, and found himself staring inside one of the many doorways. This one didn't lead to anything real; rather, he had dabbled in making actual rooms in his hammerspace a lot over the years. It wasn't perfect, but it was semi-functional.
The floors were solid, if not a bit wet. The walls were solid, if not a bit wet. The hospital bed in the middle of the room was even being used by
He turned around and walked away.
He ran, actually. Deeper into the halls as eventually it curled and twisted and doors became more sparse and eventually more unique. There was the door to his old dorm, a pleasant "do not disturb, please!" note left on the handle. Various doors to libraries where he had spent most of his time over the years. The door to an old colleague or two's houses. The door to his own childhood home.
In front of him was the door to his old office, the area of the glass panel that bore his name shattered, blood seeped from under the door. He laughed.
Ah, that's right! It was from under every door! He peeked through the office glass the best he could and waved at the tall, thin stranger inside, floating face-down in the red.
"Mr. Guaaard..." He whined. "I think something's broken." It wasn't really a lie. He hadn't forgotten the patient with the broken limb. In fact, the door that should've led to them was closer to the main entrance now! "You need to let me out, I need to get this taken care of..."
It wouldn't work, but if he didn't try everything he could to help, was he even trying at all?
He remembered when the crusades ended. It wasn't that long ago, really. Not in the grand scheme of things. But the Holy Order had sealed Justice away into what was called a "Dimensional Prison" (advanced magic, but nothing he hadn't heard of), one with a seal so strong none would dare break it.
It must be horrible, he thought. Though surely the gear had deserved it.
...
Oh god, he thought, as it finally clicked.
Was wanting to do the right thing really so bad? He hadn't messed up once, not since
"Aah." He wrung his hands. "Aah."
"Mr. Guaaard..." He warbled.
He didn't know what else to say. They didn't guard these things, because you weren't supposed to get out.
He laid on the operating table, and his lower legs hung off the edge. He kicked them lazily, toes occasionally scraping the floor. Maybe he would die in here. Maybe that was fine, even if it wasn't to him.
Most of the first doors in the hallways acted as a list now. The first one, the broken limb, sat metaphorically on top. First door on the right, at least 20 more following suit with their doors cluttered together. He couldn't bear to even look at them anymore. He'd never had a queue like this!
To him, "you can't save everyone" was only vaguely useful in wartime, if that. He could help every single one of them, if they'd just let him out of here! Were they not ill themselves?
There must be something wrong with them, to do something like this. He would examine them thoroughly, if he must. It was his belief that prevention was more important than cure, anyways.
He leaned sideways against the wall, legs curled under him, gaze unfocused. "Mr. Guard!" He whined, shifting to lean on his back. "Is it mealtime yet? Is the food ready?" His hands shook. None of his summoned food was coming out right anymore. "I'm hungry, I'm hungry!"
And in a second, the air itself seemed to shatter.
"There are numerous patients awaiting your surgical genius and expertise, Doctor Baldhead."
That was.
Aah. That was him, wasn't it? That was the name she gave him. That was him?
(Doctor.)
Everything was spinning too fast, now.
A man stood outside. Tall and thin, but indubitably real. The white parted around him, the room falling apart gradually. He could see where they managed to keep these things, now! And he could see...bars? In front of a Dimensional Prison? Why would they...oh, my! He laughed to himself. It was just another stone room, in the end! A prison's a prison.
"You're not Mr. Guard, are you?" He laughed, feeling behind himself. "What does it matter, anyway? I can't perform any operations without my medical instruments..."
(He hadn't gotten to that point yet, at least.)
Something was thrown in front of him, and he made a noise that was, in his profession, very undignified, and he remembered a younger patient laughing at him (good-naturedly) for making that kind of noise before. He tossed the blade in between his hands, fingers curling and fidgeting in glee. It was home! they gave it back to him! "My...my scalpel!" He finally got out. "You're a good man..." He trailed off. Maybe he didn't need an examination after all.
"Don't worry," He grinned, a leg kicked out behind him as he swung the door open, beaming at the stranger from the frame. "I'll perform plenty of operations for you!"
And after his queue was empty, he would come back for the nice man's checkup!
It was the least he could do.