The Never Ending Battle, Book Four:First And Final

by Gojirob

It is early in the tenure of Colonel Sherman Potter. The death of Henry Blake still haunts the camp. When an old friend of Potter's arrives in search of a cure, Nicholas Knight gets more than even a vampire could bargain for. Can Lacroix be far behind?

1. First And Final

First and Final

By Rob Morris

Premise: This story is set shortly after Colonel Potter and BJ's arrival in late February, 1952. All seems well, after Potter's birthday party and Radar's gift of Sophie. But under the surface, the tragedy of Henry's death eats at them all.

PARIS, 1918

Sergeant Sherman T. Potter would miss Paris, The City Of Lights. But dearer to his heart were the folks back home. He wanted to see them all, even if his mother was playing future matchmaker for him with a filly named Millie.

"Mother and her blind dates---heh. With some of them, it might help if I was blind!"

With his field knife in hand, Potter was cutting another piece of thick, rich, French cheese to put on another piece of lightly-oiled baguette. It wasn't toasted cheese, but it was so damn good, to him it was like wine without the hangover. The salt buzz stayed with him for days.

There weren't quite as many Mademoiselles about, since the Armistice was signed. Their men were coming home, and Potter couldn't blame them for ditching him and his buddies - at least not entirely. After all, the Frenchies were just doing what he'd be doing very shortly--when he arrived home in Missoura.

But Sherm's gluttonous reverie was not to last as far into the night as he had hoped. He heard shouts. Past the little cafe ran a group of people, all wielding a hammer and stake. Sergeant Potter knew a gathering lynch mob when he saw it - and he had seen several. As he readied his sidearm, he remembered one that would never leave him.

The boy swinging at the end of the rope that night was Sherman's own cousin, Jeremiah Russell. But young Sherman couldn't plead for mercy on his behalf. He couldn't even call him cousin. Jeremiah and Sherman you see had the same grandfather---but while Sherman's grandmother was called 'Mrs. Potter - Jeremiah's was called 'Auntie'.

The loveless marriage between his grandfather and grandmother was unsurprising. Sherman loved, but could not bring himself to like, the cold woman who remembered fondly an aristocratic childhood on a real antebellum plantation. That she looked down upon 'Mrs. Russell' - her family's 'Negro' maid - was also unsurprising, given the fact that it was 1910.

But everyone knew that she also looked down upon her husband, who was One-Half Cherokee. Now, this man was not a drinker, sinner or beater. But Horace Potter was a man who needed to feel like he had some worth. And if he could have divorced the landed woman and married the landless, he would have. But again, it was 1910. So the genteel lady of quiet strength washed and cleaned while the phony aristocrat drank herself sillier and sillier at parties. Horace would put the drunk to bed and then rub the sore shoulders of his silent wife. When the noblewoman died, he put on a dignified face and buried her on her family's plot. But when his noble woman died, Sherm saw his shrieking, grieving giant of a grandfather dragged off to the madhouse, accused of 'miscegenation'.

As he made his way through the crowd, Sherm remembered sobbing, apologizing to his 'Auntie' for not saving Jeremiah by standing up to the bullies who cried 'rapist' as they hung him. The dear woman handed him a small slice of apple pie and held his hand as she spoke.

"Now, if you had spoken up, I would not only have lost my Jeremiah, but my Sherman, too. For me, there is no 'other family'. Your Auntie loves you--best of all."

He remembered those words whenever times were bad, and he needed courage. He needed it now, as the mob's leader attempted to stare him down.

"On your way, Doughboy. Your pistol will not slay two of their kind, anyway. These animals are none of your concern."

If the man had not used the term, 'animals' to describe the two men on the ground, Potter might have done the smart thing and left. But the earlier lynch mob had called Jeremiah an animal. Later, when Jere's older sister Anita had been raped and murdered, some in town had called her a 'worthless animal'. The murderer, a 'good boy', never saw a day in prison. So it was that Sherman Potter demonstrated his dislike of that pejorative by firing twice loudly into the air. At that, the crowd dispersed. Only their leader lingered for a moment.

"Damn You, American. For you have no idea what it is you've allowed to live--if live is even the proper term. You served with Kronopoulis, non? You were one of 'The Boys From Golgotha'. It makes sense that a monster like you would wish to protect monsters--like them."

While keeping an eye on the mob-leader's withdrawal, Potter helped the older of the two men up. Sherm reasoned that he must have been beaten, for he looked as white as a sheet.

"Whoa! Monsieur, forgive me, but you sure are ripe."

The man's stare held gratitude, but it was of the coldest variety the rescuer had ever seen. Sherm felt like the mouse who pulled the thorn from the lion's paw, then wondered if he would be rewarded or made a meal of. This analogy was an apt one. The man seemed to be regarding a lesser being, amused by its antics. Finally, he spoke.

"What is your name, young man?"

"Sergeant Sherman Potter, sir. US Cavalry."

"Ah. Well. Sherman--I think you, too, would smell 'ripe' as you put it if you had been doused with boiling oil, heavily laced with garlic flowers."

Now the older man disregarded Sherman entirely, as he spoke to the younger man.

"Nicholas, do I give him some sort of boon, give myself some sort of boon--or give him the one true gift?"

The younger man seemed not at all amused by his elder's light tone.

"Only you could discuss taking the life of a man who prevented our destruction. Let him be. No funny talk, or insinuations. He walks away. If the garlic weren't inhibiting me, I'd even cause him to forget, for his own sake."

The older man actually grinned, slightly.

"No, Nicholas, I think not. Rather, I shall do this. Sherman, what state are you from?"

Again, Potter felt like a deer in a trap, with hunters discussing whether to let him go free.

"Missouri."

"Mmm. The state that demands actions, rather than words. Proof, rather than promises. Very well. Nicholas, you shall tell your sister Jeanette, and all our extended clan--Missouri is inviolate, as are those who bear the name Potter. You see, my son? I have, in the name of gratitude, let untold Humans off the hook, as it were. We are better beings, capable of magnanimity, when the mood strikes us."

"To you, he is an example of your strained generosity, 'Father'. To me, young Sherman is the ideal : What I was, what I will be again, despite your best efforts at thwarting me. You cannot control or contain my true nature. I am uniquely my own, and always have been, Lacroix."

The man called Lacroix turned to Potter.

"Ah, Sherman. You have called me sir, and shown me courtesy, but I cannot gain the same from one I brought over. Oh, by the way. Did I hear that mewling peasant say that you know Stavros Kronopoulis?"

Potter nodded yes, but his face made it clear that Kronopoulis was not his favorite subject.

"Good. Tell Krono---heh-Kronopoulis--that if I see him again, I will pop that scarred pimple he calls a head right off his neck."

"Will do, Mister Lacroix. But if you want to kill Kronny......"

Lacroix interrupted in a snide manner.

"Let me guess. I'll have to go through you?"

Potter shook his head.

"I was going to say, you'll have to stand in line."

Lacroix chuckled, and turned back to Nicholas.

"You could stand to make a joke or two. You redefine the word stiff."

"It's my existence that is a joke, Lacroix."

"No, my boy. It is your quest that is a joke. Oh, well. Sherman, I wish you well. Now, I'm one for the clouds. A good rain should wash this stench away."

With that, Lacroix levitated and rose like a shot, till he was out of sight. Nicholas gulped.

"I...suppose you want an explanation for all that."

"Nah. I've seen stranger. Saw a Kraut officer and a British medic duke it out with swords. Brit cuts off the German's head, and guess what happens? Gwan, guess."

Nicholas shrugged.

"Uh--bolts of lightning poured out of him?"

"Hmm. Well, at least we're in the same weird world."

"The same? No, sorry. Not even close. But weird? That I'll grant you."

MASH 4077th, March 3, 1952

*Dear Mildred:

I wish I could tell you that everything's as hunkey and dorey as it was just a week ago. But I could never successfully lie to you, and I wouldn't ever want to if I could. Here's how it is. I may be coming home early. I can't stand this place, and it can't stand me.

First off, there's something about the late Colonel Blake's death that no one's telling me. You know how I hate secrets. Surprise parties, snap inspections--I prefer to know what I'm facing, no matter how bad it might be. But this--this seems bad. But no one's talking.

There's Hawkeye Pierce again. The man doesn't know how to stop resisting authority. He does it, even when that's not his aim. I need what this bird is supposed to give me, Mildred. Otherwise, what the hell am I doing here?

Pierce and Houlihan seem to know about that Blake business. She's got her own means of resistance. It's just done by the book. But in its own way, its irks me just as bad as Pierce's.

BJ Hunnicutt does not belong here. He may beat that wacko Klinger to a Section 8, if he's not careful. A good, likeable man, but not exactly strong that I can see.

As soon as it struck Frank Burns that I am no tin-plated martinet, he seemed to regard me with some kind of contempt. The twit has started making age comments. In his file is a letter from poor Colonel Blake, explaining how to handle him. If what he says is true--and it seems to be--Burns had better NOT do what I think he's about to.

Lastly, there's Corporal O'Reilly. I thought certain his gift--a beautiful mare named Sophie--meant he was warming to me. I need a clerk who is comfortable with me, and will pull that extra duty without flinching. But Blake was like his father, so Pierce tells me. I sincerely doubt the lad will ever see me just that way.

Honey, I'm a doctor, not a miracle worker. This bunch may be ungovernable. I love my country--but should I whittle away these months doing a job I will grow to hate that keeps me away from you?*

Sherm stopped, determined to add an upbeat ending to the morbid missive before him, if only for Mildred's sake. All late-night correspondence ended, though, when The Colonel saw an exhausted man sitting opposite from him. He had not heard the man enter.

"Hello, Sherm. Sorry to barge in unannounced. Some local healers claimed they had a cure for my---condition."

"Uh-huh. Lemme guess. It was a stake through the heart. Nick, when oh when are you gonna stop and think? Half these cures come from folk who hunt your breed. Be realistic, man!"

Nick shook his head.

"When I am a Man, then I will be realistic. Look, I'm not trying to impose. But--can you---?"

Potter sighed.

"We're a medical unit, Nick. That stuff almost means more to us than you. But I'll see."

Potter walked out of his office, and returned with Hawkeye. Radar was dead asleep, and Potter hadn't wished to disturb him. They spoke softly outside the CO building.

"Pierce, your blood's a common type, right? We've got plenty of it?"

A tired Pierce yawned and responded.

"Sure. Why do you ask?"

Potter's eyes darted around.

"Can you drain yourself out a pint? I need it."

"I'll do it, but why do you need it?"

The Colonel bid him be quiet, and showed him the weakened, sleeping Nick.

"For him, Pierce. He needs it."

"Why? Internal bleeding? Cause I don't see any wounds or marks."

Sherman decided he would have to trust the maverick surgeon. It was a decision he would never regret.

"No, Hawkeye. He needs it as food. Nick, you see----is a Vampire."

"A-----Colonel, if this is a a-aa---this isn't a a-aa, is it?"

As Potter helped Hawkeye prepare, a reeling Pierce mentally composed a letter to an old friend back home.

*Dear Connor: I think I finally found someone who can top you.*

It was only after he fell back asleep, after donation, that Pierce realized the incredible wrong he had done.

"Sergeant---uh--Knight? Are you sure you wanna bunk in the storeroom? No daylight gets in here, hardly at all. What with you being assigned to night guard and kitchen duty, you'd think you'd want to see the sun sometimes."

Nicholas lightly smiled at O'Reilly's unknowing question.

"Radar, if the truth be known, I hope to one day romp in the South Sea Islands, at noontime, no less. But do you see that happening, anytime soon?"

Radar nodded in agreement.

"You got that right, boy. This war-police action just seems to go on forever. I'm glad I'm getting older, just a little at a time. Every little bit counts. I mean, each day brings us closer to goin' home, right?"

Nick nodded.

"If there is a God, and if he is merciful."

"Oh, there is--an' he is. Father Mulcahy, he told me so. He's a real good guy. You should try and meet him."

"Priests and I--don't get along, Radar. I'll stick with my--Uncle Sherman. Tell me, do you like him?"

Radar's face turned somewhat sad.

"I want to like him--but I feel like I'm not supposed ta. An' don't go askin' me what I mean by that there, cause I don't know either---I think."

"Fair enough. Radar--look into my eyes."

"Well, sure, but what's to see there, Sarg---------?"

Nick had Radar under quickly, and pricked the boy's finger, which he then bandaged. The blood tasted like he thought it would. It tasted of Lightning.

"Away from that boy, NightCrawler, or I will destroy you!"

Sure enough, standing in the doorway was Father Mulcahy, a Crucifix and stake in hand. He made sure to look somewhat away from Nicholas.

"I'm not going to hurt the boy, Priest. Your CO is my friend, and I have made a vow that while here, I will not hunt. I usually don't nowadays, in any event. But put your symbol of office away, where I can't see it."

The Padre lowered, but did not put the Crucifix away entirely.

"Then why, may I ask, were you tasting his blood--albeit a very small sample?"

"Simple--I wanted to know who I was dealing with. You are Radar's Watcher--and he is an unawakened Slayer."

Francis got his first laugh of the night.

"Nicholas, is it? Surely you know that only women can become Slayers? No, I am a Watcher--but my group stresses non-interference with our---Immortal-- charges? Heh. I'll have to send a note to that snooty English fellow that to you Nightkind, a pre-awakened Slayer tastes the same as a pre-Immortal. But, that's no concern of yours, is it? You are of Clan Licinius, which seeks only the hunt and eschews demons and ghouls. For that, the Slayers leave you be--though not Hunters like Edna O'Reilly's cousin. For what it's worth, I'm sorry for the dramatic entrance. But that boy is far more than my charge. He is a dear friend."

Nick agreed.

"Kids in wartime have to be strong. Radar seems like a good young man. As a courtesy, Father, I make the same vow to you I did to Sherman--so long as you keep your silence on what I really am."

Mulcahy put the crucifix away. Gingerly, he extended his hand.

"It's a deal."

They shook, and Nick felt his hand start to burn. Mulcahy stared and pulled back.

"What in the name of---Nicholas, I swear that this is not my doing."

Nick was stunned, too.

"No--Francis—it's not your fault. You have Holy Water on you, but I can smell that you've not touched it. For what happened to have happened, you'd have to soak in it. Father?"

Mulcahy turned and was lost.

"Yes, My So......."

"Who are you?"

"I---aam of Bajor."

Nick's face turned quizzical.

"Where is Bajor?"

"By the Celestial Temple."

Nick rolled his eyes.

"Oh, that's a help."

Feeling frustrated and embarrassed, Nick released them both minus memories of being hypnotized. As they left, Nick decided he would not abuse his guest status again. But then, he wouldn't really have the chance to.

Elsewhere in the camp, two enemies in a state of detente met and shared state secrets.

"Captain Pierce, if this is some kind of joke, I'm not laughing."

Hawkeye almost doubted himself, and so did not resent Houlihan's skepticism.

"Believe me, Major. It's for real. He asked for a pint of my blood and gave it to some sideshow ghoul who literally slurped it down. Here--here's where it was taken from. Now, do you believe me? Our little investigation can't work without trust. Not if we're gonna nail these people for what they did to Henry."

"How could you be stupid enough to donate blood?"

"Potter caught me completely unaware. So why hasn't our plasma-sucking pal gone bye-bye?"

Margaret reluctantly gave in.

"Truth is, Pierce, I've seen this new man. Pasty, doesn't eat. Very jumpy. Then we know who 'Potter' really is now, don't we?"

Hawkeye shrugged.

"Myself, I was hoping it was just a wild coincidence. But now there's no doubt about it. 'Colonel Sherman T. Potter' is in reality none other than US Grade-A nutburger General Bartford Hamilton Steele--and probably the guy who ordered Henry Blake's death."

"Did he really think he could fool us by feigning a new personality?"

"Absolutely. It's a pity though, Major. I think I kind of liked Potter."

"A sentiment I share as well, Captain."

"Wanna share anything else?"

Margaret said nothing, but took Pierce's arm and twisted it into his back.

"Doctor, this conversation is over."

"That was some of the most beautiful pain I've ever been in. Owwwoooo!!!"

"Down, Boy! Heel!"

Hawkeye got the last word.

"Yes, I Am!"

In Margaret's tent, her lover, Frank Burns, was doing the unthinkable, using her typewriter.

"Dear General Embrey. I am sad to report that the new Commanding Officer is just as undisciplined in his own way as the old. This camp has not become even slightly more military. I ask you to investigate this matter immediately..."

Nicholas had a ton of potatoes to peel. KP was the only duty he could pull while occasionally feeding himself on animal blood while also keeping out of the sun. But he didn't mind. It kept his hands busy while he figured a way out of Korea.

"Hey, Sarge?"

"Yes, Corporal Klinger?"

"Listen, the Colonel, he mentioned about your problem with sunlight. I think I got a solution. An old Lebanese folk remedy. We Mediterranean/Desert types had to deal with a lot of sand and sun, just without the surf."

Nick tried to be friendly, but he could never hope to fake Lacroix's gregarious public persona. For a Vampire leader with no use for Humans, Nick's master knew exactly how to obey their strictures just so as to be let alone.

"What's your remedy, Corporal?"

Max nodded.

"It involves---Garlic!"

Nick sighed, and never did get around to asking Klinger why he was wearing a dress whose design he had once seen on Jeanette. But while Max jabbered, Nick absently noticed something truly amazing. He saw half a cooked hamburger patty in his hand--and came to realize he had eaten the other half. He gulped, and came to a decision, hoping that one non sequitur would be followed by another.

In his office, Colonel Potter took a call from General Embrey.

"Heyyy---Em! Oh, boy, its good ta hear from ya. Remember those Mamselles? Yeah---ended up leaving money to pay us! No, Em. You know me, I've never had either your administrative skills nor the political savvy to capture those stars. No disrespect, but I'm happy with my Bird. Why're ya callin---HE DID WHAAT?!!"

After saying goodbye to his old friend, Potter walked out and grabbed the absent Radar's PA mike.

"Attention : Doctor Burns to the CO's Office--Yesterday."

Frank did indeed show up, as he was bid.

"Colonel---I'm glad you called. I just so happen to have some things I want to discuss with you."

Sherman got up in Burns' face, and grinned the grin of the lion who spots his next meal. This time, Frank had crossed the line---wherever that was.

"GOOD! Major, lets you and I Pow-Wow!"

"Hey, that sounds like fun--but can I be Buffalo Bill?"

Potter shook his head.

"Try General Custer, Major."

Stopping at the Swamp after leaving a confused Nicholas alone, Max Klinger dropped something off.

"Captain Hunnicutt, sir? I have that scrapbook of my Section 8 efforts--why'd you want to see it?"

A BJ who was certain another month would crack him wide open tried to joke about it.

"Well, Klinger, looking at all this is just my way of planning my own escape."

Klinger pshawed him and walked away. He would never know the plans he made and how they helped a bit.

Nick continued to feel odd. Feeling the "change" he walked out of the darkness--and into the light.

Once outside, Nick was in his glory. The sun was even more beautiful than he remembered. He shouted out, quite delirious with joy.

"Hey Klinger---howzabout that garlic?!"

Radar saw Colonel Potter and Major Burns enter Potter's office. He knew without knowing how he knew that Burns was being called on the carpet for his letter to General Embrey. His work done four days over, the future Immortal ducked outside to continue writing to a dear, strong woman who was his mother in every way except one.

*Well, Mom, this is all on me, ya know? I coulda stopped Major Burns's report from bein' mailed, and never had him no wiser. I used to tell Colonel Blake when him and Major Houlihan would write those stupid things. But this time, I didn't tell Colonel Potter and I didn't stop it, neither. Now, I know you're askin' why, and the truth is, I just don't know. The Truth is, I don't know nothin' since Colonel Blake was killed. Was he shot down? Did that little creep who came round talkin' up kill him? Was it that not-so-crazy crazy General? It's a good thing I can read people so well. Otherwise, I might think him and Colonel Potter was one and the same fella.*

Radar stopped and listened for anything from Potter to incoming wounded. Picking up nothing, he continued.

*But while the Colonel ain't the General, he ain't The Colonel, neither. That is I mean he's not Colonel Blake. But Colonel Blake was leavin', anyway. I'd miss him hard no matter what. But when I'm around Colonel Sherman T. Potter, all of a sudden I miss Colonel Blake just a little less. That makes me feel just a little worse, though. I mean, its like if I miss Colonel Blake any less by liking Colonel Potter a little bit more---I'm bein' disloyal. I am loyal to Henry Blake, Ma. But Colonel Potter is earnin' my loyalty pretty darned quick, too. So why isn't it I didn't stop Major Burns? I could've done it, easy. I know how to make the bad guy in him go away and bring out the good guy. Problem is, the good guy never sticks around, and the bad guy comes back twice as strong. Believe you me, I know exactly how that sounds.*

Radar saw Sergeant Knight eating some of Klinger's salami, and thought it odd for some reason, but let the thought pass.

*Like me, he's a guy loves his Ma. But---- there's something else there. Something in his feelings for his Ma that keeps the bad guy around. And whatever this thing is, its worse than the bad guy could ever be. But he wants ta be loyal to his Ma, so.....I don't know. I'm talkin' crazy. I don't know where these thoughts come from. One time, I knocked Hawkeye's socks off when I asked him who 'Samantha' was. Turns out she doesn't even exist! She was a tomboy-type girl who was his imaginary pal when he was a kid. Kind of like that girl I used to see standing in the fields out by the edge of the farm.*

Not knowing he was talking about people who were, at one time or another, quite real, Radar moved to conclude his letter.

*Things are all screwball, right now. Major Houlihan and Captain Pierce are investigating Colonel Blake's death on the QT. I just can't believe Major Burns sent that report. Even Captain Hunnicutt's a nervous wreck. He's startin to get a look like Klinger did right before that stupid hang-glider thing he pulled. I wouldna reported Trapper. Am I bein disloyal to the Colonel by not speakin up again? Or would ratting BJ out be the worse way to go? I gotta cut you off, Mom, though you know sure'n its not what I want.

With Love,

Your Son, Walter.*

Radar saw Nick heading for Potter's office, and stopped him.

"Sorry, Sarge. But the Colonel's raking somebody over the coals, and doesn't want any distractions while he does it. Heyyyy---ain't you supposed to not be out hardly at all in the daytime when there's sunlight goin' around?"

Nick just chuckled.

"Radar---I have no idea what you just said."

Over O'Reilly's objections, Nick walked inside. Klinger walked over and nodded.

"Yeah, you're right, Radar. I thought he wasn't supposed to be out and about, either. Weird guy. Maybe we should nickname him, 'Spooky'."

"Ah, he ain't the weirdest guy I ever met. My Dad had a cousin, still back in Ireland, and he scared the bejeezus out of me when he visited. You won't believe what it is he did for a living."

"I'm hard to surprise, kid. After all, my Mom's cousin rode shotgun on Lawrence Of Arabia's camel--and that ain't easy transport. You think those jeeps have bumps? Try Humps!"

"Yeah, well this one O'Reilly beats all that."

"So Give."

Radar looked around, and Klinger then looked around with him, ensuring the coast was clear. Radar whispered.

"The guy--he hunts----"

"Wabbits?"

"No, ya dunce! He hunts--Vampires!"

Klinger winced.

"That kind of job can be a real pain in the neck."

Radar winced.

"I'm gonna go and pretend like you didn't say that."

Inside, The Colonel had a vampiric stare locked on Burns' jugular. He was hoping that might clue the Major in, but in this mode, Frank was quite clueless.

"Well, Major."

"Well, Colonel."

"Well, Well, Major."

"Well, Well, Colonel."

"Anything you might want to tell your one and only Commanding Officer?"

"No, not at present, sir. Maybe later."

Potter was amazed at this Frank Burns, perhaps in his most ambitious, and even vicious mode. The scared, hurt, even gentle Human being glimpsed on occasion was nowhere in sight. Perhaps the bizarre events surrounding Colonel Blake's death triggered this. Perhaps it was his very sudden replacement as CO. It could have even been the warming he saw in the Cold War between his lover, Margaret, and his nemesis, Hawkeye. But the trigger did not matter, in the end. The man Potter saw before him was a stereotypical Frank, every inch the greedy, selfish, vain, nationalistic, hypocritically philandering bigot that most people sadly saw as the real Major Burns. He wanted Potter's job, and saw writing these reports as a way up. He was wrong, but he saw differently.

"Major, if for some unknown reason my XO is not with me, I might find myself very hard pressed to run this camp as I see fit, let alone do so in an efficient and effective manner."

"The Colonel--will make whatever choices he has to, and go--wherever he has to."

As self-destructive as he was frightening, a version of Frank Burns that would only be seen again at Hawkeye's court-martial hearing got up and left without being dismissed. He bumped into Nick on the way in.

"You, Sergeant, should get into the habit of knocking before even thinking of entering your Commanding Officer's Office. Let it be known--I won't tolerate such insubordination."

Nick bristled at this little man's abrasiveness.

"On that day when you are in Command, Major, Acheron will have twelve feet of snow."

Frank shrugged.

"Hnnh. Makes me no never mind. I live in Fort Wayne, not Akron."

Nick turned to Potter, and the Colonel nodded.

"Before you ask, Nick--yes, he is for real, may the Good Lord above help us all."

Nick was smiling.

"Sherman, may I stand by your window?"

Potter pointed towards the window, confused by the odd request.

"Ahhh. Quite a beautiful sun out, don't you think, Sherm?"

Then, it hit the Colonel like the proverbial ton of bricks.

"Nick---Great Day In The Morning! How?"

Nick frowned. In his delight at having an appetite, and being able to walk freely during the day, he had yet to consider the source of his new freedom.

"I--don't know. But it must be something in Pierce's blood. It's all I've had for days."

Sherm nodded at this analysis, but decided on a test. He poked his finger with a pin, and pointed it at Nick.

"Anything?"

"No. No hunger. In fact, I feel strong. Strong enough to destroy my pursuer and the harlot who first seduced me!"

Sherm was now seeing a Nick perhaps more frightening than any vampire could be.

"By pursuer, I take it you mean Lacroix. Isn't killing your master a vampire No-No? Not to mention the fact that you regard that 'harlot' Jeanette as your sister. Nick, this isn't you talking."

Nick's eyes and mouth were normal. But the man himself was quite lost.

"The HELL it isn't me! I'll make sure and keep Pierce around, in case I need more of whatever factor his blood possesses. I'll finally destroy that marauding Scotsman-- no, make that All Immortals Of The Sword. No--all the hidden races. And you--You Know What I Am--AAAGHHH!!"

"I'm sorry, Nick. But I made a promise."

As he saw the stake come through him, Nick felt Pierce's blood ooze out of him. Weakened but no longer talking genocide, Nick took Potter's hand up, and drank the proffered whole blood. He sat down, shaking.

"Your promise, Sherman. The one I made you make, in case my evil side took over. Thank you for acting, Mon Frere. Agnes would be proud of her boy. As proud as she was that horrid night."

That was still a sore point with Potter, so he moved on.

"Nick, what in Sam Hill happened there? The worst thing in Pierce's blood is that homemade hootch he brews."

Nick shook his head.

"You're wrong. In his own way, Pierce is no more Human--than I am. That stuff in his blood fed on my evil and magnified it a million-fold. Funny. An alchemist I once knew said there was such a substance. A great battle was fought, and won. The Destroyer Of Eld, Tricephalos, was turned away, his rear legs severed by ShellBack and Rainbow-Wing. But his vile substance remained, and fell back to Earth. Only the strong of will survive its touch. They do not do so unchanged. I am so sorry, Sherman. Let me get back to KP duty."

Potter nodded, sad for the man he once called brother. Grabbing a blanket from Radar's bed, he covered a now-quite vulnerable Nick and took him back to the Kitchen. He also vowed to find out the secret, if any, of Pierce's blood. More, he wanted to know what Pierce and Houlihan knew about Henry Blake's death. Lastly, Nick's torment had firmed up a decision in his mind--he could no longer abide this place. He would make another call to General Embrey, and soon. Here, Sherman, felt, he was making no difference.

"Nick--I may have a way of getting you out of here--maybe even kill two bats with one stake."

Another man who questioned why he should be there was BJ Hunnicutt. He saw his new and somewhat mysterious roommate, Hawkeye Pierce, jotting down notes.

"Hey, Pierce?"

"Ye--ah?"

"Why are you recording the names of people with immunity and allergy problems in this region?"

Hawkeye lied.

"I'm not."

"Ohh--kay. Then what other factor do they share in common, if I may ask?"

"No, you may not ask, and they share in common a snoop who broke into my footlocker to look them over."

BJ slammed down his letter-tablet.

"All Right--That's It. For the past week you've been as cold as ice, vague, and dismissive. What, is your affair with Houlihan going badly?"

Pierce looked up.

"Affair? What Affair?"

"Oh, please. You two are always traveling together, chatting. News flash--People Will Say You're In---"

"THE Major and I share a working relationship that has improved greatly of late. Y'know, just because I haven't grabbed her offerings so all can see, doesn't mean I'm doing it in private. We're working on a project--an important one--on behalf of an old friend."

"Does this have to do with Blake's death?"

Hawkeye looked right into BJ's eyes. His voice dripped sarcasm.

"Oh, come now. We All Know The Truth Is, Henry Blake died in a plane crash."

With that, Pierce walked out, angrier than ever that he had thought to trust BJ Hunnicutt. Hawkeye mumbled to himself.

"Betcha that little punk sent him. My God--I can't trust anyone."

Hawkeye was as far wrong about BJ somehow being a spy for Immunita as BJ was about the real reasons for Pierce's damned odd behavior. But a lonely BJ Hunnicutt was glad he could not possibly miss Pierce. He looked at his tablet.

"Plan Number Thirty-Five--find a jeep in need of heavy repair, and fix it up on the sly. By the time anyone notices, I'll be changing Erin's diaper. It---could work."

BJ sat and sobbed at the tender thought.

In Margaret's tent, Frank was flabbergasted.

"Margaaaret, what's going on? I hear tell you and Pierce are investigating the 3966th."

"Frank, you heard what that snot-nosed punk said to us. He said he killed Colonel Blake. They've infected---a lot of people, in the name of their twisted agenda."

Margaret did not mention herself or Pierce as prime guinea pigs of those experiments.

"But, darling, if Immunita wants to build a better world on all our backs, who are we to say no?"

Houlihan grew indignant at this suggestion.

"I thought maybe we were the American People, Frank!"

"Oh, well...If You're Going To Go And Bring That Up...."

"Look, Frank--Pierce and I have reason to believe that Colonel Potter is really General Steele, from about a year back. He may be running this whole sick show."

Frank brightened.

"Steele----wasn't he nutsy-cuckoo?"

"He may just be."

Now, this feral version of Frank smelled blood, and images of Potter dragged off in a straightjacket danced through his head.

"Darling---I'll help all I can."

THE 3966TH--PROJECT IMMUNITA

The regal man awoke in a cage. He could smell the garlic flowers, sensed the silver overlay of the bars, which were a redundancy, and an ineffective one. He remembered looking for his son, and somehow being trapped by Humans.

"Where Am I, and why am I being held?"

A voice rose from the next cage.

"Oh, you're the latest guinea pig round these parts. They want bloodsucker blood, ya know, for Project : Khan. And now--- SOOOEYYY-PIGGGGGG!!! GET BACK IN UNIFORM, SOLDIER!!!"

Lucien Lacroix looked over at the other man in utter amazement. Though clearly insane, and quite disheveled, his companion could only be one man. Lacroix shook his head, amazed at how far even Humans could fall.

"Sherman Potter?"

In fact, the caged crazy man was General Bartford Hamilton Steele The Third, founder of Immunita. Lacroix hoped that now, with his existence in peril, that Nicholas would act on his behalf, as a loyal son should. But as Radar had observed, nothing was quite right with the world at that moment. Loyalty, like trust, was up for grabs.

Lucien Lacroix, as he was now called, did not like being caged any better than the next man. In fact, he liked it a great deal less. He was a being of great power and dignity, and generally someone you did not wish to cross, unless, of course, you had a Cross--and the faith to wield it properly. Lacroix was King over his respectably-sized vampire clan. He pondered all this as he sat in his cage, wondering how on Earth a group of mortals like the scientists at Project: Immunita had managed to catch him. It was a humbling and even terrifying experience for one so used to being absolute master of his own fate.

"The rats have me, Nicholas. Where are you in all this? I call to you, and yet you are not there. For all your proclaimed hate, would you truly leave your poor father to them?"

A voice came out of the darkness.

"I would, Lacroix. I told you I'd get even, monster. You killed the woman I loved."

"Sir, I do not know you, nor do I know the crime whereof you speak. Release me now, and I will let you live to tell of how you trapped one so high above you."

The man stepped forward, into the light.

"My name is William Gunther, now. But when the Moors threatened France, off I rode to do battle. I was killed, and rose as an Immortal Of The Sword. Then, I was known as--"

Lacroix nodded.

"Willem Kunthar. Now I remember. It was your 'borrowing' of Jeanette's inheritance that drove her into poverty, and then into prostitution. In a way--you gave me my beloved daughter. For that, I again offer you your life for my release. Take note - I shall not make this offer a third time."

Kunthar/Gunther smiled and shook his head.

"It was my gadgets that helped catch you, monster. They disrupted your sense of smell, your internal clock, your motor skills--try and use your strength now. Oh, and certain wards I've researched will prevent you from calling on any member of your clan. In 1500, when I finally returned, you told me to stay away from my Fair Blood Lady Jeanette. You threatened my head. Now, you are but a caged animal, Lacroix. When you are done--I will find my lost love-and we will be together. Eternally."

Lacroix flew towards the cage, and was hurled back by megavoltage. It could not kill him, to be sure. But as a villainous Djinn once said, one would be surprised what one could live through. Gunther laughed, then walked out. In three decades, he would make good his threat on Jeanette--at least in part.

When Lacroix's vision cleared, a striking, long-legged, tall redheaded woman wearing a stereotypical white lab uniform. Her facial structure suggested a woman who would keep her striking looks well into old age. In fact, this would prove to be the case for a descendant of this woman's sister, a 24th-Century Doctor named Katherine Pulaski. But looks and technical brilliance were all these two time-lost relatives would ever share. This woman would say her many-times niece was flawed, held back as she was by ethics and conscience. Doctor Dorian Taylor was burdened by no such flaws.

"Mister Lacroix, you can't overload these bars. We have a large, advanced generator that is protected from enemy fire. If you go and burn yourself up, we won't have enough source material for Project: Khan. I'd really like for you to be a part of it."

Lacroix knew that her tone of voice was one she would also use on a chimp of above-average intelligence. Still, he played the game, and kept his vast rage in check. It would not serve him, now.

"Madam, whatever do you mean by 'Project: Con?' How can I help in the implementation of some grand confidence scheme?"

In fact, Lacroix's keen ears had picked up the subtle inflection in Doctor Taylor's voice. He knew she was talking about a ruler. But he also knew that one sure way to defeat clever people was to make them feel even cleverer. Another was to get them to talk about themselves--and how clever they were.

"No, Mister Lacroix--not a simple 'Con'. No, I refer to The Khans, as in Genghis and Kublai. Would you say that most of mankind is sheep?"

"Oh, indubitably. That notion is my stock in trade, after all."

"Exactly. Mine too. Now, don't sheep just wait to be herded?"

"Oh, please tell me there's no wolf analogy in here, Madam. Even I let that one go."

"Exactly. They are either herded, or taken by wolves."

Lacroix looked up, and rolled his eyes.

"So you see, Mister Lacroix--what we at Immunita are attempting to do is special."

"She's going to lapse into the 'New Humanity' routine."

"We are building--a new Humanity."

The caged man put his hand on his chin, predicting again what his chatty captor would say.

"And a leader to lead them."

"But not just that--- we are also creating A Leader, to lead this new Humanity. We Can Rebuild Mankind. We Can Make It Better Than It Was Before. Better-- Stronger --Faster. We Can Make The World's First Directed Species!"

Lacroix's head was spinning from the rhetoric stream.

"Madam--have you considered writing for Television? I can see it now--Lucy wants to improve Humanity, but Ricky is against it, feeling she shouldn't come down to the Lab."

"I'm surprised, Monsieur. You haven't heard a word I've said, have you?"

"What is your name?"

"Doctor Dorian Taylor. I run Research and Development, here at Immunita."

"Ah. Doctor Taylor--I have heard ever word you've said. In fact, I've been hearing your words for going on two millennia, now. Did you know that Augustus wanted to catch the Teuton leader Arminius and marry him off to his daughter? There was a belief that half-Roman Half-barbarian warriors would breed a better Rome. The Angles forced themselves on Britonic women, and Normans on Anglo-Saxon women. Then of course, there was that little corporal I so wisely chose not to bring over."

"Your point?"

"Humanity is not a great mass of sheep. They are what I must feed upon, when I must feed. Beyond that, they have their lives, and we have ours. They do not hunger for the leader you will craft. They hunger for food, or for companionship. The efforts of those who would control them show chiefly the shortcomings of the would-be master planners. My only real problem with Humans is their bigotry--and the fact that my son wishes to become one. Other than that---Well, someone has to handle the theater, and it may as well be those selfsame Humans. They're deucedly good at it."

"I'm not amused, Mister Lacroix."

"I shouldn't expect you would be, Doctor. As my ex-wife Endora once put it, 'Some mortals are just born without any funnybone at all.'"

Taylor smiled, though, and Lacroix actually felt a nervous twitch, which he hid.

"Endora--would she be the witch? We know about ALL the hidden races, Mister Lacroix. When the time comes--your cooperation can have your clan spared the roundup."

Lacroix ignored her veiled offer, and took in a whiff of something.

"What is that--odor?"

Taylor held up a flask with a ghastly greenish liquid.

"The secret of the new Humanity, Mister Lacroix. Tell me, did your planners and alchemists have any of this?"

Lacroix nodded.

"The Spore Of Ghidorah. Yes, Doctor. Very potent stuff. In the weak-willed or confused, it magnifies evil. In the strong-willed and clear of mind--it grants godlike power."

Now Taylor was on a hook, and Lacroix pulled it unmercifully.

"The Spore Of--Who?"

"Don't know your old legends, Doctor? Never heard of how The Earth's Guardians faced The Ancient Destroyer?"

"No--I don't know."

Lacroix sat down.

"Then I shall be happy to be the one--who does Not inform you. Good day, Doctor."

"Don't play with me, Lacroix!"

"Or what? You'll do to me what you've apparently done to poor, gibbering Sherman Potter, in the cage next over?"

Taylor shook her head.

"That man is not Potter--although our recon people say the resemblance is uncanny. No, that's General Bartford Hamilton Steele The Third. The man who did that to him--his own son--the man who now runs this project. You'll deal with him now, Lacroix. He's a deadly sort--you won't like him much."

"While you, Doctor Taylor, have been ever so charming."

"Talk big, bloodsucker. But consider this - I myself have taken that serum and become much stronger as a result."

"Perhaps your evil side had already won out. I think perhaps that is the case."

"I'm a biophysicist. I don't believe in good or evil."

Lacroix put down his head to rest.

"Then, Madam--You Are A Fool."

Dorian Taylor then left.

"I cannot call my clan. And calling another would be folly, if it were the wrong clan."

The 'Flipping General' caught wind of this, and spoke up.

"Heh. Jus call Transylvania 6-5000, and ask for Count Dracula! HAH!"

Lacroix smiled.

"A brilliant idea, General. I haven't spoken to Vladimir in ages."

Using a means only a vampire would understand, Lacroix called to the fabled Count Dracula. At his home in Southern California, Count Dracula heard.

"By the ancient code, Lacroix shall not be imprisoned long!"

The vampire-king told his daughter of his quest, and then left to find his helper. His helper was his daughter's own husband, a dead hulking thing revived by lightning. But that didn't mean he wasn't one hell of a nice guy. Count Dracula summoned the revenant experiment with a few piercing words.

"HERMAN, YOU LUNKHEAD! C'MON! We--are going to Korea."

MASH 4077TH

As evening fully descended, Nick Knight went to see Colonel Potter in his tent. He had some ideas about the odd nature of Pierce's blood. But it was not Potter who answered the knock on his door. It was Frank Burns.

"Sergeant Knight--get in here--now!"

Nick looked around. Pierce and Houlihan were there, and so was Sherman-- handcuffed to his tent post with an MP standing guard. He looked lost and defeated. Of the three, Pierce looked the most regretful, Houlihan after him. Burns looked in his glory, the ambition of his dark side winning out almost entirely.

"Just what the hell is going on here? Why is my Uncle Sherman under arrest?"

Now, Pierce's face drained of sympathy.

"Actually, both you and your Uncle BARTFORD are under arrest, ghoul-o-mine."

Nick looked at him, and shook his head.

"This is absurd. What are we supposedly charged with?"

Burns went to speak, but Houlihan went first.

"You two are 'supposedly' under arrest for conspiracy in the murder of Lieutenant Colonel Henry Blake, this camp's former Commanding Officer!"

Nick was dumbstruck.

"Henry--Braymore Blake? No--he was such a good--My God. The treaty that he and Lacroix negotiated meant peace between our---Not Henry."

Pierce doubted his convictions for the first time, then. The look at Nick's face then was a mirror of the faces in The OR when Radar brought the news of Henry's death. But he said nothing, for now. With the MP outside, the three inadvertent mutineers left the tent. Houlihan was still torn by all this, and Pierce now had serious doubts. Only poor lost Frank felt good in this awful moment. He looked around what he saw as 'his' camp.

"At last!"

In The Swamp, Hawkeye looked for anyone to talk to.

"BJ? Listen, I know I've been acting secretive, but----"

Hawkeye saw that all of BJ's possessions- -were gone. He read a note from Hunnicutt, and shook his head.

*My God. You poor homesick fool. You'll never make it.*

Inside Potter's tent, Nick and Sherman both felt lost.

"Nick--you better get gone. I'm in deep enough, without dragging you in with me."

Nick shook his head.

"I've been accused of disloyalty to my Father, Sherman. How much worse, then, if I desert my brother?"

Sherman allowed a hint of a smile.

"Mother always did like you."

1919, NEW YORK CITY

Demobilization had been briefly halted. Some of the returning soldiers had brought back a deadly influenza virus. Those that hadn't succumbed were needed to clear the streets of the fallen. It wasn't that bad all over--but in spots it got exactly that bad.

Late in returning from post-Armistice Europe, Lieutenant Sherman Potter was again knee-deep in bloodied Human beings. This time, though, he welcomed it. For this time, he was helping to end Human suffering instead of inflicting it. His activities---atrocities, really---undertaken as part of 'The Boys From Golgotha' would likely haunt him forever. He would do anything at all, he decided, to expiate those sins. For now, though, he played at being medical assistant.

"You! Over here."

"Yes, Doctor?"

"What's your name, son?"

"Sherm Potter, sir."

The man wore a surgical mask like Potter. Unlike Potter, he had no need of one. No mere virus could kill an Immortal.

"I'm Doctor Henry Braymore, Sherm. Kid, you look exhausted. Take a break. You've been at this without let since they brought you here three months back. This clinic could use the help, but not another patient. And some advice from someone who's been there? Don't try and try yourself for what you did in the war. The Lord'll take care of that in his own sweet time, kay?"

Potter's eyes shifted downward.

"Doc, I'm already pretty sure of what his decision might be. I rode with Golgotha."

"I've been to Golgotha. Nice hill."

Potter grabbed 'Braymore's' arm.

"You have no idea of what I am."

The man who would soon resume the identity of Henry Blake batted Potter away, quite casually.

"I've lopped men's heads straight off their bodies, boy! Watched as my fellow Knig---as the fellas bet on the distance I could get. I saw the finest man who ever lived be killed by the son he had by his own sister. I saw a monster 300 feet tall if he was an inch! Don't presume to trade war stories with me. You'll lose. Big. Now lie down and get some rest."

Potter got right in his face.

"And if I don't?"

Henry knocked him silly with one punch.

"Then I'll apply anesthetic---to my hand! Owwww!!"

Henry's hand, of course, healed quickly.

Better than a full day later, Potter awoke on a train bound in the general direction of Missouri.

"Hunh? Where Am I?"

Seated across from Potter--notably in the car with the fewest windows---was Nicholas Knight.

"You--have been officially placed on reserve. Doctor Braymore is an old friend of mine, and he knew I was in the city. He arranged your change in status, and asked me to take you home."

Sherm realized how tired he must have really been, for Braymore's punch to put him out as it did.

"Is the Doc one of Bram Stoker's Boys, too?"

"No. Similar. But where I'm into blood, he goes for the head. Then--well, you know."

"Wonderful. Is there anyone on all the Earth who isn't part of the forever club?"

Nick nodded.

"There's you. Although the way you were pushing yourself, no one would ever know that. Wanna hear a story, Sherman?"

Sherm got up to find another seat.

"Not particularly."

Nick gently pushed the still-weary Potter back into his seat.

"Good! Then you'll like this one."

"Go ahead."

Nick grinned sarcastically.

"Glad to have your enthusiasm."

He began.

"In the 1740's and 50's..."

"Oh great. It's gonna be one of those long stories."

"AS I was saying, the English finally suppressed the last major Scottish uprising. They did so in a brutal but permanent matter. One Scotsman, in particular, did not take this very well. He started hunting Englishmen of High Rank. Among them were the Gentlemen Of The Heart in London. He murdered them one and all, about fifty good men. That he was able to do this was a sign of his rage-driven power. Those fifty--were all of my kind."

"How'd they fight in a war, being vampires? Sun comes up, and you gotta stop, right?"

"We do fight, on occasion. But not these men. No. They were men of leisure, and servants of their community. They would bottle cow's blood from the butchers, and find and deal with those who preyed upon children--no matter who they were. They let most people alone, and were let alone themselves. But this Scotsman proclaimed that an Englishman was an Englishman, whether living or undead. On their behalf, a group of nightkind found this mad Scotsman's hometown--and butchered almost all who bore his name. I was leader of that vengeful group. The name of The Scotsman--was Duncan Macleod."

Potter nodded.

"So where you are headed with this yarn?"

"Vengeance, Sherman. It is a never-ending cycle. I want done with it. But if I saw him again, I'd surely start in."

"Because of what he did?"

"I've gotten past what he did. I will, however, never get past what I did. My quest is to become Human once more. But if I am to do that, I must somehow deal with those ghosts--among others. And I have no idea how to even begin to do that."

"Nick?"

"Yes, Sherm?"

The young man's eyes looked unbelievably sad.

"I'd like to be Human again, too."

HANNIBAL, MISSOURA

The reunion scene would have put Currier, Ives, and Rockwell to shame. All of Sherm Potter's family was there. At least all of his official family. There was not a Russell in sight. His mother, Agnes, hugged her boy and held him close. At only thirty-eight, she was still striking. She had, after all, only been seventeen when she had Sherman.

"Look at you! All grown up--and to think you almost didn't, when I found out you'd enlisted. Never again, Sherman! You at least tell your Mother where you're headed."

He was so glad to be home, Sherman ached with joy. But Golgotha was still with him--as was Nicholas Knight, who his mother finally took note of.

"Well, Sherman, don't go and be impolite. Introduce your cousins and me to your friend."

Sherm groaned inwardly for Nick. They were all his female cousins, all of them unmarried.

"Mother, this is Nicholas Cavalier. He and I met in Paris when I accidentally did him and his Dad--a kind of rich fella--a favor. Errr, he followed me home."

Cousin Sadie eyed Nick.

"Girls, let's start up another War and see what Little Sherman brings back, in the way of traveling companions."

Nick smiled, but the predator in him did feel odd being eyed like a side of beef.

"Actually, Sherman is far too modest. Some thieves had assaulted my father and I--his name is Lucien--and Sherman rescued us. Saved our lives, really. My father then asked me to move to Missouri for a time to check on certain members of my family, and inform them of a contract we've entered into. Do you know anyplace I might stay, in this area?"

Sherman bristled, for he knew what his mother's response would be. Agnes Potter smiled and spoke her mind, a family trait from time out of mind that would persist through to her descendant, Benjamin Sisko.

"Why, I would be insulted if any friend who cares enough to see my Sherman home refused to stay with us. Eh, Monsieur Cavalier?"

Agnes hadn't spoken a word of true French. But 'Monsieur' was spoken without a hint of Midwestern accent.

"Mrs. Potter---when did you spend time on the Continent?"

"Oh, well, Mrs. Potter insisted I go there, as a child. Said that her daughter needed breeding. But then, Mrs. Potter was always saying something. At times, it seemed that was all she was good for."

Nick was horribly confused.

"Er--wouldn't Mrs. Potter be your Mother-In-Law?"

Sherman cut in.

"Nope. You see, Nick, Mother here was named Potter, too. My Dad, he was a distant cousin who happened along. Heh. Lucky for me he did."

Agnes kissed her boy on the cheek.

"Lucky for all of us."

Sherman again noticed the absence of any member of the Russell family.

"Mother, where's Auntie? I can't believe she wouldn't be here to meet me."

Nick had already heard Sherm's tale of his 'other' family, the one that public mores would not allow the Potters to acknowledge. But he took special note of Agnes Potter's small frown.

"Things got rough around here, Sherman. The Martinsons all declared war on colored folk, and Mammy Russell would not bend down her neck to that trash. She left--took everyone with her."

Sherm had to sit down. His face was a mix of tears and rage.

"Martinsons! Hah! They aren't even a real family. Just a bunch of dispossessed former Plantation owners banded together after Emancipation. Once--Just Once--I'd like someone to burn something on their property. Hell, the whole damned lot should just burn."

Agnes slapped Sherman. His face stung.

"You watch that foul mouth, boy. Especially in front of your girl cousins."

One of them, a young woman named Theresa, had something to add.

"Aunt Agnes, we've all heard worse than what Sherm said. Sides--for killin and jumpin Auntie's brood like they did--they should all burn."

"The Lord above decides those things, Theresa. Not us. Now, it's getting near to sunrise. I'm tired, and so are Sherman and Nicholas. Oh, Nicholas?"

"Yes, Mrs. Potter?"

"You'll be staying in our attic room. It's a nice one, but it's all shuttered up. No view to speak of."

"That's fine by me, Mrs. Potter. I'm something of a night person. But--I'll see to my own meals, if you don't mind."

"Landsakes, would you please call me Agnes? And I may still be able to help with your meals. I have arrangements with a butcher in Hannibal--he can get me--absolutely anything."

Nick heard the tone in Agnes' voice. There was something up--something familiar. Literally familiar.

"Well, Mother, like you said about the sun. I surely had enough, summering in the trenches."

"Well, then, lets load into the horseless!"

As they did, facts kept flying into Nick's mind. He liked nothing of where those facts lead.

At the Potter home, actually a small estate, outside of Hannibal, Potter saw all stare with sadness at the abandoned home once used by Auntie Russell. Nick wondered if the artificial divisions Humans created between them didn't prove Lacroix's point. Once home, Agnes fairly rushed inside, and into her bedroom, which only Nick saw was shuttered entirely. Sherman yawned.

"Hey, Nick? You want I should help you open up that attic?"

"Non, Sherman. I can do it myself. Get some rest--for real, this time. By the way, does my hanging around for a time cause you any trouble?"

Sherm shook his head.

"Nick, The Boys called themselves Brothers. But they destroyed families, and I helped em do it. So a vampire as a kind of red-headed stepbrother--doesn't bother me at all."

Nick smiled.

"Good Sleep, 'StepBrother'."

Sherm went inside and slept. But the sounds of a burning school full of German children still echoed in his brain. For all that, being home was a comfort, of sorts.

Less comfortable was Nick, who pursued a smell he picked up down to the basement. That an old house like the Potters had a relatively modern basement made him curiouser still. He saw an icebox, a rather large one, in the corner. The salt smell was almost overwhelming.

"Wine bottles. But this is not wine."

Agnes' voice came from behind him.

"I'd tell you I was something of a tea-totaler, Nicholas--but that would be a lie. Myself, I've lived enough of them."

Not shocked but still surprised, Nick saw Sherman's mother floating--a full inch off the ground. She gestured to the bottles.

"Feel free to have some. Its only cow's blood. And yes, I have a good explanation for my---condition."

Nick grabbed a nearby glass, and poured.

"Agnes, tell me all about it."

And so Agnes began.

"As you've probably guessed, Nicholas--may I call you Nick?"

"Actually, I'm coming to prefer it."

"Thank You, Nick. As you've probably guessed---I am like you. A vampire."

"Of what Clan, Agnes? There are at least twenty, at my last count."

"I'll get to that. You see, when I was fourteen, Mammy Russell pulled me aside and told me some interesting news. Mrs. Potter was barren. Always had been. But I was born light, and Mammy knew certain methods, dating from slavery, by which no one would ever be the wiser."

"Then Mrs. Russell was your Mother."

"Yes. But I always avoided too much sunlight as a child--a tan on a mulatto always comes in a bit darker, even on those that can pass. Heh. Nowadays, that's not a concern, as you might well imagine."

"Wait. When did Mrs. Russell pass on?"

"When Sherman was about thirteen."

"Then--why did he ask where she was?"

"Mammy knew a bit of the craft, and saw that her death would break poor Sherman in two. Him being her first grandson, she put a calming hex on him. Until he came back, Sherman believed that she was just busy in the other house. Things go so wrong when the law gets between a family and its love."

Nick nodded.

"When any authority does so."

By this he meant Lacroix, but said nothing further.

"But Mammy told me something else that day, Nick. Being Colored was easy, compared to this."

"Easy? Then you weren't appalled, or even surprised?"

"Heavens, No. Mrs. Potter was not merely barren in her body, but in her soul. Sherman loved her, but to her he was just a proper symbol to show before society. No, Mammy had always had my love--birthing or no. What shocked me was that she was a Watcher--My Watcher."

"You Were A Slayer."

Agnes nodded.

"When those as serve The Old Ones came around, you Licinians cleared out pretty quickly. We never had a full-blown Hellmouth around these parts--but we did have a portal. Place of hideous evil. One time, they even captured and were prepared to sacrifice one of your line. Oh, those Nightkind were crazy ones, Nick ---after one of their leaders had been re-souled, they were going every which way, following every beyonder they could find. That was how I met the one they captured. When I freed him, we were reluctant allies. Before we knew it, though, we were in love."

"A doomed love, Agnes."

Nick hated sounding like Lacroix, but the response was disturbingly instinctive.

"So we, and Mammy, thought. Especially when they brought him over a second time, as one of them. He--cut off a piece of his own finger, and threw it to me, at the last battle. It sealed the portal. More, the Vampires had bound themselves up with the demons so much, they were drawn back through it as it closed."

"Including him, I take it?"

Agnes smiled.

"Not hardly, Nick. Part of him was drawn through the portal, alright--the bad part, if you'll pardon the offense. Somehow, the two vampire types were drawn out of him. Both the demon-vampire--and The Licinian Vampire. Leaving my Andrew---"

Nick smiled, and completed the sentence.

"Leaving Him Human. He was cured. Oh, My---"

Direct proof of a working cure had Nicholas so high, he wasn't ready for what Agnes Potter said next.

"Nick--he told me he had been first brought across in 1255--that his name was originally Andre--and that his Uncle Nicola was the one who brought him across. His mother's name was Fleur."

Again, Nick's sins came back to bite him. He had never even told Lacroix that Andre had been brought over. Andre----

"My sister's son. Agnes--did he mention why I brought him over?"

"Andy told me that he attacked you, and that in defending yourself, you mortally wounded him. That you did it to save his life."

Agnes could easily read the look on Nick's face.

"There's more, isn't there?"

"Yes. There is a great deal more."

The tale was painful, but this woman was Nick's own kin, and she deserved to know as much of the truth as he could tell.

"By 1255, Andre had finally accepted what I had become. Mind you, he didn't like it--but we had an understanding."

Agnes was confused.

"His version had led me to believe that he attacked you out of hatred for your being a vampire."

"I'm not surprised that's what he told you. No, he came prepared to destroy me. But not over what I am. You see, he had found out that Fleur's husband was not his father. My sister never told me who was, but Andre had his suspicions. Among the suspects--myself."

"No!"

"He asked me whether I had added incest to my repertoire of sins. I told him quite firmly that I had not. Still, he thought certain that I at least knew who it was. A young man in those times would stop at nothing to find out who he truly was. That was when he attacked me."

Agnes was crying.

"Keeping the secret--the secrets--from Sherman was always a source of pain for my Andy. Now I know why."

Now Nick asked a very painful question.

"Agnes--how did my nephew finally die?"

Nick expected to hear about a thresher, a mad bull, or some very mortal aspect of life. But that was not what had happened.

"Andy was very upset when Sherman snuck off and joined the Army. We both were. It was and is important to us that Sherman's attraction to blood be directed in a positive manner."

"His attraction to blood?"

"Well, yes. I mean, there's the vampire in Andy, cure or no cure, and my life as a Slayer. Slayers are drawn to spilt blood. It tells us--told me--where our quarry is. While a Slayer's mantle may not be inherited, and a male child can never be one--something of it does carry over to the children. In unusual circumstances--like mine--the child is truly gifted. Mother Russell said that Sherman would either become a great healer and born leader of men---or a Great Destroyer. That was why Kronopoulis sought him out. That monster knew how easily my boy's spirit could be twisted."

"You Know About 'The Boys From Golgotha'?"

Her eyes and voice gained a disturbingly familiar flavor.

"Nicholas, there is very little my son can do that I am not aware of."

Startled, Nick steered the conversation back.

"Agnes--the matter of Andre's death--"

"Yes. His rage was enormous. I'd never seen him like that before. Then, I remembered Mammy saying that I should avoid making Andrew truly angry--I wouldn't care for the results. But Sherman was a boy, and boys defy their parents. What happened next was no one's fault--except mine, for being so blasted naive. Nick---Andre' reverted."

Nick gulped.

"How--was he?"

"As a vampire is, when newly born. Hungry--and feral. Except it didn't pass. And cow's blood was not an acceptable substitute. He dragged me down to the basement. He drained me badly. I found the shotgun. It was all done quickly. Then---I died. Using what Mammy had taught me, I skipped my own craziness. A Slayer must live with the expectation that one day you might wake up across. Since then---I've waited for my son's return. It was a year before he wrote me, after he left--he was afraid we'd disowned him."

There was another piece to all this, but Nick accepted that he would not find it on this day.

"Agnes--family or no, you are entrusting me with a fair amount of your secrets. May I ask why?"

She took his hand in hers.

"He needs guidance, Nick. Guidance from someone who knows the allure of blood and why it should be fought. Will you, my boy's great-uncle, serve as the big brother he needed but never had?"

Real family, and full acceptance. The hint of a cure. Running away from what he was while fulfilling Lacroix's wishes. Nick's answer was pre-ordained.

"Of course. We'll start by having him look at college, and then, perhaps, medical school. Let's try and fulfill Mrs. Russell's predictions. The Army can be a help, there. What it can't or won't do-I will."

Agnes smiled. Her hunger for her son's happiness was stronger than any other desire---for now.

"Nick---I have a bit of a surprise for Sherman--a good one. For this upcoming night. We can go upstairs now. Teresa closes all the drapes and windows by Nine AM, after the town gossips have gone to market."

Later, Nick undertook the thankless task of getting Sherm ready for Agnes' surprise.

"Aw, Nick! I've been knee-deep in the dead, swimming in an inferno for two years. Why does Mother want me all gussied up, all of a sudden?"

"Don't look at me, Sherman. She runs this house, after all."

"So ya think my idea about medical school down the road is a good one?"

"Absolutely. The fact is, that Doctor Braymore you worked under is an instructor at a very prestigious one. I'll speak to him for you."

"Thanks."

He stood, dressed in his best.

"How do I look, Count?"

"Don't Call Me Count. And, you still need to do something."

Nick shouted in Sherman's face.

"AT------EASE!!!!"

Sherm relaxed, but only reluctantly.

"Reserve or no, Nick--I'm still a soldier."

"Then let's just leave those army boots under the bed for tonight--deal?"

Sherm smiled.

"Why the grin?"

"Nick---don't tell Mother---but I always wished I had a big brother. Silly, huh?"

Nick straightened his tie.

"Family is everything, Sherm."

Down the stairs they went, to Agnes standing by an opened front door. Sherm was understandably suspicious.

"All Right, Mother---What Are You Up To?"

She motioned towards the door, and out from the side came the most beautiful woman Sherman had ever seen. And he would always feel that way.

"Sherman Potter----Meet Mildred Finch."

Looking the knockout, sweet-faced girl over, Sherm finally understood what Captain Truman had been saying about his Bess. She liked what she saw, as well. Agnes indeed knew her boy. Mildred just bubbled with enthusiasm.

"Let's Face It, Doughboy---You Just Hit The Jackpot!"

MASH 4077TH, MARCH, 1952

Father Mulcahy sat down in his tent.

"I'd like to thank you both for coming here."

In opposite corners physically, but less so mentally, were Hawkeye Pierce and Margaret Houlihan.

"Considering the craziness that's been going on, Father, even an agnostic might be safer in a Priest's tent."

Houlihan reluctantly agreed.

"Something about his recently assumed Command has caused Fra--has caused Major Burns to lose perspective. Even our...working relationship has suffered as a result."

For 'Hot Lips' Houlihan to make even such a halting half-concession about her paramour in front of Pierce, or anyone meant that things were grave indeed.

"Major, no offense--but he's not only lost his perspective, he's lost his marbles. Or haven't you noticed how he's not yelling anymore? Just revoking privileges--not to mention rights? This is an all-new Frank. He actually makes me miss the old one."

"Waitaminute, Pierce! Command is a huge burden. Frank just needs time to get into it, make it his own. He'll get better."

"Better? BETTER? Read this, Major. I won't tell you to weep, because it'll be instinctive---I hope."

Houlihan grabbed the paper.

"Be advised that BJ Hunnicutt, having been AWOL more than thirty days, and having refused lawful entreaties to turn himself in, is to be considered a deserter during wartime and will be.....Shot On Sight? Pierce, is this some kind of...."

Father Mulcahy handed her his copy of the bulletin.

"Oh, my....But Hunnicutt hasn't even been gone much more than twenty-four hours--he didn't necessarily...Dear Lord, Frank, what's wrong with you?"

The Padre stood up now, a bit enraged.

"What in blazes is wrong with the two of you? You had Colonel Potter arrested because of his resemblance to that insane general? I wish you had consulted me---I have my sources. Potter is NOT General Steele. He never was. But now an unstable man is in charge."

Pierce nodded.

"Extremely unstable."

Houlihan shook her head.

"Please define unstable, Mister."

With three MP's behind him, a very dark version of Frank Burns suddenly burst in.

"This is, I hope, a lawful assembly? I've had to discipline nine groups of my people today for speaking against Commander Burns."

Their hearts thumping at this turning of the odd man out, only Pierce found the nerve to speak.

"Oh, it's lawful, Commander. The Major, The Father and I were talking about getting the men to pray more."

Burns was smarter, now. But his vanity had also magnified to ridiculous levels.

"Good. I knew I'd break you, Pierce. Especially after I got you back for that whole vampire incident."

Mulcahy raised a hand.

"Yes, Lieutenant?"

Ignoring how disturbing it was to be addressed by rank instead of title, Francis asked his question.

"Commander, what 'vampire' incident do you refer to?"

Burns smiled, but didn't laugh.

"Well, Lieutenant...oh, let's just call you Reverend...Pierce and McIntyre needed blood for a Commie patient--my blood. So they tapped me during the night. Just after Potter--or Steele--arrived, I returned the favor. Had to prime it a bit--Pierce's blood flows slowly. Even spilled some in my mouth--but then, a good Commander should be somewhat bloodthirsty. Carry On--so long as this assembly remains lawful. Major, Captain, Reverend."

When they had fully left, Houlihan shook.

"Pierce--if he's had a sample of your blood---there's no telling what he might do."

Father--not Reverend--Mulcahy spoke in confusion.

"What about Captain Pierce's blood?"

Hawkeye shook his head.

"Nothing good, Father. In fact, everything bad."

In Potter's tent, Radar brought Sherman the food he needed and that Nicholas could not use at all. He stared at his erstwhile CO.

"Something wrong, Radar?"

The boy sniffed.

"You Creep. You Killed Colonel Blake. I Believed In You!"

Nick grabbed Radar's hand.

"Then, Radar, I suggest you believe in him now. Because you alone know for certain that he is not this General Steele."

Potter wondered how Radar could discern such a thing. Radar pretended not to know what Nick was talking about. He just didn't do it very well.

"Look, Sergeant Knight. I'm just a kid from Iowa that's seen some grief lately. An' it's prolly cause' o' you two. It's like everyone says--General Steele here ordered Colonel Blake's death."

Sherman Potter looked up again, wondering if General Steele could really look that much like him, to have all of his new friends turn against him so easily.

Nick saw Radar's face shift as he looked at Sherman.

"Radar, what is The Colonel thinking?"

Nick had said this in a non-threatening, almost friendly way. It caught O'Reilly off guard.

"Well, he's thinking about how bad a person General Steele must be, and how he's gonna explain all this to Mildred after he transfers----hey! You were planning to leave, before all this started? Look, once the Captains and The Majors get used to ya, they'll fall in line, same as I did. They'll get ta like ya--same as I did----"

Realization dawned on Radar's face. Potter's face was frozen in stunned wonder. Radar looked at Nick, a bit angry.

"You tricked me. I'm not supposed to ever tell people I can really do that! They're supposed ta think it's guessing."

Sherman finally spoke.

"Radar--you really can read minds, can't you, son? You just read mine like it was the dog-eared table of contents in The Reader's Digest."

Radar looked down.

"I'm really sorry, sir. I didn't mean to intrude."

Nick nodded.

"True telepaths -Mind-Readers- are rare, and the strength of Walter's talent is such that unless someone knew he were capable of listening, to him--they would be speaking as though right to him. Radar--what does your telepathic mind tell you about the man sitting in front of us?"

Radar felt very ashamed of both himself and his camp.

"That he's Sherman T. Potter, a Colonel. That we're a bunch of dopes who got ourselves so upset over what happened to Colonel Blake--we just mighta blown up the thing he built with his own two hands. By that, I mean this Unit. Colonel, it doesn't always work. But if it's got the right guy in charge--it can do real miracles. Please accept our apologies--and stay put here."

Potter smiled.

"Radar--I saw acceptance in all your eyes, not too long ago. But just now--I heard it said out loud for the first time. So if I can--I'm staying."

Now Radar smiled.

"It's funny, ya know? Cause it's like I was tellin' Sergeant Knight, here. I felt like--if I let myself get used to you--I'd prolly end up liking you. And If I ended up liking you, I might end up thinking of you the way I did Colonel Blake. And If I went and did that--where was my loyalty? You weren't here all that long when I decided to turn Sophie over--cause I'd made my choice. Then alla sudden, I felt like a kid who'd deserted his father when times got rough."

Potter asked the obvious question.

"How do you feel now, Radar?"

"Like my 'Dad' would want me to be happy. And most of all--he'd want me to keep this unit he built going by helping you the way I helped him. Not doing that-- well, that's worse disloyalty than what Major Burns is doing."

Potter nodded.

"Now I really regret not meeting the man. I sure wish that Wells character had been right, and someone could build a time machine. How rough did it get for him?"

While Potter asked his question, Pierce and Houlihan waited just outside, and having made the same realization about Potter, nervous as to how to explain themselves. They heard Radar speak.

"Well, sometimes it got plenty rough. If The Captains wasn't fixing to drive him bananas, crackers, and nuts---the Majors was using more ink and carbon paper than I do tryin to take his job away. It got so he'd have to call all The Generals when he got up in the morning--half to be talked to about The Captains's behavior--the other half to explain about The Majors' major reports."

The two were about to enter when Nick spoke, somewhat upset.

"Bad enough that poor Henry is gone--but for a man of his dignity and grace to have to gladly suffer four selfish fools like that proves his worth beyond any shadow of any doubt. And then--they have the nerve to speak ill of him for the chaos they all contributed to without a second thought."

Radar shook his head.

"It wasn't always like that."

Pierce and Houlihan entered.

"No, but it could get that way. I once joked that Henry was like Daffy Duck. What I forgot was---just how much of Daffy's temper came from the tricks that Bugs Bunny would pull. Everyone would laugh with Bugs, and at Daffy. But this isn't a cartoon, is it?"

If Hawkeye looked lost, Margaret looked like she had just found her way back.

"Growing up--I was taught that, so long as the unit wasn't burning down, that you should stand with your CO. Styles vary, but order is as much bottom-up as it is top-down. Maybe the sight of two-thirds of his command staff always undercutting Colonel Blake was as big a contributor to the general chaos as anything we'd write reports on. Colonel Potter--if you'll permit us to continue serving with you--I'd like to get back to the business of this camp."

Potter nodded, but looked at Pierce.

"I'll accept your apologies, on behalf of both Colonel Blake and myself. But Doctor Pierce--I find it hard to believe that a man such as yourself is ever going to buckle down."

Pierce shrugged.

"I'll never stop thumbing my nose at this war, Colonel. But, out of respect to both you and Henry--maybe I won't drop my pants---anymore--quite as often. Most times. Except for--"

Potter cut him off.

"Just give me a week's notice, son, so's I can sell tickets."

Pierce turned to Houlihan.

"Major---you wanna buy some tickets?"

"Do you ever change?"

"Would you trust me if I did?"

She looked scared, as though Hawkeye had hit a nerve.

"Of late--there's been a bit too much change--and far too much distrust, Captain. Major Burns doesn't even trust me anymore--and we've been--close, at times."

Rather than a quip, Pierce offered an olive branch, of sorts.

"Frank will be okay. You two can be--close, again."

Potter looked at his hand.

"Nick--could you ditch these cuffs? My wrist hurts like I've been splitting blessed rails."

To the shock of all present, Nick simply tore his cuffs off, and then released Sherman, who nodded at him.

Nick walked to the tent wall.

"Get ready for a surprise."

Hawkeye was still looking at the cuffs.

"Yeah--eh-uh-a surprise."

Nick then ripped a small tear in the tent. A beam of sunlight broke through. Like the candle it was to him, Nick placed his hand in front of it.

"Ahhhh.....That's enough."

When Nick pulled his hand away, Radar moved to patch the rip. Nick's hand was still smoking. Margaret almost made the connection.

"What the hell are you?"

They would be several minutes in calming Margaret down. Hawkeye went and spoke to Nick. He surprised him with a question.

"What breed are you? No offense meant."

"None taken, Doctor. But the word is Clan, not breed. My master is a man named Lucien Lacroix."

Pierce nodded.

"I thought you looked familiar. I worked three years at Nash Antiques in New York. You and your 'Dad' stopped by one night. Mister Nash got all nervous. I guess Connor was afraid you'd make an hors d'oeuvre out of me."

"Are you an----"

"Me? No! If someone cut off my head, I'd just be embarrassed, poking around for it, while I yelled, 'Hey! Over Here'. It wouldn't be a pretty sight."

Nick liked the joke. But he also offered warning.

"Pierce--do not turn against him again. He is my only living relative. He deserves your respect. Give him time to earn it."

Warning or request, Hawkeye got the message.

"You have my word. Besides--Radar accepts him. In my book, that's just about as high a compliment as you can be paid."

Radar heard this, as well he might, but he said nothing of it for decades to come. With Margaret calmed, Potter stood up.

"Folks--the sun just went down on us--and it's just about to go down on this deuced little coup. Who's for gently but firmly informing 'Commander' Burns of all this?"

Radar sat down, and shook his head.

"None of us, Colonel--we had someone listenin' to us."

With three MP's in tow, and four sidearms between them drawn and at the ready, Frank Burns burst into the tent. One of the MP's--none of whom were the regular assignees--shoved Father Mulcahy in with them.

Frank's face seemed that of a man who in both his agony and his ecstasy. Whatever pain drove him had joined with Pierce's tainted blood and all but erased his latent Humanity.

"Well, well--what have we here? Never mind--I can see what we have here. Blatant and willful treason in wartime. Do I need to remind you how I'm allowed to punish that?"

He looked at Margaret with contempt.

"You--I trusted you. You could have been First Lady."

Houlihan said the obvious.

"You're Mad."

As a sure confirmation of Margaret's prognosis, Burns twisted back her hand, then released it. She held it in shock and amazement. As much as the ennui that haunted their later affair, this moment birthed Major Houlihan's desire to find someone other than Frank Burns. Some dark sides were a good deal darker than others, it seemed.

"People of no worth always call people like me mad. But we wake up--and when we do, there's no one who can stop us. Folks--the little man you all found so funny is gone for good."

Radar looked at Burns, and shook his head. Even with Nick's speed, someone was going to get hurt--unless he did something drastic. He did not yet know how to enter and alter another person's surface thoughts. But he knew how to look in those dark corners of the mind--where no one should go. Hearing what people thought, the boy could also reproduce voices with startling accuracy. He breathed in.

"Commander Burns--I want to talk to Doctor Burns, sir."

"Like I said, punk--he's not here. Find your pratfalls elsewhere."

Hawkeye and the others--except perhaps Nick--wondered at Radar's odd request. They all wondered at what Walter O'Reilly said next.

"Then I'm sorry. Ya didn't give me any choice."

"Shut Up, You Pimple!"

Breathing in again, Radar then spoke in a voice not at all his own.

"Franklin! Don't You Lock This Door Against Me! This Is My House! I Won't Have You Leaving Me Alone In It."

If the shift threw most of the others, it completely unnerved 'Commander' Burns.

"Stop It--That's An Order--Please?"

Radar shook his head.

"You go back where you came from--or before you can kill me--everyone'll know."

Burns shook his head.

"I'm in charge, now. Frank's gone."

Radar laughed, lightly.

"You--in charge? You're nothin' but a night watchman, a janitor. Now, despite it all, I like Major Burns. You--I don't like."

"I perform an important duty."

"So did the guys on the gun emplacements in California. Cept Japan never invaded. Now, those places are left alone. Just like you're gonna be. Now let Major Doctor Burns come out."

Potter looked at Knight. He whispered.

"Nick? What the devil's going on here?"

"A possession, Sherman--and an exorcism, if we're lucky."

Pierce was plainly unnerved by this tableau, and remembered odd Lovecraftian dreams of his childhood, and of a monster that dwelled in the lake outside his family's home. Except this monster dwelled inside an odd bunkmate he now realized he knew not at all.

Burns was defiant.

"If I can't be in charge--I'm not letting anyone be."

Burns reached over to Father Mulcahy.

"Father--is this Holy Water?"

Nick stiffened, at this. Potter prepared to step in front of him, if need be. Mulcahy nodded at the vial he had been holding, in case Nick lost control.

"Yes, Major--It is Holy Water."

He smiled.

"Good."

To everyone's shock, Frank downed the vial's contents--and then screamed.

"I----wiiinnn?"

As he fainted, the three MP's cocked their weapons.

"Folks--we're all taking a trip, down the road, to the 3966th. Nobody try anything funny."

"You mean like this?"

Behind them, Klinger, Zale, and another corpsman all pointed rifles straight at the corrupt MP's heads. They were disarmed and led off--by MP's that everyone knew.

Inside the tent, Frank Burns had not revived. Margaret held him, friendship briefly overcoming her newfound fear of the man.

"Doctor Pierce--I think he may be in a coma!"

Hawkeye checked Frank, hoping to hear the usual whiny voice, or a smear on his loyalty and morals. But Frank was still not moving.

"We have to get him into Post-Op. If he slips much further--we'll lose him. Father-- what was in The Holy Water that could do this?"

"Nothing, Hawkeye--the usual directed mixture--no more toxic than drinking tea on an empty stomach--especially in that small a dose."

Nick, too, felt Frank slipping away.

"Doctor Pierce--The Holy Water was merely a catalyst--it was reacting to something evil within Major Burns."

Hawkeye looked up from his patient and nodded.

"That would be me."

Margaret seconded.

"That would be us. Our blood is tainted."

Potter nodded.

"All right--soon as we're in Post-Op--I want you two to tell me everything I ever wanted to know about the history of this Unit--but you were afraid to tell me. Am I understood?"

As a litter came for Frank, all but Nick and Radar left Potter's tent.

"Walter? Are you coming?"

Radar had been lost and withdrawn since Frank had collapsed, and not heard a word said since--till now.

"Sergeant Knight?"

"Nick."

"Nick--I think I killed Major Burns. Am I a monster?"

"You mean like me?"

"Kind of."

"Not even close, Radar. Not even close. By the way--whose voice was that? Your imitation clearly had an effect."

Radar refused to say.

"That's--just somebody the Major knows-- who's got their own dark stuff."

With that ambiguous statement left hanging, the two joined their friends in Post-Op--and hoped that they were not part of a Death-Watch.

Driving in short spurts toward Kim Po Airport, avoiding patrols as he went, was the AWOL, heartsick surgeon BJ Hunnicutt. Stopping yet again, he looked up at the sky.

*Am I Crazy To Try This? If I am--then I'm asking you to show me a sign--and I mean a sure sign--that I have lost my mind, and should head straight back to Camp.*

Two figures emerged from the darkness.

"Excuse me, young man--could you maybe give us a lift? My feet are so tired, they feel like they're gonna fall off!"

Another voice--much deeper-then came from those same shadows.

"Your feet? Granpa--Mine Did Fall Off--and they just took about forever to get back on."

BJ turned, and saw the would-be hitchhikers.

"Sorry, guys, I---IIII-YiYiyiyiaaagghh!!!"

Receiving his sign, BJ turned the Jeep around and broke several land-speed records in heading back to the 4077th. Better by far, he thought, to take his lumps from Potter--than the two nightmare creatures he had just seen.

"What was with those guys?"

The two left behind wondered the same.

"Gee, Granpa--what's eating him?"

Count Dracula shrugged.

"Herman, who knows? This is a war zone. Obviously, that poor man is suffering from shell-shock."

The Viscount Frankenstein nodded.

"It's just like Lily always says--War Is Heck!"

"Would You Stop Swearing Like A Sailor On Leave? We still haven't found Lacroix yet."

"All right, Granpa--but I won't ever help him again! He's always getting into trouble of some kind."

"What can I say, Herman? Lucien just tends to bite off more than he can chew - and in his case, that's a real trick!"

Lacroix saw two men arguing out his fate.

"Dammit, Steele----You Know That All Immortals are supposed to be reported to me. That was part of our agreement, you snot-nosed punk! And don't think I didn't hear about you calling me a strutting buffoon. I hear everything."

The overly-young head of Project Immunita smiled at his ally/adversary.

"Flagg--have you ever actually read Freedman's report on you? It's an eye-opener. 'A man who plays like he has power, even when he doesn't'. Colonel- you have none here. Now get out."

Flagg pointed at Lacroix.

"Eliminating The Hidden Races guarantees the future of Humanity!"

Steele was all calm, in response to Flagg's storm.

"Studying them and bettering ourselves is a guarantee I like a lot better--sir."

A small man in a tux walked by the two.

"Pardon Me, gentlemen. I won't be long."

They both stared at the pasty-faced man.

"Lucien! Boy, you sure get yourself into some pickles. THIS almost beats the time you tried to take Lestat in The Plasma Chug-A-Lug! Boy, he spiked that punch something awful. You had color in your cheeks for weeks!"

Lacroix smiled.

"Gentleman--I'd like you to meet a retired bank clerk from The Los Angeles Area. Voivode Vladimir Dracul Tepesch. Also known as Count Dracula."

Granpa Munster nodded.

"I still do some accounting on the side--during tax season, mostly."

Steele shook his head.

"If that is Count Dracula--he can share your cage."

Flagg grinned.

"His vampire-kind is different, Steele. They can go out in sunlight, even eat normal food. What a catch."

Granpa tilted his head.

"Normal food, maybe. Nothing too spicy."

"Garlic, Vladimir?"

"Nah. Jalapenoes. But I Love Em'!"

"In the cage--Count."

The wall behind the two feuding captors then burst. Lacroix pointed at the seven-foot tall goofball.

"And this, gentlemen--is Viscount Herman Von Frankenstein, named a Baron by the Munster clan, who adopted him as their son. He is The Count's Son-In-Law. Herman, lad--tell them what you do for a living."

"Who, Me? Well, I work down at The Funeral Parlor. Business is always moving-- just not the customers. Though, there was that one time these spaceships came, and they all started----"

Lacroix held up his hand.

"Herman—that-uprising- is classified, after all. You see, Colonel--this man---the ultimate product of Doctor Victor Frankenstein-- is an immigrant to America. Quite typical. He worries about his bills, his family, and he is yelled at by his boss. Normalcy, gentlemen. That is what people want. Not your stewardship. They no more want that than they want me to take their blood. It happens--but they do not want it. Leave Humanity--and everyone else--alone."

Herman ripped open the cage, sending sparks all about. Lacroix stepped out, and threw Flagg and Steele back. They were cowering, and close to wetting themselves.

"You may consider that--a very strong suggestion---from a man who does not offer suggestions. Ge-he-ntlemen!"

Dorian Taylor saw the departing trio.

"Wait!"

Lacroix turned.

"Madam--we are leaving. Your guards may not stop us."

She nodded.

"I know you're leaving---but please just sign this."

She offered a pen and paper to Herman. Granpa shook his head.

"Watch it, Herman--that's how they got Faust."

"No--I just want his autograph---Viscount Frankenstein--I've always been an admirer of your father's work."

For a man who was supposedly addled, Herman brushed off the plea with good reason.

"Madam--he would not admire you. Dad always said---it's one thing to offer a better soup---it's another to sneak it into dinner."

Even when she met a grisly death, Dorian Taylor would never encounter a greater disappointment.

Well outside Immunita grounds, Granpa Munster turned to Lacroix.

"You coming with us, Lucien? Lily's fixing up some Bloody Marys---in fact, now that I think about it, it was Bloody Mary who gave her the recipe."

Lacroix shook his head.

"No, Vladimir--I came here for Nicholas. I will not leave without him. Plus--there's another friend I must visit, while in Korea. Thank You, My Friends. For Everything."

Lacroix flew off, leaving the Munsters alone.

"Granpa--why don't Nicholas and Mister Lacroix get along?"

He shrugged at his son-in-law's question.

"Let's face it, Herman. Some families just aren't as well-adjusted as we are."

With that, The Average American Family began its journey home--after all, someone had to feed the dragon under the stairs.

Lacroix landed at the 4077th's vacant heli-pad. Walking down the path, he could sense both Nick---and Sherman.

"Another failed cure, Nicholas? Or a family reunion--also failed?"

"Who goes there?"

Lacroix was mightily surprised that a woman was on guard duty.

"Madam--I....."

He looked again, and nodded.

"My friend, I fear you will have to do far better than that. During the Cisalpine Insurrection, a man under my command said that he was The Divine Julius Caesar, and that I had no authority to order him anywhere."

Klinger nodded appreciatively.

"So did he get out?"

"After a fashion. I asked him to grace us with a speech--then I had his four best friends stab him to death."

Klinger gulped.

"You---May Pass."

Lacroix grinned.

"As It Should Be."

Catching a whiff of Klinger's breath as he went by, Lacroix whispered lightly.

"Powers That Be Protect Me From The Fiendish Salami."

Nick was with the others in Post-Op. Frank Burns was still unconscious--and on the verge of slipping away entirely. Nick had already sensed his 'Father's' presence.

"Lacroix--I will gladly come along. But I must see to this man's life first. His condition is partly my fault."

Lacroix looked down at Burns.

"Those who partake of King Ghidorah's spore--must be the very strongest and clear-minded of beings. Else--death or madness. This is none of your doing, Nicholas--and none of your concern."

Potter saw Lacroix. Nick sensed genuine pleasure from his master at the sight of the once-younger man. There was a connection he was missing--but that was all he knew.

"Monsieur Lacroix. I wish I could say I was happy to see you--but there's not a lot of happiness, around these parts, right about now."

"Still, Sherman--it is good to see you. I was rather hoping you had made General by now--in keeping with family tradition."

Potter shook his head.

"Nick--what've you been telling your Dad? Monsieur--nobody else in my family has ever made Full Colonel, let alone General."

Lacroix did not react as a man would if caught in a mistake. Rather, his recovery was that of a reader who had skipped to a mystery's end, but did not wish others to know of it.

"Of course. Still--I am glad to see you are doing so well. Tell me, how long does the poor man have?"

Potter seemed as thrown by Lacroix's sincere interest as Nick.

"For that, you can ask Doctor Pierce."

"Very well then. I shall."

As Lacroix walked over to Pierce, Potter bid Nick walk outside with him.

"Nick--I got the definite impression that Lucien doesn't have but one use for we short-in-the-tooth folk. So why's he making like a mayoral candidate on November 1st all of a sudden?"

"Oddly, Sherm--Lacroix can be trusted. But as for truly understanding him--maybe in another seven hundred years. Strong Maybe."

Inside, Lacroix saw Pierce.

"Ah--Life Is A Circle, It Would Seem. How is Connor doing, Mister Pierce?"

Hawkeye looked up.

"Every once in a blue moon, he sends me a postcard, with the letters H, I, S, and A on it."

"H I S A?"

"Yeah. Stands for--Hello, It's Still Attached."

"That's our Macleod. Tell me--when were you infected with the spore?"

"Figures someone who's into blood would know that. Late 50'. Myself and our Head Nurse. From what you know--how long do you think we might have?"

"Have? If you've survived this long--eternity as a godlike individual."

"Ah-huh. Sure. Listen--I know you're not the gentle type--but can you help Doctor Burns, here? Frank may be a pain-but I'd just as soon he not die--especially not here."

"Doctor Pierce--I could try--but---Why Would I?"

Since Hawkeye knew exactly who he was dealing with, he accepted that answer, without speech or gesture. His glare, though, spoke volumes. Lacroix spied Radar, asleep in a chair next to Frank's bed. When the boy awoke suddenly, their eyes met. As Radar's jaw began to drop, Lacroix knew.

"Little mind-reader--do not make that presumption. Sherman may feel you are like a son to him. But probe me again-- and that will not save you."

Radar looked at Frank.

"Help him. Please. You can do it."

"As I said to Pierce--why should I?"

Radar rolled the dice for a man who often insulted him and his friends.

"Once--way back when--somebody asked you to do something you knew was wrong, Mister La---Sir. Well, somebody once asked the same thing of Doctor Burns here. It's not that stuff that's killing him. It's the secret. The bad secret."

"What secret--Little Man?"

Radar just said a name, and hoped he would survive.

"Divia."

Lacroix bid Radar get up. He sat down in his place.

"I will help him. But it's a life for a life, boy. For your intrusion--I am going to kill you when this is done."

He turned and looked at Radar, and the lad knew true fear.

"You May Consider That A Promise."

Radar left, to inform the others of Lacroix's decision--while leaving out his promise. Lacroix began his descent into the mind of Frank Burns. It wasn't precisely telepathy. It was more of an initiation rite that he would use on those he had considered bringing over. Using his method, Lacroix would taste of the darkness in each soul, to determine its depth. Here, he found a depth of respectable proportions. Burns would actually make a good Vampire, and feel no attachments to his former life.

In Jeanette, he had found a desire to be truly powerful, and nigh-untouchable. Her darkness had been like a large stone. In Nicholas, he had found a desire to again have the passion drained from him by The Crusades. His darkness was like a large blanket, covering all. Only once had he encountered a darkness so thick, it choked and scared him. True Evil, greater even than his hopefully-late daughter, Divia had dreamed of possessing. A hate that hated all Life. For this reason, Lacroix had decided not to bring over The Austrian Corporal. Some monsters needed no paranormal help to achieve their goals.

As Lacroix had suspected, Burns' darkness was like a shield. But Lacroix had been slipping through shields since before the first Burns was tossed out of Glenfinnan, Scotland.

"Hello? Who's there?"

"My name, Doctor Burns--is Lucien Lacroix. I've come to get you out of here. Then--I will step on an intrusive little bug before I go."

"Well, thanks, Mister Lacroix. But I can't go, just yet. Maybe later."

"You misunderstand me--Frank. I am not a pick-up service. Come with me now or remain here and face possible death."

Frank was calm, and quite nonchalant- -even accepting about what Lacroix had just said.

"Oh, I understand. But if I go out there, I'm just as dead. I have to have my mind in order before I can emerge. If my mind ever thinks about the secret for too long, I'll really crack up. Probably have heart failure from the shock."

"The Secret? The boy called Radar had mentioned that we share a secret in common. Did you, too, murder your own daughter?"

Frank shook his head, again in a zone of eerie calm.

"No. Thankfully--this has nothing to do with my girls. You really wanna know this?"

Lacroix nodded.

"Having come thus far--why not?"

Frank looked contemplative. Ironically, this thoughtful Human being was the only version of Burns that the vampire would ever meet.

"It's an old story. Dad ran around on my Mom. The others think he was stable and trustworthy. But my affairs with Margaret and all those receptionists pale in comparison."

"Others---what others, Doctor?"

"The Others. The Other Frank Burnses. Lessee---there's The Patriot, The Ninny, The Bully---and me--that I know of. When they all broke off of me, I couldn't tell who was who for awhile. I'd just as soon not find any others, ya know? We're each aware of the others--but the operative word is 'others'. I used to hope it wasn't true--but, Que Sera."

Lacroix now felt a bit upset that his oath to Sherman Potter prohibited him from simply taking a man who was this self-aware at his core. The process would winnow out the weaker selves and leave this extraordinary coordinator.

"Huh. So the O'Reilly lad's 'big secret' is that you broke down as a result of your father betraying your mother. In Rome, such things were expected. No offense, Doctor--I almost wanted more."

"Oh. My Dad's running around didn't do this to me. No. I knew about that--so did all the kids in the neighborhood. Their Dads and some of their Moms were doing the same. The problem was, not everybody's Mom was in on it."

"Your Mother was not, I take it, a part of this little ring."

"No. She said it was immoral. And it was. But she was lonely, too. She couldn't get her husband to stay at home--and she wouldn't break her marriage vows. So-- she decided to----she decided that it was time I became man of the house. She started talking about how much I resembled Dad. When she tried to kiss me on the lips---I barricaded myself in my room. Lacroix--I Never Ever Told My Mother No On Anything Until She Tried That. She threatened, she pleaded--she talked through the door about what she'd do to me if I didn't come out--and then what she would do to me if I did. For a full year---every night---she would try."

Lacroix sat with his jaw open.

"Did you continue to tell her no?"

"Yes. And That's What Splintered Me. A Good Son Doesn't Tell His Mother No. But I did. Because A Good Son Doesn't EVER--well, he just doesn't. But I let her be alone, Mister Lacroix. I obeyed God but disobeyed my Mother."

Lacroix now knew why Radar had risked so much. Burns and himself did indeed share a terrible secret.

"Doctor Burns, her name was Divia. She was my Master--she who made me what I am--and she demanded of me what was demanded of you. I refused--there are still moral lines, no matter who you are. I was forced to destroy her."

Feeling the comfort of a shared darkness, Frank spoke.

"Who was she? This Divia?"

Lacroix felt hollow, but also a bit freer.

"My Own Daughter."

Frank nodded.

"Your own daughter. Geez. I guess I'm lucky. Neither of my girls show any signs of the family's nutsiness."

Lacroix felt somewhat lost, having found a kindred soul at such an odd remove.

"I've told myself that it wasn't my fault...but that I fear is merely a comforting lie. It was my own evil Divia was showing me. All Of Rapacious Rome bound up in one little brat--who could never be told 'No'. Doctor Burns do you know what the worst part was?"

Frank was as calm as ever, and Lacroix began to sense that this was perhaps not his natural state of being.

"That you wanted to give in. I mean I didn't exactly have a lot of dates as a teenager. Mom's-- never been a hag."

"May I ask what became of her?"

Even this super-serene version of Frank had a hard time saying it out loud--albeit mentally.

"After a year, Dad figured it all out. Mom was sent away--for a year. I got sent to Military School. When we both came back---nothing was the same. Mom apologized, and I tried to tell her it was all right. But I didn't let her touch me again. Even when I left for Korea, all I allowed her was a peck on the cheek. She is a beautiful, encouraging woman, Mister Lacroix. Why couldn't I forgive her that one mistake?"

Lacroix had no answer, merely another question.

"What Of Your Father?"

Frank was slipping, and Lacroix knew he would have to act soon, to fulfill his promise.

"Dad---said that him and me were done. That he couldn't keep up ---'the pretense of friendship' --- with a potential marital competitor in his own house. I tore his head off. Told him what a hypocrite he was, and how maybe he drove Mom to it. After he got through with me---well, I'm just lucky he didn't go after my hands. Though Pierce might think the soldiers would be lucky if I'd lost use of them."

"Pierce rides you, does he? Well, he gets his biting sarcasm from a mutual friend, a Mister Nash of Long Island, New York. The man can be a true pain."

"Oh, I don't mind Pierce. I love all the people here. For all their abuse and criticism---and mine, too---this place has been the happiest I've ever been. No lies. No sham families, or marriages of advantage. Even when Pierce and his cohorts hate me—it's all real. I wish my marriage to Louise had half the emotion I have with Margaret--but the others barely have the strength to handle her--forget about a real marriage. And I need them to keep the secret."

"Frank--my friend--shall we go?"

"Sure. I'm ready now. By the way--who or what is a 'Ghidorah'?"

Lacroix shook his head.

"A monster with many faces--but no soul."

"Hmmph. Sounds like Colonel Flagg. Boy, if his presence didn't always bring out The Patriot Or The Ninny--I'd have a few things to tell that moron."

Bidding each other goodbye, Lacroix and Burns left The Darkness behind--not forever--but knowing it a little better than they had. When Frank awoke--The Human would not be there. Neither would Lacroix.

Rising from his chair, Lacroix looked at the waiting Radar.

"Didja do it, sir?"

Lacroix nodded.

"Yes, Walter. I did. And I met a strong, remarkable man in the process. A warrior, crippled by deceit, treachery, and dishonor--yet still a warrior. I suppose that part never leaves you."

"Yeah--well---I'm ready."

"Ready? Whatever For?"

"For what I did--reading you like that--you promised to kill me--sir."

"Yes, I did, didn't I?"

The Vampire shrugged.

"I Lied."

Nick was just outside of Post-Op, and nodded at his Master.

"I'd thank you for what you did--but I know you, and so I know you had your own reasons for doing it. I suppose we should go now."

"Not just yet, Nicholas. I still wish to speak with Sherman, ere we depart. Also, you have never spoken with me on the end of your stay in Missouri. You will do so now."

"Because you tell me to?"

"In Part. But Mostly Because I Feel--You Need To."

Unable to argue with that logic, Nick told of the dark events near the Hannibal of thirty years ago.

"I had been with Sherman and Agnes for over five years, by this point. Sherman and Mildred had been married for three years, and Sherm had attended med school for two years. We all had news for each other. It was a day of revelations, not all of them good. It was a July night, hot but not humid. I attended an actual barn dance."

Lacroix nodded.

"We all have burdens we must bear, Nicholas."

MISSOURA, 1924

Mildred helped her husband off the floor. The towering bulk of Josiah Martinson made her wince, but she did not permit him the pleasure of seeing that. Sherman glared at the big bully, but omnipresent matriarch Henrietta Martinson spoke up.

"See my son, Sherman Potter? He's real big. Big means we go where we will, and do what we want. We don't want you or your race-mixing family here. Here, the Martinsons are the strongest. The strongest ones make the rules."

While not intervening, Agnes Potter grabbed Henrietta's hand to stop her as she left.

"Mrs. Martinson--remind me someday to tell you about the exception to your rule of strength."

As the crude but tolerated family left, Sherman tried not to bristle.

"If he just hadn't taken me by surprise, I'dve---heck, I'dve really gotten clobbered."

Mildred looked around.

"Where in Heaven's name is Nick?"

The answer was to be found in a tireless man, taking in every dance, partner to every willing female for miles around. A vampire who, surrounded by true family, had finally learned to relax. When he was done, he sauntered up and kissed Mildred's hand.

"Milady--shall we dance?"

Mildred smiled, but shook her head no.

"Thanks, Nicholas. But I'm not up for it."

Sherman gestured.

"Honey, I just had the wind knocked out of me by that ape. What's keeping your sails still?"

She grinned.

"The nine-month flu."

Agnes threw in her two cents.

"Which she's had for two months, and refused to tell you about. Mildred, you are such a nervous nelly! It's just a baby, after all."

"Mother--I was going to tell him--I just wanted to find the right moment."

"Secrets are meant to be shared, dear. Not kept--and especially not from family."

Rather than let her point go, Agnes continued all the way home. A look from Sherman told Nick that sometimes, a mother's natural jealousy of her daughter-in-law can be carried too far.

Once inside, Agnes brushed Nick off, at least on that subject.

"Oh, I was just funning with her, Nick. What's important is that, if my reading of ritual is correct, a tiny drop of that baby's blood-will cure us both. It's of our mortal line, and we two will help each other to survive the change. Oh, I want to play with that baby in the sunlight."

Nick smiled, and prayed to a God whose existence he now doubted that Lacroix would remain far away till this was done.

"The sun--food--children of my own, again."

Agnes took his hand.

"Nick--I was only thirty-five when I was brought over."

He gently pulled away.

"Agnes--you've asked me to act as your son's brother. What do you think that might do to him?"

She nodded.

"You look so like my Andrew, it frightens me. I loved your nephew, Nick. Badly. Sometimes I miss him so, it hurts. Will you forgive me?"

"Always. You've given me better than a spouse. You've given me a home."

A voice from the hall came through.

"Mother--I didn't care too much for the way you rode Mildred, tonight."

"Sherman--she shouldn't keep something that important a secret."

"So no big secrets? Is that what you're telling me?"

"That's right."

Sherm walked into the kitchen, wine-bottle in hand. He placed it firmly on the table. The substance within, of course, was not wine. Nick and Agnes saw a Sherman who was less angry than hurt.

"Well, drink up you two--cause it's sure not my vintage."

Agnes, unsure of herself, withdrew. Sherm looked at Nick.

"Dad always mentioned an Uncle--one he'd had a bad fight with. Grandma Flora's brother."

Nick nodded.

"That would be--me."

For two weeks, an icy silence reigned between mother and son, despite Nick's best efforts at reconciliation. Getting nowhere with Sherman, he spoke with Mildred.

"Did he tell you--about me and Agnes?"

Mildred nodded, and pulled out a small wooden case. Inside it--was a stake. Nick's eyes darted down. Nick knew of the 1881 incident that had created multiple Slayers, a fracturing that would not be made right until the birth of the greatest Slayer in 1981. In fact, Missouri had at least two, Mildred and a girl named Rose Wilder. For its part, the Watchers' Council in far-off London ignored these girls and only 'found' European girls who were called. Mildred would always be remarkably strong, though with fewer battles to fight, that would decrease with time.

"It was no accident that Agnes met you, then."

Again, she nodded.

"I came here to destroy her. Instead, Agnes became my Watcher. I would never have survived, without her guidance. I love her, Nick. I knew that I would love her son. They've both given me so much. To see them at each other's throats---"

Nick looked up at that phrase, and stared. Mildred winced, just a bit.

"Er, I mean, to see them so angry at one another, drains me dry, frankly."

Nick stared again. Mildred realized how easy it is to trip over phraseology, so she gave up.

"It makes my blood boil?"

Nick chuckled.

"I prefer mine chilled."

Mildred felt her awkwardness vanish.

"Nick--you are an Angel."

"Mildred--let's not use that particular compliment, alright? It's just--awkward."

Working together, Nick and Mildred maneuvered the feuding Potters into the living room. Agnes spoke first.

"Go on and say it, Sherman. You think that I've become a monster!"

Sherman closed his eyes.

"Mother---you're no monster. Neither is Nick. I am. Some of the things I did in Germany---I'm gonna burn in Hell for."

Sherman collapsed to his knees, and began to cry. Even Mildred had never realized how deep the pain ran. Nick vowed to find and destroy the Immortal known as Kronos, whom Sherman had known as Major Kronopoulis, leader of the vicious Boys From Golgotha. Agnes merely held her boy, and felt her anger rise to dangerous levels. This might have passed, but for what occurred next.

"Agnes--do you smell smoke?"

"Yes, Nick. It's coming from...."

Sherman's eyes popped open.

"It's Auntie Russell's house. It's on fire!"

Agnes got up, and wondered how her son could tell that. But the house across the way was indeed burning. Agnes' heart sank.

"My mother's home..."

Nick cocked his ears.

"Wild giggling...like hyenas."

Sherman stood up, and went to the closet for his weapon. He said one word.

"Martinsons. Now, mother, don't try and talk me out of this. They have it coming--all of them."

But when Sherman turned around, his mother was already gone, with Nick stirring and Mildred gently knocked unconscious.

"Oh, my God."

He then realized that his mother agreed with his vengeful statement, and had gone on ahead of him--to do a vampire's work.

In her home, the cold-hearted Henrietta Martinson celebrated a great victory over what she saw as being wrong with the world.

"The Russell home burns with God's own fire, and a house of darkness goes down with it. Those uppity pieces of garbage are all gone, now, and soon we will find that their traitor allies in the Potter clan go the way of the wind, as well. There is a way of things, my children. This family was forged together from the families that owned most of the southland, before the Yankee rape of Dixie. Before property was raised up from the status of cattle and called Human by carpetbagger courts. Before good, right-thinking people were forced to forget the first rule of strength. That rule states clearly that the strongest always rule. Without exception."

Henrietta had often invited people into her home, to show off her ancestral collection of war sabers and uniforms. She even invited in people she did not like, or despised. One night last summer, Agnes Potter had been among those invited in, albeit briefly. This was a mistake no Martinson would live to regret.

"I warned you, Henrietta."

They were all stunned to see Agnes Potter standing right in the middle of their living room. The matriarch gestured.

"Get that half-Human trash out of my sight."

The bulky Josiah Martinson smiled, thinking of what he would do to Agnes, once he had her outside. But Mrs. Potter showed no fear. She merely looked up at the big bully, a kind of pity in her eyes.

"You touched my son, Sherman."

The hulking fool shrugged.

"Yeah, I did. With these two good hands. So? Whatcha gon do? Cept' Nothin?"

Agnes grabbed both his hands, and pulled back--ripping his arms out of his sockets. The big man screamed. Agnes smiled, and tossed the arms at his shocked mother.

"Nothing, you said? Well, two take away two is nothing, after all."

As Agnes heard a rifle cock, she moved the agonized giant into the line of fire. Harold Martinson shook when he realized what he'd done. Agnes came at him, and held him up.

"The Lord discovered that he had slain his brother in anger---and so he was marked."

Slashing fingernails took Harold's throat like it was wrapping paper.

All fourteen residents of the large house came at her, including some that Agnes had not known were Martinsons. She recognized one as the 'victim' that one of her nephews on Mammy Russell's side had supposedly assaulted. Her Sherman had watched as he was hung on this girl's word alone. The kitchen knife she wielded became her last meal, instead.

"Perjury, my dear, turns to nails in your throat!"

As she literally whittled down their ranks, Agnes felt more and more of her vampiric nature dictating her actions. She found that it was much easier to live with than she thought.

The last five each held rifles and ropes, but all Agnes did was laugh.

"You all are nothing to me--less than nothing."

While Henrietta sat and watched in abject horror, Agnes merely seized all the ropes and strung up her kin, just as they had done to many an innocent.

"Don't you worry, Henrietta. I'll shoot them down."

But Agnes did not use the rifle to shoot down their ropes. Crazy with fear, Henrietta seized her crucifix. Though it touched Agnes' flesh, she was not at all affected.

"But---you're a vampire. Why doesn't this thing work like it's supposed to?"

Agnes stared at the Cross, and wondered how much of her soul she had lost this night.

"Well, Henrietta--I don't think there's anything wrong with The Cross."

Agnes then poured lamp oil over a shaking Henrietta.

"You see, if you had sent you and yours to Church on Sunday, rather than teaching them hate in your basement, you might have faith enough to repel me. But you don't. The Cross is only a conduit for your belief in the Lord, for his love. But you've blocked him out with hate. Now watch."

Agnes held the Cross, and her hands began to burn as she did.

"I am a vampire, Mrs. Martinson. But I still have more faith than you."

Small flames erupted from Agnes' hands, but she did not release her grip.

"I warned you. Warned you to stay away from my family. But you wouldn't listen."

Somehow, Mrs. Martinson found the strength to sound haughty.

"Because, we are the strongest. The strongest can do whatever they like."

Agnes put down the cross, gently, and pressed her still-burning hands on Henrietta Martinson, who shrieked as she went aflame.

"I warned you, Henrietta. I warned you that there was an exception to that rule. The exception states--The strongest always rule--until they meet someone stronger."

Finding a certain book, Agnes left, and let the fire consume the rest of the house.

The book was a goldmine. It showed the name of all the 'secret' Martinsons. By having unknown relatives, the bigoted clan had long been able to sit on juries, incite crowds, and control events without being held directly responsible. Among them were three deputies, a phone operator in Hannibal, six teachers, and one judge. For the vampire, it was a long night, but worth it all. Forty-five people, not including the fifteen known Martinsons, would disagree.

So, for that matter, would Sherman T. Potter and Nicholas Knight.

Agnes descended, the dawn only minutes away. Her mouth, gullet, and hands were flowing with the blood of her enemies. She was content, now. Now, as she entered her home, everything would be all right at last. Except that it couldn't be.

As she went to open the door to her home, she pulled back her hand in agony.

"Garlic flowers."

Indeed, every potential entrance to her house had been locked and laid over with garlic flowers and bulbs. Agnes Potter both felt and heard someone walk up.

"Sherman? Son, help me get into the house. Someone has locked it up tighter than....."

Agnes saw her twenty-six-year old son, dressed in his army fatigues. He had his rifle with mounted bayonet, a canteen full of holy water, stakes at the ready, and garlic flowers laced round his neck. No male could ever be a true Slayer. But Captain Sherman T. Potter of The Boys From Golgotha was ready to try it--even on the woman who gave him life.

"Mother--you and me, we have to talk. You can't just go around doing what you did. Not all of those people were as vile as Henrietta's brood."

Agnes was enraged that her own son was challenging her, and especially right then.

"Sherman Potter! You were a soldier. You know that the war ends when the enemy is all dead. No more *Knights* in white satin, for this county. No more bullies. I intend to insure that."

Sherm's face grew narrow.

"Like you did tonight?"

"Sherman, they were animals. They deserved to die."

Captain Potter shook his head.

"Mother, it seems to me I've heard that song before. From those people you just butchered, when they hurt us and Auntie—I mean Grandma Russell's family."

Agnes put her finger over her lips.

"Sherman, the night has ears! You want some stray passerby to know we're all part Colored?"

At that time, in that part of the country, this was a very real concern. But not for Sherman.

"Mother, it's not the darkness of some folks skin I'm worried about. It's about the darkness that is right as we speak eating your very soul. You've avenged your kin. Now come back to us."

"I never left. And it's not about vengeance anymore. It's about justice. I am going to use my power to rattle this corrupt nation to its core. No more will women like my own mother be shown casual contempt. My own nephew, hung like a side of meat, and me unable to even beg for his life. My little niece--she had my face, Sherman-- killed by the same Martinsons that killed my sister, and released and applauded by the same jury. When I'm through, it will be the 'pure' Anglo-Saxons that are shipped back. And you can't stop me, Sherman. I'll simply bring you and Mildred over."

Sherman responded by hurling two stakes right into her. His face was like cut stone. Agnes looked more annoyed than hurt.

"Son, you won't destroy me. We both know that. Now stop this."

When Sherman attempted to throw two more stakes, Agnes rushed him, and held him up with one hand. Her face was now distending, as her vampiric nature took over entirely. Her voice was like gravel in a deep bowl.

"I told you--you won't destroy your own Mother!"

Sherman's eyes were tearing, the stone facade gone.

"I don't have to. I'm sorry. So very damned sorry."

She turned, and saw that Sherman had succeeded.

"NOOOO!!! Please, not the Sun! I have to find a place to...."

Sherm did what he had to once again, and emptied his canteen over the ever-more feral vampire. Thinking to find a knife in her pocket, she instead found the Cross she had taken from the Martinsons' home. As she burned three ways, she realized what she had truly done. She looked at her boy, and nodded.

"Thank you, Sherman. You did the right thing, son. I'll tell your father--you did the right thing."

Still grasping The Cross, Agnes rose into the air, heading towards The Sun, now fully risen. She hoped as her body was destroyed that God would forgive her this night of unholy vengeance. When The Cross fell, Sherman caught it, and fell to his knees, grasping it, and praying that God would forgive him, as well. When Nick emerged from the house that night, Sherm was still praying, still crying, a now-obviously pregnant Mildred beside him. Nick, who had not had use for faith since the Crusades, watched this and realized his time in Missouri was done. He had never had the heart to tell Agnes that her cure was one he had already tried. He whispered about what Sherman held, to himself.

"...And exchange it someday, for a crown."

MASH 4077TH, 1952

Lacroix nodded at the tale's sad conclusion.

"A pity about poor Agnes. But when a mixed-clan vampire goes feral, they attract a great deal of attention. I too am proud of Sherman. His action was the correct one, and he had the courage to deliver the blow himself."

Knowing his master well, Nicholas decided not to press as to why Lacroix seemed to have an odd affection for Sherman. Instead, he wrapped up the loose ends of his story.

"As demobilization finally reached its end, Sherm was called back to active duty, and completed medical school through the army. Mildred had a little girl. They sold the big house and moved to Hannibal proper--fewer memories. They named the girl Eve, after their new beginning. I said my goodbyes, and disappeared into the West, and Los Angeles."

Lacroix nodded.

"Where I found you, then as now. Nicholas, let us wish Sherman and his comedic troupe well--and leave this place."

Not wishing to challenge Lacroix in a place with so many innocents, Nick Knight merely nodded in acquiescence.

PROJECT : IMMUNITA, UNIT 3966TH

Small, red lights swirled around the caged form of General Bartford Hamilton Steele The Third. He heard dark, whispered voices. Sherman Potter's lookalike said some odd words.

"Pog---Rats?"

In a dimly lit void now, the delusional manipulator saw beings who looked like his son, Dorian Taylor, and even the late Henry Blake. 'Blake' spoke first.

"Your Pagh--is so very rich with fear and hate. So strong."

Dorian Taylor.

"You Are The General."

Bart the Fourth.

"You will destroy The Clay before The Priest can deliver it unto The Potter, and thereby forge a vessel for The Emissary, The Sisko."

Steele looked around.

"Alright, I'll do it. But first--a number!"

The General began to dance a jig.

"Buffalo Gal, woncha come out tonight, come out tonight, come out tonight, Buffalo Gal woncha come out tonight, and we'll dance by the lighta the moon!"

The Pagh Wraiths observed this. 'Blake' commented.

"His Pagh is strong--but he's a complete nutburger!"

Taylor shrugged.

"It's either him or release Dukat and Winn to do it."

Bart The Fourth shook his head.

"No. We must not. They would start giving speeches again. That is unthinkable."

Even pure Evil has its limits.

CO'S OFFICE, MASH 4077TH

Potter's face was ashen, to hear the secret accounts from Pierce and Houlihan.

"People--erased like lines on a page? Turning to goo while making whoopee? Supply lines threatened by Cloak and Dagger types? Even maybe spacemen?"

Hawkeye nodded.

"And that's the heavily condensed version. The real soup is pea-thick."

Margaret agreed with her odd ally and future friend.

"Colonel, this thing extends so long and so deep, there's literally no telling how high is up. The experiments performed upon us--were successful, because we lived. Or maybe that was a failure. Personally, I'd rather listen to some of McIntyre's bathroom humor than really think about what all this means."

Potter was shaken, but now certain things were starting to come into focus.

"So our story ends with these folks killing Henry Blake--just to be sure."

Radar was heard to yell.

"You ain't goin' in there, you lousy..."

A small crash was heard, and a thud. Bartford Hamilton Steele the Fourth, one day to be known as The Cigarette Man, entered.

"Colonel, you should tell your company clerk to keep his hands to himself. He might just live to be twenty--then again, maybe he won't get any older."

With trademark arrogance, the code-talking junior spy sat on Potter's desk.

"Now let's discuss how things are run at this camp. My father once had a similar discussion with Henry Blake. It kept the peace for a time. Deal, Potter?"

Pushing his desk up suddenly, Potter felt his rage rise as the punk fell down on his behind. The Colonel's words were quite ominous.

"You--are nothing to me."

Sherman Potter was in a red rage, the likes of which he had not felt since World War One. As part of a special operation known as Calvary, but also as Golgotha, he had been Mounted Death to over two thousand German civilians. He had aided in the deaths of thousands more, as the Allied Forces sought bloody revenge for the deliberate targeting of medical facilities by the Central Powers.

Potter returned home, with Nicholas Knight in tow. In Hannibal's environs, he had found the love of a good woman, become a father--and been forced to destroy his beloved mother, Agnes.

Golgotha had never left him. The anger and self-loathing he felt over tasks necessary but gruesome only multiplied inside his healer's soul. Doctor Potter could never escape the shadow of the violent young man who would have laughed while taking his Hippocratic Oath. Even worse, on occasion, he would encounter young soldiers who so reminded him of himself, the urge to strike some sense into them was hard to fight down.

But that was exactly what he did. The Sherman Potter most saw was the real deal. A good man of gentle humor and tough disposition. A Healer and a Soldier, with no dividing line needed or apparent. He was the man Mildred knew, the man that no one who encountered him--even those 4077th Alumnus like Trapper, who only met him after the war--could walk away from unimpressed. 99% of the time, there was no dichotomy between the man who loved horses and children and the man who later drove a jeep straight at a leviathan in Tokyo. For him, it was all part of a fierce devotion to life that was only eclipsed by that possessed by his new Chief Surgeon. But unlike Pierce, Potter had no obsession. A soldier knew better. A soldier was about the mission.

This was that other 1% of the time, though. Before Potter, lying in a heap on the floor of his office, was Bartford Hamilton Steele The Fourth, son of The Flipping General. One day, he would kill a President, and torment an FBI Special Agent with teasing answers about a lost sister. But in March of 1952, he was the recipient of all of Potter's pent-up rage. At first, Steele tried to maintain his facade.

"Potter, you are a broken down old man who has just crossed his last line!"

Pulling his sidearm, Steele found it hard to hide his fear of his father's angry, coherent doppelganger. This became doubly hard when Potter kicked the gun away. No one had seen him cross from in back of his desk except Pierce and Houlihan, who almost swore mentally that he jumped the distance.

"Boy, you secret agent types are always fond of telling everybody how strong you are. Like to act up like your phony swagger actually means something."

Sherman grabbed up the arrogant young man, and held him by his lapels.

"Tell me, kid--How strong do you feel now?"

In his own permanent rage, the young killer pulled out a knife, and stabbed at Sherman Potter. But The Colonel backed away, receiving only a slight wound to his outer left hand. Hawkeye started to shake when he saw Potter wipe the blood away with his own mouth. The older man smiled, and Margaret Houlihan began to wonder how many ways there were for a man to go mad.

"Mister Lewis Carroll said it best. Lion And Unicorn, Went Round For Round..."

In three punches, Potter had Steele through Radar's office and out the front doors. Sherman was roaring, and a scary sight indeed.

"....And Lion Beat Unicorn All Over BLESSED town!"

Watching nearby, Nicholas Knight and Lucien Lacroix watched with interest, but with markedly different feelings.

"Ahh, my former captor has brought out the true Sherman Potter. Watch, Nicholas, as a bug is squashed."

To Sherman, the man he was tossing about like a rag doll was the embodiment of everything that he despised. Worse still, young Steele had laid claim to the cowardly death of a fellow CO, and a man Potter had come to respect without even having known him. But to Nick, it was all a sign that his great-nephew was losing his mind.

"Lacroix, what's happening to him?"

"Nicholas, Nicholas. My son, what do you think is happening to him? It is as I have always told you. We cannot escape what we are."

Sherman was still yelling, albeit a little more softly.

"You come into my camp, brag about how you undermined a good man. You talk puzzle, and hint like a schoolboy hiding a cigarette that just maybe you killed him. You and your sick father are through, here. Blake was a better man than me. He found the strength to tolerate your presence. I never will. No more erasures. No more supply lines cut. No more Human guinea pigs. All the secret booswah ends here. It ends now! Radar, give me my sidearm!"

O'Reilly walked out, and looked down at the man who killed the man who was like his own father.

"Ya don't look so tough now, pal. Where's yer big words, and secret agent jive?"

Radar gave Potter the gun.

"It's his, Colonel. Figure there's some justice in that."

Potter looked up.

"Corporal--this isn't about justice."

A worried Hawkeye finally found the courage to speak up.

"Then what is it about, Colonel? Cause I'm drawing a blank here."

Margaret pleaded.

"Sir--this is him. This isn't us."

Steele tried to sound like he was still in control, and taunted Margaret.

"See? I knew you loved me, Hot Lips."

Radar kicked the little fool while he was down.

"The Colonel didn't give you no permission to speak, animal!"

Nick seized the opportunity, such as it was.

"Sherman, is this travesty what you want? Radar corrupted by rage, as you once were?"

Potter turned and looked at his late father's uncle. His face was harsh, and quite unforgiving.

"We are what we are. You heard Lacroix. Now back yourself off, Nick."

"I won't."

A voice like death.

"You will, Nicholas. Sherman has made his choice. That choice to be predator, rather than prey. Added to the fact that this worthless fool has bragged of killing the eminently worthwhile Henry Blake--a man whose shadow he was not fit to crawl across--and destiny fulfills itself in a most delightful and satisfying way."

Destiny did indeed play itself out, as a nervous BJ came back to camp. He looked whipped, and sheepish.

"Colonel, please try to let me explain. I never meant to....."

Potter shook his head.

"To what, Hunnicutt? To desert? To overburden your co-workers? To endanger the lives of the soldiers you weren't here to operate on?"

BJ felt lost, but Nick saw his opening in Sherm's words.

"Sherman--why are you angry at this man?"

"Are you for real, kin-o-mine? This joker let his own problems get in the way of being a doctor. He forgot---"

Lacroix frowned, his moment lost. Potter regained himself in more ways than the obvious.

"---we forgot what this is supposed to be all about. No conspiracies, or secret families, or hidden agendas. We're Doctors. And Nurses. We help those who need our help, when they need it."

Potter holstered the gun.

"And it's time we got back to the business of the 4077th MASH."

The healers all applauded. Even Lacroix was forced to concede the irony of his mantra, because Sherman Potter was what he was, and could not betray that. Still, Lacroix knew, this would hardly be Potter's final battle with that hidden part of himself. Some wars really do last forever.

Sherman pointed to Steele.

"As for you--get out and stay out. Simple as that."

"I'm a man who usually gauges the warnings he gets, Colonel. I'll be around."

"No, no, I don't think you will. That warning wasn't a shot over the head. It was first, and final. You don't get another."

Hawkeye bid BJ grab one of Steele's arms, and he grabbed the other.

"Major, if you and Corporal O'Reilly would be good enough to each take a leg, we can call this a nightmare."

"Delighted, Captain."

"You betcha, Hawkeye."

"Put me down!!"

Hawkeye grinned.

"Soon, Bartford, soon."

BJ looked over at Pierce.

"So now you trust me?"

Pierce shrugged.

"Well, why not? But just be sure if you are a spy, to use a sharp knife. If I get an infection I just break out all over."

Hunnicutt nodded.

"Deal. And thanks."

The four reached the outer boundaries of camp. They then began to rock Steele back and forth. Houlihan yelled out.

"Heave---HO!!"

His jeep having been driven out of camp, Bartford Hamilton Steele The Fourth said nothing as he recovered from the official 4077th Bum's Rush. Watching him drive off, BJ understood only the basics of what was going on, but that was enough.

"Well, I never did make it home. But, on the other hand, I did get a chance to take out the trash."

Back in camp, two vampires and a thousand separate issues awaited resolution. Sherman Potter looked at the man who had tried his damnedest to desert the 4077th and his Command.

"Anything to say for yourself, Captain?"

BJ Hunnicutt shook his head.

"Other than stating the obvious, Colonel, no. I--went crazy. Is there going to be a court-martial?"

"Do you think there should be?"

"Probably."

Sherman allowed a slight smile.

"That's why you're not in command, Captain. I can't be bothered with paperwork and phone calls that in the end, are only gonna lose me a good surgeon. But--punishment is in order. Feel fortunate I can't put you on real KP--I'd buy out the state of Idaho to show you just how peeved I really am."

Potter looked at some papers.

"For the next month, you will take Captain Pierce's shift in Post-Op, in addition to your own duties. What's more, you will hear the following words, and take them to heart."

BJ waited for the kind of first and final warning that the arrogant Steele had been given. Interestingly, it never came.

"BJ--this entire camp went crazy. There were people keeping lots of secrets and I was sure one of them. You got lonely. You got homesick. It happens. But you're here now, until you're not. I need you. And those boys who are even lonelier and more homesick--they really need you. Don't let either of us down. Case--closed."

BJ smiled a for-now moustache-less smile.

"I won't, Colonel. Now--I gotta hit the showers before my extra shift begins. I need a shower."

Potter whiffed, covered his face and nodded.

"Yes."

Sherman gestured.

"BJ--catch 40, or even 80 winks. Said punishment starts--tomorrow."

Pierce and Houlihan were waiting in Radar's office.

"How'd it go, Captain?"

"A whole lot better than I deserved, Major. So how goes MASherlocking?"

Hawkeye nodded.

"Suspended, for the moment. We--just have to figure out whether all our poking and prodding led to Henry being----"

He trailed off. Radar got up.

"You guys can't give up. You just can't. Don't you see? It don't matter why they done this to Colonel Blake. It only matters that they did do did dat did do da---"

BJ grabbed Radar, who was shaking.

"I'd breathe if I were you, Radar. No sense asking Colonel Blake any questions to his face."

Margaret stared at the door.

"I used to pray for the end of his Command. Now, I would like very much to see a befuddled, bedraggled man come through that door with an airplane seat wrapped around him saying, *People, you won't believe what happened after the plane took off!*. But I would believe it. And this time, I just might return that kiss....I have duties in Post-Op."

Margaret shot Hawkeye a look, a little sad and a little glad that their false declaration of suspension regarding the investigation went over so well. If someone was listening, they would hear that they scared them off. Hawkeye turned to BJ.

"C'mon. Let me tell you a little story about some meteors from a kajillion years ago--and why you shouldn't go near them."

BJ shook his head.

"A kajillion years? Oh, great. It's gonna be one of those long stories."

Pierce nodded.

"But we get to write its ending."

"You know the ending?"

"Yup. It's the standard ending. The heroes beat the bad guys, and this leads to the triumph of Truth, Justice, And The American Way."

BJ winced.

"Super."

In Post-Op, Margaret was present as Frank awoke.

"Margaret?"

"I'm here, Frank. I'll never leave you."

"Where's my mother?"

"Frank?"

"She was pounding on my door, and I locked it tight--in my dream, that is."

Margaret felt his pulse rate increase.

"Why would you lock your mother out?"

Frank's powerful, protective denial took over then, detaching him from the dream.

"I don't know. But ya know--sometimes I get to feeling like my whole head is full of locked doors. Isn't that funny?"

Margaret didn't tell Frank that the hand he was grasping was sore from when one of the people behind those doors had tried to break it.

"That is funny, now that you mention it."

A relationship once fun and forbidden had turned draining and potentially dangerous. Without realizing it, she then and there made a decision to break the heart of a man who needed no more heartbreak. She couldn't allow her alliance with Pierce to blossom--so she would try to find a more stable version of Frank. As the dance between Margaret and Hawkeye continued, Frank would soon enough be back with a woman he had married solely so that he could never fall in love.

For Frank Burns was, you see, the odd man out. Perhaps even several men.

In Potter's office, the CO spoke to Radar.

"One last thing, son. You know, they don't always give an incoming CO enough info."

"Yeah. Sorry, sir. But we really thought you were who you weren't, and who you never were, but we really thought you might be."

"Radar--I have no idea what you just said. But I wasn't talking about the cloak-and-dagger crew. Son--do you remember what I told you when you said how Colonel Blake liked things a certain way?"

Radar nodded somberly.

"Blake's gone, son. I'm here. Well, I'm glad you said it. Cause he is gone, and I gotta accept it. Even though I really don't want to."

Sherman gathered himself.

"Walter--when I said that, I didn't know Henry Blake was dead. I thought I was referring to a man who went home--and got there in one piece. Seems that when HQ re-ran the story of the 4077th for me, they cut that little part out. Heh. It was probably that idiot Murdoch in Records."

Radar smiled.

"Thanks, Colonel. A whole lot. But however ya meant it, it was somethin we all needed to hear--specially me. Now--I gotta get ta work. My new CO--he's really tough. And he deserves my best. Just like I gave my old one."

Potter looked over a report from Blake.

"Good with me, son. Just don't send any more lambs home to Mother."

Feeling literally sheepish, Radar walked out to begin his vital work, and keep alive The House That Henry Built.

Potter felt two presences, and he knew.

"Leaving so soon?"

Lacroix nodded.

"Indeed, Sherman. It is time."

Nick wondered what further Lacroix had to say, in this place. He would wonder further still.

BJ sat and listened as Pierce finished his story. Edited for sheer volume though it was, he still couldn't believe the history of the camp he had walked into, not two months back.

"So that's who our arrogant little friend was. He just waltzed in here, and figured to cipher-talk all of you into submission."

Pierce nodded.

"He'd be good waterfront muscle--if we had a waterfront, and if he had any muscle. A whole lot of 'All I'm Saying Is', while not saying anything at all. It'd take an FBI agent to break his code--and even then the poor fella'd have a pulled brain muscle."

BJ looked over at his once-again friend.

"I guess--in that paranoid an atmosphere, I can forgive you not trusting me, or reading into my little quirks the wrong way. Tell me--did Trapper at least make it home safely?"

BJ's concern was a dual one. He actually wanted McIntyre home safely, but he also demanded it, so at least his own time at the 4077th meant something to another family. If Peg and Erin have to suffer, he reasoned, at least let Trapper's family be happy. But Hawkeye's look was not happy. Not happy at all.

"I haven't spoken to him. I guess he's okay."

BJ reasoned things out.

"Look, the guy was in a rush to get out of here, and I don't blame him. No offense, Hawk--but I'd bounce halfway to Guam, if Radar came in and gave me the news. I think I care about you people--but I wouldn't look back. Think of Lot's wife. Think of Orpheus. Think---of me, shutting my mouth."

Hawkeye seemed quite contemplative.

"The ten minute thing? No. No, I could forgive that--eventually. And I don't see you as the no-goodbye type. BJ---Trapper sold us out. That little weasel offered him a quick route home for his continued silence. He took it. When he did that, he went over to the enemy. I know how that sounds, coming from yours truly--but he sold us out. And so our little war claims another casualty, in this case a man's soul."

BJ was silent, having nothing to offer Hawkeye's incorrect conclusion. But the friendship they built would sustain them both until that last day in Korea--and then for centuries to come.

Lacroix looked around.

"A good office, Sherman. During my campaigns, I also kept my tent lined with reminders of my life and accomplishments."

Sherman was still unnerved at the gentleness the master vampire showed him. Plus, was there something in his face? No. There wasn't. End of that.

"Much thanks, M'sieur Lacroix. I could break something out of our plasma banks, fore' you go."

"No. Not necessary. I merely have this to say, as I have before : We Are What We Are. One day, I will explain to you what that truly means. Until then, Au Revoir."

"Adios to you too, General. Keep--yourself together."

Lacroix smiled.

"Why, Colonel--I always do!"

Nick extended his hand. Potter stared at it, and shook his head.

"Knight--when a seven-hundred-year old uncle visits his great-nephew--do ya really think a handshake's gonna do it?"

They hugged, and both got a bit misty.

"Those days in Missouri, Sherman. They are to me like a light in the eternal darkness. Give Mildred and Evey my best. They, along with you, are parts of me I never want to lose."

"You were a good friend, more like a big brother than an Uncle. When Mother die--when I was forced to kill her--you stayed until I could be trusted not to run myself through. Agnes thought the world of you. So does her daughter-in-law. So does her son. After the war--I want to see you in Hannibal, bloodsucker!"

"A thousand Hunters couldn't keep me at bay, nephew. Now, we must go. I hate war, you see. So much waste."

"Amen."

Outside, Lacroix was having a conversation with someone interesting.

"Oh, Yes. They were the hardiest of souls. They inspired so many with their courage as they burned and were torn to pieces, I had to stop attending the games. It was no longer socially acceptable."

Father Mulcahy nodded.

"I always knew that, but thank you, Mister Lacroix. To hear about the early martyrs from an eyewitness--well, thank you."

As The Padre walked off, Lacroix nodded in his direction to Nicholas.

"Delightful fellow. Very polite. Didn't even try to repulse me once."

"Ah-huh. Lacroix--why do I have the feeling that your 'We Are What We Are' speech has more meaning for Sherman than you are letting on?"

Lacroix began to rise into the night sky, and his 'son' joined him.

"Because, Nicholas--you have good instincts."

Then they were gone.

Potter looked at the recovering Frank Burns.

"Major, I'll be blunt. No more reports. You have a problem with me, you bring it to me. Also, you try to bag my bird again--I'll make you into a Capon'. Do not go over my head--or you'll find your own in a basket. Starting one month from today, you will take Captain Pierce's shift in Post-Op. Between you and Hunnicutt, that should free up certain investigative time on Pierce and Houlihan's part. Don't like it? Tough. I don't offer second warnings. That one--was first and final."

Frank continued to lay there.

*I think the Colonel likes me!*

"Radar--last two pieces of business for this very long month. One--fire Pierce as Chief Surgeon and fire Houlihan as Head Nurse."

"But Colonel, they...."

"Then--rehire Pierce as Chief Surgeon and rehire Houlihan as Head Nurse-- under my appointment."

Radar smiled.

"Yes, sir. Oh, what was the second thing?"

"Is it possible Colonel Blake left anything of his behind, by accident?"

"Well, sure. But I don't know what. Have you seen anything of the Colonel's, Colonel?"

Potter walked into Radar's office, a fishing cap with a great many hooks latched into the palm of his right hand. Both he and Radar smiled, despite the pain Sherman was in. Gingerly, Radar helped remove it.

"You want I should call Mrs. Blake, sir?"

Potter contemplated it.

"Yeah, Radar. But ask her if we can keep it--this place should have something of Henry Blake's about--besides the camp itself, of course."

"Yes, sir. Y'know, you and Colonel Blake, well now you're blood brothers!"

Sherman cleaned and bandaged his lightly wounded hand, and nodded at Radar's words.

"Son, with that hat, I believe it. Hell, that thing must be thirstier than Nick."

"Dear Mildred : I still hate this place. But I love the people. Granted, they aren't as stable as Nick and Mother--but they deal with even more blood. Honey, I'm here til I'm not. I hope you can forgive me. But now, at last, I feel like I'm making a difference. Plus--I owe a great man. I'll have to tell you about him, sometime. His name was Henry Blake."

MARCH, 1952 - MEDICAL RESEARCH UNIT 3966TH, PROJECT : IMMUNITA

Bartford Hamilton Steele The Fourth rode back into camp, whipped and angry. He would only feel more so, by day's end.

"Greetings, Bartford."

The well-manicured man's presence boded no good for anyone at Immunita.

"Sir. May I ask what brings you here?"

The man seemed to never smile.

"Of course not. But I will tell you. Time for a change in administration, here at the 3966th. Out with the old, and in with the new. No more of your rough and tumble tactics. Time for someone with a softer, more thorough touch. You've been playing juvenile games, tweaking the noses of the medics down the road. But that ends. We're replacing John Ford with Frank Capra. We want efficiency and order, both. We mean to have them."

Steele shook his head.

"You won't get the same results. You'll have a reliable source of product, but lose that brilliant edge. Besides, there has been a change in administration. When my Dad lost his mind, I took over."

The man shook his head.

"So you think you're Potter to your father's Blake? Nooo. You are Frank Burns, Bartford. Moreover, you are Trapper John. I do have to compliment you on the timing of McIntyre's departure, though. It'll be years before Pierce trusts him again. We're giving you a little stash, to start up a paperwork firm. You'll be processing dead soldiers—some before they actually pass. Your first assignment--the late Hawkeye Pierce."

"Alright, I get it. But who's getting the nod?"

Out of the shadows stepped Doctor Dorian Taylor.

"I'll thank you to leave my camp, Bartford. And don't worry about your father--he'll be cared for."

Accepting his fate, the young spy shrugged.

"Why would I worry about that relic?"

Near his cage, General Bartford Hamilton Steele The Third had a visitor.

"So--you decided to call yourself Flagg? Kinda redundant, doncha think?"

Colonel Flagg's eyes now glowed the same fierce red as The General's.

"You pagh wraiths like subtlety. I like in-your-face kind of humor. Like when Herod betrayed the Horsemen? That was mine. Be well, General."

"You do the same--Morningst---"

"The name--is--FLAGG!!!"

Steele smiled.

"You always did have a short fuse."

So ended the brief meeting of two dangerous men--who were far more dangerous than anyone realized.

MASH 4077TH, MARCH, 1953

Charles was in a typical Winchester snit.

"All right--I'll give my blood--again. But I must say, Pierce--I have not once seen you or the Major give till it hurts."

Potter stood up.

"Major--lie down and shut up. Boy, you bluebloods yap until there's no tomorrow."

As Winchester reluctantly did as he was bid, Kitty Jarrod stopped Potter.

"Colonel--why do Pierce and Houlihan never 'give till it hurts'?"

Sherman looked down, then up.

"Captain—let's just say--it wouldn't be them that would be hurting, and leave it at that."

NOVEMBER, 1963 - RIVER BEND, MISSOURI

The young man from Earth's future had seen a lot of strange things. But few had frightened him as badly as the rage that took over Sherman Potter when the news of the President's death was announced.

"Granpa--are you all right?"

Potter smiled. He liked that this young man called him Granpa, despite the four centuries between their births. But they were kin, and to Sherm and Mildred, he was a sign of future posterity--and nothing else mattered.

"Yeah, Jake. I'm all right. Why don't you sit yourself down. I've got a humdinger of a story for that journal of yours. It's all about my parents, Agnes and Andrew Potter. I've even got an opening line for ya, if that's no trouble."

"No--are you kidding? That's a big help. So what's the first line?"

Jake Sisko had thought that having a Prophet for a grandmother was as weird as his trans-temporal life could get. He now found that belief challenged by Sherm's narrative. The Colonel spoke the first line.

"We are what we are--and nothing can change that."

MARCH, 1973, A CEMETERY IN HANNIBAL, MISSOURI

One and a half years away from his promised time of departure from the twentieth century, Jake Sisko was now helping Sherman on the darkest day of his life. Preparing her usual feast for the Pierces' homecoming party after their service in Vietnam, the primal lifeforce that was Mildred Potter left this Earth forever.

"One thing about Grandma Mildred--you know without question that she got into Heaven."

Sherman stood, legs now supported by a cane, and did far more than just weep for the best part of his life, now behind him. He wondered if a man with a past as bloody as his own could possibly ever join Mildred in the Heaven he too was certain she had found.

"Jake--you go on to the hotel. Tell the family and friends I'm waiting for sunset."

Sunset--and someone soon came.

"My ears aren't so bad that I can't hear the wind through the trees. She asked for you--said they were all good memories."

Nick Knight, soon of the CPD, grasped hands with his great-nephew.

"Good people are the source of good memories, Sherman. In my time, I've found both to be all too rare."

Potter found himself unable to look away from the tombstone.

"Nick--do you believe in Heaven?"

The vampire shook his head.

"I don't know, Sherman. I suppose it might exist, though, because Hell surely does."

Nick then helped Sherman to the small gathering in Mildred's honor.

SEPTEMBER 12, 1983

The venerable giant of Science Fiction, Benny Russell, among the first great writers of his genre who was also an African-American, was supposed to be having a good day. A major family reunion between The Rusells and The Potters two years ago had lead to a very happy event. Sherman's youngest granddaughter was on this day married to Benny's namesake grandson, thus truly reuniting the family.

But more than that, Sherman had become a valued friend. They had reached that stage when having someone to talk to who remembered the same music and movies and people was a lifeline.

Benny and all the family were losing that lifeline, the only one left who actually had met the legendary Auntie Russell. After the ceremony, all saw longtime friend Walter O'Reilly shaking Potter, and pleading with him to hold on. The hospital was called, and all followed the patriarch there.

Sherman's friends were odd to Benny. O'Reilly seemed to have actually dyed his hair grey, in places, as did the thin-air surgeon, Hawkeye Pierce, whom no one remembered being at the wedding. A blonde woman whom Russell later found out was Pierce's stepsister had to tell him there was nothing she could do--and then she was not seen again. At the last, a former Priest, now a Bishop Sherman had served with was called in--although this elderly man also defied logical laws of time and space. A specialist named Bashir came and went, giving Benny the damned oddest look before leaving as quickly as he arrived. Pierce broke the news that Potter had hours to live. Benny then heard O'Reilly say the damnedest thing.

"Don't you ever die on me, Hawkeye."

Pierce's response was just as seemingly absurd.

"You know that's never gonna happen. But us, and the others--we're like that. The Colonel isn't. We are what we are."

The man once known as Radar looked up, as if in revelation.

"I--gotta call someone, Hawk."

"Give Sidney my best. My God, we all loved Sherm, didn't we?"

The Immortal O'Reilly did indeed love Sherman Potter. But he wasn't calling Sidney Freedman. And he wasn't using the phone.

Hours later, everyone had said their goodbyes, and honored Sherman's request that he be alone. The request was quite practical--and he wasn't alone.

"Greetings, Sherman. The lad called me, but he needn't have. I could sense your life ebbing away. I will respect your wishes, no matter what they be."

Sherman could barely see the shadowy figure, but he didn't need to. He knew what he had to say, if he ever wanted to see Mildred in Heaven. It would take a long time to redeem his past sins--but he would have that time, now.

"I don't want to die, right now."

Very matter-of-factly, the voice responded.

"Then--you shall not."

Later, when Benny came to check on Sherm--his body was gone. The window was open, many stories up. But no one had jumped. He found a note. A note written clearly and coherently by a dying man who had painful arthritis.

"Benny--whoever it was said that truth was stranger than fiction--didn't know the tenth of it, let alone the half. Goodbye, my friend. Give Mildred my best, when your time comes. Mine's just been put off a spell. Yours Truly, Sherman T. Potter."

The hospital was never sued, and an empty casket put into Sherman's grave. For some reason, Potter's other friends started arguing with O'Reilly about some action he had taken.

Benny Russell's last 'Man And Wormhole' novel was called 'Visions Of The AfterMASH', a time travel story set in a veterans' hospital in River Bend, Missouri. The dedication was a no-brainer.

APRIL, 2000 - LOS ANGELES

Nick landed, with Nathalie beside him. The vampire in front of them was known to Nick, in peace and in war.

"Hello, Angel. This is Nathalie Lambert, my dear friend."

"Hello, Nathalie. You seem nervous."

Natalie nodded.

"I kind of am. I never knew there were types of vampires different from ours. I was only brought over four years ago, and kind of by accident, at that."

Angel quipped.

"I prefer to think of us as one big, happy, plasma-dependent family. Not really. Nick, I'm glad you came. My ex-girlfriend, the Slayer you met once, told me about him, and then he showed up here. Definitely a good guy. Really nice. He works for battered women's clinics as security--nearly gratis. Keeps the boyfriends and husbands at bay--only gets rough when he has to. Only drained one-- a pedophile with multiple wives who had a cult-like hold over his families."

Nathalie remembered the death of her own niece, murdered by a pedophile.

"No major loss there."

Nick shrugged.

"Angel, perhaps I'm dense--but how does this man concern us?"

Angel nodded.

"Nick--you have got to hear his name. It was Cordelia made the connection."

"Runt--I'm gonna ask you to step aside so I can visit my wife. We had a misunderstanding, her and me."

The smaller man shook his head.

"What she had was a split eye. Her son had a broken arm. A woman enters this place--then odds are she has a need to be alone. So skee-daddle, double-pronto."

The guard's teeth and eyes drew back, and the abuser gulped.

"I'm thinking it would be an awfully good idea if you would be a nice lad and turn yourself in. The police may want to have a talk with you. Which is good. Cause I sure don't."

The biker-looking man ran off, but only went to his car, and pulled out a shotgun.

"Lousy place keeps a man from what's his. I'm doin this for all husbands, every--hey!"

Lucien Lacroix grabbed the gun, and chuckled.

"Mister Freud was right. They do make wonderful substitutes."

"Hey, man--you give me what's mine!"

"So odd. I was about to say the same thing."

With Lacroix, it is almost a redundancy to say that this man was never seen again, by anyone.

The second fastest man on Earth ran up to the guard outside the clinic.

"Speedy delivery. Two pints, one from me, and one from Soon-Lee. Sorry I'm late, sir."

"I'm good. Much obliged, Max. This'll keep me going for a month."

Unlike the Pierces' blood, the Klingers' blood had only traces of the strengthening but deadly genetic spore. In tandem with his odd nature, the guard could make use of it. He watched his old clerk speed off.

"Come on out, people. I can feel you."

Nick and Nathalie did just that, as did Lacroix.

"Hello, Nicholas Knight!"

Nick looked over at the revived—not to mention somehow rejuvenated man, happier than he had ever seen him. The rejuvenation was not usual for a member of Nick's clan, but owed to other secrets of the 4077th's wide world.

"Hello, Sherman Knight."

Nick turned on Lacroix.

"How--could even you sink this low? This man is my grand-nephew---outside even your rights to bring over without my permission!"

Lacroix gave Nick the answer he had waited seventy years for.

"I had every right, Nicholas. He is your grand-nephew--and my Grand-Son. Andre, your sister's son, was mine as well."

Nathalie shook her head.

"That's impossible. You would have drained her before you were done, even if it were possible to impregnate her."

Lacroix shrugged.

"You are correct, Doctor. And yet you are wrong. You see, I was not a vampire when I helped Fleur conceive Andre'."

Nick's eyes went wide.

"Are you saying--you became Human?"

Lacroix nodded.

"When you were new to this life, you asked me why we couldn't become wolves, or mists. Recall now my answer."

Nick did just that.

"Before---we can be something else, we must first fully embrace that which we are. So--you can just cross back over at will?"

"A difficult--and temporary transformation, Nicholas. Hardly your long sought cure. Fleur's thug of a husband was beating her, and she did not desire his death, so much as the child he was screaming for. I cared for her, as you well know--so was Andre' born. Out of respect to you as her brother, I chose to maintain my silence till now. Sherman--be well. I am pleased that you are happy."

"I still got a long ledger, Gram-pere, but some of its starting to right itself. One day, I'll earn my place back with Mildred."

Lacroix chose not to dispute these high ideals, and flew off.

"Hey, Nick? You don't mind me using the name, do ya?"

Nick was a bit overwhelmed, but smiled at the man who once was Sherman T. Potter.

"Not so long as you carry it with pride, Sherman Knight."

Nathalie raised a finger.

"Hey, I brought some of that digestive enzyme I made. Sherman, it lets folks like us make use of real food."

Sherm slapped his hands together.

"Hot damn! There's a hot dog place around here---I swear it makes me salivate, despite the changes. I get off at four hundred hours. Whaddya say?"

Nick grinned.

"Heavy on the ketchup, of course. Sherman, we are what we are--and we are a family."

As they chatted, a face in the far distance observed their banter.

"One seeks redemption, that he may become Human again, and to pay back society for the wrongs he has done. The other seeks the same--but as a vampire. Together or apart, they are truly a family, seeking some form of ultimate release and salvation from their endless worlds of -- Forever Knight."

THE END

(Writer's Note : The basic theme for the subplot involving Radar's mixed feelings of loyalty between Blake and Potter was not my original idea. Rather, the one and only Mr. Larry Gelbart suggested it to me via a very kind e-mail. Credit where credit is due to a late titan of the industry----Rob Morris)