"Irene, I really don't need another problem, just right yet," Joles managed
to sound both petulant and pleasant as he complained of the somewhat
extraordinary night. "Can't it wait until the game's ended?"
"No, I really don't think so. You need to see this..."
Joles lifted his hands in acquiescence. "All right, all right, I'm coming." He turned to the rest of the crowd, "Sorry, fellows, the missus calls. You know how it is," and he resignedly headed out.
The rest of the group looked at one another for a moment, and, in silent consensus, surged up and out of the tent a moment later.
Joles, followed hastily by Sparky, then by a wave of M*A*S*H personnel that poured out and surrounded the scene, came out to find Irene standing, looking rather helplessly at the good Father, who was standing, looking EXTREMELY helplessly at Irene, whom he seemed to hover around like a moonstruck calf.
"What's the problem, dear?" Joles began, expressing the sentiments of the whole crowd.
"Look for yourself."
Joles frowned at the serious of her tone, departing so far from her normal affability that he knew that there was something extraordinary at the root of her concern. He sought out her eyes, and she, catching his look, nodded in urgent confirmation and pointedly directed her gaze at the father.
"Father?" Henry, worried, called out, "You alright?"
Filled with an intense admiration for Irene and all her kin, the priest smiled a beaming smile at the Brujah and nodded, replying in a waveringly mellow voice, "Never better."
"Jesus Christ!" Joles spat out, having 'looked' for himself. "What IS that?!"
"Darling, if I knew, I wouldn't have had to take you away from your poker game," she replied, mildly sardonic.
Joles, duly abashed, lifted up a hand, "All right, Irene, you were right and I was wrong. Admitted."
"Forgiven." She smiled.
"Is... he dangerous?"
"No... not anymore, anyway."
"Any idea how long?"
"A good one: one year and one day."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Hawkeye stepped forward, halting the discussion, "Just what is going on here?"
"The father," Joles commented, in his best prognosis-delivery voice, "Has a highly irregular aura, and is likely something... other than human."
Hawkeye leaned forward and stared, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration as he enunciated, "I'd remind the audience that he wouldn't be the only thing that's not quite human around here. What the hell did you do to him?"
Mulcahy moved slowly but with clear decision between Irene and Hawkeye. "Don't you dare speak to her like that," he nearly snapped, and was opening his mouth to continue when Irene cut in.
"Father, stop, come here."
Mulcahy left off his rant, his irritated expression exchanged for one of solicitous care as he returned to his regnant's side with a timid and deferring, "Yes, miss?"
The sight threw Hawkeye's jaw agape, and the jet black hair on the back of his neck stood up a bit in protest as he recognized the mirror image in front of him; that of Sparky sniveling below the seneschal and of the Padre fawning upon his wife.
"Oh, God," he muttered under his breath.
"And that's not the end of it," Irene was continuing, "I have every reason, including the fact that he told me, to believe that he killed Meg."
"How dare you people come in here and do this kind of thing to--!!!" Hawkeye began to rail at the vampires, before the tail end of Irene's statement hit home.
"Wait. What?"
"He did what?" B.J. echoed, equally shocked, his words echoing through the compound.
"My god," Joles uttered. "Took down our... scourge? How-- that--"
Radar cast his eyes down to the ground, long since clear of any foreign dust, ashamed. Then, imperceptibly, his head tilted to one side, the vision of the hunter in the periphery of his sight, and his mouth and eyes all at once grew slightly wide. Half a second later, he was hurtling past Hawkeye and Henry and B.J., careering though the compound and tackling Mulcahy about the waist, bringing the unsuspecting soul to the ground just as Joles, his face having steeled slightly to the necessary task, drew his sidearm with superhuman speed and aimed it towards the air that had been occupied by the hunter's head moments previously.
Joles, surprised by the chimerical prescience, cocked his elbow, the firearm still ready but pointed up to the sky.
"Corporal! Off!" He hollered, treading over decidedly; Radar unfortunately was compelled to obey by the sickly feeling he began to have as the elder Malkavian approached. He scrambled backward and Father Mulcahy was trying to right himself when he saw the pistol's barrel come down to the level of his head. Shifting his feet under him deftly, he was about to reach up and try to grapple the gun away, but his mistress' vice came to him telling him to be still and not to act against her husband. He obeyed, crouching, an abject creature. Radar's chest rose and fell, his warm breath outlining faint clouds in the chilled night air as he looked on, unable to help.
"Hold it! Don't you want to talk about this?" Henry frantically waved a hand; it may have been that the Father had made him rather uncomfortable in the last few nights, but he really wasn't looking forward to seeing the poor man's brains blown across the compound.
"Lesson one concerning life in the Camarilla, Blake: Learn your traditions and follow them to the letter. Lesson two: When you come across a human with a flaming aura who takes down 60-year old Gangrel in his spare time, you don't stop to ask questions."
Irene gave the father a mournful look, but, having once sworn to be by Joly's side through better and worse, and, most importantly, to leave Camarilla business to HIM, she shut her eyes helplessly and raised her hand to her mouth in a sorrowful gesture.
Joles looked down and steadied the barrel. "I'm sorry, Father."
~
"No, I really don't think so. You need to see this..."
Joles lifted his hands in acquiescence. "All right, all right, I'm coming." He turned to the rest of the crowd, "Sorry, fellows, the missus calls. You know how it is," and he resignedly headed out.
The rest of the group looked at one another for a moment, and, in silent consensus, surged up and out of the tent a moment later.
Joles, followed hastily by Sparky, then by a wave of M*A*S*H personnel that poured out and surrounded the scene, came out to find Irene standing, looking rather helplessly at the good Father, who was standing, looking EXTREMELY helplessly at Irene, whom he seemed to hover around like a moonstruck calf.
"What's the problem, dear?" Joles began, expressing the sentiments of the whole crowd.
"Look for yourself."
Joles frowned at the serious of her tone, departing so far from her normal affability that he knew that there was something extraordinary at the root of her concern. He sought out her eyes, and she, catching his look, nodded in urgent confirmation and pointedly directed her gaze at the father.
"Father?" Henry, worried, called out, "You alright?"
Filled with an intense admiration for Irene and all her kin, the priest smiled a beaming smile at the Brujah and nodded, replying in a waveringly mellow voice, "Never better."
"Jesus Christ!" Joles spat out, having 'looked' for himself. "What IS that?!"
"Darling, if I knew, I wouldn't have had to take you away from your poker game," she replied, mildly sardonic.
Joles, duly abashed, lifted up a hand, "All right, Irene, you were right and I was wrong. Admitted."
"Forgiven." She smiled.
"Is... he dangerous?"
"No... not anymore, anyway."
"Any idea how long?"
"A good one: one year and one day."
"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Hawkeye stepped forward, halting the discussion, "Just what is going on here?"
"The father," Joles commented, in his best prognosis-delivery voice, "Has a highly irregular aura, and is likely something... other than human."
Hawkeye leaned forward and stared, his eyebrows knitting together in frustration as he enunciated, "I'd remind the audience that he wouldn't be the only thing that's not quite human around here. What the hell did you do to him?"
Mulcahy moved slowly but with clear decision between Irene and Hawkeye. "Don't you dare speak to her like that," he nearly snapped, and was opening his mouth to continue when Irene cut in.
"Father, stop, come here."
Mulcahy left off his rant, his irritated expression exchanged for one of solicitous care as he returned to his regnant's side with a timid and deferring, "Yes, miss?"
The sight threw Hawkeye's jaw agape, and the jet black hair on the back of his neck stood up a bit in protest as he recognized the mirror image in front of him; that of Sparky sniveling below the seneschal and of the Padre fawning upon his wife.
"Oh, God," he muttered under his breath.
"And that's not the end of it," Irene was continuing, "I have every reason, including the fact that he told me, to believe that he killed Meg."
"How dare you people come in here and do this kind of thing to--!!!" Hawkeye began to rail at the vampires, before the tail end of Irene's statement hit home.
"Wait. What?"
"He did what?" B.J. echoed, equally shocked, his words echoing through the compound.
"My god," Joles uttered. "Took down our... scourge? How-- that--"
Radar cast his eyes down to the ground, long since clear of any foreign dust, ashamed. Then, imperceptibly, his head tilted to one side, the vision of the hunter in the periphery of his sight, and his mouth and eyes all at once grew slightly wide. Half a second later, he was hurtling past Hawkeye and Henry and B.J., careering though the compound and tackling Mulcahy about the waist, bringing the unsuspecting soul to the ground just as Joles, his face having steeled slightly to the necessary task, drew his sidearm with superhuman speed and aimed it towards the air that had been occupied by the hunter's head moments previously.
Joles, surprised by the chimerical prescience, cocked his elbow, the firearm still ready but pointed up to the sky.
"Corporal! Off!" He hollered, treading over decidedly; Radar unfortunately was compelled to obey by the sickly feeling he began to have as the elder Malkavian approached. He scrambled backward and Father Mulcahy was trying to right himself when he saw the pistol's barrel come down to the level of his head. Shifting his feet under him deftly, he was about to reach up and try to grapple the gun away, but his mistress' vice came to him telling him to be still and not to act against her husband. He obeyed, crouching, an abject creature. Radar's chest rose and fell, his warm breath outlining faint clouds in the chilled night air as he looked on, unable to help.
"Hold it! Don't you want to talk about this?" Henry frantically waved a hand; it may have been that the Father had made him rather uncomfortable in the last few nights, but he really wasn't looking forward to seeing the poor man's brains blown across the compound.
"Lesson one concerning life in the Camarilla, Blake: Learn your traditions and follow them to the letter. Lesson two: When you come across a human with a flaming aura who takes down 60-year old Gangrel in his spare time, you don't stop to ask questions."
Irene gave the father a mournful look, but, having once sworn to be by Joly's side through better and worse, and, most importantly, to leave Camarilla business to HIM, she shut her eyes helplessly and raised her hand to her mouth in a sorrowful gesture.
Joles looked down and steadied the barrel. "I'm sorry, Father."
~