This chapter gets pretty heavy, y'all. Touch of humor to start, but things get serious fast. And, not gonna lie, I'm a bit anxious about it. It's definitely the darkest installment of this series so far, so hang on!
Specific tags that apply to this chapter: Fear, Helplessness, Intimidation, Violence, Angst, Hurt Face
Okay, here we go...
XxXxXxXxX
The first time Face got caught lying to Kao was Day Number Twelve.
Unsurprisingly, it was also the day Kao revealed he had somehow figured out they were The A-Team. Not an A-Team—because those had standard patterns of composition (same number of men, same set of ranks, etc.) and actually followed a rule or two. But The A-Team—who did none of that.
Face knew their unit's unconventional make-up was half the reason Hannibal had been so intent on trying to hide their ranks in the first place. Because there was only one Team running around Vietnam with a Colonel, a Lieutenant, a Sergeant, their own pilot, lots of attitude, and nothing else. And that Team just happened to be on the Viet Cong's most wanted list.
Sometimes being the best was a pain.
But for the first eleven days of their captivity it hadn't been an issue. They'd remained cheerfully anonymous, and while the VC had been annoyed by their lack of cooperation that's as far as it'd gone. Neglect had seemed to be their game plan, which'd been just fine by Face. True, the starvation diet and unsanitary living conditions were far from ideal, but given some of the alternatives he hadn't been about to complain. A fact which his teammates had found, by turns, to be both astounding and amusing.
But all of that changed on Day Number Twelve.
The Team were embroiled in an argument over who actually had all four aces in their latest round of invisible poker (it was Murdock, Face had dealt the cards himself) when Kao arrived. There were three other officers and at least twenty guards on his heels—a warning sign if Face had ever seen one.
The cell block was long; a dozen overcrowded cells standing between the Team and Kao. But somehow Face still knew.
Kao was there for them.
The line of Hannibal's shoulders came up a little as the enemy began their approach. It was the only sign the man gave that he was even aware of their presence. With his back to the door, he made a show of adjusting the nonexistent cards in his hand. Voice casual, he said, "Kao?"
Face hummed in confirmation. "Brought a few friends, too."
"Ain't seen him come in with a party like that since they first dumped us here," B.A. muttered.
"They must've found Maguffy. Oh, I may never forgive myself!"
"Shut up, Murdock. They ain't found no Maguffy, anymore'n you got four aces."
"I do to have four aces." Murdock fanned out his invisible cards as proof. "See?"
Hannibal grinned. "Looks like four aces to me, B.A."
"I must'a been outta my mind, agreeing to play with you guys. This is ridiculous."
"You didn't think it was ridiculous when Face dealt you that Royal Flush, you big ugly—"
"Guys, guys," Face hissed. "Can we not attract attention right now? Please?"
But it was too late.
Their already dim cell was cast even deeper in shadow as Kao and his men came to a halt in front of the door.
Naturally, Hannibal continued to ignore them. With another grin, he clapped his hands together. "Okay, kids. My turn to deal. How about a little five card stud? Diamonds are wild. Aces or better to open."
Face groaned. That was preposterous. If Hannibal kept making up rules like that, even Face wouldn't be able to talk B.A. into playing with them again. Of course, seeing as how they were all probably about to die, maybe it didn't matter.
Darting a look toward Kao and his too-large entourage, Face swallowed. And swore his heart tried to jump out of his chest when a hand curled over his knuckles.
"Take it easy, kid," Hannibal murmured. "You're gonna bend the cards."
Face huffed out a breath, but slowly unclenched his fists. He was rewarded with a smile and a wink as Hannibal plucked invisible cards from his hand.
One guard stepped up to the door and there was a dull clatter of keys.
Face swallowed again, but didn't look. Not this time. When a hand once again curled over his knuckles, he set his jaw, locked eyes with his commanding officer, and waited for orders.
"Stay sharp, stay alive." The words were hushed; something less than a whisper. But the fierceness in the Colonel's tone made it a command.
One Face accepted with an almost imperceptible nod. Yes, sir.
There was a harsh scrape as the guard slid the key into the lock.
Hannibal's attention shifted to focus on first B.A. and then Murdock. "Stay alive," he repeated. "Whatever it takes."
Whatever it takes. The words echoed in Face's head as he and the rest of the Team got to their feet.
The cell wasn't wide enough for them to stand four abreast as they normally would have, so they dropped into a loose two-by-two formation instead. Based on the growling Face could hear at his back, he guessed B.A. wasn't too happy with being relegated to the second line of defense. Face wasn't too thrilled with how that had worked out either, if he was being completely honest, but he was second in command. His place was at Hannibal's side and that's where he intended to stay. Even if it was like standing next to a lightning rod during a thunderstorm.
The door to their cell opened, and Kao smiled as he shattered their hopes of anonymity forever. "Colonel John Smith, leader of The A-Team. It is an honor."
Adrenaline (it wasn't panic, honestly it wasn't) rushed through Face's veins. Just what the heck were they supposed to do now?
His eyes flew to Hannibal; that traitorous need for guidance and reassurance unable to be denied.
But for once, Hannibal didn't look back. He just stood there, staring Kao down with something close to a smirk on his face. He was obviously on the Jazz, but there was a flicker of something darker in his expression that Face had never seen before.
"I could return the compliment, General." Hannibal paused, fishing the stub of his last cigar out of a pocket and sticking it between his teeth. "But I do hate hypocrites, don't you?"
Eight violent seconds later Hannibal was gone. Surrounded and dragged away while Face and the others were driven back against the wall. It was like being caught in a human riptide. No time to think, no time to react. Just sudden and complete loss of control.
The impact with the wall left Face breathing hard. Or maybe that was just the shock. He supposed he should be used to it by now. War had a cruel habit of ripping lives apart in the blink of an eye. One moment your unit was alive and whole. The next it wasn't. But they were The A-Team. Things like that didn't happen to them. They just didn't. Not like this. Oh, they'd been wounded before; trapped, cut off, surrounded. But they'd always been together, and together they could do anything. But with Hannibal taken, their invincible unit had suddenly been fractured.
And Face had no idea how to fix it.
B.A. didn't seem to have that problem. With a yell, he threw off the guards pinning him to the wall. Two jaws and one nose snapped under his fists in quick succession. Then he got angry.
If the eight seconds it had taken to drag Hannibal away had been violent, then the fifteen seconds it took for B.A. to pluck Face and Murdock out of VC hands were feral. Vicious in a way B.A. rarely ever was.
Face was again left breathless as he found himself jammed into a corner practically on top of Murdock. It was a tight fit with B.A. planted in front of them like a brick wall, and nothing but rough hewn stone on either side. Having his legs half-tangled with Murdock's only made it worse. But it was being stuck with his back to the VC that spurred Face to move. His efforts cost him several new scrapes, and Murdock at least one new bruise, but that couldn't be helped. There was no way Kao was going to let B.A.'s show of defiance stand, which meant Face had to be ready. For what and to do what he had no idea. But he had to try.
His desperate scramble ended as soon as he caught a glimpse of what lay beyond their human shield. B.A. had clearly done some damage. There wasn't an enemy left standing inside their cell. Bodies (limp but still breathing as far as Face could tell), were strewn across the floor. The rest of the guards—for reasons unknown—hadn't advanced from their positions in the hall. They just stood there, stony and impassive.
And then there was Kao.
The General didn't appear to have moved either, but there was something off in his eyes. Something wild that belied his otherwise serene appearance. The level of calmness in his voice when he finally spoke was unnerving. "Sergeant Baracus. I have heard many tales of your strength and temper, but did not believe them to be true. These matters are so often exaggerated. Yet, even weakened as you are, you have proven yourself worthy of such reputation. I am impressed."
The tone of his words slipped under Face's skin. Soft and insidious, like the smooth burn of alcohol.
But whatever intoxicating effect Kao might have been hoping for was lost on B.A. With a snarl, the Sergeant stepped forward and began hurling the unconscious guards out the door.
When the last body fell at Kao's feet, the General laughed. A harsh crackle of sound that soon shifted into the even harsher bite of Vietnamese.
A portion of the guards in the hall responded to the command. There was no riptide this time; just the steady march of soldiers into their tiny cell. The enemy set themselves in a half circle, three deep despite the cramped quarters, and waited. The choice, though left unspoken, was clear: B.A. could back down willingly or he would be made to back down.
As soon as Face saw B.A. widen his stance, he knew exactly which option the Sergeant had chosen—and how it would end.
Grabbing onto the back of the other man's shirt, Face tried to stop him. "B.A., don't."
"He's right, big guy," Murdock murmured. "Even you can't win this fight."
"I'm not lettin' 'em take you."
Face closed his eyes and held on even tighter. "B.A., it's no use. Just—"
"No!"
The fabric under his hand ripped as B.A. threw himself at the closest opponent.
Face threw himself after him, not really pausing to think. He landed against B.A.'s back, arms straining to wrap around the other man's shoulders, and tried to pull him away. "B.A., stop!"
But the Sergeant didn't stop—and neither did the VC.
A baton lifted in preparation to strike, and Face half-climbed onto B.A.'s back, putting everything he had into forcing the man off course. Out of the way. He felt more than saw Murdock add his own weight to the mix and, between the two of them, they managed to make B.A. stagger. Not much, but enough. When the baton came down it missed B.A.'s skull.
It wasn't until Face heard himself scream that he realized he'd been hit instead. That the angry crack of wood ringing in his ears had come from the blow landing across the base of his own neck and shoulder.
Things went a little hazy after that—sensations bombarding him in disconnected waves; the world bending and flowing like liquid. After a while, even that threatened to drift away.
But it didn't drift away.
Piece by brutal piece, reality slotted itself back together, leaving Face bent over and unsteady on his feet. Murdock was there, one shoulder propped under Face's and an arm tight around his waist. B.A. was close, too, voice rising and falling as he alternated between insulting Face's intelligence, seething unintelligibly, and apologizing again and again. At least, that's what Face thought he was doing. If the big guy would only slow down and maybe stick to just one emotion he might could tell better.
Calloused hands pressed against either side of his face and lifted his head.
"Faceman?"
"M'okay." The answer felt thick on his tongue, but it was mostly the truth. Dragging his gaze up to meet B.A.'s, Face tried to smile. Tried to project even a fraction of the confidence and reassurance he knew Hannibal would, if he were here.
But Face wasn't Hannibal, and he never could be.
The still unchecked flow of anger and worry radiating off of B.A. was proof enough of that. But at least he wasn't fighting any more.
No one was.
A fact which registered in slow and increasingly disturbing stages for Face. He wanted to believe it was a good thing. That the guards giving them space was just an unexpected act of mercy. But the longer the stillness lasted, the more unsettled Face became.
One look past the circle of his teammates told him why.
All of the bodies B.A. had flung at Kao's feet were conspicuously absent, while the number of guards in the hall seemed to have doubled. Inside their cell, the rows of would-be combatants had shifted, taking up flanking positions along the wall.
A move which left Kao and the chambered Colt M-1911 in his hand with a clear field.
Face forgot how to breathe. Judging by the angle and the steadiness of Kao's hand, a shot at this range, would sever B.A.'s spine just below the brainstem. Not an immediate kill-shot perhaps. B.A. might last for a minute after, maybe two. But he would die. Of that, there was no doubt.
The thought was enough to make Face's stomach roil. He tried to tell himself it would never happen. That Kao would never really pull the trigger. Not now. Not so soon after discovering who they were. The same reputation that made them such attractive targets, also made them more valuable. Too valuable to just be gunned down over a single offense. Or so one would think. But when Face finally dared look Kao in the eye, he saw the truth.
Lives had no worth here. Not even The A-Team's.
"Sergeant," Face rasped. "Stand down."
Time stretched, dread distorting mere seconds into a lifetime. He could feel B.A. staring at him; feel the force of every unspoken accusation and protest. But he refused to look away from Kao. Certain, somehow, that if he broke eye contact, whatever thin thread of restraint was keeping the man from pulling the trigger would be broken, too.
Face fumbled for a hold on B.A.'s wrist. His fingers were heavy and clumsier than they should have been, but eventually he made them work. "Stand down," he repeated. "Please."
He wasn't even sure who he was pleading with anymore.
The hands that had been bracing his face, shifted to his neck. Rough fingers pressed into his skin, and for one horrifying moment it felt exactly like goodbye.
But then B.A. bowed his head, shoulders rounding in defeat. His hold on Face tightened and, with one last, gentle squeeze of his fingers, he let go.
Face let go, too, his friend's wrist slipping out of his grasp as the other man surrendered.
The corner of Kao's mouth curled in approval. He didn't holster his weapon, but he lowered it fractionally, and for now that was enough.
Swallowing against a sudden swell of heat in his throat, Face turned to B.A. He couldn't bring himself to meet the other man's eyes this time, but he had to give him something. "Stay alive, remember?" he whispered. "Whatever it takes." The reminder sounded hollow. Inadequate in a way words rarely were for Face. But it was the only excuse he had to offer.
A command was snapped in Vietnamese and iron cuffs linked with chains were passed into the cell. It took two guards to secure them around B.A.'s wrists and then he was being yanked toward the door.
The Sergeant only looked back once; his gaze lingering long enough and heavy enough to weaken even Face's resolve. The raw, torn in two look he found waiting for him cut deep. But anything was better than seeing his friend dead. Wasn't it?
Nineteen seconds later, B.A. was gone.
That roiling feeling came back with a vengeance and Face was certain if he'd had anything in his stomach, he would have thrown up.
The arm around his waist tightened. A sudden, unintentional reminder that he had yet to fully straighten himself. Giving Murdock's shoulder a pat, Face shuffled a step away and carefully unbent his body. The pilot let him take back his own weight, but refused to allow the distance between them to stand. Stepping into the slim gap Face had just created, he pressed close.
Face wanted to object. Showing any kind of dependence or weakness in front of the enemy was a dangerous mistake—and they'd given Kao more than enough ammunition already. But Face didn't have the wherewithal to step away from Murdock again. Not when they were the only ones left.
And not when his body seemed to have decided being vertical was its least favorite position right now. He swayed a little, unintentionally leaning into the small points of pressure where their bodies met—shoulders, elbows, hips.
Murdock tucked himself even closer. "I got you, muchacho."
The world blurred a little—for reasons that had nothing to do with the blow he'd taken—and Face locked his knees. Pulling himself to his full height, he lifted his chin. I got you, too, buddy. I promise.
Kao walked into the cell, scrutinizing them both. His attention settled on Face, though, as he very deliberately slid the Colt back into its holster. "I commend you, Lieutenant Peck. Your instincts serve you well."
"I would return the compliment, General," Face said, voice falling in a tight, unyielding echo of Hannibal. "But you seem to have made a mistake. It's Captain, not Lieutenant."
The supportive body next to him went rigid.
"Face?"
It was little more than a breath of sound. One which Face easily ignored. "Captain H.M. Murdock. Pilot for The A-Team," he clarified, just in case there was any doubt.
"That's not true." Murdock stepped forward, inserting himself between Face and Kao. "I'm Captain Murdock."
"He's lying," Face snapped. "It's the only thing Lieutenant Peck is good for." It came out sharper than Face had intended; an old, familiar bitterness tainting the words. But he had to make Murdock understand: this was all he had to offer. The only possible way he could help.
Next to Hannibal, Murdock was the highest priority target on the Team, and they all knew it. He outranked Face and, worse still, he was a pilot. They'd made sure Murdock hadn't been caught wearing a flight suit, of course (Face's spare pants had been a little short on him, but the rest of uniform they'd pieced together had made it passable). But if Kao knew they were The A-Team, then he also knew one of them had to be a pilot.
Taking Hannibal's place had never been an option, but with Murdock it was different. The two of them were close enough in age and general physical description to at least try pulling off a switch. They were all going to be tortured anyway. It wasn't like Face was offering Murdock a free ride. But the Viet Cong had a reputation for being especially brutal to pilots, and it wasn't fair that Murdock should have to carry that alone. Sharing it made sense. They shared everything else. Besides, it was good strategy. Even if the deception only lasted a few days, it could help.
Murdock disagreed. "I'm not lying, General," he insisted. "I am Captain Murdock."
"Will you stop it," Face hissed. Then louder and a bit angrier, he added, "Just because I'm not a Green Beret like the rest of you doesn't mean I need protecting, Lieutenant. I know what I'm doing."
Murdock turned around, gaze steady and smile far too soft. "I know what you're doin', too, Facey. And if you think I'm gonna let you do it, you're crazier than I am."
Face grit his teeth, focus shifting back to Kao. "I'm Captain Murdock," he bit out. "Service number 4-8-9-2-8-8."
There was a sigh, warm hands cupping Face's shoulders, and then it was all over. Any hope Face had of convincing Kao, snatched away by the very man he was trying so hard to protect.
"If you're really The A-Team's pilot, why don't you tell General What's-His-Bucket over here how to prepare a Huey for lift-off, huh? Can you do that? Because I can."
Face opened his mouth. As long as you were confident and talked fast enough, people rarely questioned whether or not you actually understood what you were talking about. He could come up with something.
But Murdock never gave him a chance.
Face clenched his eyes shut as the other man began listing off steps and procedures with practiced ease. Don't do this. Please don't do this.
But it was already too late.
"What about the cyclical, huh?" Murdock asked. "Can you tell 'em what that does? Or explain how you calculate thrust and lift? What about the altimeter? Can you—?"
"Stop it!" Face jerked back, staggered. Told himself the reason he was shaking was because he was angry and not because everything that mattered to him was being taken away. Murdock reached for him, but Face shoved his hands away. "No!"
"Faceman, hey, it's gonna be okay, all right?"
No! No, it's not. I can't—
"Hey, look at me."
Breath sawing in and out of his chest, Face glared at Murdock. But then the world blurred again and, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't keep his mask from crumbling. "Why? Why'd you have to do it?"
That too-soft smile resurfaced. "Why'd you stop B.A.?"
Thirty seconds later, Murdock was gone—and Kao stood in his place.
The General was shorter than Face, but sturdier. Broader. Not that it mattered. The cold Face could feel seeping into his bones had nothing to do with Kao's size.
There was less than an arm's length of space between them. Face hadn't thought twice about the distance when it'd been Murdock, but now he suddenly found himself very acutely aware of just how close he was to the wall.
The cell had been cramped with all four members of the Team in it, but it had never felt claustrophobic. If anything the forced proximity had helped keep them all grounded. Or maybe that had just been Face. It wasn't like they'd actually talked about it. But now, with the others gone and Kao standing close enough to touch him, the cell seemed unbearably small.
Which was completely irrational. The General hadn't even done anything. Since moving into the cell and sucking all of the oxygen out of the room, he'd simply gone still. Granted, his posture was more uptight than before, but it just made him look crisp. Formal. Like this was some kind of routine inspection, and Face nothing more than a particularly ill-made cot he couldn't decide what to do with.
Kao didn't speak. Didn't lash out or yell or even scowl. Back ramrod straight, hands folded behind his behind his back, he just looked.
But there was something wrong in it. Something cold and... sick that made Face want to claw at his own skin. Instead, he stood there frozen. Will power and whatever strength his starving muscles might have had left, stripped away beneath that look.
He wasn't even sure why.
Panic stuttered in his chest and, without thinking, he glanced at the Colt. He never saw Kao move. Couldn't have said later where the bamboo cane had even come from.
But he felt it.
One strike was all it took to put him on the ground. Maybe it would have been different if he'd seen it coming. Or if his balance hadn't already been compromised. Then again, maybe it wouldn't have made any difference at all.
With a gasp, he laid there, fighting to bring his trembling limbs back under control. To think past the stripe of pure fire radiating down the side of his face. Blackness swept across his vision. He blinked, shook his head, and slowly watched the shadows ebb to gray. That's when he saw Kao. Not towering above him as he'd expected, but crouched in the dirt mere inches away.
Face scrambled back, heart thudding. The cane was still in the General's hand. Every few seconds, he snapped it against his open palm. The sound alone was enough to make Face shudder. Pressing his body against the wall, he turned his head away.
And almost choked when two fingers touched the wound on his cheek.
Kao's touch was clinical—not particularly harsh, but not exactly light either—and Face pressed back even harder against the wall. A low keen escaped his throat as the fingers began to move, raking down the swollen line of heat from his temple to the crease of his lips.
By the time Kao was done, Face's breathing was an erratic mess. And it only got worse when the clinical touch suddenly turned cruel—fingers and thumb clamping around his jaw hard enough to bruise. His eyes blew wide as his head was jerked forward, away from the shelter of the wall. The move left him with no choice, but to look straight at Kao.
The eyes that stared back at him were black. Devoid of light in a way Face had never seen before. And just like Kao's icy composure, the wrongness of it to made him cringe.
Father Magill had always told him there was no such thing as an irredeemable soul. That all of humanity, no matter how steeped in darkness they might have become, were born in the image of God. That everyone was intended for salvation, if they would but accept Him. Sister Terrance had not shared that opinion, regularly prophesying eternal damnation over all the boys in her care for their mischievous ways. She'd even gone so far as to declare a nine year old Templeton Peck beyond all hope of redemption. Only a born heathen, she'd said, would run a pyramid scheme on his fellow orphans and wind up with every cookie, marble, and frog Sacred Heart had to offer. It had been the extremity of that reaction which had first lead Face to believe (and desperately hope) that it was Father Magill who was right. That no matter how far he fell, there would still always be a chance for salvation—a hope he had clung to all the harder since landing in Vietnam.
But as Face stared at Kao, at those eyes so consumed with darkness, he couldn't help but wonder if Sister Terrance hadn't been right. If perhaps there was such a thing as an irredeemable soul.
The fingers clamped around his chin dug in deeper, and Kao leaned close.
"You lied to me, Lieutenant Peck. Do not do it again."
And Face didn't. Until Day Number Forty-Two…