Face padded his back pocket and all the money it contained. It had been a quite successful game for him, more so than usual. Now he was headed for his quarters to get some time alone.

It became exhausting, being Face, although it was still better than the alternative: being himself, or what was left of him. That would be shrieking madness.

Regardless of that, he needed to get rid of Face from time to time. Not for too long, mind you, must not let the remnants come too close to the surface, because they would carry tears with them, and soldier's don't cry. Men don't cry.

The goal of those minutes of letting go was to put aside all the pretences and... just exist, like a stone might exist.

Stones don't cry. Stones don't feel. Stones don't have to meet expectations.

Hannibal, of course it was him, had almost managed to drag him all the way up to the surface and through it, pull him into the open, make him crack and break open.

And why? Because he had not been careful enough. He had been sitting in a semi-public place, staring into fancy distance, realising too late that Hannibal was watching. He had gathered his disguises, but not quickly enough, and Hannibal's soft voice had drilled into all the tender spots.

He had cowardly run away, leaving a no doubt furious Hannibal behind. Hannibal hated it when things didn't go his way.

Face entered the building they had requisitioned. It was strictly speaking off base, but nobody really cared. It housed a good two dozen of men, and they all had their quarters on the upper floors, all, except for Hannibal and his personal, select team of three.

Hannibal shared a room with BA, but actually spent most of his nights in the little office he had set up for himself, and that lay right across the hall from Face's and Murdock's room, that Face now entered. It was empty, thankfully. Murdock had to roam the grounds somewhere.

Face pulled the money from his pocket and stashed it in his locker, before he threw himself onto his bunk.

With a long breath - not quite a sigh - he exhaled Face, the person he started to hate. Because it was so fake.

Faceman had been more of a show than anything else, right from the start - especially in the beginning. But over time he had grown into the role, had filled it with reality. There had been enough of himself in Face to make the costume fit.

But now it was too tight in some places and too loose in others. It just wasn't comfortable anymore, and it took energy, so much energy, to keep it up, keep it in place, lest he stumbled over it.

Another deep breath. More of Face was exhaled.

He wondered who he was, now that he wasn't Face anymore.

Was he Templeton Peck? No, he was a college boy, a naive idiot who knew jack squat about anything. And he died anyway, the day Leslie left.

One of those he had been before? No. He had never been any of them, that's why he had kept inventing himself over and over again, hoping that one day, finally, he would find the one that would be him.

Face... for a while there he had thought that he would be the one. But then... Then Charlie happened, and this latest version of him got burned. Bad. He needed a new one. He had no idea how to figure out a new one. He didn't have the energy.

So who the hell was he supposed to be now?

The answer came quick and unexpected: Trash.

Trash, was that what he was? Was that what Charlie had left? Trash? No, no, couldn't be. Nobody can be trash, right?

But he felt it. He felt like trash.

Tears came. They were gathering in his eyes, threatening to ignore his will and just fall.

Stones don't cry, be a stone.

He turned away from the entrance and pulled up his blanket. That was the only defence he had left.

Please, Murdock, stay away for a little while longer. Just until I got this situation back under control.

Tears fell. A sea of tears fell.

He couldn't stop them.

Stones don't cry, soldiers nd men don't cry. But he did.

TBC