Murdock had met his father once. At his sixth birthday party. Looking back on it years later he had to wonder who had contacted him, was certain it wouldn't have been his Grandfather who had given the man nothing but looks of cool disdain the entire thirteen minutes and fifty five seconds he had decided to stay.

It was awkward, that's what he remembered, even at such a young age, he could sense this stranger's desire to be anywhere but near him. He didn't know what to do with a child, had no concept of how to speak to him, had merely stood unsteadily before him, swaying in some drunken haze as he clumsily shoved a package in his hand wrapped in browning paper, tied messily with frayed and weathered string.

He had opened it, even though it had reeked of tobacco and cheap whiskey to find maybe a handful of toy soldiers, the paint chipped and broken, the green almost grey.

Murdock had watched his father leave, never to darken his door again, before he buried them beneath the soil and left them to rot.

It was that memory that plagued him as he scratched amongst the soil, trying to dig up the photos he'd taken from Bancroft and buried. The moonlight his only source of sight as he worked, fingernails black.

Nowhere near as black as his conscience though.

Face deserved to have at least one thing from his father. He could choose to do what he liked with it after, but he at least deserved the choice.

And so Murdock dug, trying to wrest it from the grave he'd created for himself.

End.