The scene was familiar, the flickering halo of lamplight above the double-
doors out of the operating theater. The ache was familiar, the shoulders
that were hunched too long, the knees that were locked too long, the feet
that were standing too long. Six shoulders, knees, feet stumbled out of
Pre-Op, still donned in slightly blood-spattered gowns they were just too
tired to shrug off.
Three deep exhalations accompanied the moment when they creaked back into motion, Potter, B.J., and Hawkeye, as it would so many times in the next year and a half.
'Year and a half?' Hawkeye thought. It took him a moment to remember what he was thinking of. The mists were claiming him.
As if on cue, Radar hurried along on his two little bare feet from the direction of his office.
"Radar, what day is it?"
"It's not, sir, it's still tonight."
Hawkeye shook his fist in the general direction of the war. "Come on, you can do better than that."
"Colonel Potter, sir?" Radar continued, scuttling along backwards before the wearily-advancing group of surgeons. "General Imbry called. Wanted to welcome us back and wonder where we had to bug out to."
Potter nodded blearily, "Get him back on the phone, Radar, I'll try to straighten it out."
Radar's eyes shifted with a significant glance to the sky, "Now, sir?"
"Oh. Right. No, Radar, tomorrow. And make sure I'm up for breakfast tomorrow-- 0800 hours." Potter looked at his watch, squinted at it, and yawned, "Make that for lunch at 1100."
Radar made a dramatic scribble on his clipboard. "Right, sir."
He turned around as Sidney sauntered up to the group, likewise turning himself to follow along with the slow migration, "Trying to become diurnal again, Sherman?"
"Why bother?" Hawkeye cut in before Potter could reply, "This war is just as likely to wake us up in the middle of the night as it is to wake us up in the middle of the day. In fact, I think that for our next big trick we should all give up sleep altogether."
Sidney chuckled, "It's not a bad idea, Hawkeye," he noted, "It's been proven that lack of exposure to daylight can instill a kind of depression known to my German forebearers as "angst.""
B.J. snorted, speaking up for the first time. "Well, the Camarilla must be full of it."
Father Mulcahy emerged from the operating theater, where he'd just finished helping to clean up after the carnage, and hurried to join the group, catching just the tail end of B.J.'s statement and the nervous chuckle that ran through the rest of the crowd.
He looked up into the air, squinting a bit before startling those who hadn't noticed his arrival with this question: "Where do you think he is, now?"
"Who, Padre?" Colonel Potter asked.
"Henry..."
The name hung there strenuously, bringing up various emotions from various members of the throng. Radar cut the tension.
"Colonel Blake? I heard he went looking for some good fishing spots down in Seoul."
Hawkeye grinned, "Yeah. Should be back in a day or two... a week at the outside."
A smile wrestled its way onto the Hunter's face, and he couldn't hold in a laugh.
The group continued in the silence and darkness that decked the Korean countryside at night, and the bands that held them together were starting to dissolve as the Hawkeye and Sidney headed toward the swamp, the priest toward his own tent, B.J. towards some necessary location, Radar and Colonel Potter toward the office complex.
But they all froze in their places when they heard a voice from behind the lot of them call out, "Hawk?"
Hawkeye turned around, his eyebrows raised at the voice, his mouth gaping open wordlessly at the sight that met him.
Potter turned, too, giving a questioning look. Radar leaned to one side of the Colonel, and his hand flew up over his mouth to stifle a gasp.
Sidney turned beside Hawkeye, and just as soon as he did, he turned into a mirror-image of the slack-jawed surgeon.
B.J. peered back over his shoulder and knitted his eyebrows together stormily. "Oh, god. Not again."
Mulcahy felt a prickle on the back of his neck at the tone of the voice, and he finally slowly turned around after hearing B.J.'s comment.
The angelic script was glaring from this curly-haired monster's countenance, its gaping fangs drenched in blood. The priest's hands lifted in pain to try to shield his eyes from the sight.
All of this in the second, or perhaps two seconds, after the voice had rung out over the compound.
When Mulchay lowered his hands again, the vision had gone, and he saw only what the rest of the group saw: Captain John "Trapper" Xavier McIntyre, pale as death, standing with his arms splayed in a helpless shrug.
"Hawkeye," he continued, "I think I'm in real trouble..." he began.
Colonel Potter coughed.
"Radar, would you--"
"I'll get the Seneschal on the horn, sir, yes, sir, no problem, sir."
"Get the Seneschal on the-- thank you, Radar."
~THE END~
Three deep exhalations accompanied the moment when they creaked back into motion, Potter, B.J., and Hawkeye, as it would so many times in the next year and a half.
'Year and a half?' Hawkeye thought. It took him a moment to remember what he was thinking of. The mists were claiming him.
As if on cue, Radar hurried along on his two little bare feet from the direction of his office.
"Radar, what day is it?"
"It's not, sir, it's still tonight."
Hawkeye shook his fist in the general direction of the war. "Come on, you can do better than that."
"Colonel Potter, sir?" Radar continued, scuttling along backwards before the wearily-advancing group of surgeons. "General Imbry called. Wanted to welcome us back and wonder where we had to bug out to."
Potter nodded blearily, "Get him back on the phone, Radar, I'll try to straighten it out."
Radar's eyes shifted with a significant glance to the sky, "Now, sir?"
"Oh. Right. No, Radar, tomorrow. And make sure I'm up for breakfast tomorrow-- 0800 hours." Potter looked at his watch, squinted at it, and yawned, "Make that for lunch at 1100."
Radar made a dramatic scribble on his clipboard. "Right, sir."
He turned around as Sidney sauntered up to the group, likewise turning himself to follow along with the slow migration, "Trying to become diurnal again, Sherman?"
"Why bother?" Hawkeye cut in before Potter could reply, "This war is just as likely to wake us up in the middle of the night as it is to wake us up in the middle of the day. In fact, I think that for our next big trick we should all give up sleep altogether."
Sidney chuckled, "It's not a bad idea, Hawkeye," he noted, "It's been proven that lack of exposure to daylight can instill a kind of depression known to my German forebearers as "angst.""
B.J. snorted, speaking up for the first time. "Well, the Camarilla must be full of it."
Father Mulcahy emerged from the operating theater, where he'd just finished helping to clean up after the carnage, and hurried to join the group, catching just the tail end of B.J.'s statement and the nervous chuckle that ran through the rest of the crowd.
He looked up into the air, squinting a bit before startling those who hadn't noticed his arrival with this question: "Where do you think he is, now?"
"Who, Padre?" Colonel Potter asked.
"Henry..."
The name hung there strenuously, bringing up various emotions from various members of the throng. Radar cut the tension.
"Colonel Blake? I heard he went looking for some good fishing spots down in Seoul."
Hawkeye grinned, "Yeah. Should be back in a day or two... a week at the outside."
A smile wrestled its way onto the Hunter's face, and he couldn't hold in a laugh.
The group continued in the silence and darkness that decked the Korean countryside at night, and the bands that held them together were starting to dissolve as the Hawkeye and Sidney headed toward the swamp, the priest toward his own tent, B.J. towards some necessary location, Radar and Colonel Potter toward the office complex.
But they all froze in their places when they heard a voice from behind the lot of them call out, "Hawk?"
Hawkeye turned around, his eyebrows raised at the voice, his mouth gaping open wordlessly at the sight that met him.
Potter turned, too, giving a questioning look. Radar leaned to one side of the Colonel, and his hand flew up over his mouth to stifle a gasp.
Sidney turned beside Hawkeye, and just as soon as he did, he turned into a mirror-image of the slack-jawed surgeon.
B.J. peered back over his shoulder and knitted his eyebrows together stormily. "Oh, god. Not again."
Mulcahy felt a prickle on the back of his neck at the tone of the voice, and he finally slowly turned around after hearing B.J.'s comment.
The angelic script was glaring from this curly-haired monster's countenance, its gaping fangs drenched in blood. The priest's hands lifted in pain to try to shield his eyes from the sight.
All of this in the second, or perhaps two seconds, after the voice had rung out over the compound.
When Mulchay lowered his hands again, the vision had gone, and he saw only what the rest of the group saw: Captain John "Trapper" Xavier McIntyre, pale as death, standing with his arms splayed in a helpless shrug.
"Hawkeye," he continued, "I think I'm in real trouble..." he began.
Colonel Potter coughed.
"Radar, would you--"
"I'll get the Seneschal on the horn, sir, yes, sir, no problem, sir."
"Get the Seneschal on the-- thank you, Radar."
~THE END~