A/N
So, another case of me taking the (gag) quotes of a Blizzard hero/unit and applying them to narrative format. In this case, the supplicant.
Supplication
"The Breath of Creation? More like the Breath of Recreation, am I right?"
"Um…"
"So, terran, did you hear the tale of the supplicant who stood head and shoulders above the rest of us? He was a Tall'darim."
"I…really can't say I have."
"Ah, well, no matter. These puns, as you call them? Perhaps I do indeed deserve to die to bring myself down to such humour."
"I don't think-"
"But such are the demands of the Chain. Of this war. I'm sure we all understand the need for sacrifice, no?"
Jim Raynor remained silent, though he had no doubt that the supplicant he was standing beside on the observation post would be reading his mind regardless. Would read it, and see that yes indeed, he did know the meaning of sacrifice. Knew it all too well.
He also knew that the parameters of this mission were dicey. On one hand, Egon needed his help. He needed his help to collect terrazine, he needed his help to get off the moon, and once that happened, he'd need the help of every shrink between here and Korhal. And while he'd welcome Egon back (lord knew the kid didn't deserve to be stuck on this rock for more than a year), he also had to ask, "why?" Why were Dominion forces here? The Tal'darim he could understand, given their fixation with the "Breath of Creation," but what could he hope to gain bar getting a friend back? Egon was good. Or had been good, before reaching the level of calling harvesters "Gary." But now? How many lives could his mind save, if any?
You think too much.
He cast a glance at the supplicant. Mind readers. Telepaths. Another reason why he'd never be friends with these protoss. He'd seen what they'd done on Xil. It was only cold comfort that for now, their blades were turned on Amon's forces.
"Commander."
A marine walked up to the observation post, bringing a data pad with him. Movements of Egon's harvesters, movements of the Moebius Corps, casualty figures…He handed it back to the lieutenant. His visor was down and polarized, but Raynor could use his imagination to guess what was behind it. To imagine the look of disgust at the supplicant standing beside him.
"He doesn't like me," the supplicant said. Raynor glanced at him as the lieutenant walked away. "Fear not. War makes us all blood-kin."
"Or strange bedfellows."
"Another saying? Well, no matter. Once our highlord takes to the field, my knowledge will end with my life." Raynor watched as a blood orb formed between the Tal'darim's hands – red, pulsating, malignant. Hopefully to be turned on the enemy when the time came for it.
You are puzzled.
Raynor refused to rise to the bait. Not now, he told himself. Not here. Not while Egon needed him. Not in front of these butchers.
You have not long, but ask.
"Get out of my head," he murmured.
Ah, yes. Your memories of her are very-
Raynor reached for his pistol.
I am to die regardless.
And rested his hand on the holster. Slowly, he turned to the supplicant. Red eyes looked back at him. Eyes filled with…what, he wondered? Amusement? Sorrow? Contempt? Even Artanis could be hard to read. How in the K-sector could he expect to understand a complete stranger?
"I don't get it," the commander murmured. "You've got this Chain of Ascension thing, right? Why are you giving your lives for the guy at the top?"
He couldn't hope to understand, but for the next five minutes, he had little better to do.
"If Alarak wishes my death, he need only ask."
"That isn't an answer."
"But it is," the supplicant answered. "We serve the Chain by not moving up through it ourselves. Highlord, ascendant, votary, it matters not. We are of use, dead or alive. We can die in peace knowing that." The supplicant let out a soft laugh. "Does that confuse you, human? Is it puzzling to think that among us understand the concept of altruism?"
Raynor remained silent – he'd known protoss capable of showing altruism. Tassadar, Fenix, Zeratul…they'd lived and died following altruism to its end. But Alarak's lackeys? Softly, he said, "I'm not sure if that counts."
"Amon's forces will die. My highlord will live. Your scientist will be retrieved, we shall regain control of the Breath of Creation on this world, and I shall die before the sun passes the horizon."
"That isn't altruism," Raynor said.
"Then what would you call it?"
"Duty."
"Duty," the supplicant scoffed. "A thankless job, but someone has to do it. Isn't that what one of your warriors said?"
"My mar…warriors, are free to say as they wish."
"How interesting. But…" The supplicant trailed off. He was looking towards the nexus his forces had set up. There must have been some kind of communique that he received, or maybe the Tal'darim were not as bereft of the empathic link the Khalai shared as he thought. But regardless, he looked to Raynor. His eyes dimmed. "The highlord needs me."
Raynor almost reached out a hand towards the supplicant. But he held back. Holding out a hand…that was a gesture reserved for people who needed it. Men and women who headed out to battle, knowing the risk of death, but hoping to survive. Supplicants went into battle expecting death as a given. Why waste comfort, when the Tal'darim scoffed at such a thing?
"Give 'em hell."
More simple words, but he could spare them. He'd never see this protoss again. Something told him that he'd see Highlord Alarak on the battlefield many times before the war's end. And each time, wondering how many of his supplicants had given their lives to ensure that he remained standing.
He turned to face the battlefield. Minutes from now, the Raiders would move out, the Hyperion would carry out an atmospheric insertion, while the Dusk Wings would lay covering fire for Alarak's forces along the ground. Cohesion that neither side relished in, but would oblige. And he'd live through it.
He could only hope as many of his 'warriors' did as well.
And maybe Alarak's too.