Radar O'Reilly (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
incomingchoppers) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2025-11-17 08:30 pm
incomingchoppers) wrote in ph_logs2025-11-17 08:30 pm
there's a stranger in my eyes again [November/post-event catch-all]
Who: Radar O'Reilly (incomingchoppers) & YOU!
What: Radar's fine. Everything's fine. :)
When: Throughout November
Where: Town Hall, the Leeds Estate, Baker Ranch, and the Temple
Warning(s): Some descriptions + discussion related to the Fears, especially Slaughter, Flesh, and Corruption; specific warnings will be on individual prompts/tags
all messed up with nowhere to go [Town Hall, OTA]
A bit over a year ago, Pumpkin Hollow's denizens were coming back from the Black Stag Casino. Radar in particular had just gotten pampered for a week straight in the VIP suites. He celebrated his twentieth birthday with his new girlfriend, a stretch of calm after the island's latest weirdness, and the newfound knowledge that lobster omelettes with goat cheese were really good.
If only the same could be said for his twenty-first birthday.
The Fears' hold breaks, the island slowly picks up the pieces once again, and Radar does what he does best to keep sane: he works. His former Town Hall coworkers see him scuttling around again just like old times, greeting newcomers and processing forms and popping up right where he's needed with anything that might make their jobs easier. Except... it doesn't, always. Forms get mixed up. Files end up in the wrong cabinet. Once, someone asks for a pen, and Radar absentmindedly hands over an ornamental cactus from Mr. Aberdeen's desk instead. Whenever someone corrects him, he just blinks, mumbles, "Oh, sorry sir," and fixes his mistake like nothing happened.
While manning the front desk one afternoon, he even dozes off. Anyone coming into Town Hall will be greeted by a gently snoring Army clerk, hat crooked and glasses shoved halfway up his forehead as he pillows his head in his arms. If they try to nudge him, he'll flail awake like a bomb went off, blurting, "Choppers!" before he gets his bearings.
"Oh, um." Clumsily, he fixes his glasses and adjusts his hat. "Hi. Can I help you?"
i stare at myself in the mirror alone [Leeds Estate, closed to Dahlia]
(cw: descriptions of war-related violence, gore, & body dysmorphia; emeto mention)
If you live at the Leeds Estate, meanwhile, you'll know exactly why he's been so tired.
He doesn't sleep.
Well, he tries, sure. Every night he goes to his own room, and every night like clockwork, two hours after he shuts the door, there's a quickly-stifled scream. (Radar got a lot of practice in Korea, not waking up anybody else with his own bad dreams.) He hunches over his knees with one arm around his bear, the other hand clapped to his mouth, tears streaming down his face as he struggles his way out of the latest nightmare. Battlefields. Blood everywhere. A hot rifle in his hands and a body on the ground that's only got half its head anymore, because of him. Someone peeling away chunks of his torso one strip at a time until he can see his own ribcage.
He can't stand to be touched, either. The guy who's always been so quick with a hug flinches when anyone so much as taps him on the shoulder. He shies away from everyone, even Dahlia, and can't bring himself to go to her room even on the nights Laios or Daisy aren't around. He misses her company so badly, but just the idea of her seeing his bare skin, let alone touching him, makes him want to throw up.
It's not fair. He was feeling so much better about -- about being him, and now all he can do is hide.
(He just wanted to look nice for her.)
it's hard to make friends when you're half in the grave [Baker Ranch, OTA]
When he isn't at Town Hall or the estate, he's out at Baker Ranch. Who knows what the animals might've gone through while the Fears were in charge? Maybe Radar would, if he listened, but there's been so much static in his ears ever since the island went back to normal that he can barely tell what human animals are thinking, let alone animal animals. So he just treats them with extra kindness anyway and lets the comfort of something small, simple, and fuzzy quiet his mind.
Sometimes, he keeps a teddy bear tucked under one arm while he works. It's not the same one he's been hauling around ever since Hawkeye and Phil won it for him a year and a half ago. This bear's even more worn and well-loved, its fur patchwork-thin, one eye missing, a ribbon that might've been white once tied in a little bow around its neck. One morning he walked into his room at the ranch and there it was, sitting on his pillow like it'd just stepped off the ferry from Korea, too: the bear he's had since he was a baby. Boy and he thought he cried a lot before.
That's the same day he just lays down in the grass for most of the afternoon to stare up at the sky. Some of the baby goats come over to investigate him and the teddy eventually. So do a few rabbits. So does Johnny Boy, even. He sits next to Radar with more rabbits in his lap, alternating between keeping watch and gently placing the occasional bunny on top of Radar's chest.
If you approach, the stone construct will turn to you, blink inquiringly, then hold up one of the rabbits. Hello. Would you like a rabbit in these trying times, too? Or perhaps a baby goat?
but i ain't dead yet, and i got something to say [temple, closed to Mulcahy]
And when that's not enough? There are also cats at the Temple.
Radar only saw Father Mulcahy briefly during the Fears -- he thinks; his time in the Corruption is especially blurry -- so he's got no idea how his friend is doing. Bad, probably. Everybody's doing bad. It makes him feel kind of guilty, knowing he's not just there to check up on the Father, but to talk to him parishioner-to-priest too. Because who else can he talk to about what went on? About the drums of the Slaughter, or the weight of the gun as he fired toward the Enemy? If he bottles it all up much longer he thinks he might burst.
So Mulcahy will find him sitting at the base of the Temple's tree, Christopher Mango cradled in his arms like a ridiculous furry baby. He looks up and tries to smile. "Hey, Father. Sir."
Christopher Mango sticks out a paw to lay it on Radar's cheek, juuuuust a little too close to his mouth.
wildcard
[plot with me/request a custom starter in the usual places!]
incomingchoppers) & YOU!What: Radar's fine. Everything's fine. :)
When: Throughout November
Where: Town Hall, the Leeds Estate, Baker Ranch, and the Temple
Warning(s): Some descriptions + discussion related to the Fears, especially Slaughter, Flesh, and Corruption; specific warnings will be on individual prompts/tags
all messed up with nowhere to go [Town Hall, OTA]
A bit over a year ago, Pumpkin Hollow's denizens were coming back from the Black Stag Casino. Radar in particular had just gotten pampered for a week straight in the VIP suites. He celebrated his twentieth birthday with his new girlfriend, a stretch of calm after the island's latest weirdness, and the newfound knowledge that lobster omelettes with goat cheese were really good.
If only the same could be said for his twenty-first birthday.
The Fears' hold breaks, the island slowly picks up the pieces once again, and Radar does what he does best to keep sane: he works. His former Town Hall coworkers see him scuttling around again just like old times, greeting newcomers and processing forms and popping up right where he's needed with anything that might make their jobs easier. Except... it doesn't, always. Forms get mixed up. Files end up in the wrong cabinet. Once, someone asks for a pen, and Radar absentmindedly hands over an ornamental cactus from Mr. Aberdeen's desk instead. Whenever someone corrects him, he just blinks, mumbles, "Oh, sorry sir," and fixes his mistake like nothing happened.
While manning the front desk one afternoon, he even dozes off. Anyone coming into Town Hall will be greeted by a gently snoring Army clerk, hat crooked and glasses shoved halfway up his forehead as he pillows his head in his arms. If they try to nudge him, he'll flail awake like a bomb went off, blurting, "Choppers!" before he gets his bearings.
"Oh, um." Clumsily, he fixes his glasses and adjusts his hat. "Hi. Can I help you?"
i stare at myself in the mirror alone [Leeds Estate, closed to Dahlia]
(cw: descriptions of war-related violence, gore, & body dysmorphia; emeto mention)
If you live at the Leeds Estate, meanwhile, you'll know exactly why he's been so tired.
He doesn't sleep.
Well, he tries, sure. Every night he goes to his own room, and every night like clockwork, two hours after he shuts the door, there's a quickly-stifled scream. (Radar got a lot of practice in Korea, not waking up anybody else with his own bad dreams.) He hunches over his knees with one arm around his bear, the other hand clapped to his mouth, tears streaming down his face as he struggles his way out of the latest nightmare. Battlefields. Blood everywhere. A hot rifle in his hands and a body on the ground that's only got half its head anymore, because of him. Someone peeling away chunks of his torso one strip at a time until he can see his own ribcage.
He can't stand to be touched, either. The guy who's always been so quick with a hug flinches when anyone so much as taps him on the shoulder. He shies away from everyone, even Dahlia, and can't bring himself to go to her room even on the nights Laios or Daisy aren't around. He misses her company so badly, but just the idea of her seeing his bare skin, let alone touching him, makes him want to throw up.
It's not fair. He was feeling so much better about -- about being him, and now all he can do is hide.
(He just wanted to look nice for her.)
it's hard to make friends when you're half in the grave [Baker Ranch, OTA]
When he isn't at Town Hall or the estate, he's out at Baker Ranch. Who knows what the animals might've gone through while the Fears were in charge? Maybe Radar would, if he listened, but there's been so much static in his ears ever since the island went back to normal that he can barely tell what human animals are thinking, let alone animal animals. So he just treats them with extra kindness anyway and lets the comfort of something small, simple, and fuzzy quiet his mind.
Sometimes, he keeps a teddy bear tucked under one arm while he works. It's not the same one he's been hauling around ever since Hawkeye and Phil won it for him a year and a half ago. This bear's even more worn and well-loved, its fur patchwork-thin, one eye missing, a ribbon that might've been white once tied in a little bow around its neck. One morning he walked into his room at the ranch and there it was, sitting on his pillow like it'd just stepped off the ferry from Korea, too: the bear he's had since he was a baby. Boy and he thought he cried a lot before.
That's the same day he just lays down in the grass for most of the afternoon to stare up at the sky. Some of the baby goats come over to investigate him and the teddy eventually. So do a few rabbits. So does Johnny Boy, even. He sits next to Radar with more rabbits in his lap, alternating between keeping watch and gently placing the occasional bunny on top of Radar's chest.
If you approach, the stone construct will turn to you, blink inquiringly, then hold up one of the rabbits. Hello. Would you like a rabbit in these trying times, too? Or perhaps a baby goat?
but i ain't dead yet, and i got something to say [temple, closed to Mulcahy]
And when that's not enough? There are also cats at the Temple.
Radar only saw Father Mulcahy briefly during the Fears -- he thinks; his time in the Corruption is especially blurry -- so he's got no idea how his friend is doing. Bad, probably. Everybody's doing bad. It makes him feel kind of guilty, knowing he's not just there to check up on the Father, but to talk to him parishioner-to-priest too. Because who else can he talk to about what went on? About the drums of the Slaughter, or the weight of the gun as he fired toward the Enemy? If he bottles it all up much longer he thinks he might burst.
So Mulcahy will find him sitting at the base of the Temple's tree, Christopher Mango cradled in his arms like a ridiculous furry baby. He looks up and tries to smile. "Hey, Father. Sir."
Christopher Mango sticks out a paw to lay it on Radar's cheek, juuuuust a little too close to his mouth.
wildcard
[plot with me/request a custom starter in the usual places!]
no subject
If he weren't so tired, he'd already be halfway to the cabinets to pull the right file without her even saying another word. But, alas. The horrors.
no subject
no subject
He shuffles toward the cabinets, still mumbling "Holloway, one double-you, Holloway, one double-you" under his breath so he doesn't lose track of what he's looking for.
no subject
These observations processed, Grace’s irritation subsides a bit, though her face hasn’t changed at all.
no subject
So, as he groggily flips through what he's pretty sure is the right cabinet, not looking at Grace, he says, "Yeah, that's about the shape of it, ma'am. Just trouble sleeping. I think a lot of us aren't sleeping so great honestly. But I'm okay. A couple times in Korea I was up for two days in a row during a big push and once it was over and I got some sleep it was no big deal."
Contents include: BioShock-typical elements
The patient expression freezes on Grace’s face.
She knows damn well she didn’t say any of that out loud.
(— Shirley and Taylor down the hall swapping thoughts with every needle from a slug’s belly pheromones in the vents pulling neighbors like puppets little girls done drinking wiping blood cross their mouths Gil lost in mass thoughts lost to them all Eleanor baby Eleanor the doctor lied what didn’t I see Eleanor Eleanor Eleanor —)
“Young man,” she says, each word like a deadweight dropped into an oceanic trench. “I. Beg. Your. Pardon?”
no subject
Oh. Oh no. Oh he really screwed up this time, didn't he.
"Nothin'," he says meekly, shoulders scrunching down like he's trying to make himself even smaller. "Like I said I'm real tired, ma'am, I-I thought I heard something is all."
Contents include Rapture-typical events such as: child injury/death, gore, body horror…
Eerily chill: “Turn it off.” (— in the Drop Gracie’s word is second only to the lamb’s seated at the diner legs daintily crossed watching a man on the tile jaw pulped for speaking out of turn — no, something else, what if he talks — think of something — James gone — NO — consequences — he flinched when you thought, do it again — think — WHAT BEFALLS THE ONE WHO STEPS INTO OUR GARDEN —)
(— knee twisted aching so bad it throbs all the way up to her teeth drip drip dripping always damp never dry skin rotting stomach empty gnawing all her food going to Eleanor NO Ryan’s many eyes over her shoulder Ryan’s ears listening for her to slip ears listening fear choking her throat a woman hung by the guts from the roof still alive tin daddy drilling through a neighbor’s ribs bone chips flying a neighbor happy holding out a hand to her showing the wasps crawling from his flesh saying look Gracie look little sisters disemboweled tiny corpses burning in the trash a baby’s yellow eye melting — her own voice saying we can teach him how — this is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me —)
“You hear me. Turn it off.”
cw: brief descriptions of gore, violence, bugs, + body horror
When he hasn't spent two weeks swimming in his literal worst fears and barely slept a wink for another week straight.
Everything she's thinking slams like a tidal wave into his nightmares of the Slaughter, the feeling of the Corruption's bugs worming under his skin, the Flesh digging its fingers everywhere to remake him as a monstrosity. He clutches his belly like Grace just socked him full in the stomach. "I can't," he chokes out. "Please. Stop. Please, please please, I can't do anything -- "
Olivia smiling hungrily behind him in the mirror. Major Houlihan cutting open his neck. A stranger his age goading him into shooting someone right between the eyes.
"I didn't do anything. I just get mixed up sometimes, please, stop -- "
Contents include: brief body horror
The boy works here, in city hall. He was absolute shit at fending off her suspicion. Mayor Poe and Miss Leeds are no slouches, and Grace would bet the same of Ms. Birnbaum. Not to mention, oh, everyone else who comes into city hall. Which means — most likely — someone knows this one can do that. Do they have defenses and just don’t tell newcomers? Did they forget to tell her? Do they just let him?
(— her voice saying watching you hurt shouldn’t give me such a lift — not so clean on the inside —)
This isn’t the Drop.
(— if Eleanor or Delta saw you right now —)
A low hiss through gritted teeth, and Grace moves her glare to the wall.
(— muscle memory of a song performed so many times she don’t even need to think about it — “Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days —”)
“Can’t turn it off, huh?” Somehow, Grace’s voice sounds perfectly conversational. (— a traitor tied to a chair trying to cower Grace smiling saying don’t worry nothing serious just tell me about — no — “Trouble, trouble, I've had it all my days —”) “Sounds real inconvenient. How’s that work?”
(“It seems like trouble gonna follow me to my grave…”)
no subject
He's breathing too hard and too uneven, but with the music in his ears instead of -- of all the other horrible things Grace was thinking about to chase him away, it's a little easier to steady himself against the file cabinet.
no subject
(— can you guess what I’m about to say in a couple seconds, you scrummy buttermilk tadpole son of a — no — “I got the world in a jug, the stopper's in my hand —”)
She lifts an eyebrow, a politely curious smile crinkling her face as she examines the agitated young man. Very, very calm, at least on the outside. “How far can you hear, exactly?” Same building? Same town? Same isle? That’d be like to drive any man mad. (— Gil poor Gil — NO — “I got the world in a jug, the stopper's in my hand —”)
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Carefully, carefully, he reaches for the dials in his own head just like Mr. Sheo taught him. Turns it down at last.
As soon as the music's faded to a low murmur, tears spring to his eyes. He presses his fingers to his mouth, swallowing down the sob that almost gets out, then hikes up his glasses to scrub at his eyes with sudden fury -- not at Grace, but at his own dumb self for getting caught flat-footed.
"It coulda been worse," he says, a touch sullen. "I had an Uncle Ernest who just knew things, too, so my mom knew what to do with me. And -- and heck, I don't know, a couple miles? Not all the time, but that's why the guys in Korea got to calling me Radar. I always heard the choppers coming in before anyone else did."
He seems pretty sane for someone with that kind of range. Anxious, sure, but sane. Radar got his start clerking in his head first, sorting and filing all the extra noise as quick as it came in.
no subject
(— young Rushad’s only sixteen if he’s a day but he’s planted himself stubborn as a mule even with tears in his eyes saying Miss Grace please let me help let me serve the family I’m old enough — no! no! no! — “I'm gonna hold it until you meet some of my demands…”)
“Real useful, huh. And you pick up on everything, do you?” she asks mildly. “Everything in a person’s head?”
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There's other stuff -- the times a thought's been so loud Radar actually saw what they were thinking, or sounds that're more like a feeling than anything else -- but. Oh, she'll get even madder if he says any of that.
"I can ignore it most of the time, honest. Unless they're being real loud or thinking right at me." He makes himself stand up a little straighter and meet Grace's eyes, though he's still got his arms wrapped around his middle, protective. "So if you could not do that again, ma'am, thinking a whole lot of really awful things as loud as you can 'cause you think it'll make me stop listening, I'd appreciate it. I'd rather just ignore what you're thinking if it's all the same."
no subject
“Of course,” Grace says, holding his gaze with even, brown eyes. “It’d be a shame for you to hear anything you didn’t want to.” (— woman if you don’t reel it IN, hammering more won’t do nothing — he was listening! he could hear anything! if she don’t got her own mind — NOT HELPING — “It may be a week, it may be a month or two —”) She smiles, charming. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mister Radar. That gave me quite a turn.” She pauses. “Now, did you find it, or would you rather I come back later?”
no subject
Radar startles like a frightened deer and scrambles through the file cabinet before the words are halfway out of Grace's mouth. By the time she's done talking, he's almost back to the desk with a fistful of pages. Radar starts to hand them over -- then snatches them back, frowns at the name along the top, mouths Holloway one double-you, and nods firmly in satisfaction before passing them to Grace for real.
"Here you go, ma'am."
Definitely not Radar's usual level of efficiency, but he got there in the end.
no subject
“Thank you,” she says, carefully. The forms get a quick scan. She wonders who might’ve misfiled something — stop. “Looks like my old resident paperwork got mixed in. If you could fix it with my potential new address, that’d be lovely. The second apartment on the ground floor of the blue half-timbered house.”
She pauses. “And if that’s all, I think I ought to be going.”
no subject
"Yes ma'am." He takes the papers back, already digging some scrap paper out of one pocket to write down what he needs to change. "I'll get it fixed for you. And -- "
Because, look, he can't just not say it --
"Sorry for the inconvenience and the, uh. Everything else. Ma'am. Um, I hope you have a good rest of your day."
Wrap?
“Much appreciated,” she says, smile only slightly tight. It is, after all, polite of him. “Take care, now.”
( “— It's comin' home to you.”)