SmoMir Chpt 16

==Mirrorsmoke Company - Chapter 16 -==
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===COme with me if you wish to be Free===
Unknown[02:23] LOCAL TIME
He woke up to the sound of the door to his cell opening. It was dark still, the cold brush of fresh air on his bare skin urged him to move out of his bed.
 
Suddenly he remembered where he was. The hot snap of old pain and lingering torture, searing pins and needles digging into his atrophied muscles as he stood up, and his right knee buckled at the act, letting out a hoarse groan. He keeled by his bed.
 
Right in front of him was the open door. Right in front of him was the way out of solitary confinement.
 
Right in front of him were two armed soldiers, their rifles aimed squarely at him.
 
They had full enclosed helmets, and their armor was unlike anything he had ever seen or known the Combine to use. 
 
The other soldier had etched his helmet with the face of a hannya demon, snarling sinisterly even under the darkness of night. It had been the only noticeable difference between the two soldiers.
 
The prisoner laid still. He supposed it was high time the Dracs sent their boogeymen to finally get rid of him. He was ready.
 
"Rolf?" The faceless soldier broke the silence, stepping closer and pointing his weapon away from him. It took him a moment to even register what the man had said, voice artificially pitched down to a grumbling level. "Are you Rolf Ossler?"
 
His tongue stilled, the words dead in his mouth. How long has it been since he had last heard someone say his name, and not his prisoner identification number?
 
He nodded slowly, forcing himself to stand up again. This wouldn't be what he thought it was, could it?
 
"You are being rescued," the man confirmed for him. "Come with us."
 
The soldier grabbed him by the arm, helping him move. That only made him wince. From his grip, the man was strong despite Rolf towering over him by half a head. Or perhaps it was him that was just too weak.
 
It must have shown on his face, because the man promptly let go of his arm, and instead placed a hand on his shoulder, pushing him towards the exit. 
 
"Located the last VIP," the soldier garbled. "Extracting them all now."
 
The other soldier stepped outside, leading the way. He found himself nudged out of the cell, finding a few dozen more people outside of the basement floor. They were his neighbors, all of them forgotten in solitary. He even recognized some of them. Old enemies on the political scene, or fellow dissidents to be kept as bargaining chips and blackmail for their families. They all shared the same look now; same fate.
 
Shaved heads, thin limbs; all of them as decrepit as he was. Broken men, shrinking in on themselves when Rolf's eyes met theirs.
 
Alongside them were more soldiers as well, larger and more imposing, they wore veils over their faces, weapons in front as they scouted for any of the prison guards ahead of them.
 
"Let's go," he heard one of the soldiers say, the one with the demon face. "There are guards still trying their luck."
 
A prison break. He could scarcely believe it. Something akin to hope welled in his chest, but more questions abounded in his mind. Who were these men? How long has it been since he'd last seen the world outside these prison walls?
 
Him? A VIP? Then they knew who he was. Who he had been.
 
They moved at a snail's pace, soldiers on each end as they formed a long line, guiding them all in the dark. Every step was agony, his calves already burning from long term disuse. They found themselves on the main floor, the building deathly quiet.
 
Around him were some of the cell doors still unopened, and it was clear to him they were only rescuing political prisoners. That also meant they had control of the prison doors, if not the entire building itself.
 
Soon enough, more inmates came, more people down from the upper cells. Another group of soldiers followed them along as they all converged towards the exit.
 
They must have totaled near a hundred now, and they were just from one building. How many could these men afford to rescue?
 
The feeling of his bare feet stepping on something wet and slick had pulled him out of his musings, followed by the noise of one of his fellow inmates tripping on something, just as when they were about to exit out of the wing. The soldiers escorting had been deadly fast, turning their rifle to the noise with a speed only veterans would have. 
 
The man yelped, realizing he had tripped on the body of a guard, and Rolf realized then that he had just stepped on a puddle of blood, his bare feet trailing red footprints on the floor.
 
"Watch your step," was all the man said, before they continued walking.
 
He'd only been outside a few times, when they thought they could bribe him outside of his solitary confinement, or when the time to interrogate him became routine. He once watched other inmates underneath the scorching sun as they worked on the fields or in the workshop. At night it seemed as if he'd traveled to a different world, the place devoid of any life. 
 
Immediately out in the distance he could hear someone sobbing. Rolf's head turned towards the noise, where a guard was lying down in the middle of the prison courtyard, clutching his leg. He was left to bleed out slowly.
 
Even in the dark Rolf could see them all clearly, and he wished the moon hadn't been so bright tonight. Encircling the man were a few of his people, all of them cleanly shot in the head for making the attempt at dragging him to safety.
 
"Who are you people?" asked one of the inmates.
 
The act of even moving his tongue was painful, and so Rolf took to simply letting the other men speak to the rescuers, desperately trying to listen in an effort to drown out the noise as they walked underneath the bright gaze of the moon. 
 
"You mercenaries?"
 
"Fuck knows," said the demon in the front, snorting. Rolf could hear equal parts impatience and indifference, despite the voice being heavily modified.
 
"Who sent you?" someone else asked, trying their luck with a different soldier. 
 
He was only met with silence.
 
"The Resistance," one of the inmates claimed. "It has to be them, right?" 
 
The inmates were all but cheering, and morale was becoming higher and higher, hope building. But the name gave Rolf pause, if that were even remotely true. Were his people even still kicking? He had given up hope that he'd ever see the light of day, and here they were, cracking him out of a maximum security prison in a single night.
 
The rest of the prisoners found their own questions. "How many troops have been deployed?" one asked.
 
"And how many prisoners are you getting out?" another demanded.
 
"We came alone," one of the soldiers finally answered. "You're the last ones. East block has been cleared of the ones we want." 
 
"...The ones you want?" muttered a prisoner. "You're not freeing all of us?"
 
"You want to shack up with the psychopaths and kiddie diddlers, be my guest, man," said another. 
The prison complex had three Y-shaped buildings, their ends pointing at each other to form a disjointed triangle. Both buildings could hold about three hundred people. Breaking out by themselves would have been an impossible task. Hell, Rolf had seen the ones who had died in the attempt. 
 
Add the fact that the facility was surrounded by a fifteen meter tall octagonal wall, thick enough to withstand even a few barrages of AC20s before it collapsed, and dug a few meters down into the earth. The only way out was the only way in, a series of gates north of the wall that required the use of special key cards that needed to be put in by two different people at the same time.
 
They had been about halfway to the gates before some of the soldiers stood still, their heads swiveling to the southern building. All of them couldn't help but stop as well.
 
One of the soldiers suddenly turned to them. "You need to get to the eastern building," he ordered. "Move. Now!"
 
They began to urge Rolf to the east, practically pushing them all despite knowing how frail they were still. They couldn't run.
 
"What's going on?" one of his fellow inmates asked, desperately limping along.
 
"The surviving guards are getting out of their bunker for a counterattack!" the demon soldier shouted, "Fucking lay low and get to cover, now! All of you!"
 
 Rolf remembered too late that the southern building had been what passed as the barracks, and also contained the prison armory.
 
 Almost immediately the roar of thunderous firearms filled the grounds, and a hail of bullets came surging at anything that moved in the dark.
 
In the distance were a dozen men or so, a line of them equipped with ballistic shields as more and more men came flooding out of the southern end of the facility. Muzzle flashes lit the night. An advancing wall of guns and shields were slowly moving up the courtyard.
 
The rescuers counter-fired in response, activating bright rapidly flickering flashlights as they drew fire on themselves, throwing smoke grenades around them in an effort to keep them from shooting the other prisoners. Rolf heard a man scream in rage, and to his surprise found that it had been him. Adrenaline surged in his veins. It took all of his strength to run as fast as he could across what was probably a third of a kilometer distance, reaching the eastern building first. 
 
Then more of them reached the east building, panting heavily as they placed their backs against the wall. Some of them, including Rolf, had entered the building to try and watch, or even hide from the firefight. All Rolf could do was watch as the slower ones got gunned down mercilessly. One man was desperately dragging himself to safety, and a few of the soldiers were on the man almost instantly, covering him with their own bodies even as bullets tore into these brave bastards.
 
A soldier eventually dragged the man into safety, placing him up against the wall inside. The man was weeping, clutching his shoulder, the only hole he could plug with his hand. Blood was gushing out of him heavily, pooling the ground beneath him in the short amount of time he'd been placed there. Rolf then tried to get close, quickly taking off his shirt so that he could use it as a makeshift bandage, but the soldier had been prepared, quickly wrapping some manner of gauze around the man's wounds.
 
"You're going to be fine, alright?" he heard the rescuer say, trying to reassure the man. "That tape will stop the bleed–"
 
"RPGs!" somebody screamed outside, and the next thing he knew, Rolf's body was violently thrown to the ground from the blast.
 
The heat was what kept him awake, or maybe the adrenaline still coursing through his veins.
 
He found himself digging out of debris. He didn't know long he'd been lying there. Smoke and dust had filled his lungs, the coughing fit threatened to empty what was anything inside of his stomach. He couldn't quite hear, but the loud cracks of firearms still synchronized with his rapidly beating heart, and his vision was flooded with lingering afterimages of what should have been the interior of a prison building. Instead all he could see was the night sky. A part of the eastern building had been blown wide open.
 
Rolf felt the sensation of hands reaching below his arms, and felt himself getting dragged away. All he could see was the body of the wounded prisoner by the wall. Parts of the ceiling had buried him completely, save for his extremities, the only sign he'd ever been there. Three men were trying their damndest to lift away ferrocrete to get to him.
 
Rolf looked at the man dragging him out, only to find it was the soldier from before, now bereft of his helmet. He was no man. It was a kid. Blonde, no older than eighteen or nineteen maybe. Too young. The blast had scraped his face and blood ran just above his left eye, forcing it closed.
 
The boy's mouth was moving, but Rolf could only hear tinny shrieks in his ear as he was placed against another wall, hands having the decency to look for any signs of serious injury. Scratches and swelling bruises adorned his bare chest, and thankfully nothing had pierced his body. The boy soldier had managed to find his shirt, handing it to Rolf as he rummaged around the rubble trying to find his helmet.
 
"Are you alright?" Rolf finally heard him speak, his hearing normalizing. "Can you stand, Mister Ossler?"
 
Rolf simply nodded, too dumbfounded to form words. 
 
The boy moved away from him. "Trident, my team is tagging high explosives in the AO," coughed the soldier, despite the lack of any communications gear on his head. Even his voice was further proof that he was just too young to be this composed in the heat of a firefight. "We've drawn enough of them out. Requesting immediate suppression, how copy?"
The boy then turned to the rest of them. "Get away from the windows now!"
 
Before he could even think to question it, Rolf saw 'rain'. He was a politician; his warfront was in the ministries, but even he could recognize LRMs shot out of BattleMechs.
 
Innumerable missiles scattered out from beyond the wall, as bright as the stars beside New Oslo's moon, before smashing straight down upon the prison guards like a wrathful swing from Thor's hammer. Rolf reflexively closed his eyes. The sound was louder than the explosion he had just lived through, the blast reverberating in his bones. It made him grit his teeth, his stomach roiling as if he was falling from a great height. Light so bright pierced through his eyelids, and for a split second, he thought the flash would blind him.
 
The moment he opened his eyes again, there was nothing more of the enemy, enveloped by the smoke of dust and explosives residue. Thirty-forty men and women disappeared in the blink of an eye, and only the sound of the ones unlucky enough to survive screaming in agony filled the night.
 
They were already being drowned out by the cheering of the prisoners.
"Good effect on target, Trident," he heard the kid say, calmly. Coldly. "Good kills, good kills."
 
The boy glanced downwards, digging through a pile of destroyed ferrocrete to finally find his helmet. He immediately wore it, issuing orders all the while. 
 
"Three, Five, I need you here with me now," he commanded. "We need to stabilize the injured. Two and Four, get down there with a squad and finish off the remaining stragglers. No surrenders, Speartip."
 
Rolf tried to stand, pushing himself up against the wall with his legs. He remembered their height, their behavior. He had to know.
 
"Who are you people?" he asked hoarsely, getting the boy's attention. Speech was painful, like downing shit liquor. He realized this was the first time he'd spoken in a long time. "Offworld mercenaries?"
 
"...Your journalist brother sent us," the boy answered, deflecting the answer Rolf wanted. "Told us what this place was. What they've done to all of you."
 
"Arlo?" How long has it been since he had last seen his own brother? "He hired you?"
 
The soldier nodded. "Something like that. A favor for a favor, you could say."
 
"My God," Rolf muttered. A company that traded in favors rather than cold hard C-bills. That was the single most scariest thing he'd heard thus far, and he had just brushed shoulders with death moments earlier. "And what was the price of our breakout?"
 
He shook his head. "Other way around. You're the price."
"What does that mean?"
 
"As of three days ago, Albany City is now under martial law, Mister Ossler," he explained. "The Resistance took exception to that. From their information, we've broken out anybody who has ever said no to the Combine. We'll brief you all further once we're out of here."
 
"My God…"
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===Seeking the Truth behind the Children===
Massif Vault
New Oslo​, Draconis Combine
October, 3018
[16:16] LOCAL TIME
Rolf demanded to be in the same DropShip as the soldiers. The ships were downright roomy; whoever this unit was, they had fielded five DropShips in order to provide comfortable space for all two hundred and thirty or so prisoners they had just rescued. 
 
More and more evidence of a house backed mercenary company. This was all the proof he needed.
 
The most obvious one had been House Steiner. For all that they were loud and slow, there were times where even they could make moves under the table. A slap in the face before the punch in the gut. Was it a complete conquest? Rolf couldn't even hope to know if the planet could withstand open war between two houses. The Dragon would sooner nuke New Oslo to the ground before allowing Lyrans to take hold of the planet's factory.
 
Putting Albany City under martial law had been their plan all along, he just knew it. They didn't need him, not really. It would make sense for them to remove the political board first, creating schism and chaos in the cities using the Resistance as patsies. The 1st Outriders were a paper tiger, they'd get crushed the moment they'd try to contain this by themselves. When the time came for reinforcements to show up, all they would need was a passing sweep before hunkering themselves down against the Sword of Light.
 
At most, two weeks. A regiment or three most likely already staged close to the borders.
 
He now knew the identity of this outfit. Loki. The well poisoners, the saboteurs. Terrorists.
 
The more pressing issue in his mind was the children among this unit's ranks. If this was how House Steiner treated their young, then Rolf wasn't sure if he could sleep soundly under the Lyran aegis.
 
In truth, it was easy to notice, now that he knew what he was looking for. The older, more larger soldiers were quiet, abnormally obedient–almost to the point of servile–towards the younger ones. They kept to themselves, unless ordered to.
The kids themselves were loud, not in the way they talked, but in the way they acted. They were always doing something; checking stock of their equipment, fiddling with a machine or two, even using the safety railings aboard their DropShip as a way to exercise.
He saw to his horror, what could only be a little girl from her size, probably barely into her teens, clad in some manner of hooded stealth suit, and she was repeatedly dismantling and reassembling a sniper rifle taller than she was, doing so almost ritualistically, the action as ingrained to her as breathing was.
They never rested, or maybe it was more apt to describe that that was how they rested. 
 
Rolf eyed a group of boys in the rear half of the DropShip, where their BattleMechs were covered in a tarp of some sort. He saw two of the boys circling each other, knives in hand and moving in lethal stances, while the rest of the group watched, their arms crossed. 
 
It ended as quickly as it began. One boy had grappled the other with ease, throwing him harshly to the ground before delivering the knife close to his opponent's throat. A killing stroke if it had been real. He had won that round. 
 
In the next round, his opponent won. He had aimed for the joints. Fast, brutal kicks to the knees to give himself distance, making feints with his knife so he could close in, before delivering a savage blow to his opponent's temple using all the force he could muster with his elbow. Another lethal move if they didn't have their helmets on.
 
They sparred with their armor on, but they fought for real, as if each blow carried with it the intent to kill with one strike. It was like watching two predators measuring the other's ability to kill as quickly as possible. A harrowing thing to witness. 
 
It was one thing to see bloodsport in the Holo-vids, it was another watching it live, with its contestants barely even teenagers. The only line they hadn't crossed was the actual deed of taking each other's lives.
 
Rolf wanted answers. He wanted them now. He sorely wished he could meet with his brother, and tell him how monumentally stupid he was for breaking him out.
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Performance Dossier: KRISTIN
 NAME: KRISTIN
 BIRTHPLACE: N/A
 BIRTH DATE: 12/12/3007
 EYE COLOR: GREEN
 HAIR: GINGER
 
 ACQUISITION:
 Recovered age nine (9). Daughter of a disgraced noble, given to ensure the survival of her house.
 
 PERFORMANCE:
 Due to the nature of her younger than standard age, difficult to ascertain where skills lie. Desirable emotional detachment traits already prevalent at age six (6). At age eight (8), cleared obedience stressor without hesitation. 
 
 COMMENTS
 Life in the domicile is all this one has known. A child's mind is so wonderfully malleable. Who knows how this one will grow.
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Chapter 16