Ben Chichoski owns everything CoD. Soldiers will remain unnamed for the most part.

Warning: Strong language, mentions of torture, and general dark shit. This is kind of jumbled, which is how it's supposed to be.

Unbroken

Chapter 1: Ghosts - Logan

It's been so damn long.

Where's Hesh? Why hasn't he come yet? What's taking him? Has he forgotten me? Oh, God I'm never getting out Rorke's gonna win and I'm gonna die down here and-

Stop it. Calm down. I'm fine. It's gonna be fine. I'll get out 'cause Hesh is coming for me.

I'm okay. It's okay. I'll be okay...

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When someone you know dies, the first memory to go is their voice. I don't remember what my dad sounded like. I see him talking, but there's no sound.

I can't remember my dad's voice. Holy shit.

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The rain is pissing me off. So's the mud. The pit...

...Where's Hesh?

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I got to the top of the pit earlier to check out the bars. Nearly fell on my ass, but I got there. They're rusted as fuck, and the ground's muddy from the last few days of rain. If I could just get them loose...

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They're trying to feed me that shit they gave Rorke. I threw it back at 'em last time. They just laughed, like they knew I was gonna have to eat some eventually, and walked away.

It's either I'm going to starve, or drown. I don't care. I'm not going to end up like Rorke. I fucking refuse.

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They finally started the "fun" part. Their words, not mine. It's more of a warm up. Dad said the worst shit comes after the mind games. Or was it before? I can't remember.

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God, I'm hungry. Been, what, a month? How long can someone last without food again? I think Dad...or...was it Hesh...? Whatever. Someone said it's possible to live for a few months without it as long as they have water.

I'm alright as long as no one thinks to put up a tarp or something.

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I take it back. I'm going to die from starvation, drowning, or a fucking cold. What a way to go.

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There's something going on. Everyone's scrambling around. I guarantee it's the Ghosts.

I'm going home.

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Hesh. I hear Hesh. I yell for him. Wait a few seconds. He pokes his head over the side. I almost cry. I don't care. I'll admit it.

He says hang on. Starts to work on the bars. I see someone behind him, think it's Merrick or Keegan.

It's not.

No. No. NO!

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They moved base. I'm in a room now. Cell.

Rorke "visits" every day. Doesn't say anything. Doesn't do anything. Just sits across from me and watches. I want to kill him. I want to fucking rip him apart.

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I can't get water in here. I add dehydration to the list. Cold's still on there. May need to upgrade it to pneumonia. Fantastic.

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He finally starts. Talks about Hesh. How he shot him. Killed him.

I haven't decided how I'm going to kill the bastard. Maybe a shot through the head, like he did to Dad. Maybe a knife to an artery, let him bleed. Decisions, decisions.

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It changes. Sometimes they beat me. Sometimes they just take a knife and start slicing. Doesn't matter.

I won't break. It becomes a mantra in my mind.

I won't break. I won't break. I won't...

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I dream of when I was little, in San Diego. Dad's barbecuing. Mom comes out with plates and stuff. Me and Hesh, David, I mean, are playing soldier. Like always. Even as toddlers, we played soldiers.

I can't tell if it's a dream or an actual memory. Maybe a mix. Either way, my throat's tight when I wake up, and there's an ache in my chest.

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I have a brand new cut on my face. When it becomes a scar, it'll match Rorke's. Fuck.

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They've been trying to force-feed me, which is how I got the cut. They aren't getting that shit in me. I won't take the water either. I feel my body shutting down. I should be taking a dirt nap pretty soon.

Damn. Was looking forward to killing the fucker. Oh, well.

You lose, Rorke.