It's not the cliched cold, dark and dank basement that they throw him into. Instead, two large, sweaty men, followed by smaller but equally sweaty men with guns, drag Murdock, blindfolded and gagged, down what feels like a long hallway and toss him into a small stone room that has to be about 300 degrees. The door clangs shut (metal door, he thinks; they must've installed it just for prisoners like himself) and he is alone. It takes him twenty-three seconds to get out of the cuffs, three to yank off the blindfold, and a whole fifty-one excruciating seconds more to peel the tape away from his mouth, making little "ow, ooh, ouch" noises all the while. When he's successfully removed all bindings and folded the tape into a small, somewhat sticky crane, he takes a moment to examine his surroundings. There is only one window, small and reinforced with iron bars and just at the right angle to cause the gruelingly hot Iraqi sun to pound down on him no matter where he stands. In one corner a metal pole extends up from the floor and into the ceiling.
"Well," he says at length to his dog. "Looks like it's just you and me, Billy ol' boy. Got any cards on ya?"
Billy does not. After finding that he does not have any board games on hand either, Murdock sighs and seats himself with his back pressing against the cool pole. His jacket, hat, shoes and pants were taken when he was caught, but he refuses to remove any more clothing. He won't concede to discomfort; he was caught in a burning building once and it was at least... three degrees hotter than this room. Of course, he muses, Face was with me in that building, so it wasn't as worrying as this place.
The door opens and three men enter. The difference is immediately noticeable between these men and the grunts who brought him in; the man in front is tall, all hard edges and war-hewn muscle, with a gleam of dangerous cunning in his dark eyes. The men on either side of him are equally impressive, filling out their uniforms and holding their Kalashnikovs with easy confidence.
"Captain," the frontman says almost cordially, his accent occasionally sending his tone up or down a scale in sounds that didn't exist in Western languages. "How you are feeling?"
"Pretty darn good, how 'bout yourself?" The pilot responds quickly with a grin. He's been in situations like this before, and worse. He'll be damned if he's gonna give these bastards anything; they can beat the hell out of him and he'll whistle through it. Maybe, if it gets really bad, he'll divulge the secret of his favorite dip recipe.
"I am tired, Captain." The man returns the smile, and with a sickening jolt Murdock recognizes it as Face's smile, all suave charm and reassuring casualty. The thought hits him like a blow to the nose, disorienting, knocking him off-balance for an instant. He shakes himself and meets the man's gaze, refusing to ask the expected question.
"Are you tired yourself, Captain? You are quiet."
"Me? Nah, I was just listening to my dog, Billy. He wants to know if we might bother you fellas for some trash bags."
The two armed men pause, brows furrowing as they translate inside their heads, then glancing around for Billy as if actually wondering how the prisoner managed to smuggle a dog in. The leader smiles again, a crafty little half-smile, and shakes his head. "No, I am afraid not. But I am understand, now, why your title is 'Mad Howling'."
"'Howling Mad'," Murdock corrects, because c'mon, man, at least get the name right.
"'Howling Mad', of course. Captain Howling Mad Murdock, do you know why I am tired?" This guy, whoever he is, really likes titles, it seems. Murdock is tempted to ask him what his rank is, but A: he doesn't look like the type to have a military title and B: Murdock doesn't want to give anything away, show any sign of interest. He shrugs noncommittally and the man frowns slightly and nods to the soldier on his right. The soldier moves so quickly that Murdock just has time to register the nod as a "Thundercats are go for gratuitous violence" nod before the butt of a gun is harshly introduced to his stomach. He wheezes, curling in on himself, and his vision goes a little fuzzy. He is more prepared for the next blow, tightening his abdomen an instant before it connects. He manages not to crumple and out of the corner of his eye he sees the soldier almost nod in approval before stepping back. The man, who Murdock has decided to call Jaffar, steps in and bends down, grabbing a handful of the American's hair as he answers his own question.
"I am tired, Captain, of your people in my land. Do you know what I was before your soldiers came?" The cunning gleam has become that all-too familiar glint of murder and insanity.
"Pediatrician?" Murdock guesses, trying not to wince.
Jaffar laughs and shakes his head. "I was in prison, Captain. I was being held for my crimes, and were it not for a group of American soldiers and their bombs, I would still to be there. So, thank you."
"No problem, I'm sure," the pilot mutters as he feels the hand in his hair tighten.
"Do you know what I am now?"
"The Mad Bomber," Murdock decides after consideration, "What bombs at midnight."
This is met by more confused glances from guard to guard and another amused smirk from Jaffar. "No, Captain. What I am now is free man. Strong man, with many more strong men to follow me. I am powerful, Captain, and you and anyone who comes for you will learn this."
The next strike of the gun sends Murdock falling down into the dark, the image of a crooked smile following him.