Day seventy four of capture, and Logan is perhaps…at a lull. He has not given in, no sir, but he is exhausted. The interrogations, the labour, the lack of food and drink, it isn’t exactly motivating.

The people around him stem from a lot of different walks of life, though it’s mostly other military men around him. They talk, whether that’s about their own stories, or the plots of popular movies, anything to kill the time. There are a few books, but what Logan really finds himself doing is reminiscing.

He was born the eldest son in a legacy family. War was romanticised from an early age, he was pushed from an early age. He had to be the best, and then he had to be better. Any interests Logan had were stamped out in favour of being a better soldier. And his brother…

God, Logan thought about David so much. His younger brother. Their father had made such a stern environment, and young Logan had embraced that. He was cruel, competitive, completely unfair. All in desperate attempt to earn the affections of a man who was never going to give him anything.

Now, Logan wants more than anything to apologise to him. To say that he wasn’t a good big brother, to say that they should both fuck the army off and find out who they are without the shadow of their dad.

His last memory of David right now is the severe injury he got in their last mission, the one that got Logan captured. He prays - though he is not religious - that they at least saved the better of the Walker brothers.

Today though, the lull he was in, the almost apathetic haze that had surrounded him, was beginning to break when something changed.

The figure in the cell next to him had been a cause of question for a while. Under a blanket, drops of blood around them, usually taken away somewhere at night. Nobody knew, and nobody tried to find out.

Another questioning left him exhausted, and as he collapsed in his bed, but a sound bugged him and stopped him from sleeping. He realised a soft voice was whispering to him ‘psst, American!’.

A pause…

His head lifts, and his confusion only grows. The figure from the blanket has uncovered themselves to reveal…a teenager. A teenager? In a fucking Prisoners of war camp?

Logan’s eyes flutter, and rubs his forehead, wondering if the guards laced him during the last interview. “What am I looking at right now?” He asks, his voice rough but his tone completely bewildered. How did you get here?