"Radar, listen to me, ignore my words
No longer," Bantlehopp pleaded, "Look, he comes, our Hawkeye Pierce
Of late, who now inspires naught in all
His friends but creeping dark concern."
Radar slid around in his seat, the outline of the door to the mess tent burning its image into his retinas. Bantelhopp sharpened the emerald green scene into a bright, surreal vision. Sidney appeared first. A dull shimmer spreading over the wrinkles of his face, exaggerated as if viewed through a pair of skewed 3D goggles. The jollity of Sidney's reception rolled over the changeling without taking much purchase. He kept watching. Hawkeye appeared; a skeleton wrapped in brown-black half-fleshed leather, red robe rotting and peeling off in tattered scraps.
"Attend!" chirped the chimera, polishing off the verse.
Radar turned back around and plunged his spoon into the mashed potatoes. "Stop it!" he whispered under his breath.
"In what should I desist, my dearest ward?" questioned the little dragon.
"No wrong here has been wrought by me; of you,
However, such a thing may not be said.
If lookst you at him and likest not what you see,
It is yourself to blame. Not Qotenmatch,
Nor I, nor any we call kin, would teach
You such a foul, unpardonable deed.
I've done no wrong here; if you care to look
Again, I'll show again what you have done,
But blame me not, kill not the messenger
Who bears from far away - for far away
You seem - these tidings which you send yourself."
Radar dug the spoon deeper into the pile of potatoes, until metal hit metal and sent a creeping chill ringing through his ears, and the skeleton sat down at the head of the table and the shiny man left and Radar, full to the brim with accusations from himself and from the falcon-headed dragon sitting on his head, caught the stare that Mulcahy gave him, a pang of a glance, which seared the changeling's eyes to see, and which the Chimera kept lingering in his vision even when he'd turned away.
Radar ripped the glasses off of his face, shoved them three inches deep into the mashed potatoes, and stood up. Shrieking something about having to go to the latrine, he stormed out of the mess tent.
Sidney, on his way back to the table, halted mid-stride in surprise at the outburst, and Henry stopped attempting to make conversation with the Hawkeye of the severely limited vocabulary.
"Jeez! What's wrong with that kid?" Henry wondered, lifting himself easily up out of his seat and reaching into Radar's deserted tray, picking out the dripping specs and stepping over the bench to head after him.
"Henry, stop!" Mulcahy shouted, jumping up and running a circle around Hawkeye and Sidney. "Be careful with that! It might bite!"
Henry looked down at the glasses. "What?" he asked, squinting at the priest in puzzlement.
Mulcahy grabbed the glasses from Henry and held them gingerly at arm's length. "I don't know if it bites, or not."
"The /glasses/?"
"Oh. Right," B.J. piped up, "Radar's glasses are evidently some kind of... lizard... thing." He shook his head, "Hawk, your taciturnity is spreading." He smirked at the glazed-eyed doctor.
"Sorry," mumbled Pierce.
"Right," B.J. sighed.
"Ohh..." started Henry, his voice soft with the light of realization, "You mean, the glasses are a lizard like Radar is a fairy, hm?"
"Who'd have thought?" B.J. affirmed.
"Well, you never know, sometimes," Henry smiled, eyes focusing on nothing in particular as he trailed off.
"Please! Gentlemen! Could we try to be serious about this for a moment?" Mulcahy begged. "I really think that Hawkeye could be in horrible danger if we don't get Radar to cooperate with us."
Henry frowned, "Yeah, Father," he reached up to rub his aching shoulder, "I've seen the way you get folks to 'cooperate', and don't think I'm going to sit idly by and let you make mince meat of that poor boy."
Father Mulcahy's posture slouched slightly and he pushed his own glasses up on his nose as the pair he held at a distance dripped mashed potatoes that sent the ants scurrying away in all directions on the floor. "Please, Henry. A truce. For now. For Hawkeye. In case I'm wrong, I promise that Radar will come to no harm. But if I'm right, there might still be something we can do for Hawkeye. Look at him."
Henry seemed pained to do so, but he looked.
"That's not the Hawkeye we know, is it? You may have hurt him, you may have taken something from him, but what Radar's done is something-- far, far worse. You can see that. You know it's true. Please. Let me go-- and just talk to him! You stay here and watch over Hawkeye until I come back."
Henry sunk back down onto the bench at the Father's words, the pain in his back eclipsed by pangs of guilt inspired thereby. He certainly knew that if there was one person who could talk Radar through such a critical period and make sure he came out with his head on straight where it came to what was right and wrong, it was Father Mulcahy.
"Go talk to him, Father." He assented. "But if I find one hair out of place on the little guy's head..."
Mulcahy nodded quietly, and headed out the doors.
Henry spun around and drummed his fingers on the table. "Why, oh, why, just when I was getting good and ready to hate him, does he have to go and say something-- decent. Why?"
"I don't know," droned Hawkeye. As a matter of custom, B.J., Margaret, and Henry waited for the usual punchline to follow, but none came.
"Rhetorical question, Pierce." Henry shook his head.
"Oh." Hawkeye nodded dully.
Margaret momentarily excused herself to go find Frank, under the pretence of needing to deliver a revised schedule to Colonel Potter. Severally, the others who had been eating there in the mess tent also meandered out, until only the surgeon B.J. Hunnicutt, the fledgling Brujah Henry Blake, and the recent Pooka-Snack Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce remained, trying to salvage what was quickly turning into a dreadful evening.
~
No longer," Bantlehopp pleaded, "Look, he comes, our Hawkeye Pierce
Of late, who now inspires naught in all
His friends but creeping dark concern."
Radar slid around in his seat, the outline of the door to the mess tent burning its image into his retinas. Bantelhopp sharpened the emerald green scene into a bright, surreal vision. Sidney appeared first. A dull shimmer spreading over the wrinkles of his face, exaggerated as if viewed through a pair of skewed 3D goggles. The jollity of Sidney's reception rolled over the changeling without taking much purchase. He kept watching. Hawkeye appeared; a skeleton wrapped in brown-black half-fleshed leather, red robe rotting and peeling off in tattered scraps.
"Attend!" chirped the chimera, polishing off the verse.
Radar turned back around and plunged his spoon into the mashed potatoes. "Stop it!" he whispered under his breath.
"In what should I desist, my dearest ward?" questioned the little dragon.
"No wrong here has been wrought by me; of you,
However, such a thing may not be said.
If lookst you at him and likest not what you see,
It is yourself to blame. Not Qotenmatch,
Nor I, nor any we call kin, would teach
You such a foul, unpardonable deed.
I've done no wrong here; if you care to look
Again, I'll show again what you have done,
But blame me not, kill not the messenger
Who bears from far away - for far away
You seem - these tidings which you send yourself."
Radar dug the spoon deeper into the pile of potatoes, until metal hit metal and sent a creeping chill ringing through his ears, and the skeleton sat down at the head of the table and the shiny man left and Radar, full to the brim with accusations from himself and from the falcon-headed dragon sitting on his head, caught the stare that Mulcahy gave him, a pang of a glance, which seared the changeling's eyes to see, and which the Chimera kept lingering in his vision even when he'd turned away.
Radar ripped the glasses off of his face, shoved them three inches deep into the mashed potatoes, and stood up. Shrieking something about having to go to the latrine, he stormed out of the mess tent.
Sidney, on his way back to the table, halted mid-stride in surprise at the outburst, and Henry stopped attempting to make conversation with the Hawkeye of the severely limited vocabulary.
"Jeez! What's wrong with that kid?" Henry wondered, lifting himself easily up out of his seat and reaching into Radar's deserted tray, picking out the dripping specs and stepping over the bench to head after him.
"Henry, stop!" Mulcahy shouted, jumping up and running a circle around Hawkeye and Sidney. "Be careful with that! It might bite!"
Henry looked down at the glasses. "What?" he asked, squinting at the priest in puzzlement.
Mulcahy grabbed the glasses from Henry and held them gingerly at arm's length. "I don't know if it bites, or not."
"The /glasses/?"
"Oh. Right," B.J. piped up, "Radar's glasses are evidently some kind of... lizard... thing." He shook his head, "Hawk, your taciturnity is spreading." He smirked at the glazed-eyed doctor.
"Sorry," mumbled Pierce.
"Right," B.J. sighed.
"Ohh..." started Henry, his voice soft with the light of realization, "You mean, the glasses are a lizard like Radar is a fairy, hm?"
"Who'd have thought?" B.J. affirmed.
"Well, you never know, sometimes," Henry smiled, eyes focusing on nothing in particular as he trailed off.
"Please! Gentlemen! Could we try to be serious about this for a moment?" Mulcahy begged. "I really think that Hawkeye could be in horrible danger if we don't get Radar to cooperate with us."
Henry frowned, "Yeah, Father," he reached up to rub his aching shoulder, "I've seen the way you get folks to 'cooperate', and don't think I'm going to sit idly by and let you make mince meat of that poor boy."
Father Mulcahy's posture slouched slightly and he pushed his own glasses up on his nose as the pair he held at a distance dripped mashed potatoes that sent the ants scurrying away in all directions on the floor. "Please, Henry. A truce. For now. For Hawkeye. In case I'm wrong, I promise that Radar will come to no harm. But if I'm right, there might still be something we can do for Hawkeye. Look at him."
Henry seemed pained to do so, but he looked.
"That's not the Hawkeye we know, is it? You may have hurt him, you may have taken something from him, but what Radar's done is something-- far, far worse. You can see that. You know it's true. Please. Let me go-- and just talk to him! You stay here and watch over Hawkeye until I come back."
Henry sunk back down onto the bench at the Father's words, the pain in his back eclipsed by pangs of guilt inspired thereby. He certainly knew that if there was one person who could talk Radar through such a critical period and make sure he came out with his head on straight where it came to what was right and wrong, it was Father Mulcahy.
"Go talk to him, Father." He assented. "But if I find one hair out of place on the little guy's head..."
Mulcahy nodded quietly, and headed out the doors.
Henry spun around and drummed his fingers on the table. "Why, oh, why, just when I was getting good and ready to hate him, does he have to go and say something-- decent. Why?"
"I don't know," droned Hawkeye. As a matter of custom, B.J., Margaret, and Henry waited for the usual punchline to follow, but none came.
"Rhetorical question, Pierce." Henry shook his head.
"Oh." Hawkeye nodded dully.
Margaret momentarily excused herself to go find Frank, under the pretence of needing to deliver a revised schedule to Colonel Potter. Severally, the others who had been eating there in the mess tent also meandered out, until only the surgeon B.J. Hunnicutt, the fledgling Brujah Henry Blake, and the recent Pooka-Snack Benjamin Franklin "Hawkeye" Pierce remained, trying to salvage what was quickly turning into a dreadful evening.
~