Chapter Warnings: Hallucinations, electroshock, mild gore/violence

"Use me as you will, pull my strings just for a thrill, and I know I'll be okay, though my skies are turning grey…. I'll be there for you through it all, even if saving you sends me to heaven." Guardian Angel (Red Jumpsuit Apparatus)

Murdock was lying on his back, squinting up at the bright fluorescent lights attached to the stone ceiling. It was cold and he couldn't move. The table he was on was hard and stiff and he could feel a rubber bit in his mouth, taste it too. It tasted like blood. A door opened somewhere nearby and a man entered, moving to stand over Murdock with a superior, analyzing stance. He was silhouetted against the glare of a standing lamp. There were several lamps, arranged around the bed like a primitive operating room. Fear coiled cold around his heart. The man said something Murdock couldn't make out and more silhouetted figures entered, surrounding the bed and watching silently. One of them moved, pulling a tray forward on a rolling cart. The tray held tools, sharp, terrifying tools with unknown uses. A shadow to his left shifted, leaning in and smiling widely… too widely.

El Diablo.

"Sind sie bereit zu beginnen?" it asked the others calmly in German and Murdock's mind translated automatically: "Are you ready to begin?"

German, like the hospital he'd been trapped in… waiting… alone. Not sure if he'd ever see his team again… not sure if the powers that had sent him there would also schedule him for treatments stronger than those he'd had before… for surgeries that hurt more than they helped, for medicines that caused what they claimed to cure, for darker procedures that would make him useless so that even if the team did come for him, he'd be gone… lost… trapped in his mind forever.

Murdock tried to struggle but he was frozen in place, unable to do anything but watch with frantic terror as the Devil took a scalpel from the tray. Another figure held Murdock's arm still, his hands cold and his grip painful. The Devil sent one last hellish smile toward him before he bent over Murdock's arm. Metal met flesh and Murdock tried to scream but couldn't. He felt like a band of steel was pressing into his chest, suffocating him and strangling his frenzied cries to silence. The cold hands on his arm left but the stinging pain remained.

Suddenly the bed became a straight-backed chair and he could see the knife cutting into his arm, watched in silent horror as the Devil traced a long line of blood in his skin with the bright silver blade. Shadows poured from the cut, spilling to the floor where they spread and grew and crept up the walls. Awful, inky black, sticky shadows that slithered around his ankles and twisted up his legs. The serpent shade slipped from his legs to his chest, twining around his arms and reached with tiny black fangs for his throat. One struck at him, catching him across the cheek with a stinging pain. Terror made the world blur before his eyes. The serpent's venom spread quickly, turning his blood to ice.

Cold. He couldn't breathe. Too cold.

Murdock woke with a startled gasp as another wave of ice cold water washed over him. He blinked the droplets from his eyes and struggled to distinguish reality from lingering dream. He was back in the isolation room, he thought, but it looked different. It looked darker and felt colder. Two hazy figures dressed in dull grey stood nearby, one to his right and the other at the foot of the chair Murdock was still strapped into. The one at his feet was holding a bucket and laughing at something the other had said. Murdock shook his head, wet locks of hair sticking to his forehead and tiny chips of ice falling to his lap as he did so, but the slightly clearer image of the men he received made him wish he'd kept his eyes shut. They were shaped like men, at least, but their faces were twisted and wrong. It was like looking at your friend's reflection in a fun-house mirror but without the reality of their face beside you to come back to. They were awful, grotesque faces that couldn't be real but were.

Murdock took a deep breath, ordering himself to stop panicking because the leather strap around his chest was tight and wouldn't allow his lungs to take in the great gasping breaths they wanted. The Gargoyle-Men spoke again, voices deep and slow and utterly unintelligible. He looked away from them, focusing his attention on the shadowed corner instead of their repulsive faces. But the corner was gone. In its place was a wall of blackness. The only part of the room left that was dull grey like before was the corner he'd woken up in… how long ago? He didn't know. He didn't really care because in the corner over the deepest shadows there was a blood-red eye… and it was watching him.

Fear spurred his breaths out of their even pace and the eye blinked, sideways like its Master, watching him with an unnatural interest. He swallowed hard and realized the bit was back in his mouth. Before he could wonder why, another blast of frigid water hit him in the face and chest, showering him with tiny bits of ice. Rivulets of water streamed down his face and arms as the Gargoyles laughed and spoke in their guttural language. Murdock released a shivering breath and tried to rub the drops from his eyes but his arms couldn't reach, strapped down securely at the elbows and still bound at the wrists with the tight plastic tie.

The door opened behind the Gargoyle in front of the chair and a dark shape entered, drifting over to stand at Murdock's side. The Devil's grey-skinned hand was suddenly at his chest and Murdock jumped, catching the thing's wrist between his bound hands in an attempt to keep the talons away from his body. He let go seconds later, letting out a disgusted grunt past the bar in his mouth. The thing's skin was brittle, something slimy oozing between the cracks like pudding covered by a crusty film. The Devil hesitated, cocking its head at his odd behavior before brushing a few ice chips off Murdock's shoulders with its long, clawed fingers. Murdock was beginning to feel light-headed but didn't try to calm his breathing. He'd rather pass out than be here. As if sensing his desperation, the Devil's rictus grin unfurled across its face, cracking the grey skin around it. And yet, when it spoke, it still used Brenner's voice, like it enjoyed playing human. The contrast of the soft tone and the gruesome devil's mask was surreal and even more frightening, Murdock thought, than hearing the Devil's true voice.

"Is there anything you'd like to tell me about your friends' whereabouts before we begin our session?"

Murdock shook his head jerkily. Devil or no devil, he couldn't give up his team. Even in this strange nightmare realm, he was sure of that much. The Devil's smile became a frown, eyes flashing with anger. Its hand shifted on the controls and agony shook through the captive pilot. When the pain ebbed, he squeezed his stinging eyes shut, frantically laying the foundation for a wall between the Devil and his thoughts. Hannibal had shown him how, a long time ago when he'd shown the others too, shown them how to fight if they were ever captured and tortured for information. The dial was twisted, and the pain jolted back, sharper this time, edging ever upward toward the nightmare of that last shock his bones still ached with. When it ended, the Devil peered down at him again, face sideways in Murdock's swimming vision.

"Still playing mute?"

Murdock didn't respond.

"Let's see how long that lasts, hmm?"

He closed his eyes, burying any and all information this demon wanted behind the wall of song lyrics, movie quotes and memories of flying. Brick by brick, thought by thought, his wall went up quickly and efficiently despite his battered state. It would hold. It had to. His body jerked, straining against the straps as the electricity tore through him once more. It stopped and he trembled, whether from cold or pain he wasn't sure. The Devil asked again for information and this time removed the bit from his mouth. He panted and muttered something back in slurred Spanish; he wasn't sure what, just a selection from the wall. The monster seemed confused, so Murdock automatically translated, repeating himself in English this time. Song lyrics, nothing more. Hatred flashed in its eyes, the bit was forced back into his mouth, and the pain returned.

Time blurred and passed unchecked. At some point, he found he was too weak to hold back the cries of pain that came with every shock. Now they came often and harshly, clawing their way up his throat with razor sharpness. Somewhere beyond the wall, he was aware of the back of his wrists bleeding badly as the tie bit into his flesh but he was powerless to stop his muscles from straining against them. It seemed to go on forever. Sometimes the Devil would vanish for a while and Murdock would be left soaked to the bone and shivering with pain and cold in the restricting embrace of the chair. Other times, the Gargoyles would come and unstrap him, throwing him on the ground and beating him mercilessly. Then they'd pick him up, limp and bleeding, and shove him back into the steel trap, leaving him to their Master once more. It was like some cruel joke that the Gargoyles never gave him a black eye. The one time he didn't want to see was the one time they seemed to go out of their way to preserve his eyesight, aiming instead for his chest, his hurt leg, his jaw, anything but his eyes.

Finally, after another beating, they left him where he lay and didn't come back. He stayed there for some time, just breathing, every inch of his body aching and throbbing. After what felt like days of motionless pain, Murdock gathered his meager reserves of strength and crawled to the grey corner, shivering miserably with his sweat soaked t-shirt sticking to his back. Wearily, he lowered himself to the floor, lying down and pressing his back against the wall as the shadows engulfing the rest of the room inched closer. There was a clear, solid line separating the dark from the grey about three feet from him.

He watched it, not really thinking. Just watching and hurting and praying through a pain-addled mind that Face would come soon because 'no time' had taken too long and now he was trapped in 'no time' and wanted it to end.

Murdock sniffed, shifting painfully to rub the newly dried blood from beneath his nose. He was exhausted and hurting but he couldn't relax, not even for a second to rest his weary body. The darkness was too sinister, too dangerous even though he couldn't figure out why.

…

Whatever he'd been expecting from the shadows though, it wasn't this.

…..

As he watched…. a tiny, pitch-black hand reached out from the shade and felt the graying cushion beneath it.

A weak, fearful moan escaped his bloodied lips and he closed his eyes, waiting a few breaths before opening them again.

A tiny head had joined the tiny hand.

Murdock whimpered softly, pulling his bound hands to his chest and away from the four-fingered thing. The shadows seemed to laugh at him and the tiny being in their folds lifted its faceless tar-like head, filaments of sticky black still tethering it to the floor as it pulled itself free and rose slowly on spindly toothpick legs. It turned, looking around itself like it'd just been born and was seeing for the first time. The little faceless head looked at him… and smiled a sticky smile, threads of black joining its lips and partially covering the thin, white, needle-teeth. It took an inky step, pulling dark, oily threads with it, and he shrank back, trying to curl his legs up to his chest but stopping when his ribs screamed and his leg burned. The thing turned to look behind it as a second hand reached out from the darkness.

Murdock shut his eyes, breathing hard and willing himself to wake up because this had to be a nightmare. It couldn't be anything but a nightmare, right?

Wrong.

Something brushed his leg and he jerked away sharply. He moved to sit up even though sitting was agony, so he could push himself further into the corner and the movement pulled an anguished moan from his throat. He closed his eyes again, waiting for the pain to die down before opening them again blearily. Now there were three of the things, all the same size, all taking slow, threaded steps closer, all the same dark color. Now that they were free from the shadows, they seemed less black and more red… like old blood.

Images of war leapt out at him, freed from mental cages unlocked by fatigue and pain. Men running up sand dunes only to be torn down by enemy fire when they reached the top. Blood on the sand, on uniforms, on faces and hands that bobbed beneath his chopper as he dropped them off or tried to pick them up before they were shot down. Grenades and bullets and knives and horribly disfigured men carried by on gore-stained stretchers. The smell of blood clogging his nose, the feel of it leaking out of him, the slick, sticky feel of it on his hands, the bright red on living men and the dark, near-black on the dead.

Murdock pressed shaking hands to his head, breaths sharp and burning in his tight throat. He kicked at the nearest Inkling with his good leg, hating the wet pat it made on the bottom of his sock and the dark smear his foot left on the floor as he pulled his leg back. The two other Inklings turned, watching the place the third had been. The pool of tar-blood left where it had stood bubbled and bulged and Murdock let out a huffing, manic laugh as the thing stood up again from the puddle, pulling arms and head up from the sticky mess and looking to its companions before hissing at the man cornered before them.

They came at him. He tried to fight them off but they'd learned. Now when he struck at them, his hands passed right through the slight forms like they were nothing more than smoke. They scratched, bit, pulled, and laughed and there was nothing he could do to stop them.

By the time they left, the darkness had engulfed the room, leaving Murdock lost in a haze of dusky shadow. He could just make out the chair not far from him, edges wavering and blurring as his eyes adjusted. In this surreal murk, the fiery gaze over the corner hurt his eyes and made his skin crawl.

Without the strength to move and with no light to press himself into, Murdock laid himself down gingerly, bruised ribs aching with every movement and the gash on his leg stabbing pain up his side. He checked his arms for the Inkling's scratches but couldn't find the marks through the hazy dark. He focused instead on breathing, pulling in air past a scream-torn throat and pushing it out again before the pain in his ribs grew too great. The Inklings were exploring the chair, moving faster now, leaving trails of dark blood on the floor as they shed their tarry coats in favor of a glossy black glass that tinked and tapped as they moved across the chair's metal surface.

….

Night stretched on for days, weeks, months… he wasn't sure. He slept off and on, more passing out than really sleeping, and he woke just as tired as before. Sometimes he'd dream of rescue and the team, their faces startlingly real at first then frustratingly hazy when he woke. Most of his restless moments of sleep, however, were accompanied by nightmares of the Devil, which inevitably woke him, panting and sweating, to find the Inklings watching him hungrily. There were more of them now, at least ten; he didn't bother to count. When he was awake, it took all his strength to stay that way and often he didn't try too hard. Nightmares were awful… but the pain and fear when he was awake was worse. Sometimes when he woke, there would be a needle in his arm, linking him to a rack of fluids and who knew what else. He didn't fight it this time… didn't have the strength to.

At some point, his stomach started to hurt. Hunger, he assumed, but there was nothing he could do to ease the gnawing pain. He was thirsty too. There were no more visits from the Gargoyles, but he wasn't even sure it had been more than a few minutes since they'd come last. Time wasn't moving properly.

When the door finally opened again, Murdock wasn't sure if it was in a dream or reality.

Either way, a billowing dark shadow entered, drifting lazily over to him before crouching down on grey-clad knees and peering into his half-lidded gaze. The stagnant scent of blood hung in the air. Like in Iraq. Blood and sand and sweat and smoke. Long dark fingers ghosted across his neck and he shuddered, the movement barely more than a trembling twitch.

There was a mechanical click and the Devil's voice drawled overhead, cold and clinical.

"Pulse steady."

There were other measurements – blood pressure, breathing rate, responsiveness – that were cataloged similarly. They checked his weight with the help of a scale, the kind a butcher would use to weigh a slaughtered pig. The zipties cut into his wrists as he was lifted, the results taken and his body lowered once more. Then the voice came again.

"Where is Hannibal Smith?"

He didn't answer, but the misery in his eyes must've conveyed his feelings clearly enough, because the Devil went on.

"Tell me where I can find him." The words were spoken in a clipped tone, sharp and demanding like an order snapped to an animal.

He couldn't tell if this was a hallucination, a dream, or a hellish reality but no matter what it was, he couldn't speak and he wouldn't break. Not with his friends… his family on the line. When he stayed quiet, the Devil's clawed hand moved to grip his chin tightly, forcing him to meet the bloody rage in the demon's eyes.

"Tell me, or you will die here."

The thought of death didn't scare Murdock much right now. When he finally found his voice and said what he had to, he was surprised by the steely determination it held, despite the hoarseness of his throat and the despair caught in his chest.

"I… choose… Hell."

The Devil's smirk became a snarl and his grip bit into Murdock's skin, making the Inklings behind the Devil dance and laugh with wicked delight. Cold talons struck him across the cheek, slamming his head into the floor where he lay. The Devil rose to his full height, angry sneer slowly fading to a look of disgust that made what little courage Murdock had left shrink back in alarm. With a dark chuckle, the Devil turned to leave.

The seamless wall opened, darkness flowing in like smoke around the Devil's clawed feet. The darkness crept along the ground, filling the room with a murky haze that wavered and shifted as forms moved beneath its surface, sinuous and slimy, their cold bodies, soft and shapeless, brushing his feet and hands as he hid behind his own arms, fists clenched in his hair, shielding his face from the watery smoke that smelled like dried blood and stinging sulfur. He curled in on himself as much as he could and ignored the monsters and shadows skittering at the edge of his vision.

He'd made his choice. He'd locked the door to his own cell and thrown away the key. All he could do now was try not to forget why… hold onto that tiny shred of hope that the team would find him… and do his very best not to let the Devil see how much he hurt.

Thanks to Face's access to Lynch's files, Hannibal knew the agent was due to arrive at the airport then take the subway into town and walk the block or so to the VA. Lynch probably thought it was smart to have his man change transports partway to his destination. Hannibal wasn't impressed. Lynch was about as well versed in field maneuvers as a used tissue was in chess. The Colonel however was a master and considered even the youngest member of his team to be vastly superior to Lynch in just about every way. He was a crafty son of a gun, certainly, but with Lynch's location confirmed in Washington, they could be sure this agent was essentially on his own here. And that was just the way Hannibal wanted it.

His lieutenant, however, seemed less than pleased with the plan, which, currently, was to look over the subway for the best positions from which to snatch the agent. It had been hard enough to get Face to walk at an even, regular pace while they strolled down to the subway. Now that they were there, and had been there for nearly half an hour, the young man was practically buzzing with irritation and impatience. Hannibal was starting to regret leaving Bosco to keep watch on the VA. He might need some backup with this kid.

"What are we doing here, Hannibal?" Face asked, in a singsong sort of tone, speaking out of the side of his mouth while he pretended to look over the train schedule in his hands. Hannibal glanced over at Face and sighed as he saw the younger man worrying his lower lip, a nervous habit that, when coupled with the darting blue eyes, meant Face was rapidly becoming a time-bomb of suppressed energy.

"We're planning, Face." Hannibal returned his gaze to the platform in front of them, watching how the disembarking crowd mingled with the swarm of departing businessmen and women and seeking out the best place to take their man aside when he arrived.

"Planning?" Face sounded dubious. "Really? See, because to me, this feels more like standing in a crowded subway doing nothing." Hannibal took a deep breath and prayed for patience.

"Planning takes time, Face. We need to find the best place to engage our target and to do that, we need to know the layout of this place, which way the crowds flow, where we can take him without being seen. Otherwise we're just shooting blind."

"At least shooting blind would be shooting…." Face muttered and Hannibal felt his patience slipping. He kept his eyes on the platform, scanning the crowd like everyone else from their place beneath the large number seven that gave the stop its stunningly original name.

"Yes, it would be. And in shooting blind we could very well cause the death of the man we're trying to save." Face's hands tightened on the brochure. "This agent's ID can get one, maybe two of us past the security without raising suspicion. I don't like the delay any more than you do but-"

"Really?" Face cut in, voice tight and angry. "Because you seem pretty relaxed for a guy who's standing around in a subway while one of his men's being tortured by some lunati- Hey!" Hannibal ignored Face's protests, keeping the younger man's arm tightly in his grip as he pulled his lieutenant around the corner and into the entry to the men's room. He shoved Face into the alcove ahead of him, one of those 'blind spots' he'd been talking about earlier, so they were unlikely to be interrupted here. Subway bathrooms were hardly a businessman's first choice when he's on his way to the office and a perfectly normal, insect and grime-free restroom therein. Hannibal's shove was a bit rougher than he'd intended, but the anxiety and rage he'd been suppressing since Face's first text message was seeping from the safe he'd locked it in, seeping out and spreading through his veins too rapidly for him to ignore.

"How dare you. How dare you suggest that I don't care?" Face was glaring at him sullenly and a spark of anger flared in his eyes at Hannibal's words.

"If you really cared about him, we'd be in there already! I mean, come on! You're the Colonel Hannibal Smith! You could have us in and out in five minutes if you'd just-"

"If I'd just what?" Hannibal snapped back. "Try? How many times have I told you, Face, you can't focus on just one aspect of a problem?" Both men were glaring at each other now, jaws tight and fists clenching.

"But there is only one problem, Hannibal! Murdock's in there and we're not!"

"That's only one part of the problem, Face! Once we're in, we need to know where he is, how to get out, where to go where Lynch can't find us! There are a thousand and one facets to this thing, Face! We can't just focus on one or we risk everything!"

"No, I risk everything!"

Hannibal felt his anger melt away, leaving only stunned silence in its wake. Face was breathing hard, raking a hand across his usually carefully combed hair and his eyes were shadowed. Lack of sleep, Hannibal cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. Face was still talking but Hannibal recognized it now as the result of far too many hours of nonstop worrying and alertness, not real anger.

"You and Bosco are always off working on tech or intel or the van when we don't have a mission and that leaves just me and Murdock! We're just a unit to you but…" Face trailed off with a frustrated snarl. The words hurt, even though Hannibal knew the kid didn't mean it, any of it. Face sighed and leaned back against the dirty tiled wall. The older man allowed a moment of silence to calm them both before he spoke, softly and with as much honesty as he could push into his voice.

"You are not just my unit."

The younger man scoffed and glanced over at him.

"What are we then?"

Hannibal paused, choosing his words carefully before speaking, slowly and gently because he needed Face to understand through the exhaustion and fear.

"In all the years you've known me, Face… how many people have I called 'son'?"

Face hesitated, then closed his eyes with a guilty sort of wince.

"You're more than just my team, kid."

"I know. M'sorry, boss, it's just…" Face tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling with a haunted sort of look. "You didn't hear him. He was scared, Hannibal." Blue eyes met the Colonel's with an earnest sort of pleading that only the young could manage. "He was scared out of his mind and that was days ago." Choosing to ignore the 'out of his mind' phrase Bosco would've leapt upon, Hannibal turned and beckoned with a jerk of his head for Face to follow. He did, jogging a few steps to catch up before falling into place beside his CO.

"Where are we going?" he asked, and Hannibal waited till they were up the steps and out on the bustling sidewalk before answering.

"You were right about one thing, Face."

"Yeah?" Hannibal smiled at the kid's confused frown. "What's that?"

"We are on the clock on this one. And I think it's about time we got things moving." They reached a corner and the Colonel turned to meet his Lieutenant's questioning gaze. "Going in may disturb the hive. We'll be needing some pest control products. If you can manage it," he added with a wry grin. Face smiled back and nodded.

"Yeah, I think I can pick some things up on my way back."

"Good. We'll meet up at the hotel in an hour."

The conman's face fell.

"One hour, boss? What kind of scam can I do in one hour that'll get us weapons and ammo?"

"You'll come up with something." Hannibal winked and started off toward the hotel, calling over his shoulder, "Start thinking!" Hannibal could picture the younger man's sigh, the roll of his eyes, and the "Yes, sir" muttered under his breath. At least the kid wasn't so wiped out that he lost his sense of humor. Hannibal made a mental note to order Face to rest that night. Dragging him back to the hotel right now had been another option, but he doubted anything short of a sedative would get Face to sleep while the others were preparing for the rescue. But Face would sleep before they went in. If he had to get B.A. to knock the kid out, Face would be rested and ready for the mission. He'd make sure of that.