Radar cringed as he recalled how he'd found his breath stalling in his
lungs, his mouth gaped open half in an attempt to speak and half in an
attempt to breathe. The priest's eyes had been locked on his own, and he
squirmed, but couldn't pull away. He nearly fainted now, sitting nervously
on the edge of his bed, unable to recall what words had been forcibly
ripped out of his soul. He set Bantelhopp down on the bed beside him, and
rested his face in his hands. He felt cold.
Bantelhopp evidently felt likewise. He curled into a little ball in a spiral of blankets and was still. His banter no longer filled the air; he didn't even tell Radar what the men in the next room were saying, nor did Radar really want to know. He had been sent out of the room. For what? Something.
Qotenmatch, concerned, walked up behind Radar and put a paw in the small of his back. He rumbled in consternation at the sight of the changeling and the other chimera in such states of disrepair.
"My good fellows," he began, "What has happened, now?
Has Corpse Henry made things difficult for us?"
His only reply was a bountiful silence.
"Give voice! What woe is this? Do speak, I pray!" he shouted in panic.
Radar reached around and picked up the small bear, who burrowed his muzzle into the soft fuzz-lined crook of Radar's neck and tickled with his whiskers. Radar smiled. The warmth spreading over his lower jaw diffused the cold, and suddenly there was nothing on earth of the terrifying Father Mulcahy. There was only himself and his Teddy Bear, alone in time and space, warm, and comfortable.
It was only after he had thus regained his wits that he could cry again. Qotenmatch soaked up the tears and told stories of scolding monsters vanquished by hard-working hordes of trickster elephant shrews, and Radar giggled. And it was also only in this somewhat comforted state that he remembered what he had been sent out here to do.
The daily reports. And Colonel Potter reported that he was "serious, this time." Radar left the chimerae on the bed and stumbled over to the desk, where he opened the drawer in which he kept forms of all sorts and began flipping through them. Hm... under W for "What's Going On"? Under C for "Complaints"? Under... Radar shivered slightly. The drawer was freezing cold, and his hands began to numb slightly as he pawed through the sheets of paper there. He finally checked under "D" for "Daily Reports."
"It's always in the last place you look, isn't it?" he commented.
Then he looked under a few more letters, just to prove the theory wrong. He chuckled wanly and blew on his hands. It didn't help. He scrunched up his forehead, and then whistled a little song that his mother always used to sing to him at bedtime. In the background he could hear Qotenmatch, who'd heard the song just as many times, singing along. He whistled onto his poor numbed fingers, and they warmed. He sat down, feeling happier but still somewhat concerned.
He threaded the form through the typewriter; his hands trembled as he set up the carbon paper. His teeth chattered until they ached as the possibilities ran through his head. 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was destroyed by enemy fire.' 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was destroyed by friendly fire.' 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was visited by a troupe of Korean Schoolchildren who put on a production of Hansel and Gretel. Rated 'adverso pollice' by Ouijongbu's toughest film critic, before going back to his tango lesson.'
Mulcahy's voice ran through his head like a freight train, causing his every though to tremble and jump. He could no longer tell exactly what the words were that brought such deep shame and so many tears to his cheeks.
'Outfit,' the first blank in the form requested. 'M*A*S*H 4072nd.' 'M*A*S*H 8063rd.' 'Semiformal.' Radar's hands poised over the keys, confused.
He put his fingers down on the first key he could. Perhaps they were '7i;esa.' Whatever they were, it wasn't the correct codeword to keep a sharp jolt of that 'nails on a chalkboard' feeling to run up his fingers and arms and seem to coagulate in the center of his back. He shrieked, and the chimerae squawked and roared, and he toppled over backward, taking the desk chair with him.
~
Bantelhopp evidently felt likewise. He curled into a little ball in a spiral of blankets and was still. His banter no longer filled the air; he didn't even tell Radar what the men in the next room were saying, nor did Radar really want to know. He had been sent out of the room. For what? Something.
Qotenmatch, concerned, walked up behind Radar and put a paw in the small of his back. He rumbled in consternation at the sight of the changeling and the other chimera in such states of disrepair.
"My good fellows," he began, "What has happened, now?
Has Corpse Henry made things difficult for us?"
His only reply was a bountiful silence.
"Give voice! What woe is this? Do speak, I pray!" he shouted in panic.
Radar reached around and picked up the small bear, who burrowed his muzzle into the soft fuzz-lined crook of Radar's neck and tickled with his whiskers. Radar smiled. The warmth spreading over his lower jaw diffused the cold, and suddenly there was nothing on earth of the terrifying Father Mulcahy. There was only himself and his Teddy Bear, alone in time and space, warm, and comfortable.
It was only after he had thus regained his wits that he could cry again. Qotenmatch soaked up the tears and told stories of scolding monsters vanquished by hard-working hordes of trickster elephant shrews, and Radar giggled. And it was also only in this somewhat comforted state that he remembered what he had been sent out here to do.
The daily reports. And Colonel Potter reported that he was "serious, this time." Radar left the chimerae on the bed and stumbled over to the desk, where he opened the drawer in which he kept forms of all sorts and began flipping through them. Hm... under W for "What's Going On"? Under C for "Complaints"? Under... Radar shivered slightly. The drawer was freezing cold, and his hands began to numb slightly as he pawed through the sheets of paper there. He finally checked under "D" for "Daily Reports."
"It's always in the last place you look, isn't it?" he commented.
Then he looked under a few more letters, just to prove the theory wrong. He chuckled wanly and blew on his hands. It didn't help. He scrunched up his forehead, and then whistled a little song that his mother always used to sing to him at bedtime. In the background he could hear Qotenmatch, who'd heard the song just as many times, singing along. He whistled onto his poor numbed fingers, and they warmed. He sat down, feeling happier but still somewhat concerned.
He threaded the form through the typewriter; his hands trembled as he set up the carbon paper. His teeth chattered until they ached as the possibilities ran through his head. 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was destroyed by enemy fire.' 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was destroyed by friendly fire.' 'Today the M*A*S*H 4077th was visited by a troupe of Korean Schoolchildren who put on a production of Hansel and Gretel. Rated 'adverso pollice' by Ouijongbu's toughest film critic, before going back to his tango lesson.'
Mulcahy's voice ran through his head like a freight train, causing his every though to tremble and jump. He could no longer tell exactly what the words were that brought such deep shame and so many tears to his cheeks.
'Outfit,' the first blank in the form requested. 'M*A*S*H 4072nd.' 'M*A*S*H 8063rd.' 'Semiformal.' Radar's hands poised over the keys, confused.
He put his fingers down on the first key he could. Perhaps they were '7i;esa.' Whatever they were, it wasn't the correct codeword to keep a sharp jolt of that 'nails on a chalkboard' feeling to run up his fingers and arms and seem to coagulate in the center of his back. He shrieked, and the chimerae squawked and roared, and he toppled over backward, taking the desk chair with him.
~