sixthiterationlogs | My Lord God, I Have No Idea Where I am Going

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My Lord God, I Have No Idea Where I am Going

WHO: Father Francis Mulcahy
WHERE: 6I, the "group" areas like the inn etc
WHEN: November 18th
OPEN TO: Any
WARNINGS: War? Kind of a constant thing for him

Being in this village is... a trial. He's used to doing as well as he can with little - and frankly the food produced in the village is better than what he's been used to eating - but the other things that happen here have made Mulcahy skittish. His faith isn't shaken, he still trusts that everything happens according to God's plan, but for one of the few times in his life he's starting to doubt whether that plan is good. Bringing him here, to the village, he can see that could have benefits - but turning him into a ghost? Leading others to so much despair? Those are actions designed to break people, not heal them.

And it doesn't get any better when he starts getting... glimpses. At first Mulcahy thinks it's just his eyes or his mind playing tricks on him, because he knows those glimpses: the 4077, his home neighborhood in Philadelphia, the airport in San Franscico, all places he has reason to recall. Bits of his family and his friends, none of them lasting more than a moment... but gradually increasing. Until one morning, as he's dutifully making his bed after rising and a quick wash-up in too-chilly water, one comes that shakes him more deeply than anything he's experienced yet. The view of his small room in the village's makeshift church burns out for a moment, replaced with a scene he knows, not far from his tent in the camp, and miraculously with no other people around. Because the words he's saying, he knows he wouldn't say with anyone around to hear them.

"What good am I now? What good is a deaf priest? I've prayed to you to help me... and every day I get worse. Are you deaf, too?"

The vision clears, but it leaves him standing there, shellshocked, for a solid five minutes. Eventually, he gets himself going again, heads out for his daily routine - helping with meals and cleaning at the inn, checking in at the hospital to see if there are any patients, keeping an eye on the fountain to see if anyone's showing up, and in general looking for anyone in trouble. But the good father is an open book, it's impossible for him to keep his emotions off his face, and that... revelation has shaken him deeply. Anyone who looks at him will be able to tell he's troubled, and he moves through his chores with an uncharacteristic distraction.

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"You okay?" Clary asked as she stepped up next to Mulcahy.

The inn was warm and given the recent cold weather, Clary has found very few reasons to leave and go outside. Even inside she was wearing the provided boots and heavy jacket that they were provided in their backpacks. Today she had decided to try and help out in the kitchen. She wasn't a good cook and her idea of helping has been to cut up vegetables or pieces of meats that she's been given.

No one should trust her with anything else.

"You look like someone spit in your drink." As she spoke she wrinkled her nose at the distasteful mental image that went along with her phrasing.

Unlike quite a few of the people in the village, he'd noticed, Mulcahy had no innate sense of perception of other people, at least not more than any other random person off the street. So many people here seemed to be some form of military and with the training for such things, but all he'd acquired from his stint in the army seemed to be a slight touch of shellshock as he wondered when the shelling would begin again. And when he was so lost as he was in his thoughts, he barely noticed anything around him. So when Clary approached him, and spoke, Mulcahy jumped and startled, splashing water from the basin he was using to scrub pots all over his shoes and the bottom of his pants.

"Oh- oh dear, I'm sorry, I was woolgathering, did I splash you?" At least it served to distract him from what he'd been focused on, but no doubt it would swing back around in little time.

"Whoa."

Clary took a quick step back to avoid the water from splashing on her too. It wasn't that big of a jump but she didn't have enough clothes to watch them get soaked from spaztic actions.

"No. I have fast reflexes." That was one way to put it. "What's on your mind?" He was obviously distracted by something and Clary was nosy enough to want to know what that something was. It was a chance to learn about Mulcahy and after their talk in the chruch she was curious about him.

"I can keep a secret."

Truthfully Mulcahy didn't either, the few spare things in the collective storage he hadn't tried to take since he always felt that someone else needed it more than he did, and he was very comfortable in scrubs after two-plus years at a hospital. The ice storm had almost made him reconsider, but he hadn't yet acted on those thoughts. So far, he was all right, and that meant he didn't take since he didn't need. He'd be in the inn long enough for them to dry off anyway, so it still didn't change

"That's good, I'd hate to think my clumsiness could have given you even a small amount of grief." His tone was entirely sincere, and he smiled - but his smile was still not quite... easy. A little troubled. He's used to people overlooking it, really; he's probably a little too good at fading into the background. "Nothing- nothing secret, at least. I was thinking of, well, everything that's been happening lately. None of it is good."

And that was a stretch of the truth to its furthest possible limits.

"I think people always give each other a small about of grief. It's like, how we survive." That was coming from a girl who grew up in Brooklyn. She didn't think that people were inherently bad but she figured that everyone was wrapped up in their own little worlds with their own problems. It was easy to miss what was happening right in front of you.

"Oh?" Clary asked as she dared to step a little closer. She was alert and ready, just in case he spazed again and splashed hot water everywhere. "Tell me about it. I doubt it's good to keep it in your head. This place is depressing enough without having to deal with a bunch of stuff on your own."

She was being a little hypocritical but she didn't care. Clary liked looking out for people.

"I could wish it was different, but I'm afraid I'd have to agree with you. It's a shame, though - life is so much more pleasant when people are kind to one another." His own upbringing actually wasn't much better than Clary's; sure, Philadelphia wasn't as rough as Brooklyn, but his family had been poor and it was the Depression. Lack of food, lack of money, lack of almost everything, really. Perhaps there'd been less crime, but it was a fairly rough time to be a child.

Mulcahy was about to repeat his gentle deflection - there was no need to weigh down a young woman with his own doubts - when something crossed his mind from their first talk, in the church. Her... well, her world was different than his... at least, he was fairly sure they were different. He still didn't know quite how to react to the idea that her own circumstances were buried in his world without his knowledge. But that difference might be able to aid him now. "Have you... In your experience, have you ever heard of - or even perhaps met someone, I wouldn't know - who... who has... I suppose you would call them visions?"

"I don't think it's a bad thing." Clary lifted her shoulders in a lazy shrug. "I think that people giving us grief is another way for us to realize that we care about them. It's definitely unorthodox but not bad. I know that I used to give my mother grief and then she'd give me grief." To Clary, it was another way that they had showed that they loved each other; in the same way that worrying and getting angry can be.

She paused at his question, her emerald green eyes studying him carefully. She had told him that she had met an angel and a few other things but there were a lot of details about her life that she had left out. Hopefully learning about them didn't make him run away screaming.

"Sort of. Back... when I was younger." Clary paused, had she told him that she was the descendant of the angel? She might want to just rip off that band-aid now. Just in case. "I'm what they call a Shadowhunter. One of the few descendants of the angel Raziel but for most of my life I didn't know it. My mother took me to a warlock and had my memories of demons and the things I saw as a child erased. I would see glimpses, flashes of things and feelings that didn't always make sense. At the time, my best friend asked if I was going crazy or something."

She exhaled a short breath. "It might not be the same thing but it's possible that your visions are memories or even something that someone wants you to see." Clary had seen strange things in her mind and her dreams. She figured that it was the angel's way of talking to though she wasn't sure. It wasn't something you could get clarification on.

"There's a friendly teasing, yes, but then there's actual grief - forgive me, but I've seen more than I'd like to of that second option." Being in a war zone meant that he'd seen plenty of the worst of humanity in the last couple of years, and not even he could come out of it unscathed. Perhaps especially not him. "A... I feel that a relationship such as you describe would be in a different category than what I mean. But, that's not all that important."

He almost - almost - denied that he'd been seeing anything that could be termed "visions," since so far he hadn't said that he had seen anything, but... really, it wasn't going to be that hard for anyone to tell he had once he mentioned that word, was it? Mulcahy knew he was rather an open book, and specifically asking that question would lead to natural assumptions. But he listened to Clary's response, and when she was done, gave a quiet sigh and shook his head. "They aren't memories - I distinctly know they're not anything I could have seen. My sister, my family, experiences I've never lived through. I-" His hands have stilled in the sink, probably the biggest tell that could be that this troubled him more than he was letting on. "I'm not meant to see things like this! I'm no prophet, I'm not Ezekiel, or Daniel. I never saw anything before coming here. I wish I hadn't seen anything now."

"Maybe." Clary shrugged. She had seen the darkest parts of humanity and it had changed her. Maybe she was more of her fathers daughter than she realized...

She exhaled a slow breath, watching as Mulcahy wrestled with whatever was going on inside his head. "Look. Just because you're seeing things doesn't mean it's god or that you're a prophet. The people who brought us here turned me and two others invisible. I screamed at a lot of people who didn't see me." She held out her palms hoping that he'd let her continue. "I realize that god means a lot to you and that's great but do you think that it'd be him or something like that? You already said it wasn't. So wouldn't it make sense that these people who brought us here are trying to get into our heads? They've done so much here, treating us like we're little toys."

Clary's voice began to raise and tighten as she continued "We can't do anything to stop it and the more we try and find an explanation in other places the more we're just going to let them keep fucking with our heads. Do you want them to win? Whatever they're doing here, they don't have our best interests at heart."

"They turned me intangible as well several weeks ago. I didn't fade completely, but I did fade..."

It had been the strangest feeling, realizing no one could see him at certain times. Even the times he could be seen, he was still transparent and not entirely there, and therefore very easy to overlook. He also couldn't easily interact with anything "in" the world, which made everything harder. He'd panicked then, thinking the... effect was the manifestation of the helplessnes and, well, invisibility he'd felt so frequently as his time in Korea lengthened with the war. Now, to have this happen on top of him as well, especially that last bit he'd glimpsed - that was really what was causing this despair. The fact that it hadn't stopped, that it had only changed.

"I know they don't. Obviously they don't. We wouldn't be here if they did - it's all so confusing as to why they're even doing this." Yes, he'd heard the "assassins" information spread after the discovery of one of the pods, but why him, then? He was perhaps the least likely person in all of... well, in all of his own acquaintance to be willing to follow any sort of orders like that. "But that doesn't make what happens to us any less real."

It was an uncomfortable and unsettling feeling. Not just the feeling of fading but shouting and screaming at people who had walked passed her like she wasn't even there. It was awful and she wasn't keen on repeating the experience any time soon.

Clary didn't think that anyone deserved to be put through that experience though she never once blamed herself for the effect or ask why it had happened to her. It was because of the jerks who had brought them here.

"It might be real but that doesn't mean its your fault or that you've done something to bring this on yourself." It wasn't his god. It wasn't a test. It was a cruel twist of fate and that's it.

Mulcahy seemed like the sort of person who'd put too much meaning in one situation and lose himself to it. Clary didn't want that.

For all that they've never actually spoken before, Picard is at least familiar with Mulcahy on sight. Not enough to precisely know his habits, mind, but he doesn't need to be a mind-reader (or an empath) to know that something is on the man's mind. What that is, he can't say, but neither can he bring himself to simply leave him to his thoughts, whatever they might happen to be.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Not that he has a penny, mind. But it's the point of the thing, and perhaps it'll be enough to at least push away the worst of whatever happens to be bothering the man long enough to make it easier to speak about what's on his mind. Assuming that it is something that would normal be something he'd be less than inclined to share but that's not something that Picard can really tell.

All he can do is hope that he's broken the ice enough for Mulcahy to want to talk a little.

Edited 2017-11-22 04:03 (UTC)

There's a lot of that in the village, the "familiar face" bit. It happened in the camp, too, with people who were just passing through, but Mulcahy had still tried to learn the name of every patient and most of the soldiers who passed through, and did manage to remember most of them. The fact that he can't immediately pick out this rather dignified man's name immediately tells him he needs to get back on that habit; he's allowed the strangeness of the village and adapting to life here to get him out of the habit.

"I'm afraid I'd have to give you change." The traditional reply to the cliche comes easily to him, a hand raising to touch the rough crucifix hanging around his neck he'd made with some small twigs and thread from the inn stores. Not elegant, but still a reminder of hope - only with what he'd seen that morning, now it's also a reminder that it might not work out for the best. "I don't seem to be thinking of much today."

It's certainly an unusual village, that much Picard can't deny. Still, he doesn't seem to be in the least bit concerned about whether or not Mulcahy happens to be able to call his name to mind. Although to be fair, he's also not aware that it's something that Mulcahy would have tried to be able to do, and in lieu of that, he focuses instead on the man's comment.

"There's no need," he answers, with a smile. "And the point is likely moot besides - to the best of my knowledge the village doesn't have anything like a unified system of currency."

Or any system of currency whatsoever, really. But to be honest, it's probably just as well. Trying to make sense of the various sorts of ideas people have with regards to what might be 'normal' in that regard and boil it all down into one single system that everyone could agree on sounds like something of a nightmare under the best of circumstances.

"With so little of value in the village, it does seem rather pointless to make people try and pay for things. I suppose if anyone tried to set themselves up as a type of robber baron, the other residents would storm their house and take everything away."

In some ways, oddly enough, this village seems to be showing the best of humanity a lot of times. As far as he knows, there's been little competition over resources and the few luxury items, people banding together to accomplish what needs doing and fairly even division of resources. People are accepting of the limits others come in with, jobs they don't know how to do, and while they're encouraged to learn new skills, the only expectation seems to be that they pull their weight somehow. Mulcahy would find it a pleasant change from real life, if it didn't come with so many outside negatives.

"They certainly wouldn't would take it well, that much I can imagine. Of course, it would take a very specific sort of mindset to want to set oneself up as a robber baron in the first place, when everything about the village so far seems to go very much counter to it."

He pauses there, for a moment.

"Although I suppose it certainly wouldn't be impossible that the Observers might bring someone who would be so inclined in."

Most likely as an attempt to shake things up. Not that he's certain it would work, especially when the village - and the people in it - have already managed to set up a fairly natural culture of sharing whatever tools might be to hand. In a way, it's almost nice. A reminder that humanity can be better than they often are, for all that the situation isn't one that he would have chosen to be in, much less wished on any of the other people who happen to be present in the village.

"I'm perhaps more inclined to think that anyone who would try that wouldn't succeed for very long, if at all - in talking to some of the residents here, I've found a surprising amount of different sorts of law enforcement officials, and they all seem to be on board with the idea of community cohesion. Not that I know any of them well, of course, but I doubt they'd stand for it if someone did try."

And given the way the village had pulled together to survive, Mulcahy was placing even bets on such an "uprising" lasting a day or less, if one were to ever occur.

"There also just isn't all that much to become a robber baron for. This area seems prime for logging, or possibly mining, but without proper equipment and a market to sell your product to, there's really no point in attempting it."

"I can't imagine they would, no. Or at least, if they were willing to tolerate it, I can't see them remaining terribly well-liked for long, and that can be just as powerful a motivation as anything that might come from a more charitable place. To say nothing of the fact that there's very much a feeling of status quo as things are now, and given that it's working he doesn't see much reason that most people would feel the need to shake things up.

Barring the sorts of people who like take after Q a little too much for comfort, anyway. But if there are any in the village he's been lucky enough to run into them at the very least, and he'll take that.

"That is the biggest hurdle standing against the idea, yes. The resources are present, yes. But actually making production efficient enough to be worthwhile simply isn't feasible at the moment, and anyone you might sell the resulting products to could just as easily come up with their own."

Danny spots the priest when he too is cleaning the inn. It is the last the detective can do after he's been allowed to stay there. He smiled at the Father walked in and then worked in silence by his side for a while. But Danny isn't stupid and his job involves reading people and after a little while he smiles at him.

"We're nearly done. You want a cup of coffee after this? Or tea or whatever you prefer."

In that, it seems they have similar philosophies. Help, reach out, be thankful for what you're given. It's a simple idea, perhaps, but he's always felt it's his job as a priest to leave the world and the people in it better than he found it, and if he can contribute in any way, he will. Which is why Mulcahy is still making his normal rounds in the day rather than just holing himself away after that... startling impression. It keeps him grounded, yes, but it also is just habit by this point, even with him only being in the village for a bit less than three months.

The words spoken to him startle him a little, and it shows as he looks up, his eyes wider than normal with surprise. Mulcahy gets himself under control quickly enough, but he can't erase all trace of his unease from his face, and the smile he gives Danny is genuine enough but a little... strained. "If those existed here, I wouldn't say no, but I think we ran through the last of what was provided... a few weeks ago, perhaps. They're not commonly seen here."

"Really? Damn... " Danny mutters. That is going to be hard. He loves coffee, but maybe he can find something else. "I'll make us some tea or at least something warm." The guy definitely looks like he needs it. "Or a drink if that is what you prefer."

Then he offers his hand. "I am Danny by the way. Or Detective Williams if you want to be formal but I don't think people are here."

"I'm not sure there's any tea, either, for the same reasons. I know Miss Kelly has some sort of herb she brews something out of that's a... passable substitution, but I don't know where she keeps that." He likes warm drinks, of course, and has drunk more than his fair share of coffee in his life, but unlike many other people in the village (and back in the camp), he didn't depend on it to keep him alive.

Honestly, right at that moment he could do with a good belt of liquor.

But the man in front of him is being social and Mulcahy's smile turns a bit more genuine as he accepts the hand and shakes back, steady rather than firm. The makeshift crucifix he's managed to construct from a couple of twigs and some ends of thread hangs around his neck, a very obvious marker of at least his religion if not his vocation, but there's not a lot about him otherwise to mark anything about him save some relatively old-fashioned glasses. "I'll follow your lead - Miss Kelly prefers a level of formality because of the time she's from, but I've learned that people from beyond my own are less touchy on the subject." No, he doesn't realize he failed to give his own name in that response.

"By my time we're fairly easy about it. At least where I work, but when I am on a case or talk to my superiors we tend to use last names. But since I am not a detective here you can call me Danny." Smiling Danny settles into a chair by the fire and hopes the other guy will join him.

"When are you from? And where?"

"A detective, are you? That always seemed like such an interesting and challenging job. Not really one for me, but one that was, regretfully, necessary." He knows all too well that there will be crime in any era, any place, and he tries to understand why people are driven to do the things they do, but sometimes there's just no answer. At least sometimes, there's something he can do to help. "Danny it is, then."

Mulcahy doesn't move to sit down, continuing to stack dishes that are now dry from the lunch influx, but he's looking less distracted and sad than before, at least. He won't stop in the middle of a job he's doing if he can chat at the same time, and at least it's something constructive and not too noisy. "1953 - I've found most people here come from the other side of the century change, which is a bit disconcerting, but I've gotten used to it I suppose. I was born and grew up in Philadelphia, though I've been other places since then."

A pause, and then he smiles apologetically. "I'm sorry, I didn't give you my name - I'm Francis Mulcahy. Most people call me 'Father,' but I don't insist on it." In some ways, he very much dislikes it, but that's impossible to tell. In one way alone, being in the village is better than being in the camp: without his robes, many people here are ignorant of his vocation, and so don't hold him as "outside" as the camp often does.

It only takes a couple of moments for Danny to feel bad about sitting down before he comes over to help him. "Father?" Then the cross kicks in and he nods. "I will call you whatever you prefer, but from what I hear of this place having a priest around is not a bad thing." From what he can tell people dislike it here and having someone to talk to can be good then.

"I am from the other side of the century, millennium too if you think about it. There was a whole big thing about that back in 1999, people thinking the world would end. But then everyone woke up on January first and everything was back to normal."

At least he's not singing about doing chores, Danny. That's definitely been something he's been known to do, much to the irritation of a few others. "No, no, sit, go ahead and relax. I have a problem with sitting when there's something to be done - it's something that people who know me have commented on more than once." Honestly there's not that much left really, and also keeping working means he's not concentrating on what he's seen. "There's not much of a church here - there's honestly not much for me to do here, not as a priest, really. But whatever help I can be, I will certainly try my best." It's his life motto in a nutshell.

"If we count the number of times in history the human race has thought the world was going to end, I'm sure the number would be well above a thousand. It sounds as though that particular ...experience was rather quiet, though."

"It is less the having a church and more having someone to talk to, Father." Danny smiles softly as he helps with the dishes and isn't about to let the other talk him out of it.

"Yeah, there was some concern that computers wouldn't be able to handle the date change and that all electronic equipment would fail. There was another one only a few years ago. Some people thought the world would end because a Mayan calendar only went to twenty twelve."

"Ah, well," he says, and then stops, looking down at the sink and the plate in his hands. "I can't say that I'm all that good at that - I, I try to be, but there seems to be some sort of... hesitation about coming to speak to a priest that has people staying away quite a lot. Mostly back home, but perhaps even a little here. I haven't really been here long enough to know if that will... hold, I suppose. It could change."

It's one of his biggest annoyances from home - the idea that he's just no use, that he's ignored. He became a priest to help people, and yet so often people seem to muddle along just fine without him. It's... well, it can be very discouraging, even to him. And now with the vision he'd had that morning fresh in his mind... if that was a glimpse of the future, what good could he be?

"Maybe some people are worried about judgement." Danny shrugs. "Maybe they feel weak or like they should be better." He reaches for the plate in Mulcahy's hands. "There is the whole catholic guilt thing after all. Though that is nothing like grandmothers if you ask me. I don't think it has anything to do with you, though."

"Perhaps in some cases. I shouldn't speak unkindly of people who aren't here to speak in their own behalf, but I have met some fellow religious men who... don't seem to believe in humility and the fallacy of the human form. It can be quite frustrating at times to listen to someone speak on glory and realize they're trying to take some for themselves, rather than give it where it belongs." Letting go of the plate for Danny to take, Mulcahy begins carefully stacking the cups to put them back into the cupboards. They're not all that delicate, but they don't have any way to replace them if they break. "I wouldn't even begin to think I could take on a grandmother, especially an Irish or an Italian one. I know my limits and they are far beyond them." There's a small smile at the corner of his mouth now, which is at least a vast improvement from the melancholy he was in when Danny walked up.

"There is that too. So, yeah, don't feel bad about that. And here you're just the same as us right? I bet there are people here who don't know what a priest is, let alone have run into one."

He stacks the plates and then puts them away, careful not to break or even chip them.

"I think they got that market cornered, Jewish grandmothers too."

"I have far less experience with them, but I'll take your word for it. Whatever power any of us have in our lives, it's only because they allow us to take it."

As pleasant and amusing as the thought of an army of grandmothers shaming the Observers into behaving (and releasing them) is, the more serious topic does intrude back into his thoughts, and Mulcahy pauses in his dish stacking.

"Yes, that's true - I'm still a priest, but this isn't a... religious space. In any town of this kind, of this age, I'd expect to see a church, or a chapel, or even some sort of shrine, but there's nothing. It's a curious omission - and likely deliberate."

"Yeah, you could hear with the others here if they'd like there to be one. Maybe one that is just a place to go regardless of which god you worship."

He reaches over to place a hand on the priest's back. "Besides, looks like you're doing plenty of work anyway."

The days that Steve comes into the main village, he always makes a trip by the fountain. Since everyone seems to come in that way, and now that the weather is cold enough to freeze the fountain or leave someone in distress coming out of it, he figures it's worth checking on.

As he's walking to the fountain he sees a man, that while he's not spoken to before, he has seen him around the village. The man looks troubled and that's really enough for Steve to want to get involved.

Pausing in his steps, he asks with casual concern, "Hey, everything alright?"

He really can't hide anything, can he? True, most people in camp didn't seem to realize when something was bothering him, but that seemed to be mostly because they were so distracted with the problems of the war, just too plain exhausted to notice, or possibly because they underestimated him and what he was willing to do on a more frequently than he liked basis. Not that his friends there were uncaring, the exact opposite, but more because he apparently didn't seem to need any help, especially not in the face of the blood and pain they saw almost every day.

And they were right - compared to what they lived in, his problems were nothing, and he knew it. That didn't mean he didn't feel them, but it meant he didn't let them overwhelm him much at all. It also means that when someone asks him a question like that, his first instinct is to deflect it, try to play it off. This young man means well, but there are more important things to focus on in this village.

Mulcahy looks up, surprised, but then smiles, though the smile still looks sad for something that's supposed to be happy. "Yes, it's fine - I was just wondering what we'll do when this freezes over completely. That seems... almost unnaturally cruel."

Considering the way the man looked a moment ago, Steve doesn't think that's what he was wondering about at all. Not that he hasn't wondered about what will happen when the well freezes over at some point, just that wasn't what he was thinking about now. The well freezing seemed to him to be more of a diversion than the truth.

It's not something that he chooses to push. If the problem the man was considering was urgent, than he would have shared it with Steve, or asked for help. Whatever he was thinking was likely private and if nothing else, Steve has a healthy respect for personal privacy.

So, letting that concern go, at least for now, Steve adjusts his focus to the fountain. It's a valid concern. "If whoever was bringing us here wanted to kill us, I like to assume they'd have something less dramatic than delivering us through a fountain with a frozen surface." That being said he could see 'the Observer's' doing exactly that to make a point that those here needed to take care of the things so newcomers wouldn't end up drowning. "If there was a way we can keep the water moving, it's less likely to freeze. What was done last winter?"

For as much as he genuinely feels overlooked and unappreciated at times, Mulcahy's still not one to just share his problems without prompting, especially with a complete stranger. And this is something so personal... He's honestly not sure he can even form the words to say what he saw. Maybe to Hawkeye, or BJ, or even Potter. Almost certainly to Klinger. But not this young man, not yet.

"I don't know, I wasn't here at that time. From what I've been told, no one's been brought to the hospital with frostbite, at least not from the fountain, but that could change." It would, indeed, be very like some kind of "trick" their captors would play on them, forcing them to be more self-sufficient. Dealing with problems the Observers had dealt with before. No one would be surprised if that happened, probably. "They seem to be enjoying... placing unusual circumstances on us recently, aside from just being here."

Sharing personal information requires a fair amount of trust as far as Steve is concerned, and trust is something that needs to be earned and built. He doesn't know this man yet, which is why he won't push to help, Steve doesn't expect him to trust him enough to share, not yet, but Steve is naturally reliable and dependable, traits most people base building trust on. Given the chance, he expects it will build in time as he gets the feeling that the man in front of him is naturally both of those things as well.

"I've heard of some of the things that happen here." He hasn't had anything directly happen to him, but he has encountered others who have. The woman who lost her voice while picking fruit and the man who suddenly had bunny ears are both good examples, although he had heard of others as well. The former disappeared shortly after. It made no sense to Steve how these Observers were running this experiment of theirs. Which just made it stand to reason that they really couldn't depend on them to make sure the fountain wasn't going to trap anyone under the surface to drown. "It doesn't make sense they'd let people die on entry, but then again, with what happens here I don't have the opinion that they really care either." As dismal as that sounds.

"I know a couple people who have been here a while, I can ask them when I see them next." Biting his bottom lip a moment he shrugs. "In the meantime, I'll make a point of stopping by the fountain when I'm in the village. Make sure that it's not frozen over." Steve's cabin however was over in the other village, he didn't come into the main village daily.

"There's an axe in the inn, I think two or three of them, if needs be. If someone brings one out here and breaks the ice every day, it should be good enough." Should be, might be. The Observers were... Mulcahy shakes his head a little as the words pass through his mind, but he can't not say them. After all, they're true. "They're testing us - possibly even trying to break us. See what it takes to push us over the edge. I've heard of such trials, but..."

His hand moves up, clearly without him consciously realizing it, to cover the small crucifix made from twigs and thread hanging around his neck. A gesture seeking comfort that's harder to find today than it has been before. "The Bible is full of all sorts of trials and tribulations, tests of faith and endurance, but I confess I never felt that I would be in one of them."

"I don't know how cold it'll get here, but perhaps twice a day to be safe. Morning and night. But otherwise that sounds like a good plan. If someone sets up a rotation, I'd add my name to it."

Steve listens and takes in the other man's actions. Not personally being a religious man, he's still respectful and curious of others who are. "That's the human condition though isn't it? 'It'll never happen to me.'" With being in the Navy, he's traveled the world and usually seen it in it's worst moments. So few were ever truly prepared for whatever event was happening around them, even when the threat had been knocking at their door. Unlike this situation, where they could not have anticipated anything like this prior to arriving. There was no way to plan or to be prepared for the unknown. Although, Steve had to wonder if those stories he'd heard about from the earlier parts of the bible, if those individuals had any idea what could come either. "Is that what you think this is? Why we are all here? To be tested to see if we are worthy?" Steve didn't think 'god' was behind this and by the other man's use of 'they' to describe who others were calling the Observers, he suspected that he didn't either. "Does god delegate things like that out to others?"

"There is an awful lot we don't know about this place. And, given what I've heard, quite a bit of... trouble those who brought us here can cause us. I wouldn't count on having any sort of true knowledge of this place, as it's likely to put us all off our guard." He hadn't been there for any of the punishing physical "experiments" that had happened, but the effect of them is still circulating through the community in the form of a few damaged buildings (nothing terribly bad except for the schoolhouse and a couple of homes having been wrecked) and a lack of crops that went to feeding the residents. The buildings they can work around easily; the food is another question entirely. "Twice a day may not be enough - we might need three times, or even more."

But at least that's something they can watch for and judge for themselves, barring anything going spectacularly off the rails. The problem is, everything about the village is at least a little bit already off said rails, or they wouldn't even be here at all.

Mulcahy is silent for a moment after Steve asks his question, eyes watching the water in front of him and giving very deliberate contemplation to the question. What good is a deaf priest... Are you deaf, too? "Once a person... reaches a certain level of... experience... in life..." His speaking habits when he's thinking on something or reasoning out a problem involve a fairly high number of small pauses to gather his words, but the pauses are longer this time, more serious and weighty. Steve didn't intend to have his question hit so close to home, but obviously it did. "After that, there is... an expectation that there will be something that... happens. Something they would choose to, to never experience if they were able. A friend, a loved one, passing away, or a marriage ending unhappily, an illness that robs them of their strength. But even though all of those are... are tragic, and it's almost expected that one of those, or something like that, will happen... Almost no one thinks of something like this, not until they're caught in the middle of it and can't escape."

He's seen it, too. He's not a combatant like Steve, but he's spent two and a half years watching young men ripped to pieces by bullets and grenades come through a field hospital whose only intention was to patch them up just enough so they didn't die, where fingers and arms and legs were gathered up at the end of a surgery session and taken out back of the camp to be disposed of like ordinary refuse, where the white and brown and green of the army was only broken by the red of blood. Where civilians had to learn an entirely new language in their own country just to survive, and often lost their homes or their lives due to the actions of the army. Where a farmer would use his daughters to sweep for mines in a field before he plowed because the daughters were less valuable than a bull. Mulcahy would be lying if he said the sights he'd witnessed hadn't caused him to have a flicker of doubt and many bouts of despair before this, but he'd always been able to hold on to his faith. The things he's seen here, the things he's seeing today, are bringing those flickers and especially those bouts back.

"I don't believe it is Our Lord who is testing us - He is great, and good, and He has a design for us and our world. I do not know who is behind all, all of this. I don't truthfully know if anything would be any easier if I did." He pauses again, then finishes, quieter. "But sometimes I am... very unsure why He, in all his wisdom, allows things like this to happen."

Are you deaf, too?

He doesn't have any particular skills when it comes to healing, other than the basics of 'if it's bleeding put a bandage on it,' but he does sometimes stop in at the hospital. Claire's there a lot, and it's a good place to start if he's looking for her. Now that it's turning colder out, he makes sure that places like the hospital have firewood for warming, too, so that others don't have to worry about that.

So he notices Mulcahy there, and it doesn't escape his attention how distracted the man seems. But that's a conversation he's not really prepared for, or used to having. There are some things he can do though.

"Do you need any help with that?"

There's not nearly as much he can do in a proper hospital as a trained nurse (even though he's probably halfway to qualification in practice), but in this hospital there's not much that people can do in general, thanks to the utter lack of medical supplies or proper hospital accoutrements. Everything's makeshift, everything's haphazard. At least they have no patients there now, and from what he knows they haven't had many in the past. Small favors, he supposes.

But they can make things ready for when they're needed in the future, and in that manner, Mulcahy has taken some of the threadbare linens and other things that have been washed so many times they're almost falling apart and a pair of shears from the inn kitchen and has begun cutting the cloth into strips for bandages. Clean bandages, that will be stored away somewhere dust and dirt can't get at them. It's a repetitive job that doesn't have a lot of work to it, since there aren't that many linens worn enough to be relegated to the ragbag with the lack of new fabric in the place, but it's something to do, something useful, that gives him a point of focus other than what he saw. Mulcahy looks up to see Eric, giving him a small smile and nod before looking back down at the mess on the table in front of him. "I would say yes, but I'm not sure where there's another pair of scissors."

"A knife could do it just as well." Perhaps not quite as straight, but it would be something, and there are a few knives around here. "Or they could be torn into strips once the edge is cut." That wouldn't even take that much strength, and his own has increased since his arrival here, due to the amount of time he spends chopping wood.

"Or there may be something else around here that I could find to do."

"Anything you'd like, I'm sure they'd appreciate a helping hand." The doctors and nurses in the village were all very nice people, he'd found. They'd gone into medicine to help others, and Mulcahy has seen enough doctors run ragged that he's more than willing to pitch in to do whatever needs be done when there's free time. "We don't exactly have much to do around here, but it's always better to be prepared for an emergency than have to rush around trying to find everything when one does happen."

"I don't like being idle." He's not the only one with that particular quirk, he knows, but his got worse when he spent ten years sitting around a prison cell underneath the Pentagon for ten years with nothing to do, and not even anyone to talk to. Sitting still reminds him too much of when he had no choice but to sit still. And he can't even fiddle with bits of metal like he used to. "I'll find something."

"I don't blame you there - I have the same problem myself." Not that Mulcahy knows anything about Erik's past beyond that one massive thing, but it's a common enough problem for people who are used to having things to occupy them. He could easily sit in a library and translate ancient Greek for hours, but the village is entirely lacking in such a thing, and his greater drive is always to help his fellow many anyway. "I'm only afraid I don't have better options for you."

"I'll find something." It doesn't even have to be in this building. He'd come in here with the thought that maybe Claire was here, but he doesn't see her. So it's not imperative for him to stay here. He's just looking for a way to fill time. "There are tasks needing to be done all around the village."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

My Lord God, I Have No Idea Where I am Going

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Fountain

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btw Stella thinks we're a match made in heaven XD we both never shut up

hospital

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