There'd been a shootout at the O.K. Corral- in a mess tent of a MASH unit stationed three miles from the fighting front, resting on the outskirts of the village of Uijeongbu, too. They had happened several years apart, and one was decidedly much more real than the other.

What were the odds the game would turn so real? All Hawkeye had ever wanted was a laugh, a chuckle, some movement and bloodspill that was just pretend.

So he was the fourth. So he wasn't the only one who dealt with blood as a career -and the shiver down his spine is real- and he wasn't the only one in Uncle Sam's flock. The same, his ass. He's breathing hard and the next breath is the heaviest sigh he can muster instead of dealing out a scoff- just to clear his lungs, since he can't seem to clear his head. They didn't make sense. They didn't understand. Don't they know how frustrating that was? "Yeah, well, I'll find a way." He tells the general with the prosthetic leg. Less agitated, more fact-of-the-matter, more decidedly stubborn, and definitely louder compared to the present company. Generals never saw all the options before them. Hawkeye was pretty sure gladiators did, when they swung their swords and the audience cheered. But besides his mock-up bravado, what else was there? Something vague about revival. Something very clear about capture.

Silence, for a while. Another glance at the jungle behind the duo before him. At Wyatt's stupid mustache. At the gladiator's fake leg.

He plants a hand on his hip. Cocks it. "Won't someone tell me the capitol's name or do I have to keep guessing?"