Work Text:
The ambulance lurched through the clotted arteries of Los Angeles, its usual red siren swapped out for a flashing, rebellious green — a glowing testament to its driver’s legendary indecisiveness. That driver was Dr. Green Hunter, or perhaps simply The Green Hunter, depending on which pocket he reached for that day: the flask of genuine Scotch or the stethocope.
Dr. Green Hunter was 35, weathered like the leather of his old jacket, and had a permanent, musky smell that seemed to belong to another era - one where people smoked cigars and called each other "sport." He looked like the very definition of a man on the edge of divorce, although he'd never been married. His ambulance rattled with the odd contents of his double life: the defibrillator next to the stringed bow, syringes jostling against arrows, and the distinct sense that somewhere in this metal box - tucked away next to the bandages - was one too many morally questionable decisions.
Each morning, as the city waited in its usual blend of smog and irony, Dr. Green Hunter faced the same question: would he be Dr. Green Hunter - noble healer, bringer of dubious bedside manner - or The Green Hunter, avenger of a city that somehow always needed saving from itself?
He hadn't yet decided when the dispatch crackled through the radio, barking out a situation he knew too well: "Unit 23, got a Code 12-Alpha. Gunshot wound, downtown near Sixth and Heartache. Status of the shooter is unclear. Cops en route. Proceed with caution."
"Ha, caution," he muttered, twisting the wheel with one hand while feeling for his flask with the other.
The trash-lined streets of LA flew past him as he slammed on the pedal. The city blurred by, smog hanging low over the faded neon, and flickering billboards. Dr. Green Hunter grinned into the haze. Sixth and Heartache was no stranger to bad decisions, and he felt a kindred spirit in downtown LA's cracked pavement and cluttered sidewalks.
“On it like bourbon on ice,” he replied as if that clarified anything. A groan from dispatch — he assumed it was Claire again, accustomed to his nonsense.
He swerved to a stop before the scene, the green siren casting an eerie glow across the alley as his ambulance settled into a raspy idle. Two officers stood nearby, looking as bored as LA cops could look on a Tuesday night, one poking at his phone while the other worked through a rapidly-deteriorating sandwich. Between them, against the cold brick, was his patient: a mid-thirties man, holding his side and grimacing, blood seeping through his fingers with alarming enthusiasm.
Dr. Green Hunter leaped out of the ambulance, medical bag slung over one shoulder and the quiver with a single arrow slung over the other, a bizarre silhouette in the sickly green light. The patient eyed him unsure if he should feel more alarmed or comforted.
Dr. Green Hunter cracked open the medical kit, pulling out a gauze pad and alcohol wipes with the fluidity of someone who could do this with his eyes closed. "Name?”
“Tony,” the guy said, his voice catching as Hunter pressed the gauze firmly to the wound.
"Alright, Tony," Green Hunter said with a grin that probably wasn’t as comforting as intended. “Bullet wound, huh? Might wanna make some lifestyle changes. Maybe pick up some hobbies. Yoga. Knitting. Therapy, perhaps."
Tony groaned. “You’re a doctor, not a therapist.”
“Technically correct,” Green Hunter replied, bandaging him up, “but I dabble in disappointment management.”
He slipped a business card into Tony’s shirt pocket. It read:
‘Dr. Green Hunter:
Disappointment Management -
Lowering Expectations So You Don’t Have To!’
With his patient haphazardly bandaged up, Dr. Green Hunter and one of the cops strapped Tony to the stretcher and wheeled him into the ambulance.
The siren wailed again as Dr. Green Hunter slammed the door shut, his fingers brushing the flask as he settled into the driver’s seat. He glanced at the rearview mirror and saw Tony staring up at the ceiling, his hand still gingerly clutching his side.
“I’m so tired,” Green Hunter grumbled. Sirens blaring, they raced through the rivers of sewage and litter toward Last Resorts Hospital.
Tony moved his head to glare at the vigilante doctor in outrage. “You're talking about tired? I'm dying over here!”
“Keep your hand on your wound, man.” He looked at the rearview mirror again, this time to take in the worn wooden bow hung up on the wall. He knew the curves of that bow better than he knew the curves of a half-finished lasagna — familiar, comforting, and yet somehow wrong in all the right ways.
Around his neck, he felt the comforting, yet claustrophobic weight of his stethocope. Weighing him down like the fates of all the stray socks that were lost to his dryer—each one a lonely, unsolved mystery.
Medicine or Justice? It was like choosing between a pizza that’s ultimately going to disappoint you and a salad that’s just a sad attempt at pretending you care about your health.
The ambulance veered around a corner, running a red light and causing a five-car pile-up in its wake. Looming ahead of them was the massive five-story medical center in all its glory: Last Resorts.
Doctor Green Hunter called over the radio for the hospital to expect a “Drive By” - an ill-advised procedure he had created for patient drop-offs. As soon as he was close enough, he would flick a switch to have the back doors fly open and would simply push his stretcher-bound patient out of the moving vehicle. He had done this regularly and had mastered the technique of dropping his patient(s) off while keeping up the alarming speed he was going. The patients only sometimes died from their injuries now.
Several voices were shouting at him to not do something so dangerous and reckless with the actively bleeding GSW victim but he ignored them as usual. There was no time for patience and rules tonight. For tonight, he decided, he was The Green Hunter.