The 101st Marine-Raider Regiment was the best of the best, no doubts about it. Such was needed to execute the most important of missions; the protection of the sovereign and the dynasty.

Yet there were other important roles, ones that the rest Akritan Marine Corps wasn’t responsible for and which required the formation of specialized units.

One such specialized unit was the 109th, made up entire of Domus Pupili graduates. Unlike their comrades in the 101st, they were hardly crack troops or shock infantry. No, they served a much more tame yet undeniably important role.

Protection for the Domus Pupili.

…

He stepped off the gangway and unto the hangar’s deck, followed by the rest of his squad. There was no time to wait; a man in caretaker uniform approached them immediately with a smile on his face.

“You are on assistance duty, yes?”

“Correct, sir. Where do you need us?” The sergeant asked, scanning the hangar.

Busy, as expected. Shuttlecraft waited only minutes, unloading supplies and loading personnel. Unlike the rest of the stations, C5 had seen actual fighting. The local garrison had been conducted a rare counter-riot exercise when the marines breached.

Marine casualties had been few, but the ill-trained guard had responded erratically with lethal munitions and concentrated riot-control gas. Many of the penal workers had been injured, some had died, and a non-insignificant number of children had been left orphaned.

A standard case for the Domus Pupili, whose caretakers had accrued a wealth of experience due to the Vogdi’s brutality.

“The advance team managed to gathered the kiddos in the first rooms to be decontaminated. A dozen or so were flown out to navy ships for emergency treatment , but the rest are still here. Here’s your list; follow me.”

The sergeant received the piece of paper with respect, as one ought to. His duty was protecting lives, young lives, and this paper told him exactly who his charges were for the next few hours.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

Some on the list only had the barest information, while others were fully cataloged. The process took time, and resources were finite even for the most important institution of the dynasty. All had at least a picture, a first name and a unique identifier linked to their genetic information. That much was expected even the most terrible conditions, and the sergeant had seen far greater horrors during the final years of the war.

The lieutenant and his squad followed the caretaker without another word, through battle-scarred hallways and armored gates jammed open or blown off their hinges.

“It looks like a prison.” One of his squadmates muttered.

“Because it is a prison.” Another noted, disgust evident in his tone.

“With children in it. Children, for stars’ sake.” A third added, his words seeped in rage.

The sergeant said nothing, though he agreed with all of them. Penal labor camps were a dark, if somewhat acceptable decision. Hardly a taboo, though that could change depending on the conditions. The mere memory of liberating a Vogdi gulag made him seethe; it had taken all his will to not order the gulag guards’ execution by the very gas with which they’d been…liquidating the prisoners. The camp's commander, the very monster who'd ordered that no prisoners were to fall into akritan hands, he'd certainly...well, there were some things the Duke's Own didn't talk about.

But the presence of children…the punishment of children for the crimes of their parents, that was against everything he and his men stood for. Everything the Domus Pupili stood for.

“Here we are.” The caretaker said, gesturing to an open door.

In an instant, his and his men’s expressions and body language shifted. They put on warm smiles and checked their soft-colored uniforms for their kit.

Unlike those of crack troops like the 101st, whose normal kits contained every tool of war a marine could dream of from bayonets to breaching charges, their own was remarkably differently.;Candy and juice pouches pouches instead of ammunition and greandes. Animal stickers and markers in leu of bayonets and heavy weapons.

For they were not implements of war and death, but life and joy. They were parents, guardians, friends and family for those that had none.

As the sergeant and his men entered the room, they found a dozen children playing a playing inside the room with toy dolls, and space racers, or reading through picture books. Some were as young as four, others just barely prepubescent. They were all different, though they all shared one common trait; they had been orphans…until now.

“Children, may I have your attention please?” The caretaker called in a soft voice, and the children turned to look towards the doorway as one.

“Who are they, Mister?” One brave girl asked, holding a picture book about planets in her lap.

It was the sergeant that spoke, his lips breaking into a warm smile. “I’m Mike, and these are my friends. We’re here to take you guys home.”