Brothers in Arms

Breaking Point.

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.