Sparky sat munching distastefully on a mouthful of powdered eggs. He wondered a bit at the sudden flurry of activity around that big building over there. He knew no new casualties had come in-- so why did the chaplain just run out of there and hustle back after two corpsmen carrying a litter?

He grabbed a bit of the WWII surplus toast and was chewing on it as he approached the screen wall of the mess tent and peered out of it.

"What the heck's going on over there?" he mumbled to himself; perhaps to the cook as well. He was about to go over and check it out, that priest, of course, a suspicious figure in his mind, but he found that he didn't have to; the moment he had put away his tray and was heading out one half of the double doors, the other door opened the opposite way and Father Mulcahy came running in, not so much as offering a passing greeting as he headed for the coffee dispenser and poured himself a mugfull with an expert hand, chugging down half of it before looking up.

"Oh, Sparky. Good morning." He stated hesitantly, filling up the mug again, his brain sending him messages of urgent need for some kind of stimulation.

Sparky squinted. "Hey, Padre, you alright? What's going on over there?"

"Just fine, thank you, Sparky," Mulcahy lied a bit, swallowing down the dregs of the mug in earnest, as though all the energy must be contained in the little gritty bits at the bottom.

"Just fine?" Igor peered incredulously, "He's been chugging that grog for the last two days straight," he informed Sparky, then turned to the priest, "Padre, if you don't start to slow down on that stuff, your blood tests will start coming back 'Fine Ground.'"

Sparky looked on with wondering eyes for a while, then laughed heartily, the cook's joke helping him to put two and two together. "Hey, Father, it's no use, you know."

Mulcahy, irked a little at the needling, turned simply confused at the comment. "No use?" he asked.

"The coffee. I tried it, too. Pop, coffee... I even went on pep pills for a few days."

Mulcahy shuddered, somehow knowing that this was going in a direction he wasn't going to like... he could feel it. But, at the same time, he needed to know... needed to ask, "What in Heaven's name are you talking about, Sparky?"

Sparky nodded his head sagely. "Uh-huh. A little testy. You haven't gotten your fix in a few days, have you? I know the signs... I've been there, Padre." He grinned, a little conspiratorial smile between men. "That ol' Vitae buzz is just irreplacable, huh?"

The Hunter's heart fell to the bottom of his feet. Oh, yeah. There it was. That interminable need he couldn't quite put a name on sat before him as clear as day-- as dark as night. That blood. He nearly salivated at the thought of it. He coughed, clearing his throat as he poured another cup of horribly depressingly unfulfilling coffee. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean, Sparky."

Sparky smiled jovially. "Uh-huh." He replied. "Well, anyway," he began, as if about to change the topic, wandering in the direction of the double doors again. As he passed Father Mulcahy he muttered in low tones, "I got some back in my gear if you wanna stop by." Mulcahy was breathless; he squeezed his eyes shut as he tried to slough off the nearly overwhelming urge to take Sparky up on his offer.

He exhaled deeply as Sparky broke the tension of the moment by continuing, aloud, as he bent double and peered back toward the operating theater, "So, what's going on over there?"

~