The stone crumbles in front of him, and he's in a field of tall grass now, under an endless blue sky. There's a farmhouse in the distance, and that's where the music is coming from. It's no longer the crackling of an old phonograph, but the fuzzy warmth of a radio, and he can here the distortion of someone fiddling with the dials.
Not just any farmhouse, but the O'Reilly farmhouse. Home. Really, truly home, like he's pictured it for years. The heart-cracking joy of it, and the triumph of finally hearing the dials spin, collide with one another, and Radar whoops so loud it echoes as he races across the familiar field.
Grass this high should be a pain to slog through, but it parts like he's ten feet tall. It even starts to bend in advance before long, forming a path that ribbons ahead to the front steps. Radar takes them two at a time as soon as he gets there, laughing as he barrels through the front door.
Ma? he almost calls on reflex before he remembers.
"I didn't know it'd work!" Breathless, grinning so bright he could light the whole farmhouse, Radar presses a hand to his hat and laughs again. "I-I remembered something Fever said when we were stuck at the gala, and how sometimes I could make things change if I just thought about it, and -- !"
And here they are. Here he is, right where he wants to be.
"I should never wonder for a moment if she's my darling girl. Wise in madness, that one. So, you already knew a little, more than I thought. You've found your way out of the darkness, to the place where you want to be. Now comes the tricky part- we need to teach the intruder a lesson. And that means chasing them down when they run back into the confusion of the in-between. Before we do that, though... set a while, and fiddle with the radio. Let's make sure you know how to put things back to where you want them to be."
Still beaming, Radar plops down next to Sheogorath and scoots close enough to the radio to reach the dials. This part oughta be easy, right? All he has to do is...
...the first dial he touches doesn't budge. Huh.
His brow knits. He gives the same dial another yank, harder, but it only moves a hair's width to the right in response. "Aw, c'mon," he mutters to himself, and tries a few more of the knobs, one right after the other, as the music keeps humming along.
(That's always been the nature of his ears. He can sort through what he picks up, he can navigate what he oughta respond to and what he ought to let pass by, but he can never quite control what he hears in the first place.)
“Now, now, you’re letting yourself get hung up over the idea of twisting them too far in the other direction. You have you give them a good, solid turn, and not be afraid about the possibility of having to correct yourself.”
Huh. Radar pauses, frowning at one of the dials. He frames it lightly between thumb and forefinger. "I thought I was turning it pretty hard already."
But was he hesitating, like Sheogorath said? Yeah. Yeah, he was, he guesses. Somewhere deep in his chest, the anxiety of messing up so bad that he permanently ruins his hearing still flutters. So... okay, maybe if he just ignores that, like he ignores all his other useless anxieties whenever the choppers come, and just -- takes a deep breath, and...
He twists the dial.
This time, it moves, and Radar winces as a squeal of feedback hits his ears.
How he handles it: not well. Not at first. All Radar does is clap his hands over his ears, like he's forgotten altogether that he's the one controlling the noise. That he can do more than react; that in this, he isn't merely a receiver.
Five seconds' worth of his ears ringing almost as bad as they did when Mendel messed with him, though, and he remembers. Oh. We're inside my head. If I want it to stop, then I'm the one who's gotta do it.
Grimacing, Radar peels one hand away from his ears to touch the dial again. Slowly, slowly, he inches it the other way, closer to where it was before, and some of the screeching begins to dim.
Not even a little. It's like an earworm that squeezes in between the gaps in the song, or immediately thinking of a purple elephant as soon as somebody says don't think of a purple elephant. The anxious fluttering gives his ribs a good solid whack and sends the vibrations all the way up to his fingers.
The dial twitches too far again. Radar winces, scowls, and mutters, "I wasn't nervous til you said something about it."
"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...
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.
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.
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.
"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?"
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chiming
no subject
Date: 2024-12-02 03:27 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2024-12-02 04:19 am (UTC)From:Grass this high should be a pain to slog through, but it parts like he's ten feet tall. It even starts to bend in advance before long, forming a path that ribbons ahead to the front steps. Radar takes them two at a time as soon as he gets there, laughing as he barrels through the front door.
Ma? he almost calls on reflex before he remembers.
no subject
Date: 2024-12-02 04:50 am (UTC)From:“Well now, that was quicker than expected. You almost seemed like you knew what you were doing.”
no subject
Date: 2024-12-02 03:31 pm (UTC)From:And here they are. Here he is, right where he wants to be.
no subject
Date: 2024-12-04 05:03 pm (UTC)From:"I should never wonder for a moment if she's my darling girl. Wise in madness, that one. So, you already knew a little, more than I thought. You've found your way out of the darkness, to the place where you want to be. Now comes the tricky part- we need to teach the intruder a lesson. And that means chasing them down when they run back into the confusion of the in-between. Before we do that, though... set a while, and fiddle with the radio. Let's make sure you know how to put things back to where you want them to be."
no subject
Date: 2024-12-06 12:46 am (UTC)From:Still beaming, Radar plops down next to Sheogorath and scoots close enough to the radio to reach the dials. This part oughta be easy, right? All he has to do is...
...the first dial he touches doesn't budge. Huh.
His brow knits. He gives the same dial another yank, harder, but it only moves a hair's width to the right in response. "Aw, c'mon," he mutters to himself, and tries a few more of the knobs, one right after the other, as the music keeps humming along.
(That's always been the nature of his ears. He can sort through what he picks up, he can navigate what he oughta respond to and what he ought to let pass by, but he can never quite control what he hears in the first place.)
no subject
Date: 2024-12-29 07:58 pm (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2024-12-30 01:39 am (UTC)From:Huh. Radar pauses, frowning at one of the dials. He frames it lightly between thumb and forefinger. "I thought I was turning it pretty hard already."
But was he hesitating, like Sheogorath said? Yeah. Yeah, he was, he guesses. Somewhere deep in his chest, the anxiety of messing up so bad that he permanently ruins his hearing still flutters. So... okay, maybe if he just ignores that, like he ignores all his other useless anxieties whenever the choppers come, and just -- takes a deep breath, and...
He twists the dial.
This time, it moves, and Radar winces as a squeal of feedback hits his ears.
no subject
Date: 2024-12-30 01:42 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2025-01-01 09:56 pm (UTC)From:Five seconds' worth of his ears ringing almost as bad as they did when Mendel messed with him, though, and he remembers. Oh. We're inside my head. If I want it to stop, then I'm the one who's gotta do it.
Grimacing, Radar peels one hand away from his ears to touch the dial again. Slowly, slowly, he inches it the other way, closer to where it was before, and some of the screeching begins to dim.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-15 07:01 pm (UTC)From:The suggestion of jitters is, of course, not helping with jitters.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-16 02:49 am (UTC)From:The dial twitches too far again. Radar winces, scowls, and mutters, "I wasn't nervous til you said something about it."
(Liar.)
no subject
Date: 2025-01-17 07:06 pm (UTC)From: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.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-19 07:04 pm (UTC)From: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...
no subject
Date: 2025-01-23 02:29 am (UTC)From: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.
no subject
Date: 2025-01-23 03:51 am (UTC)From: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."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-27 07:15 pm (UTC)From: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."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-30 02:06 am (UTC)From: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."
no subject
Date: 2025-01-31 09:53 pm (UTC)From:"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.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-02 04:14 am (UTC)From: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.
no subject
Date: 2025-02-02 04:16 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2025-02-02 04:52 am (UTC)From: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?"
no subject
Date: 2025-02-04 01:51 am (UTC)From:no subject
Date: 2025-02-08 11:29 pm (UTC)From: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.)
no subject
Date: 2025-03-19 05:23 pm (UTC)From:(no subject)
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