[b]Pilot Scene[/b] Blood rained down on the ground as the spiked fist backhanded the naked man once more. He was a mess, his dirtied body sullied even more by days of imprisonment. By now, the soldier's own ribs seemed like they would break out any moment from one of the many gaping wounds decorating his body. To say his captors had not been kind would be an understatement. They had used a shotgun filled with birdshot shells to riddle his body with open holes for starting their "interrogation." When that did not suffice, they used the broken leg of a chair as a makeshift torch to burn him with. The militiamen enjoyed the screams of the foreigner, accompanied by the smell of his burning flesh. After all, they were so familiar with that scent from years of burning their people's bodies for fear of sickness spreading. He could only writhe so much against the pole he was tethered against. The rundown warehouse he was kept in could only project so much of his cries. Their rusted instruments could only create so many messy incisions upon his chest... But the simple remedy for that was to merely move on to his back. Then his groin. Then his thighs. Then his limbs. And the beating. The man thought he would get accustomed to it, but the aftershock of each near-death lynching hit him hard every time-- possibly more than the beating itself. Another sharp punch rattled him back into reality, interrupting the flow of recent memories. The Ethiopian's fist sent more crimson fluid into the feces and piss-covered concrete, disturbing some of the insects that happened to be idly sitting upon the dirtied floor. Small nails and broken glass adhered to the rags covering the captor's hand. Some of the jagged shards stuck in the mans face, marring his once chiselled features into an indistinguishable mess of raw meat. A brief moment of solace was provided after another hour of agony. His torturer- a large, barrel-chested local wearing a ripped and faded military uniform -unwrapped the shard-covered cloth from his fist and asked the soldier another question. "What is your name?" "YOU -blam!-ING MANIACS! I TOLD YOU EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW! MY NAME, WHO I WORK FOR, JUST -blam!-ING KILL ME-" He was cut short by the carved bone handle of the man's knife slamming downwards into his shoulder. The blunt grip broke a few more bones, cutting the man short by his own screams. However, the captor spoke over them. "I said what is your name, foreigner?" It was strange, how a mere whisper could speak louder than his cries of agony by the power of deadly emphasis. How a proud soldier could be reduced to less than an animal over the course of a week. Through gritted teeth and laboured breaths, the man answered his captor's question once more. "My name... is Ricardo Balat." This was about the eighth time he told him this, but he seemed to forget every time like he honestly didn't care. The militiaman snapped his fingers, signalling a much smaller figure over to him. Through the dim light, bruises, and blood he could not see many features of the newcomer. Although he did see the signature material of his uniform and the broken trauma plate hanging from its ripped vest. His smaller companion fished out the picture of his family he always kept in his designated "safe pouch." He also produced a thumbtack from a bandolier hanging loosely from his small chest. "Do you want to die, foreigner?" "Yes," the tortured man said expressionlessly. He had been asked that question over and over again, but had never been gifted with the sweet peace of death. He saw the man lift up the smaller figure, whom he figured to be a child, to his forehead. Ricardo felt the thumbtack painstakingly slide into his flesh, almost as if the force behind it was too weak or too hesitant to do it quickly. When the boy came back down, the thumbtack and photograph were no longer in his tiny hands. Instead, his own 9mm sidearm was held by the child. "Do you miss your family? Your wife? Your two daughters?" "...yes... please just..." "And yet you want to die? To leave your family?" "Because of you -blam!-s! BECAUSE OF YOU WORTHLESS SAVAGES! YOU PIECE OF SHIT MANIACS!" He continued his tirade of insults, thrashing against his bonds and forcefully widening his eyes to stare down his captor. Surprisingly, no retaliation or reprimands came. In fact, the militiaman calmly waited for his prisoner to settle down as the child stood beside him, shaking slightly as he held the pistol. In the end, there was silence. The man's deep accented voice broke it. "Yes or no, foreigner? You Americans are so... Convoluted. You ask questions and demand answers, but when asked questions you only reply with other questions or nonsensical rants to avoid it." A pause. The soldier actually had to consider this before taking a deep breath and sighing. He had given up all the information the savages wanted and was practically on the verge of death already. "Yes..." The man nodded to his much younger underling. The child hesitantly aimed up at the prisoner's head, still trembling. "Goodbye then, foreigner dog. Die for your 'duty' and die for your family." And then the child shot through the man's head, straight through the picture of his family tacked to his forehead. [spoiler]Rip me apart with feedback plz. [/spoiler] Notes: -"The human body can only take so much shit" -Felix has a massive gorilla cock -Probably gonna scrap this tbh