Going to ground in L.A. following their spectacular escape from Lynch was the three special forces soldiers' only option. Because that's where Murdock was.

Out of his mind in an insane asylum.

-A-

The Hanoi job had been the catalyst to get them home to the States, however it had not helped to end the war as Morrison had promised. The war had ended when the loss of the Tay Loc base enraged H.Q. to the point of breaking. They had launched the biggest offensive against the N.V.A. yet, and as a consequence had won control of the air.

When you control the air, you control the war.

Twenty four hours later a cease fire was declared, but the team were not there to hear the good news. They were on their way back to the States, just as they had hoped, although not quite in the manner which they had envisioned. B.A., Face and Hannibal sat silently in the freedom bird chartered plane, their wrists and ankles shackled by some of the the same soldiers they had fought alongside.

It was almost laughable, in a sick, twisted, ironic sense.

Following their trial and subsequent incarceration at Fort Bragg they had been resigning themselves to the fact that they would be getting rather familiar with this particular stockade until their transfer to Leavenworth. That was, until two weeks into their stay, Hannibal found out something that made them question everything they had come to respect about their military.

Murdock had been here.

Face and B.A. didn't know how the colonel had discovered this, but what he told them next not only stunned them; it infuriated them to the point of violence.

Fort Bragg, in an extremely secretive and highly guarded part of the special and aviation forces base, had been equipped with a mock-up Vietnamese P.O.W. camp. Murdock had been 'rescued' from the Vietnamese camp the day after the main escape, and brought here under heavy sedation. When he came to, he was led to believe that he was still in Vietnam, and the U.S. Army had continued to interrogate him - though this time about what he knew about President Diem's brother - using the same sort of techniques they used on insurgents and terrorists.

Murdock had been treated as a terrorist.

B.A. had punched the wall in rage, breaking three of his fingers.

Face had ripped the steel bunk from his own cell wall and hurled it with all his might at the bars on his window.

Hannibal had just sat quietly, his jaws chomping on a cigar that was not there as he planned their escape move, and the entirely necessary humiliation of the current C.O. of Fort Bragg - Colonel Lynch.

The plan had been simple enough on the Hannibal scale of difficulty. Face had ripped himself a lovely, convincing wound in order to get taken to the medical centre. There, he had managed to speak in private to an old girlfriend - who he had discovered, during their returning medical, was based here - and gave her the Cliff notes of what had happened to them and what had been done to Murdock. She had agreed to help them escape by keeping the legendarily lecherous Colonel Luynch busy while they set Hannibal's plan into motion. Before he left the hospital wing, she slipped him a small set of standard issue lock picks, which he hid with some discomfort, and wished him luck.

Back at the cell block, escape tools in tow, they had waited for the three minute window afforded to them by the guard rotation and slipped from their cells. Blending into the long shadows cast by the dusk, the three men hustled for the motor pool and alleviated several cans of spray paint from the re-spray bay. Adding a couple of folding shovels to their small cache in a stolen bergen on B.A.'s back, they snuck back out of the building. Despite Hannibal's original idea, they weren't stupid enough to go for the front gates of a U.S. military base - especially as they had no weapons; instead they crept to the building that housed Lynch's base of operations. Crouched low and hidden by shadow, they moved along the wall, below the window of Lynch's own office - from which they could hear the low rumble of Lynch's voice accompanied by the light, soft tones of Face's accomplice. Moving further down the wall until they found a nice, big patch of masonry unspoiled by windows, Face took two cans of paint and hopped up onto B.A.'s shoulders. Hannibal took another can and between them, they left Lynch a love note in letters ten feet high.

Snickering, they left the area with the same stealth they had used to get into it and made a break for the boundary fences, digging their way out once they made it to the barbed, razor wire.

-A-

Going to ground once they were home free, Face scammed them a dingy, low key apartment in a questionable part of town. From there, the team planned an entry into the asylum owned by the Westwood Veterans Administration hospital. Murdock had been deemed too unstable to be placed in a ward in the V.A. itself just yet, so he had been given a secure room in the Westwood Installation for the Mentally Ill.

Flowery words for such a vile place.

Face stood at the wrought iron gates to the installation and stared at the monstrosity before him. He'd always assumed that the whole idea of asylums being dark, gothic hellholes was a gross exaggeration; but staring at the one that currently held his friend prisoner he finally understood. The sky above the dark, shadowy building seemed more cloudy somehow, than the neighbouring areas, the roof actually had spires, spires! A huge, Victorian clock that had stopped ominously at 3:30 loomed over anyone caught standing in the courtyard, and a creaky, ornate, iron weathervane topped off the overbearing sight.

Face swallowed involuntarily. If this place was supposed to strike intimidation into the hearts of those who viewed it, it was doing a hell of a job.

Gently stroking the large, dark moustache that matched his dyed hair and thoroughly hid his smile, Face approached the guard who was posted at the gates.

The man eyed him through red, tinted glasses, "Can I help you, Sir?"

Patting the prop clipboard against his chest, Face let his eyes smile disarmingly at the guard, "You certainly can, young man; I am Professor McManus from Stanford University, I'm here to see one of your patients." Adding a wide smile that moved the moustache just so, to assist the twinkling eyes... Face saw the exact moment that the guard bought into it.

Too easy.

"Go right ahead, Professor." The guard keyed the electronically controlled gates open. "You'll need to report to the main reception, they'll direct you to your patient's room."

Face smiled widely again, in genuine thanks this time. "Thank you, Son." He entered the fortress, and it was suddenly like someone had clamped mufflers onto his ears as the outside world ceased to exist. The weirdly ominous atmosphere he had picked up on from the entryway now assailed him full force and he swallowed again, thrown off stride by the overpowering sense of doom in the air.

Gathering his wits, mindful that he was mid-con, he made his way to the reception desk and was instructed to take the grand, sweeping staircase that sat proud and polished in the middle of the lobby, up to the fourth floor. Captain Murdock, he was told, was currently being held in the schizophrenic wing. While his face was smiling, Peck shivered inside.

Schizophrenic.

They were exaggerating, right? Sure Murdock had been a little too caught up in his pirate fantasy in the camp, and he'd been a bit jumpy when he returned to Tay Loc; but schizophrenic? Luckily, or unluckily, depending on one's point of view, the head psychologist was in the office behind the main desk, and when he heard Murdock's name mentioned he came out to speak to the professor who had come to see him. With every nuance of Murdock's condition laid out before him, Face felt his con-mask hold firm while his heart broke into pieces, each smaller than the last, as he thought about the mental torment that Murdock's shattered mind was being subjected to.

His feet had carried him to his destination without him even being aware of his actions, and he soon stood, staring at the reinforced door of Murdock's cell. It wasn't a room, it was a cell, it had to be a cell, they had to be holding him prisoner here...

Shaking hands slid the large, iron key that he had been given at the front desk, into the keyhole of the cell door. A heavy, echoing 'clunk' cleared the locking bolt and the door creaked slowly open on rusted hinges. Steeling himself, Face pushed the door open and stepped into the room beyond.

"Hey, Y tá, đã mang lại cho bạn của tôi kẹo? Hey, Nurse, did you bring my candy?"

For the first time in his life, Face actually felt his heart stop then start again with a lurch. In the dim light afforded by the small window of the room, he could see Murdock stretched out on his back in a hospital bed, with his wrists shackled to the rails running down the sides of it. His warm, brown eyes fixed on Face and he smiled.

"Tôi biết bạn... phải không? I know you... don't I?"

Face pulled his heart out of his shoes, licked his lips, took a shaky breath and smiled back, "Có ... có bạn nào. Tôi là một người bạn. Yes... yes you do. I'm a friend."

Murdock beamed and his hands started to flex excitedly from within their bonds, "Oh man, that's great! I haven't seen a single person I recognise in, like, a month or somethin'. How's the Lady? She okay? Those Navy boys haven't been to take her back yet have they?"

Face could feel his throat threatening to close as his blinked rapidly, forcing back unmanly tears that he knew would only confuse the stricken man. The Lady Crazy was dead, long dead, but Murdock didn't remember crashing her. What else had he forgotten? He forced another smile onto his face, "No, the Navy haven't been yet." He approached, drawn helplessly in by the joy radiating from Murdock's eyes like it was some sort of magnet. Perching on the edge of the bed, he rested a hand on Murdock's, forcing himself not to flinch as the fingers of said hand suddenly twisted to grip his more tightly than propriety really allowed.

Murdock raised his head off the pillow as far as his restraints would allow and whispered furiously, "Hey, you need to be careful around here. The guy in the corner over there said he was going to scupper the ship. There's no lifeboats, so we'll all drown; you gotta stop him, man!" The fingers tightened even more around Face's, painfully tight, as Murdock suddenly became desperate to have his visitor listen to him.

Face couldn't help but turn to look into the corner. His heart sank again as he realised that Murdock was actually as sick as they said he was. He had convinced himself that it was just an act, that he was playing one of his games, that the doctors had got it wrong, that they were exaggerating.

They weren't exaggerating.

He stayed for as long as he could, as long as he could bear Murdock looking at him like he was someone else, until the sick man's eyes glazed over and he began singing sea shanties softly to himself, oblivious to Face's presence in the room.

Closing the door of Murdock's room and locking it behind him, Face set off down the corridors, straining to keep his stride as regular and unaffected as possible as he made his way as quickly as he could to the main reception. Handing back the key to Murdock's room as calmly as he was able - he didn't think he'd be needing it for an escape just yet - Face headed out of the building into the sunshine. Nodding politely to the guard on the way out, he ducked around the corner and into the discrete sedan that was waiting for him.

Hannibal looked at him as he rubbed at his eyes, "How is he, Face?"

Face sighed heavily and leaned his head back on the seat, his eyes closed, unable to meet the hopeful, expectant gazes of his team mates. Surely they could see from the fact that Murdock wasn't with him that something had fallen out of alignment in the plan? Did they have to question him straight off? When he realised that the car hadn't moved and that they were going nowhere until he answered the question, he sighed again and said, "He's sick, Hannibal; really sick." He raised his head off of the back rest and looked at the other two, "I had every intention of busting him out, just like we planned; the guard bought it, the nurses at the front desk bought it, hell, even the head psychiatrist bought it..." he trailed off.

"But?" Hannibal's tone had unconsciously softened, the fact that Face was affected at all by Murdock's state was enough to make him second guess his instinct to bark an order to respond.

"But he's sick." Face rubbed his eyes again, aware that his repetition wasn't making things any clearer. "He didn't recognise me."

B.A.'s hiss of shock was all the vocalisation they needed to air their collective shock at this fact.

"The doctors think he'll recover in time, at least enough to be moved to the V.A. itself." He paused, the unconsciously dramatic intake of breath making the other two men lean forward in their seats. "They say he's in comparatively good shape, that some of the soldiers in the facility struggle to remember the fact they were soldiers at all."

Hannibal blinked. He'd seen shell shock before, but nothing like this. The immediate effects of this ridiculous war were clearly apparent: the dead and the maimed, the brave boys, the corrupt governments, the media smears, but few would stop to think about the men like Murdock, who had been wounded just as badly as the veterans who proudly displayed their war wounds for all to see. Tommy Gleeson from 3rd Airborne may have broken his neck, but Murdock had broken his mind.

Would it ever mend?

B.A. was the first to break the silence. "So what do we do now?"

Face dried his suspiciously wet eyes on his sleeve and looked at him in question, "What do you mean?"

"All we's good for is killin' people and blowin' shit up. what we gonna do now?"

"No." Hannibal's lighting fast retort made Face and B.A. snap to attention. The Colonel was ready to issue orders and they were ready to receive them, even if they no were no longer part of the military, even if their ranks meant nothing out here back in the world. Colonel Smith was their leader, and they would follow him wherever he led. "No more killing." He looked B.A. then Face square in the eye as he said, "We killed and destroyed and robbed for our country and where did it get us? Onto the wrong side of the law we vowed to uphold." He fumbled in his empty breast pocket for a cigar that wasn't there. Before he could open his mouth to ask, Face had slipped one into his fingers. Thoughtfully biting off the tip, he lit the cigar and watched as the smoke curled in whorls around his face. "You're right, B.A., all we're good for on the surface is killing people and blowing things up, but don't forget, we've also been trained to make the best of impossible situations, to improvise where others couldn't, to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat."

Face smirked, picking up on the colonel's steadily increasing excitement, "Careful, Colonel. You're in danger of becoming poetic."

Hannibal winked at him, then looked at B.A., gesturing with his cigar - much to B.A.'s dismay, "Who can help those who can't help themselves? When the police have their hands tied and things look hopeless, who can those people call?"

B.A. was frowning in confusion.

Hannibal grinned in triumph, "Us!"

B.A. was stunned. "What?! Hannibal, you're as crazy as Murdock!"

The atmosphere suddenly stilled as Murdock was mentioned.

"What about Murdock, Hannibal?" Face's voice was small, vulnerable on behalf of his friend, "We can't just leave him here."

Hannibal nodded slowly, his eyes fixed in the distance, "And we won't, Face. We'll set up our base of operations right here in L.A.; that way, the minute Murdock is better we can get to him."

Face, ever the realist, stated softly, "It doesn't happen just like that, Hannibal." He clicked his fingers for emphasis, "It's going to take time until he's ready to face the world again, and even then he'll have to be reintroduced slowly. Too much and he'll overload and just wind up back here again."

Hannibal placed a reassuring hand on Face's shoulder and met his troubled eyes with a warm gaze, "We have as much time as he needs, Face. I won't abandon one of my men. We move on his terms, whenever he's ready, and not before."

B.A. sat forward in the drivers seat with a smile on his face and gunned the engine to life. Things weren't looking bright, not by a long shot, but they were certainly looking better.

The A-Team were in L.A. to stay. To help, to wait, and then, when Murdock was healed, to fly to the rescue.

The smile fell off his face.

Fly?

Oh shit.