AN: So, apparently, people want some of Murdock's story... ok, here it is.

I'm not sure about writing B.A.'s version, Murdock and Face are so easy to get out of trouble. B.A. is almost indestructible. How do I get him into trouble in the first place? I mean, I have some ideas, but don't count on B.A.'s story (although I will see about doing it).

Murdock's Story

I stepped into the on-base bar, removing my hat and combing my fingers through my greasy hair. I took a glance around, wanting to make sure that I didn't run into any trouble, then stepped up to the barkeeper.

"May I have a coke, please?" I asked quietly, my mind reeling from images.

"Sure you don't need something stronger than that?" The barkeeper asked, peering into my face, obviously concerned. "It's on the house. You look like you need it."

I shook my head. "Naw. Don' help, jus' gives m' a hangover in th' mornin'. Thanks anyway."

The barkeeper had obviously heard that I had gone into a hotspot today to pick up the wounded and dead. Whenever he knew, he'd give me a free drink. He was the only person who was relatively nice to me here.

I pulled out a wad of bills for my coke, but he shoved them back into my hand. I nodded my thanks and found an empty table to sit at.

Today was one of the worst days of my life. Not only had I endured watching multiple men slowly die, I had gotten a letter from from my Grandma saying that my Grandpa had passed away.

Grandpa was like a father to me. When I was young, I had no friends. When I was at school, I was bullied, but there was no one else who cared about my existence, save my Grandma and Grandpa.

In the summers, I'd stay home and ride my horse. Grandpa would teach me how to carve, how to fish. If it weren't for Grandpa, I would've been a wreck.

I popped the tab on my coke, trying to keep myself preoccupied with something other than the images that flooded my mind. A swig of the stuff did the trick.

A minute or two later, when the drink was finished, I walked outside into the humid night, my hands in my pockets and my heart in my throat. I couldn't get all of those blood-soaked images out of my head.

Suddenly, a hand reached out and tugged me into a small alley, where I was sure something bad was waiting for me.

"Well, well, well. Looks like ol' retard decided to do something other than hide in his tent."

I froze, recognizing the voice as Kincaid's. He and his gang liked to pick on me, and tonight was not a good night.

"Please leave me alone, Kincaid," I said, my mind still spinning.

"Please leave me alone, Kincaid," Kincaid said in a high-pitched voice. "Just let me drink my sorrows away with coke."

"I don't have time for this," I said, pulling away and starting to leave.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, did I say you could go anywhere?" Kincaid asked, spinning me around and grabbing my shirt.

I sighed. "Kincaid, some of us have lives. Somethin' you wouldn't know 'bout. An' I need to get to hit th' sack sos' I can make 'n early flight t'morrow t' do some good in th' world. Somethin' you couldn't do in a million years."

Kincaid growled at the insult and pushed me up against the wall. His goons surrounded us, and Kincaid shoved his fist in my stomach.

The impact pushed me into the wall and made my head spin. Kincaid used that to his advantage and punched again, this time at my face.

He nearly connected. I dodged it and sent a punch of my own to his stomach, which didn't really do much to his completely mustle-made frame.

Two of his buddies grabbed my arms and pulled them behind me, and Kincaid took the chance to pummel my torso.

Five minutes later, I was hanging limp in their arms. I couldn't move, I couldn't do anything.

They dropped me, laughed, and gave me a parting kick before leaving.

I groaned softly, wrapping my arms around my torso and pulling my knees up closer to my body. Although the night was terribly hot, I was cold. That couldn't be good.

Silence filled the alley. I hated it. I was left to my own thoughts, my own pain, myself.

Suddenly, I heard the familiar, quiet stomp of boots. Someone had tromped over to me and was now kneeling next to my head.

I groaned and turned away as someone poured- presumably- water onto my face. It stung like crazy in the open sores, and I didn't feel up for anymore pain. I covered my face with my hands.

Rough but gentle hands took mine and pulled them away from my face, then a wet cloth pressed up against my face and started to wipe at the blood and cuts.

I pushed the hands away, cracking my swollen eyes open. "Don'. Lemme be."

"I can't do that, Captain," a rough, gravelly voice said. "Do you want some ice for your eyes?"

"I'll be fine," I said as I struggled to get up. I froze in the middle of it, my train of thought sudenly leaping to the fact that I wasn't wearing my fatigues, so he w seen my stripes.

"How'd you know my rank?" I asked.

He gave a low chuckle. "I've been through your file, Captain. I'm assembling an Unit, and I'm looking for men who'll qualify. You, Captain Murdock, are one of them."

I stood up on shaky knees and began to hobble away. "I don' think you want someone like me on your Unit."

"I know about your mental condition, Captain."

I froze. "What 'bout it?"

"I still want you on my Unit. You're a spectacular pilot, I don't know who I can find that's better."

"K," I said quietly. "I'll be on your Unit."

The man chuckled and walked forward. "Then, as your first order, you're going to the infirmary."

I chuckled myself, then let out a gasp as the movement jarred my ribs. "K."

He wrapped an arm around my shoulders and supported me all the way to the infirmary. It was then that I knew, I had made the right decision.

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