CHAPTER SIX

April 18, 1985

Silence.

Murdock heard no sound but the chirping crickets in the brush and the soft swish of a light breeze against leaves. The lake was a calm pool of shimmering glass, reflecting the moonlight and a thousand tiny stars. Breathing in the serenity, he struggled to clear his mind, focusing his attention on what was real. For so long, Alan had existed only as a figment of his imagination, a product of too much trauma and too little sense. It seemed wrong to stand face to face with him, to hear his voice and know that others heard it, too. All these years, there had been no chance he was still be alive. If Murdock had known... If he'd even thought there was a remote possibility...

Drawing in another shaky breath, Murdock's hands trembled. He was losing his grip. He'd been slowly losing it since the moment he saw that ghost. But now he could hear it in his head even if he couldn't find the words because they were screaming too loud - way too fast - before they ever got to his mouth. Like machine gun fire on an AC-47 that could give off a jillion rounds per second at the targets he didn't even know if he wanted to hit anymore. So long ago, and yet it was just like it was now, like it was happening all over again. And while his brain wound further and further down that dangerous path, he realized that everything inside of him was screaming in agony at the thought of going there.

He couldn't find his way out of the brown paper bag. His head was all twisted in some kind of origami contraption like those folded pieces of nothing he used to make when he was a kid. Lotus flowers and an apple for the teacher and a tiny dinosaur for the lucky baby. He laughed bitterly, angrily at the tears that were escaping. Like a leopard in the tall grass, dangerous memories waited to pounce and drag him off like prey into someplace from which he would never come back. His eyes slipped out of focus as he went without a fight, too emotionally exhausted to save his own life and well aware his protests would land on deaf ears even if he gave it his absolute best shot. He was slipping...

Back to the darkness and the agony of uncertainty. Back into the blood-soaked memories of sleepless nights, lonely even in a crowd. To the smell of fear and death and decay and the burning scent of gunfire and napalm-fried skin. Back to the insanity of war, of slaughtering another human being simply because if he didn't, they would slaughter him.

It made no damn sense.

The rush of lost and long-buried memories returned so quickly, it took a conscious effort not to cry out. As if he'd just put his hand flat against the red-hot coils of an electric stove, they seared him irreparably. Rambling thoughts. Screams and shouted orders. Panic and anger. It wasn't his fault he'd crashed; the damn thing handled like a boat and it was all on fire after the rockets hit it. The rockets wouldn't have hit it if he could've dodged them but it couldn't have been his fault. He couldn't have saved them. He couldn't have saved any of them. All he could do was let them save him. He was the SRO after all.

Chaos.

The Skyraider just wasn't built for extractions. He couldn't have saved Alan; he'd barely saved the major. Sometimes the knight simply couldn't slay the dragons and sometimes, everybody died. They floated in the blood, staring at him with vacant eyes as the monsters screamed overhead.

Relief.

He searched through memories of alcohol and agony, like little doses of Lidocaine on a third degree burn - too little too late to take away the pain. Drinking binges and week-long hangovers. Uniform and Article 15, laughing when there was nothing to smile about. Silence and uncertainty in the pitch blackness. It hadn't taken him long to give up on all of it, never knowing until he never thought he ever even cared. Bedlam. Agony. Guilt and anger. Hatred and betrayal. He should've died in the dark.

"Alan, I think I made a mistake..." Trained for so long not to flinch at the sight of blood, not to think about the life that was spilling out on the ground. A superior officer or an enemy, what difference did it make? "Better they should never know..." Locked doors and too many voices, echoing off the whitewashed walls. Memories that were never his to begin with, lies and mind games, loss and loneliness.

"We want you on the team..." Drugged and confused, staring at a familiar face as if he didn't even know him. Lie to him, too. Better he should never know how comfortable that blackness was. "I gotta stay in here, Colonel. The door's locked and the monkeys don't like it if I come out..." Guns and grenades. Civilian life was merely a glorified horror movie, no different than the sight of the burning and the screams in his head that never stopped. Did they scream when they died? Did they even have a chance to realize what was happening and how guilty he really was? All for one and one for all.

Thoughts racing, adrenaline pounding. Second nature to fly a plane. He didn't need to think. Mind wandering... sing louder. Don't lose that delicate balance or fall off that tightly pulled rope and hit the ground below in flames and screaming and death. Nowhere to go but forward. No destination but higher. "Get the clearance, Murdock. Lynch is right behind us." Months and weeks and years of confusion and pain and it had all led him right here. Now if he could only find his way through the darkness and figure out where "here" was.

"Stop!"

The white silence filled his mind as the monsters fled back into their dark and terrifying closets. But the entirely lucid part way down deep inside that had been trying for years to consume him with guilt was still screaming insults. "I told you I wasn't dead! I told you! You gave up on me, you fucking bastard! You turned and walked the other way and you left me for dead when you knew I wasn't dead!"

Murdock's hands tightened into fists, nails digging into his palms as he sought any direction to safely deflect the self-hatred. He had known. He'd never been able to explain how he'd known, but he'd always known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that his brother wasn't dead. No matter how many times he tried to convince himself that it wasn't true, no matter how many newspaper reports told him that it wasn't true, he knew it was.

"What does it matter?" he shot back at that bitter, angry voice, all too familiar even after all these years of silence. "It's not like I could've done anything about it."

"You could've gotten me out."

The accusation felt like a physical blow, even though he knew it was bullshit.He wiped the tears away roughly with shaking hands. "There was nothing I could've done."

"I guess we'll never know, will we?" the voice mocked. "You gave up on me before we could find out."

"Shut up!"

He realized he felt pain, and looked down at the tiny crescents of red where his fingernails had drawn blood from his palms. "You deserve to bleed a hell of a lot more than that, you crazy bastard..."

"Damn it, shut up!" he yelled, out loud. The chirping crickets quieted, but the voice in his head only paused for the briefest moment before it continued, laughing quietly, mockingly. Murdock rose to his feet, pacing along the water's edge as his hands shook with fury at the taunting voice he couldn't escape. There was nowhere he could go to get away from what lived inside his mind.

"You were with the best SOG unit in Vietnam," it ridiculed. "You all risked your necks to save men you didn't even know and you wouldn't even go in for your own brother."

"We did go in for you," Murdock growled, out loud. "We went to A Shau. We went back to Son Tay! You weren't there!"

"You should've kept looking."

His hands were shaking violently. He clenched and released his fists as he struggled to still them. "It wasn't my call!" He'd never wanted to believe something so badly in all his life.

"So you just gave up," the derisive voice accused. "You pretended I was dead. Pretended like there was nothing you could do."

"There was nothing I could do," Murdock maintained, but he could hear his voice crack.

"If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, you go right ahead. But he spent years in a POW camp knowing that nobody even cared."

"I did care!"

That one final yell, up at the sky, probably echoed all the way to God in heaven. More importantly, it finally silenced the noise in his head. Exhausted by the rush of emotion, Murdock sank to his knees, lowering his chin to his chest and struggling to catch a breath. His pulse was pounding in his ears, tears streaming down his face. Exhaustion was not peace, but it was the closest he was going to get. Sobbing quietly, he hugged himself tightly and prayed for the silence to continue.

September 23, 1969

"I had a dog and his name was Blue..."

Murdock listened to the unfamiliar song, slower and sadder than it was ever designed to be sung, as it echoed off the walls of the Pleiku NCO club. On the lips of a dozen scarred soldiers, none of them particularly in tune, the song recounting the life, loyalty, and companionship of Old Blue held a whole new meaning to them now. The Special Operations Group had lost one of their own on a mission in North Vietnam.

"Hey, Blue, you're a good dog you..."

At the final chorus, instead of calling the dog's name over his grave, the somber choir recited a long list of names - men who'd lost their lives in SOG ops. At the conclusion, several of the singers headed to bed. But Murdock remained behind, sitting at the bar, soaking in the depressing atmosphere hanging in the air.

"You okay?"

He looked up as the blonde lieutenant approached and sat down comfortably. "Yeah, I'm fine," he mumbled under his breath.

"You should get some sleep," Face suggested, almost casually, taking another long drink from his beer. "I hear Westman has new orders for us tomorrow."

"Westman?" Murdock asked tiredly.

"General Ross Westman," Face clarified. Murdock recognized the name instantly. The man practically ran the war, and Murdock didn't know what to think of the idea that he gave orders directly to this new team.

"Officially, SOG is accountable directly to the Pentagon," the young lieutenant continued, as if reading the confusion Murdock was sure he didn't let show, "but it's not like they call to chat with us on a regular basis. Westman acts as sort of a liaison. He either gives us our orders or he sends us to someone else who will."

Murdock was surprised, but it wasn't as though he actually cared where their orders came from. Lighting another cigarette to replace the one that had burned out, he closed his eyes and wished the kid would go away.

Face took another drink and turned the tin cup in circles on the unfinished surface of the bar as he let the silence linger for a moment. "You know, Murdock," he finally said, "if you go to pieces every time you see a man go down, you're not going to last very long."

Murdock turned to him, brows raised at the challenge. "Not going to last?" he shot back. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I mean up here," Face said unassumingly, tapping his own temple with his index finger. "It's not just bullets that kill you, you know. And you're no good to us dead."

"Right," Murdock grumbled, looking away again.

Face finished the last of his beer and left the empty cup on the bar as he slapped Murdock's back. "Think about it."

Without another word, he was gone. Murdock shook his head, glad to be left alone. But the respite didn't last. "Kind of a hard-ass, isn't he?"

Glancing up again, Murdock briefly locked eyes with Boston. "He's definitely overcompensating for something," Murdock mumbled under his breath.

Boston chuckled. "Overcompensating?"

"Fearless is one thing," Murdock said dryly. "But he's downright cocky about death. Almost like he doesn't realize how serious it is."

"It's part of the life we chose," Boston replied with a shrug. "We'll probably all die out there. Hell, we know it every time we cross the wire."

Murdock sighed, and wondered if telling the man to go away would achieve the desired effect or make things worse. He didn't need a lecture about being a good soldier in the midst of the horrors of war.

"Face is one of those guys that..." Trailing off, the dark-haired man shook his head. "I used to think he had a death wish. Then I realized that he just doesn't think about it."

Murdock stared into his empty tin cup. "Sounds like a death wish to me."

Boston chuckled. "No, you misunderstood me. He doesn't ignore the risks; that would be more like Hannibal. He just doesn't allow himself to dwell on them."

"So Hannibal's the one with the death wish?" Murdock rubbed his forehead with all ten fingers. He could tell the Sergeant was trying to welcome him into the fold, trying to smooth things out and give him information with which he could build meaningful relationships within the team. It was a noble gesture. At the moment, Murdock wanted no part of it.

Boston lit up a cigarette in the silence that followed, right about the time Murdock finished his. "Did you know that for the longest time, Hannibal's recon team had a reoccurring problem that every time they came back, everyone would quit?"

Murdock couldn't help but chuckle at that. In spite of the fact that he just didn't care, it was one hell of a claim to fame. "Seriously?"

"Dead serious," Boston answered. "He'd pull some pretty death-defying stunts. Had good instincts, though. Always has. The men he brought back were still alive to quit."

Shaking his head, Murdock dropped his hands, closing them around the empty cup again. "So how'd you get hooked into this?" he asked, mustering up some curiosity.

"I volunteered." Boston paused for a drag from his cigarette. "Sought him out, actually. Been here ever since."

"What about the kid?" Murdock asked, shooting a brief glance in Face's direction.

"Face was a little bit different," Boston offered. "He and Hannibal kind of clashed at first. Of course, you couldn't tell now. Now, you can't separate them. BA and I rotate out as One-Two, though BA's first love is definitely demo. Cipher's got extensive medical training. He goes on just about every drop. But Hannibal's always One-Zero, and Face has been One-One for the past ten drops. Pretty much since he got back in country with his commission."

Murdock shook his head. "Sorry," he muttered. "I only understood about half of that."

Boston chuckled. "The One-Two is the radio operator. The One-Zero is the team leader. He makes the call on what happens where and how. The One-One is his assistant, and replacement if he's KIA. While the One-Zero is alive, the One-One will never make the call for an emergency extraction, for example. But he'll do the flyovers and take surveillance pictures before we drop in if Hannibal has too many other things to do." Boston smiled. "Contrary to what you might see on your end, each one of these drops takes a ridiculous amount of planning. Unless we're on the ground, Hannibal is usually a camp ahead of us. Sometimes with Face."

"And Harr- er... Cipher is a medic?" Murdock guessed.

"Yeah," Boston nodded. "We're all cross-trained. But Cipher was actually in med school before he dropped out to join the Army."

Murdock paused. He hadn't know that, but nothing much surprised him anymore. Casting a quick glance at the blonde lieutenant who had settled in with another crowd of soldiers, Murdock sighed. "So why didn't Hannibal and Face get along?" he asked, reverting to the original question. If he had to talk, he at least wanted to talk about something potentially interesting.

"Face was young and stupid," Boston said with a halfhearted shrug. "Hannibal has a surprising amount of patience for bullshit, but when he's had enough, he's had enough. Once they sorted out who was in charge, they figured out they were polar opposites. Face likes planning; Hannibal likes spontaneity. Hannibal likes confrontation; Face prefers to evade. They balance each other out," he smirked, "even if the outcome of most of their arguing ends in Hannibal's favor."

"Most?" Murdock asked. Apparently they hadn't completely worked out who was in charge, then.

Boston paused for a deep breath on his cigarette, leaned sideways on the bar, and tipped his head slightly. "Face held the record on POW snatches even before he got assigned to us. Hannibal may disagree with him, but he does respect him."

With a frown, the pilot looked back at Boston. "He's just a kid."

Boston laughed loudly at that, and finished the rest of his drink before setting the cup neatly on the bar top beside Murdock's. "Trust me, he's come a long way," he answered with a grin, clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder as he left the counter. "And in any case, you'd be wise to keep that shit to yourself."

April 18, 1985

Face had long considered himself good at navigating emotional minefields. It came with the general MO of avoiding said minefields in his day-to-day encounters with the opposite sex, as well as the all-too-frequent need to diffuse a bomb of angst and anger before it exploded in the general direction of his team. It didn't always work - sometimes it became necessary to simply preempt the explosion with an even bigger bomb - but he never lacked the opportunity to practice his skills.

Explosions within the team were more difficult, and far more rare. He'd familiarized himself with the layout of Murdock's general state of mania and the occasional dip into any of the dozen psychoses he frequented. But this anger and deep seated angst was something that hadn't been a part of Murdock's repertoire for a very long time.

Hands in his pockets, stepping lightly over the mushy leaves overlaid with a layer of crunchy ones, he approached with caution. Murdock looked small, huddled against the trunk of a hundred-year-old tree with his knees bent and arms wrapped around them. Although Face was sure he'd made enough noise to be heard by even the most untrained ear, the hunched figure didn't look up.

"Mark?" Face asked when he was within easy earshot. "Really?"

Murdock shut his eyes, as if he could make the intrusion disappear by simply pretending it wasn't real. "Go away, Face," he pleaded when that tactic failed.

It was the response Face had predicted, and it gave him some relief. The territory was unfamiliar, but he knew his friend. Ignoring the request - as if it had been intended as a mere request - he stepped closer and finally sat down on the cleanest looking boulder nearby. It took a moment for him to settle in, impeded by the slippage of his polished leather shoes in the mud. He cast a longing look over his shoulder at the comfortable cabin at the top of the hill before turning his attention back to Murdock.

"I've got to be honest, I never even thought to ask what your full name was," he prodded. "I know it's just HM on all your government paperwork. And everything at the VA."

Murdock got up with an irritated growl. "That's all it is," he answered roughly, taking a few steps towards the water's edge before picking up a stone. He threw it out over the lake, skipping it a few times. "Just HM. I had it changed."

Face watched him, not speaking. He wasn't exactly sure where he expected this conversation to go and he certainly had no intention of driving it. For the most part, he was here to be a sounding board. If the confrontation back at the cabin was any indication, Murdock probably needed one right about now. Crazy though he may be, it was rare to see him lose control like that.

Jaw tight and movements entirely too rigid, Murdock bent and picked up another stone. "My brother changed his, too," he muttered. "'Cept he changed his last name at the same time. Made a clean cut. I kept my last name."

"Why?" Face finally asked, bracing his weight on his arm before realizing his hand was resting in mud. With a look of disgust, he tried to brush it off to no avail, and finally gave up.

"My mother was a seasonal manic-depressive," Murdock finally said, almost too low and too slurred for Face to understand. He threw another stone out over the water and watched as this one skipped three times. "Somethin' 'bout pregnancy hormones made her flat out crazy. When she had me an' my brother, she named us both in -"

He stopped abruptly with a shake of his head, bent down again, and spent a moment brushing the dirt off the next stone before he threw it, too. "She called him Israel'sglory - complete with the apostrophe, an' that was his first name - Matthew Murdock. An' she called me Hosanna Marcus."

Face swallowed hard to keep himself from smiling. It was a good thing, too, because Murdock had immediately turned to see his reaction. And clearly, from the look of anger on Murdock's face, it was not funny to him. Once he was convinced that Face didn't intend to ridicule him, he looked back out over the water and picked up another stone.

"Even after she died, my father wouldn't let me change it," Murdock continued, a touch of sadness creeping into his bitter tone. "Was the first thing both Alan and I did when we turned eighteen."

"How much older is he?" Face asked.

"Ten months."

Face's eyes widened. He hadn't even known that was possible. "Seriously?"

Murdock sighed audibly. "She had six kids before me and Alan, too. They got farmed out to friends, taken away by the state. Never met any of 'em. No idea who they are. She met my dad, and just forgot about 'em and started a new family."

Face hid his surprise as well as his concern. It wasn't that he'd never thought to ask about Murdock's family, but he'd always gotten the impression the topic was closed for discussion and frankly, he didn't care enough to dredge up old, potentially unpleasant memories.

"I didn't find out 'til she died that she wasn't even married to my dad," Murdock continued bitterly. "She always said they were married and he never said much of anything. Never seemed to like us very much, or want to talk. 'Specially after she died."

Murdock paused, and the silence lingered until Face finally drew in a breath. "I always thought you and your mother were close," he said cautiously. What few memories he had been given access to were all pleasant, not worthy of the disgust in Murdock's tone now.

"We were." Murdock shrugged and threw another rock before finishing dryly, "When she was around. When she'd get manic, she'd disappear for days. Find her in a jail somewhere three hours away 'cause she started some bar fight while she was dancin' half naked on the tables, preachin' 'bout hellfire an' damnation."

Face stared in blinking surprise.

"But I was just a kid. I didn't understand any of that. Not 'til I got older." He gave a half-laugh, a slight, self-deprecating smile. "Hell, I don't even think the man who raised me was my real father. I never looked nothin' like him an' I sure as hell don't look like Alan. One of the many reasons we never got along."

Murdock threw the next stone so hard, snapping his arm toward the water in a blur, that it skipped six times before dropping beneath the glassy surface. There was something raw there, Face could tell - something emotional he didn't dare touch with a ten foot pole.

"At least he's alive," Face offered quietly.

Murdock laughed. Briefly, cynically, and without the slightest hint of humor. "That supposed to make me feel better?"

In truth, Face was stunned by the response. "Sure it is," he answered immediately. "You have a living, breathing, flesh and blood relative out there. That's more than you could say before. It's more than I can say..."

"Yeah, well, you can have 'im." The next stone shot halfway out into the lake as well before falling out of sight, lost forever. "I don't want 'im."

Face frowned, considering the seriousness in his voice. "If that's the case, then why did you go after him?" he challenged. "As I recall, that's the mission where you got hooked up with us in the first place. A Shau? You were also the only one who pushed to go back to Son Tay. None of the rest of us thought it was a good idea, for -" Face shifted uncomfortably, cutting his gaze away. "- obvious reasons."

"I'm sayin' I wish he'd died," Murdock clarified. "I wouldn't wish a POW camp on anyone. And I didn't know he was at Son Tay. That wasn't about him."

Face let that lie slide, not wanting to cause any unnecessary flashbacks. "So... the plan at A Shau was to get him out and then go your separate ways like you didn't even know him?" Although he was trying to understand, Face only seemed to be fueling the fire of Murdock's anger.

"Look, it was different then." Murdock spun with a glare. "He's the one who decided he didn't wanna be my brother anymore! I didn't make that call. He did."

"That's not what I just saw." Face pointed back over his shoulder. "It's not what I'm hearing now."

"Only reason he's here now is 'cause he needs somethin'!" Murdock yelled, clearly losing his grip on what calm he'd managed to muster up. "And I don't wanna know what!"

Silenced by the brief outburst of patent fury, Face stared at his friend for a long moment, watching him pace. Murdock finally collapsed in a heap on the ground and dropped his head forward.

Face sighed. "If that's true," he finally said, measuring both the words and sympathetic tone carefully, "you'd better let Hannibal know."

"I don't care," Murdock muttered angrily. "I don't care if you help him or -"

"We help him," Face interrupted.

"I can't." Murdock looked up, staring him dead in the eye. "Face, I can not. I just can't."

Face knew when not to speak. Drawing in a deep breath of cool air, he simply sat, still and quiet, turning his gaze out toward the lake in front of him.

"You know how hard it is," Murdock finally continued, "when you gotta deal with the fact that someone you care about is dead an' you don't even know what happened to 'em?"

Face lowered his eyes. Murdock should know better than to ask questions like that. "We all lost people in that war, Murdock. Friends, neighbors, cousins, brothers..."

"Yeah, but he wasn't gone," Murdock cried. "He just let me think he was! Let me go through that, let me live with it every day..."

"He was scared," Face attempted, but barely got the words out before Murdock interrupted.

"Bullshit!" Fists clenched, Murdock looked away. "He knew where to find me. I wouldn't have turned him over to the Agency no matter what he'd done and he knew it. Now he needs something and I'm s'posed to be happy because he come waltzin' back in like nothin' ever happened?" He shook his head, and dropped it forward again, into his hands. "I can't do that, Face. I can't."

Face studied him, silent, for a long time. But he knew full well that no matter how hard he wracked his brain, he wasn't going to come up with anything comforting to say. So he just stayed silent, and pretended not to notice the silent tears falling into his friend's hands.