AN: Hi.^_^ Terrible at updating, I know. It's a bit of a heavy (thematically, anyway) chapter. I've gotten a few PMs about the swearing in previous chapters. I know they didn't swear on the TV show, I promise. I have to tell you, from a purely historical standpoint, the f-bomb was used extensively and with great relish by soldiers serving in Vietnam - even though they mightn't have used it in polite conversation at home. Otherwise, I apologize for wrecking canon. I know Face isn't a hothead in the series, but he's a young 20-something here. I stand by my disclaimer that I'm not writing an episode of the show and I just want to have a bit of fun playing with the characters. This is my first fanfic, and I do want to get better - so I welcome all constructive criticism.
Warning: Violence, death.
(I know, the Author's Note is nearly as long as the fic! Sorry. ^_^)
Cambodia/Vietnam Border, July 5, 1969, 07:00 hours.
XXX
Hail Mary, full of grace…
Saturdays were special at the Sacred Heart orphanage. Neatly book-ended by a week of dry lessons, and a day of worship and solemnity - Saturdays afforded endless possibilities, even to an orphan of limited means, but limitless imagination. Summer Saturdays were no less special for not having school preceding them. They were lazy and full of leisure and laughter. If Lieutenant Templeton Peck closed his eyes, he could see the nuns grilling dogs and burgers in the orphanage courtyard. He could hear the crack of the bat as eager young boys popped fly ball after fly ball. He could smell the chlorine drying in his hair after a trip to the public pool, where the girls skittered and giggled in sherbet-bright bikinis.
Blessed is the fruit of thy womb…
He'd never enlisted with the intention to kill. Throughout his senior year, his friends batted ideas back and forth. College? Career? Army? For a skinny 18-year-old orphan, accepting his diploma didn't open many doors. He couldn't very well continue working at the movie theater, where the only real perk was seeing all the new films for free. College was expensive and out of the question. He briefly toyed with putting on the cheap suit he got as a graduation gift from the brothers and sisters at Sacred Heart, and applying at insurance companies, banks and car dealerships. No. For a man like Templeton Peck, whose sharp mind stretched far beyond the hand life had dealt him, only enlistment promised a chance to see the world and a piece of the action he'd so far only glimpsed in the flickering hush of the theater. The possibility that he would one day take a life, take many lives, seemed so remote - even as he daily acquired the knowledge in Basic that would transform him into a fleshly weapon. A killer.
Now and at the hour of our death…
He couldn't be more than nineteen. A hand-rolled cigarette jutted from the spare crease of his mouth. Exhaustion pulled at his features and was quickly replaced by surprise as the great woof of an explosion erupted behind him. The sentry half-turned and drew his pistol, looking uncertain and then alarmed as Lieutenant Peck emerged from the brush, his own sidearm drawn. The sentry opened his mouth, perhaps to shout, but no sound emerged. A brief snap reported from the blond Lieutenant's gun. A drizzle of blood wound its way between the young guerilla's eyes.
It helped when you thought of them as sinners.
xxx
Sergeant BA Baracus rushed from cover, catching a faint blast of heat as the central hut became a roaring fountain of flame. VC scuttled in all directions, shouting incoherently. BA had done his best to pick up a few Vietnamese words and phrases, as they all had done when they first got in country. The words slipped around the edges of his brain and just wouldn't stick, leaving him with a complete inability to communicate with the natives in any way beyond crude pantomime. He didn't need a translator to figure out what they were saying now, and it really didn't matter. These men had killed three of his own, and possibly wiped out an entire platoon of the 25th infantry. They were the enemy, and they bowed before his rifle. Ribbons of blood fluttered as the men fell.
Only the dull click of a jammed carbine stayed his hand. Whirling, BA found himself face to face with a little string of a man. Charlie's nose twitched as he pitched the useless carbine and drew his sidearm. BA's heart crashed and thundered in his chest, his arms impossibly heavy as the pistol barrel was leveled at his forehead. He could hear another M-16 firing distantly as he raised his own, a few seconds too late. The guerrilla's arm jerked sharply and a great gout of warmth splattered against BA's face. Charlie fell as though his legs had been cut at the knee, the crown of his head blown away by a well-placed bullet. BA looked around, wild-eyed, unable to find the source of his salvation.
A muttered prayer later he had his M-16 at the ready and was storming through the outlying huts, looking for stragglers and soldiers with friendlier faces.
xxx
Thuk!
Thuk!
Thuk!
The shadows folded and unfolded, framed by the crude door and backlit by the glow of morning.
Thuk!
A rich baritone drifted in and out, punctuated by the strange thwacking sound.
"Today," it sang, "I feel like pleasing you more than before…"
Thuk!
With each thwack, the voice became uncertain, but persisted. As each minute passed, the shadows sharpened. Became distinct. Became men.
One knelt, arms bound behind him, broad shoulders straining. The pale light skimmed the planes and angles of his tanned skin, his shirt a filthy tangle on the floor in front of him.
One stood, compact body bending and twisting as he delivered sharp blows to the man kneeling. Sharp, swift punches that landed with snaps as flesh connected with flesh. With -
Thuk!
The kneeling figure giggled slightly as his tormentor's fist connected with his chest, and continued singing absently. This fresh round of defiance provoked a torrent of abuse that was only faintly recognizable as Vietnamese. The captor put his feet into his work, words alternating with swift kicks. The captive bent forward, sweaty strings of hair brushing bridge of his long nose.
The kicking stopped with a gurgle. The soldier twisted furiously on the dirt floor, silenced by the sharp intrusion of a M-7 bayonet just below his chin.
A new sound came then, a voice of quiet authority.
"Hang in there Captain Murdock." A tall taut-waisted man retrieved the bayonet from the guerrilla's throat and sliced the ropes binding the kneeling man's arms.
The face was a blur. Bright blue eyes registered, as did the look of grave concern. A brief tug followed as the newcomer leaned down, squinting.
"Sergeant Will Dixon," the man grinned, his white even teeth clamped an unlit cigar. "Gotcha!"
XXX
"Today" lyrics © Jefferson Airplane.
Thanks for reading! Apologies for all the violence, but it is a war fic, y'know. ^_^ The next chapter will likely be a bit less grim, I promise.