MINGLE - Post-Op(era) Recovery

[pumpkinhollow]

On this night we drink to the death of Sorrow.

After the Fall of Efrain With the Prince of Sorrow's Song dead and gone, the opera dissipates, spitting its victims out on the summit of Crane's Ridge where the Dance of Celestine was held some months before. It's getting late, and there is no one yet in town to run the train. Some will brave the trip home simply for the sake of collapsing into their own beds and achieving some sense of normalcy. Others will do so with the hope of returning with help. But many others will simply say "fuck it" and camp out on the mountain, still fitted with extra firewood from the festival and the means to build temporary structures in nearby storage sheds. The journey down will be safer in the morning, and there's solidarity to be had in a cool spring night spent under the stars.

Oh, look, there's even some non-perishable food and wine from the Dance. Combined with what can be hunted or foraged, as well as snacks and drinks stolen from the concession stand, there's plenty to go around. This might even be a little bit fun! Anyone up for another game of Never Have I Ever? Maybe a little Truth or Dare? Or perhaps you just want to chat and unwind with your friends. Whatever the case may be, have fun. This is your time. After darkness, there is a dawn. At the death of Sorrow, there is joy.

Comments

[incomingchoppers]

Radar gnaws his lip. "I think so, yeah," he says, though he doesn't sound wholly sure himself. "I, uh. I don't think I wanna be in a house all by myself after all that."

Up here with everybody setting up camp, it's kinda like being back at the 4077th. Even on the worst days, Radar could always go to sleep hearing the sounds of fifty other people breathing. That meant fifty other people who'd just been through the same awful day, too, and somehow that made it all a little easier to bear.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Christ, me neither," Edgar says fervently. "Stay here, then? Weather's good, at least."

He's also very used to going to sleep (and waking, and eating, and living his entire life) with the sounds of countless other people breathing; being alone is something that only happened after he died. Even now, it still never really feels right.

[incomingchoppers]

"Stay here," he agrees, with a similar fervency now that he knows at least one of his friends will be up here too. "You wanna bunk together? They got a couple big tents that'll fit two people."

[hate_gettin_older]

"Suits me," he says at once. "You know how to set those up? I can help."

[incomingchoppers]

"Yeah, they don't look too different from the pup tents we gotta set up sometimes."

Okay, sure, Radar hasn't had much cause to set up a pup tent since he got through basic -- the 4077th's tents are way, way bigger -- but you don't forget much of anything a drill sergeant shouts at you at four in the morning. Once he secures a two-person tent from the pile, he and Edgar get to work making their campsite.

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar's always been good at taking instructions, when he trusts the person giving them. Between the two of them, it doesn't take too long to get the tent up and ready.

And by that time, Edgar's sniffing at the air. "Someone's cooking something?"

[incomingchoppers]

Radar is, too, and as soon as he catches a proper whiff, he brightens more than he has all night. "Hash browns!"

(Okay, potatoes and onions. Close enough.)

"Gee, I'm starving, c'mon, let's get some -- "

[hate_gettin_older]

Neither of them needs any encouragement to make for the cooking area and start loading plates. Potatoes and onions fried together, venison steaks, and --

"D'you have any idea what these are?" Edgar asks, turning from the pile of packaged snacks and holding up a box of something that rattles.

[incomingchoppers]

Radar squints, cocking his head just a little to listen better to the rattle.

"Looks like something from Mr. Ambrose's shop," he says, doubtful but intrigued. "What happened to the label?"

(Well, what happened is someone left a box of candy up here for four months and the label fell off. At least it doesn't sound like any bugs got into it, too.)

[hate_gettin_older]

"Dunno. Feels like ... sticks?"

He rattles the box again, sniffs at it, and then tries to peel up a corner of the stiff paper lid.

[incomingchoppers]

"Sounds like some kinda sticks," says Radar at almost the exact same time. "Maybe peppermint? I dunno, let's bring it along and find out!"

Like more food is ever a bad thing, in Radar's eyes. Especially candy.

[hate_gettin_older]

"Yeah, all right." Like he's ever going to get an argument from Edgar about that.

They bring their dinner back to the tent and settle down to leisurely consume it, and by this time Edgar's really starting to feel better. Between the victory over their tormentor and a hefty meal to celebrate it, he could almost forget about what came before. (At least for the moment.)

"So," halfway through his steak, "want to try opening the box and see if it's candy or what?"

[incomingchoppers]

"'Course," says Radar around a mouthful of potatoes. He rummages up the box and works his fingers under the flap to pry it open.

Inside aren't peppermint sticks, but something that looks a lot like the candy cigarettes he'd get at the Ottumwa general store sometimes. Thin, opaque white sugar sticks without a single hint as to what flavor they might be, even though there's also a little slip of paper inside that declares NINETEEN DELICIOUS FLAVORS TO TEMPT YOUR TASTEBUDS! Why nineteen and not a nice round number like twenty becomes more apparent as Radar keeps reading.

"'Nineteen delicious flavors to tempt your tastebuds, but beware of Sour Jack,'" he recites aloud. "Pass the box among your friends. Whoever finds him first loses.' Huh." He looks up at Edgar, intrigued. "I think it's a game?"

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar grins. "Sounds like fun. Want to play it just you and me, or rope in some others?"