His vision was still blurry, and there was a ringing in his ears, but Jason could immediately identify that he was stuck in some sort of hospital ward- it smelled like medicine and steriliser.  As his senses returned to him, he turned and eyed the monitors to his left, the empty cots to his right.  This infirmary didn't seem to be a full hospital, rather a quickly thrown-together recovery room.  Then he remembered why he was here, although he wasn't certain where "here" was, exactly.  His day started as usual, the morning coffee, the commute to his job, and the inevitable and unenjoyable trudge through the snow in urban countryside.  His mailbag had suddenly become heavy, and like the windy taxi to Oz, his postage began to fly from his bag and surround him in a tornado of paper cuts.  He had been seemingly teleported onto a battlefield of sorts, and there was a sword in his hand.  He had no time to process his utter confusion, because a mob of undead creatures began charging him and he was forced to fight them off.  Strangely, the weapon was natural in his hands and he cut them down easily, one by one.  Of course, like any good ambush, something managed to bludgeon him in the back of his head.  And now he was here.<br/><br/>He was lucky he even remembered these events, because as he sat up in the cot, the throbbing in his head wound made itself rather pronounced.  He reached to touch it, feeling the large bump emerging under the bandage.  Then, Jason made the mistake of looking straight across the room, where a mirror was set up.  He blinked once.  Then twice.  He waved his hand over his face.  He even pinched himself.  Chrom, a fictional character from a game he'd played, copied his movements precisely.<br/><br/>Panicked, he tore the IV from his arm, threw off the bedsheets and looked down at his garb.  Even his clothing was Chrom's. They hadn't bothered to change it, thankfully, but he wondered if he would even be embarrassed if they'd stripped him of his clothing since it wasn't at all his own body.  He crossed the room, collecting the sword he knew was called Falchion, and sheathed it.  Whether or not this was some realistic nightmare or not, something told him he'd be needing it.  He tried the door.  It was locked.<br/><br/>"Blast it," he grumbled, in Chrom's voice.  This would take some getting used to.  He peered up at the camera mounted in the corner.  "Hello?  Let me out?!" he yelled.  No response, of course, but he didn't expect one.  He tried kicking at the door, but it didn't budge.  The movement was punished by a head rush that had him doubling over.  Jason had no idea if these people had taken him in as a prisoner, or if they meant well by it.  And why in the world did he look and sound like Chrom?  His situation left him with little room for questions.