A/N:Thank you to all the Burners for your reviews of AU 5.01 "High Risk, High Reward" and we appreciate the enthusiasm for this next reposting. It's one of our favorite re-imaginings of Michael and Fiona's lives in an alternate universe.

Besides new chapters of "Be Brave Little Angel"and the next installment of the current 2.01 AU story for "Reconnecting," we'll be working on an update to "True Believer" hopefully in time for the fourth anniversary of the end of Burn Notice.

This is a REPOST of Chapters 10-12 of Puppies, Kittens & Gun Toting Babies and Chapters 4, 9 & 16-19 of Reconnecting. With Season Four, we wondered how different it would have been if Fiona had succeeded in going home.

So, for our AU for 4.01, it begins after the events of S3.16 but with a couple of important changes to the original plot line. In this story, during the events of S3.09,"Long Way Back," Michael kills Thomas O'Neill before he can pass word back to Ireland that Michael McBride is really an American spy named Michael Westen. And then later on, when Michael gets wrapped up in the mischief Mason Gilroy is plotting, then Fiona leaves Miami to return home to Ireland for reasons which will become clear by the end of this chapter.

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4.01– When Irish Eyes Are Smiling

An alternate for Season Four and beyond following on from 3.16 – Devil You Know

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Unknown Location, Republic of Ireland, 2010

Barely conscious, cold and wet, only staying upright because of the men on either side of him gripping his arms tightly, half carrying, half dragging him, to whatever fate they had in store for the unwelcome guest to their shores. In his current condition, Michael Westen thought the shackles on his wrists and ankles and the hood pulled over his head all seem a bit excessive. But even blind and beaten, he could sense the closed in walls of long hallways made of concrete.

Cold leached into Michael's bones and he woke up with a start, unable to contain the loud groan which forced its way past his swollen lips when he sat up too quickly. Pain shot through his body, from what he suspected was a cracked rib or two, but just as bad was the agonizing throb concentrated mostly around the left side of his face. His jaw felt swollen and ached mercilessly, while his eye was puffed up and he could feel the pull of dried blood on his cheek and the taste copper filled his mouth. Falling back onto the cold hard floor of his prison cell, he curled up in a ball and waited for the pain to ease.

Sometime later, Michael tentatively opened his one good eye and attempted to look around. All he could see at first was a brilliant whiteness: shiny, white tiled walls and a whitewashed concrete floor. Where the hell was he?

With a faint whimpering groan, he made another, slower attempt to sit up and that was when he realized several things at once. The reason why he felt so cold was because whoever had taken him had stripped away his clothing, leaving him in just his boxers. There was a burn mark over his heart from what he guessed was a stun gun and lastly, only when he raised a hand to examine the damage to his chest, he noticed he still wore the shackles on his wrists and ankles which had been snapped on earlier during his capture.

Vaughn was locked away. They got him… they got the whole organization… There was nobody left.

Shaking his head and then wincing at the added agony that particular movement brought on, Michael fought against a rising tide of nausea. But if not Vaughn, then who…?

Things had been getting out of hand with Mason Gilroy. Sam had been pissed with him for getting into a car with the freelance psychopath and, after helping the British hired killer steal a fifty caliber machine gun from a group of white supremists, he was beginning to agree with his best friend's analysis of the situation; maybe it was time to hand the whole affair over to the FBI.

He had known it wasn't going to be easy to convince Agents Lane and Harris to take an interest in anythinghebrought them, but he'd had to try. He'd met them beside the Miami River, the younger, taller Agent Lane taking the lead in their disbelief.

"Let's get this straight. You want us to stop Gilroy, who no one can prove is in the country?"

Followed by Agent Harris joining in, "From hi-jacking a plane that no country will acknowledge. That's rich, Westen."

The only time they had shown any interest had been when he had mentioned the gun. "Gilroy is in possession of a fifty caliber machine gun. I have first-hand knowledge."

But as soon as he admitted he hadn't got any other information, they had jumped in their car and told him to stop wasting their time.

"A little suggestion for you... Next time you want to cry wolf, do it at a cafe at South Beach, when you're buying."

He'd been left with no choice but to carry on alone. Well, not exactly alone… Sam was there with him all the way. He still had no idea how the former SEAL had managed it. But two days later, when he was being hunted down by every agency with an acronym, Sam Axe had worked a little bit of magic.

Sitting in a Dade County holding cell after his running battle with Simon Escher, he had been surprised as hell when all of a sudden the door opened to reveal Agents Lane and Harris. They had a deal for him and he had no time to think about it.

"Long story short, Westen, we've done a bit of investigating on our own and we believe you. There is a team upstairs flashing all kinds of high level clearance at the front desk demanding that the cops hand over you and Escher to them." Harris took a breath.

Lane opened a case he was carrying and held out what looked like a test tube.

"Have you ever heard of micro RFID trackers?" The younger of the two agents asked.

"Special Forces use them to keep tabs on terrorists. They're the size of a grain of rice." He'd peered at the test tube.

"No, they make them smaller now, much smaller."

"You want to tag me?"

"That's right, once you step outside, we should be able to follow you via a satellite link. We'll be able to see where they take you and, if it turns out these guys are part of some sort of illegal covert organization..."

"You guys will be able to sweep them all up and take all the glory," he had finished Agent Harris' sentence.

"So, are you in, Westen?"

"Sure." He guessed with one half of Miami blown up and the other half on fire, he had finally got the two FBI agents to take him seriously.

He had been held by Vaughn Anderson in a tiny prison cell for five days before a Special Forces team had assaulted the document processing site in the depths of the Chilean jungle.

Michael looked around the bare room again. That had been four months ago, so where was he now?

As his head cleared, he scanned the room more closely and that was when he caught sight of a large meat hook dangling over a metal grate in the center of the room. Following the hook, he saw it was suspended nearly seven feet up in the air by a short length of chain and then a thick piece of rope which ran through a pulley.

At the sight, a cold pit opened in Michael's stomach. He knew exactly where he was. He just didn't know how they got to him so quickly. He was sure he had been careful. Nobody apart from Sam knew he had left Miami to risk crossing the wild Atlantic Ocean in the middle of winter for the unwelcoming shores of Northern Ireland.

After his release from Vaughn's secret prison, he had spent a month answering questions, mostly being asked by a young CIFA agent with a sharp mind and a very large dossier on another rival organization which had been in direct conflict with Vaughn's operation. It had taken all his self-control not to be sucked into helping the younger agent go after this second group.

But, after so long being locked up and treated like a criminal by the very people who should have been grateful for his interference, he had had enough. In truth, all he had wanted was to be with a certain Irishwoman who had disappeared off the grid completely. All he knew was she had returned to Dublin and then, a month later, she had vanished from sight.

It had taken Sam three weeks to arrange a full set of ID for him and another month to find the right Union official at Miami Port Authority to bribe into getting him a job on a freighter traveling to Ireland. The whole time he freely admitted he had been an impatient pain in the ass, so much so that, in the end, Sam had gone out and found him a couple of side jobs just to keep him busy and out of the way. A lawyer in trouble with the toughest biker gang in South Florida and then, while researching for the right man to get him aboard a ship to Ireland, they had ended up helping out a security guard who was having trouble with a local wise guy.

But in the end, he had made the journey to the Emerald Isle on a cargo ship, docking in Derry Harbor almost four months to the day from the arrest of Vaughn Anderson. From Derry, he had journeyed south with a lorry driver on his way to deliver a forty foot container full of televisions to Dublin. His plan had been simple: stay out of sight and try to make contact with Sean Glenanne and pray the Irishman still thought of him as a friend.

Michael woke up again. He hadn't even realized he had fallen asleep. He guessed it was a result of the cold and a possible concussion from the blows he had taken during his capture. He knew he should be thinking of a way to escape the predicament he found himself in. The sound of his stomach rumbling and the dryness of his mouth telling him he had already started to lose track of time.

Wiping a hand over his eyes, Michael climbed up to his feet. If he just lay down and gave into the cold and his fatigue, he was going to end up too weak to fight when they finally came for him. He seriously doubted there was a way out, but he had to at least look and try to come up with a way of breaking free. If he was in the hands of the man he thought he was, a quick death trying to escape was far more preferable to the waiting around to be tortured.

Shuffling around the room, the chains on his ankles clinking in a sharp reminder of how much trouble he was in, he soon discovered there was nothing he could use, not even a single loose tile, to help him get free. And all the while his eyes kept getting drawn back to the hook hanging down from the ceiling. He couldn't die like that, suspended in the air like a piece of meat. Maybe he would get the chance to ask to see her one last time.

"I know you don't like what I'm doing. But you know it's just about the job? You know that, right?"

He'd tried for maybe the fiftieth time to explain why he was selling his soul to Tom Strickler and she had given him a look he hadn't seen since his first time in Dublin; she had never understood why he did what he did.

"Right… It's about patriotism and duty and the scared call of - whatever."

Of course, that hadn't been the end of it. At every opportunity she had tried to let him know how unhappy she was with what he was doing. But he just hadn't been paying attention.

"Why must everything you do revolve around getting your old job back?"

He should have listened to her, he knew that now. But twenty-twenty hindsight was a wonderful thing. She had even tried beating some sense into him. But that hadn't worked either. Was he really that dense?

"I know you're not thrilled about me reaching out to the intelligence community, but..." As she pounded into the pad he held in front of his body, grateful for its protection.

"I don't have a problem with it..." Back fist… roundhouse kick which nearly took his head off, sidekick to the center of the pad driving him backwards.

"You want your old job back..." A rapid series of killer punches.

"I said I'd be supportive..." Reverse kick.

"Not a problem..." Two full power front kicks, the last one aimed at his groin.

He had been oh so grateful for the pad - and for the knock on the door.

Somewhere along the way, Fiona had given up on him and in the end she had left, running all the way back to the safety of her family, knowing it was the one place he couldn't follow her.

He wiped a hand over his eyes, determined not to break. He had to stay strong and figure a way out of this cell and the immediate threat of a long drawn out death. He was cold, hungry and rapidly becoming dehydrated, desperation was setting in because he knew the longer he stayed imprisoned, the less chance he stood of ever getting away.

Then suddenly the sound of hollow footsteps outside his cell caught Michael's attention. This could be his only chance to escape, or if escape was impossible, maybe his gaoler would be willing to listen to his pleas. If Liam Glenanne was going to make good on his promise from all those years ago, he at least wanted a chance to say goodbye.

The locks scraped back and then the door creaked open as Michael hurriedly got to his feet. Two men entered the room, with balaclavas hiding their features and hair. As soon as they cleared the door, they split up, approaching him from opposite sides. Each move they made was swift and coordinated, ready to deal with any resistance their prisoner cared to offer.

"Sean?" Michael choked on the name as he thought he recognized the taller and slimmer of the men. "There's no need for this..."

He tried to keep both men in his sight, but it wasn't easy with the leg irons interfering with his ability to maneuver. "I'll come quietly..." They both held long sticks that looked suspiciously like cattle prods. "Just let me speak to F-"

Michael went down, his vision greying as he lay convulsing on the hard concrete floor. Before he had a chance to recover, his attackers were on him, freeing his hands but only long enough to drag his arms behind his back before securing them again.

"S-Sean, I-" Michael got no further as his mouth was sealed shut with a strip of duct tape and then, much to his horror, a head bag was pulled over his head and the draw string pulled tight around his neck to stop him pulling it off.

"It'll all be over soon, Westen," a harsh voice informed him in a matter of fact tone.

Then he was pulled to his feet and half carried, half dragged out of his cell and along a hallway, his bare feet catching on the rough surface. Seconds later, he was hit by an icy cold breeze and the feel of concrete under his feet replaced by the sensation of a gravel path.

He flinched and resisted when his tormentors picked him up and then threw him down on his side in what he guessed was the back of a panel van. He heard the solid thud of doors being shut and then the grumbling noise of a diesel engine starting up.

Michael lay still while trying to work out if he was alone in the back of the van. If he was alone he might be able to wriggle round and maybe find something to use to help him break free. Hearing no sounds which would give away the presence of a guard, he made a small move to stretch out and instantly felt the light touch of a heavy boot on his thigh.

"Don't ya be givin' us trouble har, Westen. Ya had plenty o' warnin' not ta come back."

Michael closed his eyes. He was sure now; one of his captors was definitely Sean Glenanne, for all of the Irishman's earlier words of friendship.

He had just finished fixing a clean dressing to Fiona's bullet injured arm when he had heard the rooms other patient stir.

"Michael, get over here," Sean had called out from the larger of Madeline's couches. "So, it's Westen, now is it?" he had growled out.

"It has been for a while. I owe you an explanation." He had expected recriminations and anger, but instead all he had gotten was acceptance.

"Back in Ireland, thar war a lotta questions about if ye war one o' us. I always thought ya war... Now, I know I wa' right."

"Thank you, Sean."

"Ya have nuttin' ta thank me fer. Ya got ta O'Neill befer he could out ya ta his contacts in Ireland. Our sister takin' up wit' an American spy... If he'd made tha call, or if he'd been arrested, thar woulda been hell ta pay..." He'd then looked a bit uncomfortable. "Am gonna have ta tell tha family... Ya can never set foot in Ireland ag'in, ya know thot?"

Michael had been counting on Sean's goodwill, but he had underestimated the force of Liam's personality and the control the oldest of the Glenanne boys exerted over the whole clan.

As bleak as his future looked, Michael still tried to hold on to some hope. The fact they were moving him was a bonus in some ways. While in that room he had been worried about torture. At least now it seemed they were more interested in just executing him. Fiona couldn't know what the head of the family was doing.

Michael worked on loosening the piece of duct tape covering his mouth, while at the same time not drawing any unwanted attention his way. If he could talk to Sean, convince his one-time friend to get word to his sister...Whatever happened, he would never believe Fiona had anything to do with what was happening to him now.

"Here, we wouldnae want ya ta catch a cold." Michael flinched and then realized he had been covered by what felt like a sleeping bag. "We've gotta a long way ta go yet."

It wasn't long before the swaying of the van and the soft rumble of the engine lulled the weakened spy into an uneasy sleep. Maybe this was what he deserved? He hadn't realized what he had lost until she had sneaked away. He'd had no idea what it felt like to have somebody you care about disappear without so much as a word.

"This moving out of town thing... If you're trying to make a point…"

She had as good as given away her car. That had been his first clue to how serious she was about leaving Miami. Up to that point, he hadn't truly believed she was going to abandon him. Fiona had somehow become a constant in his life, an anchor he came cling to when the sea of deceit he was swimming in became too much or he became lost.

"I'm not trying to make a point. Michael. I'm trying to make a change. I'm going home. I told my mother to expect me."

"We have one fight and you decide to go back to Ireland?"

"This isn't about one fight, Michael. If you didn't see this coming, you weren't paying attention. You're too worried about your own future for there to one for us."

He had taken it as another one of her sly digs and, at the time, he was getting sick of her lack of support. He had been so very close to getting everything he wanted; everything he thought he wanted.

"I'm not doing this for me. Fiona, I'm out in the cold and the longer I stay there, the more I endanger everyone in my life."

"Don't you pretend this is about us. It's about YOU...Which is fine... It's – it's just time I – I did what I need to do, too."

He had thought when he killed Tom Strickler that he had proven to her once and for all how much she meant to him. He had thrown it all away for her, yet she had still run away.

Going after Mason Gilroy had been different; the man had needed to be stopped. Why couldn't she have understood that? And why back to Ireland where he couldn't follow if he wanted to live?

Michael woke up as the van left the smooth surface of a road and o to what felt like a track as it began to bounce and slide about before finally coming to a stop. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest. Was this it? Had he arrived at his execution spot? He couldn't help jerking away when a hand grabbed hold of his arm and then the surprise he felt when the handcuffs were undone, followed by the leg irons.

Blasts of icy cold air made him gasp, revealing to his captors that he had managed to free himself of the duct tape gag.

"Get dressed, Westen... Ya try anyt'ing funny an' we'll knock ya out ag'in."

On hearing the door slam shut, Michael ripped off the head bag and drew in a sharp breath of fresh air. Shuddering in the cold, he quickly grabbed up the clothes that have been left for him, realizing they were his own.

Throwing on his jeans, under shirt, the thick cream-colored woolen jumper, it was only when he reached for his footwear he saw there were no socks and the laces had been removed from his boots. If he attempted to run, he would be slowed down by his footwear or, if he discarded them, by bare feet on what was undoubtedly going to be unfriendly ground.

A bang on the side of the vehicle jerked him back to the moment and then the door opened. "C'mon, ar' ya not ready yet? Get out har now."

Cautiously, he stepped out into the frosty air of an early morning in the depths of the countryside. The two men who had escorted him from his cell stood wide apart, holding long barreled shotguns across their chests. Then he saw the man he had known was behind his imprisonment all along standing by a wooden gate, his hands thrust into the deep pockets of his long overcoat.

"Thot is Liam Glenanne, head o'the family now and one o' the most feared IRA interrogators. If ye ever see thot man other than over a bowl of stew at the family dinner, yer cover's blown and yer about t'die a most unpleasant death." The words of his first MI6 handler came back to him from all those years ago, before he had even set eyes on Miss Fiona Glenanne.

For a full minute, the two men stared at each other. To Michael's eyes, the older man looked no different than how he had done twelve years earlier: lean, with sharp angular features and icy cold pale blue eyes which seemed to pierce the soul.

"Walk wit' me, Westen," the Irishman ordered brusquely, turning away.

Knowing he had no choice, Michael joined the older man and they walked through the gate and onto a large grass covered field.

"So, are you walking me to my grave, Liam?" Michael didn't bother hiding his American accent; he knew to do so would have been taken as an insult.

"I told ya, ya couldnae be wit' me sister… I tol' ya ta stay away, an' if ya ever came back, I'd put ya up on a hook like I did thot piece o' turncoat scum who ya an' yar Brit friends used ta get close ta us."

Michael bowed his head. Ever since he had first woken up and realized where he was being held, he had been fighting to keep the image of his first MI-6 handler hanging off that very same meat hook out of his mind. Swallowing, he pushed the grisly memory to the very back of his mind and turned his attention to his most pressing problem.

He had two men behind him and Liam Glenanne at his side, the ground around them was rough and uneven and he had no laces in boots. At the present, he guessed his chances of successfully making a run for freedom had to be close to zero. So, before resorting to drastic methods, Michael set about convincing Liam that he had broken his banishment only to come for Fiona.

"Before you, ah, well - you know..."

"Ya wanta see Fiona," the older man interrupted. "Mabbe she don' wanta see ya. Have ya thought about thot? Ya hurt har more than ya know."

Michael ran his tongue over his dry lips. He had no idea how long he had been without food or water, but along with his cracked ribs and bruised face, hunger and dehydration were all taking a toll on his ability to think clearly.

"Liam, I'm out, completely out. The organization which employed me..." He paused wishing he knew how much knowledge the older man had about his situation. "They're not going to reinstate me. I left Miami to find her... Please, I have to speak to her."

A small piece of hope raised its head when Liam stopped and his pale blue eyes stared into Michael's deeper blue orbs. "Ya still love har, dontcha?"

Michael blushed and nodded. He had been a fool to ever deny how he felt about this man's sister. "Yeah... I think - yes, I do," he finally confirmed.

Liam nodded back, his features still set in grim lines. "Love isn't easy fer tha likes of ya an' me. It's a weakness which yar enemies kin an' will use against ya... I've spent me whole life protecting tha ones I love - an' ta be honest wit' ya, Westen, I never thought ya had it in ya to do tha job."

"I'm done. I've left it all behind, for her, for Fi... I risked everything coming here..."

"Yer done cuz they've thrown ya out, man. Yar country is done wit' ya, not you wit' it," came the blunt retort.

Michael sighed, not ready to give up. "All I want is Fiona. I want to see her, please." He laughed, a reckless release of all his pent up tension. "A last request if you like."

"Ya cannae have jus'-" Liam stopped talking and combed his fingers through his hair, clearly angry and frustrated. Then he drew himself up. "Put yar hands behind yar back, Westen," he ordered coldly.

"What?"

"I'm done talkin' wit ya. Don't have me call Sean an' Colin ta make ya."

Shit! This wasn't how it was supposed to end.

Michael half turned, seeking a way out of what he was sure was about to be his death. He had only taken his gaze away from the eldest Glenanne for the briefest of seconds, but it was long enough for the older man to deliver a blow that stunned the dark haired spy and knocked him to his knees. He felt the cuffs go on and was then hauled back to his feet.

"Ya have ta do things tha hard way, dontcha Westen?" Liam gripped his arm tightly and gave him a harsh shake which nearly sent him to his knees again. "Now walk through thot gate o'er thar and ya see thot house down tha way? It's up ta har if tha cuffs come off, an' if ya go or stay."

Michael heart leapt at the knowledge Fiona was so close. He went to move off, but Liam caught hold of his arm again. "If she says fer ya ta leave, ya'll do it. If ya give har any grief, I have a boat waiting in tha harbor ready ta drop ya in Iraqi waters. I hear tell thar's lots o' folks out thar wanting a piece o' Michael Westen. Ya give Fiona any trouble an' thot's where ya'll end up."

He walked along the mud track, slipping and sliding and unable to balance properly because of the very tight handcuffs preventing him using his arms. What the hell was Fiona doing staying in some little farmers' cottage in the middle of nowhere?

As he got nearer to the white stone built cottage, he found his way barred by a gate with a lever he couldn't reach. He was just thinking that he would have to climb over and risk falling on his backside when a small figure dressed in a heavily padded anorak, over the top of sweat pants tucked into black wellington boots, appeared on the other side.

The gate swung open and he stepped through, trying to get a look at the figure's features which were hidden by a large deep hood.

"Fi?" he questioned while waiting for the padlock to be locked back in place.

"Michael," she replied softly, confirming his suspicions. "Come with me."

"The handcuffs? Please, Fi, it's not necessary."

"I'll decide what's necessary," she replied sharply and walked ahead of him, leaving him no choice but to follow.

Entering the farmyard, he was met by three large, angry white geese that honked and hissed noisily at him, but Fiona shooed them away. He was becoming more and more confused. This wasn't the Fiona he knew. Living in the middle of nowhere, a mud covered farmyard guarded by geese… He caught sight of a couple of skinny semi-feral farm cats watching him from under a large bush which smelt of rosemary, their yellow eyes fixed on him as an unknown in their territory.

Inside the cottage, he was hit by a wall of heat radiating from a large blazing wood fire burning in a stone hearth. Squinting, as he tried to take in all the details of the dimly lit place Fiona was calling home, he noted a small two-seater, cloth covered couch, a rocking chair and a several large wooden cabinets filling the cramped space.

Hearing a soft growl, he looked back over to the fire and saw that what he had thought was a large fur rug was in fact two shaggy coated Belgium shepherd puppies stretched out enjoying the heat.

"Fi?" He was thoroughly confused by Fiona's appearance and living conditions and was getting sick of nobody answering his questions.

"Sit down, Michael," she spoke in a cool flat tone as she took off her anorak and wellingtons, revealing for the first time a fuller figure than he was used to seeing.

"This isn't necessary, you know that. You know me."

"Yes, I know you, Michael, but -" She bit her lip and moved towards another room, opening the door. "Just sit down. I have something to show you first. Rose..."

He peered across the room as Fiona disappeared from view, her voice easily reaching him from the other room as she continued to talk.

"D'ya remember that night, after we had finished helping Spencer with his 'alien' problem, and you had finally got your new best friend, Diego Garza where you wanted him? When I made you your favorite meal and in return you informed me if I loved you, I should damn well want for you what you wanted for yourself?"

She was walking back towards him, holding something wrapped in a pale blue blanket. Michael gulped and shifted uneasily… No, this was not possible... It was then he caught his first glimpse of another figure he recognized as Sean's wife, Rosanna, carrying a similar bundle, this one wrapped in pink.

"That was the night I was going to tell you I was pregnant." Fiona's words came to him, but it was as if he was hearing them from a long way away. "After that night, I tried to give you time. But first it was Strickler and then afterwards… After you had promised me you were done trying to get your old job back, you turned your back on me yet again to go after Mason Gilroy and that was when I knew you would never change."

They were in front of him now, both women scowling up at him, as if waiting to pass judgement on his soul. "And in the end, I realized I wasn't going to be able to hide my condition much longer... I was sixteen weeks, Michael, sixteen weeks pregnant and you were so wrapped up in stopping another great conspiracy, you hadn't even noticed." She shook her head. "So I came home."

Michael couldn't speak. He stared at the two tiny bundles and the unfriendly faces of the two women holding them before him. Two babies, one baby was more than he ever planned for, but two?

As his tired mind tried to make sense of the bomb which had just been dropped on his head, all that kept repeating was the thought of two babies… two tiny, innocent defenseless pieces of him and Fiona...

Starved, dehydrated, beaten to hell, living under the very real threat of immediate death and now this, two babies…

His mind did the only thing it could to protect his sanity... It shut down and he fainted.