Chapter One: Breaking Point

July, 2017.
The Pit, Amazon Rainforest, Brazil.

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General Pizarro did not often make trips to the Pit. It was beneath him. After the death of his predecessor, and the discovery of what could very well be the key to dismantling the United States, he had been forced to get his hands bloody more often than he would have liked. Two years went by. He'd been stuck with a loud, foul-mouthed American soldier for far too long. Breaking him had been a grueling process. Taxing. More trouble than it was worth, Pizarro had thought. But little by little they had started to get somewhere. He did not visit the Pit that day to punish his soldiers alongside his project, but rather to congratulate the American on a job well done. A rare and special occasion.

Normally, the American was not allowed any sort of insight into the operations. His job, until they could guarantee he'd lost all sense of loyalty toward his homeland and any humanity that might interfere with his intended purpose, was simply to give them the knowledge that existed among the rocks that made up his brain. However limited it may have been. They had managed to break him that much at least. But he was incredibly stubborn. That was what had landed him in the Federation's custody to begin with. It would take more time before Pizarro would consider him to be a trusted subordinate, but for the time being he had done them a great service. He deserved the acknowledgment that came with it.

The American had done remarkably well over a mere two years. He stopped fighting back. He slowly stopped mouthing off. He was well on the way to becoming a husk of the man he formerly was. And a good thing, too, Pizarro thought as he flipped through the files on the man during his trip to the rainforest. The American special forces were no joke, but the only thing that had kept the Federation at bay had been the task force they sent to operate in the shadows. Fantasmas de las sombras. And as it turned out, the American they captured was one of them. And one of the pillars of their strength, too. He had been exactly what they had been looking for. He was just a little rough around the edges.

He had good days and he had bad days. But he'd already taken the first step in the right direction.

The devastation they had been able to rain down along the southern United States was proof of that.

Pizarro waited in one of the base's command tents for the American to be brought to him. He was not about to go trudge through the rainforest. No one was worth that much effort to him. Especially not the American. Besides, Pizarro knew that the man was already conditioned at this point to expect an especially torturous punishment should Pizarro ever actually go all the way out to the Pit. Granted, he likely expected and feared that punishment should Pizarro ever visit in general. The only time he put his own effort into the project was if something had gone seriously wrong. However, he had never had the American brought to him. So perhaps he would be able to catch him in a good mood.

The moment he was thrown into the metal chair before him, however, he knew that would unfortunately not be the case. The cloth sack was pulled off of his head, leaving Pizarro face to face with him. And from the look on his face, Pizarro guessed he was less than thrilled about it. Not that he was in a better position. The American was not in any way nice to look at. He was heavy-set when they had picked him up, half-dead, and over the last two years of malnutrition, regular beatings, poison, and all that came with his imprisonment his muscles had atrophied and he was left looking nearly twice his age at that point. Fresh sweat and bruises dotted his face, and the deep slice Pizarro had cut into his face months before during his last visit had not yet healed. In fact, it looked infected. He wouldn't forget that lesson. Not when the reminder of it was permanently etched into his face. Which was a good thing. That was the whole idea.

However, Pizarro was always friendly. Always kept his cool. He had to win him over to their side somehow, and physical force only went so far. When the American weakly lifted his head, Pizarro made it a point to smile. "¿Como te sientes hoy?"

'How do you feel today'. Simple pleasantries.

The American took several deep breaths before he scoffed and slurred out, "I've told you before…I don't speak Spanish, you stupid bastard."

Pizarro forced a smile and an amused breath from his nose. "And as I have told you before, you will. Eventually." He would humor the American, if only to avoid an especially sour confrontation. He left out the fact that he knew he was in fact capable of speaking Spanish, and he simply chose not to out of spite and rebellion. Like a petulant child. But it was an argument they had had many times before, and today was not about punishment. "You were left to your own devices after the intel you provided…even given actual meals as a reward. I should think you would be having a good day."

"Yeah, well, it's never a good day when you come to visit. A reward would be never havin' to look at your ugly face again," the American responded. He managed to huff out a laugh, but it was dry. Humorless. He glared up at Pizarro, but there was very little fire left in his eyes. "So what the hell do you want with me today?"

"Don't look so ready for a fight. I'm only here to congratulate you," Pizarro said with a forced laugh to ease the tension. It didn't work. And he didn't care. He could feel the American watching every step he made as he marched over to one of the desks where he'd left a cooler, opening it to pull out two beers. Some American brand he'd gotten his hands on. "I figured it would be best done in person. I also figured it was cause for celebration…you didn't seem like a champagne man to me, though." He set one down and skillfully opened the other on the edge of the desk before he approached the American and held it out to him. The American eyed the bottle, then flicked his eyes back up to Pizarro and sneered. Pizarro laughed, feigning cluelessness. "Ah, yes, that's right. You're not exactly in any position to drink now, are you?"

"I'd rather break the damn thing over your head…" the American grumbled.

"Tsk. Wasteful. You should know better than that by now." Pizzaro clicked his tongue and stepped away. But there was an obvious improvement. The first time Pizarro had gotten that close to him and offered him some clean water, the American had spat on the drink and his face. It was disgusting. He'd never intended to actually let him drink, but he'd had no choice but to dispose of the canteen. The sharp comment was a step up. He brought the still sanitary bottle to his lips and took a long swig, never breaking eye contact with his prisoner. The American rolled his eyes and smacked his lips before he looked away. Shame. Pizarro liked taunting him. He let out a refreshed sigh once he lowered the bottle from his lips. "Shame you can't share a drink with me. Refreshing in this heat, you know. Muy refrescante."

"Not my brand anyways. Tastes like horse piss." The American was a tough one, that was for sure. He took a deep breath. "The hell d'you even have to celebrate? It's been weeks since I spilled my guts. You could've just come and done your gloating then…"

"Ah, but there hadn't been any results then. But now…" Pizarro set his drink down and flipped through the file he'd brought with him until he found the reconnaissance photos he'd ordered. He pulled out the best ones, the ones that fully showed the impact, and held them out for the American to see. When he tried to look away, Pizarro simply forced him to, grabbing him by the jaw. "The fruits of our labor, my friend." He dropped them in his lap, not caring that a few of them fell to the ground. Photos of widespread fires, newly formed craters, buildings still falling in on themselves, bodies that hadn't been completely incinerated. After the strikes from their own satellite, America looked like it was in the midst of an apocalypse. He only hoped the American wouldn't puke. He'd been very good about it so far, though. "You've done your country a great service."

Pizarro, of course, wasn't talking about the United States. The American knew this as well. The stony look on his face hid any signs of fear, disgust, or even shock. But he sounded furious when he finally spoke up. His words were heavy with a gringo accent, but the bitterness was still conveyed as he spat them out through gritted teeth. "Vete a la mierda."

"Very good. I knew we would get somewhere." Pizarro wasn't at all fazed by the curse. In fact, he was delighted by it. He nodded towards the photos as he took another sip of beer, though the American stared him down the whole time. He didn't care. "It's like I've said before, Gabriel. Everyone breaks." He took one last long swig before he chucked the half-empty bottle to the floor, letting it shatter and splash the remaining contents across the floor. He noticed the American flinched at the sound of the glass bursting. He stayed cold, though. Pizarro chuckled. "Now, let's get back to work, shall we?"

10 Years Later.
January 16th, 2027.
Fort Santa Monica, California, United States.

"I don't like this, Elias."

Elias watched Merrick as he paced the office, his restlessness the only thing that betrayed his nerves. His voice didn't waver, even though he clearly looked like a mess. He was still in his full gear, caked in mud and dirt up his legs and arms and blood spatter that as far as Elias knew didn't belong to him, and his steps were stiff. He was tense, fatigued, and although it wouldn't be obvious to the untrained eye it was obvious to Elias. He knew him well. He was frustrated and anxious. He paced the room like a caged, wild animal and quite frankly he almost looked like one.

He had his hands clenched in fists at his side as he cleared the length of the room, one side to the other. He let out a sound almost like a growl. "People are getting sick of being stuck behind that damn wall, and it ain't doing us a damn bit of good anyways," he said, pausing just to jerk his index finger towards some vague direction behind Elias. Miles away, in roughly the same direction, sat the wall he was referring to. Their last line of defense. "They're rounding up whoever they can and they don't give two shits, they've just lucked out getting their hands on contractors here and there, but now? Grim? They had to have targeted him, Elias, they had to."

"No one could know how we operate." Elias leaned back against the table in the center of the room, arms crossed. He turned his attention out towards the open balcony door, watching the troop exercises that were being run along the shore. He heard Merrick mutter something under his breath and saw his pacing resume out of the corner of his eye. He couldn't blame him. Even he didn't believe his own words. He let out a sigh as his mind started to drift. "Has his family been notified yet?"

Love and war weren't always a good mix, especially when you were a Ghost, but as things had started to settle following the ODIN strikes the members of their team naturally tried to piece their somewhat normal personal lives back together. Grim had managed to find a nice girl a few years after the strikes. They had a baby boy that was a few months old. He was approaching his first birthday, actually, if Elias had remembered correctly. He'd met them. Had them over for one of his cookouts – a tradition he had tried to keep up at his new place, behind the safety of the wall. They were like family to him. To the others, too.

All he could think about was Grim's body and the family he'd left behind. SFC Riddian 'Grim' Poe: KIA. It didn't even sound right to him. None of it sounded right. It was one thing for a civilian to be caught off guard, dragged out or captured in No Man's Land, but for a soldier of Grim's caliber? For any one of them? Merrick was right. He had to have been targeted. And whoever in the Federation had done it knew what they were doing. Elias didn't want to say it out loud, he didn't want to worry Merrick or any of the others, but when he broke it all down there just wasn't any other explanation. Someone knew how they operated, and now they were taking advantage of that knowledge.

"We're working on getting that taken care of," Merrick replied. The stomp of his boots had stopped, drawing Elias' attention to him. He had paused, running a hand over his bald head before he scratched at the beard on the side of his face. His expression softened into something close to grief. The bags under his eyes became more pronounced and his brows lifted. He let out a sigh of his own. "The hell is happening? Those bodies…then Grim gets taken and we find him half dead in one of their camps? It's a message for us, Elias. This kinda thing…it's too personal."

"The question is who and how," Elias said. It wasn't as though they had a shortage of enemies. They had entire countries out against them, the nations that comprised the Federation included. They were a thorn in everyone's side. Their operations in No Man's Land were part of the only reason they were able to keep them from advancing any further. He drummed his fingers on his forearm. "There's no way a few civilians could've given us away to them. There's gotta be something that we're missing."

There was a pause, then Merrick's brow furrowed again. "You think one of our own could've been paid off by the Feds somehow?"

"No." Elias dismissed the idea instantly, as soon as he had processed it. He shook his head. "We've known everyone too well and for too long…been through too much together. None of them would sell out. And there's no way they could have been slipping them information right under our noses for this long." He trusted all of them completely. The thing was, Merrick had a point, unfortunately, whatever Elias may think. They knew their brothers-in-arms well. And the only one that could know them so well would be one of their own. He shoved the thought down. "If this had been going on for so long, we would have found out about it. Secrets are pretty hard to keep from people like us."

"Maybe so, but we're all pretty good at keeping them," Merrick grumbled out as he resumed his pacing once again.

"It's not…completely impossible, I'll give you that," Elias admitted. He felt himself tense, his jaw clenching and unclenching with every breath. "Just in case, and to keep this from happening again, I want everyone to have a buddy. No one goes anywhere by themselves, no one takes watches by themselves, no one fully separates unless eyes are on them at all times. We keep them from getting the jump on us again, and we make sure no one's feeding intel outside the wall. Two birds, one stone."

Merrick stiffly nodded. "Right, got it," he said. "What do we do about the breaches?"

"We'll increase recon teams outside the wall, make sure every sector is covered," Elias said, already having it thought out and planned. He turned to face the various screens mounted over the desk he was leaned against, eyes focusing on the one that displayed the major breaches they'd been working to patch up. "Temporarily evacuate the civilians from those sectors if there are any, keep the base locked down, keep the MPs on their toes inside the wall…just up restrictions, unless anyone's got a death wish. Meanwhile, we'll assign doubled patrols to take out the Fed teams in the L.A. ruins, and we'll send the Ghosts further into No Man's Land, see if we can find a source for all of this…maybe figure out what they want."

"We've pushed almost as far as San Diego," Merrick said to him. His pacing stopped once more and he took a few steps towards Elias himself. He couldn't see his expression, but his focus seemed to be returning. "Fed checkpoints and camps start to increase the further south you go. We know they're looking for something, but we haven't been able to figure out much." He let out a scoff. "Heh. It's funny, we're struggling to get intel on them and they're out in the open…we're supposed to be safe and sound and invincible and here we are getting caught with our damn pants down."

"No one's invincible…sure as hell not us," Elias said with a dry, tired laugh. He felt his expression fall. With all the recent stress, he had started to feel his age. His fifty-first birthday was a matter of days away. He was in shape, young by civilian standards, even roughly another decade or so away from retirement by the military's standards, but after everything he'd seen in his years of service he felt as though he was twice that. If anyone knew there was no such thing as invincibility, it was him. He gripped the edge of the desk with both hands, his grip tightening until his knuckles turned white. "Things were bound to give on us sooner or later. I just wish we could've dealt with this further down the road."

The country had spent the better part of the last decade adapting to the state that the ODIN strikes had left it in. The Federation had spent that time trying to push their way up onto U.S. soil. It had been a long time coming. The strikes just gave them a perfect opportunity. They fought them long and hard until they fought one another into a stalemate, neither able to advance or push back against the other. To keep the rest of the country safe, a wall had been erected along the very edge of the destruction, stretching from California all the way to the edge of the southeastern coast, with bases and checkpoints set up to guarantee a fighting force stood between the Federation and the rest of the country's citizens should the wall ever be destroyed. Liberty Wall.

It had been a miracle they'd been able to keep the Federation at bay long enough to build it. There had been regular attacks, usually a couple of times a year, but they'd always been able to safely defend it. Any holes that had been blown in it were easily repaired. But since late in the previous year, attacks had increased. Breaches had become a common occurrence. Dallas had been overrun practically overnight. Civilians were dragged out into No Man's Land, dumped into pits once they'd outlived their use. And now, one of their own had been targeted. It was only a matter of time before it happened.

The Ghosts had operated in the shadows, waged fights deep within No Man's Land and even enemy territory to destabilize the Federation. Their efforts were part of the reason the Federations advance had been slowed, and why they rarely picked fights so close to the wall. But they had gotten bolder over time. Maybe it was just chance that they had managed to grab Grim. But Elias' gut said otherwise. You just didn't get the jump on a Ghost. Not without a strategy. Not without knowing what you were doing. The only person that could best a Ghost was another Ghost. It made sense the Federation would target them, it didn't make sense that they could have actually succeeded at it.

"I miss when things were simple and easy," Merrick said with a heavy sigh as he paced. His boots fell slow and steady, a far cry from the frantic marching he'd been doing before.

Elias let out a low, humorless chuckle and looked over his shoulder at his friend. He was more exhausted than amused. The laugh was an attempt to ease his own tension, but it did very little to help him. "When has any of this been easy?"

"Alright, then I miss when we could pretend things were easy," Merrick revised, his annoyance clear in his voice. Whether or not it was directed at Elias or not was beyond him. He got back to business without missing a beat. "How far down do you want us to push?"

"As far as you can go, get as close as you can," Elias said. He dug his nails into the wood of the desk, staring at the various files and photographs scattered across the surface. He straightened up with a groan, feeling his back crack as he did. The side effect of being hunched over his work almost non-stop since Grim had gone missing a few days prior. He faced Merrick once again. "They're up to something. Whatever's been…brewing all this time…it's coming to a head and I want to know what the hell they're planning."

"We'll figure it out. And we'll take those bastards down for what they did to Grim. Count on it," Merrick said, letting out a huff through his nose. Like an angry bull, almost. His temper seemed to be rearing its head again. "Dammit, I just hate this feeling. It's…frustrating. I'm ready to knock someone's teeth in."

"You'll get your shot soon enough," Elias replied, clenching his own fists. He sighed and forced himself to move away from the desk. He approached Merrick, who slowed his pacing, and gave him a pat on the arm before he headed towards the door that led to the stairs. "C'mon. I want a word with the others. They oughta know what's in store moving forward…I want to say a few words for Grim, too."

As the two men made their way through the kitchenette and down the stairs, Elias' mind drifted to his two sons. They were going to be pulling overtime, just like he and the Ghosts would be after what had happened. He was sure they'd be fine. The two of them made quite the duo, paired together on the same recon team that operated outside of the wall. Elias had read Merrick's field reports on them. They worked with the task force every so often, when they had to push further out from the wall. Both boys had shaped into some of the best soldiers they had. Hesh had been praised by all of his superiors as a natural born leader, and he'd pulled off some incredible feats during the decade he'd served – his boyish, sunny disposition had gradually dulled and the easy, lopsided smile he shared with his brother was rare and faint…his toothy grins had been replaced by snarls long ago. He'd recently been assigned a military working dog he and Elias had raised and trained together. It brought out the better parts of him. The passion he'd had since a little boy and the way he still tried to stay upbeat and the way he wore his heart on his sleeve, but still guarded it. Just like when he was younger. Logan had likewise changed. Quick and agile, an excellent shot, a skilled soldier, he had an impressive kill record and a reputation for disappearing into thin air before the enemy knew what hit them. Like his brother his training in childhood had served him well and he'd sure enough gotten Elias to sign for him at seventeen. His bright, brown puppy dog eyes had become bloodshot and baggy, though his messy, barely within regulation brown hair and his fidgety, shy, and naturally gentle demeanor off duty still resembled the little boy Elias had brought up.

They were completely different men, yet he still recognized them both. Knew them both. Good men, good soldiers. He still couldn't help but worry for them. They had told him about the things they'd seen, and he'd heard the stories secondhand as well. The war they'd been in for the entirety of their military career was reaching another boiling point, and he knew that it wouldn't be long before he had to make a decision – utilize their skills to their full extent, or leave them to do recon and search and rescue. At least if they were close to him he could try to keep them safe, to the best of his abilities. And a part of him he tried to ignore – a part that maybe was biased – had a feeling the two of them were more than ready to step up to the plate. Might even give them a fair chance out there.

Elias didn't know what was coming, he just hoped they were ready for it. All of them.

February 8th, 2027.
No Man's Land, San Diego CA, United States.

Victor Ramos had learned to tread carefully in the years he'd been voluntold by the Federation. Argentina had been a slightly less willing member of the Federation, but the Federation's founding forces made it quite clear from the start that compliance was the key to survival in the new world order they were creating. So his home country complied. Ramos had been making his way in the scientific field and the Federation decided he was of some use to them. Though not officially military, he worked around almost exclusively soldiers. And soldiers, as anyone could tell you, were not the kind of people you wanted to get on their bad side. Some were more docile than others, yes, but Ramos did not like to test his limits with men that carried around multiple firearms.

Normally, he was on good terms with the Captain. He had learned to read him especially well. He could pick up on his many, sudden shifts in mood. But in No Man's Land, the Captain was like a completely different man. He was always tense and on guard, in a constant state of irritability, but in No Man's Land he was almost violent and paranoid. Every sound made him jump, every misstep made him lash out, and Ramos was finding it especially difficult to navigate the eggshells he was accustomed to walking over. Even if he was considered a friend – or at the very least a useful ally granted a slight level of trust – that didn't mean he was looking to test the extent of that friendship.

He couldn't exactly blame him for his irritability. Ramos had never liked making trips to No Man's Land either. Sure, the Federation had caused the devastation that stretched on for miles, but that didn't mean that it sat well with him. After all, this could very well have been his home. Any survivors could have been reduced to cowering behind walls or digging through the ruins of their homes like stray dogs, living off whatever scraps they could find for food and shelter. As it stood that was not the case. He lived a comfortable life in the Federation, whatever his politics may be. No Man's Land unsettled him for that reason. It was a terrifying thing to witness, let alone consider for himself. Something told him that the Captain's unease was not due to the same reasons as his own, though. It ran deeper than that. Perhaps the Ghosts he was so desperate to find, the ones that lurked in the shadows and haunted the wasteland.

Whatever the reason, the change kept Ramos on his toes.

He had his own job to do while the Captain had his, but he could multitask. Every so often he'd eye the Captain. He tried to pick up on his moods. His restlessness. Any sign he was about to lose his cool. He'd told Ramos in the past to mind his own business and leave the commanding of the soldiers to him, but Ramos fancied himself a peacemaker of sorts. He didn't like confrontation. He liked confrontation even less when there was the risk he'd get caught in the crossfires of it somehow. If he sensed things were about to go badly, he would step in. He'd learned how to do it subtly, so as not to direct the Captain's wrath onto him instead. It was an art that was not easy to perfect. He was fortunate enough to be quite useful, which gave him a certain amount of immunity. Again, though, he was not one to press this luck.

That particular day had been an eventful one. Most trips to No Man's Land yielded at least some results. They were getting closer to the crash site they were looking for, but they hadn't struck gold just yet. They were getting somewhere, though. The Captain was left waiting for the recon team he'd sent out while Ramos was able to finish up his own work. Before the Captain had been cleared for work out in the field in No Man's Land, their recon and research teams had fallen prey to the American soldiers that stalked the grounds, but after he was deployed that had started to change. Ramos suspected it was something to do with his past before becoming one of theirs. He was somehow connected to the Ghosts. His pursuit of them was too purposeful to be a simple desire to do his job. Ramos didn't pry, though. Some part of him was morbidly curious, and although he didn't have the stomach to watch the full interrogation he couldn't look away from the initial 'reunion'. The first one had been incredibly intriguing.

The second one was no different.

Ramos noticed the patrol return, prisoner in tow. He had a skull mask, just like the others, though it was a different pattern than before. His hands had been zip-tied behind his back and he had clearly put up a fight. Ramos could see blood glistening against the fabric of the soldier's uniform and his steps were awkward, stumbling, more like he was being carried. His head swung side to side every so often as though he was hungover. Obviously that was not the cause for his swaying, more likely head trauma from an altercation with the Federation soldiers. The first American soldier they'd brought in had been in a similar state. They never did know when to quit. Otherwise the Federation's job wouldn't have taken over ten years. They'd have washed their hands of this long ago if not for the Americans' stubbornness and pride. Foolish. All of them.

The Captain turned to face the returning patrol as soon as he heard the commotion. His expression was blank. It was hard to tell what look was in his eyes from where Ramos stood, but he imagined it was either just as blank and empty or full of contempt. That was all that he had seen when the first Ghost had been brought in. He stepped forward a few steps as the soldiers threw the American to his knees in front of him. The force seemed to pull him back to his senses as he shuddered and regained his bearings. He leaned forward and tried to wriggle his way out of their grip, but the butt of a rifle was promptly slammed between his shoulder blades and he was yanked back by the top of his mask and – very likely – his hair. Ramos could hear his grunts of frustration and pain even with the distance between them.

"Well, well, I'd almost been hoping I'd bump into Ajax or Merrick first…maybe even Elias. But you'll do," the Captain said as he leaned forward. Ramos could see the rise and fall of the Ghost's chest as he began to heave in frustration and anger. The Captain ignored him. "You were never anyone's first pick anyways, were ya, Torch?" He seemed to recognize him just from the mask pattern alone, but he roughly pulled it from the man's head as he spoke, revealing a head of short, sweat and blood soaked brown hair. "Guess your luck's finally changing."

"You son of a bitch!" 'Torch' tried to lunge up, at least looked as though he was trying to headbutt the Captain, his voice laced with nothing but pure hatred. It cracked, either from pain or grief, Ramos guessed. The Captain easily dodged the attack, and instead of grabbing him the soldiers let him fumble and catch himself with his core alone. He let out a frustrated growl while the Captain only laughed. Torch glared up at him, and he seemed to register his defeat. "What the hell happened to you, man? The hell are you even doing here?"

"Let's just say I had some unfinished business that kept me from headin' over to the other side," the Captain said with a shrug and a chuckle. As though it was the most obvious thing in the world. Ramos knew very little about his history, he realized. It was on a need to know basis, and as far as the Captain and the Boss were concerned, he didn't need to know it. He watched as the Captain abruptly grabbed ahold of the man's jaw, jerking him almost to his feet, ignoring the way this man he used to know winced. "Now, how about you give me a hand with that, hmm? See if you're any smarter than your buddy, Grim."

"You're gonna pay for what you did to him," Torch managed to speak through gritted teeth. His nose crinkled, almost in an attempt at a snarl. "They're gonna send you straight to hell, you piece of shit."

The Captain gave a small smile. "I've already been." He released Torch's jaw, just to ball the same hand into a fist and slam it directly into the side of his face with a dull thud that carried across the entire clearing. A visible red, bloody mark already appeared. Both men just stared each other down though. The Captain flexed his fingers, red from the impact and from Torch's blood, and he huffed. "Let's get started, shall we? We have a lot to catch up on." He motioned towards the soldiers. "Take him away."

Torch didn't break eye contact with him as he was hauled to his feet, glaring at him until one of the soldiers smacked his head and forced him to face forward. The Captain rounded on him, watching him go. He turned his back to Ramos and he was unable to read whatever expression he was wearing, let alone figure out what he may have been thinking at that moment. When he finally did turn back towards Ramos, his expression had gone blank once again, and Ramos noticed he continued to flex his hand, steadying it as though it was aching from the force. Or trembling. Ramos could hear the grunts of Torch as he tried to fight back against his captors, his fight renewed by his brief interaction with the Captain. Apparently neither one of them knew when to quit.

Stubborn Americans.

Ramos could feel the Captain glaring at him when he tried to look away. He got the message. Whatever he had seen, whatever he thought about it, it wasn't any of his business. He relented and stalked back into his workshop, back to the company of less aggressive officers and the computers within. There wasn't much work left to be done today, and the work that had just been brought in was for the Captain to deal with, but nevertheless Ramos wondered if he could find some way to distract himself. He didn't want to be around here by the time the sun went down, as he'd spent more nights than he would have liked there already, but he guessed he didn't have much of a choice. And he wasn't about to complain.

The Ghosts that haunted the Captain hadn't attacked them in some time, but the Captain was tempting fate by bringing them here. One was bad enough, but now another. He did it for the Federation. Sooner or later those ghosts would come searching for vengeance, though, and the threat of that didn't even seem to bother him. Assuming that he had considered it at all. If he did, then he wasn't concerned by it. In fact, he might have even wanted to invite their wrath. Ramos wanted them gone, but he did not want them anywhere near him. There was something off about them. Even at their worst they terrified him.

That night was haunted by screams and shouts and swears that put any real ghost or demon to shame and sent a chill down Ramos' spine. He was unable to sleep. Unable to imagine anyone enduring such a lengthy torture. The Ghost didn't relent, nor did the Captain. At one point Ramos prayed for a gunshot to sound. To put an end to it. That relief never came for him or for the man enduring the brutal beating. Even without the others around, one Ghost was enough to haunt the facility. He imagined the living hell and felt pain for his enemy, but his own fear took priority over that. The image of a broken soldier, beaten and bloodied almost beyond recognition, appeared in his head with every cry of agony that rang out into the night.

There was a distinct chill and an eerie stillness marred only by the haunting cries of a soldier being physically broken and mentally torn apart that made the air feel heavy that night.

Whatever retribution may come from this, Ramos wanted nothing to do with it.