"Frank, if you don't mind keeping the war down a little, some of us are
trying to-- Christ, Frank!" Hawkeye interrupted himself as he caught
sight of their company clerk, supine and in obvious pain, and he shoved the
ferret-faced man aside to come to the changeling's aid.
"Frank, what did you do to him!?" Hawkeye demanded, his hollering extracting a bleary B.J. from the swamp's door, his toothbrush still hanging from his mouth, being moved up and down in slow circular patterns.
"Shows how much you two know!" Frank sneered, "He's faking it!"
Having surmised from this one remark from their third bunkmate's lipless mouth the severity of the situation, B.J. became lucid enough to make a long-legged stride over the chair and crouch on the other side, "What's wrong with him, Hawk?"
Hawkeye stood up and glowered in Frank's direction. In the background, B.J., clenching his toothbrush in his teeth, started taking what vital statistics he could without the proper equipment.
"It's Frank," Hawkeye replied to B.J., staring into the Major's face as he did so, "He's been boring people to death again. Frank, why don't you do us all a favor and take a nice long stroll-- to North Korea! They'll see what we have to put up with back here, and decide to give up the torture business! They just can't compare with you, Frank! You're anesthetic, personified! Get out of here, Frank, before the whole camp does the Rip Van Winkle! Go take a walk in a mine field or something!"
"Hawk-- Hawk?" B.J. tried to cut in.
"Yeah, what is it, Beej?" Hawkeye spun around from his tirade and was once more at Radar's side, across from B.J. B.J. looked across at him helplessly, and placed the Pooka's hand, which he'd been feeling for a pulse, down on his chest. Hawkeye felt a pang of terror.
"Is he--"
"Asleep." B.J. shrugged. "Hawk, Frank's right. There's nothing wrong with him."
~
A chimeric wail of mourning filled the post operative ward as the dawn wore away towards morning. The vampires having been quarantined in the VIP tent, the wyrm taint was concentrated in that area, and outside, throughout the camp, the animals that had been freed from the zoo stopped to listen. Here and there in the Korean village nearby a baby began to cry long and hard. The dogs howled, or, variously, whimpered and hid, bowing their heads. The turtle pulled itself inside its shell.
Hawkeye wasn't sure how the teddy bear had gotten inside the building; but he was glad it had, and happy with whoever had had the foresight to go fetch it here. He didn't hear the screaming; but he felt it, he felt that there was something wrong, and his head bowed over Radar's bedside as he tried to think of what it was.
Meanwhile, on a plane of existence slightly off kilter from the one in which Hawkeye was sitting, Bantelhopp sat pensively between the dark- sprouting horns of the young, mauled sheep. Qotenmatch sat up on the blankets, his legs crossed, his eyes shut, chanting in a tongue more ancient than man.
Bantelhopp's head craned one hundred and sixty degrees, and tilted up, his beak parted by his little black tongue in a curious gesture as he regarded Hawkeye, and began to sing.
"Dear Qotenmatch, the time is near,
The culmination of our fear,
Autumn grins from ear to ear,
And even corpses feel our tears.
Banality encroaches.
Our young ward feels its presence,
Though we shall do all for him that we can.
In this man's deep blue eyes I note
A quality beyond man's rote.
And you could, if you chose, promote
These eyes to Dreams, past mortal moats.
Banality encroaches.
Shall this man be our saviour?
He could, if you did for him what you can."
Nearby, and even closer than before, though still too far away for most, the music reached the ears of the worried doctor, who began to hum a tune he seemed to know by heart without ever having heard it before.
At a soft voice murmuring, "Doctor...? Hawkeye?" he shook himself awake and took the clipboard from the nurse, who explained, "The tests you wanted."
Hawkeye nodded. A 'thank you' tried to escape his throat, but failed. He looked at the sheet of paper for a moment. He flipped it over to look at its backside, expecting there to be more. There wasn't.
"My Bantelhopp, don't ask me this,
By Autumn's Nip and Corpse's Kiss,
Our Ward's surviving hope of bliss
To neglect now, and be remiss.
Banality encroaches.
He needs all my attention.
A miracle remains our only chance."
Frustrated and tired, Hawkeye tossed the lab sheet, on which, of course, everything and everything else checked out normal, on the empty cot behind him and looked over Radar to the sedated Klinger further down the row, "You've probably got a better idea what's going on than I do."
"I doubt that," a voice so commonsensical as to only be able to belong to the demi-official camp psychologist spoke behind him. Hawkeye turned to see Sydney pick up the discarded medical chart and sit down on the edge of the bed. "I doubt he's got a very good idea of anything at this point. Complete withdrawal from reality."
"That bad?" Hawkeye murmured, looking across to the other patient, watching the troubled expressions that marred the usually comical face.
"I don't think he hears what I'm saying to him. He hears-- something-- but what? I couldn't tell you. Not yet." Sidney's voice trailed off. When Hawkeye turned around he was examining the medical form he'd found with a furrowed forehead.
Hawkeye smirked and removed the sheet from Dr. Freedman's hands, turning it around and reinserting it with the corrected orientation. "You've been in psychology too long, Sid."
Sidney squinted at the sheet. "Not long enough to see anything odd about these stats. Why the bed rest, Hawk?"
Hawkeye snorted undignifiedly, and turned back to look Radar over once more, as he'd been doing for the last three hours. Everything looked, worked, acted just fine. All the numbers were right, but it was just... so... wrong...
"Do you always believe everything you see, Sid?"
"I try to; it's espousing that kind of philosophy that keeps me in business. Hazard of the trade, I suppose."
Hawkeye looked down to the floor, chortling softly. "Hazard of the trade," he repeated sardonically, shaking his head.
Sidney let a silent moment pass before speaking up again. "You know, if you wanted to talk to someone with a specialty in dealing with the less tangible--"
"No." Hawkeye intercepted the notion, snapping his neck up and looking back over his shoulder toward Sidney. "I am /not/ putting Radar in the care of Father John Patrick Francis "Slaughterhouse" Mul--" Hawkeye had a feeling he'd put his foot in it by the steady look Sidney was shooting across the room. He didn't have to turn his head to know that the Hunter's eyes were fixed, if you will, dead on him.
~
"Frank, what did you do to him!?" Hawkeye demanded, his hollering extracting a bleary B.J. from the swamp's door, his toothbrush still hanging from his mouth, being moved up and down in slow circular patterns.
"Shows how much you two know!" Frank sneered, "He's faking it!"
Having surmised from this one remark from their third bunkmate's lipless mouth the severity of the situation, B.J. became lucid enough to make a long-legged stride over the chair and crouch on the other side, "What's wrong with him, Hawk?"
Hawkeye stood up and glowered in Frank's direction. In the background, B.J., clenching his toothbrush in his teeth, started taking what vital statistics he could without the proper equipment.
"It's Frank," Hawkeye replied to B.J., staring into the Major's face as he did so, "He's been boring people to death again. Frank, why don't you do us all a favor and take a nice long stroll-- to North Korea! They'll see what we have to put up with back here, and decide to give up the torture business! They just can't compare with you, Frank! You're anesthetic, personified! Get out of here, Frank, before the whole camp does the Rip Van Winkle! Go take a walk in a mine field or something!"
"Hawk-- Hawk?" B.J. tried to cut in.
"Yeah, what is it, Beej?" Hawkeye spun around from his tirade and was once more at Radar's side, across from B.J. B.J. looked across at him helplessly, and placed the Pooka's hand, which he'd been feeling for a pulse, down on his chest. Hawkeye felt a pang of terror.
"Is he--"
"Asleep." B.J. shrugged. "Hawk, Frank's right. There's nothing wrong with him."
~
A chimeric wail of mourning filled the post operative ward as the dawn wore away towards morning. The vampires having been quarantined in the VIP tent, the wyrm taint was concentrated in that area, and outside, throughout the camp, the animals that had been freed from the zoo stopped to listen. Here and there in the Korean village nearby a baby began to cry long and hard. The dogs howled, or, variously, whimpered and hid, bowing their heads. The turtle pulled itself inside its shell.
Hawkeye wasn't sure how the teddy bear had gotten inside the building; but he was glad it had, and happy with whoever had had the foresight to go fetch it here. He didn't hear the screaming; but he felt it, he felt that there was something wrong, and his head bowed over Radar's bedside as he tried to think of what it was.
Meanwhile, on a plane of existence slightly off kilter from the one in which Hawkeye was sitting, Bantelhopp sat pensively between the dark- sprouting horns of the young, mauled sheep. Qotenmatch sat up on the blankets, his legs crossed, his eyes shut, chanting in a tongue more ancient than man.
Bantelhopp's head craned one hundred and sixty degrees, and tilted up, his beak parted by his little black tongue in a curious gesture as he regarded Hawkeye, and began to sing.
"Dear Qotenmatch, the time is near,
The culmination of our fear,
Autumn grins from ear to ear,
And even corpses feel our tears.
Banality encroaches.
Our young ward feels its presence,
Though we shall do all for him that we can.
In this man's deep blue eyes I note
A quality beyond man's rote.
And you could, if you chose, promote
These eyes to Dreams, past mortal moats.
Banality encroaches.
Shall this man be our saviour?
He could, if you did for him what you can."
Nearby, and even closer than before, though still too far away for most, the music reached the ears of the worried doctor, who began to hum a tune he seemed to know by heart without ever having heard it before.
At a soft voice murmuring, "Doctor...? Hawkeye?" he shook himself awake and took the clipboard from the nurse, who explained, "The tests you wanted."
Hawkeye nodded. A 'thank you' tried to escape his throat, but failed. He looked at the sheet of paper for a moment. He flipped it over to look at its backside, expecting there to be more. There wasn't.
"My Bantelhopp, don't ask me this,
By Autumn's Nip and Corpse's Kiss,
Our Ward's surviving hope of bliss
To neglect now, and be remiss.
Banality encroaches.
He needs all my attention.
A miracle remains our only chance."
Frustrated and tired, Hawkeye tossed the lab sheet, on which, of course, everything and everything else checked out normal, on the empty cot behind him and looked over Radar to the sedated Klinger further down the row, "You've probably got a better idea what's going on than I do."
"I doubt that," a voice so commonsensical as to only be able to belong to the demi-official camp psychologist spoke behind him. Hawkeye turned to see Sydney pick up the discarded medical chart and sit down on the edge of the bed. "I doubt he's got a very good idea of anything at this point. Complete withdrawal from reality."
"That bad?" Hawkeye murmured, looking across to the other patient, watching the troubled expressions that marred the usually comical face.
"I don't think he hears what I'm saying to him. He hears-- something-- but what? I couldn't tell you. Not yet." Sidney's voice trailed off. When Hawkeye turned around he was examining the medical form he'd found with a furrowed forehead.
Hawkeye smirked and removed the sheet from Dr. Freedman's hands, turning it around and reinserting it with the corrected orientation. "You've been in psychology too long, Sid."
Sidney squinted at the sheet. "Not long enough to see anything odd about these stats. Why the bed rest, Hawk?"
Hawkeye snorted undignifiedly, and turned back to look Radar over once more, as he'd been doing for the last three hours. Everything looked, worked, acted just fine. All the numbers were right, but it was just... so... wrong...
"Do you always believe everything you see, Sid?"
"I try to; it's espousing that kind of philosophy that keeps me in business. Hazard of the trade, I suppose."
Hawkeye looked down to the floor, chortling softly. "Hazard of the trade," he repeated sardonically, shaking his head.
Sidney let a silent moment pass before speaking up again. "You know, if you wanted to talk to someone with a specialty in dealing with the less tangible--"
"No." Hawkeye intercepted the notion, snapping his neck up and looking back over his shoulder toward Sidney. "I am /not/ putting Radar in the care of Father John Patrick Francis "Slaughterhouse" Mul--" Hawkeye had a feeling he'd put his foot in it by the steady look Sidney was shooting across the room. He didn't have to turn his head to know that the Hunter's eyes were fixed, if you will, dead on him.
~