Justice Day || Tino

[Alfred F. Jones]

it's a

revolution

Word count: 1039

Tags: Tino Väinämöinen

Notes: Not sure if that's enough detail, just ask me for more if it isn't.

Cons.

Cons, heists, scams, whatever you called them. Deceit, trickery. Lies and slander that eventually got you to your goal. Money, for most.

There were all sorts of cons one could pull. Long cons, short cons. Elaborate cons, last-minute cons. Impersonation, romance, there was so much you could play with. So many different characters you could be, so many faces you could pretend to have.

Alfred enjoyed that part of a con, the part that got his blood pumping. It was fun, distracting even, to pretend to be someone who didn't exist. There was a certain beauty to the art of conning people, which was perhaps why those who pulled them were called con artists.

Alfred had to admit though, he'd been a little reckless about cons these past few months. After joining the Freedom Fighters, Alfred suddenly had a purpose. And for some reason, the more he pulled cons, the more Alfred wanted to pull them. The more the danger attracted him, thrilled him even. It was like getting high on putting oneself in dangerous situations. It was easy to forget who you were or where you were and just become immersed in the con in front of you.

Like the one he'd pulled a few weeks ago. Alfred hadn't needed to even go pull a con. Most cons that Alfred specialized in ended up giving him a hefty paycheck and at most a few a month were usually enough to get by on. The longer cons Alfred ran could have given Alfred a comfortable life if he didn't ask for much.

But Alfred had gone and pulled another con anyways. He'd been thorough, but not quite thorough enough. It was more of a risk, a gamble, a test to see if he could actually get away with pulling something bigger. Alfred had been planning to pull a massive scam with a large number of politicians someday. This was sort've a dry run, to see if Alfred could even attempt something on a large scale.

He'd gone for something more dangerous this time, actually taking on the role of someone who might be recognized, someone who couldn't just disappear. Arnold Jackson, a man who supposedly headed a small section of finance. That was completely bullshit—that branch of Underground finance had no actual leader. Alfred had been cautious enough to create a character that wouldn't really stick in people's minds that much and wasn't too over the top in his creation.

It had been a little hilarious, to be honest. The people in finance didn't even question Alfred's orders to see the finance reports and one of the guys had been helpful enough to give him the passwords for their branch's finance account. Everyone seemed to easily accept that the leaders of the Underground had finally decided to send someone to keep them organized. Alfred had been careful enough that he hadn't gotten into any big meetings with anybody (though he may have seemed a little out of place with one or two of the representatives of other branches of finance) and he'd even managed to scam the Underground a little more than usual. The missing money would probably be written out as lost checks or incomplete bills. People in the Underground could be smart, but only the leaders really operated with a certain cunning cruelty.

After his little scam, Alfred had wiped the footage of Arnold Jackson away. No one would even know he was there.

Still, it was a bigger scam than Alfred usually attempted and it could've gone wrong in so many ways. It wasn't the size of the scam that Alfred was worried about (certainly, he'd dreamt of bigger ones), but it was the increasing amount of time that Alfred spent on cons and his almost addiction to the thrill that worried him. That could cause carelessness. Alfred was in a good situation. He didn't need anymore money for a while. It was time to close shop, become just an ordinary citizen again. Maybe he'd even take up an honest job for a little while.

So Alfred had done that. Well, he hadn't exactly worked but he hadn't planned cons either. He'd taken a bit of a break. Alfred stayed inside, played video games, and ate ice cream. He wandered to the park. He even avoided Francis in an attempt to ensure that he wouldn't be too drawn to helping the FF with another assignment so soon. Alfred had relished in the relaxation for a while, but all too soon, he wanted to get back into it. Cons, Alfred realized, distracted him. It was easy to forget yourself when you were pretending to be someone else.

Guiltily, Alfred had already begun planning for his next con. Nothing too out of sorts—he simply subconsciously did research that he tucked away by talking to people who might be connected or know what was happening. He figured that three weeks had been long enough. He could go on longer without conning someone, but Alfred figured he might as well get back into the game. Just start with something small, some lowlife that wasn't in the public's eye. Some redemptional justice. Alfred would be fine with that.

He'd decided that today he'd start planning. The hacking, the outfit, what character he'd play up to scam his next target. He had a man in mind, though it wasn't set in stone yet. There was plenty of scum around here. He could scam just about anyone.

Alfred walked up the stairs with a bag of groceries in one hand. In the other hand, Alfred had a coded USB drive with information he'd gotten from one of his sources on the target. Just basics, Alfred didn't need to know everything for this con. It would just be a simple, basic one.

Alfred finally reached the top, a little out of breath. He put the groceries on the ground while he searched for his keys. As he fumbled with them, his breathing slowed and evened out. Alfred wondered what he would do first. Mapping out all the data he'd found seemed like a good idea.

Finding the key, Alfred slid it into the lock and twisted it, pushing the door open.

i suppose

by Worldie for Leia

[Tino Väinämöinen]

TO QUELL A REBELLION

   you need to dampen the matches

Alfred Fitzgerald Jones was a difficult man to pin down.

Tino sat in a chair, poised carefully as he balanced his weight on two legs. Teetering back, he ran through the information he had compiled on the criminal over once more, filing away everything and anything he could on a certain Mr. Jones.

Jones was a convict, but on no means was he a large scale criminal meant for lifetime conviction (though with the government as malevolent as they were, they probably could find a way to lock anyone away for the remainder of their life). No, Jones was difficult to pin, and to be honest, had Tino not spent three weeks digging at internet footage, government tapes and old files, he would have never cast ‘Arnold Jackson’ a second glance. However, Tino wasn’t like most people and his appearance had for some reason struck Tino in an uncomfortable manner.

Tino never let on anything, as a rule of thumb. He was always observant, even if he played most of his acts on ignorance. Mr. Jackson waltzed into the Underground with confidence, but not flamboyance or over-exuberance. He had been calm, a cool presence that no one question or cast a second thought towards. Either this man was a well-known executive, or something was perhaps amok. There had been a lot of traffic in and out recently and Tino made sure to privately investigate each of their visitors.

If Tino was in charge of quelling a rebellion, he’d start by dampening the matches.

That night, Tino had snuck into the security booth, past a dozing guard that had been aided with trace amounts of barbiturates in his dinner that he had left in the communal refrigerator. Quietly without words or alarm, Tino copied all records from the camera footage from that day, including all holding cells and arena cameras, as well as the finance section and exits. Padding his USB into a wrapped pocket, Tino wiped down all surfaces and left the sleeping guard as he was. Tino left no trace that he had ever entered that room; he even hid in the blindspots of posted cams.

Tino rewatched said movies in a late-night internet café with his hood pulled up over his hair (he would have at his home, but he had a certain lack of electricity to deal with). He watched them again and again, watching exactly what Jackson did and touched. He recorded his words, and everything seemed superficially normal. However, after gaining access to the government page login, no ‘Jackson’ popped up with that surname. Had this man changed his name and it not gone through properly?

More fishy trails led to dead ends. The finance hardly dealt with anything; why were reports printed from their department? Tino left wordlessly before wiping the browsing history and cache. He took up casual conversations in the lunch room with employees. He even treated them to alcohol at the pub to loosen their lips, but many of them had already forgotten Jackson’s little visit to their department. Eventually, after two weeks of pub crawling and small talk, Tino found information from one of the accountants.

Arnold Jackson was a government representative sent in to help organize the state of affairs in the financial branch. He had ID. They gave him the reports and passwords so he could organize them in the head office, which was located elsewhere, never named for security reasons. That night, Tino rechecked Jackson’s profile. The man was nowhere to be seen, and unless he was like Tino Vainamoinen and meant not to exist, something was awry.

Tino drugged one of the security guards once more and rechecked footage. To his surprise, Jackson was no longer on tape. The hell? How did his presence suddenly vanish? Tino snuck into other areas and also found that Jackson was a forgotten entity all together; even the accountant had pretty much dismissed his visit. Tino also got a copy of finance records, and while Tino was no accountant by any means, he collaborated with another in the department as a means of a routine check. Cash was missing, but the accountant dismissed it and said there were normally errors each month, usually within a margin. Perhaps something had been missed with this months, as more than a couple zeroes were off.

Red flags kept waving in Tino’s head. Who the fuck was this Arnold Jackson?

Tino brought it to his overseeing officer and was granted a specialized password into the citizenship accounts of the country of Russia, but as Tino now expected, Jackson didn’t fall in any category. Tino tried his own name and found similar results. That got Tino thinking quietly. Either Arnold Jackson was not meant to be traced, or he was a made up identity.

Tino returned to the internet café and studied Jackson’s face. No doubt that the man was wearing some sort of disguise, a hat or something to conceal his actual identity. His face was remarkably young, childish in a sense. How did someone who appeared to be in his early 20s get access to the Underground’s financial records? Apparently this kid wasn’t a rookie.

It was only when Tino was having coffee at one of the common cafes that he saw Arnold Jackson walking down the street. He nearly choked, but didn’t skip a beat at missing such a key opportunity. He stalked Jackson that entire afternoon, traced him to an apartment building. With a little casual flirting with the female receptionist, he got a tour of part of the block, and what each room looked like. He was able to inconspicuously snap a photo of the tenant room list, pegged on the side of the lobby.

Jackpot.

Tino was able to take said list back to his normal computer hookup. He spent 8 hours running through each tenant and surprisingly didn’t find a match. However, one of the names was not on the registered citizen list.

Arnold Jackson, or perhaps Tino would start referring to him by his new cover name, Alfred Jones.

Two more long, sleepless night between work shifts had left Tino gazing over countless reports. Nothing major, no wanted posters or such, but he saw similar faces caught on blurred cameras of the same man on reports of fraud and theft. Jones… Alfred Jones… Apparently this man was missing and had been for years. Tino found a surprisingly similar man from America, bearing a slightly different name. Alfred was potentially a runaway after a mutant expedition and capture. Tino made 4 phone calls, but family members hadn’t heard from him in a long time. Tino described his features to which they all confirmed, as well as his full name.

Alfred Fitzgerald. Jones was merely tacked on when he moved into Russia.

Tino stalked him for 3 more days, lurking quietly in his endless patience. Jones spent a lot of time at home, and from the roof over, Tino could occasionally watch him pass by his windows that his curtains didn’t completely shield. Tino could have killed him. He had a sniping rifle and a clear escape route down the fire stairs. He could have shot him, and gotten off the roof and away from that area long before anyone thought to check on Jones’s apartment. Tino also could have phoned him in. He had substantial evidence to arrest the man if he so wanted to. Conversely, he could have raided Jones’s home and stole whatever the conman had compiled. As easy as picking his lock was, that wasn’t Tino’s true intention.

The MIA agent had other plans.

Tino heard footsteps outside the apartment as he leaned forward, silently returning the chair to its original place. He had touched nothing, moved nothing, and even his footfalls made no impression as he skirted across the floor in blissful silence. The room was dark, but Tino slid behind the door. It opened, and Alfred stepped in without any suspicion that he wasn’t alone in his ‘home’.

Tino moved before Alfred even flicked his lights on. He maneuvered behind Jones and the door was shut quickly and firmly. Before the blond could turn, Tino’s thin, knife-like hand snaked around his neck, quick as lightning, sliding his arm around Jones’s Adams apple. Grabbing the bicep of his other arm, Tino’s left hand pushed hard against Alfred’s head, locking the rear choke into place. Squeezing everything together, he flexed his arm and pulled his shoulders back; fighting the struggle that inevitably came. Tino clenched his jaw and held his position with his back pressed against the door, counting slowly in his head. The time to choke someone out, or cut off the blood flow to their brain varied with each person. Tino personally always counted to 7 at a minimum. They grappled for a bit and Tino tried to hold Jones as still as he could. He didn’t want to cause a commotion that might alert neighbours.

8… 9… Jones’s fight slowly diminished, before he went lax altogether. Tino held him for 2 more seconds to ensure that he had actually passed out and hadn’t faked it before dragging the American over to one of his kitchen chairs. Flopping the man against the wooden piece of furniture, Tino pulled the roll of ducktape from his belt and quickly secured his captive’s wrists to the back of the chair and his ankles to the legs. He worked quickly and efficiently; Jones wouldn’t be unconscious for long. Tino could already feel him stirring quietly, struggling back into alertness. Tape was placed over Alfred’s mouth to prevent him for screaming.

Tino finally backed off, dragging a second chair across from Alfred’s. In the dim lights, Tino’s eyes had to strain between the tinted lends of his mask to see Alfred’s features clearly. Huh, it appeared as if he hadn’t even broken his glasses. Tino gave himself a pat on the back for technique as he rested his elbows on his knees, leaning forward carefully. Tino took every precaution he could, which included a mask that changed his voice entirely and a thick coat that masked his body shape. Dressed as he was, it was impossible to tell if he were male or female.

“Hello Arnold Jackson… or perhaps you’d prefer to be referred to as...” Tino paused as he leaned closer to the blond’s face. “Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, da?” Tino said in a gravelly, robotic voice. He smiled behind his mask and cloak. “I’d very much like to speak with you about your recent activities.”

[APPREANCE]

WORDS: 1758

TAGGED: Tino and 'Mr. Jackson'

MUSIC: link

NOTES: Let the interrogation begin~

MADE BY SIRIUS OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Alfred F. Jones]

it's a

revolution

Word count: 1407

Tags: Tino Väinämöinen

Notes: I need duct taped Alfred in my life.

Shit.

He felt like shit.

That was the easiest way to put it. The moment Alfred had entered the room, before he was able to even turn the lights on, the door was shut behind him, the lock already twisting in place. Alfred was fast, but he had never expected this. That half second of surprise gave his mysterious attacker the advantage.

Before Alfred could even see who it was, there was already an arm under his neck, a hand pushing against Alfred's head. He tried to jerk his head backwards but the hand kept him in place. Alfred gasped for breath. Shit. Shit shit shit. He had enough sense to know what was happening, but things were happening almost too quickly for Alfred to process.

Alfred struggled against his unknown assailant, trying desperately to twist his body to whatever position that would offer him the slightest advantage. No luck. You know how in stories, the hero always manages to flip the villain over his head like a badass? Yeah, well that usually didn't play out in real life.

Air, air, air. Alfred's fingers, which had been desperately trying to break through his attacker's hold, were beginning to loosen. Shit. He didn't have much longer before he was going to pass out. Alfred's mouth opened, but he couldn't scream. Air. Where was air when you needed it?

His vision began to dim and flicker. No, shit, no. Pound against the wall. Elbow the man (was it a man? Alfred really hoped he wasn't getting his ass kicked by a girl) in the ribs. Anything. His brain was screaming. Air. He just needed air.

His struggling became weaker and waves of nausea seemed to wash over him. It was happening too quickly, no. Alfred's body didn't even seem to be moving at his will anymore. Air. That's all he wanted, air.

And then it was black. Alfred couldn't lift a single finger. The fight was over as quickly as it had begun. He could already feel himself slipping away into the realm of unconsciousness.

No, Alfred thought dully. Shit, no.

He wasn't sure how long it had been. A few seconds? A minute? More?

But then suddenly he could think again. Suddenly, Alfred was aware that he was breathing. He couldn't hear or see, but he could think. Air. Gosh, air was beautiful. All Alfred could concentrate on was breathing. In, out. In, out.

C'mon Alfred, the voice in his head chided him. Get up. You can't stay like this. Move. Do something.

But he had absolutely no control. He tried to open his mouth once or twice, trying to say something. Yell for help, maybe. Even if no one heard, maybe his attacker would be scared off. But Alfred still couldn't move. He wanted to kick something in frustration. Why wouldn't his body just respond?

You're okay, Alfred. Stop sitting around. Get up. But his body wouldn't cooperate. He could only breathe. Air, gosh, air was beautiful. That was the first conscious thought Alfred had.

His brain hurt, god, it hurt. He couldn't feel anything, just blankness. It was like he was falling down a dark chasm. Thinking hurt. It was like he was trapped in a hallucination.

Everything seemed to move in slow motion. It was an hour, or was it a minute? Seconds? Alfred couldn't spare a moment to think of why he was in this situation. All his body could think of right now was how to survive.

Alfred started to regain his hearing. There was the distinct sound of something like tape being torn off. Where was he? Alfred desperately wanted to be able to see. He was sitting up, he could feel that. Was he still at home?

And then the tape was being put across his mouth. Shit, no. Alfred squirmed, tried to get away from whatever was there. No, crap, he was losing his air. Breathe, Alfred, breathe. You still have your nose.

Alfred's eyes were closed and regardless of how much he wanted to, he could not force them open. If this attacker had wanted him dead immediately, he'd be dead already. So he'd come for something else. Not a robber, a robber wouldn't bother with this...

Thinking hurt. Thinking hurt way, way, way too much.

Alfred tried testing out the rest of his body, keeping his eyes shut. His hands...shit, they couldn't move. Could anything move? Not his feet, his attacker had bound them somehow as well. Probably with tape. Alfred couldn't have been out that long, could he? But then...had his attacker just moved that quickly?

...Okay, he was going to have to refer to his assailant as a he because Alfred really thought he would die from humiliation if he'd just been knocked out and captured by a girl.

He cracked his eyes open, the world spinning a little around him. The air coming from his nostrils was not enough and Alfred experienced the sickening sensation of vertigo. It passed in a few seconds, thank goodness, but the feeling of nausea still remained.

Goddamn it. What? Alfred's mind was still a little foggy. Duct tape. Duct tape over his mouth, preventing him from talking, screaming, or otherwise bringing about the attention of anyone around him. His hands were twisted uncomfortably behind him, likely with the same thing. And he couldn't see his legs either, but it was probably the same situation. He shifted about, struggling a little, but whoever had done this had done a good job. He was duct taped, tightly, to a freaking chair. He couldn't move a single inch. Alfred was basically helpless.

Was this a scene out of a movie or something?

As for his assailant...Alfred lifted his head a little.

Holy crap.

It was like a horrifying mixture of the Reaper and that creepy WWII gas mask kid from that Doctor Who show that Alfred secretly indulged in. It was like Death had come to search for Alfred himself. God, was he going to hell already? He wouldn't have been surprised, but this soon? Did Death like to duct tape its victims before sending them to eternal damnation?

...It may have been a joke, but it wasn't the slightest bit funny.

The creepy black hood pulled over what looked rather like a gas mask sent chills down Alfred's spine. A thick coat covered the rest of the man. Or woman. Hell, Alfred couldn't tell. He was sitting in one of Alfred's chairs, his elbows on his knees, leaning forwards slightly. It was like being scrutinized by the devil. Alfred struggled against his bonds a little more. Anything to get away.

"Hello Arnold Jackson." Who the hell was Arnold Jackson? It took Alfred a moment to remember. Gosh, why was his brain suddenly so slow? Jackson had been one of his many aliases in the Underground. Shit, had he screwed up? But how had this man traced him? Alfred was almost certain he'd covered up his tracks.

"...or perhaps you'd prefer to be referred to as..." There was an eerie, gravelly, and robotic tone to the man's voice. The mask...it must be changing his voice somehow. Whoever was behind that mask didn't want him to know a single thing. And it seemed like that man might know everything.

"...Alfred Fitzgerald Jones, da?" Alfred flinched slightly at the sound of his name. Shit. What else did he know? Why wasn't Alfred in some cold prison cell yet? Undoubtedly, there was plenty of information against him.

"I'd very much like to speak to you about your recent activities." Speak to him? Well, this couldn't end well. Not that Alfred would ever say anything. If he had a gun, maybe he could go somewhere. But right now, Alfred was trapped, stuck.

Even with the voice-changing mask, Alfred could almost feel amusement radiate off of the man. It made him sick. Did he think this was a game? Alfred wanted to spit in the man's face. It wouldn't do much except for annoy him, but it would certainly make Alfred feel a little better about his situation. Unfortunately, his mouth was still covered with the blasted duct tape. Instead, he settled for a burning, hateful glare at the man.

His hands twisted painfully behind him as Alfred tried to reach for the pocketknife in his sleeve. If he could cut through the tape, he could actually put up some sort of a fight. Now if only he could reach it...

i suppose

by Worldie for Leia

[Tino Väinämöinen]

TO QUELL A REBELLION

you need to dampen the matches

Subduing Alfred Jones did not come easily, but choking anyone out wouldn't be done without some for of resistance. Jones was also a lot larger than Tino, and a good deal heavier. That never guaranteed anything in a fight though, because Tino's grip was a vice that would not be easily broken. Even if Alfred tried to flip in over his shoulder, or slam him back against the wood of the door, he'd eventually falter and fail without air and blood.

And, as Tino expected, Jones did just that.

The man twisted and flailed, trying to claw Tino's arm off of his neck in a desperate attempt. Tino clenched his jaw as he pulled tighter, the gasping and choking sounds barely reverberating in the quiet room. Was this all? Surely the conman had a backup plan in case anyone attempted to ever follow up on the asshole who stole from them, if they were clever enough to follow the hidden tracks. Tino kept his arm flexed, despite the ache that was developing from the prolonged struggle. Performing a choke hold was not without its drawbacks; Tino had to be sure it worked because it was strenuous on his own body as well. If Alfred escaped before Tino put him under, things would get complicated.

Spastic-like jerks from Alfred were beginning to weaken, and Tino was glad for that. Alfred had been attempting everything to lash back at Tino, like a cornered animal biting at the hand that tried to kill it. Tino could feel the sore areas that would surely bruise, a curtsey of Mr. Jones and his struggles. All would pay off soon enough, as Alfred finally dropped, unconscious.

Tino moved as fast as he could to contain him. Damn this fucker was heavy! Tino tossed him into the chair and took no moment to catch his breath. It would be a shame if Alfred came to just before Tino had bound him; then the Fin would have to resort to a knockout blow to the head, and that could prove fatal if he didn't perform it correctly. Alfred Jones wasn't someone Tino needed alive per say, but Jones was a conman and a good one at that. If Alfred could infiltrate the Underground with relative ease, what did he know about the system and its actions? Surely he knew about the mutant situation and the rising tension that surrounded them. If anything, Alfred would serve as a puppet to seek out information. He must have had sources that Tino simply didn't.

That was all assuming he was a compliant individual. Tino had his doubts, but not many liked to argue with a handgun.

As Tino finished taping the blond's wrists, he made damn well sure to secure his legs too. Ankles, wrists, hell Tino would tape his shoulders down, had he the time. That was no a luxury that he was gifted with as Alfred's breathing began to quicken. His fingertips were twitching as well; Tino sealed the tape over his mouth before he could scream. After all, it would be such a pain in the ass to shoot the fucker after going through all this work to tie him down and to keep Tino's identity a secret.

If Tino wanted Alfred Fitzgerald Jones to die, the blond would have never left his apartment this morning.

The identity mask was a different story entirely. Tino knew how to go undercover, and as experienced as he was, he knew not to leave stupid tracks behind. He did not enter the building looking as he currently did; no, that would merely warrant unwanted attention. He also didn't enter through the front door, and he made sure to avoid the surveillance system that the upperclass apartment had. On top of that, Tino entered the apartment in an attire that he didn't normally wear before pulling the thick coat over his frame. The mask was also not for simple decoration. Not only did it hide his face and change his voice, but it also was a fully functional gas mask, if the situation got ugly and Tino needed another method to subdue Jones. A bonus of the getup that Tino selected was to be frightening. So many people held fears about horror scenes and movies, and if Tino could install a panic, then he'd also gain an upper edge. Intimidation was key.

He waited patiently as Alfred's sluggish brain seemed to pick up speed. Touching his face with the tape seemed to speed up the process as he jerked around, but the only outcome of trashing would be to knock over the chair (and if that happened, Tino would not set him up straight). His blue eyes seemed to be heavy, because he seemed to be unable to bring his gaze to Tino's tinted eyepieces. Finally though, he rose his head and gaze.

Tino smiled as the red colour drained from Alfred's face. The Fin almost had to repress a chuckle. The way his eyes shrunk back into pinpoints, the way he subconsciously leaned back, even the way he began his futile struggle once more. That was all very cute, but Tino had to make sure Mr. Jones wouldn't let out a wail during this questioning. If he did, then Tino would lose his potential lead.

That and he'd have to submit paperwork to his boss. The new policy about filing reports for killing people sucked.

When Tino spoke, the chilling and lifeless words seem to affect Alfred in a similar manner to the initial shock and fear. It unnerved him, it bothered him and Tino could tell. He could feel it. The Fin leaned forward more, narrowing his eyes behind his mask. After he spoke, he let the words hang in the air. He wanted to drill the fear and terror into Mr. Jones. As the wait dragged out, Jones' initial fear melted into a dark glare. Eyes that were so wide with shock were now narrow and venomous. Now now, that wasn't called for~. Tino smiled, reaching for his hip slowly.

"You've been a hard man to track, but I want you to listen, and listen carefully."

Tino felt his glove ghost across the surface of his handgun, sending chills down his spine. He hadn't shot it in some time and his fingers ached to pull the trigger. He had his silencer in his pocket, as it was too bulky to keep equipped in the holster. Pulling it from its secured position on his hip, Tino played with the weapon between his hands, almost like a child playing with a toy.

"I have questions that I would like you to answer honestly, and things will be easy. Otherwise... things might not end so prettily..." Tino drawled, mimicking a slight Russian accent before pulling a silencer from his left pocket. He took his time screwing it to the barrel, eyes not leaving Jones. The action was practiced, almost completely guided by muscle memory. Tino spoke as he worked.

"If you scream or call for help, I will decorate your feature wall with pieces of your brain, da?" Tino said, almost lightly, but the warning was grave as he directed the point between Jones' eyes. It was held there for a moment, as if Tino were contemplating ending the man now, before Tino reached forward with his right hand and ripped the tape from Alfred's lips. Tino leaned back into his chair, but the barrel stayed trained on Alfred's chest.

"What were you doing with the financial records you printed from the Underground?"

WORDS: 1260

TAGGED: Tino and Alfred

NOTES: 3-2-1 let's go!

MADE BY SIRIUS OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Alfred F. Jones]

it's a

revolution

Word count: 1419

Tags: Tino Väinämöinen

Notes: My muse is an idiot.

The man was fucking enjoying himself.

He knew it. Alfred didn't even know how he could tell, but he was absolutely certain that whoever was behind that mask was having fun.

This pissed Alfred off beyond comparison. Now that the initial shock had begun to fade and panic had yet to set in, Alfred just felt angry.

Most normal people would be scared and sure, Alfred felt that somewhere in the back of his mind. After all, he could die. Not that Alfred cared too much, but there was that natural part of him that really would prefer to live to see tomorrow. Alfred was very well aware that he could basically die at any day, be tossed in jail, hung for treason...oh, there were half a billion possible outcomes. He'd long come to accept that. And even though Alfred knew that there were a few people that he still was friends with, that would care if he died, he didn't particularly care too much. That was the sort of reckless attitude that kept Alfred at his job.

Now that he was sitting here across from whoever the hell had found him out, Alfred refused to feel fear. Yes, he might die. No, make that probably. But screw death. Couldn't be that much worse. There might even be burgers in heaven.

...Assuming of course, that he wasn't sent to hell. But let's stay optimistic.

"You've been a hard man to track, but I want you to listen, and listen carefully." Like Alfred could do anything else. He was fucking duct-taped to a chair.

He had to do something about that. Alfred's hands twisted behind him once again, trying to reach into his sleeve. Where was the damn pocketknife?

The man reached towards his hip, taking his merry time. Alfred was seriously considering killing him. Not that he was in a position to at the moment, but he would try his best.

A gun came out of a holster and although Alfred had expected it, he winced a little inside. His own gun was still in his jacket (Alfred could just about feel its weight) somehow. It was a little surprising, actually, that his assailant hadn't taken it from him. He supposed that the man didn't exactly expect him to be using it for a while.

That pissed him off as well.

...and now the man was fucking playing with the gun. Like it was a toy or something that he'd brought along to keep his hands busy. Alfred knew that his captor was toying with him as well, just trying to keep up the unease and tension, the nervousness, the fear. Alfred had seen his father do the same thing before. Hell, he'd even participated once or twice. You didn't want the target dead, at least not at first. But there was always that lingering fear. That was what interrogation was so often built off of.

Sitting on the other side of the table though, was not a pleasant experience. Alfred's eyes followed the gun's movements, his body was rigid and tense. He tried to relax his muscles but they absolutely refused to do his bidding. As much as Alfred tried to shove his fear away, it crept up on him against his will.

His fingers still searched for the knife. If he could cut the tape on his wrists, Alfred could potentially reach for the gun in his jacket and then...well, most likely by then he'd be dead because as optimistic about his abilities as Alfred would like to be, it was highly unlikely this man would just sit and wait for him to pull his gun out. No, he'd have to come up with a better plan. Maybe he could duck to the side quickly, knock the chair over. It might give him a half a second before the man reacted, maybe enough time to shoot the fucker...

Aha. He had it. As much as Alfred wanted to start sawing, it'd probably be better if he waited a little. If only the man would start to recite Shakespeare or something.

This was a pretty terrible and all-around pointless plan, but Alfred wasn't about to go down without a fight, as short-lived as it might be.

"I have questions that I would like you to answer honestly, and things will be easy. Otherwise... things might not end so prettily..."

Alfred highly doubted that things would end prettily either way.

The man took out a silencer and Alfred mentally thought shit. Not only was he going to die, he was going to die in silence. No gunshot (well, at least less of one), no massive explosion, no last words. Just a squeezing of the trigger and then...silence. Poof. Alfred Fitzgerald Jones would vanish.

The tape felt particularly suffocating on his lips at that moment.

His fingers tensed around the pocketknife. If he made it through this (chances of which were looking rather slim), Alfred was going to upgrade his security by twenty times. He'd never thought much of it, but that was apparently a mistake.

The man was taking forever to screw on the silencer, which he did while staring soullessly at Alfred. The silence was overwhelming. A drop of sweat involuntarily formed on Alfred's head.

"If you scream or call for help, I will decorate your feature wall with pieces of your brain, da?" Like hell he would give the man the pleasure of having him scream like a little girl. Besides, Alfred didn't want to get the neighbors involved.

Though Alfred couldn't completely differentiate thanks to the voice-changing mask, there was a lighter tone to the voice which did not quite match the gun (with silencer attached) that was now being pointed right between his eyes. The pressure exhibited by the gun made Alfred cross-eyed, trying to stare at it. Although he was still angry, fear was beginning to break through.

He refused to be scared, so Alfred buckled up his courage. He concentrated on the anger. He wasn't going to let this man get the better of him.

The gun point was finally removed from between his eyes but before Alfred could inwardly sigh in relief, a hand reached out and roughly ripped the duct tape off from his lips.

Pain. The sensation of having duct tape ripped from one's lips was very different than tearing off a bandaid. Alfred felt as if his skin was being ripped off. It was all he could do not to scream or even swear. Alfred bit the inside of his lip and tasted blood. He wouldn't give this man the pleasure.

Luckily, the pain only lasted a second or two. And now he could finally breathe through his mouth. Alfred continued to glare at the man and chose not to speak for now. Even he had that much sense.

The man leaned back comfortably in Alfred's chair, which made his eyebrow twitch a little. Now that he could speak, Alfred felt a little more in control. Not a lot—that would've been a pretty stupid thought, even for Alfred—but a little. The barrel of the gun was still trained on Alfred's chest, but it was farther away now and made Alfred feel (however mistakenly so) a little safer.

Now that the tape was gone and Alfred was a little more relaxed, he could finally wonder who the hell was threatening him. The Underground was his first clue. Maybe an official? A guard? But that didn't seem very likely. They seemed to be the type that would much rather immediately beat someone to a pulp before dragging their half-dead body to an interrogation room and later, jail. This man was different. He'd chosen to knock Alfred out without injuring him too badly and tie him up in his own apartment. There was something amiss here, something that Alfred couldn't quite put a finger on.

"What were you doing with the financial records you printed from the Underground?"

"Checking up on the economy." Fuck. The sarcastic words were out of Alfred's mouth before he could stop himself. He wanted to slap himself. Well, shit, he was definitely going to die now. He should've held his tongue, maybe even said nothing. Alfred could always do that when he was pretending to be someone else. But this time, Alfred was just himself. Himself, stuck in an interrogation, and he hadn't thought his words through.

He wouldn't be surprised if they found him tomorrow with a bullet in his head.

i suppose

by Worldie for Leia

[Tino Väinämöinen]

TO QUELL A REBELLION

you need to dampen the matches

There was something about Alfred F. Jones… something different.

Most people Tino interrogated were criminals. They were easy to manipulate, always trying to defy any and all questions or orders until the torture instruments came out. It was amazing really, how in one instant they claimed they’d never talk, and within minutes they’d burst like a dam, spilling every last detail about their friends, enemies, who they dealt with. It didn’t matter who it was; they always gave way with time. Tino was particularly skilled at getting whatever information he wanted, and this case would be no different.

Or would it?

There was something in the kid’s eyes. Something unique… a fire that burned deep within those blue hues. Oh, the American was glaring, a common reaction to being restrained, but there was some sort of thought behind those eyes other than raw malice or anger. Like those blue eyes were swearing vengeance in some way, shape, or form. A silly speculation by the MIA agent, but a speculation none the less that could prove valid in time, if Alfred were to identify Tino’s true identity.

From the blond’s defiant reactions and unique stare, the Fin knew at this moment that this would either be a long winded, painful process of extracting information, or the Fin would have to take a slightly different approach. Every person held a weakness, or an Achilles’ heel of sorts. Tino would poke and prod to find Alfred’s, and he had not come to the conman’s apartment weaponless.

Tino brought both the physical means and background information to attack and dismantle Jones, piece by piece.

The gun, for starters, forced a reaction out of Alfred, no matter how much the American tried to hide it. The patience of Tino was wearing down Jones as well; the Fin could see the sweat slowly forming beads on the blond’s face and neck despite the fact that there was very little colour in Alfred’s cheeks. Tino slowed his pace to a crawl, drawling out each step of assembly of the gun. The anticipation of death would slowly eat away at the resolve of the young American and make Tino’s task easier. Alfred’s eyes were trained on the Fin, flicking down occasionally at the gun despite his obvious attempts to ignore it. Jones was trying to be brave, but he’d soon find out how far that would get him.

Tino’s threats hung in the air with no response. No muffled whine, no snarl back, nothing. Jones was cooperating, at least for now. He was following Tino’s first order; listen. It was an important issue, and it gave Tino insight on how Alfred treated the situation. If he had scoffed and let his eyes wander, then he was not worth the effort and the process of this whole ordeal was for naught.

Cards were played carefully as Tino stacked his hand in his own favour. He finally broke through Jones’s little act when he placed the gun up to his head. Genuine fear flared within his eyes alone and the sweat along his brow was nearly dripping down his face. Playing pretend could only get one so far…

Tino finally tore the tape from Alfred’s mug, tossing it aside to fall limply to the floor. He waited for the man to catch his breath, to establish himself, and to see if he indeed called aloud for help. No alarming shrieks followed, so Tino’s posture relaxed ever so slightly. He didn’t need to shoot him and make a quick break down the fire escape, but the interrogation had just begun; there was still plenty of time for Jones to make a retaliatory move that would draw attention from surrounding tenants.

Tino’s first question was immediately answered with what the Fin assumed to be a snarky, sarcastic idea of a joke. The Fin paused, and a heavy silence followed. Jones face looked horrified at his own response. Perhaps the words slipped from his mouth? No matter, mistake or not, this man needed to learn who he was dealing with and how this whole seen was a far cry from comedy. No defiant act went without consequence.

A soft little pop sounded, barely making a noticeable noise.

Tino’s face behind the mask was blank, stone-still and it held no emotion as the clatter of Alfred Fitzgerald Jones’s glasses filled the room. The Fin didn’t bother casting a glance down to where they fell. What mattered was the action, to show Jones exactly how serious he intended to be, and how dangerous and skilled Tino Vainamoinen truly was. The shot was precise as Tino cocked the pistol back, training it back to Jones’s chest. The shot was with little room for error; too far to the right and he’d miss the arm of the glasses, while too far to the left would nick Jones’s temple and possibly cause death. Jones must have been familiar with weapons in his life and the true skill of the shot would not go unnoticed.

"Perhaps you perceive this situation as amusing, or as a joke. Next shot will be between your eyes. Now tell me, what were you doing with those financial records?" Tino emphasized each word in his latter sentence carefully, clearly indicating that another smart aleck remark would not be tolerated, and that this interrogation could be completely very quickly if Tino did not get his way. Perhaps believing that Jones would be a useful lead was a mistake. If Tino saw no hope for cooperation from the American, then permanently silencing him would be the best option.

WORDS: 932

TAGGED: Tino and Alfred

NOTES: Bang and you’re dead

MADE BY SIRIUS OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Alfred F. Jones]

it's a

revolution

Word count: 1467

Tags: Tino

Notes: I'm physically incapable of short posts these days, sorry. orz

The knife was Alfred's only source of comfort at this point, along with the familiar weight of the gun in his jacket. Alfred shifted in place, trying to find a better position with his eyes remaining focused on the gas mask.

The man's movements were painfully slow, intentionally dragging out the process.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

"Alfred, I want you to watch carefully, alright? Don't say a word, don't make a sound. Just watch."

The silencer, twisted on ever so slowly, so unbearably slowly. If Alfred was going to die, he'd much rather it be quick.

"Fear is the key, Alfred. Pain as well...but it always boils down to fear. Everyone fears something. You need to find that fear and you need to use it. You need to make it painful to the point where they will do anything for the fear to disappear."

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. The sound of the clock in the background, the perspiration on his forehead.

The hardest part with the knife wasn't getting it, but trying to saw through the tape. Alfred's wrists, duct taped tightly to the chair, had such a limited area of movement that it was nearly impossible to cut through it cleanly. He bent his wrists back at an unnatural angle, trying to get the tip of the knife to tear into the tape. The blade touched the edge, but didn't cut. Alfred bit his lip in frustration.

Father and son watched in silence as the interrogation continued. The captive was blubbering now as Dean walked around the table, twirling the knife in his hand.

Alfred shifted backwards a little, trying to get a little more slack in his arms to make the cutting easier.

"Almost everyone fears death. That's the easiest fear. Occasionally, you'll find a man who doesn't care. But if he's still alive, chances are he's got something he doesn't want to lose."

The knife slipped, the blade slicing his finger. Alfred ignored the dull throb. As long as he didn't bleed, as long as he didn't make a sound...

And then the gun was at his forehead and Alfred was going cross eyed and his heart was pounding...

The knife slammed into the table, an inch from the man's hand.

"It seems a bit much, Dad."

"...Perhaps. But it works."

Oh, how it did.

With the gun pointed straight between his eyes, Alfred sat completely rigid. Fear at this point was difficult to mask. He wanted to believe that nothing would happen. They wouldn't have gone through all that trouble just to kill him, would they? But there was little comfort in that fact. There was never much comfort, when death stared you in the face.

Perhaps the Grim Reaper had come to call after all.

But then the tape was ripped off and the gun was removed and for the moment, Alfred could breathe.

That ended pretty quickly.

"Dad." The two paused as the taller one searched for his car keys. "What if I run into someone that won't break?"

The older man laughed. "Everyone will break," he said. "Everyone's got something to lose. Like all those hero movies you watch; the villain always gives in."

"But what if, Dad? What if?"

There was a pause.

"There's only one sort of man that won't break..." There was hesitation, as if the man was trying to decide how to phrase his words exactly.

The younger blond waited.

"The only sort of man who won't break, Alfred, is one who already knows he's dead."

It was almost laughable, recalling at this moment when the tables had been reversed. But as Alfred waited for a reaction, a bullet from the man sitting opposite him, time seemed to drag on. There was fear, fear that he tried to shove away but couldn't quite keep shut. Yet time's movements seemed sluggish, as if Alfred was trying to swim through it and failing desperately.

Was he dead? Did he think of himself as such? Alfred was afraid, though he did not want to admit it. Did that mean he had something to lose? He had his life, he supposed. But what else was there? His family was dead. Francis and the Freedom Fighters could and would carry on without him, as long as he kept his mouth shut. There were things Alfred had left undone, but nothing that no one could remedy for him.

It was sad. He had wanted to be a hero once, yet here he was, possibly about to die, and his memory would fade without a trace. Alfred Fitzgerald Jones didn't even exist after all.

Maybe he was already dead, maybe he'd been dead from the moment he'd left his brother.

Well, if he could do one last thing...dying for something couldn't be that bad, right?

...

Except it was, it was, it was. If only the wait would be over, if only he could just close his eyes and...

Pop.

It happened too quickly to fully process. Even with the silencer attached, the sound of the bullet whistling next to his ear was difficult to miss. Alfred sat in stunned silence, unable to move.

A moment later, his glasses clattered to the ground.

Immediately, Alfred's eyes darted to the side, trying to catch a glance of where they'd landed. He suddenly felt very, very vulnerable. While Alfred did not actually need his glasses for his vision, they had become a sort of shield. Something he could hide behind. And now that was gone. There was nothing to hide behind, nothing that might keep a bullet from driving its way into his head.

Just him. Him and a man with a gun.

His mouth opened slightly, whether in protest or in shock it was difficult to tell. There was nothing to say though, and Alfred set his jaw back and clenched his teeth. The vulnerability of his position had only been reinforced and a bead of sweat rolled down the back of his neck. Fear pounded through his chest; he could hear the blood rushing through his ears. Alfred wanted to be brave, oh how he did. But only a fool couldn't feel fear.

He looked back at his interrogator. The gun was pointed back at his chest now, yet it seemed much more deadly than before. Alfred was a good marksman and he knew how hard it was to aim a shot like that, even from close by. Even at point blank. One slip of the hand and you could miss. One slip of the hand, and Alfred would have been dead. Yet the man had gone through with it anyways, and only in response to Alfred's snide remark. And Alfred was still here. Alive.

This man was not here to play around.

"Perhaps you perceive this situation as amusing, or as a joke. Next shot will be between your eyes. Now tell me, what were you doing with those financial records?"

The message was crystal clear. If Alfred made one wrong move, if Alfred even said anything similar to his previous comment, there would not be a third chance.

He could be stubborn and refuse to answer, but Alfred had a feeling that that would not go over very well. He needed more time. More time to work through the duct tape on his wrists, more time to formulate a plan. The barrel of the gun seemed all too close now.

Alfred could not tell the truth, because it would only lead to a floodgate of other questions. The financial records and passwords...keeping tabs on the Underground. Technical knowledge, necessary for the Freedom Fighters. A method of detecting flaws in the system, weaknesses that they could use to their advantage. Alfred knew very well that if he even hinted that he knew about the Freedom Fighters, the entire interrogation would head down a very different course.

Which meant there was only one path forwards. Lie. Alfred's favorite pastime.

"I printed them for show," Alfred spat after a moment's consideration. His glare intensified, but primarily, his eyes were trained on the gun. He couldn't help it. "I couldn't waltz in there and not pretend to do something productive. I only cared about the passwords to the records—for future reference."

The problem with this question was that Alfred knew there was no good answer. Any other con artist in the country—maybe even in the world—would not have stopped to print those records. Perhaps this man would accept his answer, yet Alfred found himself doubting that. It wasn't a bad excuse...but it wasn't a good one either.

He began working at the duct tape again, more desperately than before. There was a mild panic to Alfred's actions. He had to get out, and he had to get out now.

i suppose

by Worldie for Leia

[Tino Väinämöinen]

TO QUELL A REBELLION

you need to dampen the matches

Funny how easy it was to break a man. It was child’s play, actually. Men, women, people, they would all talk, chirp and insist their wills were absolute and carved into stone. How laughable. What humans didn’t acknowledge were the limitations to their own bodies and spirits; people would always crack if you could push the right buttons, whether that be physical or mental. Tino didn’t even need a gun. Weapons didn’t have to even be tangible. Deceitful words could, and would, eat away at a person’s conscious mind until it became fragile; opinions were weakened, shadows of doubt would gather, and they’d soon change from a stone to malleable putty in the MIA agent’s fingers.

For casual example in this situation, Tino’s lighter for his cigarettes could be turned into a potent torture device. It seemed harmless enough, being blue in colour and having come from the counter of a grocery store. It had only cost a handful of rubles, or the equivalent of less than a euro. One could be bought at a petrol station with pocket change by anyone of any age at any time without being casted a second glance. Such a cheap, simple tool and, when lit and held under the fingers long enough, could bring any man to his knees, begging for the heat to be removed.

Humans were weak and everyday items like forks, electricity, even water. They were all weapons, but they were so common that the dangers of them were never considered by ‘normal’ people. Such a waste.

However, despite all potential Tino could inflict with Alfred’s household items, the Fin wasn’t patient enough to give Jones a lesson in torture today, nor was he completely isolated. Sure, he could stuff a gag into Jones’ mouth to silence him as he tortured him, but Tino had other motives. If Alfred cooperated, Tino might not hurt him (might being the key word)

At least, if Alfred Fitzgerald Jones was worth keeping alive. That fact was still up for debate.

The gun was Tino’s first persuasive tool, and it was doing its job. The resolution in the American’s eyes was gone; it faded gradually with time, much like Alfred’s harsh stare. First, the kid feared him, then hated him, and now that fear was resurfacing. It was unwise to ignore the emotion; fear was primitive and held a purpose. After all, there was a single bullet in the floor and Alfred’s glasses were cracked.

Guns held six rounds. Tino had four more shots to play with. The last was always saved, never used unless necessary. Unexpected events always seemed to turn up when Tino was least prepared and he had learned to try and brace himself for them.

Tino waited, watching Alfred digest his threat. Now that he had the American’s attention, hopefully the fool would talk straight, but that wouldn’t happen. This kid wasn’t ready to spill just yet; Tino hadn’t broken him in enough, but the Fin awaited his answer regardless.

Jones’s first mistake was the millisecond of hesitation before he spoke. He took precious moments to process a sentence, to consider his choice of words. Perhaps it was to avoid saying something foolish once more, but Tino’s eyes narrowed behind his mask. A more likely possibility was that Alfred was scrounging up an excuse. Was he intending to lie? Tino couldn’t say he was expecting any different.

"I printed them for show. I couldn't waltz in there and not pretend to do something productive. I only cared about the passwords to the records—for future reference."

It was the last two words that tipped Tino off, and after a thick moment of heavy silence fell between them, Tino stood. He looped the trigger around his index finger and spun it, not bothering to engage the safety. Russian roulette, or a very warped version of it.

“Let’s say, for argument’s sake, I believed your initial reasoning. Seems valid enough, an act to deter attention from a man asking solely for money, in simple terms. But…” Tino stopped in front of Alfred, midstride. The gun clicked back into his palm and he leaned so close into Alfred that his mask nearly touched the blond’s nose. The gun barrel was pressed firmly into Jones’s chest, just above his heart. Hm? There was something there, in his jacket. He let it slide, temporarily, to not break the intensity and invasiveness of the sudden action.

“An experienced conman would never rob the same company or target twice. Too risky and the likelihood of getting caught is so much higher. Now, if you were to avoid the Underground branch for the rest of your career, why would you need such passwords for your own future reference?”

The question was rhetorical. Alfred Fitzgerald Jones did not need those records, nor did he require any access to that information. Tino paused only for a second before he continued, but not without reaching into the jacket and retrieving the object from the conman’s inner pocket. Tino smiled when he looked at the metal in his palm. How quaint, a gun. Now he spun each in synchrony on his right and left hand as he leaned back.

“The answer is simple. You are a thief and a liar.”

Tino aimed Alfred’s handgun at him momentarily, but then paused again.

“Conmen are a peculiar breed. You are greedy and always crave to approach the point of near-capture, but never cross it. The Underground is a very dangerous place to play, but that didn’t stop you, da? Now let’s speculate: the sum of money you stole is considerable. It would probably sustain this lifestyle you hold for a few months, assuming you have no debts to anyone. But—why waste an opportunity. That is what you thought when deciding to tackle such a difficult target. Not only did you steal money, but you proceeded to smoothly talk an accountant into granting you access. Why? Taking those records may not have any benefit for you, but I know many parties interested in the hidden affairs of this country, and said people would pay a great deal of money for that access; probably millions of American dollars. More than enough for you to retire at the age of 20, da? So!”

Tino twisted and tossed Alfred’s pistol onto the table, sliding it away from them both. He resumed his position in his chair.

“Assuming I am correct, I only need one piece of information from you, Alfred Fitzgerald Jones.”

He leaned forward on his knees and lowered his voice, ghosting his own gun back over Alfred’s heart.

“Who is your buyer?”

WORDS: 1107

TAGGED: Tino and Alfred

NOTES: Tino's wrong. He thinks he's right but he's so wrong.

MADE BY SIRIUS OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Alfred F. Jones]

it's a

revolution

Word count: 1450

Tags: Tino

Notes: ...On the bright side I managed to make my muse not laugh.

Balance. When it came down to it, it was all about balance.

Lie, but don't lie too much. Give enough information to keep you alive, but not enough to render you useless. Be stubborn, but not too stubborn.

The last one was what Alfred had difficulty with. It was in his nature, his most endearing and repelling trait. Don't back down. Don't back down.

Fear came in waves for Alfred. Fear, then anger, then fear again. In the silence that hung in his apartment as his interrogator contemplated his answer, the fear was beginning to fade again. Hope, a weak spark but nevertheless present, allowed Alfred to breathe.

He didn't move in the silence. His pocketknife was still in his hands, but for the moment, he didn't try to cut the duct tape. His wrists were sore and ached from how tight the man had taped them, not to mention the horrific angle he'd had to place them in to be able to cut through the tape. Alfred wondered if he made any progress at all. It was difficult to tell.

Finally, the man stood and fear prickled in Alfred again. The gun spun around the man's finger as casually as Alfred used to spin a basketball. Round and round and round as if they were having a normal conversation, as if any of it resembled normalcy.

"Let's say, for argument's sake, I believed your initial reasoning." Shit. Alfred's mind was already scrambling to remedy his mistake. The only problem was he didn't know what it was. "Seems valid enough, an act to deter attention from a man asking solely for money, in simple terms. But..."

Suddenly the gun was at his chest, pressing into his jacket. He could almost feel the bullet piercing through the leather, making its way to his heart. Alfred's mouth went dry. Almost worse than the gun though was the mask. Alfred found it right next to his face, not even an inch away. The man's raspy breaths were right in his ears, Alfred's breath fogging up the tinted lenses. However terrifying the mask had been when he'd first seen it, it was a thousand times worse up close. His heart pounded as he stared, unable to look away yet desperately, desperately wanting to. Alfred struggled a little even with nowhere to go, twisting his hands behind his back and trying to move his ankles. Dimly, Alfred realized that the tape on his wrists had loosened somewhat. Not enough so that he could break it yet, but a little. The fact seemed rather unimportant right now.

An experienced conman would never rob the same company or target twice. Too risky and the likelihood of getting caught is so much higher. Now, if you were to avoid the Underground branch for the rest of your career, why would you need such passwords for your own future reference?"

Fuck. He had no answers for that, nothing that could work. How had he screwed that up as well? Alfred couldn't stop the panic that ran through him.

There wasn't an answer. Nothing but the truth, which Alfred could never tell.

He didn't have much time to reflect though when suddenly the man's gloved hand was in his jacket. Alfred stiffened but before he could think of a method of pulling away, the hand had been removed along with the familiar weight that had been his singular comfort during this entire experience. His gun. Alfred felt his heart drop. Even the pocketknife behind his back felt useless in that moment. The emptiness in his jacket taunted him. His terrible escape plan wasn't even feasible now. All he had was his pocketknife and what the hell could that do? He was defenseless, completely unarmed. His gun and glasses were gone. There was a bullet in the ground. God, he was going to die.

The man spun both guns in a synchronized motion. It looked so practiced and fluid and easygoing. Alfred wanted to puke. To choke. His eyes followed his own gun. It was like the man was taunting him.

Alfred swallowed.

"The answer is simple. You are a thief and a liar."

The man pointed Alfred's gun at him this time. The irony of the entire situation...getting shot by his own gun...

"Conmen are a peculiar breed. You are greedy and always crave to approach the point of near-capture, but never cross it. The Underground is a very dangerous place to play, but that didn’t stop you, da? Now let’s speculate: the sum of money you stole is considerable. It would probably sustain this lifestyle you hold for a few months, assuming you have no debts to anyone. But—why waste an opportunity. That is what you thought when deciding to tackle such a difficult target."

Alfred blinked. For a brief moment, the fear was replaced by a new emotion. Confusion. Why was he talking about Alfred's living situation and debts...what did this have anything to do with anything?

"Not only did you steal money, but you proceeded to smoothly talk an accountant into granting you access. Why? Taking those records may not have any benefit for you, but I know many parties interested in the hidden affairs of this country, and said people would pay a great deal of money for that access; probably millions of American dollars. More than enough for you to retire at the age of 20, da?"

Realization dawned on Alfred at that moment and relief almost made him want to laugh. A thief! Just an ordinary, everyday criminal who'd decided to be a little too greedy and go beyond his abilities. This man, whoever he was, wasn't here because he suspected Alfred of what he'd feared. He thought he was just an average criminal who'd accidentally stepped into the line of fire. God, he could cry in relief. Alfred should've known...people didn't expect a con artist to work for the Freedom Fighters. Why would they? The FF wanted to be known as a group striving for a greater cause, a noble cause (which it was). Why would they even think of sinking so low as to using a conman to achieve their goals?

"So!" The man almost sounded triumphant, like Sherlock Holmes after a deduction. But the triumph was Alfred's, however fleetingly.

And fleeting it was because in the next second, his gun was sliding across the table, out of reach. Even if he got loose now, he wouldn't be able to grab it before a bullet embedded itself into his brain. Alfred's eyes followed the gun as it skidded to a stop, subconsciously leaning forwards, the duct tape biting into his wrists.

The action grounded Alfred back in the moment, but only barely. Alfred tried to focus less on the fact that his secrets were safe and more on the situation at hand. This man was completely wrong. That still wouldn't stop him from killing Alfred.

"Assuming I am correct, I only need one piece of information from you, Alfred Fitzgerald Jones."

The man sat down again, farther away from Alfred. He tried to concentrate again, on the mask, on the fear, even on the gun.

Alfred, pay attention.

But he couldn't, not completely. He didn't have the information this man wanted, could never have it because it didn't exist. So Alfred just stared, stared and tried to remember that even though a large weight had been lifted on his shoulders, his life was still on the line.

The man was leaning forwards again, lowering his voice to intimidate Alfred, the gun back to being trained on his chest, right above his heart. The exhilaration faded a little as Alfred's eyes flickered back to the gun.

No. He wasn't going to be afraid. This man didn't suspect anything and Alfred intended to keep it that way. So he straightened his back and returned to glaring as he tried to form another plan.

Lying. Lie lie lie. That was always the plan.

"Who is your buyer?"

The corner of Alfred's mouth twitched slightly. It sounded so melodramatic right now.

This isn't a game.

"I don't know." Alfred should've come up with something, but he needed time to think and this could buy him a few precious seconds. Possibilities...the Mafia? MS-13? The CIA? Wouldn't that be a sight. Working with the U.S. Government, maybe even for them. Were they still looking for him? "I had several offers and I chose the highest bidder." He shifted slightly in place, his fingers tightening around his knife as the after effects of his sudden relief finally dissipated. "None of them were about to tell me who they represented. They're not that stupid."

i suppose

by Worldie for Leia

[Tino Väinämöinen]

TO QUELL A REBELLION

you need to dampen the matches

Funny, how people wore their emotions far more obviously than they were to believe they did. Even compulsive liars, tricks and thieves, liars and sinners, they all reacted in some way, some form, especially when in a life or death situation. People didn’t train themselves to swallow a bullet for the truth. No, most people were like open books, with pages and pages dedicated to their thoughts, only accessible to the people trained to read them.

Tino wore a mask, both in this moment, and when the leather was removed from his head. Tino was an anomaly, his body a trained puppet meant to respond perfectly to the plucking of strings. Tino knew how to control his expression, from the way his lips would pinch slightly to the dilation of his eyes. He had excruciatingly precise control over every single muscle in his face, trained perfectly to lie and deceive. It was a practiced, rehearsed art that took many years to perfect.

He did not have a human face. He wore a mask.

Alfred Fitzgerald would be an individual that Tino would classify as abnormal. His reactions? His eyes and mouth and quirks? Laughably normal, poor even in this situation. He spelled ever word of fear with his eyes, and despite all his typical fears and reactions, he wasn’t normal. It was atypical for someone, a liar and money cheat, to not talk. Instead, he continued to fib. Either Alfred believed keeping the truth from Tino would keep the conman alive, or he was hiding something. Underground record passwords, and someone or something to hide. It was no secret that the Underground had enemies.

Which one was the question indeed…

Tino knew he was wrong. How? Because Alfred told him. As soon as the words fluttered off of Tino’s tongue, Alfred’s book opened, and his pages spelled how relieved he was over Tino being totally, entirely, positively incorrect. Perhaps that was the correct path to getting the answers he needed. Alfred’s lips may have been sealed, but oral language was hardly the only source of communication.

So Tino rambled on, eyes trained on the other with intent. It was laughable, how he was unconsciously screaming how wrong Tino’s accusations were. Was this honestly the kid who conned the Underground? If so, it was pathetic and Tino would have more than a few words with security, because this had to be a joke.

Alfred’s emotions did a switch from interrogation to relaxation after a hard day of work. The tension slipped from his brow, instead allowing them to shoot up on his forehead in confusion. In comparison to the primal fear he displayed before, he just looked surprised, before his posture slackened. He had been utterly rigid before, all muscles engaged and locked into place in a fight or flight type response. Now? Now he slumped forward, the strain in his shoulders released, and even his eyes dilated from the pin pricks they had been before.

It was almost so excessive that Tino wondered if it was a trick, an attempt to throw Tino off. However, Tino doubted Alfred was that good of an actor. In all likelihood, Tino had missed the mark, but…

Perchance, was that the way to get to this stubborn kid? He wasn’t talking orally, but maybe Tino was taking the wrong approach. He leaned back, his own posture slackening as Alfred spat out some half assed reasoning that really told Tino nothing.

Tino could play along, let Jones think he was in the driver’s seat, give him some control of the reins before ripping them out from his hands. That, or he could shut down his incorrect conclusion, and snap Alfred back into hot water.

Everyone talked. There was always a way to bend one’s will. The only restriction Tino had was time, and isolation. Tino could put Alfred through unspeakable horrors, but he needed days (weeks even), and he needed a location where no one would hear him. That could be arranged, if Tino so chose, but that was a toe out of line, and Alfred’s disappearance could raise red flags to whoever he was associated with.

Though, Alfred might talk to his associates about Tino’s little visit. In fact, he would tell his contact that he’d be compromised. All arrows pointed to either killing Alfred now, taking him home to torture and kill later, or to convert to Tino’s side. His life wasn’t a good threat though… Hm… There was information that Tino unearthed about Alfred that would wipe that twitch of a smile from his face, but not yet, too early to speak of it.

Or perhaps not. After all, torture was loud. Psychological warfare was not.

Tino sat for a long while in silence, hunched over his knees with the gun dangling precariously in his hands. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds went by before Tino balanced his elbow on his knee, his head leaned sideways and resting on his palm, as if they were discussing gossip over illicit information. He smiled behind the tinted lenses, responding with his own body language as to how much he believed Alfred’s false lies.

“So, you’re not a seller.” Tino said, almost with a reserved sigh. “My my, I thought we were passed lying to one another?” A tsk sounded through his lips, before he stood.

“I wonder then…” Tino shuffled, taking the time to pull a photo from his cloak and place it on the table, twisting it before sliding it forward into Alfred’s view.

It was an aged photo of a mutant, #48365, or Matthew Williams at his time of admittance. He was Alfred’s younger brother.

“… If your future reference of the records has anything to do with him.”

WORDS: 957

TAGGED: Tino and Alfred

NOTES: -drops mic-

MADE BY SIRIUS OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Alfred F. Jones]

it's a

revolution

Word count: 989

Tags: Tino

Notes: When you think your bro's dead but he ain't...

Something was wrong.

It was wrong with the way the man was waiting, patiently, without a word passing through his lips. It was wrong in the way the man was sitting, almost nonchalantly, though the presence of his gun was ever pressing on Alfred's mind.

The problem was, Alfred didn't know what.

It took the man forever to speak once Alfred had finished rambling, and it was only then that it occurred to Alfred that he had messed up. Shit. He'd been too obvious. Conning people was all about the subtlety. They needed to feel like they were the one in control, needed to be given just enough information to lead them in the right direction, but never, never too much.

Alfred had spoken without thinking. He hadn't calculated how to act, how to talk, all the things that he'd always, always done on cons. He'd fucked up, and both of them knew it.

Shit. He'd been given such a great opportunity, to blame this all on some exterior party, and he'd blown it. Alfred shifted in his seat uneasily, silently sawing the knife through the tape on his wrists. He had to do something... Alfred could throw the knife, but what good could a tiny pocketknife do? Maybe if he hit the man's wrist, knock the gun out...but that was a fantastical improbability. It took time, to yank his wrists away from each other and throw the knife, and by then Alfred would likely be dead. If his feet weren't taped as well, Alfred could possibly lunge at the man, attack him head on and surprise him...but even so, his odds were marginal.

It was only the faint hope that he'd come up with some semblance of a plan that kept Alfred's fingers moving. He wondered how much more tape there was to cut. The man hadn't gone easy on the tape, wrapping several layers around Alfred's wrists and the back of the chair. It was painful, bending his wrists to cut himself loose, and every other second, Alfred feared he might drop the knife.

The man finally spoke, and Alfred tensed up instinctively. It was difficult to relax, to focus, to con someone when there was a very much loaded gun hanging off of a very much experienced finger.

Alfred's heart sank as the man's words confirmed what Alfred already knew to be true. He needed a plan, a plan...but there was none. Alfred wasn't trained to get out of a situation like this. Hell, he wasn't trained at all. He was just doing things as well as he could with what he had, and that wasn't a lot right now.

The man reached inside his cloak slowly. Alfred wondered what more he could do in Alfred's apartment. His gun was already out, so that was that. There was probably, almost definitely something, something that the man could pull out. People were creative.

Alfred stared as the man removed a sheet of paper from his cloak. He furrowed his brow in confusion. A piece of paper. But why? It certainly wasn't a legal document; Alfred was certain that if there were legal documents, he wouldn't be duct taped to a chair with a gun pointed at his chest. But if not, then...what?

Alfred couldn't help but lean forwards, tugging against his restraints to get a better look. It was a photo of some sort, of someone. The man slid it forwards until Alfred caught sight of who it was.

Alfred went rigid, the blood draining from his face as he stared at a photo of his brother. Matthew. Matthew. Alfred almost whispered it, barely catching himself before the word slipped out of his mouth.

His brother. Alfred hadn't seen his brother since they had been separated. Not a glimpse, not even a photograph. Alfred couldn't bring himself to look away.

The photo was old, Alfred knew that much. Matthew still looked exactly the way he did when Alfred saw him last. Except...scared. Terrified, even. His eyes were wide as he stared at he camera, and Alfred felt his heart clench like a fist. He should have been there. He should have protected Matthew from this, from all of this. And now...

Alfred's head snapped up, back at his interrogator. What was the meaning of this? This photo of Matthew... Alfred struggled to connect the two thoughts. He hadn't expected...even after all this time of looking, Alfred had given up. He collected information more out of habit than of hope, scanned through documents and names to prove to himself that he was doing something. And now...to finally see his brother's face again, even if just in a photograph, after all this time... Why did this man have Matthew's photo? How?

Alfred forced himself to relax, though he could feel the quick beat of his heart in his chest. He leaned backwards, tilted his chin upwards to meet the man (supposedly) eye to eye.

"That man is dead." Alfred's voice sounded hollow to him. He'd never spoken it aloud, and it suddenly seemed too real. "He's dead and..." Alfred faltered slightly. "That's that."

There was nothing left for Alfred to say. Matthew was dead. That was the only conclusion that made sense. Because if Matthew wasn't dead, how had Alfred not found him after all this time? He had visited Weeds, had sat in on auctions, had forced himself through fight after fight. He'd never seen his brother, and why this man had this photo on him was beyond Alfred. His entire family was dead. All of them, every single... Alfred swallowed.

He had no family or home to return to. That was all this photo meant. Just a reminder of the people Alfred had lost along the way. Just a reminder of what he would lose again, if he wasn't careful.

Not that it would matter anyways. By the end of tonight, Alfred might very well be dead.

i suppose

by Worldie for Leia