Prepare for Departure

April 19, 2010

Oh, did I mention I write escapist fanfic when I’m stressed?

Cross-Check Complete

Murdock dialed down the radio slowly. He loved prolonging the moment, savoring the dwindling volume through the final satisfying click at the end (still just as much fun as it had been when he was little). He strolled (well, as much as one could stroll in a 15×15 room, but he believed in keeping up appearances, so strolling it must be) over to the door, where he surveyed the hall carefully before pulling a hand-lettered “Back in Five” sign down to cover the grated window.

Sometimes he wondered if Hannibal realized that he monitored the radio show—they’d never officially briefed him on the codes for that one, maybe it was for non-crazy team members only—and sometimes it did get a little tricky, trying to get to his room in time to catch it, but Murdock prided himself on being prepared.

He stopped, considered that. Not true. Murdock, he revised, prided himself on never showing a need for preparation, which was why he was now shifting the dresser eighteen inches to the left and squeezing into a tunnel better suited to a much shorter man.

The problem with the Sunday afternoon show, for him, was that it didn’t leave much time for research before someone was showing up to bust him out. He flicked on the flashlight. Hannibal had given the code for Caraguay, so he shuffled his way deeper into the tunnel. South American sectional maps were in a box at twelve feet. He kept an almanac near the entrance, but he thought he had something a little more specific. . . ahh, that’s right. He nudged the maps along ahead of him.   There’d been a coup in Caraguay about a year ago, and he’d picked up a book about the insurgents. Should be twenty-one feet, top third of the stack, and he thought he remembered a red spine.

He heard a phone ringing and began backing out, unsure if it was from an office above or Face calling already. In the process, he managed to hit his funny bone against Western Europe—Northern Ireland, probably, if he had to guess; it stuck out the farthest. Better Northern Ireland than Irish Archaeology, though. . . the books in that section were actually still shoring up the tunnel.

He pulled himself up, shifted the dresser back, and rubbed his elbow thoughtfully.  Ireland.  He’d done the leprechaun bit before, but a banshee. . . that had possibilities. He could actually feel the wail begin to rise in his throat now, foretelling death (well, doom, anyway) to all that heard it.

Yeah, definitely had potential. He experimented a little as he prepared flight plans that avoided major military airspace (always tricky when it came to South America, you had to swing way out over the Gulf, come in through the southeast to get back), pitching his wail higher and lower, trying to find exactly the uncanny quality he wanted.

And later, as he tucked the weather reports away and waited for Face to arrive, he wondered what would happen when he tried to knock B.A. out with it.


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