Most people only know paratroopers from movies, TV shows, or novels.
In those stories, paratroopers almost always drop behind enemy lines.
If they are lucky, they land safely and start some lone‑wolf survival op. If not…
They hit a minefield the enemy laid out in advance, or get turned into Swiss cheese mid‑air by AA guns or a machine‑gun nest.
The risk is so high that anyone who survives that kind of meat‑grinder and makes it to retirement is almost always a top‑tier expert in infiltration and combat.
Especially members of the legendary 101st Airborne, the "Screaming Eagles." Just about every one of them is a monster in solo operations.
And Rorschach had once been one of them—one of the brightest in that elite crowd.
Schlk.
A sharp, double‑edged knife drove upward from under a man's chin.
Rorschach clamped a hand over the struggling guard's mouth and murmured in his ear, "Shh. Don't be scared. Pain is normal."
He pushed harder. The blade punched through the base of the skull, shredding the brainstem and turning the guard into a corpse in the shortest possible time.
Inside the plant, two gunmen with SMGs slung across their chests were watching a hallway.
They smoked and swapped stories, completely unaware of the danger closing in.
A sudden noise drew their attention.
They turned toward a closed door at the far end of the hall. After a quick look at each other, one of them raised his weapon and moved cautiously toward it.
Just as he neared the door, it exploded inward.
Bang!
A masked figure flew in from outside, driving a knee into his chest and blasting him off his feet.
"Ross—"
The other guard did not even finish the name. A thrown knife spun across the room and buried itself in his forehead.
Rorschach stepped into the corridor, yanked the blade free, then opened the throat of the guard he had just kneed into the wall, who was only stunned, not dead.
He wiped the knife clean on the corpse and sheathed it, whistling some tune stolen from a movie as he strolled deeper in.
Two blood‑red streaks of light rose from the bodies and shot into him.
Once he cleared the entry hall, the main floor of the plant spread out in front of him.
The workers were long gone. Aside from dozens of dry‑cleaning machines, the only things around were stacks of clothing crates.
Laughter drifted from a lit room not far away.
Inside, five gunmen were playing Texas Hold 'Em, with no idea anything was wrong.
Then—knock, knock.
The man nearest the door rose to answer it.
Before he could touch the handle, a deafening gunshot blew the door inward and hurled him against the wall.
Rorschach slipped through the ruined frame, eyes flashing over the room.
Seeing no children, he fired again, shattering the lead man's skull.
Boom!
With two shots spent, he twisted and pressed himself to the wall beside the doorway, letting the incoming burst of fire pass as his fingers plucked two fresh shells from his belt and slid them into the tube in one smooth motion.
Dual‑load technique. A close‑quarters trick used by the military to refill a shotgun in the shortest possible time.
As the enemy's guns paused for a half‑second, he darted through the opening, low and fast.
Two uninterrupted blasts, two heads turned into red mist.
The last man panicked and tried to return fire, but he barely swung the muzzle up before Rorschach's boot smashed into his wrist, sending the pistol flying.
Rorschach snatched it out of the air and, without the slightest hitch, squeezed the trigger. The bullet drilled through the man's forehead and splattered red and white across the wall behind him.
He glanced down at the weapon and sneered. "Chrome finish? Flashy piece of crap."
Outside the room, heavy footsteps were pounding closer.
The gunfire had drawn the guards who were watching over the kids deeper in. Ten men in body armor with SMGs had taken up positions outside, waiting for Rorschach to step out.
A few seconds later, a round‑bodied grenade rolled into the hall, followed by a low growl that sounded like it had crawled up from hell.
"Lights out, scumbags."
Flash.
Blinding white light and a two‑hundred‑decibel blast ripped through the corridor.
Bang bang!
Rorschach burst out, shotgun bucking in his hands, blowing apart the two unhelmeted skulls closest to the door.
Using the rows of machines as cover, he moved like a ghost along the flanks of the formation, every appearance of his silhouette matched by another life dropping to the floor.
High‑level tactics and a predator's instinct for danger did the rest. In barely more than ten heartbeats, ten more bodies were scattered across the concrete.
Every shot to the head. Not a single round wasted.
Feeling the brutal edge of Firearms Mastery (89/100) in his hands, Rorschach could not help looking forward to whatever would happen when that number finally hit its cap.
——————————
In a basement at the back of the plant.
The last two guards listened as the gunfire upstairs faded away, staring at each other in mounting panic.
"From the sound of it, there's a lot of them…"
"No shit there's a lot of them! I knew kidnapping kids would come back on us. This is the payback."
"Save it. Get up there and see what's going on. If it's bad, we bolt."
"Me? What about you?"
"Somebody has to watch the brats, doesn't he?!"
The other guard jabbed a finger at the far corner.
There, a dozen kids no older than seven or eight huddled in striped pajamas against the wall, staring at them in terror.
The man who had been volunteered ground his teeth, racked his pistol, and eased the basement door open.
His partner tightened his grip on his own weapon, shot the kids a vicious glare, then ducked behind a wooden partition, ready to react to anything.
A moment later, the man who had just stepped out the door came flying back in.
Bang bang—bang!
He had not even gotten his gun up. Two rounds punched into his chest, and a third blew through his skull.
The bloody mess made every face in the corner go paper white. The children clung to one another, shaking, as they stared at the figure coming through the doorway.
Rorschach swept the room with his eyes, counting quickly.
Only a dozen kids. Nowhere near the number the Irish brothers had reported.
His brows knit.
"This doesn't match."
He forced his features into something he hoped looked kind. "Don't be afraid. I'm here to take you home."
It did not seem to help much.
Bang!
A shot cracked from behind the wooden panel at his side, the round so wildly off it smacked into the wall two meters in front of him.
Rorschach glanced at the partition, then at the kids, and lifted his shotgun, aiming at the thin board.
In their line of sight, the guard who had been watching them sweated and hunched behind the wood, trying to make himself small.
When they saw Rorschach's gaze land on them, the children all shook their heads quickly.
Rorschach shrugged and lowered the muzzle toward the floor.
This time, they all nodded. Some of them squeezed their eyes shut.
Boom.
The shot blew through the boards and the last guard's chest.
Two more blood‑red streaks shot into Rorschach's body. In his mind, he felt twenty points of Justice Value settle into place.
And suddenly, he realized something.
His Firearms Mastery was ready to level up.
(End of Chapter)
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