"Interview"
Originally created by BJ Altman
(Warning: There may be spoilers for those who have not seen through Episode 14 of DFA: Legacy)
OK people, it’s been at least an hour. How long are you going to keep me waiting? And no water. Rude. Not that I’d trust it; this is the sort of place where you pack your own lunch. Melia scanned the room in a vain effort to alleviate the boredom. A thousand years and we still favor one way glass for interrogations.
Flickering lights signaled a diversion of power from the same circuit, and the heavy door at the opposite end of the room echoed a dull clunk before swinging outward. About time. Two figures entered.
The man was broad, hefty, but it wasn't muscle. He was that sort of balding pudgy with floppy jowls and beady eyes reminiscent of a rat. The kind of person you wouldn't expect to be intimidating until he leans in a bit and the light catches him just right. He lived behind a desk. Analyst or can you just not escape the siren call of vending machines?
The woman looked purposefully normal in a slimming, brown pantsuit just a couple shades darker than her skin. Her jacket hung loose enough to hide any number of tools. It would be easy to lose track of her in a crowd. Field agent.
The pair entered with an air of ownership. I almost feel underdressed. They took the chairs on the opposite side of the heavy table. No notes?
The heavy set man listed slightly to left, working his jaw a moment before speaking. “Do you know why you are here?”
Seriously? That’s what we’re leading with? Melia's left eyebrow quirked, “Why don't you tell me?” Well, that’s the sort of stare that’ll bore through a man’s brain faster than a blazer. Fantastic. How about the other? “Or better yet, Desk,” He shifted his gaze to the pudgy man's partner, “Ma'am, will you please explain why all this?” He did a slow wave about the otherwise empty room.
A slight crease touched her lips. She’s used to this, and probably the tougher of the two. “We need a clear picture of how things came to this point, and where they will go from here.” That accent isn't popular in this half of the Commonwealth, the blonde hair came from a bottle if her skin tone and bone structure is any indication. Maybe Panpour or one of the other old Hindu Collective planets. DMI doesn't operate in Lyran space. What’s going on?
“My apologies. Namaste. Shall we read ourselves into the record and begin?”
Wrong move. Her dark eyes didn't give a millimeter, “My grandfather might have appreciated that folksy nonsense and let you steer the conversation. I don't have his patience for ***. So let's keep the ground rules simple. We ask questions. You answer them.” She didn't leave much of a pause, “Good.”
Her elder produced a thin metal bar from an inner pocket of his jacket. Maybe fifteen centimeters long, it could easily be mistaken for a pen. He placed it between the three of them and tapped one end, “The time is 13:46 the fifth of April 3050.” No watch. Human computer. Likely a Norn. “I am Agent Matthews, Lyran Intelligence Corps. With me also is Agent Khatri, Federated Commonwealth Intelligence Command.” With no small amount of work done for a big gun like her to look that young. Can’t blame her. A lot of agents do it. Hard to judge her skill, which is the point. “The subject of our interview is Agent,” another slight pause, “Sanders. Beginning interview.”
“You were embedded with the Seventeenth Skye Rangers, the sixteenth of March 3049, on Barcelona under the identity of Leftenant Julian Sanders, mechwarrior call sign mee-lee-ah. Is this correct?”
“It is pronounced Meh-lee-ah. Otherwise correct.” Why are you needling me?
“Very good,” the man continued, “Melia, an unusual word, what does it mean?”
“It’s just what my wife always called me,” and more of a name than the one you gave me.
Feigned surprise crossed the folded flesh that sat on the interrogator's brow, but the follow-up was not immediate. “Unusual. The file regarding your marriage is incomplete. Did you receive permission?" Head games.
“Verbal permission, yes.” The words came with forced sharpness. “We were talking about Barcelona, remember?” Let them think they're getting to me.
Matthews turned a page of notes in his head, “Right, and what was your assignment there?”
Or you could just be straight with me. “To ascertain the loyalty of the stationed regiment, to draw out separatist sympathizers, and identify a hypothesized supply line feeding separatists.”
“And your assessment of that mission?”
“The objectives were met.”
“Loudly. Very loudly.” No mistaking that tone of disapproval. And that motion with his hands. It’s like a two year old plunged his mitts into water colors. “Releasing the mercs you'd taken into custody and then surrendering yourself to them made a mess. Where you successfully identified the Kommandant and several collaborators, you made so much noise that others went to ground. We still don't know if the supply line is fully closed.” Not that it matters anymore, Barcelona got overrun when Anywhere did. “To the outside observer it looked as though you'd purposefully cocked everything up and then defected.” The silence stretched, “Nothing to say for yourself?”
“You ask the questions. I answer them. You did not ask a question." The woman's body shook ever so slightly, possibly laughing at the absurdity of all this. I might be too, if positions were reversed.
“If you're done giving each other reach arounds, we can get on with this. Why did you imperil your mission on Barcelona the way you did?” Good cop? No, you just have a specific agenda, but what is it?
“The Dead Man's Hand provided intel that spoke of something big in The Periphery. The first new mech design we've seen since the Succession Wars broke out was the 3010 Merlin in the Outworld's Alliance. Since then we started seeing more: Hatchetman, Raven, Cataphract... Each of these came from a political body with a healthy industrial base, but until the Helm Memory Core, all used comparatively pedestrian technology. What the mercs fought spoke of a group with an industrial base that, at the very least, had fully incorporated that technology into several new Battlemech designs, and enough mechs to take a planet. From pirates, but the point still stands. That we had no intelligence on such a group meant that it needed to be investigated. Nothing on the board was aimed at that objective.”
“So you took it upon yourself to do this?” the man finished.
“Despite the difficulties and consequences, yes. The matter required immediate investigation, and I couldn't be certain command received the information. The Seventeenth's Kommandant was actively interfering with communications related to the Dead Man’s Hand.”
“Consequences to the mission or yourself? You missed your daughter's birthday. Thoughtful present though. Did you get permission for her or was she a mistake?”
“There's the monster,” Khatri practically purred the words.
He’d barely moved, but Melia's eyes had lost their twinkle, “You're not a parent.”
“Astute observation,” the words meandered out of Matthews’s mouth. I deserved that tone, “such attachments are a distraction. A review of your… utility over the last sixteen years makes this readily apparent. You were an excellent agent once, but you still have your uses.”
Matthews was flipping through his mental file again. Memory palace or implant? “Back to Barcelona. You could have accomplished your mission quieter, more concretely securing your objective, before moving on. Why didn't you?”
“Speculating over alternate fates of the mission is a futile exercise. The matter of the new mechs in The Periphery required investigation. Those mercenaries had the only information, possibly more than they'd already shared. Though noisy, the actions earned immediate trust.”
“It’s fair to say they knew you were likely one of ours. Sloppy that, but at least they thought you were on their side. As luck would have it, the mercenaries engaged this force again and even claimed some salvage, which, yes, you arranged to be transported off world for us. On the other hand, you authorized damage to a Commonwealth battlemech factory, and, once the planet was under invasion, you stole Leftenant General Jacob Greensville’s black box and authorization codes to order a retreat of all forces, abandoning the planet rather than defending it.” Then as if remembering the rules of engagement, “Is this correct?”
“A jaundiced account.” He’s purposefully mischaracterizing now. Trying to get another reaction? “The only damage added to the factory was to its pitiful defenses, which wouldn't matter if the Jade Falcons returned. Though, none of that would have happened had the facility been properly staffed. As for the black box, Leftenant General Greensville and I had a frank discussion about the situation. He couldn't handle the stress or the loss of honor and chose the coward’s way out,” no reaction, “but before doing so, he gave me the box and codes. My codes wouldn't have triggered the same response, so, yes, I impersonated him to arrange the evacuation. Given the route, saving lives and resources took priority.”
“Isn't that thinking like a mechwarrior? An agent would have stayed behind to provide steady reports and perform insurgency actions.”
“Only if your vision ends a decimeter in front of your nose.” At least the Davion's enjoying herself. How’s everyone behind the mirror? “It’s basic strategy, to say nothing of common sense. Retain as many assets as possible then deploy them where your enemy least expects.”
“Erewhon?”
“Yes; though, Percival of the Dead Man’s Hand chose the target.”
“And that is where you lucked into what could possibly be one of the greatest coups for the Intelligence Corps. For that, you have my congratulations.” No acrimony. Why the shift? “Though, I did have a question regarding that operation specifically. Why did you give such a junior mechwarrior command over not only yourself, but a Hauptman? It’s particularly puzzling given that she’s a mercenary and your acrimony towards them.”
“Hayden Shields? The mercs needed the morale boost, to see one of their own still leading something. This was possible due to the deployment we chose and ensured their buy in. It gave Shields something to focus on rather than sink into depression. Lastly, she has talent. It’s rough, but it’s there. If she can stop moping long enough to believe in herself, she’ll excel.”
“Charitable, and uncharacteristic given your history. Is it a personal interest?”
Now you’re just being tedious, “I’m married.”
“Were, technically,” You need spectacles. They’d give that flaccid visage an air of menace when peering over them, “unlike other documents, Miriam’s death certificate is on file.”
“My condolences on the lack of love in your life.” Melia’s tone was almost snide, and it didn't take imagination to see something flash over the woman’s face. But what is she thinking?
“No complications either.” Your eyes aren't elsewhere this time. You’re not flipping through files. What then? “No matter how it came about, no one is doubting the potential value of Erewhon, despite the damage to Chariot’s systems.”
“And now that we've established the baseline,” baseline?! “I have my questions.” Khatri slid into command easily, “The issue is how to move forward. The proposal under consideration by FC Intelligence Command is radical. It would require at least a two year commitment, during which personnel from the Second New Ivaarson Chaussers and the Dead Man’s Hand would be fully integrated. Can you work with them genuinely, without friction, as though they were regular members of the AFFC?”
Genuinely? Without a tradecraft façade I suppose. “Yes.” If the simplicity of the response caught her off guard, she gave so sign.
“You past speaks differently, your thesis at Buena, ‘Mercenaries: The Dissolution of the State’, was not an endearing treatment. It caused you problems did it not? There was even a recommendation for expulsion because of it.”
“Few find the truth endearing, particularly when it threatens their power, but you probably mean Professor Campbell specifically.” Melia raised a hand apologetically, “Sorry, retired Kommandant Campbell. She was a rarity at Buena. Unlike The Nagelring and Sanglamore, Buena runs on merit, not political favors. The Dean, Leftenant General Waverly, threw out her arguments with the support of other staff members.” And I graduated with honors.
“A great many lordlings do like to play mercenary.” Others would have said that with a smirk. “Moving on, your record indicates a greater than average number of incidents with mercenaries. What is your explanation for these?”
“Bar fights are team building exercises. Davions taught me that.” He hadn’t intended the impish response. Barely a hint, just enough of a smile. You know what I’m talking about, and you sure as *** know I ducked the question.
“Tell me about Vrance. That’s where it started, wasn’t it?” I guess we’re done with the foreplay then.
“It’s in the file.”
“I’m not here to read your file.” No, you’re here to read me. I’ve heard of your kind. At least things make sense now.
“Yes.”
“More accurately, it’s where you started, correct?”
“That is where they,” the off hand gesture to The Desk brought no reaction, “found me.”
“From the beginning, please.” Huh. Melia cocked his head to the left. Please.
“Kurita forces had invaded Tamar and were present in Vrance to requisition supplies. I don’t remember them being harsh. Unlike what happened that day, not much before really registers. They had not attacked the city; but that didn’t make us any less scared. I was out when the fighting began. I’d been sent to the market to get toilet paper, pasta, and ketchup. I was about to cross the street when a Crusader dropped through my apartment building. I don’t know how long I stood there, just stood there. The dust cloud from the… landing blew past me. At some point I was clawing through the rubble in a frenzy, but by then the fighting had started.
“I know what the reports say. I also know a cover-up when I see one, having helped author a few myself. This was a veteran unit. They don’t make drop errors like that. No, they aimed for the city, and they certainly hit the ground shooting.
“There was little to no regard for civilians before, during, or after. While kids like me scrabbled through rubble hoping to find a rat for dinner, the mercs dug looking for loot. While the homeless tried to hide from the fighting, the mercs used their position to renegotiate their contract.”
“That’s…”
Melia didn’t cut her off so much as he didn’t really stop. “Not in any official report outside a ledger, I’m sure. Maybe not even then. Soldiers don’t see kids. Few agents do either. I was hungry. They had food. So I helped myself and heard a few things. Things you don’t forget.” No challenge?
Though he wasn’t as worked up as he used to get, Melia forced his muscles to relax. Need to ease off a bit. “Once the planet was secured, the Archon came and surveyed the wreckage. I didn’t see her myself. Different priorities. But she made sure that those of us without families were gathered up.
“The food was welcome. Same with the shelter. The tests, not so much. Some found homes, families. The rest of us went to orphanages. Those of us with aptitude were… kept in the system. I’m sure you know the drill.”
“Orphaned by mercenaries, a graduating thesis condemning the practice of mercenaries, brawling with mercenaries,” a slight pause, “and Davions. You've held a grudge for a long time, and it’s infected your performance. How is it you believe you can now cooperate with mercenaries without problem?”
“A thorough review will confirm that incidents like those all but disappeared over a decade ago. Did my past influence my actions? Of course. Mercs have this romantic miasma that infects people, and I had a chip on my shoulder. When you strip everything else away, mercs, even ones like Kell's Hounds, only fight for one thing: money. Otherwise, they wouldn't be mercs. If they say anything else, they’re lying, possibly even just to themselves. The uncomfortable truth is that mercenaries aren't the problem per se. They’re only a symptom of our addiction to war. Just tools to be used. Though,” he spread his hands almost apologetically as he leaned back, “it took me a while to get my head out of my ass and see that.
“So, do I hate mercenaries? No. I simply see them for what they are. That’s not to say that if I was given a free shot at Cranston Snord that I wouldn't take it, but that wouldn't fix anything.”
Seconds lingered into minutes as their eyes stayed locked, but not in conflict or judgment. Khatri finally broke the silence, “This concludes the interview.” With that Agent Matthews leaned forward and tapped the thin bar again.
Originally created by BJ Altman
(Warning: There may be spoilers for those who have not seen through Episode 14 of DFA: Legacy)
OK people, it’s been at least an hour. How long are you going to keep me waiting? And no water. Rude. Not that I’d trust it; this is the sort of place where you pack your own lunch. Melia scanned the room in a vain effort to alleviate the boredom. A thousand years and we still favor one way glass for interrogations.
Flickering lights signaled a diversion of power from the same circuit, and the heavy door at the opposite end of the room echoed a dull clunk before swinging outward. About time. Two figures entered.
The man was broad, hefty, but it wasn't muscle. He was that sort of balding pudgy with floppy jowls and beady eyes reminiscent of a rat. The kind of person you wouldn't expect to be intimidating until he leans in a bit and the light catches him just right. He lived behind a desk. Analyst or can you just not escape the siren call of vending machines?
The woman looked purposefully normal in a slimming, brown pantsuit just a couple shades darker than her skin. Her jacket hung loose enough to hide any number of tools. It would be easy to lose track of her in a crowd. Field agent.
The pair entered with an air of ownership. I almost feel underdressed. They took the chairs on the opposite side of the heavy table. No notes?
The heavy set man listed slightly to left, working his jaw a moment before speaking. “Do you know why you are here?”
Seriously? That’s what we’re leading with? Melia's left eyebrow quirked, “Why don't you tell me?” Well, that’s the sort of stare that’ll bore through a man’s brain faster than a blazer. Fantastic. How about the other? “Or better yet, Desk,” He shifted his gaze to the pudgy man's partner, “Ma'am, will you please explain why all this?” He did a slow wave about the otherwise empty room.
A slight crease touched her lips. She’s used to this, and probably the tougher of the two. “We need a clear picture of how things came to this point, and where they will go from here.” That accent isn't popular in this half of the Commonwealth, the blonde hair came from a bottle if her skin tone and bone structure is any indication. Maybe Panpour or one of the other old Hindu Collective planets. DMI doesn't operate in Lyran space. What’s going on?
“My apologies. Namaste. Shall we read ourselves into the record and begin?”
Wrong move. Her dark eyes didn't give a millimeter, “My grandfather might have appreciated that folksy nonsense and let you steer the conversation. I don't have his patience for ***. So let's keep the ground rules simple. We ask questions. You answer them.” She didn't leave much of a pause, “Good.”
Her elder produced a thin metal bar from an inner pocket of his jacket. Maybe fifteen centimeters long, it could easily be mistaken for a pen. He placed it between the three of them and tapped one end, “The time is 13:46 the fifth of April 3050.” No watch. Human computer. Likely a Norn. “I am Agent Matthews, Lyran Intelligence Corps. With me also is Agent Khatri, Federated Commonwealth Intelligence Command.” With no small amount of work done for a big gun like her to look that young. Can’t blame her. A lot of agents do it. Hard to judge her skill, which is the point. “The subject of our interview is Agent,” another slight pause, “Sanders. Beginning interview.”
“You were embedded with the Seventeenth Skye Rangers, the sixteenth of March 3049, on Barcelona under the identity of Leftenant Julian Sanders, mechwarrior call sign mee-lee-ah. Is this correct?”
“It is pronounced Meh-lee-ah. Otherwise correct.” Why are you needling me?
“Very good,” the man continued, “Melia, an unusual word, what does it mean?”
“It’s just what my wife always called me,” and more of a name than the one you gave me.
Feigned surprise crossed the folded flesh that sat on the interrogator's brow, but the follow-up was not immediate. “Unusual. The file regarding your marriage is incomplete. Did you receive permission?" Head games.
“Verbal permission, yes.” The words came with forced sharpness. “We were talking about Barcelona, remember?” Let them think they're getting to me.
Matthews turned a page of notes in his head, “Right, and what was your assignment there?”
Or you could just be straight with me. “To ascertain the loyalty of the stationed regiment, to draw out separatist sympathizers, and identify a hypothesized supply line feeding separatists.”
“And your assessment of that mission?”
“The objectives were met.”
“Loudly. Very loudly.” No mistaking that tone of disapproval. And that motion with his hands. It’s like a two year old plunged his mitts into water colors. “Releasing the mercs you'd taken into custody and then surrendering yourself to them made a mess. Where you successfully identified the Kommandant and several collaborators, you made so much noise that others went to ground. We still don't know if the supply line is fully closed.” Not that it matters anymore, Barcelona got overrun when Anywhere did. “To the outside observer it looked as though you'd purposefully cocked everything up and then defected.” The silence stretched, “Nothing to say for yourself?”
“You ask the questions. I answer them. You did not ask a question." The woman's body shook ever so slightly, possibly laughing at the absurdity of all this. I might be too, if positions were reversed.
“If you're done giving each other reach arounds, we can get on with this. Why did you imperil your mission on Barcelona the way you did?” Good cop? No, you just have a specific agenda, but what is it?
“The Dead Man's Hand provided intel that spoke of something big in The Periphery. The first new mech design we've seen since the Succession Wars broke out was the 3010 Merlin in the Outworld's Alliance. Since then we started seeing more: Hatchetman, Raven, Cataphract... Each of these came from a political body with a healthy industrial base, but until the Helm Memory Core, all used comparatively pedestrian technology. What the mercs fought spoke of a group with an industrial base that, at the very least, had fully incorporated that technology into several new Battlemech designs, and enough mechs to take a planet. From pirates, but the point still stands. That we had no intelligence on such a group meant that it needed to be investigated. Nothing on the board was aimed at that objective.”
“So you took it upon yourself to do this?” the man finished.
“Despite the difficulties and consequences, yes. The matter required immediate investigation, and I couldn't be certain command received the information. The Seventeenth's Kommandant was actively interfering with communications related to the Dead Man’s Hand.”
“Consequences to the mission or yourself? You missed your daughter's birthday. Thoughtful present though. Did you get permission for her or was she a mistake?”
“There's the monster,” Khatri practically purred the words.
He’d barely moved, but Melia's eyes had lost their twinkle, “You're not a parent.”
“Astute observation,” the words meandered out of Matthews’s mouth. I deserved that tone, “such attachments are a distraction. A review of your… utility over the last sixteen years makes this readily apparent. You were an excellent agent once, but you still have your uses.”
Matthews was flipping through his mental file again. Memory palace or implant? “Back to Barcelona. You could have accomplished your mission quieter, more concretely securing your objective, before moving on. Why didn't you?”
“Speculating over alternate fates of the mission is a futile exercise. The matter of the new mechs in The Periphery required investigation. Those mercenaries had the only information, possibly more than they'd already shared. Though noisy, the actions earned immediate trust.”
“It’s fair to say they knew you were likely one of ours. Sloppy that, but at least they thought you were on their side. As luck would have it, the mercenaries engaged this force again and even claimed some salvage, which, yes, you arranged to be transported off world for us. On the other hand, you authorized damage to a Commonwealth battlemech factory, and, once the planet was under invasion, you stole Leftenant General Jacob Greensville’s black box and authorization codes to order a retreat of all forces, abandoning the planet rather than defending it.” Then as if remembering the rules of engagement, “Is this correct?”
“A jaundiced account.” He’s purposefully mischaracterizing now. Trying to get another reaction? “The only damage added to the factory was to its pitiful defenses, which wouldn't matter if the Jade Falcons returned. Though, none of that would have happened had the facility been properly staffed. As for the black box, Leftenant General Greensville and I had a frank discussion about the situation. He couldn't handle the stress or the loss of honor and chose the coward’s way out,” no reaction, “but before doing so, he gave me the box and codes. My codes wouldn't have triggered the same response, so, yes, I impersonated him to arrange the evacuation. Given the route, saving lives and resources took priority.”
“Isn't that thinking like a mechwarrior? An agent would have stayed behind to provide steady reports and perform insurgency actions.”
“Only if your vision ends a decimeter in front of your nose.” At least the Davion's enjoying herself. How’s everyone behind the mirror? “It’s basic strategy, to say nothing of common sense. Retain as many assets as possible then deploy them where your enemy least expects.”
“Erewhon?”
“Yes; though, Percival of the Dead Man’s Hand chose the target.”
“And that is where you lucked into what could possibly be one of the greatest coups for the Intelligence Corps. For that, you have my congratulations.” No acrimony. Why the shift? “Though, I did have a question regarding that operation specifically. Why did you give such a junior mechwarrior command over not only yourself, but a Hauptman? It’s particularly puzzling given that she’s a mercenary and your acrimony towards them.”
“Hayden Shields? The mercs needed the morale boost, to see one of their own still leading something. This was possible due to the deployment we chose and ensured their buy in. It gave Shields something to focus on rather than sink into depression. Lastly, she has talent. It’s rough, but it’s there. If she can stop moping long enough to believe in herself, she’ll excel.”
“Charitable, and uncharacteristic given your history. Is it a personal interest?”
Now you’re just being tedious, “I’m married.”
“Were, technically,” You need spectacles. They’d give that flaccid visage an air of menace when peering over them, “unlike other documents, Miriam’s death certificate is on file.”
“My condolences on the lack of love in your life.” Melia’s tone was almost snide, and it didn't take imagination to see something flash over the woman’s face. But what is she thinking?
“No complications either.” Your eyes aren't elsewhere this time. You’re not flipping through files. What then? “No matter how it came about, no one is doubting the potential value of Erewhon, despite the damage to Chariot’s systems.”
“And now that we've established the baseline,” baseline?! “I have my questions.” Khatri slid into command easily, “The issue is how to move forward. The proposal under consideration by FC Intelligence Command is radical. It would require at least a two year commitment, during which personnel from the Second New Ivaarson Chaussers and the Dead Man’s Hand would be fully integrated. Can you work with them genuinely, without friction, as though they were regular members of the AFFC?”
Genuinely? Without a tradecraft façade I suppose. “Yes.” If the simplicity of the response caught her off guard, she gave so sign.
“You past speaks differently, your thesis at Buena, ‘Mercenaries: The Dissolution of the State’, was not an endearing treatment. It caused you problems did it not? There was even a recommendation for expulsion because of it.”
“Few find the truth endearing, particularly when it threatens their power, but you probably mean Professor Campbell specifically.” Melia raised a hand apologetically, “Sorry, retired Kommandant Campbell. She was a rarity at Buena. Unlike The Nagelring and Sanglamore, Buena runs on merit, not political favors. The Dean, Leftenant General Waverly, threw out her arguments with the support of other staff members.” And I graduated with honors.
“A great many lordlings do like to play mercenary.” Others would have said that with a smirk. “Moving on, your record indicates a greater than average number of incidents with mercenaries. What is your explanation for these?”
“Bar fights are team building exercises. Davions taught me that.” He hadn’t intended the impish response. Barely a hint, just enough of a smile. You know what I’m talking about, and you sure as *** know I ducked the question.
“Tell me about Vrance. That’s where it started, wasn’t it?” I guess we’re done with the foreplay then.
“It’s in the file.”
“I’m not here to read your file.” No, you’re here to read me. I’ve heard of your kind. At least things make sense now.
“Yes.”
“More accurately, it’s where you started, correct?”
“That is where they,” the off hand gesture to The Desk brought no reaction, “found me.”
“From the beginning, please.” Huh. Melia cocked his head to the left. Please.
“Kurita forces had invaded Tamar and were present in Vrance to requisition supplies. I don’t remember them being harsh. Unlike what happened that day, not much before really registers. They had not attacked the city; but that didn’t make us any less scared. I was out when the fighting began. I’d been sent to the market to get toilet paper, pasta, and ketchup. I was about to cross the street when a Crusader dropped through my apartment building. I don’t know how long I stood there, just stood there. The dust cloud from the… landing blew past me. At some point I was clawing through the rubble in a frenzy, but by then the fighting had started.
“I know what the reports say. I also know a cover-up when I see one, having helped author a few myself. This was a veteran unit. They don’t make drop errors like that. No, they aimed for the city, and they certainly hit the ground shooting.
“There was little to no regard for civilians before, during, or after. While kids like me scrabbled through rubble hoping to find a rat for dinner, the mercs dug looking for loot. While the homeless tried to hide from the fighting, the mercs used their position to renegotiate their contract.”
“That’s…”
Melia didn’t cut her off so much as he didn’t really stop. “Not in any official report outside a ledger, I’m sure. Maybe not even then. Soldiers don’t see kids. Few agents do either. I was hungry. They had food. So I helped myself and heard a few things. Things you don’t forget.” No challenge?
Though he wasn’t as worked up as he used to get, Melia forced his muscles to relax. Need to ease off a bit. “Once the planet was secured, the Archon came and surveyed the wreckage. I didn’t see her myself. Different priorities. But she made sure that those of us without families were gathered up.
“The food was welcome. Same with the shelter. The tests, not so much. Some found homes, families. The rest of us went to orphanages. Those of us with aptitude were… kept in the system. I’m sure you know the drill.”
“Orphaned by mercenaries, a graduating thesis condemning the practice of mercenaries, brawling with mercenaries,” a slight pause, “and Davions. You've held a grudge for a long time, and it’s infected your performance. How is it you believe you can now cooperate with mercenaries without problem?”
“A thorough review will confirm that incidents like those all but disappeared over a decade ago. Did my past influence my actions? Of course. Mercs have this romantic miasma that infects people, and I had a chip on my shoulder. When you strip everything else away, mercs, even ones like Kell's Hounds, only fight for one thing: money. Otherwise, they wouldn't be mercs. If they say anything else, they’re lying, possibly even just to themselves. The uncomfortable truth is that mercenaries aren't the problem per se. They’re only a symptom of our addiction to war. Just tools to be used. Though,” he spread his hands almost apologetically as he leaned back, “it took me a while to get my head out of my ass and see that.
“So, do I hate mercenaries? No. I simply see them for what they are. That’s not to say that if I was given a free shot at Cranston Snord that I wouldn't take it, but that wouldn't fix anything.”
Seconds lingered into minutes as their eyes stayed locked, but not in conflict or judgment. Khatri finally broke the silence, “This concludes the interview.” With that Agent Matthews leaned forward and tapped the thin bar again.