blindwatchersees | The Madgod's Mailbox/Sending Stone

"Ah, but it's only me whispering in your ear now. Imagine what it'd be like with one of the demons, or ol' Nyarly. It's better to learn how to shore yourself up before the next wave comes crashing in. And oh, it'll come crashing in."

The earworm is accompanied by a tingling running up and down Radar's spine. It makes him feel like he's at risk for a shock with each touch of the dial.

Sometimes, doing what's best for your favorite mortals means being unkind in the moment. You have to prune back some of that hard-won growth to make sure they don't get stunted.

He's not wrong, is the thing. He's not even being that mean about it. It's just the truth, plain for Radar to hear -- one he already kinda knows, even. Nyarly or Aster won't be half as kind as Sheogorath's been if they get ahold of Radar's mind. No warnings, no second tries, no advice if he messes up: just wringing his brain out like a wet rag and hanging him up to dry.

That electric buzz like he's too close to a bare wire, though, that's tougher to deal with. Every half-conscious instinct yells at him not to touch the dial again, because not only will it hurt, the shock'll get stronger every time. He hesitates, cringes in advance, only touches the dial in the shortest skips as he works to ease it back.

This is only gonna work if he shuts out the earworm. Maybe... maybe if he gets something else stuck in his head to replace it?

Barely audible, he hums under his breath. The corporals in the Army, they say we're pretty green, but if it weren't for us guys, you'd be in the latrine...

Oh, I don't want no more of Army life;
Gee Ma, I wanna go,
Oh, I gotta go,
Gee Ma, I wanna go home!

It's half an audible hum, half a psychic one, as he hovers at Radar's shoulder, equal parts pressure and encouragement.

That's what army songs are for, aren't they? Camaraderie. Knowing somebody's right there with you while you're whistling in the dark. Sheogorath's humming bolsters his own, and Radar finds he's even smiling a little as he reaches for the dial again. This time, he doesn't let go.

Millimeter by millimeter, he eases the dial back into place. The feedback dwindles. As the screeching smooths out, it begins to form a familiar melody -- and Radar breaks into an outright grin as he recognizes it. Like always, he heard it coming well before it arrived.

"I don't want no more of Army life," he sings softly, as a chorus of the entire 4077th sings out with him from the radio speakers. "Gee Ma, I wanna go home."

Sheogorath listens to Radar sing, quietly smiling to himself.

Sanity is an illusion, isn't it? We drift from equilibrium to equilibrium of thought in a sea of uncertainty, imagination, and cognitive flux. It's like dreaming, only we're awake, and in that waking-dreaming we're endlessly stumbling across fears and nightmares and incomparable bliss. At least, that's how it seems. But what would a madman know, ay?

"Well... shall we go home? We've bombarded your lovely little mortal mind with quite a lot today, and it seems like it's stayed intact for the most part. Of course, we can keep at this a little longer, if you're inclined to."

Radar closes his eyes, listening to the music. There's a little piece of him that wants to protest, I am home, and stay in this corner of unreality as long as he can, far away from the dangers of the island and his constant longing for Ottumwa. As terrifying as madness can be, it has its allures. Maybe now he understands a little better why soldiers lose themselves in ways only Dr. Freeman can fix -- if at all.

But he's not gonna do anybody any good if he stays here forever. So, his smile turning wistful, he nods and opens his eyes.

"Yeah, I think I'm good," he says. "Let's go."

Sheo pats him on the back.

"You're a brave man. Braver than you know."

Then the world swims, and Radar's back on the couch in his place, with the smell of a cooking meal wafting over to him. It seems like, during all of that, Sheogorath has been up and about.

Radar blinks.

Everything ripples weirdly, like the objects around him are too vibrant for one shape to contain them. He thinks he hears cooking -- wait, no, smells. Not hears. Well, hears a little bit, maybe, there's all the regular cooking sounds like bubbling and crackling, but... ohhh he feels funny.

Frowning, he takes off his glasses and tries to clean them on his shirt. Maybe it helps, maybe it doesn't, but when he puts them back on, the uncomfortable oversaturation has dimmed a little. He breathes out a small sigh of relief.

"Whatcha making?" he asks -- then blinks again, touching his fingers to his lips. That felt weird, too.

"Cream biscuits and gravy," he chirps. "And some steamed carrots, if you're feeling healthy-like."

Predictably, Radar brightens. "That sounds good."

And stops there, his expression dissolving back into a frown. He rubs his mouth a second time.

Hesitant, he asks, "Are words supposed to taste like that?"

"Only when your mind's hungry. You'll feel better with a few biscuits, I suspect. Nothing quite makes words stick to the roof of your mouth like going too long without eating."

Oh, huh. Yeah, that makes sense. Radar chances a nod, even though it makes the rippling come back for a second, and cautiously levers himself to his feet. A couple of the ripples stick to the walls; he tries not to stare at them too much.

As he makes his way toward the food, he whispers, "Was I out long?" Whispering helps. Seems like his tastebuds don't notice the words so much if they're quiet.

(Ohhhhhh this is so weird. It's not too terrible, he supposes, but he really really hopes it's just temporary. He's not gonna get anything done if he's mixed up like this forever.)

"Could've been an hour, or a second, or some nebulous moment-thing. That's not really important to you right now, is it? Not nearly as important as trying to figure out how to get the greasy slick of a sound from the couch cushions to cleanly rub off your fingertips, eh?"

"...No, I guess not," he says slowly. He looks down at his hands; rubs his fingertips together. Something sings in the friction-or-lack-thereof, something he'd only half noticed until Sheogorath pointed it out. But now it's really bugging him, enough that he keeps trying to wipe his hands on his pants as he takes a seat in the kitchen, grimacing when the noise strikes at odd angles against the taste in his mouth.

Okay. Breathe. Focus on one thing. Maybe the ripples again? Yeah, that'll help.

"Here, pour a taste on the sound, and you'll feel like home."

He sets a plate in front of Radar, practically overflowing with biscuits and sausage gravy and those sweet little baby carrots that taste good dipped in just about anything.

Radar jumps a little at the soft clink of the plate settling on the table. He blinks down at it, running a fingertip along the wake the noise left behind. Luckily, its path collides with the fork right next to the plate, so he doesn't get too distracted and wander away from the food.

He digs in. And oh, good, Sheogorath was right, as soon as that taste hits his mouth it's like someone took the drifting balloon in his head and tied it down to something nice and heavy. Much better! Boy it tastes good, too. When he lets out an appreciative mmmm! and starts shoveling the food in with his usual gusto, the sound tastes a lot more like real stuff than some sour color-motion-thing.

Edited 2025-04-04 02:12 (UTC)

The Madgod's Mailbox/Sending Stone

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