Chapter Warnings: Hallucinations, electroshock "therapy," violence, mild gore

Note: Brief reference to my other A-Team fic posted under the title "Together Or Not At All," but you don't have to have read that one first

"What's this, holding me? I'm not where I'm supposed to be… I gotta fight another fight. I gotta fight with all my might…" You can't take me (Bryan Adams/Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron)

Murdock didn't sleep long – at least, he didn't think so… it was hard to tell in a room with no windows. Whatever the time, he woke feeling like eighteen-wheeler road kill and probably looking the part too. His leg had stopped bleeding but still throbbed painfully as he hauled his aching body upright again, resting his still bound hands in his lap as he surveyed his room for changes. The camera light was off and flecks of his blood stained the padding by the chair's footrest and made a little trail to where he now sat, but apart from that, the room was just as he'd left it. Checking his arm, he found no new pinpricks and felt a brief ripple of relief at the sight. It unnerved him that someone could come in and inject him while he slept and he was determined to make sure that didn't happen again.

He leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes and reviewed his options.

1. Play along with Bren-

He shuddered as blood-red eyes burned in his memory.

Correction:

1. Play along with the Devil – because that's what he had to be, no way was that thing human – tell him enough to keep him happy until Face arrives and just hope the monster didn't kill him before then.

2. Resist passively, refusing to speak and being generally obstinate and difficult in hopes of stalling till Face arrived.

3. Resist aggressively, fight back with everything he had and refuse to let even the tiniest bit of information pass his lips because, doggonit, he was a Ranger, and Rangers didn't just lie down and take it!

Naturally, he went with option three… and that meant he'd need a weapon.

"Okay…" he grunted, levering himself upright with the wall as a support. "Time to get crackin'." His mind obligingly began playing him 'Eye of the Tiger' for motivation and he smirked as he limped over to the chair, even though his hurt leg burned with every step. He braced himself against the chair's rigid arm and examined the machine against its side. The thing was a plain box, a single panel on the front held in place with four screws that presumably led to the wiring inside.

Nothing of help there then.

Turning his attention to the chair, Murdock noticed two straps of strong leather meant to be used on the patient's wrists. His own wrists being bound already with the tight plastic ties, there hadn't been much use for them in his case, but the buckle was made of metal, and metal tended to make a pretty good weapon in whatever shape. Taking the wide buckle, a square frame of metal with a bar down the middle for the strap to weave over and under, he gave it an experimental tug. Apparently, the buckle hadn't been listening to the song and didn't find it at all appealing to 'change its passion for glory'… it held fast to its leather companion.

Frustrated, body aching and leg throbbing, Murdock sat by the machine and sighed. The corner was to his left now, dark and ominous as always, but a little too close for comfort. The words 'rising up to the challenge of our rival' played through his head and he glared at the buckle.

Okay then, if you can't win with brute strength – which at the time, he was sorely lacking – then you went with brains. It occurred to him that it probably would've been better to do that the other way around and start things off with using brains, but he left that argument for a later date. Right now, he had a rival to beat.

He stood with the help of the machine box and found the switch that reclined the chair. Putting it back in its upright position, he knelt on his good knee and pulled the stubborn buckle over to the back of the chair, wedging it in at the joint between the back and the seat.

"Okay, then… here goes nothin'." He reached up and pushed the "recline" switch. Slowly but surely, the chair bent backwards with a mechanized hum and the strap stretched taut, straining with a leathery creak. "Come on, come on, come on…" As if on cue, the strap released its hold on the buckle, recoiling with a snap that bit Murdock's fingers where they held the chair arm. He yelped and drew his hand back, glaring daggers at the dangling strap before he flipped the switch and sat the chair back upright. He pulled the buckle out and examined his handiwork. It had broken free cleanly, the leather loop that had been secured around its middle snapped and gone just in time for the third chorus.

Murdock hummed along as he set up phase two in his 'make a weapon' plan. Scooting around to the footrest and ignoring the shiver that rushed along his spine at having his back turned to the dark corner, he reclined the chair just a bit, and jammed the buckle into the seam between the footrest and the seat. As the chair slowly righted itself, the buckle was pinched between the two slabs of metal.

Here's where things get tricky, Murdock thought. The next step was to kick the protruding half of the buckle until it snapped in two and left him with a lovely little bit of sharp metal. The problem was, the position he'd have to take to kick the buckle would leave both the door and the shadowed corner out of sight, neither of which sat well with him.

Casting an anxious glance back at the ink-stained cushions and making sure the small red light of the camera wasn't winking at him overhead, he settled himself on the floor and kicked. His first kick missed and hit the control box with a metallic thud that made him wince. Let's hope these walls r'sound proof… he thought, kicking again and managing to bend the buckle this time. It took several good kicks to get the buckle bent at a right angle and then, after opening his makeshift clamp and turning the buckle around, several more before the thing finally snapped.

Bruised body protesting loudly, Murdock took the two pieces of metal which now resembled tiny, handle-less tridents, and fit them around his fingers so the prongs stuck up between his knuckles. Then he hauled himself upright again, preferring to walk than to crawl, even if walking hurt like nothing else and would be more accurately described as limping. He took a moment to catch his breath and admire his miniature Wolverine claws before he made his way back to his corner and collapsed on the bloodstained floor, legs stretched out in front of him and sweat making his shirt stick to him uncomfortably. His leg was bleeding again. Not dangerously, but it still hurt and it looked pretty bad. Setting aside his new claws, he ripped a strip of cloth from his pant leg – easy since the fabric was already torn from when he'd been cut – and bandaged the wound, frustrated by the limited movement he was restricted to with the tie around his wrists. Speaking of which, there was a bit of dried blood on the backs of his wrists too.

"Not so bad, I guess. Jus' gives us another reason t'take it outta their hides later," he said to the bits of metal beside him, thinking of the soldiers and the unpleasant surprise they were in for. He fitted the metal around his fingers again and settled himself on the floor, lying on his side with his back to the door and his weapons hidden from immediate sight. "Okay, boys… I'm ready when you are…."

He didn't have long to wait.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened and footsteps drew nearer. Murdock closed his eyes, pretending to sleep and waiting for the guy to get closer. Voices chatted above him and he listened, counting two distinct tones and the soft clinking of something metal being wheeled in.

"He still out?"

"Yeah, looks like. Go ahead and bring the rack over here. It'll stand up well enough by the wall." More squeaky wheels and the thing was settled somewhere above his head.

"Which one do you want to do first?"

"Let's do the shot. The freak's gone without fluids for a while already, won't do him any harm to wait another minute." Someone crouched behind him and a hand landed on his shoulder.

Showtime.

Murdock rolled over, lashing out with the claws in his bound hands and feeling them grate on something… skin if the drops of blood that rained on his face were any indication. The quick glimpse Murdock got of the two men was enough to make him suddenly doubt his plan. Both were dressed in the crisp white uniforms of orderlies, but the bulging muscles on the guy he'd hit and the 'combat situation' glinting in the other fella's eyes said all too clearly that they were fighters, men who probably hadn't taken a single biology course let alone pursued a career in medicine.

'Muscles' had stumbled backwards, dropping the syringe he'd been readying as he held a hand to the three bloody scratches across his square jaw. 'Combat' moved forward and Murdock swung himself to the left, knocking the man's legs from underneath him with his own and sitting up at the same time.

The man fell right on Murdock's leg, sending pain lancing up his side and forcing a startled cry from his lips. An IV rack and bag crashed to the floor on top of the soldier, unhelpfully pinning them both in place. Then Muscles was back up and mad as a charging bull, stepping over the rack and reaching for the pinned pilot. Murdock swung at him, landing a glancing blow to his hand which only served to make the man angrier. Before he could slash again, Muscles caught his bound wrists in one hand and punched him hard enough to snap his head to the side. He blinked, dazed, and his leg sent jagged bolts of pain through him as Combat finally got himself upright. Then a meaty fist grabbed had him by the front of his now stained and sweaty superhero shirt and Murdock was hauled upright. Muscles' fist pinned him against the wall while his other hand kept Murdock's bound wrists trapped above his head.

"You're gonna regret that, you little shit!" Muscles spat.

Murdock snarled a quick, "Not likely" before ducking his head and sinking his teeth into the fist at his neck. Muscles howled and Murdock took a limping step to the side, breaking loose and dashing for the door, ignoring the burning in his leg. He could see the hallway outside and was mere inches from sweet, sweet freedom when something tall and dark blocked his view. He stopped and looked up… into cold, calculating eyes.

The Devil was back.

Before he could lash out at the Devil's human form, maybe leave a few marks that wouldn't fade easily, someone grabbed him from behind and slammed a boot into his hurt leg. Momentarily blinded by pain, Murdock was dragged backwards and thrown into the cold, hard embrace of the chair. He struggled, only to receive a hard blow to the chest that knocked the wind out of him, leaving him gasping and unable to prevent the strap from wrapping around his upper body and pulling tight. While he was still wheezing for breath, his hands were driven against the chair's arm, drawing a groan from his laboring lungs and forcing him to drop the bits of metal that had promised him freedom and lied. The not-orderlies tightened the rest of the straps without regard for the gash on his leg.

Murdock let out a frustrated growl, staring at the ceiling past the Devil's falsely human face, and clenched his teeth tightly to keep from spitting at the beast.

"I thought you said you could handle him." The Devil addressed the two soldiers, who were retrieving the syringe and IV rack that had fallen during the fight.

"Yeah, well, you didn't say he'd be armed," one snapped back. Murdock didn't really care which.

"If you had done your job, he wouldn't have been," the Devil came back icily and the men didn't seem to have an answer for that… not one they were willing to say to the creature's face at least. "Do what you came to do and get out." The men moved to obey and Murdock struggled, raising his head and snapping at them in a voice that sounded more manic than he'd hoped for.

"Don't touch me! You keep your hands off'a me, don't-" He broke off with a grunt of pain as the Devil jerked his head back with one hand fisted in his hair. Diablo's face was in his peripheral vision but he refused to look. Murdock seethed at the ceiling and the little red eye watching him from its corner and tried to ignore the demon gaze burning a hole in his head.

"Hayes, turn up the lights."

There was a pause in which Murdock's eyes flicked to the Devil for just a second, just enough to see how mad the monster was. He got a brief glimpse of steel-grey eyes, sharp and glittering with anger in the falsely human face before the bulbs overhead went from dull grey to blinding white. Murdock flinched, eyes watering at the sudden bombardment. He felt a pinprick at the crook of his elbow and struggled. The hand in his hair wrenched his head back further, making his neck ache sharply. Another prick. Murdock closed his eyes as the lights overhead glared blindingly and he cursed the Devil in his mind, breathing hard as he fought, jerking his forearms away from the unseen needle. Someone to his right swore and the hands holding his arms down shifted and tightened.

A sigh reached his ears and the hand in his hair vanished. Murdock snapped his gaze back to the men surrounding him so fast his head spun. Blinking dazedly, he pulled his forearms away from the soldiers and up to his chest with a snarl. There were three new holes in his arm, one from the injection and two that bled slightly but gave him a short burst of pride because they were failures, failed attempts to find a vein with the IV.

"Stand back." The Devil's voice elicited no effect until he moved a hand to the machine, turning the dial up way, way too far, at least twice as far as last time. As soon as they heard the ticking of the dial, the men scrambled back, making sure they were well away from the conducting metal frame. Murdock flicked his gaze to the demon's human mask. The eyes there were shadowed with dark intent… He wasn't bluffing and for a moment, Murdock considered letting them do the IV. They'd mentioned something about fluids, and although it would do little to relieve his dry throat, he'd need them to keep his strength up….

But then, Muscles and Combat over there were watching him with the same smug, schoolyard-bully look the guys from Black Forest had. And no matter how they saw him, he wasn't an idiot, he wasn't disabled, and he wasn't weak. Murdock turned away from the Devil's malicious eyes and fixed a steely glare of his own on the two soldiers to his right, speaking slowly and clearly so they'd understand every word.

"Never shall I fail my comrades. Gallantly will I show the world that I am a specially selected soldier…." The Devil might not understand the significance of the words but a soldier should have. The two men just watched him, frowning in confusion. Not soldiers, then. Just ordinary thugs. As the Devil flipped a switch, and the chair slowly reclined, Murdock kept his gaze fixed on the Devil's henchmen, heart pounding. "Energetically will I meet the enemies of my country…" Here he turned his hardened gaze to Diablo himself, because whether the thing knew the origin of the words or not, it could sure as hell understand the meaning. "I shall defeat them on the field of battle… for I am better train-"

Fire flickered in the Devil's eyes and his hand shifted on the panel.

Murdock's head slammed back against the metal headrest as electricity surged through his body with a terrible strength, sending a firestorm of pain streaking through his veins - pain like it was shredding nerves, charring bone and boiling blood in its wake. His eyes widened, burning from the overhead lights but unable to look away and screams caught in his throat, powerless to escape past a jaw sewn shut with lightning. He could feel it. Feel it racing up his neck, along his jaw and through his teeth.

This wasn't pain. This was something worse, something deeper and more destructive.

This was Hell.

The demon fire raged in every inch of his body for what felt like hours and, when it finally, finally stopped, he couldn't remember what it felt like not to hurt on a level beyond anything he'd ever felt before. He expected himself to scream, to let loose the anguished cries that had stopped up his throat and keep screaming until his voice gave out and his throat bled. But when his body was mercifully freed from that hell of pain, he couldn't make a sound. He could only breathe, and even his sharp, harsh breaths felt forced, like the only thing keeping them coming was the tiny fragment of his mind that wasn't writhing in residual agony.

That tiny part watched as the men approached warily and set up the IV, succeeding in the first attempt now that his arms were frozen, stiff and paralyzed. Both men left as soon as they'd finished and they were replaced in Murdock's unmoving gaze by the Devil whose human form shifted and blurred, growing dark at the edges as his true form struggled to be free. Red eyes watched him with a sadistic satisfaction as the pilot's chest heaved, fighting for every quivering breath.

"I warned you that any attempts at escape would be duly punished. You must learn to accept that this is your world now." The Devil waved a hand at the blindingly white walls. "It would be in your best interests not to fight that." He turned to leave and Murdock felt a brief flare of hate-fueled determination break through the pain.

"… 'n I w'll f-fight w-… w'th all my m-might." The words were stilted, broken and pushed past clenched teeth but the Creed was finished, his mission made clear to the enemy, and that was more than he could really have hoped for under the circumstances. The Devil paused at the door, looking back and smirking, his red eyes flashing hungrily.

"So be it."

The door closed and Murdock was left alone again, trapped and in pain… and the darkness in the corner had spread up the wall, shadows licking at the Devil's eye… an eye that this time, didn't fall asleep when its master left the room.

It was Thursday, two days since Face had gotten Murdock's call. Hannibal had been holed up in the van for hours, leaving Face and B.A. on surveillance while Hannibal linked Face's laptop to the computer system in the back of the van and did whatever Colonels do when they're 'gathering intel.' Face was handling this delay in rescuing their imprisoned friend just about as well as could be expected. He'd paced a groove in the gravel-topped roof, complaining and fretting aloud until Bosco threatened to bury him someplace not even Hannibal could find him. Face had shut up and gotten back to taking notes on the infrequent visitors, the guards' shifts, and when doctors and nurses came and left.

Bosco was quieter than usual and more tense too, which only served to fuel Face's ever-increasing anxiety. Nothing scared Bosco. Nothing intimidated him. But when the dark head shook slowly from side to side, watching through binoculars as the guards changed shifts again, fast and efficient and always armed, Face began to wonder if maybe B.A. was worried… and that in itself was almost as scary as Hannibal saying he forgot to make a plan.

As it was, Face suffered through a morning and afternoon of fretting and watching and taking notes before Hannibal called for them to meet him back at the hotel. They'd packed up eagerly and rushed to meet their CO. And now here they were, sitting around a small round breakfast table they'd pulled to the middle of the room, and watching Hannibal as the older man stood at the head of the table and held up an unmarked folder.

"Okay, boys," he started, tossing the file onto the table and letting B.A. and Face scan the pages while he spoke. "This is Doctor Carl Brenner."

Face looked up from the faded photo of a med student standing in front of his college.

"How'd you find him? I tried searching all the-" Face stopped as Hannibal shook his head.

"Lynch has made him all but invisible. You wouldn't have found him by searching his name." Hannibal continued, nodding at the file. "Carl Brenner is a psychiatric doctor originally from eastern London but was living and studying in India. About a month ago, Lynch's squad of trigger-happy commandos went in and smuggled the doctor out of hiding in New Dehli and into the states." Hannibal paused and searched his team's anxious faces before his own expression darkened and he took a page from the folder, setting it apart for the others to see, a list of patient names and death dates. "Now, the bad news is Brenner is a wanted man in India for a series of malpractice cases that caused the deaths of twenty patients under his care."

Face would've given a low 'Wow, that's bad' whistle but his mouth had gone suddenly dry. This was way worse than bad. This guy had Murdock. Suddenly feeling sick to his stomach, Face shoved the page of 'Doctor' Brenner's previous patients back toward the pile at the center of the table, focusing instead on B.A.'s voice as the big man spoke up from his place across the table from Face.

"How the hell does a psych doc cause all that? He talk 'em to death or somethin'?"

"Nothing quite so harmless." Hannibal answered, and Face felt the older man's gaze sweep over him with concern. The lieutenant forced himself to look up, meeting Hannibal's frown with a look that he hoped said 'I'm fine, keep going,' not 'Excuse me while I toss my cookies in the restroom.' It must've worked because Hannibal continued.

"On all official documents, Brenner is listed as your average doctor, but soon after he became the head of a small practice near Rajkot, he began to… broaden his interests." Hannibal crossed his arms, looking down at the papers and photos spread across the table with dark disdain before his eyes flicked to Face. "The file I found details his experiments on those twenty patients under his care in India. He started off with a strict adherence to science and fact but as things progressed, he changed."

"You mean he lost it," Bosco said, translating perfectly that slight flicker of disgust in their Colonel's eyes. "This guy's insane, ain't he? Not jus' crazy like Murdock but an' honest t'goodness psychopath!" Hannibal didn't contradict him which prompted the big guy to snap, "So what's the good news, huh? 'Cause I sure as hell don't see any!"

"The good news," Hannibal pulled a new page from the folder and pushed it across the table to the others, "is that Lynch doesn't trust him." The page was a copy of a letter from Lynch's office to Brenner. After the initial political introductions and compliments, probably added in by whatever secretary or underling Lynch had let in on the secret, Lynch informed Brenner that he was sending an agent over to evaluate his progress. Hannibal continued as the other two scanned the letter. "This agent is due to arrive in town Saturday night at six-o-clock sharp to check up on Brenner and see how far he's gotten." Hannibal took a breath to continue but Face cut him off.

"How far he's gotten in what?" Face's voice sounded smaller and hoarser than he'd expected but Hannibal either didn't notice or chose not to comment, glancing down at the scratched surface of the table in a way Face had seen far too often not to recognize. The Colonel was trying to think of a way to soften the blow, ease into the bad news he knew he had to deliver so that his young lieutenant wouldn't snap. It was a subtle movement, a barely noticeable change in the older man's eyes, but it sent another wave of anxiety through Face's already rattled nerves and pushed him on, urging him to ask again and demand an answer even though his voice was strained and desperate. "Hannibal? How far he's gotten in what? What's Lynch got him doing in there?"

When his CO met his eyes again, it was with a frown that promised vengeance and judgment on Brenner should his suspicions be confirmed.

"Official sources say Brenner is wanted for malpractice…. According to unofficial sources, he's become obsessed with studying how far the human mind and body can be pushed before it breaks." Hannibal lowered his head, gaze fixed on table, arms crossed, and a weary weight to his frame. Face was suddenly struck by how old the Colonel really was. The war had been enough to turn any man's hair grey but Hannibal's silver-white seemed now more a sign of age than of stress. Hannibal continued in a lower voice and for the first time in longer than Face could remember, a hint of fear entered his tone. "Each of the twenty cases of malpractice he's wanted for were filed after the discovery of a mass grave in the forest near Brenner's hospital. When the police found the bodies…." He trailed off, taking a deep breath and unclenching white-knuckled fists before continuing. "They'd been tortured to death. No doubt, he intends to continue his studies here and Lynch was just the means to an end for Brenner. Lynch must've placed him in the VA to root out information on us but I doubt the doctor has any more respect for Lynch than we do so he's likely to disregard any orders that don't fit with his plans for experimentation."

Both Face and Bosco uttered curses under their breath but Hannibal pressed on.

"And that's not all." The older man shifted, a bitter tone entering his voice that drew Face's attention immediately. "He isn't after Murdock."

"'Course he ain't after Murdock, fool! 'Cause he's got him!"

"No, B.A., I mean Murdock isn't the target, he never was. Brenner's experiments are almost a power play. He wants to prove he's smarter than his victims by breaking them, mentally and physically. With that goal, he would be looking for the brightest minds as subjects, and a psychiatric hospital isn't the place he'd usually look."

"What are you talking about?" Face asked, apprehension fluttering in his chest again.

Hannibal sighed, a tinge of guilt and worry entering his tone.

"Murdock isn't the target. I am. Lynch must have promised Brenner he'd get me as a test subject if he got Murdock to talk. I don't doubt that both of them are planning on double crossing each other and keeping the whole team for themselves if they can, but-" Hannibal looked up at his men, raising a hand to silence Face's shocked interjection. "We… are going to make sure their plans fail."

"How?" B.A. demanded, big fists clenched tightly on the table. "An, how the hell does one of Lynch's goons comin' here equal good news in your head, huh?"

"Because," Hannibal met their eyes again, this time with a razor edge of anger flickering in their depths. "He's our way in."

Despite Hannibal's rapidly developing plan, Face found he couldn't sleep that night. He groaned and rolled over, trying to get comfortable on the lumpy hotel bed. Bosco's snoring wasn't helping matters and Hannibal had taken the other room to himself, spreading his files across the extra bed and pacing agitatedly. Thump, thump, thump, to the left and his shadow momentarily hid the beam of light cutting across the floor to stab right into Face's eyes. Then the light came back and thump, thump, thump over to the desk on the right. The rhythm was somewhat soothing, but the slow-motion strobe-light effect was giving him a headache and he sighed aloud with relief when the Colonel finally called it quits and shut off the danged thing.

Still, it took him another hour or so to even begin to doze and the slightest sound, even just Bosco shifting in his sleep, would snap Face's mind back to consciousness. It was a strange contradiction that he could sleep so easily in the field or even with Murdock as a roommate, chatting and goofing around late into the night whether Face was awake or not… but here in a dark and quiet room, without the familiar Texan drawl going on in the background, he was wide awake.

Rubbing his eyes, Face reached over and grabbed his cell from the side table to his right. At least if he was holding the thing it'd keep him from sitting up to check it every other minute. It was Thursday… well… technically it was Friday now, but Face wasn't about to give the smug alarm clock any further satisfaction by admitting that. It was only one o'clock anyway, barely Friday at all, but that one hour made it officially three days since he'd heard from Murdock.

Face slung an arm over his eyes, his other hand on his chest, still holding the cell.

He was just starting to drift off when a buzz shook through his chest. Then another. Sitting bolt upright, Face snatched the phone from his chest and stared down at it. The screen glowed blue and a message flashed across the light. 'Unknown Caller.' Face hesitated, but only for a second. He held the phone to his ear and spoke quietly, glancing over at Bosco's shadowed form, still snoring away, thankfully. He didn't want to wake the big guy for nothing more than a call from a slighted girlfriend if that's what this turned out to be.

"Y-Yeah? Hello?"

"Facey?" Face felt his heart skip a beat at the familiar, but unsteady voice.

"Murdock?" Several thousand things sped through Face's mind all at once. He let out a breathless puff of air, tossing the covers aside and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He tried to speak but there were too many questions whirling in his brain. Finally, he settled on, "Murdock! Wh-... Are you okay?" A sound came over the line, a sort of stilted breath that spoke of pain, and lots of it. The weight of worry that had momentarily lifted from Face's chest came crashing back down as Murdock spoke.

"N-No… m'not… m'not too good… righ' now."

Each pause was punctuated by a trembling breath and Face considered getting up and waking Hannibal but he seemed to be rooted to the spot, too focused on his friend's voice to force his body into motion. Before Face could ask what was wrong, Murdock continued, "I don'… h-have a lot've time, F-Face."

"Why not? What do you mean, pal? What's going on?" The questions spilled from Face's tongue faster than he'd intended but the pained gasps on the other line were cutting through him like a knife and he could practically taste the fear rising in his chest.

"I-…" Murdock swallowed. "…m'hurt, Fa-ace." Heart hammering in his chest, Face scrambled for words, for anything he could say to rid his friend's voice of that fearful tremor.

"It's okay, man! We're… We're coming to get you. Hannibal's got a plan going and-" Face stopped as a second voice spoke from somewhere near Murdock's and the pilot's breathing grew sharp and panicked. The voice said something in the background and Murdock spoke again in Face's ear, panting and desperate.

"No… No, pl-please don'… don't touch me!"

"Murdock? Murdock! What's going on? Talk to me, man!" Face was shouting now and he didn't care if Bosco or Hannibal woke up. In fact, he hoped they would because his hands were shaking and he didn't know what to do. The harsh, demanding voice spoke again and Murdock whimpered, soft and terrified in his ear.

"Face… I don' wan' t-t'go…." Face was sure his heart actually stopped beating for a few seconds. Those words brought back images from too many years ago. Images of Murdock hurt and scared and almost dying after a bad chopper crash back in Iraq. He hadn't dreamed those words in years and now here they were, stark and real and just as terrifying as before… but this time they held a different meaning.

"Murdock, who's holding the phone? Who's there with you?" The sounds in the background were too muffled for Face to make out as he heard the static sound of a phone switching to speaker. Murdock's voice seemed more distant now but he was shouting and Face was sure his ribs were going to break from the force of his thumping heartbeat.

"No! Face! Face, hang up! Hang up right now, you hear me?" There was a metallic click and Face's fear spiked violently.

"Murdock! Murdock, what-"

"Hang up now, Face, plea-"

Murdock's voice was cut off by a deafening bang and the terror in Face's chest exploded. He screamed Murdock's name as two more shots broke out across the line.

Then Face's eyes snapped open and he sat up sharply, breathing hard and blinking and struggling to free himself from the clinging remnants of the nightmare. His phone had fallen off the bed and disappeared onto the night-shadowed carpet by the side table and Face left it there. He was shaking and sweating and as soon as his mind had grasped the fact that Murdock hadn't called, that he hadn't just heard his best friend die, Face untangled himself from the covers and stumbled to the bathroom, shutting the door. He flicked on the light, letting the blinding shock wake him further before he moved to the sink and splashed the sharpness of the dream from his mind with icy cold water. He stood there for a long while, hands braced against the countertop, staring at his own reflection in the wide mirror and watching drops of water slip down his face from his wet hair while he waited out the curling nausea in his gut.

Finally, he dried his face with slightly less unsteady hands and shut off the light, slipping back into the main room. Bosco was still snoring, so Face guessed he hadn't actually shouted anything even though his throat felt tight and scratchy like he had. He crouched down by the bedside, fumbling in the dark for his cell and then seated himself on the edge of the bed and accessed his most recent calls. The last call was from Hannibal, not Murdock. He let out a huffing sigh and swallowed back the tears threatening release at the memory of the nightmare. Exhaustion made that far more difficult than usual but he managed it and set his cell aside, collapsing onto his side and not bothering to pull up the covers or even close his eyes.

He spent the rest of the night telling himself he would see Murdock again, would share a room again and hear that gleeful voice going on about nothing and everything, would have his brother back. He told himself over and over:

He's not dead. He's not dead. You're gonna find him, gonna get him somewhere safe. He's okay… He'll be okay…. He'll be okay.