As the sun disappeared and left Korea once more in a world of darkness, the torpor fled from Henry's limbs, and he awoke.

"Huh? Ow! Gosh-da--" he shouted to himself as he tried to sit up in the darkness only to bap himself in the head on the lid of the coffin.

The lid obligingly flew open, leaving Henry to deal with more pressing concerns. Like the deep, dull ache that spread over his neck, shoulders, and upper back. And like the fact that that familiar hunger had returned to haunt him.

The latter presented itself to the fledgling kindred most immediately. 'H, E, double seven-irons,' he muttered to himself, 'How on the face of God's good earth did that happen? Just how often does this thing expect me to go out and---" he cut himself off, shaking his head as he hopped out of the coffin. Looking around and finding himself alone, he quickly changed out of the bloodstained surgical garb he was still wearing and surreptitiously licked it clean. It didn't help much, but at least Henry was pretty sure he had control of himself.

For now.

As he lifted his hands to pull on his hat, the former problem presented him with a bit of a mystery. Had he slept wrong, and got a crick in his neck? No, it didn't feel like any cricked neck or pinched nerve he'd ever gotten... it was a dull permeating pain, like a deep bruise. Henry rubbed his hand over the back of his neck in confusion, until the obvious answer came.

"Mulcahy..."

Henry Brayton Blake shook his head and sighed heartily. "I suppose it's his job, after all," he reasoned. "He IS a priest. He's supposed to rid the world of sin and corruption."

He sat down on the edge of the VIP cot. "I guess that's me."

He smirked to himself, trying to lighten his load of angst, "Funny, I don't /feel/ evil."

As if in reply, the image of Hawkeye's stupified face contorted in horror in the split second before he clamped his fangs down in his throat popped up in his mind. "Oh, yeah." He admitted. He set his fingers tapping along the edge of his leg, marvelling at how the dead and cold flesh still managed to perform his every whim.

Henry's reverie was interrupted by a knocking that shook the flimsy material of the VIP tent's door.

"Yo," he called, and stood up.

B.J. peeked in, "All clear? How're you feeling, Henry?" he continued, as he hadn't been attacked on sight.

"Fit as a fiddle," Henry fibbed a bit, and headed over to the door, "Though I can't say I recall how I got in here last night. I must have been really smashed."

B.J. opened the door more widely, nodding to the MPs as Henry emerged.

"No," commented Sidney as the other two came to join him, "That'd be Klinger."

"Kli--?" Henry squinted in confusion, "Oh. Oops. Yeah, I really ought to-- "

"Don't worry... he's fine. He saw what that sunlight was doing to you, and admitted that he'd have acted the same way, in your position." Sidney turned to B.J. "Did you tell him?"

"Tell me what?"

"No, not yet..."

"Tell me /what/?"

B.J. and Sidney both hesitated.

Henry beat down a rising sanguine frustration, and waited patiently.

~