(Sorry for the short shit writing I've been real busy with school and finals and everything and yeah, but I'm trying to write every so often, even if it is terrible.

Also, note: I don't know if I'm getting any of the other language stuff right. I've been learning German for a few years now so I'm pretty confident in that but with any Italian or Spanish that might pop up… uh I'm just sorry to any native speakers if I get it really wrong lmao thanks for putting up with me.)

Ludwig hardly remembered the train ride to Poland. All he knew was that it was long.

Ludwig hardly remembered the introduction speech. All he knew was that it was long.

Ludwig hardly remembered being shown his room. All he knew was that it was bland.

Ludwig hardly remembered the first few days of agony. But he remembered the agony.

Every soldier looked the same, they sounded the same, their faces blurred together and their voices became a mumbled mess as Ludwig's world became colorless, black and white. Eat, sleep, train, shout, watch, stand, eat, sleep, train, shout, watch, stand, don't get in trouble.

Ludwig was horrified.

But the horror felt dulled by all the shit he heard and saw in all this war. Being assigned to guard and work at a concentration camp made his gut twist in knots.

Poland seemed like Germany, it seemed like home. But the few nights he got off to explore the near city (by train) he knew things were off. The beer wasn't quite right, the buildings didn't seem comforting, and the sky wasn't his, wasn't Germany's.

There were days where he felt ashamed to be German, to love Germany, to love it's people, food, and land, but then he couldn't help but miss it when he was away. The Germany he knew and loved wasn't the one that was trying to take over the world.

The camp he had arrived at was a small one, one that prisoners were most likely taken to if they couldn't get them to bigger ones somehow and most people who was posted here didn't know what type of camp this was, but Ludwig knew. He had his ways of staying informed.

He woke up to gunshots that morning. Four of them, ringing and loud, meant to be heard and known. And Ludwig felt sick, his head spun as he shot up from an otherwise peaceful sleep. His head felt hot and the room around him seemed to spin a little, and for a moment he thought he was going to puke, but he managed to calm himself down as he stumbled into a bathroom down the hall and splashed some water on his face. It cooled him down and he cupped his hands under the faucet, making a small puddle that he then took a drink from. He sighed, then pushed back his hair and quickly then shuffled back to his room to get dressed.

Today he was to be interviewed, or have his background checked, more like. As he barely remembered how to tie his tie, his gloves felt tight on his hands and his hat felt heavy as he heard his name be called from the other room, the one he was waiting in just adjacent. He pushed open the door to see a desk and a chair in front of it where he promptly took a seat.

"My apologizes, these talks seem to be taking forever," the man at the desk sighed, flipping through some paper before he pulled out an empty one. "We can't allow you to work before he check everything.. and you could see how many soldiers came in." He almost chuckled as Ludwig remained quiet. "Well, I don't have to explain it to you. Let's begin, shall we?"

The man behind the desk rambled on and on in a now monotone voice, seemingly repeating the same questions he had been all morning, and Ludwig returned them with answers in the same monotone voice, his stomach not so settled yet and fatigue living in the back of his mind more than normal as of late. The man smelled of liquor and his stubble looked a little too unkempt. As he ran his hand over it, he wrote little things in perfect cursive on the blank piece of paper each time Ludwig answered.

"You said both of your parents are deceased."

"Correct."

"Do you have any living family?"

"My older brother, Gilbert."

"And why isn't he serving in the military?"

"He didn't want to."

The man paused and grumbled something. "I see."

He continued to ask questions, going further and further back in time and Ludwig took longer pauses before he gave his answer, his memory failing him before his usually controlled temper. As he kept going and going, he found it harder and harder to recall his memories, but he didn't want to seem suspicious or strange, so he tried to conceal his panic.

"What did you do before the war?"

"...I worked in a bank."

"As?"

"A teller."

He wrote something down. "Did you attend college?"

"Yes."

"Did you graduate?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"My father pulled me out so I could enlist when the war started."

"So you worked as a teller and went to school at the same time?"

"Yes… I believe so."

"How did you get the job?"

"My father wanted me to work there so… he got it for me."

"You're father seemed to have controlled a lot of your life…" he wrote something else down.

"Yes."

"Was he as controlling with your brother?"

"He tried to be."

"Could you elaborate on that?"

Ludwig's blood boiled, which felt mostly unfamiliar but he didn't try to suppress it, only hide it. He wondered what on earth his father had to do with this, he wondered what his controlling tyranny had to do with anything right now. Why did they have to know about his brother? Why did they have to know about his father? Although Ludwig was hardly the type to question authority so outlandishly, he wouldn't outlash without proper timing or good reason. And his brother's voice rang in his head. Keep low and stay out of trouble. Do as the commanding officers ask.

"My brother didn't like being controlled. He didn't want to enlist as my father had wanted him to. From what I can remember about my childhood, I recall many arguments between my brother and him about many things... He never did quite measure up the way my father wanted him to... and Gilbert didn't want to be measured at all."

"I see." It seemed to Ludwig that's all he ever said as a response to him anymore.

O

"Beilschmidt!"

Ludwig hardly turned at the sound of his name, tired, devastated and feeling the closest thing to death he thinks he's felt. But he knew that if he hadn't turned at all, he'd get an ear full.

The voice came from another low-ranking officer such as Ludwig, a man smaller in stature with dirty blond hair and brown eyes. He had some odd freckles and spoke in a strange dialect that made him think he was from a part of Germany Ludwig was yet to see. But it was not a dialect that Ludwig couldn't understand, for Gilbert had mastered many, just to fuck with him.

"Yes?" he responded dazily.

As the man approached, Ludwig got a better look at him. He hardly recognized him. Did he meet him before? He wasn't sure, he couldn't remember being introduced to him or introducing himself. How did he get his name?

"I heard around that we're roomies." He caught up to Ludwig, finally standing still.

"Roomies?"

"Roommates, basically," he waved his hand around and Ludwig sighed. "To be honest, I came a little late to the base so I didn't know who you were at first."

He was talkative. Ludwig hardly knew if he liked that or not. "How did you find out we're sharing a room if you only just got here?"

"Well, I asked some people near the room and they gave me a name. They almost seemed a little sad for me, now that I think on it.."

"What? Why?" Ludwig almost felt offended.

"They were describing you and what you looked like so I could find you easy and uh.. They got it spot on." He chuckled.

"What did they say about me?"

The man tugged at his collar nervously as Ludwig's eyes narrowed, suspicious and a little hurt. "Simple things like blond hair, blue eyes, tall and uh.. pretty intimidating, scary even."

His eyes widened a little. "Scary?"

"Yeah, hell," the man seemed to continued to laugh off his nerves. "Just look at yourself! I'm sure you'd freak out even the commissioner of this place, or whatever the hell his title is…"

Ludwig said nothing as he continued to talk.

"It's probably the height thing. You're taller than most here. It's also probably the low voice, never smiling thing. I mean, I've only been talking with you for like, a minute and you haven't cracked one smile."

"I don't smile for the likes of you."

"What?"

Ludwig blinked and looked at him again. "You think I'm scary?"

"Well.. I hardly know you, so you could not be, but you certainly look that way." The man shook his head, smiling slightly and Ludwig glanced down at the tag on his uniform that had his last name plastered into it.

"Mayer" it said.

And simply while he was looking over his plain uniform, he continued and kept on rambling on and on about the many attributes he found rather threatening about Ludwig. This man simply didn't know when to quit.

"You seem like the type to get into a scuffle in some kinda alleyway.. Heh, you rough anyone up in an alley recently?" he joked.

"No," Ludwig stood up straight and turned to leave. "Nothing like that."

"Where are you going?

He was already several feet gone. "Away from you."

There were certain areas of the camp that were nicer kept, some even having a small bench and patches of grass, but these areas were fenced off, only accessible to those who wore boots, hats, gloves and red. Ludwig passed several of those as he walked, listening to the rythmic thumping of his shoes against the concrete path under him until he reached dirt and mud, the former path now disappearing as it started to come into the territory of the prisoners. The sky seemed greyer over top were they stayed, little bits of sheet metal stacked up and others standing upright. He noticed certain buildings in that back where he had watched prisoners be fed into. They were warehouses and were never meant for sleep or factory work, simply storage, but Ludwig supposed that's what the state saw these people as.

He nearly tripped over his own feet as he wandered into the main campground. Mud became thicker around his feet as he remembered the heavy rain that helped him fall asleep the past few nights, hardly thinking at the time about how it might've froze someone to death that same night.

He felt sick again.

But he distracted himself for a moment by staring at the air bubbles in the mud below him for a moment before he looked back up at the scene around him. Those who weren't working were hiding, rushing by him, avoiding him or his gaze. Many of them weren't clothed, and those who were, still shivered. And he would have left, he would have been scolded for being there if he wasn't assigned that morning to supervise the area outside some of the warehouses. Such a low ranking soldier couldn't be trusted with more important jobs like choosing who lived and who died, but he was allowed to use the gun that felt heavy back on his waist if compelled or was ordered to do so. And as he walked over to where he was told to stand in misery, he was hoping the weight of the gun would help him sink into the mud, where he could hide and never come back out into the sick world around him. But nevertheless, the gun wasn't heavy enough.

He reached the door of the warehouse and slowly pressed his back to the wall next to it, staring down at his shoes again. He was a shit guard, supervisor, whatever the hell as far as he was concerned. He didn't want to supervise, he didn't want to witness everything that was going on around him, and he tried to hide the pain on his face. But as the day dragged on and he wasn't given any orders by the officer that came up next to him, his feet grew cold and tired and his shoulders felt sore. As prisoners filtered in and out of the warehouse, he enjoyed every moment he could hear the whispers of another foreign language and not that one that had been barked all around him since he arrived. And for a moment he thought he might fall over.

He caught wind of a conversation, one faint and far enough away that Ludwig felt the need to squint, as if that would ever improve his hearing. Although regardless, that seemed to be something people did. He picked up his gaze, following the familiar voice he had heard. It sounded like something warm, something hot and comforting, soft even though the world around him wasn't. He heard a certain molasses in the man's voice, and when he finally saw him, he noticed he was an older man, greying starting around the roots of his hair and sparse beard. He was talking with a younger man who looked starved, skinny, pale, almost sickly, but as if he was ignoring it, denying it. He guessed he was helping his grandfather, as he was having trouble walking, but no trouble laughing. But the younger man shushed him.

But as Ludwig looked at the pair, slowly hobbling away as an officer started to order them off, his eyes widened. He got glimpses of their faces, each of their dark curls on their head hitting home in his heart in a strange way, in a way that made him wince, that made him want to cry a little more than normal that day. And it only got worse as familiar words made its way to his ears.

"...se il signore mi risparmierebbe…"

O

Ludwig was certain of it.

He was absolutely positive. He was sure. He knew it.

But then again… he wasn't.

Although, he told himself, he had heard no other Italian in the entire camp and it was quite a coincidence that the only Italian speakers looked exactly like…

Ludwig sighed, then shook his head.

"I'm only fooling myself," he whispered.

He pressed his forehead to his palms, having returned to his room far away from the miserable grey skies and cold air around the camp grounds. He sat stiffly on his small bed thinking, pondering, upset with the fact that at least fifteen of the prisoners trembling in metal boxes with no ventilation or proper winter clothes could easily fit into his room if they crowded and stood on the two beds inside, and that he could do absolutely nothing about it. So there he sat, still, unmoving, rubbing his forehead as he tried to distract himself again, but he lacked mud.

He wasn't in uniform anymore, the sun having slipped away and having been ordered away for the night. He only had on a night shirt and thick pants and socks with a hole in them. He would have thrown them away by now, but he felt wrong in doing so. He thought that would go without saying, that it was already justified, explained.

"Oh.. you smoke?"

Mayer had stepped into the room, a towel wrapped around his shoulders, obviously coming from the showers in the bathroom down the hall. He wore simple, heavy clothes as well while his hair was slightly damp. Ludwig hadn't noticed him enter.

"Regretfully," he answered.

And it was true, but it was something he hardly could help, even if before the war he was so close to quitting. He had gone thirty days without a cigarette, and he celebrated with a cup of warm tea in his kitchen. But his father smoked, and Gilbert smoked, so the smell of cigarettes was hard not to smell when you'd hug someone goodbye. It was imprinted on him, on his skin. It was the first thing he turned to when he didn't know how to deal with his growing stress. And he always regretted it. Mayer sat down on his own bed, drying his head.

"How do you know the higher ups will be okay with it? It's hard to tell who really cares now-a-days and-"

"Yes, I'm aware."

"You know what's in those sticks? Could kill yo-"

Mayer's habit to continue talking was starting to bug him. Something just clicked.

"Yes, I'm completely aware of our anti-tobacco campaigns. I am very aware of how it wrinkles my skin. I know it makes my breath stink. I know it makes my fingernails yellow, but damn it I can't help it right now Mayer! So just leave it be!"

Ludwig's voice almost cracked as he did, and he took a deep breath, smoke coming out of his mouth and into the air as he did so, a frightened, wide-eyed man staring back at him before he cleared his throat. Mayer smoothed over his semi dry hair.

"Sorry," he muttered.

Ludwig rubbed his forehead again, finally able to tune him out as Mayer went along finishing whatever he needed to do before bed. Sock-hunting, hair-combing, whatever.

He took a long look at the thin, white material in between his middle and pointer finger, which looked fat in comparison. Half of it was already burned away and he flicked away more ash with his thumb then, taking one more drag of it, feeling gross just as he did so.

It was only a week after he had enlisted that he started smoking again, and throughout the process, he got very good at hiding it. He felt swallowed by guilt, even so as his father passed away and Gilbert had just successfully quit, and to his knowledge hadn't touched a cigarette since. He couldn't have been more proud and jealous. He was always sure to have clean clothes, brush his teeth more often, drink honey tea or potent coffees when he could find them, and his uniform gloves helped cover up his nails, and he hoped he never noticed, but something deep down in Ludwig's gut made him doubt that his secret was so secret to his brother. He ate healthier, in hopes of somehow making up for the damage to his lungs he knew he was causing, which seemed to be guilt enough to motivate him to quit again, but the stress eating away at his brain kept him attached to his little, flat tin box that he kept in his jacket pocket.

He supposed it wasn't helping his memory problems either.

With one last huff and one last puff, Ludwig flicked away more ash and put out the cigarette on the concrete floor, rubbing the end into it, leaving a small black stain on the floor. He simply left the bud on the ground and turned onto his bed, getting underneath the covers and staring up at the ceiling. It was raining again that night, and he shivered, now suddenly hating it's consistent and annoying sound.