The sound of a raging inferno crackled in the background, the snapping of fresh wood burning and sparks leaping into the air was a sound that shook him into consciousness. He opened his eyes in alarm, prepared to run from the threat of a fire, but the second he was able to see again, the sound disappeared. The first thing he was able to notice was the area that encompassed him, with no fire to be found. Trees surrounded him, thick pines and tall oaks, packed tight in a forest that could swallow a man if he wasn't careful. The air was thin, and the view was amazing when he swiveled his head ninety degrees. He was overlooking a valley with clumps of flowers and more trees on a landscape of green. He was high on a plateau, which was all he could gather of his surroundings at this point. It was amazing, the momentary bliss of nature and beauty. Within seconds, without any warning, things spun, the ground pitched beneath him. He lost control of his thoughts and his motions, a sudden lash of vertigo wracking his mind in pain.

When things straightened out, he was left gasping, looking down at a man who was lying face down in the thick dirt. The body was motionless. Things didn't make sense. He was on a plateau, he couldn't remember why, but he had a purpose, and so did the man. The man was in a uniform, he couldn't recall what branch of the armed forces it was, but that didn't matter. There was a large patch of red spreading through the cloth, the worst of the bloodstain in the man's abdomen. He was sure the man was dead, and it was to his surprise when the body gave a sharp cough, and seemed to shake. He took a step back, or at least tried, but was frozen in place. The shot man, whoever he was, seemed to be trying to roll over. With hands and fluid motions he were sure weren't his own, he reached down and did just as the shot man was attempting to. He looked down into a pale face with light blue eyes, what would have been a clean and pure face had it not been streaked in blood. Somehow, he knew that face. No name or event came to mind, but a warm feeling spread in him. A familiar face, but a dying one all the same. A bit dribbled from the corner of the man's mouth, and despite the brutal injuries, the man spoke.

"Go. Get out. You have to leave, now!" The man coughed sharply, and the last thing he caught sight of was the flashing of an insignia on a man's arm before everything spun out of control again, the harsh coughing echoing in his ears over and over as he spiraled into blackness…

With a gasp, he jerked awake. His eyes opened, and rather than being blinded by the soft light of a warm bulb, he was plunged into a darkness nearly as pitch black as the one he had just escaped from within his head. An ache spread through his body almost as instant as his waking. Dull pain in his legs, to a sparking burn across his chest and neck. Slowly and surely, as his consciousness returned, sharp slicing pains with pins and needles worked its way into his arms and hands.

He was in a room with a cracked concrete floor coated in a layer of grime that was surely not just dirt. The entire place was filled with the overwhelming stench of human waste and blood. Swallowing was difficult for him, as his throat was dry as if he had poured sand down it, and tongue was the living equivalent of sandpaper. Somehow though, he summoned up enough spit to swallow and moisten his throat in the slightest.

His head was throbbing, and the pain coursing through his body pushed him so far that he saw white flecks dancing in front of his eyes, his body threatening to pass out again. But somehow, he pushed himself hard enough to be able to continue surveying his surroundings. The cinder block walls had blood streaking them, bloody handprints and sprays of the stuff everywhere. His head spun for a moment, and he put a hand up to it, instantly recoiling as he accidentally probed a lump towards the back that was the main cause of the throbbing.

Damn… this is either the worst nightmare or worst hangover ever… he thought bitterly, closing his eyes shut tightly, willing himself to wake up, snap back to reality. Its inception, a dream within a dream. That memory, just another dream within this one. I'll wake up. I'll wake up. Yet when he opened his eyes, the pain and hellish surroundings remained.

A groan snaked his way past his lips, and he laid his head back on the ground. He hadn't given much thought to himself at this point, only the place that surrounded him and the pain that wreaked havoc on his body. His upper body was propped against a bloodstained wall, and he wasn't clothed except for tattered cloths around his lower regions. Another realization suddenly bit into him and didn't let go- a foreign feeling that shook him to his core. He had no feeling of identity.

Where am I? Where is this? Who am I? Panicked, he though furiously for a name, a place, anything he remembered. But all that found its way into his memory was that half dream he had just awoken from. The young man stained with blood, dying, telling him to run, that strange insignia that floated in his mind. His childhood, to him he didn't have one. If he had friends, a life, a place before this hell, even his own age and name, it escaped him. His mind was a blank slate but for that one memory. Panic was easy, and he proceeded to do just that. His breaths grew quick, drawing a sharp pain in his chest. He searched for an answer once more, an answer to why he found himself covered in burns and cuts in scars, bruises that laced themselves around his body, cuts that carved marks and words into his skin. Why there was such a sharpness to his breaths, he raised a hand slowly and painfully to check, but cried out weakly as he looked down at his left arm. It was twisted at an odd angle, and a bump in the forearm indicated a dire break. Somehow though, something sparked in his mind that told him the source of the pain in his chest.

Ribs. Broken. That was a start. He tried to slow his breathing, to no avail. The sharpness of the pain egged him forward into more panic, and in a moment, he asked himself if things could get any worse. Of course, life decided to give him a cruel twist of fate. There were footsteps coming from somewhere, and then the clanking of metal. Voices, heavily accented. It took him a moment to identify, but it came rather quickly to the front of him mind.

Russian. Were they there to save him? Tell him why he was here? Why wasn't he in a hospital? No answers came to his mind, but a door was thrown open, flooding his current prison in dull light. A sharp voice chuckled, and then spoke loudly. Even though he could not put a name or a face to the voice, it sent fear and adrenaline sparking through his pain ridden body.

"Well, if it isn't my favorite time of day already. Are you ready for your turn with my knife today, Elliot Burke? Or was your new name yesterday Justin Kline? I can't remember. You give me a new one every day. But I'll break you." Despite the fact he was terrified, a few of the words brought things forth to his mind in a muddled mess.

Elliot. I knew one.

Justin. I know that name.

Break. A rough voice sprang to his mind. "Everyone breaks eventually." Someone had told him that at some point. But right now, the man approached him, and yanked him to his feet before he could react. He was dragged roughly across the ground by two other men, but couldn't fight back. He was too weak, in too much pain, and unable to resist.

Soon he found himself screaming in agony, a knife searing through his flesh, and questions hurled at him that he honestly didn't know the answer to.

Please review! Merry Christmas to everyone! I promise that I will be a bit more active now that my life is settling down a bit!