A Little Favor [Tino]

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

The guards in the Underground held little significance for Ludwig. He knew his cocky older brother gave some of them nicknames, and that a select handful liked to abuse their positions (especially when it came to the Baits). When it came to those individuals, unless they raised a hand against his brother or his friends within his range, the blond was content to ignore them. They were contemptible human beings, and the less he dealt with them, the better. On the other hand, there were a few rare individuals that had become guards and somehow hadn’t let the power get to their heads. They didn’t tend to last long in such an unforgiving place: most of them could only stomach the systematic abuse of the system and of mutants for so long before handing in their keys. But when they appeared, Ludwig gave them more regard. He asked after their health and that of their families, passed on rumors he’d heard (if only to learn whether or not they were true), and even gave the occasional warning — say, if the half-insane mutant three cells to the left had been threatening to kill guards all day. And if he learned he could rely on one of those rare individuals, Ludwig brought up the Plan. It had been a simple idea, but one that made plenty of sense, and one that he felt the guards — the right guards — wouldn’t be able to turn down. The scheme went like this: while Ludwig didn’t always walk away from the arena unbloodied, he had yet to walk away a loser, and constantly winning fights meant constant perks. Hot showers, clean clothes and blankets, the occasional luxury item, and most importantly, food, more food than Ludwig knew what to do with. Having been effectively raised in Weeds before adapting to life in the Underground, the German had learned quickly how to get by on less. But in truth, he could obtain nearly every prize the fights offered by himself, thanks to his abilities, and he was willing to suffer without a book or some paper if it meant that some of the other mutants got a decent meal. Ludwig felt an imperative to keep everything fair, and while his perspective had been skewed due to the indoctrination he’d endured at school, in the Underground he found it absurd that mutants with weaker powers were punished for losing fights by having food and comforts withheld. That made them even more weak, and it wasn’t any fault of their own that they had been born with powers that made them hopeless in a fight against someone like him. Ludwig had to grudgingly admit that the Plan had also come from guilt. He didn’t like to fight, he didn’t want to fight, but he wasn’t going to break the rules, and the rules stipulated that only one mutant could walk out of the arena a winner. But in the end, it worked out for everyone involved: he would win the fights and hoard the food, and then he’d distribute the food to the Baits who so obviously needed it. And that was where the guards came in. Standing up against the door of his cell with his hands clasped around the bars, he’d been watching the guards make their rounds and go about their duties for at least half an hour. Rumors about a newer guard who gave away smiles and friendly chatter freely had reached his ears, and Ludwig was determined to get this man’s help with the Plan. The only trouble was that he hadn’t yet seen him: all of the faces that had passed by the bars were ones he knew. Ludwig gave the latest patrol no more than a passing glance, although the guard noticed him a little more acutely. “Hey, away from the bars.” “I’m just watching the hallway,” Ludwig replied calmly. “That’s allowed.” “I told you to get away from the bars,” the guard warned. “You going to make me order you a third time?” Reluctantly, Ludwig stepped away from the bars, sitting down on his bed against the wall. The guard watched him for a moment, then walked off. He returned a few minutes later; Ludwig had anticipated that, and hadn’t left his bed. After he left, more than an hour went by where the hallway remained empty. Ludwig kept his eyes and ears trained on the empty space in front of his cell regardless, and when he heard footsteps, he leapt to his feet. The guard who was walking down the corridor had an unfamiliar face: he looked young, with light hair and a calm expression. That’s him, Ludwig knew instantly. He’d gone over how to execute this conversation in his mind plenty of times, and his nervousness didn’t show on his face. “Excuse me,” he spoke up as the guard drew nearer. “I know that you’re busy, but I was wondering if you had a moment to talk. I hope it’s not too rude to ask.” Ludwig almost held his breath as he waited for a response; forgetting the warning from earlier, he was back at the bars, gripping them with his hands and with his face pressed up against the free space between. Word Count: 885 Tags: Tino Väinämöinen Notes: I hope it is okay!

by worldie for lena

[Tino Väinämöinen]

AND I SAID
HELLO, HELLO

LAUNDRY DUTY WAS AN INSULT. Tino pouted as he pooled together the soiled blankets and clothes that mutants had stripped from when they went for their weekly hosing, or as the guards phrased it, ‘shower’.

Influenza was sweeping through the Underground with the warming of temperatures and the changing of seasons. Though, the Underground still clung to that stubborn chill that remained in the concrete slabs and dark hallways no matter what time of year it was. Many mutants were sick, hence the order to scrub down all cells and wash all bedding and clothes. As well, mutants were upgraded to more frequent showers to attempt to keep the virus from spreading, but when they were kept in low living conditions without proper nourishment or shelter, it wasn’t surprising to see so many ill.

It meant hell for the staff, who would be hung out to dry if one of their assets passed away.

Tino had spent the morning away from the Underground, back at Headquarters were he chewed a receptionists’ ear off for over an hour, angrily spitting out everything wrong that they were doing and how each and every stupid action was only driving them closer to an all-out war. Instead of listening, he was dismissed and 100% positive than his message was never delivered up to the higher commanding officers. He could have opened fire right there. Why didn’t they listen?! They brought him there for this shit and instead of using Tino’s intelligence and wisdom, they had him scrubbing floors and washing sheets.

Tino slammed the washer door shut and crunched the button in so hard it broke.

Frustration didn’t even begin to cover what Tino was experiencing, and he literally could do nothing to alleviate it. He couldn’t stop them all on his own, and the longer he was kept in close vicinity to them, the harder it would be to open fire when the command was issued. Tino crossed his arms and leaned against the wall, brow furrowed.

This wasn’t like Moscow. It was different, as much as he hated to admit it. Mutants here… they were more… more human. In Moscow, Tino dealt with living weapons. They pillaged the black market and controlled the smuggling of heroin and methamphetamine, spreading illicit drugs like wildfire while moving down officers like bowling pins. That was where Tino belonged, in that high risk battlefield where one wrong step meant a very painful death. Moscow wasn’t without it’s consequences… Tino gently reached across his chest with his left hand, ghosting the material covering his collarbone. He’d been shot there at point blank range, unable to completely disarm the girl before she had pulled the trigger. He had been grazed just below his right hip, and he’d been burned out of torture by one of the most dangerous renegades of them all. Tino’s fingers quivered before tightening into a fist.

Bastard was dead now, so the Fin had won in the end.

The dryer dinged, the off-tone reminder jolting Tino from his thoughts. He had to make beds in Block A. Puh… making beds, folding shirts. Six weeks ago he had been purging filth from the streets and making an actual difference in the world. Now he was stuck playing Molly the Maid.

Tino hauled the load of blankets from the dryer, piling them with the rest that had been drier earlier. Tino had cheated and didn’t bother folding them because he was off to go put them on beds. Loading the trolley, Tino sighed before pulling his emotions in line, wiping his face, and striding out of the laundry room, rolling his bin of supplies down the quiet hall.

It was a quiet and eventless trek. He had to reach the other side of the block, where all mutant had been relocated and hosed down. However, as Tino was walking, someone called out to him.

“Excuse me, I know that you’re busy, but I was wondering if you had a moment to talk. I hope it’s not too rude to ask.”

Tino glanced down the hall, but no one appeared to be in the vicinity. They were all busy with the task at hand, so Tino had a little bit of time to chat with whatever this fellow wanted. Tino stopped, leaving the cart where it was as he approached the cage.

Oh.

Beilschmidt, Ludwig. Age 20. Mutation: Pyrokinesis. Able to influence the energy in atoms in order to release massive amounts of heat. Able to controls flames and fires. Accustomed to fighting. Combat: Do not engage at short range. Mace to the eyes to disable sight, then contain with compressed CO2. Hazard rating: Extremely dangerous.

Ludwig Beilschmidt was the only mutant in the Underground that possessed an ability that had severely harmed Tino in the past. The Fin smiled warmly despite the way his left arm began to tingle.

“No no, it’s okay. What is it? Are you alright? Are you feeling ill as well?”

MADE BY MINNIE OF GANGNAM STYLE

[Ludwig A. Beilschmidt]

baby you're a firestorm you're a loaded cannon

The guard in question, the new face, had been pushing a huge cartload of laundry through the corridors, Ludwig could clearly see. He hadn’t realized the guards were in charge of that kind of task, although now that he thought about it, he could recall seeing them pushing the massive hampers back and forth on occasion. Yet he’d always assumed that it had been the janitor’s day off, or something to that effect. That many of the menial tasks apparently fell to the guards… no wonder some of them disliked the mutants so much: they’d signed up to be guards and got stuck on laundry duty. Still gripping the bars, Ludwig waited anxiously to see whether or not the guard would even acknowledge his existence. Thankfully, the man heard his voice and left the laundry cart to approach the cell. The German felt bolstered; he’d apparently been right in his assumptions that the new guard was a friendly one; the fact that the guard didn’t approach while brandishing a night stick confirmed that. ”No no, it’s okay. What is it? Are you alright? Are you feeling ill as well?” the man asked. Ludwig blinked, and then realization hit him. The influenza outbreak, of course. Every winter and spring, illness exploded among the mutants of the Underground: the cold and damp air didn’t lend itself to health and when things finally started to slowly warm up, the shock to the immune system was more than some could handle. Ludwig rarely fell ill: being able to regulate the temperature of his cell helped immensely, not to mention his own body heat. And the unintentional isolation of mutants in separate cells ensured that only the worst illnesses got passed around on the drafts that swept the corridors. Honestly, the few times Ludwig had gotten sick, he’d always assumed it had been from the arena matches. He had the most contact with other mutants there. But the flu had hit the Underground especially hard this year, which explained the freshly-cleaned load of laundry. The neat freak in Ludwig’s mind approved immensely. Now if only he could get the guards to stop hosing mutants down in place of a proper shower… ”Oh… oh, no, I feel alright. Thankfully.” Sheepishly, Ludwig sank away from the bars a little; he’d been desperate to get the other man’s attention, but he was above playing sick to draw pity. Still, the epidemic gave him a fresh idea, a new spin on the plan he’d come up with before. He still didn’t know whether or not he could trust the new guard, but as a mutant seemingly trapped in perpetuity in the tiny cold cells, Ludwig didn’t have a lot to lose. And the man did seem sympathetic. ”Look,” he lowered his voice a little bit as the man drew near, ”I know a lot of people are ill right now, and I have a lot of extra food in my cell. I win the matches in the arena, and that’s usually what I request as a prize.” Ludwig glanced back at the practically empty room behind him. He wouldn’t reveal where he’d hidden the food until he got an agreement. ”It keeps well in this cold weather,” Ludwig went on, turning back to meet the man’s eyes, ”and usually I hoard it for my cellmates, but as you can see, I haven’t got one right now.” Ludwig did feel somewhat relieved at that. Less chance of getting sick, after all. ”The thing is, I don’t need so much extra food by myself. I already eat well enough,” Ludwig explained, his hands back on the bars. ”But all of the people who are ill, maybe they could use the extra nutrition. It might help them get better more quickly, especially if they’re still being kept in the cells and not in the infirmary.” Ludwig didn’t doubt that only the more important mutants, the ones who got bought the most frequently or did the best in the arena had been given hospital beds. ”So,” he spoke again, ”what I want to propose is that — if you want to — that you take some of my leftover food and find a way to give it to the sick ones. You don’t have to tell it where it’s from — or you can say it’s from you, they’ll like you more that way. But if I don’t do something with it soon it could go back, and I’d hate to see it wasted when it could be put to good use. That’s what I’m asking you to do.” Finished with his proposal, Ludwig stepped away from the bars, this time as a precaution. What he’d just proposed wasn’t against the rules, but he couldn’t imagine many guards would agree to that kind of thing. If this calm-looking man actually hid something vicious in his skin, Ludwig didn’t want to be within grabbing range if it erupted. Word Count: 877 Tags: Tino Väinämöinen Notes: i apologize for being slow and absent

by worldie for lena