In its wake: a streak of red. Not the red of operating rooms and medical crosses, though. Red as the opposite of green, the flush of life returning to pale limbs, the beginning of a sunrise. The antithesis of war and death and darkness.

(Red that's rosy, Hawkeye will say in the future. Red that's cheery.)

"Yeah," says Radar with dawning realization as he looks at the red stripe. His jaw sets. "Yeah, you know what? I am! I'm a grown man! They already let me go home, they can't say I gotta go back all of a sudden! And I'm not gonna!"

He balls up his opposite sleeve at the wrist and rubs furiously at his shoulder to scrub off more green. Like buffing a hubcap to a shine, the olive drab dims as patches of bright, glinting red rise to take its place. After a few seconds, though, Radar pauses.

"...So where do we go?"