At the transport chopper, B.A. hesitates for only a moment. He grits his teeth and marches right on board, much to the surprise of Faceman, George's vicious, coughing chuckle still echoing through his head.
Baracus makes his way to the cockpit and straps himself in behind Murdock who is beat boxing his way through the pre-flight check list. The pilot almost trips over the big Ranger before noticing the company.
"Bosco?" Murdock says surprised. "That bastard found your weakness, didn't he?" It's more of a statement than a question but B.A.'s grimace is all the answer he needs.
"Hey, Crazy," Baracus says, "how much time do I have with this one?" he holds up the pill George gave him.
"Huh! 'Bout ten minutes," Murdock smiles as B.A. dry swallows the drug.
Hannibal settles George into a seat and excuses himself to check on his team.
George nods. "I'll be here when you get back," 'he' says looking around the empty transport.
The space fills with the specters of memories George never had; his wife, Martha, and their children, his comrades from the War, even his best friend, a Joseph Murphy who he survived said War with, none of which ever actually existed.
A misty nostalgia fills the old eyes, "Oh Joe, I miss you, pal," George mumbles to himself.
Other phantoms appear before him, not the wispy, ethereal stuff of fond, long-ago memories but dark and hard-edged, angular and foreboding figures that seem to draw light itself into them.
"Pfah! Great," the old man sighs soothing an old war wound in his leg. "Council meeting?"
A child's high-pitched giggle rings through the air; the sweet sound emanating from a doll, a strange amalgam of action figure and rag doll with music-box ballerina and porcelain angel thrown in for good measure.
"Shut it doll," George snaps, "Ya' got nothin' to say than leave me ta' my memories."
The doll laughs again and pirouettes through the wispy figures of a loving wife and children scattering them like so much smoke in the air.
"Relax George," a slithering, oddly pitched voice says.
George visibly shudders, "What do you..." his words quake.
"I understand you don't trust me, George," the peculiarly sibilant, guttural tones cut him off.
"'Course not, not after the way you lied to us... the way you lied to Sophie," he replies looking around for the source of the words.
An amorphous figure, perfectly androgynous, wavers in George's peripheral vision. "It was only a lie at the time, George," the sexless creature says, "who knows what the future will hold."
"No!" the doll exclaims cartwheeling over the ghosts of George's wartime companions. "Don't you hurt Jammy."
"What do want me to tell them, Simon?" George asks defeated.
"Tell them everything," It replies, "They will meet me soon enough."
"Everything?" he whispers.
"Yes, George," Simon says, "everything."
The shapely, figureless creature laughs at George's discomfort; it is a deep, throbbing noise that escalates to a shrill, pulsing whine.
"Marie might be better for this," George states swallowing hard.
The doll spins to a stop before George. "She's trouble," the child's voice sings, "so's that 'Boss' of Jammy's. I think he's in the way."
The old man forces himself to his feet. "You stay away from that Colonel, you hear me, you plastic brat!" George yells waving his arms at the phantoms, swinging his walking stick like a sword.