SmoMir Chpt I2

==Mirrorsmoke Company - Interlude 2 -==
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His old oaths demanded that he find and kill them. His honor demanded that they be spared.
 
His love for his wife demanded he turn his gaze at her legacy, and watch as it burned.
 
At the crack of dawn came Howard's missing people, along with more offworlders, all abducted by those scum. Deeply shaken but unharmed, they claimed they had been rescued by forces he could hardly believe existed, but there they were, living proof that miracles could happen.
 
He swallowed those words shortly after, when news of the attack had reached their meager town. The rescuers had not been kind, and the Dragon had been slighted, unable to cover up this stain to its pride.
 
The devastation left in the wake of those responsible had rendered the spaceport inoperable, cutting his town–or perhaps even the continent–off of trade for some time, to say nothing of their exports rendered nil. The worst news had been when a contingent of the Outriders had landed upon the streets of a nearby city a few kilometers off the peninsula, combing it over any who might have been deemed the enemy.
 
To the mustered soldiery, they would have cause to accuse them of harboring the enemy, unknowingly or not. Planets had been sacked for lesser reasons. He knew in his old bones it was only a matter of time before they were next. And so Vesterby held its breath alongside him for the inevitable, waiting for the death sentence to come. Howard knew his time was over, for when the Dragon rages, people die.
 
The young had other plans. First came whispers, told in hushed voices from among those who were kidnapped, within closed doors of those who had been angered by the inaction of their supposed betters. The attack in Lindorm had spurred them, crossing the final line in the sand. Traitors one and all in the making. Those whispers soon reached the ears of the disenfranchised, hidden men and women who had once fought for the Combine in some way, broken by the system or seeking peace in solitude. Vesterby did not deny such people, Howard had once been such a man, after all.
 
But then came those who he knew were the exiled and dishonored Ronin.
 
Rebellion cemented in their minds.
 
Like a rising fire, the whispers turned to speeches, and those speeches turned to action. More and more of them were roused to rebel, no longer able to bear the oppression. If they were to die, they would claim to die fighting. They would not allow a repeat of that night to happen again, helpless and cowering under the floorboards like rats on sinking ships.
 
Within a span of days, their family moonshine reserves were turned to incendiaries, old munitions stashed away by veterans or from those who came before them were dug up, and even their ancient harvesters and dozers were fitted with sheets of metal.
 
And then finally, what he feared the most came. Those who were still alive to remember who he had once been? They begged Howard to wake his Dragon.
 
He relented, his Bushido–whatever was left of it–demanded it. They were all of them dead men walking anyways.
 
The town had grown large since the last time he had walked the trail towards his wife's final resting place. She had wanted her peace hidden among the sea of Red Irons. When he had the luxury of time, he would have asked his people for him to be buried alongside her. Now? He would beg forgiveness for disturbing her.
 
The shovel on his hand felt as light as a feather, despite the shortness of his breath, through the pains and aches of his legs trudging along the soil wet from rain the night before. He remembered the path as easily as the back of his sun speckled hand, visiting as often as he could manage during the earliest months of his loss. He grieved then, mourned her passing for as long as he could afford for old warriors like him. He never truly was alone.
 
Before long, the trip through his memories took him to a tree, hollowed out in its base from a fire so long ago. The old wood was resilient, still alive after all the damage. Gone were the black scorches on the inside, replaced with the natural rust-red coloring of a healed but scarred wound so wide it could shelter a tank from rain. He kneeled then, knowing his lady wife rested just right in front of the opening.
 
He sighed, uttering a soft and low prayer. "My love, I'm here. And, I'm sorry."
 
A moment passed, and he allowed himself to relive a torrent of old scars and regrets inside his mind's eye. No other words were spoken out loud, only his presence and the silence of the forest. A past he'd thought long buried alongside his wife, before he stood once more and walked inside the tree.
 
He began to dig inside. The soil was soft and shallow, but every motion was a hard task, not from the pain of his aging body, but by the anticipation, like the oppressive air before an approaching storm. Before long, his shovel struck something hard and he began to scoop away the remaining soil, uncovering a casket meant for the man that he was a lifetime ago.
 
He stabbed his shovel between the planks, and pushed, removing each plank with a grunt. Inside were two boxes, and not much else. One housed his old daishō and uniform, given to him upon his graduation. The other contained his neurohelmet, passed down from father to son all the way back to the Amaris Civil War.
 
With both items in tow, he had been about to head back, when he'd heard the sound of branches on the ground snapping. Deliberately so.
 
He knew of only one person who would do such a thing. It was when they had first met, when Howard had heard of a disheveled boy visiting the town, asking for a refill in his canteen bottle, before disappearing to the woods soon after. When the boy had allowed himself to be found by him and his men, he was gaunt and near all bones. The old farmer knew he'd been on his own for weeks, subsisting off of wild berries and birds long before the boy had even managed to make contact with what passed as civilization here in the north.
 
The most the boy had talked about his past was that he had been looking for something. Prying any further about it was like asking the dead for secrets.
 
"That had better be you, Lucius," Howard said aloud. "I'm not in the mood to be fooling around, son."
 
"Yeah, I suppose now isn't the time, Mister Langstrom."
 
The old man turned around.
 
The boy was still thin, though not sickly. The brief malnourishment would likely hamper his growth at his age, but it was slowly being rectified. A far cry from when he had first seen the child.
 
Here he was, clad in a dark-blue poncho of sorts, he had blended well in the shades underneath the tree canopies. Gone in the boy was the youthful smile of reckless schemes, and what replaced under his hood was the cold gaze of a plan fulfilled. Lucius was the name he gave, all those months ago, though Howard doubted if that even was his true name.
 
"What is it now?" Howard asked, "Are you resorting to threatening me now that you can't get your food? Was the attack on the spaceport not enough for your superiors?"
 
He propped himself up against a tree. "Here to tell you that now isn't the time for last stands, at least not yet."
 
Howard barked a laugh he didn't know he had in him. Of course, he was connected to the attack. Something else aside from air had then seeped out of his lungs, he didn't recognize it, but he knew that what had filled back was heady rage.
 
"You stupid boy!" he suddenly screamed, letting loose his fears and frustrations bottled up in the last few days. "Do you realize what your people have done? What you've all started?!"
 
Lucius just stood there impassively. "Nothing good, as I'm sure you're about to tell me."
 
Howard dropped his belongings, charging at the boy. He had managed to grab him by the collar of his uniform, striking him in the cheek with a punch as hard as his tired form could muster. The boy just stood there and took it, infuriatingly, not even flinching from the punch. He wanted to go for another, but just before his fist could collide, Lucius' hand stopped him.
 
A full grown man, overpowered by a child no less than thirteen years old. Before he could even dwell on that strength, he was pushed back, hard, stumbling down to the ground from the surprise.
 
Howard looked back at him with scorn, the boy grimacing slightly as he readjusted his hood and wiping off the blood dripping down his lip. "I deserved that, Mister Langstrom," Lucius said calmly.
 
"You've put my people to the sword! You've killed them all!"
 
"...We might have, yes. I won't deny or excuse the risk we put your people in, sir." Lucius at least had the decency to look as if he regretted that part. He held up a hand for him to grasp, only for Howard to slap it away. "But from what I'm hearing, they're not taking it all that badly. Unlike you."
 
"So you've come here to gloat, is that it, then? Come to watch as these people are forced to fight for their lives while you slink away in the shadows, free from the consequences?!"
 
The little rebel huffed, his head tilting towards the direction of the town. "As if your people are forced to fight, sir. No, that's always been their choice. The Dragon rules by fear, but what happens when you're no longer afraid?" He mused, then he pointed at Howard's fallen boxes. His helmet had rolled out of its container. "Hell, you're even willing to march right in the front."
 
"Because of you, damnit!" The old farmer had known better than to aim his anger at a boy barely into his teens; a cadet of some sort, that much he could gather from his previous visit. That spoke of more than just starving rebels eking out a living in the fringes of the Iron North, hiding after all this time. It spoke of organization large enough that they had started training young recruits.
 
If he had the chance, he would beat the men who had turned this boy and all his friends to war.
 
"Maybe so, sir. But better you die standing than die kneeling, as they say."
 
Howard hurriedly made to stand. "Spoken from one who has nothing to lose!"
 
Those last words he had to wheeze out, feeling heavy-set chains wrapping around his lungs, and not long after a deep bout of coughing gripped him as his burst of anger sputtered out. He leaned against a tree of his own, taking deep breaths. Lucius slowly went for his belongings, picking up the helmet and carefully wiping off the dirt.
 
Putting the helmet back into its case, he then spoke. "...I can't claim to have made the same sacrifices as you, or faced the same hard choices as you've had in your long life, old man. I'm just a dumb kid who picked up the sword because the alternative was worse."
 
The boy handed him the box, and for a brief moment, those brown eyes stared at him with hateful intensity. "But one thing is for sure, we've never really had anything, enslaved by House Kurita. These days, I dream. Every man, woman and child that shares their blood, I dream of putting all of them against the wall."
 
The shock of hearing such words from someone so young took whatever anger he had left and turned it into horror. Even the old oaths he had discarded had made him recoil.
 
"You don't know what you're saying, boy," Howard said, grimly. The weight of his neurohelmet never before felt as heavy as it was now. "Don't know the depth of bloodshed and atrocities incurred from what you've just said. Men greater than all of us have tried and failed."
 
He nodded back. "Absolutely. That's why I'm doing it anyway, or die trying."
 
The man drew a deep breath, testing his lungs. "...In another life, I would have drawn my sword for that. My honor as a Samurai to the Coordinator would have had you cut down."
 
Lucius scoffed, unafraid. "In another life, I wouldn't have decided to fight, despite having the means. I would have been content with living in fear of the Dragon, eating off of scraps as an Unproductive orphan for the rest of my short miserable years, but here we are."
 
"What I'm hearing is a suicide note."
 
The boy chuckled, seemingly agreeing. "A real long one, sir."
 
"Spare me. You kids are all the same, thinking you all know the answer to everything."
 
Lucius said nothing at first, only basking underneath the shade of the tree canopies.
 
"I'm here to act as a… liaison, of sorts," the boy started. "Negotiate an agreement."
 
The old man grumbled. "No man worth the name would send a recruit to do his bidding. Your superior wants to negotiate? He ought to have taken this seriously and showed up here instead of you."
 
"...They sent me here because I knew you, Mister Langstrom. I have been told to secure your alliance–or at the very least cooperation by whatever means, sir."
 
That raised an eyebrow. Not allegiance, but alliance? So these rebels weren't looking to strong-arm, doing whatever they pleased. A good thing to be certain, but no less problematic.
 
The word raised more questions.
 
"And what do your superiors want from Vesterby?" Howard asked, if only out of curiosity. The obvious had been the food, of course, but the rebels would most likely also want more manpower. They always want more. Rebels were bandits by any other name. Were they here for recruitment as well?
 
"Your town is about the only place where we can get food without anybody asking questions, Mister Howard." Lucius explained. "If the local garrison catches wind of our… interactions here, somehow? Our leaders don't want it on their conscience that you all got involved."
 
Too little too late. "Your point being?"
 
"My superiors are asking you to halt any overt actions against the Combine, at least for now, let us fight and take the heat off you."
 
Howard repeated what he heard slowly. "You're saying you want us not to fight?"
 
"I'm saying they're not ready to fight," Lucius clarified. "Just yet."
 
"And what do you want us to do? Run away to the woods where we can, at best, live like rats under the floorboards, die tired as the Outriders comb the continent for us, and at worst slowly succumb to the elements as winter approaches?"
 
Was this their plan all along, to turn Vesterby into a catspaw, a large distraction while they strike the Combine forces from behind? Over his dead body.
 
"The snakes are sniffing around for my rats, true," the boy assured. "But we have a plan to throw them off your scent."
 
"And that is?"
 
He drew a sharp breath, and then spoke quickly. "We destroy parts of the town. Shoot out a lot of laserfire everywhere, maybe misplace some of your food stores, all to make it look like our forces hit a raid and then went off-planet."
 
There was a moment of silence.
 
"Of all the things I'd ever have to hear from your mouth..." Howard started, anger once again welling in him.
 
"I'm aware it's a bit out there, sir."
 
He exploded. "Do you realize how insane that all sounds?!" The man then pointed at Lucius. "And before you say some trite bullshit about how my people are the heart of town, need I remind you again that winter is coming in a few short months? You'd condemn us to a slow death trying to rebuild through that!"
 
The rebel held his hands high to his chest. "We'll go at it surgically, planting false flags. The Dracs investigating will find a unit hitting you fast and hard, same as in the spaceport. We'll point them someplace else. Then when they inevitably make some excuse that would make them abandon you, we'll come back and help rebuild the town again."
 
The old farmer cupped his hands to his face, before they could turn into fists that would hurt the boy once more.
 
The boy continued. "The rebuilding process would also give your people ample time and cover to acclimate to combat training, as well deprive the Combine of any suspicions if they ever come knocking again."
 
Howard shook his head. "I don't have time for this idiocy."
 
It was irrational, he knew. Regardless, the town would still be destroyed by soldiers merciless and uncaring, but at the very least it was by something that he knew. Better the devil he knew.
 
He moved to gather his belongings.
 
Lucius pleaded. "We're prepared to supply you with a large amount of arms and ammunition for basic defense as well as medical supplies, and if you have the means to train people, even properly armored personnel vehicles."
 
The old man barked another bitter laugh. "Next you'll tell me you'll provide my Dispossessed with a lance of their own. Scurry back to the fringes, son."
 
"If it has to come to that, yes."
 
That stopped Howard dead in his tracks. He turned around, eyes wide as he walked straight towards the boy once again. Lucius readied his feet, thinking he was about to be hit again, but before that could happen, the old farmer's calloused hands anchored themselves on the boy's shoulders, gripping tightly.
 
"What the hell did you just say?" Howard asked.
 
"By whatever means, sir," Lucius repeated, looking straight at Howard in the eyes. "This is still within what we can afford to give you. We are prepared to hand your Dispossessed a lance of BattleMechs of their own. Given willingly, no questions asked."
 
He shook him, voice low with dread. "Just to not fight and to allow your people to destroy our town?"
 
The boy nodded. "A town that we will rebuild along with food, yes."
 
"You people are all insane," Howard said, "You'll forgive me if I don't believe you, right?"
 
It was the height of foolishness to reveal that information, that Howard had feared his old age had finally gotten to his senses, hallucinating this entire thing. It was too good to be true. Too good, that it bordered on a Devil's bargain. No rebel force that he'd ever known on this planet would ever part with their BattleMechs. Even if Lucius had planned to send them decaying and out of repair 'Mechs, no one parted with their metal.
 
Not unless they were backed by a Great House.
 
The Lyrans. It had to have been them, making a play for New Oslo in subtle ways he'd never known them to do. Whoever was behind this group would no doubt turn this continent into their staging ground southwards. They were all doomed from the goddamned start.
 
"I don't want to involve myself in the affairs between Great Houses," Howard said, hurriedly trying to go back to warn the others. There was still a chance to salvage some part of his town. He knew people down south, where the younger generation could perhaps be harbored when the fighting starts in full.
 
"Wait, the Great Houses?" Lucius laughed, before his jaw clamped down, the realization dawning on him. "The Lyrans have nothing to do with us, old man!"
 
"Stop it. I've had enough of your lies."
 
"I swear, Mister Langstrom! Hand over my heart, this isn't some sort of covert invasion by the Steiners. They'd stomp all the way down to New Albany for that, think!"
 
He had been about to ignore the child, before he eyed the elongated case where his daishō should still be after all these years.
 
Howard drew out a long and weary breath, deciding instead to unwrap his black officers uniform around the case. He opened it, and gazing upon his blades was as if he'd met an old friend after all these years.
 
It took all of him to grab the wakizashi out of its spot, tossing it to the boy.
 
"The sword–cut your hand with it." the farmer demanded.
 
"...You can't be serious. A blood pact?" The boy cradled the blade the respect it was due. "You're serious."
 
"Trust is not a commodity where I was trained. It has to be met with action," he explained. "By whatever means, didn't you say, son?"
 
Bushido was not just for the Samurai. All who would dare call themselves a warrior had at least one of the virtues in them. His thoughts passed on the boy during the week that he stayed in his home. How he would move like a soldier, or how he would hide the numerous marks on his body, blade wounds, burn scars, even lashes. This boy had suffered for something.
 
If there ever was trust to foster between them, it must be with action.
 
"You realize I'm just the messenger, right?" Lucius asked, his eyes turning sharp.
 
He shook his head. There was no use lying here. "No man worth the name would send a boy for something of this magnitude," he repeated. "You don't think I haven't caught on to you having a high rank of some sort? Don't call me stupid. For all I know, you might even be the mastermind of that attack."
 
"...Goddamnit."
 
"This is my price. You want to prove yourself to me? This has to be the way. Not from petty promises or C-bills, or even BattleMechs. It has to come from the man himself."
 
Lucius sighed. "Fine. If a test of resolve will ease your nerves, Mister Langstrom, I'll do it," he grumbled. "Fuck, this is sounding more and more like a Yakuza pact…"
 
"Don't compare these traditions as some sort of hazing ritual! Our enemies will be without number; our resources limited. Your people want allies against the Combine? Then you cannot hesitate, ever. Hesitation is–"
 
"–Is death. I already said yes, old man," Lucius interrupted, rolling his eyes. "...You don't mind the right hand, do you? I'm left-handed."
 
Howard furrowed his brow. He had been about to say defeat instead. They were words of strength, sayings meant to be contemplated upon during his time as Samurai. That the boy had put a more grimmer end to it did not bode well on his character. He would have to direct him away from that kind of thinking, if they were to interact more with one another.
 
He huffed impatiently. Something to ruminate another time. "Get on with it already."
 
Lucius pulled the sword out of its sheath, taking the time to examine the blade, whether to admire it or out of hesitation, he didn't know or care. Howard realized that the wakizashi had not been held by anyone for a long time. It suited him quite nicely. The boy then gripped the sword by its edge, tightly. He let out a deep sigh, before pulling it out.
 
To his credit, he didn't make a sound, or even make a face. Had he not joined the rebels, he would have been a fine Samurai. The resolve was there, at least.
 
The boy–the young man handed him the blade. Trembling, he opened his wounded hand, lifeblood pooling on his palm. The gash would make an ugly scar.
 
"Happy?" Lucius asked, teeth clenching from the pain. 
 
Very much so, but Howard hadn't shown it. "We are at the Rubicon now, Lucius," he said, making a cut of his own on his palm. The man grimaced. The wakizashi was still as sharp as it was the day it had been given to him. "We will cross it together."
 
"Call me Logan."
 
They both shook their bloodied hands.
 
"...And believe it or not? I crossed the line a long time ago."
 
A few days later, Vesterby would be destroyed by a lance of Panthers and Jenners.
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Chapter I2