A/N: Wow, another chapter already? What sort of benevolent Twilight Zone is this, lol? Actually, most of my heavy workload for the middle of the semester got taken care of before spring break, so I had some extra free time with which to write. So, here you go! :)
As always, I'd like to extend heartfelt thanks to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and reviews this story.
Enjoy!
Disclaimer: Anything thing you recognize from M*A*S*H or any other source is the property of its rightful owner. I lay no claim on the characters, settings, plotlines, etc. found in M*A*S*H, although I am honored to have to opportunity to work with them throughout this fanfiction (emphasis on the "fan" part). All I own is my OCs and whatever original plotwork is related to them and their stories.
"Okay, now give your fingers a wiggle for me," Trapper instructed, studying Sam's obedient movements carefully. So far, her recovery seemed to be progressing well, but he wanted to be absolutely certain before he said anything.
"Well, do I get to keep them?" Sam asked, smiling cheekily. Trapper had to admit, he had taken quite a shine to the girl, and her sense of humor certainly helped.
"I think we might be able to work something out," he replied, inspecting the wound in her upper arm once more. "It'll cost you extra, though."
"Do I get a hometown discount, at least?"
"We'll see," Trapper replied, smirking. Oh yes, quite a firecracker this one.
Sam bit her lip for a moment, before speaking again. "Seriously, though, how does it look?" she asked, her voice suddenly small.
"It appears to be healing quite nicely," Trapper told her. "We'll get you started on some physical therapy exercises soon, but beyond that I don't think there's much more we can do for you here. It's just going to be a matter of time and rest."
Sam visibly relaxed, a genuine grin lighting up her face. "Great!" Then the grin faded from her face and she visibly hesitated, biting her lip. "Um, Trapper?" she asked hesitantly.
"Yes?" he drawled out, adding about five extra syllables to the normally short word.
"What's going to happen to me now?"
And isn't that the million dollar question, Trapper thought. "Well, we were actually just having a discussion about that when Klinger came to get me," he told her.
Her eyebrows knit together. "Who's 'we?'"
"The main command staff: all of us Swamp Rats, Henry, Hot Lips, and Father Mulcahy," he replied.
"Oh," she said. "And what did you all decide?"
"Well," he said, mulling over how to phrase it, "I think the general consensus was to let you do most of the decision-making."
"Oh," she said again. She seemed to shrink back into the thin mattress and pillow, and Trapper was struck by just how young she really was. Hawkeye's right, a kid like her doesn't belong in this hellhole. But what can we do? We can't just throw her to the piranhas and tell her to swim for it.
"I know this is a lot to take in Sam," he told her. "But you've already shown a great deal of strength and maturity, more than many people your age would have. I have faith that you'll make the right decision, and whatever you choose, you'll have the backing of everyone here at the 4077th."
A smile twitched on her lips. "Even Ferret Face?"
Trapper barked out a laugh. "Well, maybe not Ferret Face," he conceded. "But everyone else. And speaking of faith, I was wondering if you might like to talk with Father Mulcahy about all of this? He's a pretty good listener, and you can talk with him about anything else that might be bothering you, too."
He waited with bated breath as she considered it. Good Lord, she takes her time, doesn't she? "Okay," she said at last. "That sounds like a good idea."
"I'll let him know that you'd like to speak with him, then," Trapper replied, making a note on her chart and flipping it closed. He watched her face light up in amusement as he stuck the pencil he'd been using into his hair for safekeeping. Stuff's curly enough to hold it, might as well put it to some good use. It'd just be hanging out there looking decorative otherwise. "Would this afternoon be okay? I know there's probably some stuff you want to get off your chest, but I'd like you to get a little more rest before any sort of strenuous conversation." Trapper eyed her, wondering how many orders he could get away with. Sam was the type of person who was fiery enough to be a difficult patient if she wanted to be; on the other hand, she seemed to also be a sweet girl, so she could also choose to make life easy for him. Well, easier, at any rate.
"That sounds good, I'm still pretty worn out," Sam replied.
"Yeah, I'll bet," Trapper said, relaxing minutely. "You had quite a day yesterday, from what I hear."
"Yeah," she nodded, then yawned wide. "By the way, did you hear anything about my friends?"
"No, sorry, not yet," Trapper replied. "We've been a little busy around here, as you could probably tell. I'll ask around, though."
"M'kay," she said, letting her eyes drift close. Trapper chuckled a little, amused by the blunt manner in which she ended the conversation.
He was glad, he reflected as he wandered down the aisle to check on another patient, to see her getting some rest. The poor girl certainly deserved it, and the dark circles under her eyes were proof enough of a history of sleep deprivation. He did worry, however, about what effect the events she'd witnessed may have had on her mental state. She seemed to be well-adjusted, enough so at least, but he'd not had a long enough conversation with her to really tell; and anyways, she'd spent most of her time at the MASH unit asleep, and for some people damage like that took more time to manifest itself than in others.
He made a mental note to check with Sidney Freeman, to get his opinion on the situation, maybe even ask him to come down and pay Sam a visit. It'd be good to have him back at the unit, anyways; the bastard still owed him fifty dollars from their last poker game, and Trapper was itching to collect.
Frank Burns eyed Hawkeye Pierce with irritation as he monkeyed his way around the tent, searching for a pair of clean socks. Serves him right, keeping his portion of the tent in such a disgusting state, Frank reflected.
Not that he would say that out loud, of course. Not today, at least. Not when he wanted to convince the man to help him rid their unit of a certain red-headed wench.
"Say, Hawkeye," Frank began, "what did you think of that little conversation back there?"
"What do you mean, what did I think, Frank?" Hawkeye responded, not missing a beat. "I thought I made it perfectly clear what I thought."
"And I agree with you," Frank said, doing his best to sound sympathetic. "She really doesn't belong here, does she?"
"She belongs at home," Hawkeye remarked, digging through his footlocker. Frank wrinkled his nose at the covers of the magazines being strewn across the floor. "She hasn't even finished high school yet. Her biggest problem ought to be a handsy boyfriend, not enemy raids or artillery."
And there he went again. Honestly, Frank just wanted the little brat out of his outfit; he didn't particularly care for Pierce's long-winded rants on the horrors of war. "If you ask me, she deserves to be sent home, and whatever else she gets after that. Who knows, maybe a few years in the clink would teach her some manners, prissy little upstart."
Hawkeye visibly froze, then turned to look at Frank, a dangerous glint in his eye. "Frank, I'd suggest that you either help me search for my socks, or you get out before I give you a bloody lip to match the lipstick marks Hot Lips left after your latest little rendezvous in the supply tent."
"Well, I never," Frank gasped, reflexively wiping the remnants of Margaret's makeup off of his cheek with his sleeve. "Major Houlihan and I are just colleagues, and good friends. To imply anything otherwise is just . . . just slanderous, that's what it is!"
"Then how did you know where to scrub?" Hawkeye bit out.
Frank froze. Damnit, every time! Where do I go wrong? Unwilling to show defeat, he sneered in Pierce's general direction, and returned to his letter to his mother.
Mama, did I tell you about the camp twerp's precious new girlfriend? She showed up here yesterday, after having come gallivanting to Korea to try to show off, taking all the glory away from her brother, who was the one who was actually drafted. No one here seems to understand how serious this all is, not even Major Houlihan, who is usually on my side. You just wouldn't believe the things everybody's been saying about me ever since this little brat showed up in the middle of a bunch of actual soldiers, wounded men, some of whom probably got hurt trying to make up for her incompetence . . .
"Give her back!" Sammi yelled, glaring at her brother with tears in her eyes. "She's mine!"
Sammy laughed, wielding their mother's sewing scissors menacingly. "What'cha gonna do 'bout it, Sammi?" He tauntingly drew the scissors closer to the hair he clenched in his fist.
"Stop it!" Sammi shrieked. "Stop or I'll tell mom!"
"Why would you do that?" Sammy said, suddenly oddly serious. "It's not like she can help you. Not anymore." He turned solemnly to the doll he had stolen off of Sammi's bed. She watched as he combed his fingers through the doll's hair – a fiery red, just like her own – and brought the scissors to it.
The first snip seemed to catch the girl like a physical blow, and she let out a furious screech as she watched her brother start to cut off the doll's hair. Barely aware of her actions, she leaped forward, grabbing for the doll, the scissors, her brother, anything and everything she could get her hands on.
Sammy looked up in surprise as his sister tackled him. He had thought it was just a game, didn't understand why it made her as angry as it did. It was only as she pinned him to the ground and started pummeling him, that he understood the gravity of his mistake.
"Sammi! Sammi, please stop! I'm sorry Sammi, I didn't mean it, I'm so sorry, please! Please stop! Stop, Sammi! Please, you're hurting me!" And on and on he begged, repeating the same words over and over, to no avail.
Sammi felt a tremendous satisfaction in the give of tender flesh under her knuckles, blood from her brother staining them bright red. She felt a heady feeling rush through her veins, a sense of incredible power filling her as she listened to Sammy's cries. This would teach him not to hurt her things anymore. This would teach everyone.
A flash of silver caught in the corner of her eye. She grinned widely as she caught sight of the scissors, which had been knocked to the side in the chaos. Keeping her weight on her knees, to make sure that her brother stayed pinned, she reached over and grabbed the scissors. She admired them, the gleam of the metal, the weight of them, the elegant point of the twin blades. Her reverie lasted for only a moment, though, as she quickly grew tired of her brother's incessant whining.
Well, that was easily remedied. Half horrified by what she was doing, but unable to stop it, feeling simultaneously in control of her actions and helpless to them, she raised the scissors high above her head, and brought them point-down towards her Sammy's throat, with as much strength as her little body could muster . . .
Sam woke up retching. Ignoring the flares of pain in her body, she leaned to the side and emptied her stomach over the side of the bed. Dimly, she was aware of running footsteps approaching her, and cool hands reaching out to comfort her. She felt herself being guided back into the bed, to lean back against the pillows. She thought she saw a pair of concerned brown eyes, and dark hair held back in short pigtails.
After a time, she became aware that she was speaking. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, I'm so sorry, sorry, so sorry," over and over again. The repetition was so much like dream-Sammy's that it brought the images of the dream to the forefront again, and brought the nausea back with them. She started heaving again.
She was trembling, too, hard enough to shake the bed along with her body. She felt cold and hot and afraid and guilty, and she knew there was a reason that all of this was happening, but she just could not remember what it was.
The worst part of the dream was that it wasn't all a twisted fantasy. The doll had been one of a set, given to Sam and her brother by their grandmother when they were eight, the last birthday present they had received from her before she died. They had been a special commission from an expert doll maker, made to exactly resemble each of the twins. One day, little Sammy had decided that his sister's doll needed to have short hair, too, to match his own. Sam(mi) had discovered his plot just as he had begun shearing off the doll's locks. In the ensuing fight, she had split two of her knuckles to the bone, and knocked out five of her brother's baby teeth (an incident for which he blamed his permanent teeth's eventual crookedness, and his ensuing need for braces throughout junior high; Sam had told him that, as the incident had occurred years before, he really needed to get over it already, and that his teeth hadn't grown in that badly anyways).
She hadn't stabbed him though, although perhaps she might have tried if the twins' parents hadn't come running at the sound of their screams. And, unlike in the dream, Sammy hadn't simply lain there helplessly; he had been struggling and fighting back for all he was worth. It was without a doubt the worst row the twins had ever had, and it had been weeks before Sam had been willing to so much as acknowledge her brother's presence.
But with her mind hazy with fear and exhaustion, Sam wasn't able to analyze any of this, nor find any reason behind why the dream had happened, and why it had disturbed her so. All she knew, as a man with blue eyes and Groucho Marx glasses spoke urgently to the pigtailed nurse, and she felt a sharp pain in the side of her hip, was that she had the vague notion that, if the fight were repeated now, after all that had happened, she could do a lot worse than cut her brother's throat with sewing scissors.
The world faded out to the tune of a child's panicked screams.
A/N: Thanks for reading, and I'll see you all next time!