His name was Logan Walker and his arm was broken- most of his days were whittled away stewing with his own thoughts. That was the Pit's fault. It was just a hole in the ground, not that it was ever just anything, but it was his prison. Logan was trapped in a cramped hole in the ground somewhere deep into enemy territory; Federation territory. The season's steady rains kept him clammy and miserable, soaked to the bone, and coated in soft mud. His stomach snarled loudly in its empty displeasure. A shadow loomed above. "Two weeks, kid. No one's gonna come get you." Rorke's words seemed to echo in his head, hanging in the space between them like a loaded gun. He was still spitting profanities when the shadow retreated, taking the other man's low, rumbling chuckle with it. When sleep finally came, his dreams were painted black and blue with suffering. Logan would never join Rorke. Not after everything he'd done.

He was so hungry it was all he could think about, and his skin was blistered and raw. The rains were long gone- only the harsh, burning sun remained. Every little movement caused him pain. Pain from his skin, pain from the broken arm. Of course, staying still only meant that the pain in his empty belly took precedence. Logan spent his days in silence, looking inward to escape for even just a few moments. That was when he discovered just how much one man can hate another. Still, stuck as he was in the Pit, behind enemy lines, there was nothing he could do about it. A shadow blocked the merciless light. "Thirty-six days, kid- where are they, huh?" From the bottom of the Pit, Rorke seemed like a giant. His words haunted Logan. Had it really been so long? Where had the time even gone? Logan closed his eyes and tried to sleep, pushing the thoughts and questions as far away from himself as he could. But then there was only the sun.

Logan thought his arm was rather ugly these days- it had, perhaps, finally healed. It turned his stomach to see, and so he ignored it as best as he could in spite of his sallow skin being stretched taut over his frame. Starving was a concept he had been acquainted with many years before, during the federation's occupation of California before the state's inhabitants fled or died, and so when he met with it again it was something like meeting someone he had once known. Sleep came much easier these days, energy sapped by something as little as turning himself over. The nightmares were far more vivid now, and his faults and fears nipped at his metaphorical heels. But there was nowhere to run. Stinging flies and biting ants left his skin pockmarked. A rash developed. The Pit was a study in human misery, Logan mused. And a shadow fell over his upturned face. He had no energy to pry open his eyes. "Three months two weeks, kid. Are they even looking?" Rorke. He turned his head away from the voice and dove head first into sleep. The screaming began not twenty minutes later.

'Full' was a hazy memory- something Logan was so far removed from that it was only what he dreamed about. Thankfully, he'd learned how to manage the empty feeling he did know best. When he wasn't asleep, he scorned his prison and let his eyes wander to the blue sky above, chasing the merry clouds and losing himself in daydreams. What else was there, after all? He had long since numbered his scars, telling and retelling their stories to himself to keep him sane. It was anyone's guess as to whether that had worked. Hesh seemed to think it had, but then if Hesh was really here with him they wouldn't be in the fucking Pit. So maybe not, then. It was nearing dark when the shadow came over him, so close that he didn't notice until the voice that went with it startled him into alertness for the first time in ages. "Six months and four days, kid. No one is coming." Logan only blinked up at him blearily, nothing more.

In short, he was exhausted. He could barely lift his own head, let alone roll over. Now even the sky was far beyond his reach- not that it mattered very much. All he ever did was wake for a few scant moments before falling asleep. What little time he had in the realm of consciousness he spent spooning his feeble 'meals' into his mouth. Logan was tired. He was dirty, covered in mud and various bodily fluids. It reeked, he was sure, but he could no longer smell it. His eyes drooped again, sleep pulling him under once more. The next time he woke, the shadow was upon him and there were hands dragging him up out of the pit. As they dragged him across bumpy, uneven ground he heard Rorke say "Nine months to the day, kid- you need a fuckin' bath." With the help of his two assistants, Rorke shoved him into the back of a jeep. It was a freezing cold bucket of water that woke him next, soaking every inch of his skin as he spluttered in terror. Another followed. Somehow, the laughter was the worst of it all.

He was held down to a chair, sobbing his eyes out. His knobby arm, now freshly broken and roughly wrapped in a cast, was fixed to the arm of the chair. This was all wrong. Rorke stood before him, casting a tall shadow over his ruddy face. "Nine months and a week, kid," the man informed him. So very wrong. Free of his coat of grime, scrubbed until his skin turned pink by men in rubber gloves, head shaved to solve the problem with the lice. Bony and starving and exhausted. His adversary held a plate of food- not white rice and boiled beans, meant to prolong a miserable existence, but something that smelled unspeakably good. Food meant to tempt. Steam curled off of it merrily. And yet. Logan eyed it with nothing but suspicion. There were stories. He knew what was most likely hiding within. Once, he had refused the rice as well. Just in case. Hunger had driven him to gorge himself on it, in the end. Rice and beans and worms. When Rorke finally left him in the dark, cramped room, the plate stayed behind. Only the fact that he was tied down stopped him, in the end.

Rorke, of course, didn't come see him every day. Or very often at all; evidently he had more important things to focus on. Still, it was as though the Feds were waiting for permission to interrogate him. He was still alarmingly thin, could just about count every bone through his skin. The room they'd locked him into was cramped and dark and cold, freezing against exposed skin. Logan wore only a pair of thin, scratchy boxers- his flesh left bare to grant ease of access. Still kept alive on rice and beans, when they weren't trying to get him to take their poison. Last he'd eaten was long enough ago that it felt like there was nothing left. And that's why he isn't surprised when the door to the dark room swings open, casting a long shadow over his face. The devil himself enters, and Logan feels a sharp pang of sheer hate at the sight of him just before the door shuts and the harsh overhead light flicks on. "Ten months, kid," Rorke announces. Logan has never wanted a plate of food so badly in his entire life. But he knows. Oh, he knows.

The darkness drives him to madness faster then the Pit ever could have done. The darkness, the cold, the silence- they slip long, dark fingers into a fragile mind. First, it's Hesh's voice from out of nowhere, then his dad from somewhere out there telling him to aim a little higher, Logan. He deteriorates rapidly, responds to phantoms and figures that aren't present aloud. His whole body aches from being held in one position for so long, head once again too heavy to lift. Just as they would lower bowls of water to him in the Pit, he knows there must be something to keep him alive. When the door swings open, the light burns his eyes; it's been ages since he's seen another person. The shadow stands tall before him. "Happy anniversary, kiddo. Do I even need to say it?" No, he doesn't. A whole year after everything, and Logan is still here. That time he didn't resist the food, though a few stray tears snuck free. He was vomiting before Rorke even reached the door.

After that first solid meal, if one could call Eve's temptation a meal, it was open season on Logan Walker. At first they asked him questions- about the Ghosts, about locations, code words, and every sort of thing. Logan tried not to answer them, but in the end he'd given them more then he would have liked. Not that it was very useful, a year late. The second the Feds realized that nothing he had was useful they stopped asking questions. His arm was long since out of the cast, but now every single one of his fingers was broken; some of them burned, too. A glorified training dummy for their interrogators- his new purpose. Rorke, one man told him in a thick accent, wanted him broken. And they were all too willing to give the man what he wanted. The light interrupted his daydream. He was seeing things now too. "A year and two months, kid- you're makin' the boys restless, you know." There are no tears this time, but his vomit hits Rorke's calves. He awards himself ten points when the pain subsides hours later.

It's such a small room that when he screams, the sound bounces off of the walls in the dark. David would tell him to knock it off and save his energy for the trials ahead every few shouts, but sometimes Logan would just ignore him. Just a while ago the harsh white light above had been on, a man whispering dark promises in his ear as the knife dug into his skin. He'd left when Logan lost consciousness and couldn't be roused again. His ankles were swollen from having strained at their leather restraints- sprained, no doubt. Then again his whole body was no more then one big bruise: mottled greens and browns, fresher purples and blacks. Rorke entered, a shadow sweeping through his glorified closet. "A year and three months, kid. I'm starting to think you're gonna break the record. Why are you even holding out, huh? You know they're not coming for you." A hint of pride was hidden there. But Logan couldn't, wouldn't join them. "You ready for round two?"

Logan knew the instant he was no longer human in the eyes of the men who dealt with him. He would never know exactly what caused him to lose that status. It wouldn't matter anyway. When he woke in a new, strange room on cold tiles, drugged to the gills although unbound, the men swam above him. There were six of them in total- three he knew by sight. Three were strangers. "Is he any good, do you think?" one asked, gesturing vaguely at Logan's prone form. "We'll find out, yeah?" another replied, and he did not understand their words. They leave him sweaty, aching, used. Utterly bereft of the spark of life. Logan lay on the tiles, staring blankly at the wall across from him. And then he closed his eyes and tried to will himself to death. It was all so unnecessary. Death did not come for him that day. It would become a weekly cross to bear. Hate could never be strong enough of a word.

Friday. Recovery. He was clean once again, strapped down to the chair. Yet the pain was still there. The bruises littering his collar. Why? Hesh raged with him, there in the cold and the dark. There was a bite mark on his shoulder. Logan would forever swear that he could hear his father weeping. But he had always been alone in that room. Bile rose in his throat, unbidden. He was an object now. A punching bag. And worse. His eyes are shut when the shadow blooms on the floor, made by the light of the hall outside. "A year and six months," Rorke rumbled before flicking the bright light on and swearing under his breath. Logan swallowed heavily, prying heavy eyes open to stare at the older man with dead eyes. "Shit son." So he knew now that at least it hadn't been authorized- what little comfort that brought him. He watched in silence as Rorke's face flickered from shock to anger before finally clearing, eyes hard. At last the man lifted his knife and began the work he came to start, as if nothing had changed although, perhaps, everything had. The next week it was only Rorke, and it was so much worse then usual.

He was punched into consciousness, head snapping to the side as his teeth clicked together. The previous 'interrogator' was gone, and Rorke in his stead. Today there was no shadow. His eyes were already watering, both from the blow to the head and the sting of the lights. "Congratulations, kid; two years. You broke the record." Rorke actually sounded impressed, and Logan was willing to bet he'd been the last 'record holder.' He was exhausted though, and his body hurt, so he let his head hang limply and said nothing at all. Somewhere deep inside he praised himself for lasting so long, for holding out hope. But another part of him wondered why he even bothered at all. Why, after two whole years in hell, did he even bother? The torture continued, his spirit bowed. They broke his fingers again, and a knee cap- they were a bit excited. It was their second anniversary together, after all. Or so they said. There was no real way of knowing. Only Rorke.

There was pain like he could never have imagined before. It had been a while, yet Rorke had not come to cast his shadow over Logan in what felt like an age. It had been a long time, he knew that much, but without Rorke he could never be sure. He relied upon his enemy for that, at least. His throat was sore, his lower body a vision of misery. Friday. This time there was no respite. One of his usuals was training a woman. The knife was a careful press of the knife hurt worse for her hesitancy. For once, his chest was wrapped in bandages- the last trainee had been too zealous- so her focus was entirely on his limbs. Last round had nearly killed him, and his ghastly pallor had the woman looking green about the gills. A particularly inspired slice had him seizing in his chair, body arching away from the source of his pain. Yet his throat was hoarse from screaming, his vocal chords damaged. No sound could come forth from his mouth, at least for a time. The man broke two of his fingers on their way out, simply because he could.

Logan retreated into himself, far beyond where anyone could reach him. It had been such a slow, gradual thing that none of them had seen it coming. The shadow had not returned yet, but it had been a long time- he knew this because his chest had scarred and his knee healed to the point where he could hobble after them when they brought him to the showers and sprayed him with ice water. The only kindness he knew now was found in the quiet, familiar voices that whispered to him in the dark. But he was alone. He could hardly ever recall the things they said after the door opened and the men came in, but they always left him feeling warm from the inside. Today, he saw with some amazement, they had not strapped him down in the chair after hosing him off. That wasn't right. He was always tied down. The leather straps hung down off of the sides. Logan rose painfully, shambling to the door and poking his head out. Perhaps they hadn't realized.

Agony. A simple word for all that it encompassed. For the depth of itself. For his 'escape attempt' they had broken his good knee with a prejudice, taking time to break a few toes while they were at it. A punishment for a crime he had not committed. The leather restraints are far tighter then they were before, cutting into his swollen ankle and chafing his other limbs. There was still no shadow looming in the doorway, no shadow to tell him how long he had spent dwelling in the darkness. Rorke's absences bothered his captors, who spoke in low voices just out side his door. But they carried on just as they had always done, bludgeoning and beating and burning him. The burns had always been the worst. How they lasted the longest, literally seeped deep into his skin. They whispered sour promises, lies, into ears that hardly listened. Recite passages from the Federation's manifesto, tell tales of glory and honor and power all at his fingertips if he would only just join them. But he would never. Not after what they had done to him.

Memories, vague, of other places beyond his prison in the dark flit behind his closed eyelids. The foremost were of the Pit, taunting and drawing all strength of will from him before he even woke. There were still voices, so many people he must have once known soothing in empty blackness. Their voices are dimmer then they once were- the Feds spend far more time breaking him down physically then they do letting his mind die in the dark. His torso was covered in a quilt of bruises old and new, scar tissue cutting through the colors. Burns marred his arms like scars from chicken pox, pressed on helter-skelter by cigarettes and cigars extinguished on tender skin. Once, they had dipped his hand in scalding hot water until his was sobbing too hard to beg for his hand's release. Rorke was still not there, and Logan hardly remembered why he was waiting for the man. There was nothing but pain and darkness.

There was a sign on the outside of the door, not that it would ever know it was there. 'Logan's Room' it proclaimed in cheerful, primary colored block lettering. When it swung open, the shadow came across his face. Rorke was still snorting as he stepped forward, flicking the lights on. He paused, taking Logan in with his eyes as Logan did the same to him. Of the two of them, Logan has certainly come out worse. Though there weren't many scars above his collarbones, just a small one of his chin and another on his left ear, there were plenty below. "We're giving you a break today, kid. You're a force of nature, huh? Third anniversary's tomorrow." Rorke... had been gone a whole year? A year? And Logan hadn't even noticed. Had simply hung his head and endured for a whole year. That day he lifts his head and meets Rorke's eyes. Something that had been missing inside him clicks back into place. His mind, his sense of self was still lost to him. But he was alive, and so very strong.

The door was wide open. Light streamed in from the hall, and noise along with it. The trainee from those long months ago, the one who'd nearly killed him, had fled the room when a man had come on an intercom to tell them that there was 'trouble.' And the door was left open. Logan couldn't move, of course, restraints being what they were- but he could still hear. Some of the Feds were yelling out to each other, demanding that they find the intruders. Then there was a man standing in the doorway, blinking in at him. A few thoughts ran through his head all at once: not Rorke, not Tómas, not anyone he knew. But he was sure that he knew the figure he was seeing. The stranger began to approach, mumbling under his voice to no one (and seeming to get a reply). Lifting his head was much harder then he remembered it being, but when they met each other's eyes they both gasped. Those eyes were so blue he could almost see clouds in them. "Logan," his new friend breaths, and Logan listens.

He wasn't in his glorified closet. There's so much space out in the halls that it was disorienting him. Before there had been the security of knowing every inch of his space. Now, though... He shuffled and shambled after the older man with extremely difficulty because although his knees were long since healed, they were warped from his almost constant seated position. Three years of torture, near starvation, and hopelessness did that to a man. But he could still make his way, despite the pain it caused his malformed legs. Anything for a chance to get out of this place. Where to Logan didn't know, but away would be enough. Just after they rounded a corner, an intense, searing pain ripped its way through his abdomen. Tears leapt to his eyes in an instant as he tripped over his own feet and crumbled to the floor, his stranger hissing a quiet "Shit!" And the last thing Logan knew for quite a while was a pair of arms hefting his prone form as he moaned in agony. Then he checked out of life for a little while.

Logan drifted somewhere between awareness and sleep for what seemed like an age, the only thing he knew was the intense pain. The steady loping of his not-stranger. Being warm; and that one was new, and not unpleasant in the slightest. His little torture chamber was always freezing cold, and one of their favorite... tricks was to pour a bucket of water over his head and crank the air conditioner up as high as it would go. It was freezing in there most of the time, sometimes quite literally. Then the one-two of the other man's walk slowed to a halt, and Logan strained to stay awake. Wondered, feared. "Hold this," says the not so stranger, voice vibrating against Logan's ear, and then he was dumped in the arms of another. Agony stabbed at his belly. "Wha? Logan!" He knew that voice. It had visited him in the darkness, long before there was anything but. It was the most beautiful, wonderful, precious sound of all- his big brother. His family. Logan managed a weak smile, eyes fluttering before he had to give in again. He never saw the tears, and the not-stranger would forever pretend he hadn't.

Fear. Noise. All that there was. A steady thrum of a sound he knew, but could not place. And pain. Logan moaned lowly, expecting no sympathy. No reprieve. A hand smoothed his brow gently, a hush whispered in his ear. Thoughts swirled just passed his eyelids, right where he could touch his fingertips to them but never truly grasp them. Still, he was sure he knew the voices that murmured to each other in low tones. Keegan was his blue eyed stranger, he decided. His brother was easy. But the third voice... "Kick, how much longer?" Keegan asked urgently, David echoing the sentiment just moments behind. Had one of them been hurt? Was something wrong? The sharp pains from his abdomen kept his eyes clenched firmly shut. Still, he strained to lift his head and pry an eye open, a sea of questions poised just behind his lips. A lance of sheer torture had him crying out and falling back down into the blissful black.

The entire world was reduced to a blur of color and a rush of air. All around him people were shouting, asking questions about blood type and potential allergies and wasn't that man supposed to be dead. And there were orders- orders from leaders and followers and followers learning rapidly to become leaders. A cry like something a wounded animal might make, haunting and tormented. He blinked upwards wearily, the colors soaring past him blending into one monotonous shade of crisp white. Still, Logan looked for his brother. There was no sign of him in this strange, warped world, and he wondered hazily if it had all been a dream. A cruel, cruel dream. Then one of the blurry figures lowered a mask over his mouth, mumbling some instruction that Logan couldn't hear over the rush of blood in his ears. All that he wanted was his brother. Where was David? He said nothing.

His eyes opened slowly, drooping frequently so that it was a fight to get them all the way open. A hospital room stared back- not the cushy kind he'd known a lifetime ago when he'd gotten a virus severe enough that he'd been hospitalized, replete with a window and a television. Just a beige room with a white ceiling and the lights turned down low, plus an open door on one wall that lead to a bathroom. Brown eyes, unusually dull, stared up at nothing. A series of beeps and hums kept a beat around him. An IV line ran down from its stand into his arm. Logan shuddered, then winced in pain shortly thereafter. Hospitals. Yuck. A yawn had his nose twitching from the disinfectant. The door to what must be the hallway creaked and caught his hazy, drug-addled attention. A familiar silhouette stepped into the light, and drifted over to his side. The man stopped and stared at him for a long minute, as though he thought Logan might disappear if he dared to blink. For a moment his memory fogged and it was a strain to put a name to the face, but he soon caught up with himself. Merrick. With an almighty effort, Logan raised his crooked, gnarly fingers and twitched out the man's callsign. The apocalypse began: Merrick grinned.

There was a calendar in his room, now. David had brought it for him that first day he was awake, circling the day it was in red pen and asking one of the orderlies to please keep the date. So Logan knew that he had been in this room for two days now. He was very proud of that little calendar, and looking at it often made him smile. Although he couldn't get up to mark it off himself, he could still know. Time crept by like a thief in the night when nobody was visiting. His brother assured him that he tried to visit as much as he was able, but Logan understood that he had duties. Still, it was a bit of a pill to be constantly excited to see who was coming through the door only to be met with another doctor- or doctor of the mind. Logan found the psychologists particularly loathsome. They always asked stupid questions, usually about his scars. Trying to get his defenses down. Did they hurt? No, not anymore. Did he have dreams about when he got them? Yes. Was he afraid of the ones who had given them to him? Not in the waking world. And through his interrogations, his brother sat by him. Interpreting.

Logan was allowed to leave the hospital for a time, as the doctors were hoping he might be able to bulk up a little bit before they checked up on him again. With his knees warped as they were, he'd been given a wheelchair to scoot around in. He opted instead to have Keegan carry him, because he could. Calendar held tight against his chest, Logan let his brother give him the grand tour of their old room once again. Just like he'd done an age ago, when the Army realized that there was a third Walker that they could conscript. Their other roommate was long dead. Keegan gave him a startled look as he lifted him up with ease; Logan didn't know why, as he'd already gained three pounds this week. David cried when they had to switch bunks, but with his knees it the state they were there was just no way he'd be able to get up onto the top bunk. Logan said nothing, even when directly questioned, but that was okay. David was there to speak for him. When he slept, he dreamt of wandering hands, and tongues, and teeth, and a sort of violence he dared not to name- and Logan woke up in a cold sweat with an imaginary knife clenched in one fist.

When he had the energy for it, he took to wheeling himself around after the people he knew he could trust. Logan would hover just a few feet behind them for as long as they'd put up with him. Mostly, however, he slept in the room he shared with his brother and tried to stockpile as much energy as he could manage. Four days after he'd left the hospital- god he loved that calendar, the little paper scraps that gave him a little control over the life that he was barely leading- David brought Riley into the room. Instead of rushing him, like they'd both expected the dog to do, Riley merely trotted up and lay his head on one of Logan's crooked knees. His hands trembled as he stroked his dog's soft fur, and he cracks a feeble smile. David- Hesh, a small part of him insists- beamed like Logan had handed him a million dollars in cash. Riley refused to sleep anywhere but Logan's bed after that, and his howling and barking kept everyone up when they tried to separate them. Logan took to hobbling or wheeling himself after the dog, who never tired of his presence or sent him away.

Sometimes old friends of his came up to give him a friendly punch on the arm- welcome him back into the fold as it were. They were people he'd known since basic training, and yet... He would flinch. Every time. He found himself backing away from hand shakes or fist bumps in trepidation, body trained to expect pain from hands. Anything that moved toward him a little too quickly was met with fear. When left alone with strangers, he would cry- and not one of his friends, his family could figure that one out. Or at least the couldn't until one of Logan's old teammates smacked his ass as a follow up from a rather lewd joke. He had laughed at first, silently, but the second the hand made contact he was back on the floor of a dingy Federation locker room for an instant. Later that night, they had a chat. "..." Logan says nothing with his voice, but his hands twitch out a stern 'Don't tell David.' Merrick, half in the bottle, agreed as readily as Keegan did. They knew who Hesh was. How he'd react.

Logan forgot to eat a lot of the time. Forgot that he even needed to eat almost as frequently. They'd all laugh about it, Keegan, Merrick, David, and him, but every one of them knew it wasn't funny. He could hear the worry in their voices, felt ugly guilt rear its head in his belly where the hunger should have been. After a while, they started to ask him if he'd eaten at all that day. Would ask him if he was hungry. And most usually, the answer was no, he hadn't and yes, he was. David looked ill when he said as much, hugged him close and cupped the back of his head. Logan was good at hungry- great at it, even. He could manage hungry. Honestly, truly he didn't even feel it any more. Hunger was something he'd known so intimately for so long that it merely felt like nausea. Felt like weakness and exhaustion and nothing more. David (Hesh! Hesh!) looked rather like someone had punched him in the gut when Logan's hands tell him that. Keegan only shot him a sympathetic look, as though he'd expected that. Then they bought him a quarter pounder from McDonald's and forced him to eat as much as he could manage. The next morning they went out to get him a watch with an alarm on it, set to ring three times a day.

He doesn't sign anything when they take him back to the hospital, with its cold, unfeeling walls and icy floor. David told him they were going in for a routine check-up. What they had gone in for was a surgery on his knees. "I promise, Lou, just your knees," his brother assured him, plying him with promises of things like running and jumping. Things he hadn't done in years. It had been getting burdensome for him to move around, once he was secure enough in his place to want to leave his bed. People had carried him up and down stairs for weeks, let him wheel behind him, or their least favorite: hobbling behind them, and by now his body had repaired itself enough from his last surgery for them to permit another one. Still, he left David unacknowledged and pleading to be forgiven without having spoken a word. And when he in a hospital bed yet again, he held onto the cold shoulder technique for another three days. Physical therapy had him screaming and crying, however. It scared the hell out of the nurses and therapists involved, who'd all thought him a mute.

Keegan visited him the first day after the surgery- or the first day he was fully lucid, anyway. The man smuggled about a dozen packets of Smarties in for him, wry smirk painted on his face. Merrick had taken one look at the pair of them, sorting the candies by color to pass the time, and called Logan an extortionist. David was always there when he was awake, armed with a soft grin or a kind word- he must have left at some point, because his brother began dumping Beanie Babies onto the bed next to him while he was sleeping. Once he woke up with three strategically balanced on his face so that they wouldn't fall, and all he could do was wonder where David was getting them, because nobody was even making them anymore. It was there in a hospital bed in a pain he couldn't explain that he found out how the big brown eyes he'd never properly used as a kid worked. And then he abuses them with glee. Merrick called him an extortionist. He knew.

Logan held still, allowing Riley to lick his face frantically as the dog's tail wagged ecstatically. Then he apologized to his dog with his posture, because the dog can't read his hands and Logan won't speak. After the dog had finally settled down, nosing lovingly at his side, he flashed David the puppy big brother had sighed deeply before reaching out and lifting him up."Where to, Logan?" David asked blandly, already thoroughly done with his shenanigans. Actually, he didn't know where he wanted to go. He had just wanted someone to carry him around so he didn't have to walk; because fuck walking, right? Now that he was thinking about it, maybe he should change his name to Logan Not-Walker. Logan blinked fuzzily, considering himself, and made David carry him back to their room so that he could read the label on his medication. That, he mused, explained a few things. He snagged his watch on the way out, wrapping it around his wrist where it should have been. A quick check of the calendar to confirm- two months free, yep- and they were off again.

They got him a haircut as soon as he could stand to see someone he'd never met before voluntarily- not like the first one he'd had, where they'd shave his tangled, matted mess of hair off of his head to check for head wounds. The second haircut was nothing like that one at all. There are two people ahead of him, one in for a simple buzz and the other for a trim. Not too long of a wait, but it was enough to ramp his anxiety from a manageable three to a crippling eleven. Out of ten. That whole 'grace period' is spent plastered to his brother's side trembling like a leaf in the breeze. One sneaky finger absolutely did not stroke at the beanie baby that wasn't in his pocket, Keegan stop laughing! The second the scissors touched his neck he had a panic attack, cold metal ghosting over his pulse point having pushed him off the edge. Merrick would later drily compare it to Rambo, and Logan would go pink with embarrassment. He'd bruised Keegan's ribs, punched his brother in the jaw, and flipped the poor barber over his shoulder in his blind panic. Somehow, his hair had still been cut during the melee. The barber must have been some sort of magician.

Logan dreamt of Rorke far more then he ever wanted to. All dreams of the man (monster) taking his stress out on Logan's battered body. Used him as a toy, one to break into a thousand pieces however he so chose. Rorke, once he had warmed up to the idea, had loved Thursdays- he'd always left Logan to the Feds on Fridays, when he was around, but if he was there then Thursday was his. Mostly, he dreamt of the pain and the terror and all the times that hurt, and that was a sort of psychological brutality. But far worse were the ones where Rorke had been almost kind to him. When there were semi-sweet words whispered in the dark, to people long passed, hot breath on his ear; rough hands had left bruises on his body. Logan would always wake up screaming in terror. Those were the only nightmares that affected him so... violently. David would cradle him afterwards, rocking back and forth and gently prompting him to talk about it. Logan only ever shook his head and buried his face in the side of his brother's neck. Often times, neither of them would make it back to sleep.

His calendar, his faithful calendar with which he religiously kept time, finally lost its function on the first of January in 2030. Logan was twenty eight, and so very tired. Tears ran freely down his face when David takes it off of the wall, and he barely restrained himself from flinging himself onto the man's legs to plead for the thing. He said nothing, however- did nothing save for twitch his fingers rapidly, signing out a desperate 'Sorry, I'm sorry! I'll be good, be so good, don't take it away from me!' David shoots him a horrified, sad look, utterly defeated as he pulls the obsolete stack of glossy pages down off of the wall. "We'll get you a new one," David promised frantically, but Logan was too far gone for a promise to matter much. Merrick came in just around the time Logan started hyperventilating, the new year's calendar in hand. "Is, uh... Is everything okay? In here?" the big man asked hesitantly, brows drawing together as he passed the older Walker the new time keeper. Logan's eyes were rolling in his head, whites flashing from fear, but at the sight of the thing he calmed slightly- enough for his brother to help him back down.

In search of a well deserved break, the Ghosts left the base and headed east. Logan did not know where he was or where they were going, only that he was in the back of a car and that Merrick was blasting Cyndi Lauper songs that made him snicker. David kept promising him a surprise that 'he was gonna love.' And he did; of course he did. Kick was utterly ecstatic to see him, kept going on and on about all the things they could do. They ended up in the garage, to absolutely no one's surprise. Logan had no trouble picking up and old skill- driving was another thing he hadn't done in nearly four years. The ATVs were much more fun then the cars in his humble opinion, and Kick was all too happy to oblige him. Neptune, Kick's ghostly roommate of sorts, managed to snap a photo of Logan on his way by the house. It's a good shot of the team's youngest member; there's a shy smile curling at the corners of his mouth, a light in his eyes that screams 'boundless,' and wind in his hair that feels like a kiss from the sunshine. It makes Logan feel truly free.

March rolled by almost lazily, yet Logan was anything but. He took a certain pleasure from walking, running, jumping, and climbing. That was one of the only good things about war, if there were any; the rapid advancements of weapons and medicine. Only one of those things was really a blessing, though. Logan frequently had his primary physician sighing deeply through the nose and complaining about how he wouldn't put any weight on if he kept burning off the calories. He ignored her in favor of wandering aimlessly, staring up at the merry blue sky in wondering adoration. The clouds were so high up there, so fluffy and clean and free. High up where no one could reach them. Logan thought he might like to be a cloud, but of course that was only nonsense. While the weather was still cool, he and Riley took to being out longer and longer as he sought liberty. Independence.

June was basked through, warm sun seeping into chilled bones. Logan was still pale as the ghost that the army claimed he was. It's in the quiet that he listens to the steady, dependable hustle and bustle of the base. That was how he learned the best things. Still, when the weather warmed the men grew busier and Logan grew lonelier. And he found himself kneeling alone in front of a drawer he thought he'd never open again. His fingers trembled as he lifted a single knife from the depths of the drawer, dust marring the well-kept sheen of a cared-for blade. Then he manages to pull out another, and another, and soon enough he was sharpening knives he thought he'd never see again much less touch. It was a wholly familiar task, something he'd been doing since he was a teen and the world he had once known had ended. They were the first weapons he'd held in nearly five years.

Logan swam through July, still just underweight enough that his cabal of doctors scolded him for it. But there was something about the salt in the air coming across the ocean that soothed him- even the chlorine reek of a pool seemed to settle him, though the sea would always take the place in his heart. There was just something about floating, weightless, that appeased him. Maybe it's that wave-swept peace that has him ready to leave the base alone. He rinsed the salt out of his hair and left. Alone. Riley and his brother left in military territory, Logan made his way to the little town of ruins and reconstruction that the thirty odd locals called Oldtown. It wasn't even really a town after all those years; there was still rubble in the streets from ODIN and earthquakes alike. It was a bit of a boost though, to see all of the cautious but determined people ready to rebuild. And so it was there, as he shuffled through the crumbling ruin of a small town, that he met with his waking nightmare.

The bright mid-afternoon sun seared his eyes when he finally blinked awake again, like a hangover. That's his first thought. And then he froze, because he remembered everything that had lead to this point with crystalline clarity. He'd been wandering about the city of ruins, exploring buildings trapped seventeen years in the past. Schools had always been creepy during the summer time, and they were even more so with nearly two decades' worth of decay. All he could think about that was that he was so glad there were no tiny backpacks to be left behind, at the very least. The dingy primary colors of the Kindergarten classroom were still extremely creepy, though. Some horror movie shit, right there. The hairs on the back of his neck had prickled, and then that voice sent him spiraling down into near nothingness. "You don't write," Rorke had drawled, "you never call- y'know, I'm starting to think you don't love me anymore." Panic had rooted him to the spot, regressed him into trembling helplessness. And then, unconsciousness.

He sat still, butt planted firmly on the floor, in utter silence. He scarcely dared to even breathe. Rorke crouched in front of him, lips pulled in a lazy smirk. "It's been a while, huh kid?" God, that voice was so smug; the man sounded like he'd won the lottery. "Didja miss me?" No. No, never. Fuck off. "Because the boys sure missed you, doll." Logan's breath caught in his throat and shuddered its way out. No. This whole conversation was probably scripted before hand, or at least planned. The words were thrown like a weapon. And they worked. When Rorke reached out a hand and ran it along his jaw, he was utterly paralyzed with fear. It was a Wednesday evening, and the sun was fast sinking over the horizon. By now, Hesh would at least be worrying- but was that enough? Every few minutes Rorke would suddenly jerk towards him and he would flinch back. Then the man would chuckle and shove him forward again.

By some miracle, he fell asleep before Rorke. Logan had been so tense, so on edge, so afraid that it was a nearly unthinkable idea. They'd already gone three miles from where Logan was supposed to be, so far from safety. So far from his brother. Three miles should not have been far enough for Rorke, and yet they had stopped. Rorke had called in on his radio, speaking in rapid fire Spanish to whoever was on the other side- far too fast from Logan. And then he'd smirked, reclined on the wall of a crumbling two bedroom house in the middle of the suburbs, and asked if he'd been a good boy while he was away. It was so strange, how quiet he became when Rorke was around. He seldom spoke anyway, but with Rorke around even his though were quiet. Slow. As though Rorke wouldn't be able to hurt him if he was just still enough. But despite Rorke sleeping about as deeply as a puddle, Logan had months of practice waking from nightmares with nary a peep- and even more practice walking on light feet. The only act of defiance he'd made in years was walking away from that crumbling ruin towards home. Away from hands that kept touching his face far too tenderly.

Rorke followed him, of course. He would never truly get away, it seemed. But dodging in and out of crumbling houses and across great swathes of torn up streets was still second nature. It'd been an hour when he knew his time was nearly up. His head had been throbbing for the past ten minutes, his stomach rolling in his belly. Logan was weak from hunger and exhaustion, and Rorke was so big. So strong. He could hear the man approaching, knew the sound of those heavy boots on the ground from long days in the Pit. But for once, he had not been afraid. Because Riley's canine eyes peered out of the darkness, doggy tongue lolling in a silly grin. And where Riley was, his big brother was never far behind. So when Rorke steps up behind him, so close, too close, with one heavy hand on his waist and another cupping his chin? When Rorke steps up behind him and brushes the shell of his ear with chapped lips and pulse thrumming from the thrill of the chase, whispering that it had been a good try? He knew things would be fine. The big man stepped back and whipped a pistol across his temple before he could move away, and for a time Logan knew no more.

Just how fast progress could be lost was never anything short of astounding. Logan reverted, regressed, returned to a way of being that was in every way utterly loathsome. David had a cling-on once more; a barnacle with panic attacks and wide eyes. He would never dare to eat alone, not unless his older brother was with him to reassure him that everything was. Fine. It pained them, especially David, to see how desperately he would cry and beg whenever he tried to separate them for any reason. Which, of course, made bathroom visits awkward. Rorke, he knew, had been captured when he was rescued. The men had celebrated. But even knowing he was bound and muzzled, Logan avoided even the end of the compound he was on. He knew they were drilling him for information, committing atrocities that the government would right off as necessary evils, and Logan knew they would get it. Just not what they wanted. Weeks, months, years of being forced to listen to Rorke taunt and belittle not only him but the Feds had left him privy to some of the man's subtler nuances. Oh, he knew the man would gloat. Knew it deep in his bones even as he tottered after his brother on newly unsteady feet.

His nightmares- not that he'd ever been rid of them- came back full force as quick as a whip. Exacerbated by Rorke's presence. None of them had ever thought that they'd miss the nights of silent writhing, tormented by monsters unseen, but when they were replace by tortured screaming and sobbing that woke David every night. Well. They all knew better, now. Dreams of unspecific burning pain became vivid dreams of knives gliding through skin, dreams of dull emptiness a desperate gnawing hunger deep in his belly that couldn't be assuaged, and dreams of, of, of Thursdays were harder and harder to rouse him from. So he clawed at his arms until they bled in his sleep. So he woke in the dead of the night and wrenched hoarded food from places David could never find all of and gorged until he vomited and felt even worse. So he trembled helpless, an empty vessel, dead-eyed as his brother rocked him like their father did when they were children with nightmares of boogeymen.

The day Rorke spills his gloating, triumphant story of breaking Logan, the man knows near immediately. Everyone looked at him in a different way, coddled him. Treated him like he was made of glass, and would shatter into ten thousand pieces if someone so much as breathed on him. But there is also a horrified respect in the men's eyes when the stare at him, so he tried not to lock himself away as best as he could. And god did he want to. His brother was fury incarnate. He'd always been a hothead, but now he was burning. Burning to ash as he took that fury out on anyone or anything that came into the gym. The loud sounds, the shouting, the visible hate that poured off of him in sheet had Logan curled into a corner in terror. Hesh paused, turned to ask him some question lost to time, and the impotent rage there had Logan squeaking in fear as he pressed himself further into the corner. In that instant the fire vanishes and Hesh goes with it, leaving only David to rush over. Hesh, of course, was still part of his brother. But now he remembered that there was a difference between the two.

August ghosted by and Logan lost fifteen pounds. He knew Rorke was around, even if he never saw him, heard him. So the nightmares never faded, the inability to keep food in his stomach where it belongs developed, and hair-raising fear became a part of his life. The calendar became a religious ritual, a power he had over himself that he had stolen from Rorke. And he hated it more than anything else. Hated how small he had become. How meek. So he returned to the room he shared with his brother, pulled his oldest, luckiest knife from its drawer, and stroked the calendar on his way out for strength. His feet tried to take him across the compound, try to take him to where Rorke is. Why he doesn't really know. Not to take his pound of flesh, but... something in him wanted to see Rorke chained. Just as helpless as he felt. But he couldn't bear to cross even a quarter of the way before he turned back, feeling foolish. At least, he soothed himself, you didn't put your old fatigues on.

When he finally got to the building, to the hallway, to the very room Rorke is in two months later, he lingered outside the door. His hand laid on the knob, and if he could only twist it he'd be in the room on the better side of the bulletproof glass. Could see just what justice they'd done in his name. The cold November air blew over him in his mind's eye, and although he stood indoor he shuddered. Just what had they done in his name. What had they done? Logan let his hand slip off of the doorknob, trembling. He knew far too well the sort of things they'd have been doing to break the man down. But before he could back down, he wrenched the door open and slid inside defiantly. The lights are dim beyond the desk and the glass and the recording setup, but he can still see the monster. He was unconscious, head bowed and bloodied. At the sight of him Logan turned tail and fled, knife clutched between tense fingers. Too much. Too much.

Next time he stood outside the door, he felt ready. He didn't hesitate. The door clicked shut behind him- practically a sonic boom in the silence of the room before him. Rorke's eyes burned a hole in him, seething from the darkness. But he didn't stay safe behind the glass this time. Instead he blinked slowly before progressing into the room beyond. His feet brought him before the man- the monster. No. The broken, ruined man. And then he stared. Logan could tell the exact moment Rorke began to feel uncomfortable by the way he began taunting. Eyes locked on the knife Logan held in a white-knuckle grasp. If words were a weapon then Rorke was a master with them. He could tear a man down in moments. But Logan knew him, could see fear in his eyes. A brief understanding of his own powerlessness. He did nothing, said nothing, just stood and stared and took all the words in. The knife clattered from his fingers, just beyond Rorke's grasp. "That's right, you spineless shit," he heard the man say distantly, bolstered. "On your knees and suck my fucking-" Nothing like a fist of three years' worth of rage to shut a bitch up. Logan ran out the door, letting it slam shut loudly behind him and leaving Rorke like a stunned lemming.

After that, Rorke took a backseat on Logan's list of priorities. Instead he shifts his focus to gaining back the weight he'd lost... again. It wasn't any easier the second time, but he managed ten pounds in fifteen days and counted himself quite lucky. The strength of the nightmares wanes again, leaving him thrashing silently in the night a few times a week. Riley, who'd taken to sleeping in his bed with him, didn't see the point of leaving after getting used to snuggling with his master. Logan learned to curl around his dog. Still, he couldn't touch guns with a ten foot pole, not even to pass them on. He still couldn't walk alone, instead clinging to David's sleeve. Strangers he shied away from. Loud noises had him flinching. Sudden movements inspired panic attacks. And he still would not speak. But yesterday he took Riley on a walk instead of the other way around, and ate a sandwich without gagging. Baby steps.

When January came, Logan took the calendar down with trembling hands. Control. It was all about control, and it always had been. It was something Rorke had taken away from him. Agency. A form of independence. And he was taking it back. David stood by him, offered him a new one solemnly. Taking a few deep breaths had calmed him. '2031' the calendar proudly proclaimed, pages covered in glossy pictures of tiny puppies with huge guns. The corners of his lips turned up, dispelling the last of his anxiety. He'd scratched Riley's ears with twitchy fingers, turned and stood on the tips of his toes to put the obsolete thing on a shelf they'd illegally jerry-rigged with the rest of his keepsakes. The obsolete calendar, a twenty year old photo of him and David on a shitty fishing trip with their dad, some dogtags from friends long fallen, and a lopsided stack of beanie babies all decorated the shitty two-by-four they called a shelf. The Shelf. Logan grinned, just a tiny thing.

There was a dart board in a tiny break room a few doors down from the kitchen where Logan spent lonely afternoons- when there was no one readily available, nothing beat throwing darts. It was a skill he'd seen on TV as a little kid and always wanted to master. After ODIN there was no time for toys. Now there was all the time in the world. Because he was functionally useless. A dart imbedded itself in the wall nearly a foot and a half from the board. Shit. The first few throws were all much the same, though none of them stuck in the wall. After a few hours of practice they began to straighten out- first hitting the outer rim of the board and then closing in on the bullseye at the last. Logan snacked constantly while playing darts- the people on kitchen duty come in and out at all hours, and when they got to know him better they took to bringing him snacks. They shot the shit, he lent an ear, and they told him about their kids. Next month had him weighing in nearly twenty pounds heavier and almost normal.

Long years of suffering had made him light on his feet- first during the occupation, before the Pit and the room had sharpened the skills. People joked that they really should just put a bell on him. And then they did. He let them have their fun, let them guffaw at the jingling before he decided it was boring and snuck up on them despite the bells. Coke had gone everywhere. It became a game he played with them, until he successfully spooked Merrick into tipping his chair backwards and the man took them away. The players dispersed with a groan. Logan was fixed with a Look. By sundown his game was back in action, after he'd picked the lock on Merrick's door, snuck in, and stole them. That became part of the game, too- stealing them from each other as well as trying to scare the piss out of your friends. Merrick left them alone after the Chair Incident had been forgiven, if only because it seemed to be a useful game.

The early March sky was cold but not bitter when Logan sat on the roof to comb the stars for answers. He kept a thin blanket wrapped around his shoulders and let the air seep into his bones and turn them to brittle ice. On the night where he could climb up there, the nightmares seemed light years away. Distant, uncaring stars. The Pit had been ruinously hot, sweating every last spare drop of water he had out of his sun-feverish body. His room had been humid; who would waste electricity on something they didn't even consider human. It was hot both places and it reeked both places and he was alone. But under an open sky in the dead of cool March, light breeze ruffling tufts of hair that probably needed cutting? Logan was safe up there. Sometimes David would have to come get him in the morning, when he'd fallen asleep with eyes locked on the stars. He'd wake up pale with cold, his brother scolding. And yet. Was freedom not worth at least that much?

June was a good month for jogging. Logan lost almost every bit of fat he had, but he gained back a small amount of muscle in the process. And the running took his thoughts away on the wind. Sitting around had him feeling useless, had him feeling like a burden, had him feeling helpless. Toying with cards wasn't satisfying. He landed a bullseye every throw at darts. To his own thinking, he'd been out of the game far too long. Of course when he mentioned that to his teammates, they all rushed to reassure him, fussing and telling him to focus on healing. Tell him to gain some more weight, because he was still looking a little rangy. Usually that was where he cut them off with a heavy sigh, eyes tired. This was as better as he was ever going to get, and he knew it in his bones. He wasn't waifish or rangy or weedy or anything like that- not really. He was a normal weight, but before his fall he'd been broader. Bolder. Brighter. The rings under his eyes were from sleepless nights that would never cease. The sharp angles of his face were from years of malnutrition. But his eyes had the spark of life again. And he was filled with a burning determination.

Logan remembered Rorke in July, and this time he didn't bother with sneaking around. He just walked right up to the door and slipped inside. And he was immediately filled with pity. It wasn't something he ever thought he could feel for this man. But he had been so big, so unassailable. Now he was reedy and mottled black and blue, head lolled forward with an exhaustion Logan knew without naming it. The bruises were fresh in some places, old in others. It was cold and dark and silent. And lonely. Logan knew this place, knew it in a different world in years not long passed. Rorke flinched at the sound of the heavy door clicking shut again, head jerking up instinctively. He was far from broken, although his cheeks were hollow and his eyes sunken. Malnourished. His old enemy taunted and sneered and screamed profanities for an hour, threatened him with all kinds of grievous bodily harm and then finally shuddered and fell silent. Logan got him some water and then left the man with bowed head and empty gaze.

He tried to forget it all, and it worked wonderfully for about three days. He held a deep, seething hatred for Rorke in his heart, for the things done to him. God, the things done to him. But Logan also knew better than anyone else what the monster was feeling. Where he was mentally. The despair. Nothing in him, no rage nor hate, could ever make him wish that sort of suffering on anybody. Not even on the man who killed his father, who'd ruined a bright and happy life, who'd played no small part in Logan's own suffering. So he said nothing to his brother, nothing to his friends, and gave mercy to a man who didn't deserve it. Let him rage and snarl and spit poison on ears that would not punish him for it. He knew they'd stopped talking to Rorke, had heard it from Merrick's own mouth from around a corner. Silence as they starved and beat and 'interrogated' him. And so he played quiet music in the darkness for a man desperate to hear a human voice.

A sandwich was a small thing to regard with such intense paranoia, Logan mused. And still, though he was starving, Rorke would not take food from his hands. Suspicion, considering what Rorke knew of the world, was natural. But Logan was not like Rorke, not cut from the same cloth but perhaps a similar one. He had done nothing to the damn thing, not even spit on it. So he took a sizable bite out of it, right from the middle. Fifteen minutes later, tormented by food so close and reassured that Logan had not died of a nonexistent poison, Rorke gave in. The gnawing hunger was not the worst thing that had happened to him, but it was a cornerstone on the pyramid of torment he'd endured. Next time he brought two sandwiches and a water bottle. Logan was not Rorke. The cameras that recorded everything Rorke did saw him of course, every movement he made. It still took two months for anyone of import to notice.

For a week and a half Logan does nothing but glare spitefully at his family- especially his brother, who couldn't wrap his fat head around the idea that he genuinely didn't want anyone to suffer like he had. Especially not Rorke. Because Logan could not imagine enduring what had happened to himself again. They were concerned for him, of course they are. They loved him. They insisted that it was only Rorke, that he didn't matter, that this didn't matter. And it did. "Stockholm Syndrome is-" his glare intensified ten-fold as he hurled his paper cup of water at the poor therapist's head. David made an irritated noise, opening his mouth to try and reprimand him. He had come to act as an interpreter. Logan turned a venomous glare onto his brother and he shut it with a click, protests dying in his throat. Logan put his hands over his ears the next time the stupid woman tried to speak. His brother slept without blankets for a week, because Logan hid them all.

Grudges were not something he was capable of anymore. Much like his ability for cruelty, or to at least ignore cruelty, it had vanished in the wind. He found himself forgiving them not two days after that initial visit to the therapist's. Not a word was spoken between them even after that, but then he hadn't spoken for aged anyway. He stopped trying to sneak around and avoid them, at least. Instead he gave them all such sad, wounded looks that they couldn't help but feel bad. Logan couldn't go anywhere alone, now- footsteps always hounded by at least one of the Ghosts. David became his new shadow- much like he had been David's in earlier days. The panic attacks and nightmares grew worse though; there was something about never being alone that reminded him of long, bleak hallways and guards that were too rough with his battered body leading him to a deeper kind of suffering. When they figured that one out, they apologized profusely to him. It was a hollow victory for Logan.

Don't think about it, he would order himself, just put it out of your mind and move forward. It didn't work. And he was tired of trying to ignore things that hurt him anyway. He didn't protest the sessions because he understood their point of view- what he must have looked like, on his knees with food in hand. A mercy for a man they had decided would receive none. But sitting around and doing nothing wasn't acceptable to him, either. Logan had outgrown that. So instead he focused on honing his skills once more- not the stealthy ones, which were stronger than they'd been before his fall, but things like knife throwing. Or- or guns. Which he hadn't touched in so long. It took him another month after his resolution to even be able to pick one up without his hand shaking dangerously. Two weeks after that to fire a round off. But each time after that first shot it grew easier and easier, until he didn't even flinch at the sound. His makeshift family cheered him on, celebrating small victories with big smiles.

He would maintain unto his dying day that no one deserved the treatment he knew Rorke was receiving. Rorke, of course, did not garner the same amount of sympathy as anyone else might have. He'd spent two months examining everything he knew about the man. Had recalled every instance that he'd met the man before ODIN. Searched for new information high and low. Everything. From the disastrous- but hilarious- time his dad couldn't find anyone else to babysit them up until the very present day. And he remembered that he'd genuinely liked his weird Uncle Gabe as a little kid. And he remembered the sheer force of the hatred he'd felt five years ago. With everything he knew, and refusing to hunt down Mama Rorke to find out more, Logan came to a conclusion. Rorke, he decided, was not worth his effort. There was no one on the face of the Earth who deserved what Rorke was undergoing. Logan would not be shaken on that point. But in the October of 2031 he decided that Rorke didn't deserve his sympathy, either.

His therapist wrote him off in late January of 2032, told him that while he wasn't 'fixed' he now had the tools to help himself and the wherewithal to use them. Logan had never had Stockholm Syndrome and he knew it. But, she had said, since you're here anyway we might as well address some other underlying problems you may have. And it had helped him. Even if it was only a little bit, and it was at least a bit more than that, it was still something. Anyway, he hadn't been paying for it so he didn't give a shit. David and he had grown even closer together over the months- almost creepily so. They hadn't been this in tune with each other since the Occupation, where a misunderstanding was literally life and death. It had been a death sentence not to know who had you back then. But now it was just a pleasure to know his brother so well. If nothing else, it creeped people out when they always seemed to know where the other was without ever saying a word. Even moreso when David could respond to Logan just by looking at his face.

Logan licked his chapped lips nervously before peeling a strip of dried skin off and wincing when it pulled too much. They were talking about trying him out in the field again. Just a test run, they assured him, nothing major. Nothing dangerous. Just to see if he was ready. He wasn't and he knew it. But how could he disappoint Hesh like that, when he was so excited to be working together again? So when they suggest a low-risk stealth op, he tells them he'll do it. That was, apparently, an encouraging sign to Keegan and Merrick. The former even grinned at him, clapped him on the back and told him that they were glad he was on the road to recovery. So Logan threw himself headlong into preparing, sure that there was a disaster looming on the horizon. That his incompetence would get his brother killed. Thankfully he'd evidently put on enough weight, because the doctors only squinted at him instead of berating him.

A few weeks later, when his 'trial run' doesn't get them all killed immediately, Logan found himself pleasantly surprised. Even more so when he didn't have any panic attacks while they were still in the hot zone. After though? When they were finally back at base, stripping off two days' worth of sweat and grime with increasingly dingy washcloths? Logan hyperventilated in a shower for thirty minutes until hot ran warm ran cold and the Federation could never touch him again. It could have been much worse, the blond man conceded. After all, they'd managed to seize the appropriate intelligence and got out of there without getting caught. Or even seen. David was so happy, kept bumping his shoulder into Logan's and telling him what a good job he'd done. It feels like he'd been fresh-picked from the cannon fodder and given his first covert operation all over again. Renewed. And Logan thought that maybe he was happier for having done the job. Happier for knowing that Rorke hadn't stolen this away from him too.

In the July of 2032 his trusty watch finally broke. It'd seen hell with Logan, and he was honestly surprised it had lasted that long. In the months since that first mission he'd gone on a dozen more like it- low risk, moderate reward. David went without him on more dangerous things, but he was not insulted. Stealth, which had always been the group's focus, was now his modus operandi. Not even Keegan could spot him if he didn't want to be found. But stealthy or not, his watch had seen plenty of wear and tear. It'd survived getting banged into cliff faces, covered in mud and blood and water, hell it had even survived a shot to the watch face on one mission gone bad. It was the eighth wonder of the world, in all honesty. And it was gone. Which he didn't even realize until he'd gone three days without sleeping and passed out when he stood up from a chair and the blood rushed to his head. Embarrassing. Admittedly, some things still needed working on.

One night in late October, Logan came out to his roof top spot and found Keegan and Merrick already there, deep in their cups. He guessed the reason as to why immediately. Rorke had cracked- privately, Logan thought there wasn't enough of Rorke left for the man to ever fully break again. The first few things they'd dragged from the man had been useful. A safehouse. A few spies named in a desperate attempt to get them to just stop hurting him, even for a minute. And then to keep them off of him, Rorke had spilled everything that the Federation had done to destroy him in the first place. They don't tell him. They would never tell him. But Logan could guess. Could infer. Knew just what sort of things the Federation did to the people it wanted in their employ. So, feeling sick to his stomach, he sat down next to them and stole Keegan's beer from his hands, draining the thing in one go. "Christ," Merrick whispered, "Christ." Rorke had been their friend, once.

The day his family realized he was never going to get back to being 'normal' he grinned broadly. Knowing that they understood that he had never been broken was a balm to his soul. Knowing that they understood that some things could never be the same, knowing that they understood that he had changed? All of it was a relief. It had been a waiting game for him, to see how long they would carry on like that. Like he would shatter. And now he was free. At three o'clock in the morning on the New Year's of 2033, Logan woke up from a familiar nightmare, shook himself out, and took the old calendar down. Tossed it in the trash. There was another one waiting on the dresser- some ridiculous thing with pinups of firemen in varying states of undress that had him snorting. Hours later, when David woke up, his brother nearly choked on his own spit to see it already hanging. Not that Logan would ever know that- he was already eating breakfast and catching up with his friends in the kitchen.

Logan had been captured little more than a week after his dad had been killed, had been gone for three years after that enduring torment and torture and wounds to the spirit. Even after that he'd been healing for two years. So that when the anniversary of his murder rolled around, he'd never had a chance to grieve. And now, six years later, it finally hit him. The realization that there was no more dad telling obnoxious jokes. Knowing that he would never have a rough, calloused hand messing his hair up while he squalled- not willing to push the man away. No gentle press of lips on his forehead when his dad thought he was asleep and would never know. He crumbled into a heap on his bed, curled into a ball, and wailed like there was nothing left to live for. An orphan. What a hateful word. David nearly had a heart attack, finding him practically screaming grief on the bed- Logan laughed himself back into tears when his older brother tripped over his untied laces and faceplanted into a pile of dirty laundry.

July had come with little consequence, their days filled with busy work. The world had kept on turning, and even though Logan sometimes found his throat closing up and tears pricking at his eyes, things were okay. Good, even. And then Merrick had called them into his own bedroom, a space Logan had only once infiltrated to steal bells from. Somehow, he guessed. They had broken Rorke. The immovable man had finally broken. Whatever walls he had put up, whatever resistance he had offered had finally fallen apart. Logan nodded, listened to Merrick line out their next steps. They had wormed into the cracks in the man's armor and finally pulled it off. He sat there in his usual silence, considered what that meant. And when Merrick, in no uncertain terms, told them to get the fuck out of his room he went. Let David overtake him in the hallway. And when he was safe in the room he and his brother shared once more, he pulled out his journal and made a note.

He felt November roll around more than anything else. Watched his birthday come to pass. They weren't something he celebrated anymore, nor had they celebrated any birthday in a long time. Not since ODIN. But that year David bought him a present anyway, silenced complaints that it wasn't fair, that Logan hadn't gotten him anything for his birthday. Then he blinks in surprise at what it was, because holy shit that's a puppy. A german shepherd puppy. He frowned immediately. Not that he would have refused it, it was a puppy- but he did worry. Riley was not a jealous animal, but having one of his masters' attention so focused on a new addition? Apparently his worries were in vain. Riley had no trouble letting a new baby into the family, even budging over to let the little warm lump take up even more of Logan's bed. With both dogs there wasn't that much room left for Logan himself. Somehow he found that he didn't mind.

2034 slipped into existence with a lazy grin on Logan's face. Ace was running circles around him, dodging in between his legs and generally being a nuisance. The pup had clearly picked up on the mood of the room. Riley gives him a long suffering look, as if to say 'do you see what I have to deal with?' and Logan chuckles. Ace... was a handful, it was true. There had been a definite turning in the tides of the war, at long last. It was no longer a long, agonizingly slow defeat, nor even a stalemate with no victor. It was extremely slight, but they were gaining ground at long last. Winning. They had the upper hand. Rorke, as it turned out, knew a great many useful things. Apparently no one had thought he even could be captured. Spies, safehouses, pending operations, research projects. Where the money came from and where it was going. With the sheer wealth of information they had on hand it was often pretty easy to just... thwart the Federation at every turn.

Sometimes he had relapses. No one talked about it, mentioned it. But it did happen. There were days where he was quiet and small, a shadow clinging to his brother's sleeve as he scrabbled desperately for the confidence he'd had just the day before. Days where he shied away from every least little thing, cowered away from loud noises and loud voices. Sometimes it would even last as long as a week. It was so easy to say the wrong thing. To get a paper cut or knick himself while shaving and find himself spiraling downward into the black pit he'd found the strength to crawl out of. And it broke David's heart as much as it broke Logan. The crying, the begging, the pleading. Never with words, no, but with bitter tears and swollen eyes. But his family was there to help him back to himself, time after time. So Logan poured a whiskey on days he felt triumphant and drank to forget small.

It took months to train Ace to obey commands- he was a quick study, but he didn't like following orders. He had an attitude. February, March, April, half of May all go by and David insisted that his naughty pup would learn. That he was still pretty young. But when Logan said he was taking his dog on a mission and leaving Riley behind, Hesh was quick to discourage him. Suddenly he wasn't so sure. Ace not only saved both of their sorry asses, but even led Hesh to Logan when was knocked unconscious from a fall. Somehow that was what turned his mischievous wretch into a working animal. Being needed just flipped a switch in him, Logan supposed. It probably didn't hurt that his big brother had lavished him with praise and attention for taking him to where Logan lay prone and defenseless. Logan fixed his big brother with a smirk, lips tugged into something smug and teasing, and then shrieked wordlessly as his brother wrestles him to the ground playfully.

There are a few months where he had to take a break from work- and by this point, if he hadn't been such a valuable and beloved asset, he was sure the government would have just had him honorably discharged from the service. But he was one of their two surviving Walkers and as such had a bit of leeway. So when he contracts a teensy case of bronchitis. And strep throat. And the stomach flu. Well. They cut him a little slack that most others wouldn't have been afforded. He was truly just having the time of his life. Genuinely. If nothing else, he got to spend that time on a couch with two dogs cuddled up to him for warmth, swaddled in a nest of blankets. Sometimes with his head in his brother's lap. So Logan wheezed and hacked his way into 2035, and they were suddenly winning not only by the skin of their teeth but a little bit more than that. The nation had been revitalized by their successes, and there were fresh recruits to whip into shape. Not that Logan was the one doing it. He was far too busy focusing on things like breathing and trying to eat some soup so he didn't starve to death.

Logan knew when Rorke ran out of information to give. He also knew that they couldn't very well send him back, willingly or otherwise. He knew that the man's torture and breaking had just made Rorke hate them all the more. And so Logan also knew that the top half of Rorke's hourglass was almost empty and the damn thing was glued to the table. David noticed it maybe two days after Logan. Neither Keegan, nor Merrick, nor any of the interrogators say a single word. But even the man himself seemed to realize that his time was coming to an abrupt end. Then again, how could he not know? Surely Rorke knew just how much information he had to offer, and surely he knew what happened to people like him when their usefulness exhausted itself. So perhaps it wasn't a surprise to any of them involved. Logan stared at the bottom of a bottle long and hard. He knew what they were going to ask of him.

Logan Michael Walker had held lives in his hands before. More than he'd care to count, certainly. Mortal men's fates had been met by his design, be it mercy or murder. Tears shed, words fallen on deaf ears. Far too many times he'd found himself holding another man's life hostage- to make or break at his own whims. It was too much for him. After what he'd seen. Experienced. Holding the soul of a sentient creature in your hands, knowing that it was you who was tasked to snuff it out was very hard. It was why he didn't do front lines work anymore. Why he preferred the shadows and the subterfuge. He knew far too well that most people had someone to go home to. But he could do it just one more time. Logan could shoulder the burden and shield his loved ones from pain. The burden was great- a life was a heavy thing to take. For his family, though. For them he was willing.

Logan put a bullet between Gabriel Rorke's eyes on a Sunday afternoon in front of a dozen witnesses. His hands did not tremble, his gaze did not wander. He held his blank mask down and did not let rage or fear shine through his eyes. Calm. That was all he felt. I hate you, Logan thought, and Rorke met his gaze with eyes that said 'I know.' Neither of them had need of words. Not between them. He could respect the man's power if nothing else. Logan looked into his eyes, would never have done anything else, and saw what no one else would ever see in those dark pits. They had been so warm once, he mused, full of life and laughter. Now they were cold, and dead, and afraid. Small. And he could see himself as he might have been, for an instant. And all at once he thought to himself 'I forgive you,' and Rorke said I know." Logan pulled the trigger.

It's the July of 2036 and Logan is 34 years old- nearly 35, David, I'm not a baby anymore- but he is so much older than that. So much younger than that. His feet sink into the warm, wet sand and he smiles as he looks out over the waves. The beaches aren't mined, not anymore. His brother stands at his left, watching gulls fly overhead. The salt water tickles his nose. Riley lies at their feet, old and tired, and Ace races around young and bold. Although the war isn't over yet- and they fear it may never be- things are good. They're winning. Rorke is dead. Their dad is avenged. Logan runs a hand through short blond hair and sighs- a light and airy sound. "Hey," Dave says suddenly, turning his head to look at him. For a minute he says nothing, and then two minutes pass in silence. Logan knows his brother though, and so he smiles and bumps him with his shoulder.

And then the world ends. "I know," Logan says. And he does. He really, really does.

This is, by and large, the longest fic I've ever written. And it's also my favorite thing I've ever written. The original was a trial to write, and that was... oh jesus, three years ago, now. I wrote it over the course of about three months in 2014 and I posted it just after New Year 2015. I thought it was great then, and I thought it was an alright effort now. But I knew I could do better, so I dusted this old thing off and said 'let's torture Logan all over again.' This is the result of my labor of love. I hope you liked it inasmuch as anyone can like this sort of thing.

The game takes place in 2026, three years after that it 2029, and a year after that is 2030. Personal headcanon says that Logan's birthday is November second (All Souls' day) because honestly I love irony. Hence Logan is twenty eight on the first day of that year. On Beanie Babies: I honestly have no earthly idea where David even got them, because I haven't even seen one with my eyeballs since 2006.

Thanks for reading this absolute monster! Comments? Criticisms? Death threats? I'll take 'em. Hell, you can even PM me to scream. I'll take it as a compliment.