I unashamedly admit that the idea for this story came from that all time favourtite show MASH. But the storyline did seem to fit our guys so well that I hope fans of both shows won't hold that against me!

Written for all those "Hurt Hutchies" out there - enjoy

Disclaimer - No money made, don't own 'em but I like to play a little

Chapter 1

The blond haired man woke slowly, the heavy, drowsy feeling of the drugs still in his system. He hated the feeling although he seemed to have woken up with it most mornings since he'd been here. His fault, he thought. They hated it when he caused a fuss, their solution being to whack him up with enough Thorazine to drop a bull elephant, put the dreaded canvas jacket on him and get him to his room. But still, he hated it. It was as though he were no longer in control of his senses, his life, his thoughts or his actions, and the feeling left him weak and dispirited. Crystal blue eyes opened and he looked around him. Same small white room; same small metal framed bed with its single sheet; same bars of the window. Same old, same old. He sighed and struggled to swing his legs out of the bed, his feet cringing at the cold, hard tile on the floor. He longed for his apartment with its big bed, warm blankets and bright rag rugs. This place was starved of colour, as though his life had gone from techicolour to monochrome overnight and he dearly wished for even one small picture on the wall to replace the monotony of the whitewash and the white gloss paint.

He shivered in the morning air, or at least he assumed it was morning. Although it was never cold here (the heating seeming to be permanently on) he still felt chilled when he tried to get out of bed. The white cast on his ankle and the white dressing taped to his side made movement difficult. The wounds were still new and raw, although he had no real idea how long he'd been here or indeed how he's got them. Time seemed to blur with the monotony of each day.

Hutch knew the people in here were not unkind. They had the best interest of their patients at heart and they had a limited arsenal with which to deal with them. But the constant barrage of the drugs on his system left him with feelings of powerlessness and when they were added to the pain meds for his wounds he felt constantly sick and had a slight headache lodged just over one eye.

Life wasn't fair. He shouldn't be here. It wasn't his fault. As Hutch staggered into the small bathroom to relieve himself, his thoughts went back to how this had all started.

He had no idea how long ago it was, but Dobey's voice had thundered out of his room asking for he and Starsky to get their butts in there now. As they'd walked in they'd seen another man sitting in the chair they habitually used and so they'd stood just inside the office door, waiting expectantly.

Dobey had introduced the man in the chair as Hugh Lestrange from the FBI. They'd stared at him as though he were an alien. What did the FBI want with them? FBI usually meant trouble and they'd had enough of that recently. They sighed and didn't warmly greet the man, but he ignored their animosity and sat impassive. Dobey let Lestrange explain to both detectives what was going on and they listened with interest, both men's anger beginning to rise as Lestrange described inhuman treatment and the deaths of the women and children.

The FBI had been following the case of immigrants coming over the border from Mexico without permission. It was illegal of course, but with so many trying to cross the border each night, the border patrols had little hope of collaring each and every migrant. The ones they caught were detained for the night then turned smartly around in the morning and returned to their home country. But something odd was going on, and of late there had been other people there to target these unfortunates. For some, it wasn't the border patrols that caught them but another group who siphoned off likely groups at the border. Once in the US, they were "bought" by a group calling themselves "Mano de Dios". The group took mostly women and children and falsely told them that they could get them legitimate jobs in hotels and factories and that the children would be educated in specially run schools. Once the women and children had joined up, they were taken away in lorry loads and were put to hard labour. More worryingly still, several of them were never heard of again and the FBI suspected that they were dead. It was Starsky and Hutch's responsibility to get in on the group, infiltrate the organisation and find out what was happening to those immigrants.

The partners had looked at each other and had nodded, the plain unfairness of the situation playing on their humanitarian sides. They weren't political animals, but if a group were targeting weaker individuals, they'd make it their task to nail them. They'd had plenty of undercover assignments and were good at their job. The brunet had, however, snickered at the thought of Hutch passing for a Mexican with his flaxen blond hair and fair, golden skin. And Hutch had been amused at the thought of Starsky playing Mexican. he had no doubt his partner would be determined but "Essa Ramon Qqui! wouldn't get him very far and other than that he couldn't string more than a few words of Spanish together to save his life. And, as the blond had pointed out, it may come to that. But they had lttle choice and the brunet vowed to take a crash course in Spanish to see him through.

And so it had been decided that Hutch would go in first, making it known that he needed a job and he didn't really care what sort of job it was so long as it paid well. He'd play the hard, calculating type out to make a fast buck and within days, he'd been picked up by Mano de Dios and employed as a guard. Starsky, with his olive toned skin and dark curly hair had a week to grow a moustache and learn the basics of the language before hopping over the border into Mexico one night and joining the next group of immigrants that tried to make it across the river and over the tall concrete and netting fence patrolled by armed guards.

The brunet had managed to fulfil his task and had hooked up with a small group of women and children who crept over a deserted part of the border with little trouble at the dead of night. It seemed to be a popular crossing place as once they'd got to the other side and onto American soil, they were quickly picked up by a couple of men in a pick up, offering them work and education. Starsky had sat in the back of the truck, swaying along with the rest of them as they were driven along country roads through the night and towards morning he recognised some of the back roads round Bay City. As the sun was coming up, the truck pulled in to a lonely farmstead in the middle of scrub land and backed by a stand of a few acres of dense forest and the passengers were herded into a barn.

Once there, Starsky had been reunited with Hutch who had managed to get himself into the group through a mole who had some influence with the leader a certain Diego Mariposa. And although neither man had been able to communicate with the other properly they knew each other well enough that eye contact was all they really needed. From that point on, both felt easier, knowing the other was close at hand.

As it turned out Mano de Dios was into mining and had hit upon a small disused goldmine in the backcountry behind Bay City. There were a few of those mines left with seams either too well hidden or too small for commercial use. But the organisation had realised that while men had problems getting into the small spaces created by the gold in the rocks, women and children were far more suited to the troglodytic lifestyle and so they put them to work.

Within the group Starsky had joined there were only two other men and he and they were taken off each morning into the forested area at the back of the property and put to felling some of the larger trees for pit props. The equipment they were given was antiquated, the axes dull and at the end of each day, the brunet came back exhausted, hot and hungry while Hutch, who was on patrol detail winced at the blisters over the smaller man's hands. Blisters he wished Starsky had never got because at the end of this whole sorry affair he'd ended up here, and he had no idea why.

There was a knock on his room door and an orderly walked in. God! That was another thing he hated about the place. There was just no privacy, especially as there was no door on his bathroom. He'd taken to trying to bathe late at night to get some private time, but the orderlies hadn't liked that either and once again when he'd tried to reason with them, they'd held him down, rammed the needle into his arm and he'd woken up the next morning where they'd left him on the floor. Now he looked up in suspicion. It wasn't that they were cruel, but they were used to dealing with crazy folks, and he wasn't crazy. He was sure of that. He wasn't crazy!

'Mornin' he said warily. There didn't seem to be a needle in the guy's hand, but you could never tell. It was as though they had them loaded and ready and secreted about their person, and he hated needles. He finished washing his hands and dried them on the small rough towel.

'Morning. Doc wants to see you. You have a visitor' the orderly told him. 'You gonna be nice and quiet today?'

The blond ignored the comment and up to the hook on the wall for his orange bathrobe, the only thing he seemed to have been able to bring from home. He shouldered into it and stood waiting. They seemed to like trying to goad him into making a wrong move and the fact that he felt lost made him feel angry and on edge. And when he lost his temper, once again they'd drug him and restrain him. He sighed, determined this time to keep his cool.

'What time is it?' he asked. Cabrillo didn't believe in clocks on the walls. Something about the time becoming a fixation for some patients. But Hutch found that to be even more disconcerting – one more thing to keep him off balance and vulnerable.

'11:00am. Come on. We don't want to keep 'em waiting' the orderly said and walked by the side of the blond wordlessly as they plodded along the miles of featureless white corridors to the doctor's room. Hutch kept his comments to himself. He longed for a friendly conversation. No-one spoke to him properly in here. The orderlies were defensive all the time, watching for any further excuse to drug him it seemed. Oh my God was he getting paranoid? That was the first step to madness wasn't it? The other patients were all so wacko he couldn't hold down a decent conversation with them and the doctor wanted to psychoanalyse him all the time. The only words spoken to him seemed to be to either order him around, to calm him down or to demand that he submit to their treatment.

And as for Starsky…… he hadn't seen his partner for what seemed like ages. Part of him missed the brunet's friendship and humour. Part of him was angry at his buddy for not taking him away from all this nonsense. He sighed and braced himself for more "tell me how you're feeling today Ken" treatment.

As he sat down in the small room he looked around warily. Sessions in here usually ended in Thorazine and restraints and he felt like an alien. The orderly remained at his back, in case he was to do anything crazy, and Hutch stared straight ahead, breathing deeply and calmly like he'd been taught. This time he'd show no reaction. This time he'd be good. This time…..a familiar face walked into the room followed by the doctor. Hutch looked up, smiled thinly and looked away, the anger evident in his eyes.

He wouldn't react... he wouldn't.