Infested Man

by Starcraft.orgmember

Read and Find out. The story of a hybrid's that break loose! Currently unfinished, so stuff will be sort of murky until I untwist the storyline.

Infested Man

Prologue

The Protoss assailant looked down upon the barren lands of Char with a hint of triumph painted on his visage. The condemned lands, pocked by the many volcanoes and ashen rivers, once inhabited and plagued by Zerg, were peaceful as the Carrier flew swiftly over the surface. The once raging rivers of lava that expatiated across the lands and the once rampant volcanoes stood in a placid stalemate. The twin suns of the ashen star blazed with fierceness, but it awoke no souls, and across the lands, there was not a being hindered.

The rampant of the Zerg has finally ceased, the assailant thought to himself with an excitement that had not been provoked for many decades. Finally the fruits of our labors have served us well.

The carrier glided with a quiet celerity over the lava rivers of Char, silent and swift like a ghost, and behind the agile ship, a legion of similar crafts flew, in similar haste. A task would be executed on this day, one that would rid the universe of one of its worst mistakes. The Dark Templar stood within his serene chamber, his heart weighed with disquietude, his eyes perceived with worry. He felt tired, even for an exuberant Protoss youth of a mere 137 years of age. The Council's Caste had elected him to become Executor, and consequently, he felt constantly weary and felt his mind deteriorating and becoming lethargic.

He withdrew his hand from his cloak, and looked at his limp arm. His reptilian skin was pale blue, and his countenance matched this pallor. The brilliant glow of his once dazzling yellow eyes were dim, and his gaze was faltering. His fellow Templars had noted these attributes worriedly, but with this, he began to shun them. His face was so undefined these days that his emotions remained hidden, and none could read his mood, nor dared to trespass within his tolerance, fearing the worst of the terse warrior.

The gargantuan craft slid peacefully over a bubbling river of lava, and the templar could see the destructions of the aftermath of a once glorious battle. Carcasses. They littered the topography like a plague of moss upon a rotted tree. He watched, and more haze seemed to shroud the assailant's gaze. He could see the limp bodies of many of his brethren, lifeless and soaked in a blue blood, as they lay, never to see another rise of the sun or to experience the melodious song of Aiur's brilliant birds. And then his gaze shifted, and he saw the dead corpses of many Zerg, and suddenly, his emotion shifted from grief to a fierce hatred. He saw the desecrated forms of torn Zerg structures, their correlating and repulsive hive bodies shredded to the ground and no longer pulsing with an infernal energy.

Over a nearby cliff, the top semi-circle of a fiery sun began to show through, illuminating the blood red of the canvas. It, however, did not do anything to brighten the day, only spread light to the edges of each valley and recess that was teeming with dead bodies.

He saw more Zerg, their nefarious and immoral forms, as they poured from a tear in the ground, overrunning their lifeless comrades. Where they emerged from, the Templar was of no clue. Suddenly, his legions of carrier ships engaged, sending hordes of tiny, infinitesimal interceptors at the approaching threat. The assailant watched as the interceptors, insignificant in size, emerged, and flew, in tedious formations before letting off relentless bursts of firepower at the upcoming Zerg. Soon, the hunted would become the prey.

In the distance, he saw flying silhouettes grow larger in visibility. Massive behemoth figures, with dominant wings that overlooked guns of mammoth capability. The assailant gave another hint of an enlightening upon his face. The Terrans have arrived. We have won at last.

Aurora Ramsey looked out over the barren lands of Char from her position on the decks of Hyperion, her grim mood lifting. For a moment, basking in the light of the sun, the hints of her once crippled and mutilated form seemed to disappear, and the beauty of her once prominent figure shone through.

The Zerg creatures, seen emerging from a slit in the ground, began to pour through. She distinguished the smooth and narrow frames of carriers over the horizon, and little spasms of blue light. They have engaged the enemy. The fucking enemy.

"Ma'am?"

Aurora Ramsey, high-flying admiral of the Confederate fleet, turned to her beckoner. An engineer stood just below her on the lower deck. "I have the Protoss Executor on the first line. I'm patching him through."

A massive flat-screen monitor above Miss Ramsey flickered and crackled to life, highlighting the grim features of a surly, blue reptilian face that stared meekly at her through the ripples in the screen. His hard, cold face bored the resemblance to a reptile creature, and yet his expression contained a sort of warmth that Aurora Ramsey had not seen in an alien, or a person in fact, for a long, long time. The lanky figure was donned in an overflowing purple garb that swallowed most of the figure's torso, which was the only part of his body visible to the screen.

Greetings, said the figure telepathically. His voice was monotonous, nothing like what Ramsey would've expected from a 'warm' character. And she had never really gotten over the fact that the Protoss spoke to her directly into the mind. Then again…She drew her eyes to the screen. Small symbolic, figurative marks were etched across the figure's chin area, where the mouth was supposedly to be. She closed her eyes; uncomfortable.

You seem ill-content, human, said the Protoss being in the same expressionless drawl. For a day when the fruits of our labors are finally rewarded into our waiting hands, you do not seem in high spirits.

Neither do you, thought Aurora bitterly.

I am in quite the high spirits. Not for a decade have I shown much affection for a sunrise or set as I am today. His mood 'seemed' to lighten. It is hard to tell, is it not, human?

"It is, indeed," said Ramsey, speaking up for the first time.

Look out the window.

This sudden demand took the admiral by surprise, but nevertheless, she obeyed, and took a glance out of the battlecruiser's massive windows, and the mist that shrouded her somnolent eyes parted.

Over the nearest hilltop, she watched as hundreds of Templars in black robes slid over the plains, cutting down the now waning Zerg force with each blow of the blade. A shrill scream pierced the sky, cutting through the massive steel coating of the battlecruiser. More Templars, their blades aglow, rushed over the rocky Barren lands. Excitement. A Hydralisk looked on, not soon before being ripped by the tendons by a cloaked templar. A storm of zealots, radiant in their gleaming armor, enforced the charge with mighty war cries that reverberated and reiterated through the many chasms that littered the landscape, making the once quiet surroundings agitated and unsettled.

The Zerg force, a cluster of confused creatures with no brain capacity in their lethargic minds to even comprehend the pandemonium, began to fall back; the blades of Aiur's warriors muscling the demonic creatures back into the cracks of their hateful inhabitance.

And in the sky. Close, but just beyond the firing distance of the ship's ATS long-range lasers, a horde of Mutalisk and other Zerg flyers circled, before being completely obliterated by their massive counterparts: the carriers. Before the torrent of Zerg could even muster its force in the sky, it was immediately shot down by the crackling of heavy fire from the carriers' automated interceptor ships. In a short time, these mini-flyers, interceptors, had formed an inter-tangling web around the hapless Zerg, shredding the entrapped creatures without clemency. One by one, carcasses of the dead flyers dropped from the sky and into the lava and dark chasms below.

We are victorious, human. Together we shall override the Zerg populace, and once again peace will be restored to our dominions.

Aurora Ramsey swallowed a lump in her throat. In the distance, a cloud concealed a portion of the sun. Then, without warning, there was a flash of lightning.

The violent rocking of the drop-ship only grew worse as they began to make a downward descent towards the bubbling rivers of lava and mountainous ash volcanoes. Above, Char's suns blazed, and a violent wind howled across the lands.

Private Ted Kilrea looked out through the plexi-glass windows of the ship and felt the angst that damned his compartment finally settle upon him. The drop-ship make a sudden drop, falling beneath a roof of soot and rock, and into a deep canyon that was absent of movement except for the placidness of the lava below; a small stream curved along the canyon's roots, its movement tranquil and regulated. Kilrea felt an eerie fear crawl up his skin. The canyon seemed to swallow the ship slowly, making Kilrea wonder why the fuck the pilot had decided to take such a route. The disjointed culminations of ash had begun to eclipse the light of the sun, and the soldier's vision began to grow worse in the dim light.

He managed a distressed sigh and turned himself back towards the soldier's compartment, parting his eyes from the infinites of ash and lava. The mood in the cramped quarters were dim. Two dozen men, fully equipped in massive power suits with weapons hanging from their shoulders sat, in disquieted silence. Occasionally, one would tap the butt of his weapon against the ship's cold floor, maybe to break the subdue mood or to perhaps impromptu a small rhythm to bring a bit of cheerfulness to the depressing gloom and the dread of what was upcoming. For the most part, however, an awkward silence pervaded the atmosphere.

The ship rocked violently for a moment and for a second Kilrea thought that they were being bombarded by Zerg attacks. The incoherent cries from several of his comrades imposed the same thing, but when Kilrea looked out worriedly through the window, he realized that it had been nothing but a whiff of turbulence that had made impact with the craft. He gave a breath of relief. I'm going fucking insane. I'm bloody paranoid. Then, another voice answered his first. That's to be expected, the way I'm handling life. The latter seemed to echo in his mind. More recently these days, as well.

The canyon grew steadily slimmer and the drop-ship was forced from its concealed arrangement as the pilot veered the craft upwards, back into the naked exposure of the fiery twin suns. Behind, a squadron of carrier ships loaded with infantry followed suit briskly.

It was not until they were in the surroundings of the open surface did First Private Ted Kilrea truly catch a glimpse of the topography in which their battle was alleged to be fought. In the darkness of the early morning—in absence of the sun—Ted Kilrea had neither the nerve nor the exceptional visual ability to peer casually about Char, especially not since the horror fictions he had read of late. But even the landscape of a condemned star seemed more favorable to Ted Kilrea than to sit and watch the doomed faces of his angst-ridden comrades, and with their disembark steadfast approaching, Ted Kilrea looked.

The suns had risen from their eclipsed position behind the horizon, which, from the shadow of the sun appeared to be naught but disjointed formations of volcano mountains. High into the sky the suns had ascended, and Kilrea had but the faintest of notions that it might be noon. In a respect. What surprised him was the blatant unadulterated surface below him. Though canyons and ashen mountains littered the terrain, there was no movement but for the tranquil progress of the expatiating lava.

His tribulations and deep thoughts of nothingness were interrupted by necessitated footsteps that cut sharply through the air, at once disrupting the gloom and snapping every being within the compartment to a full attention. The colossal body of the ground sergeant stepped in through the ship's airtight door. He was clad in a dark camouflage green pair of pants with a matching vest that had the sleeves rolled up, revealing to all in the room the dynamic muscles that he had built in the off-season. His grim visage owned a sort of trenchant stare that always seemed to strike fear into the hearts of his inferior soldiers. His eyes were blue, both possessive and sharp and his mouth was always curled into a grit. Tarnishing his features were scars and burns, cuts and gnashes and bruises that scored his tanned face. They only encouraged fear. When the sergeant spoke, no one else did. When he instructed, we'd obey. Period.

Achaicus peered across the land with pure blue eyes that radiated brilliantly, even in the light of the morning. His cloak was twirled about him, encompassing and preserving him from the harsh bitter reasoning of the star's wind. However, it remained strange to the valiant templar. How a bitter and condemned place as this remains to experience all the comforts we know to live by. In particular, he noted the sun. In the distance, the foul Zerg poured from a fissure in the ground, only to be obliterated in the dozens by the wraithlike figures of tiny interceptors that had flown in from above. Achaicus saw a Hydralisk peer indolently from his sheltered underground position, but it was a fleeting moment as the incessant bursts of laser fire above soon shredded its massive being. The carcass dropped without resilience back into the dark chasms of the recess. The Zerg force is volatile. Soon they shall be inevitably washed from the star, and chased from Koprulu without relent. In the sky, Zerg flyers joined in the cataclysmic confrontation, their luminously venomous tails reeling.

Achaicus, one of the many mighty charges of the Protoss infantry rushed forwardsto greet the upcoming ground threat, his warp blade screaming from its holster position across his chest, as he readied himself to strike. Contiguous to him, his fearless brethren goaded the attack.

In a blur of a moment, Achaicus, without consciously being aware of it, locked blades with the scythes of an elephantine Hydralisk, whose eyes were aglow so fiercely reddish that the Dark Templar was reminded of the devil itself. Black charges from the warp blade's hilt ran up across the slender body of the weapon, and continued up the rough, fleshless scythe of the Hydralisk. It gave an aggravated growl before releasing his upset arm. Achaicus did not wait further for a more opportunistic chance to strike. Flipping his blade, he drove it resolutely into the repulsive creature's chest, feeling as the trenchant blade cut through the Hydralisk's chest plates and lodge in its insides. Achaicus felt broiling flesh.

The blood red sunlit sky suddenly grew grey, as a looming storm-cloud concealed the sun's illumination. But the illumination continued to spread, in the form of laser bursts and toxic projectiles.

Several dozen Zerglings ran in the way of Achaicus, but he was not alarmed, and decisively cut through the hides of three of them without effort. The rabid, miniscule, creatures surrounded the valiant warrior, saliva dripping uncontrollably from their mouths, obviously expecting a feast from an ambrosial being. However, this did not do anything to break the stature of one of the most skilled blades-men that had ever set foot on the soils of Char. As they leaped for him, he simply flipped his blade, and without even the slightest hint of exertion, parried the offensive of each creature before cutting them down. The Chakra of the Overmind grows weak. Soon it shall succumb to our attacks.

The day was progressing to be a bloody one, as soon, littering the field of battle were not only the corpses of limitless Zerg, but also those of limp Templars that had given themselves for the battle. Many of them, engulfed by Zerg, had finally lost the strength and had fallen. Achaicus caught a glimpse of one Templar, under the massive body of a Hydralisk, suffered from a scythe that drove resolutely through the Templar's chest. His limp body was drowned in a pool of luminescent blue blood, and though the light of his eyes had faded, his countenance still showed shock.

Flyers littered the ground just as well. The worm-like figures of Zerg birds lay sprawled and bloodied over the ashes, their wings tattered and riddled with holes and conflagration raged and consumed the final remnants of battered carrier and scout ships of the Protoss Expeditionary. Achaicus face hinted worry. Yes, it was a bloody day.

Ted Kilrea looked out once again from the window of his drop-ship, in the absence of the sergeant's voice. Over the nearest canyon and volcano mountain, he could see a raging firefight. Large hooded ships. Small worm-like forms. The engines of the drop-ship whined. When he turned around, the sergeant had set foot from the compartment, seemingly satisfied at the morale pep talk he had given to his brothers in arms. But Kilrea saw through the stone faces of bravado in the room. He knew of one word that could describe the atmosphere in the little craft. Angst.

Aurora Ramsey walked across the Hyperion's decks to the large paneled windows, which overlooked the fierce battle that was rising to the east. Behind their behemoth craft, her fleet flew, and as they neared, the gun ships swooped down, guns augmented as they charged the last of the recoiling foe. Now, as she looked out, she saw the mutilated and gnashed forms of countless Zerg animals, their weapons drawn, but steadily backing as each burst of fire ripped and blasted away at their brood. Terran and Protoss forces were pressing in, flanking the startled and uncomprehending brood and pressing them for the last time into the fissure that they once emerged.

Ramsey's ghostly blue eyes drifted, watched as the swirling and aerobatic form of a Zerg flyer evaded all the attacks and flew in a distressed haste towards Hyperion. The Zerg Mutalisk's worm shaped body drew at Aurora's possessive eyes. Its worm-like form, its tattered wings, but most especially, the luminous green venom that was dripping fervently from its mouth. The Admiral cringed slightly. But no further distress was passed, because in the frame of a second, the Mutalisk was ripped, ligament from ligament by the Battle-cruiser's automated ATS laser system. And Aurora's spell passed. She looked out. More Zerg from the fissures. More of them blown away.

The Admiral beckoned for a nearby engineer. "Alert all ships that we have remaining at are disposable arsenal," she said, at nods from the engineer. "Send them our coordinates. Alert the Protoss ambassador as well. Something tells me that this onwards counteroffensive will be lasting quite longer than we expected." She gazed apprehensively at the fissure.

"I want all our active satellites alerted as well. Bring Nuclear Silos online; I want to have half a dozen nukes ready and affirmative to launch at my command. Understood?"

The Engineer nodded, then hurried back to his command post. Aurora then proceeded to gazing clandestinely back out at the bloodied battlefield. If you weren't looking carefully, you wouldn't be able to see the cold sweat trickling down her face.

Deep in the chasms of an ashen cleft, an occult figure breathed silently, hiding away in a dark crevice, not to be revealed until the time was right. His body was held upright, but his ears tingled and grew agitated and the constant roars of the cannons above. The cannons of the Terran. He could feel the pulse of his Zerg brethren fading, dying away as they fell against the pressing firepower of the Protoss and Terran. The corpse of a Zerg flyer fell into the chasm, limp and lifeless, its body riddled with holes and its wings crumpled and threadbare. The occult creature smiled internally, touching one rough hand against the dead flyer's wing; he smelled and tasted blood. Soon, he assured himself, Soon.

The war pressed on and more Zerg bodies fell into the trench-like canyon, their fates similar to that of the flyer. The sound of piercing cries pervaded the skies, but was soon drowned by the stentorian of cannons. The being's eyes glowered, but then he remembered his objectives and the rage building within his pupils subsided. He slid deeper into the darkness of the crevice, feet wrapping and gripping against the sharp, damp rocks. More cannons boomed. And another body. Soon.

The drop-ship pilot must have lost his brains in the wind, because he sent the drop-ship in a steep, near-vertical dive into the raging battles below. Most of the marines in the compartment had their bodies pressed hard against the craft's flanks, hoping to embrace the impact of their foreseen collision. Kilrea was no exception.

Catching a glimpse through the plexi-glass, Kilrea looked out and saw that the raging tide of the battle had finally begun to deluge the Zerg. The company of marines that had already disembarked were landing on a nearby bay of rock, but soon they, too, had their guns augmented and were blazing as wave after wave of ammunition drove itself against the disgruntled brood.

The mesmerizing view did not stop time from unraveling around Kilrea, and before he was aware of it, there was a shrill shrieking of hard metal against rock as the drop-ship concluded its rough and uncertain landing. Kilrea, even within all that armor, was sent flying hard into the ship's sidewall, before dropping hard against the seat. As the screaming of dissonance from the scraping subsided, the noises of cannons and agonized screams once again pealed the atmosphere.

There was no transition period. Before Kilrea's vision even completely registered, he was pushed by the ongoing tide of marines trying to exit the craft in haste, gun in hand, fully equipped. The sergeant was near the docking beacon of the craft, his helmet on, screaming into his system's communications mike.

"Move it, Privates! We got a long day ahead of us!"

Kilrea pressed through the crowd, feeling now his adrenaline and testosterone pumping and pounding within his veins. Sweat was already trickling down his face and settling at the tip of his chin, and he licked the salty beads away. Flipping his visor over his head, he armed himself and proceeded down the ramp.

Achaicus cut down a rushing Zergling and lifted its limp carcass off the sheath of his blade. Blood sprayed, like a sheet, across the Templar's dark garb. Another Zergling made a run at the Templar, and without hesitance, Achaicus cut down the latter being as well. A Hydralisk, provoked by the aerobatic movement of the Templar's blade, moved forwards, swinging its scythe-like arms in a series of arches, hurtling them madly at the Templar's chest. Then, without warning, the goaded beast launched a series of deadly spines from his throat. The templar easily parried the array of venomous spines that were hurled, only to be pressed hard against the ground by two massive scythes that caught hard against the firm ashen rock over the Templar's cloak, holding him firmly to the ground. In a matter of seconds, warm saliva from the animal's mouth was dangling over the Templar's visage. The Hydralisk obviously sensed an ambrosial meal.

Achaicus was not unduly concerned. After all, he had been occupied in much similar decisions of fate before. And with his warp blade still firmly clenched in his right hand, the task would not be one of great difficulty. As the Hydralisk pressed down hard against the cloak and lunged its head at Achaicus's chest, the Templar made his move.

With swift proficiency, the templar kicked his legs hard into the creature's chest, stunning it for a fraction of a second. It was sufficient. He summoned his blade, and swinging it in a mill motion, he decisively incised the creature's scythes. There was a hissing of broiling flesh as the Hydralisk's elephantine body fell hard to the ground, impaired without the aid of its scythes. Achaicus pressed the blade down hard against the creature's spine-aligned back, and the creature thwarted no more.

However, something worried the valiant templar. He backed away, suddenly realizing the harshness of the offending wind. The fissure, subconsciously, seemed to grow in size. It might've been the case. The Zerg, no matter how hard the Protoss-Terran force pressed it back, were continuing to run relentlessly at their force; new creatures were replacing their dead comrades fervently and without reticence. The Zerg force was seemingly endless.

Nearby, a Hydralisk licked its wounds as it made the finally pierce of a dead Protoss being. A Zergling clawed at the open wounds of a dead Terran corpse. Their force was upset, realized Achaicus, noticing the growing casualties. But the Zerg wasn't.

Something was terribly wrong. And Achaicus would be one of the first to find out.

The shell-shocking earthquake drummed within the head of Ted Kilrea as he disembarked the damaged drop-ship. Far off on a platform of rock, lines of tanks fired off Arclite shots into the fissure region, annihilating both friend and foe with their relentless cannon fire. Gun-ships and other strange Protoss aircrafts hovered like pests in the sky, swooping down and attacking in strange aerial formations. Bizarre Protoss contraptions—spider-like vehicles with four legs, that shot fiery blue balls of energy from sockets on the hood—were interweaving through the mesh and entanglement of rock, debris and carcasses, hurtling themselves with seemingly affordable flexibility as they ran at the Zerg. Kilrea's eyes drifted to the condemned creatures. Such devils. I wonder if I could possibly keep one as a pet.

His wondrous trail of thought was interrupted by the sharp voice of the sergeant through the communications mike. Immediately, Kilrea snapped to. The company of marines were already beginning a forwards press down a small descending surface of rough ash and rock that lay the distance between their disabled drop-ship to the fissure. A clutter of marines were already near the fissure's cliff-edge, guns blazing, in the midst of a ravaging crossfire. Other marines had their guns set up along the banks of the hill, shooting far range at the Zerg that were, to Kilrea's dismay, slowly making a mounting crawl with their own counteroffensive. Counter-counteroffensive, he reminded himself.

In the distance, he made out the silhouettes of Protoss warriors, illuminated by their stark glow and their whirring blades of fire. At least, that's what Kilrea had the impression they were. Something you would see from a science fiction novel.

"Kilrea, get your act together!" screamed the voice of the sergeant, spitting sounds crackling through the mike.

"Err, right Sergeant! Sorry, Sergeant!"

And with that, he ran brusquely down the ashen overhang.

The Overlord slipped underneath the clouds and into the inky blackness of space, leaving behind it the hostilities of Char. Within the Overlord, a congress of beings gathered. Fear pervaded the room. And in the center of the chamber, a livid figured stood; solitary but incensed.

"Felmezar!" Bellowed the enraged figure in the middle of the room. As he spoke, his eyes glowered fiercely. He possessed fearsome traits: a bony, skeletal frame that ran along correlating veins and torn flesh. Along his disjointed spinal chord, a set of tattered wings merged. As he enunciated his words in wrath, his fangs clicked together sporadically.

From the shadows, one lone figure emerged from the group of cowering beings within the chamber. The others seemed to fall back in the background all too willingly. The lone figure was also quite large—A Hunter Killer— but was minute in comparison to the enormous mammoth-like figure of the first. "I am here, Rodriguez. Funnel your rage. You are quite frightening."

"My rage would have been conquered had you successfully completed your assignment, filthy degenerate. Because of you, our trap is failing!"

"How is our plan failing, if I may inquire?" spat the second figure, the Hunter Killer.

"You have not successfully lured our foes close enough to the fissure! We cannot successfully eradicate them if you do not lure them close enough. Your incompetence is failing us. I did not keep you alive under my rule in vain."

"I am everlastingly grateful for my liberation of Kerrigan," snarled the Hunter. "However, it is not up to me to determine the lure of our trap. The forces under my command are numbered, Rodriguez. My powers are limited."

"The once dominant species is crippled?"

Felmezar laughed a hollow laugh, and then snarled. "We are a renegade species now. The Broods under my control have already been summoned. Many of my brethren minions have scattered across Koprulu, having been frozen upon settlement on Braxis.

"Your gallant act of having freed me has had drawbacks. The Overmind is gone. We are corporeal animals, now. Mindless, still, but mortal."

The first being within the chamber swung his arms aggravatingly, narrowly missing the head of the Hunter, who drew its scythes upward in protection. His eyes flashed with red deviltry. The Hunter Killer smelled hostility, and its intuition assisted him as he withdrew back into the gathering.

The Overlord shook.

"You have better not have failed me, degenerate. The consequences of your actions are heavily measured."

Several millions of miles below the borne Overlord, Ted Kilrea was fighting for his life in what would probably be the most climactic skirmish that he had, and will ever fight. The Protoss-Terran force was substantially large, and with the aid of massive vehicle support, he was able to hold ground without being targeted under a small alcove built of eroded rock. The enemy attack, though, had not been suppressed, even with the aid of massive artillery shots, and Kilrea consented to shelter himself under a roof of rock until the concentration of the incessant enemy attack had ceased.

Sponge tablets had been inserted, via the mobile suit, into his ears, absorbing much of the stentorian blaring of the waging crossfire. Occasionally, an underling would expose Kilrea's secreted area, but the threat of these minute critters was minimal. With simple melee accounts, Kilrea was able to beat his adversaries lifeless. He refrained from using his ammunition, deciding to spare it for circumstances of greater danger. It was not soon that his alcove was filled with dead carcasses.

However, the battle did not seem to cease, even as the bodies within the alcove mounted gradually, leaving Kilrea to wonder how much longer he would be able to survive in this unfriendly territory.

The foundation of the fissure shook, collapsing in several areas as massive amounts of the ash began to cave from the sweltering gunfire. The occult figure slipped his lanky figure through a gap in two parted rocks, just narrowly evading a large piece of solidified ash from crushing him.

The Zerg force was inevitably deteriorating in numbers, shown by the massive gatherings of corpses within the trench-like alcove. The occult figure grunted silently. Another heap of rocks broke off from the foundation of the crater and rained down into the ash valleys. Dust and grime rained down, filling the trench bottom in soot.

Finally. I have waited long enough. The final attack shall happen now. The occult being nodded decisively. We have been compensating the Zerg force for too long, to the point where it is no longer worth it. Their roles in our galactic war have been lived to their fullest, and now, we shall rid of them. Rodriguez will be happy.

He felt the presence of his comrades as he slipped through another part in the rocks. Above, gunfire continued to storm on their position. Rodriguez will be very happy.

Finally, the incessant cries of the battle grew silent. Ted Kilrea did not hesitate with this opportunistic moment. Having already been trapped in a corpse-ridden alcove for about a quarter of an hour, he was all too eager to find another sheltering location.

With the assistance of his power armor capabilities, he hurled himself from the ditch and further down the grimy overhang, which was stained with the grubby mud of the dead Zerg. At the bottom of the overhang, the Zerg were beginning what appeared to be a decision to fall back. The startled creatures turned and backed up as they slowly withdrew, forgetting their assailants and making back to the massive fissure at the end of the cliff. Gifted with eyes of exceptional agility, Kilrea was able to determine another some alcove, some hundred meters from his original standpoint. From there, Kilrea noted that he was approximately fifty yards from the retreating Zerg force. It would be a convenient location to lob off some explosives. He looked down at his belt, and couldn't help but ease slightly. He was still fully stocked and undamaged.

Nearby, a stray Zergling was still chewing on the lifeless body of an incapacitated marine. Kilrea loaded three magazines into the Zergling's head before the runt was even able to register the action taken place, and with that, it dropped limply to the ground.

"Alright men, take them out. Flank them inwards down the overhang, and bottle them at the edge of the fissure. Once we funnel them all into the cage, it will only take a few accurate artillery shots to obliterate them. Move!"

Ted Kilrea stumbled with excitement. Around him, the Protoss-Terran force comprising heavy artillery and large Protoss land-crafts gained ground consistently. The marines were, in slow crouched forms, beginning their movement down the precipice. Occasionally, a blaze of fire would erupt, but now the battle had basically evolved into a positioning challenge. Ted Kilrea moved up along the right of the large fissure, gathered between several Protoss tank figures and a numerous gathering of marines, joining their gradual progression.

The soldier looked up in the sky. The sun was beginning to set, coming forth from the fleeting clouds. Kilrea did not know of what time it was. Time usually bent and moved in awry patterns in times of crisis.

A long time could've passed. The skies were mostly clear, a sheet of blended purple covered the sky in elegant color. The view would've have been very significant had the setting been more tranquil. The aerial warfare had already devolved from the significant battle it was a short while ago. The skies were dominated by large Terran and Protoss ships, having already wiped out a substantial Zerg populace. Ted Kilrea had already made out the figures of looming Battlecruisers and Carriers.

He was pushed awkwardly by a marine moving behind him, and was knocked from his daze.

"Get moving, buddy."

But as Kilrea was pushed along, he was knocked face-first to the ground, and swept over by a chilling sensation. Suddenly, the noises around him grew silent. A distant rumbling sound substituted over the absence, and Kilrea felt, for the first time since the beginning of battle, a new feeling of anxiety and fear. When he craned his head, he caught a glimpse of his surrounding. A dark plane had already covered the sky, eclipsing the sun with absolute precision. In the distance, large billows of smoke erupted, and forms materialized, still too far to be distinguished. The scarce but remaining Zerg creatures had grown silent, but it was with a creepy, hypnotic simultaneousness that they stopped. Their eyes grew in the same shade of deviltry—fierce red—and then dilated and shimmered. And then, in unison, they began to back away. Ever so slowly, began to back away… Into the fissure.

The new forms began to come forth, approaching from a source within the fissure. Approaching the Terran and Protoss forces. And Kilrea could not stop staring. From the lack of movement, no one else moved, either.

And the form slowly began to consume.

Achaicus's swift eyes followed the movement of the dark forms along the horizon. Unlike the others, however, he did not flinch at the sight. Instead, he withdrew his warp blade and began back up the overhang.

Up at the top of a ridge, a shuttle was parked, unmoving. Achaicus swung his cloak over his reptilian body and made way towards the vacant craft.

In less than a minute, the craft lifted into the sky, and took off, arousing a cloud of soot in its wake.

Not long after, the forms began its consumption.

-----------------------------------------------------

Facility of Neurotic and Psychological Correlation

Dominion Headquarters, Mar Sara
12:00 GST
-----------------------------------------------------

The small, pure white facility was located at the edge of a long overpass that comprised most of the roads of Vernon, the Capital of Mar Sara. On the sides were long stretches of perpetual waters that lifted high over the horizon: black and grimy with industrial pollution.

The streets were abandoned, the lights unlit. The scopes of long, narrow skyscrapers in the distance showed no signs of life, and along the streets, not even the innocent purr of a stray kitten could be heard.

A thin, wraithlike ship passed through the desolate streets, and turned into the large expansive lot that reached the facility's gates. The light of the midnight moon contrasted starkly against the ship's coat, reflecting the shapes of its surroundings in odd, obscure ways. The craft settled in the lot, and in another short moment, the lights flickered off.

The doors of the craft opened and out stepped two figures that were blanketed by the darkness of the night. These two elusive beings gathered at the foot of the ship, just as the figure of a third person stepped out of the craft. In haste, the three beings made towards the large, whitewashed edifice.

Doctor Jan Sim sat at the foot of his desk, with his head burrowed in his hands, submerged in thought. Depression spells passed more frequently over him the past few days, ever since the cataclysmic event that unfolded over Char. Being the Executive Neurotic Specialist, Sim had been called upon during many of the Dominion's recent renegade wars, his research and aid assisting in many of the Terran's inter-racial battles. He was one of the most innovative successors and authorities in the understanding of the Protoss anatomy and their massive technological expansions. For every aspect of understanding, Sim was at the head of the scientific conclusion.

The mystery of the shadow, or whatever "Thing" that had lingered over Char had yet to be solved, and once again, Sim had been appointed by officials to head on the task of uncovering the truth of what had happened. According to every scientific journal, the "Thing" had consumed every single being on the planet, leaving nothing but a trail of dead bodies in its wake. A recent probe had been dispatched over Char, and its photos depicted scenes of horror; massive amounts of dust and conflagration bedded the topography of the star, and in the absence of the dust, there were the forms of endless corpses, their bodies mutilated by the devouring "Thing". It did not take a long time for these apocalyptical photos to reach the intergalactic populace. Immediately, the international population was silenced, overcome by remorse and cold fear of the occult form. Perhaps, in a short while, the consuming form would reach them.

The buzzer on top of Sim's desk sounded, waking the fatigued doctor from his disturbing worries.

"Doctor Sim, your guests have arrived."

"Hmm? Yes. Yes. Send them in."

He put a hand to his forehead and wiped the sweat from his forehead, and dried his matted hair with his sleeve, suddenly realizing just how nervous he was. They had sent officials today—government officials—to speculate on the problem. Not only was his position on the line, so were the lives of over a billion innocent beings that made Koprulu their home. Outside his office, he could hear his secretary as he ushered the three guests into the building. Next time, he thought, I will pick an easier line of work.

-------------------------------------
Braxis, Glacial Headquarter

Time Unknown, Date Unknown
Location Unknown

-------------------------------------

Felmezar slipped down into the icy depths of the glacial rock and into the depths of the newfound Zerg headquarters.

Underneath the massive shelf of ice, a congress of beings gathered, clustered in an assembly at the foot of an overhanging of ice. Felmezar slid sullenly to the edge of the overhang, glaring down at the assemblage with fiery, red eyes.

The Zerg force was a small and tattered militia, many still nursing severe injuries that had been inflicted as the consequences of a near-escape. Others, they stood in a blank, mesmerizing stature, stolidly gazing about the new precinct.

The lanky figure of a Defiler came creeping up towards Felmezar's position, leaving a path of grime in its wake. "Our detectors have made a full scan of our position," it stated indifferently. "We are safe for the time being."

Felmezar spat aggravatingly. "I should have known. Rodriguez would have betrayed us once we had fulfilled and outlived our usefulness. Now we are isolated. I fear that our race is on the verge of extinction."

The defiler growled in response. "We have not given up hope yet. There are still lengthy military maneuvers that can help us from this predicament."

"Like?" inquired the Hunter.

"A firm alliance."

Felmezar's eyes grew melancholic. "There is no bridge that we have not yet burnt. We are alone in this developing war, brother. We will aid no one, as they will not aid us."

"Then we shall die in long, sufferable, agony."

"Then so be it. I would much rather waste away than to pledge allegiance to the Protoss." And with that, Felmezar slid deeper into the shelf's shelter, leaving the Defiler to trail off in silence.

However, not all was lost. As Felmezar slid into the cold contents of the glacier, so did the defiler. I shall not stand in cold stalemate and watch as the Zerg race is torn from its roots. I will resolve this everything at my disposal.

Nearby, a Guard Hunter Killer stood idle at the entrance to the ice shelf. The defiler beckoned to it.

"Subordinate, I request your assistance."

The Hunter Killer came forth, and nodded. "Your will?"

"Prepare a ship for me at once. Today, we flee this condemned and bitter planet that is lost of Kerrigan. Here is what I need you to do." The Defiler told.

The Hunter nodded, and began to trail off.

"Before you go," interrupted the defiler.

"Yes?"

"Do whatever is in your power to make sure that Felmezar is not aware of my actions."

---------------------

Unidentified Space

Koprulu

---------------------

Achaicus's eyes swept across the distill canvas of space, hazed and deep in thought. Reticence and fear pervaded him, and with this came a form of helplessness. He was, if his predictions were correct, the only fugitive to have survived the massacre on Char. His knowledge would be coveted and so would his body. He knew that once the populaces figured out he was alive, and his whereabouts, a conflict would emerge to capture the article of evidence.

This result would be inevitable.

However, he reminded himself, he would have to place his knowledge into the right hands. Even the hierarchy of the Protoss conclave produced malevolent and wicked souls. Corruption would be a heavy aftermath if he were in the custody of the wrong people. He knew of nobody within the Protoss Council that would benefit of his knowledge. Not one single leader that would guide the Civilization in the right direction. The only Protoss accounts he could think of were Zeratul and Artanis, but now they would be long gone, perhaps fled from Koprulu, with them the Dark Templar that once inhabited Shakuras. The Protoss were not a worthy choice.

He would then seek hospitality and aid from the Terran, but the dominion was ruled over by Arcturus Mengsk II, who had not proven himself a contrary to his ill-minded father. He, like his father, shared the same agenda that would only lead to corruption. He was not a worthy choice either. And, without a doubt, he would not give in to a renegade Terran force, for both their capabilities as a military power would be weak and challengeable. He had heard much of the legendary gunner James Raynor, but he was not prepared to believe of such a glorious and solitary human soldier. Perhaps it was just a mere myth of false advocacy and bravado. Or, worse yet, he was dead. After all, humans were often outlived.

Planets flew by the swirling shuttle in a blur, lost in the unfocused eyes of the worried Templar. Still, he had no objective, and no home.

The shuttle made another plummet and embraced the gravity of a small, blue star that came ahead on the radar. For now, I will bide here, he thought to himself. For now, I will wait.

---------------------------

San New Hampshire

Tarsonis Belt Resort

New Hampshire, Koprulu

----------------------------

Arcturus Mengsk II stared out into deep, unadulterated space from his small office quarters with hazy, possessive blue eyes, flanked on both sides by two officers armed with heavy machine guns.

Fear and worry pervaded the ruler's features: his brow was wrinkled and tense, his hair uncombed and graying, and dark sleep marks etched under his eyes. On his desk, were large bottles of prescription pills, which he took routinely every day. However, occasionally, under stress breakdowns, Mengsk II would accidentally take more medication than necessary, often resulting in overdose. This was both alarming and troublesome for members of the current Dominion Cabinet. Their leader—by inheritance—was both crippled and eccentric. Many even regarded these sporadic overdoses as attempts at suicide, provoked by withdrawal and heavy amounts of work-related stress.

Those closest to him had the right to be worried. Already, the last generation of the Mengsk family had been assassinated, and with the intergalactic tensions culminating, Mengsk II was traveling steadfast in the same path of demise. He was, by an intimate family member, transferred to New Hampshire, a vacation resort off the belt of Tarsonis, under top classification. He was also seeking medical help for his health and addiction to subscription pills. However, he continued, on a daily routine, to overdose on pills, sometimes ingesting over two dozen pills. Already, he had cheated death more times than was ordinary for a regular person.

The Dominion, under current leadership, was gradually following a downward spiral of deterioration that all great Empires suffered before dying out. Many were already rebelling against the current Dominion regime; already half a dozen assassination attempts had been foiled. Mengsk's family members continued to stay hopeful that these congestions of drugs were only accidental overdoses, and that he would eventually recover to aid the Dominion back to its former glory.

Hopefully.

What they didn't know, however, was that these overdoses had been suicide attempts, that were foiled by the myriad of guards that followed the ailing governor wherever he went. Arcturus Mengsk II was following the path many death rock-stars had faced before their terminations. Too bad he had to be royalty.

Char was but a major setback, dimming in comparison to the bloodshed of the many renegade wars the Terran Empire had been suffering over the last decade. And in perspective, Char did have positives. The main government force still hoped that the devastation of Char would silence all the rebel forces. At least for now. The Terrans would also have the chance to emerge as a power threat, overtaking the extinct Zerg and the fled Protoss. The government was quite an arrogant and blinded group of men, further overlooking the threat of what could possibly be the Apocalypse: the hidden force that swept across Char.

"Sir?" the voice of a female rang from the doorway.

The guards temporarily moved from their positions beside the frail emperor, and a maid with a tray of tea and biscuits stepped through and placed the refreshments on the furnished table in front of Arcturus Mengsk II. Mengsk, in a stoned state, impaired because of a recent bout with drugs, nodded and muttered something incoherently, before the maid quietly stepped from the room.

Arcturus Mengsk II never touched his food.

Arcturus Mengsk II owned a large estate on a plateau not far from the main districts of New Hampshire, which was notorious for its wealth; it was an ideal retirement location. The estate was essentially a large manor that was fortressed by large military vehicles on all fronts, and a helipad at the rear of the plateau, for effectively transferring the ailing governor in times of emergency. The building was a baroque finish, with many of the designs imported from ancestral Earth. It was split into three four-level atriums, each conjoined in the main hallways. Residing with Mengsk II were many of his fellow cabinet members, his immediate family and his closest minister, Joseph Cordon.

Joseph Cordon was set to have a very prominent future.

Lady Arianna Mengsk strode through the hallways of the magnificent building with her low dress billowing gracefully behind her. The morning was a majestic site, with the crested orange sunlight sifting through the crimson curtains, and a slight breeze whispering through the windows ajar.

Arianna Mengsk was very worried, but it did not show in her angelic face. She had streaming blond hair that settled just below her shoulders that were illustrated by the morning light. Her skin was peach and smooth, and she had naturally red lips that could have depicted scenes from old fairy tales. For a mother, she was extraordinarily beautiful.

Her worry was always about Mengsk. It always was. Today she was going to visit her son in his rehabilitation quarters, overcoming another fight with an overdose. Sometimes, she wondered whether she even knew her son anymore. He seemed so withdrawn, and moody, always thrown by volatile fits of depression and climactic rage. Somehow, she got the impression that his last dose was a little more than he had usually taken. Somehow, she knew that he had done that much intentionally.

A little becomes a little more when a little can do no more.

Her tribulations were interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming up behind her. She turned, to see the skinny frame of Joseph Cordon appear alongside her. He was dressed in a formal Dominion Army attire, wearing a solid expression that did not give in expression. He was a plain man; with thin brown hair combed over to the right and sharp features.

"Good morning," said Cordon, nodding.

"Good morning," replied Arianna. "Where are you off to today?"

"I'm going to the Office. Ever since Mengsk took that last overdose, his corporate and political affairs have been left unmanaged. I'm going to take care of some of the stuff."

"Like what?" asked Arianna worriedly.

"Oh, nothing," said Cordon, trying to disregard it casually. "Just some corporate management issues."

Arianna smiled. "Lies are not your thing," she said. "Please tell me what is troubling you, as has been shown on your face for many days now, even before the Mengsk."

"Corporate affairs," said Cordon again, more firmly but still hesitant.

"Joseph…"

"Yes, my Lady. Just some management issues." Cordon seemed continually more hesitant. "Just some things I have to address with the Board of Governors. After all, Mengsk is an emperor, and his duties are very formidable."

"Char was devastation to us all. But you must not be sworn to secrecy against me, Joseph."

Joseph looked at her, worried with the expression of a man who had already spoke too much of a hidden secret. "Well, to be frank." He sighed, then fell silent.

"It's difficult, I know…"

"It's just…" Another pause. "The government has been in a free fall ever since the events that happened on Char. And to be frank, I'd have as much reason to be worried. It just shows that we're dealing with a force much more powerful than any Zerg threat is and would probably ever be. We also aren't as strong as we once were. Too many renegade wars have broken our military down, and…"

He took a breath, and Arianna nodded in empathy.

"The Protoss have fled. The mysterious new army is going to walk all over Koprulu. And…and I fear for our future."

"Of course," she said. "I sincerely appreciate your earnestness. I believe the fate of the human race is in good hands with you, Joseph Cordon."

Cordon smiled, and continued down the hall. The sun continued to sift through the curtains and illustrated the face of Arianna Mengsk, but it also detailed the worry that ran across her face.

------------------------------------

Dylerian Shipyards

Time Unknown, Space Unknown

Koprulu Sector

------------------------------------

Azzerum the defiler looked placidly into the wreckage of the Dylerian Shipyards, content with the knowledge that they had successfully abandoned Felmezar, and that he had no ideal for pursuit.

The Shipyards was a very intimate and remote meteor that had long since lost mobility. Not many in the human legion had ever set foot, or even heard of this desolate place. However, there was enough junk from old communications systems that would give the Zerg brood enough power to make a communications link.

The Overlord began descent towards what appeared to be the grim surface of an abandoned ship factory that had long since served as a shantytown. Large shafts of metal lay, unused in large mounds that touched high into the clouds of smog that were impended above the planet.

-----------------------------------

Xel'Naga Temple of Origin

Date Unknown, Time Unknown

Orion Belt

------------------------------------

Achaicus's ship flew down into the ancestral ruins like a small feather overcome by turbulent winds, everything about it portraying a rigid adventure and fatigue. The frame of the ship was scarred with slash marks, showing the different places where rocks had inadvertently scraped across the ship's smooth coating. Large dents made concave forms into the metal, and clouds of soot clung onto the ship's withered wings like a plague of bacterium.

Achaicus had been traveling for days, attempting to find the Orion Belt. It was a designated series of planets that were once inhabited by the first serious forms of life: the Xel'Naga. It was located in a sector close to Koprulu, outside the range of the "form's" radar. Achaicus was almost sure that this would be where Zeratul and Artanis—or at least one of the two individuals—would be biding. It was an idealistic location for shelter, with numerous asteroid belts that surrounded its perimeter, making it almost impossible for detection units. The planet was still encompassed by a ceaseless stream of psionic energy, which would most likely be channeled and converted into energy for new ships and other crafts. Other crafts, hoped Achaicus, used to fuel the Protoss military. One day we will be drawn, against our will, into this war. There is no avoiding it.

The ship continued to descend, but the topography continued to look like a abandoned ruin. The large temples that once served as Xel'Naga religious sanctuaries still stood firmly bedded to the ground, but within these spiraling towers, no souls hindered. Across the wide plains were the formations of trees, water and overpasses of rock that twisted and turned, forming large mountainous patterns and deep rift valleys. Water passed through these rock formations freely, curving in sinuous patterns that littered the entire landscape.

Hi. My name is Joe Corvo and I am a writer. I did not stumble upon this profession until late in my military career when a cataclysmic war unfolded, involving all of the Koprulu sector. Since then, I have lost two limbs, an arm and a leg, and was thus unable to serve as a fully licensed and capable soldier. So instead, I retreated within the military system, and began working as a government associate.

All was not lost on me. I still carried the essential information and experience of such awful and horrific images of the war that I was still a critical witness. Many of my brothers and sisters, friends and family that were also enrolled in the war—and serving beside me—had not made it through all these disastrous events. Some served only minor roles in the war, and others, sadly, did not retain their mental composure. I, however, made it through all these enduring years, and have lived in sufficient health to tell the tale. My core was the Sons of Korhal, which was an adamant rebel group of the 30th century. The great tales of Jimmy Raynor and his run-and-gun fables were such inspirations to a once-aspiring post-adolescent as I was. Of course, the Sons of Korhal had been demolished with the end of the Confederacy. A new rebel group was formed during the founding of the Dominion. As a group, we kept the rebel name, holding the memories of Jimmy and a former Ghost Operative Sarah Kerrigan heavy in our hearts. My fighting days spanned twenty years, and in that time, I had met countless friends, many who I had to grieve the losses, but I kept close contact with many, and they became brothers to me. With this career, I sacrificed my human locomotion.

And soon after, I withdrew from the government, and published a book, commended on its international success. I am a notorious individual, every step that I make being traced by the Machiavellian minds of the government and its People. I am always in danger, for many have been assigned to capture me, in fear that I may spread more "conspiracy theories" that expose the government's faulty systems and its hierarchy.

I am already too old, so with this last novel I intend to wrap up my career and settle somewhere quietly for the rest of my remaining years. The reason I announce this wrap-up is simply due to the fatigue and stress that has settled upon me in the effort of compiling this book, for I have traveled to the edges of the sector attaining information for the various characters that comprise my protagonists. In this time, I have met with a Protoss Templar, and several other men from various units, including some of my closest friends. To name a couple: Steve Canning and Chad Thompson. From this, I gather information, which, as I mentioned, has induced stress and weariness. So, without further ado:

I will begin with a small introduction of the 40th century, which served as a confluence between the final days of the Brood Wars and the beginning of a new empire and new regime.

Gone were the days of Sarah Kerrigan, who had finally been ousted after countless attempts by a fruitless Terran Dominion. Gone were the days of Zeratul, whose clandestine ways have already been erased from the legacy, hidden away at some corner of space, and gone were the times of the UED: an administration that no longer served a purpose after the death of late commander James DuGalle. With this came new empires and new administrations. And by empire, it is no more than a respectable term.

You see, in the 40th century, all the world's civilizations had already been wearied by the incessant battles of the Brood War saga. After the victorious crusade of Kerrigan on the Omega Platform, Koprulu's interface, and most of its civilizations, had been destroyed. And against popular belief, these races never had time to recuperate from their losses. No. A hundred years of peace in the Sector had failed to be enough time as necessary for reconstruction. Arcturus Mengsk, after a decade of advocating his administration died of a fatal homicide, murdered at the feet of an assassin armed with a .66 shotgun, leaving his irresponsible and drugged son the position as emperor. However, his empire was but half built to its sizeable capability, and as a military presence, it was not a formidable one.

The Protoss, after fleeing under the lead of Artanis, had retreated to Shakuras, where they bided for almost half a century without being found out. However, in that time, a civil war had begun to rage between all the provinces of the Protoss civilization. The conclave was in ruins, and over a power dispute, Artanis vehemently turned against Zeratul. Of course, both sides had a substantial populace of support, and war ensued in uncivil disgrace.

Last but certainly not least, there was Sarah Kerrigan. Kerrigan had reigned supreme in Koprulu for almost a century. She had conquered the Protoss tribes, as well as the Terran Regime. The Zerg were all-powerful and reproducing at a rapid rate. Her everlasting conquest was beginning to conform reality.

Until Samir Duran.

Yes, Duran had left unnoticed for about as long as the recovering on the Terran Worlds, presumed dead. He had, within that time, managed to mind control a group of scientists on Tarsonis. They fled, and since, have been secreting millions of hybrids. These hybrids were built to finesse, fusing the technology and the traits of three races—Zerg, Terran and Protoss—to create an ultimate war machine, resilient against any force of any individual being. From the Zerg and Protoss, Duran was able to adapt his hybrids with the sheer strength and mind power, and from the Terrans he was able to adapt their weapons. This trio combination made them virtually invincible.

An All-too-arrogant Kerrigan had attempted to seize conquest with the might of her own army, on the plains of Braxis, but was unable to oust this covert operation. She apparently died frozen in the ice of Braxis's harsh winter cold, her army abolished, her suicide unnoticed.

Most of the intergalactic community had assumed that she had died trying to bide on Braxis, oblivious to this new army of war machines that was continually producing and secreting millions of Hybrids onto desolate worlds, planning soon to strike. No one knew of this new apocalyptic force, and so peace was maintained in Koprulu while three races were hastily rebuilding their armies.

I am Joe Corvo, and I am a rebel. I will begin my tail, starting with the assassination of Arcturus Mengsk II.

Chapter 5

-------------------------

Tarsonis Capital

City Outskirts

5:30 GMT

-------------------------

A thin sheet of morning mist settled amongst the scopes of skyscrapers that comprised The Capital. On the horizon, endless plains of desolate landscape could be seen stretching to the point of the half-eclipsed sun shining from the curvature of the planet. In the distance, a large Terran camp could be seen, placid and unhindered. The sun was bright red, illustrating the landscape with its rich, crimson color. That was in the morning.

From outer space, the silhouettes of countless fighter crafts could be seen flying inwards towards the large blue orb of Tarsonis, illustrated by the fiery glow of the sun in the background and a cast of dazzling stars. Tarsonis hang suspended from the unadulterated textures of space like a colorful ornament for adornment, mesmerizing in its vibrant blue color and possessive countenance.

Captain Joe Corvo took a minute's hesitation to glance at Tarsonis, which was exceptionally brilliant for a planet that had endured years upon years of bloody warfare and aerial assault. As he released his hands momentarily from the joystick, his Wraith rattled. There was the dissonant screeching of scraping metal, and then the craft did an involuntary somersault.

"Shit."

"Everything okay back there?" came the voice of Colin Campbell, a corresponding fighter pilot.

"Yeah. Think I bumped a meteor. Just some scratched paint, I think."

Joseph Conrad coughed. "We're approaching close-proximity. Re-evaluating weapons systems."

Joe Corvo snapped back to firm attention, embracing the joystick controls abruptly. With precision and professional manner, Corvo directed his wraith from its stumbled off-course travel and back in line with the rest of his squadron.

"How's that weapon status?" came the raspy voice of Matthew Cinq-Mars from the Wraith behind Corvo. "I'm all set." Cinq-Mars's Wraith did a belated barrel roll and then took up a position underneath Corvo's bottom wing.

The COMlink fizzed, and then became clear with the interruption of a new and unfamiliar voice to the squadron. "This is Captain Walter Leefeld of command ship Blitzkrieg. This is a message to all fighter pilots. Our proximity readings do not reveal a hint of any enemy ships for at least three clicks. Re-evaluate all weapons systems and then give us the a-ok. Scout ships, await my command."

The communication signed off. Corvo increased engine speed, watching planets in the background fly by in an indistinct haze. Corvo could see the specks of thousands of friendly pilots, their crafts gliding peacefully through space in quiet and unperturbed aerial patterns. Behind his position, the pilot Joe Corvo could see the intimidating and elephantine forms of thousands of battlecruisers, moderating the sky with heavy ATS lasers of immense firepower capability, equally lethal as menacing in appearance.

"I'm good to go," came the voice of Adam Karnes, the last member of the squadron. Systems are a hundred and ten percent."

"I'm good as well," said Conrad.

Campbell concurred.

Corvo tapped his earpiece. "Fully powered. Cloak shields are ninety nine percent and counting. Laser tubes are intact and Gemini missiles are locked and loaded."

Shadow Phantom, the squadron comprising Corvo, Campbell, Conrad, and Karnes, we're completely stocked. As a fighter of his sophomore year, Corvo was quite psyched to find himself in his first battle scenario. Of course, he had already achieved and excelled in all the necessary fundamentals to being a fighter pilot, and as a first-class student, many higher-ranked officers had deemed him "the best rookie of the class for over a decade". His squad-mates were not too far below him in the skills department, and as a comprised group, they were the most revolutionary class of fighter pilots since the era of Tom Kazansky, who was an Alpha himself.

Corvo pulled up on his joystick, veering his craft upwards. "Alpha-19 to Blitzkrieg, my squadron is fully capable. Two thumbs up."

The COM fizzed again. "Affirmative, sir." Then Leefeld's voice came up over the Communications again. "Scouts ships, fly ahead, and report all findings immediately upon contact. Full throttle."

Brilliant streaks of light ran across Corvo's screen of vision as he watched the forms of at least two dozen scout ships throttle forwards with exceptional speed. Their trek was quick and in sheer seconds were far ahead than the rest of the group, distinguished only by the small dots of light that were their rockets.

"Alright boys," said Corvo, "initialize full console power and stem cloak capabilities."

There was a chorus of 'Roger's. Corvo glanced out into the inky black of space. Still not sign of enemy. Fucking Dominion bitches won't see anything coming until it's too late.

Joe Corvo must've jinxed himself saying this; in the distance, the brilliant blossom of a crimson explosion lighted the air and engulfed the score of scouts.

"Fuck!"

The vulgarity came out naturally as he watched the scouts explode in the distance. Corvo tightened his grip on the controls now, intent on catching the single first piece of movement…

Suddenly, the swift form of a cloaked Wraith materialized and swooped in a pendulum motion like a bird of prey, just meters from crashing into Corvo's craft. It was a dissimilar craft; there were no rebel insignia on the ship, but the crossed flags representing the Dominion Regime.

"We got one!" Corvo veered so sharply on the controls his Wraith whined. Without a second's notice, Corvo was looping and tailing the enemy ship deep in pursuit.

The rest of the Dominion fleet materialized from under a veil of invisibility. Vigilant enough, the rebels managed to capture these forms of movement. The battle began rapidly and abruptly, with the rebel army quickly flying in towards the materializing enemy wraiths that were spreading from a veil of cloak like a moss. The enthrallment of the battle was captured as a crossfire of Gemini missiles were traded and marked with a series of detonations. A dozen lives were lost.

The rest of Corvo's squad was now tailing him as he made pursuit of his newfound archrival, who was making himself well acquainted by competently evading the Corvo's well targeted shots. Four new forms materialized, and a five on five encounter ensued.

"Alright, boys, what we did in practice. Assemble formation!"

Colin Campbell jeered. "Let's rape these bitches!"

"Here, here!"

Corvo's prey did a series of barrels and then a series of well-directed loops in an attempt to evade Corvo, who was much too skilled for this kind of playful adversary. In the distance, the shape of a fighter craft dropped in an awkward spiral and collided in a series of sparks against the mammoth hull of the Blitzkrieg.

"They've maintained a position behind us!" screamed Karnes. "The fuckers!"

Corvo launched a pair of Gemini missiles at his quarry. The missiles split from each other and targeted both ship's wings. The pilot on the other end was not elusive enough, and the left missile clipped the side of a wing. The craft shook violently. There was a shower of sparks. I have an idea, thought Corvo.

The captain tapped his mike. "Alright, boys, here's the plan. We'll evade them through the crossfire. Get them to tail us, and we'll let the cruisers obliterate them from close range. Got it?"

"Aye."

"Roger."

"Copy that."

Corvo forced the joystick down further and his Wraith sped off in the direction of a large battlecruiser, who from a far distance was easily clipping down enemy ships with accurate bursts of laser. The firefight had quickly evolved, but it was still difficult to determine the winning side; a wraith craft streaked several feet from Corvo's cockpit before blossoming into flame.

The squadron followed Shadow Phantom's lead, flying through the crossfire of gunfire and debris.

"What's our status?" asked Corvo frantically.

Campbell chuckled and it came out as murmurs over the static of the COM. "Two of them went down in a head-on collision. One of them lost control with a battered wing. Nice shot, cap."

"How many of them in pursuit?" Corvo asked tersely.

"No idea, I can't see over Connie's bird."

"Two of them are still in pursuit," came Conrad's voice. "One of them went tail-spinning off course.

"Fuck, I'm always the last bird. I just got nailed again. Stern is critical. Shields are forty percent shut-down." Adam Karnes slammed his console in frustration.

"If you're engines go critical, we'll tail you into the hangar for reparations."

The five Wraiths flew over the heart of the battlefield, in the midst of a blitzing crossfire. In the milieu, the stars and planets still hung placidly, seemingly light years distant from the raging war. Lasers and other fire were traded in a matrix flurry that was heated and unpredictable. Already, the plains were littered with the bodies of scores of demolished Wraiths, their frames crumpled and their forms lifeless.

Corvo barreled, and came within reaching distance of a destroyed Wraith, horror suddenly reiterated on his expression. The frame of the ship was so battered that it was impossible to distinguish whether the craft had been friend or foe, but as Corvo's craft ducked underneath the broken ruins, he could see within the cockpit. Most of the glass was shattered but still intact, and blood was smeared across the surface, thick and unclear. Inside, the corpse of a fighter pilot was pressed hard against the console, his uniform torn in various places showing searing scars and scorching burns.

"Disgusting," said Conrad, as his ship glided to the same frontier as Corvo.

Corvo was snapped back to reality. He maneuvered his joystick virtuously, dodging half a dozen trades of laser between two ships.

"Fuck. Bitches got reinforcements," said Campbell. "We got seven of them tailing us."

"We won't lose them, Cap. And the battlecruisers are too far away to offer us any reliable firepower."

"Alright, we'll take them," said Corvo after a moment's reticence. "I hope you all learned something abiding under me. Karnes, you take the rear position. Do nothing but provide backup fire, save your power and do not get hit another time or you're fucked."

"Roger, Cap."

"Alright, Delta formation. Separate."

Corvo leaned back hard on the joystick and his craft did a vertical ascension. He did a professional tailspin and suddenly he was progressing in the opposite direction as his buddies. Far off, the battle raged; apparently, they had veered slightly off course and we're maintaining a position far east of Blitzkrieg. The battlecruisers were assisting in making a forwards advancement on the non-resilient Dominion force, which was, without a doubt, being annihilated with little resistance.

Corvo activated his GPS, and the LED flickered on. He could see small tiny green dots, representing his squad-mates, as they took up the formation resembling the Greek Symbol "Delta".

The enemy ships were forming a small frontline by moving in closer together and forming a boundary with their flying formation. Militarily speaking, this was an unintelligent decision, seeing as a single Gemini could easily take them all out like a series of bowling pins.

"Alright boys, easy enough." Corvo pressed two small tabs on his joystick and felt the throttle as two Gemini rockets launched from his lower flank. Behind him, his squad-mates released similar rockets, and in half a second, ten Gemini missiles were streaking down a column towards the assembled enemy line. Corvo barreled, and launched half a dozen Gemini rockets to reinforce the blitz.

"They're toast," exclaimed Conrad with hushed triumph. "No way they're getting past those homing babies.

"Don't say that. Jinxes are the worst type of bad luck in this profession."

Too late. The seven enemy ships diverged and blossomed out in seven directions, just narrowly evading ten rockets. Two rockets, however, with no locked target, continued to fly steadfast into space. In the next minute or so, those rockets would collide into a new threat.

The homing Gemini missiles picked up on the trajectory and veered in the direction of the locked targets. However, the enemy crafts were vigilant. They passed back inwards towards a central point, seemingly as if about to collide. However… In the last second, these seven crafts diverged abruptly. With no aerodynamics save the tailfin, the rockets had no means of maneuverability.

"Fuck!" screamed Campbell. "Scatter!"

The missiles converged and there was a helluva of an explosion where the missiles collided. Corvo was attentive and veered from formation just as the Gemini missile collision. There was a huge detonation, and all of space was visibly shaken from within Corvo's cockpit.

"The bastards," muttered Corvo, sweat dripping ceaselessly onto his console and beading his fatigued countenance. "They've got some tricks."

"Damage report," said Conrad, breathing heavily, but cool.

"Shields are ninety-six percent," said Corvo, breathing. "Weapons fully functioning."

Karnes swore. "I didn't suffer any hull damage but my right wing is yellow critical. Lasers fully active but running low on Gemini."

"Shields at hundred," said Campbell. "Weapons at forty percent. Not good."

"Alright. Karnes, Campbell, reserve your missile tubes. Use lasers."

"They're so damn ineffective," complained Campbell.

Corvo wiped his forehead and readjusted his mike. "In case there's a larger threat. Just do it."

"Aye."

"Yessir."

The enemy ships congregated again and this time they launched a hail of Gemini missiles in the opposite direction in retaliation. Fourteen rockets screamed through zero-gravity towards their victims.

"Diverge," said Corvo. Corvo's squad-mates retaliated with a line of opposing Gemini missiles. The missiles flew inwards at each other, and several detonated brilliantly upon impact.

Captain Joe Corvo watched as three missiles locked on his fighter and began to narrow in. Without hesitation, he released the controls and his bird fell into a downwards descent. Immediately, the missiles gave chase. The Wraith barreled rightwards and a canvas of pure, unoccupied space visualized before him. He pressed the throttle and his craft whined as it went screaming ten-fold in the opposite direction, away from battle. Nevertheless, the missiles continued their pursuit.

"Missiles successfully evaded," said Campbell. "I'm locking onto enemy ship."

The COM stuttered and there was a sound of a climactic explosion. "Woo!" exclaimed Conrad with triumph. "Successful evasion of four rockets and I nailed one of them bitches cleanly. One down, six to go."

"Five to go," finished Karnes. "Clipped one in the wing and it barreled into debris." He chuckled. "Better to burn out than to fade away."

"Damn. They're targeting me. I got three rockets heavy in pursuit." Corvo checked his GPS. "Fuck, I've got two Wraiths stalking me as well."

"Need backup?"

Corvo chuckled. "Finish up your mess. I'm going to task this challenge solo."

"You sure?"

Corvo breathed exorbitantly. "Sure."

The captain pressed down on the throttle so fully that the speeds were incredulous. He could see, on the LED indicator, that he was beginning to lose his predators. The enemy wraiths were only trekking at moderate speed, awaiting the product of a deafening explosion. Not gonna happen, thought the captain devilishly. In an instant, Corvo did a maneuver that was a hybrid of a rotational spin and a complete 'U' turn. Shadow Phantom did an assortment of barrel rolls and flips and suddenly he was facing towards the frontier of enemy fire. He could see the missiles driving through space towards him, painted with the Dominion insignia, and behind those figures the two forms of enemy birds; they had drifted a significant distance from the battle.

"You're awfully far, cap, need help?"

"Nah."

The rockets were gaining close proximity and Corvo guided his craft upwards. Likewise, the predators followed. Corvo looked down; this had to be quick and calculated; the wraiths were still flying in at moderate speed in the distance. One calculated dive.

He moderated speed on the Wraith and the incessant whining grew to a quieted hum. Then, he executed a graceful swandive and he was on a plain with the enemy wraiths. The enemy ships fired off a few bursts of laser, hoping to the captain would deviate. Corvo was much too hard-willed for that. Video games could've been Corvo's second profession. Prodigiously, he avoided the bulk of weapon fire. A small laser made contact with his right wing but it was easily absorbed by his shields. The crafts did not diverge, but continued to fire at Corvo, who was driving right through the crossing fire towards the two ships like a kamikaze terrorist. The missiles screamed in tracking down the threat. One hundred feet between Corvo and the enemy ships. Still, the missiles were in pursuit and yet the Dominion ships did not budge, continuing to throw obstacles towards the Rebel captain. It was like a very lethal game of chicken.

Seventy feet. Still, no sign of hindrance. Chicken plays on. Corvo tapped his console in anxiety. Forty feet. No hindrance. Chicken continues. Thirty feet. Space began to close in. Still, the rockets were in pursuit. Still, lasers shot forwards. Twenty feet. The death of a protégé rebel captain was certainly likely, considering the odds of a successful execution. Still, Corvo was a prodigy. Fifteen feet. Corvo wiped sweat from his forehead, and then wiped the console with his sleeve. Ten feet. It came outstandingly fast. Nine feet. A blur. Eight feet. The notion of an actual kamikaze must have played in the minds of the adversary, because they stopped firing. Immediately, they branched in two directions. Too late.

Corvo did a vertical jump, narrowly dodging the scrutiny of the two tracking missiles. This implementation was so fast that even nanoseconds seemed to play out in long frames. Corvo felt the cockpit close in around him. Fortunately, however, the Dominion aircrafts were as skillful and vigilant as Corvo had estimated. There was a booming detonation as the two missiles collided with its respectable owners. Crimson lit space and blossomed.

Corvo veered just barely as the impact of the explosion touched the bottoms of his craft, scorching the metal. He felt it; he could feel the tickling of flames against the sides, unsure of whether the damage was serious.

"Yo, cap, what's up?"

Corvo breathed. He looked down at his LED screen. "Alright. Weapons systems sustained."

"Are they incapacitated?" asked Campbell; the mike's communication was very fuzzy.

"Yeah, they're both gone. Shit. My right wing is yellow critical. Engines are at eighty-two percent, and the hull is also yellow critical."

Corvo swerved his spacecraft, and Blitzkrieg was in view once again. The battle was still raging but it seemed, from afar that it was beginning to devolve in intensity. It appeared, that for the first time in over a year, the rebels were victorious. In the background, Tarsonis continued to hang placidly, oblivious to the violence that raged before its twin suns and satellite orbit. Tarsonis remained, in the foreground canvas of space, tranquil and unperturbed. It was an envious site.

"Alright, boys, we can pack it up," said Corvo.

"That was a short fight," concluded Karnes.

"Lemme patch it through high command," said Campbell. "Gimme a sec."

Silence. Corvo released on the joystick and his Wraith quieted more, gliding tranquilly through space. The battle seemed to be over. Corvo fell back into his seat, releasing the joystick. Suddenly, everything was quiet as the captain fell into the calm and serenity of space. He turned off the LED; contemplating in the midst of a quiet background as if vacationing along the shores of a tropical island. Corvo sighed. He smiled.

Campbell's voice patched through again. Unfortunately, his voice was not optimistic. "Fuck…"

"What?"

"The bitches got backup…"

From the Blitzkrieg, Admiral Walter Leefeld looked over the plains of battle. Two minutes ago, Leefeld could be described as duly unworried, and it was arguable that the rebel force was effortlessly dominating the battle However, as he watched the new force substantiate the now exhausted battlefield, he could feel sweat begin to bead his forehead. The scopes of several dozen battlecruisers flew through the veil of cloaking invisibility and into the battlefield, as colossal and threatening as the rebel force had once looked, but equipped with the surprise element and aided by the unexpectedness of a fatigued rebel force. Suddenly, the standpoint of the battle became very imbalanced. The Dominion ships flew in steadfastly, disrupting the fluent tempo of the battle. Hundreds of converging wraiths suddenly had to separate and break formations just to avoid being crunched underneath the mammoth hull of a battlecruiser.

"Fuck," said Leefeld automatically. However, he did not lose his stature. "Open fire!"

From the windowpane, the rebel admiral watched as his armada of battlecruisers opened with a slew of focalized ATS shots at the enemy. Not soon after, the Dominion force countered with a host of lasers in the opposite direction. The Admiral felt the impact and shock of an ATS laser as it made contact with the ship's left wing. The battlecruiser shook violently.

"Shields are still rendering!" cried a tech from the crew's nest. "We've got no protection against heavy shots!"

Leefeld spat a list of vulgarities. "Why didn't you activate shields before?"

"It was unwarranted."

"Damnit!"

"Sir," said another tech, "the Dominion ships are making a heavy advancement! Their ships are absorbing our shots cleanly."

Walter Leefeld made a fist and held it so tightly that his knuckles went white. "I want you to contact all capable battlecruisers at our arsenal. Dispatch all operational Valkyrie Frigates and all capable pilots. I want all infantry suited up and ready at the docks in ten minutes."

"Yessir."

"Have you located the Flagship?" asked Leefeld.

The tech engineer shook his head from his position at the console. "We have no reads yet. We're going to have to match their numbers and take as many ships as we are capable."

Admiral Walter Leefeld of the Rebel fleet shook his head. When no one was looking, he withdrew a small flask of liquor from his breast pocket. He drank like there was no tomorrow.

Captain Joe Corvo made a swerve on his controls to avoid being pounded by the vast front of an uncloaking battlecruiser, and barreled sharply off-course. The battlecruiser had glided through space as if from a veiled vacuum, because it had passed unnoticed: a difficult task for a colossal spacecraft. Corvo had caught a glimpse of the ships from just the corner of his eye, but it was sufficient. Immediately, his bolt-action reflexes kicked in and he was able to evade being crushed doubtlessly. Half a second more and he would have been toast. How the fuck did they cloak something so big?

"Holy mother of…!"

"How the hell did they cloak something so large?" asked Conrad, as if reading Corvo's thoughts.

"Larger," said Campbell."

"What?" asked Karnes in an exclamatory manner.

"Check those babies out."

Corvo throttled his Wraith and then looked out through his windows. His jaw dropped and pure horrification crossed his face. For the first time in the battle, Corvo felt himself lose his stature and a slight wave of panic washed over him. In addition, he wished that Wraiths came with relief facilities. The outlines of several dozen battlecruisers came from the same source that the first had made itself noticeable. Uncloaking, these new ships flew steadfast into battle and tore up the ravaged rebel-dominated sky. The odds began to feel oddly differentiated.

"Holy shit! Evacuate immediately!" screamed Corvo. "Evacuate Immediately!"

The Admiral had better have a plan, he thought, slightly panicked. An ATS laser screamed in his direction and he evaded it by flipping his craft rightwards. He pressed further on the throttle, flying further into desolate space. Anywhere but here. In the distance, several remnant ships that had not evacuated from the battlefield were quickly ripped apart by the Dominion Capital Ships. And then.

The rebel fleet opened fire with a flash of focused burst shots. And so it begins…

In another part of the Blitzkrieg, sirens filled the atmosphere. The all-too familiar sound of sirens. First Lieutenant Steve Canning led the assembly of armor-cladding infantrymen as they ran through the lower hangar of the battlecruiser. In the engineering bay, large carrier ships were docked and gunned, ready to depart.

Static spat through the Lieutenant's COM, and then a voice. "Canning, fill-in report," spurted the Sergeant.

"I've got five hundred able-bodied men and fifty ships," replied Canning hastily. "Upper command wants us out of the hangar in t-minus four minutes. What's the status on those frigates?"

"Frigates are manned, awaiting command, Lieutenant. Load all your men and then give me the heads-up."

"Affirmative. What's the quote on the batteries?"

"Operational but suffering heavy damage," said the Serge grimly. Another fit of static intermitted their conversation. "You've got three minutes, Canning. The tech crew launches in three. Two minutes fifty-seven. Go."

The COMlink signed off.

The infantry company, comprising fifty fully capable carrier vessels, shot out into space. The entire stocking and collective processing of loading the ships took two minutes and thirty-two seconds, and came strikingly close to failure. Nevertheless, they had successfully implemented the operation and it was a commendable effort.

First Lieutenant Steve Canning strapped his Gauss rifle securely over his right shoulder and sat down in the cramped passenger compartment of the tight vessel. The ship was obviously not first class, and had probably suffered more than one of the many mandated budget cuts; many of the seats were torn and tarnished, and large sections of the wall were plagued with moss and other substances that had faded sickly brown.

There were ten people in the main compartment, and fortunately enough, the nine other soldiers were some of Canning's closest friends and most competent squad-mates. Having a consistent and reliable core was essential to Canning's developing and constant success in field assignments.

Sitting to the right of the Lieutenant was Gunnery leader Patrik Stephan, who was cleaning the inside of his Canister rifle with a small linen cloth made for secondary instruments. Canning sometimes envied Stephan, because his unruffled stature seemed to loosen the tension between the rest of the soldiers. Of course, he also liked his gun efficiently spotless. He wasn't just being paranoid, either, because the efficiency and precision of his gun is highlighted with his quick and unfaltering shots. Amazingly, Patrik was only twenty-six, and was already demonstrating the military alertness and aptitude of a battle-hardened veteran. Apart from growing up in the city, Canning didn't really know much about him. But his boyish looks and messy hairstyle reminded him oddly of Joe Corvo, who Canning was also privileged to be friends with. It was difficult keeping interactions with Corvo, who was in an entirely different legion.

Beside Stephan was Jordan Stravinsky. Stravinsky was the support gunner of the squad, and a necessitate component of a thriving unit. Stravinsky was armed with a C-14 "Impaler" Gauss rifle that was modified and remodeled with laser targeting and a GPS locater. He was 29 years old, and was almost a full head larger than Stephan in both height and depth. However, this was reasonable considering the age differential. Through his cage, Canning could hear Stravinsky singing quietly to himself: mostly heavy metal and industrial. He, also, had come from the depths of a urban precinct, and was the victim to much drug abuse and suicidal trauma. After three years of rehab, he made a pivotal decision to enroll in the rebel army, which had offered such benefits to ailing men who were willing to fight. Since then, Canning and Stravinsky had known each other. Six years. Stravinsky was a very quiet man, with little interest and quietude. Nevertheless, Canning and Stravinsky were best friends. Odd best friends.

Contiguous to Stravinsky was arguably the most important man in the squad: Chad Thompson, the tech and engineering specialist. Chad possessed a certain skill and could easily defragment any sort of vehicle, or machinery, and was critical to many of Canning's ploys. He was a scrawny figure, even in a mobile suit, but his agility kept him alive because he was weaponless.

There were six other recruits in the compartment, and were all secondary privates that had been relocated to Canning's unit: Richard Lee, Dean Hammond, Nicholas Harrison, Evan Barker, Travis Greens, and Dillon Saunders.

The drop-ship was accelerating through a column of space in No Man's Land, enclosed between two frontiers of massive battleships that were beginning a cataclysmic battle. Large Valkyries flew on the flanks of the drop-ship, providing protection and back cover as they veered south towards the massive front of a large Capital Ship tagged with the Dominion Insignia. The carrier craft deviated unexpectedly, just narrowly avoiding a slew of lasers that were targeted at the ship's left flank. Immediately, Valkyrie Frigates opened fire, and a steady hail of rockets careened uncontrollably in a directive spectrum against the battlecruiser armada. These shots detonated in close proximity of the battleships, and a greenish mesh of blending color materialized. Shields.

The pilots voice came over the PA and shattered the radio silence. "Alright, boys, brace yourselves. We've got a shields breach on the eastern front of the battlecruiser. The Valkyrie Frigates are gonna guide us through the crossfire, and you'll take it from there." The COM signed off.

In the distance, a Valkyrie imploded and flew directly into the side of the massive battle Capital Ship, detonating with an array of Valkyrie fire. The gargantuan battleship did not show any signs of hindering as it spouted another slew of focalized shots. But sure enough, on the eastern front, a small hole was visible over a blanketing green shield collection. The drop-ship's engines screamed dissonantly and the craft began a trek at full throttle. The Valkyries flanking the unarmed drop-ship continually and mercilessly opened fire, and the security breach on the Eastern front began more apparent. ATS lasers suddenly redirected and converged on the rebel movement to the east, and suddenly they were the prey. As the battlecruiser retaliated, hundreds of crafts on the eastern advancement were eradicated.

Angst and fear pervaded the room now, and was mixed with the bravado that had once filled the compartment. Canning thought of the pilot at the front of the ship and prayed, knowing that the only way they would ever survive this crash test was if the pilot was lucky. Right now, the squad could do nothing but pray for life rather than death, because their fate rested on pure luck with no arbitrary consequence. The other marines seemed to follow Canning's thought. Stravinsky's industrial hum grew silent, and the rapping of Stephan's rifle butt became quiet.

The Valkyries were a hard-determined group with no means of giving up. There was no complacency as Halo missiles went careening as a faction into the eastern wall of the battlecruiser. For a miraculous instant, the ATS lasers stopped.

"Alright boys!" leered the pilot. "There's a temporary ceasefire! I'm gunning this baby like there's no tomorrow, so expect some very high whining from this bird. Once again, brace yourselves!"

Just when Canning thought the bird couldn't go any faster, it made a tenfold acceleration and deep into the shield puncture. The Valkyrie support crafts did not follow the dropships into the sinker, and instead separated and continued their attack on the disabled battlecruiser frontier.

"The bay's open," narrated the pilot. "There's a puncture on the docking bay; it's a pretty damn big crater that those Halos blew. You'll have to keep your helmets on when tackling this bird, boys. At least until you get through the pressurized air seals."

The whining of the engines settled once they were through the thick plasma shield, out of ATS range. From the window point, Canning could see the slit that was the docking bay draw closer as the massive ship swallowed them inwards. The halo did do a substantial amount of damage to the bay doors, but it was arguable whether a carrier craft of the dimension could fit through.

Canning rapped his armor suit, and his visor snapped over his face. He loaded his gun, and stood up, forgetting about his apprehension. "Alright, boys, time to roll."

Everyone geared up. The dropship flew in closer.

As a mid-aged veteran, Canning was embarrassed to admit that he had never participated in a highjack operation in his entire career. Of course, he had heard about it countless times. It was quite simply this: puncture the enemy ship, send in a unit of decent infantry, and take out the enemy from the inside out. It was an ideal strategy considering Dominion Capital Ships were not often armed with sizeable forces from the inside. And as an Admiral, Walter Leefeld had implemented and successfully executed these takeovers dozens of times without fail.

The dropship swooped down without expectance and then did a half-somersault as it attempted to fit through the puncture in the docking bay entrance. Lucky enough, the dropship had the ability to contract its fins to reduce size and increase density.

The Dropship exploded into the bay with a cloud of soot and debris trailing in its wake. In the interior of the drop-ship, the company of soldiers that had geared and readied themselves were knocked surely from their positions and landed hard against the ship's floor. There was a dissonant and painful screeching of scraping metal against metal as the dropship skidded to a disquiet stop.

"Fuck," swore the pilot, and then appeared in the soldiers' compartment. "We've got a problem."

"What?" inquired Canning.

"The alarms have gone off. I hope you've practiced being outnumbered."

Admiral Walter Leefeld threw his flask to the ground, and it clattered noisily across the console room. Immediately, it drew the attention of the entire crew. This was, in Leefeld's opinion, the best way to attract attention, though it was unduly. It wasn't to say that Leefeld wasn't slightly intoxicated, either. The Admiral hobbled over the starboard and collapsed tidily into a seat overlooking the battle through large paneled windows. Large scintillated flashes of light lit space in sporadic patterns, and from Leefeld's vantage it was similar to watching fireworks through a window. The aerial forms of hundreds—maybe thousands—of Valkyries flew inwards towards the focal point of the battle, Halos flying in all directions mercilessly, ripping into anything unsightly. Blitzkrieg had fallen back into the armada and remained protected behind a grid of their own ships that flew inwards. The shields had not yet rendered, and without full weapons capabilities the Capital Ship was nothing more than a liability. The Admiral coughed, and he could feel the tinge of alcohol in his breath. His stomach gurgled suddenly and he realized just how hungry he was. Stress accumulation had made him overlook the necessity of good-health, but the consequences were beginning to take their toll on a fatigued commander. He felt sweat pour down his forehead, and he massaged his aching nasals.

"Lieutenant, get me some friggin' food," said Leefeld.

Nearby, an officer nodded, and ran off in the direction of the doors. He came back with a platter with food and drink, and laid it before the Admiral. "Sir."

The Admiral ate gratefully. He felt better. Besides, all he had to do was wait until his operation grew to success.

"-the hell is going on?" finished Canning, wobbling inside the lopsided remains of a battered carrier that had served the entirety of its usefulness.

"The sirens have gone off," said Dean Hammond. "There are guard men running through the hangar bay. Oh, fuck. There's like twenty of them."

Canning quieted down and felt the fear clasp the compartment with a cold grasp. "What type of bay are we in?"

"Tank garage," finished Lee quickly. "We're in a godforsaken tank garage."

Canning smiled. "Godforsaken, huh? We're going to make this our good fortune. Chad, can you pilot an arclite?"

The tech specialist emerged from his chair. "Sure." He put his head down through the window to take a peek. "Those aren't arclites. They're too small. I'm sure that'll make it easier in our favor, though. And there're at least two score of goddamn guards swarming through the bay. We better act fast."

Canning thought about it for a brief moment, which was vital considering they were being held at gunpoint by a quantity of troops outnumbering them four to one. "Here's the deal. Lee, Hammond, Harrison, Barker, Greens, flank the offensive with a counteroffensive cover fire from the right. Everybody else, flank the left. Stephan, you and I will provide cover fire for Thompson. You, man the tank. Understood?"

"What the fuck am I gonna do?" asked the pilot worriedly.

"Establish a contact. Any contact. Send them our coordinates, and request reinforcements."

"I'm staying in this heap of shit as a shelter?"

Canning smiled. The pilot was a comical figure, indeed. "Yes."

Dominion Private Ryan Kesler loaded his Gauss Rifle and took a crouch position behind the massive hull of a nearby tank, sheltered but still with decent view of the enemy ship, which was, up to this point, not much of a ship anymore: crumpled, shattered, smashed up, and in flames. The frame of the ship was tarnished beyond recognition, the wings were folded awkwardly (obviously, it wouldn't be able to fly again without reparations), the hull was decently smashed in and the engines had died and probably weren't revivable.

The field commander, clad in his bulking armor, stormed to the front of the pack, into the center column of the engineering bay, and held a position, his rifle trained on the dropship with absolute precision.

"Move in."

Kesler and the rest of the forty-some marines stocked and moved in on the seemingly abandoned ship, guns never dropping from their trained location, focused on the doors of the ship. Kesler was not unduly concerned, and possessed a rather calm posture. There chances of fighting back successfully can't be too high, can it? I mean, they're probably half dead already.

Kesler moved in closer confidently. Boy, was he wrong.

First Lieutenant Steve Canning loaded sixty rounds of magazines into his rifle, and then readied it.

"Alright. Everyone understand the drill?"

Everyone nodded. Dillon Saunders smiled. "Bring it."

Patrik Stephan kicked open the doors vehemently and then threw a smoke grenade to the ground. It clattered harmlessly to the bay floor and immediately erupted in billows of smoke, used more for obscurity rather than toxicity.

On cue, Chad Thompson ran into the smoke, down the center of the bay column. Gunfire immediately rang up in the bay and clattered everywhere, but aim was mired due to the smoke. The incoherent cries of Dominion soldiers rang up in the distance, revoked of calm and civility.

"Privates, flank the middle!" yelled Canning through the COM.

Canning, followed quickly by Stephan, ran down the center column in the silhouette of the tech specialist. Immediately, Canning opened fire aimlessly through the haze and into the distance. He craned his neck quickly for a brief moment; Stephan had withdrawn behind a large metallic pillar, and was loading his Canister, waiting for the fog to clear and the view to become lucid. Suddenly, cracking of gunfire erupted through the bay. Canning took shelter under the hood of a large tank, feeling the zinging of bullets scream over him and into a nearby wall.

Chad Thompson jumped onto the large, coarse, tank treads of the vehicle, and took a small laser from his utility belt. Efficiently, he drilled a small hole in the turret of the tank and climbed in. "Provide cover," he said through the communications.

"Cap, I've got twenty marines pinned on my position, and I can't hold them backwards without support!" It was the panicked voice of Evan Barker.

Steven Canning took a prone position behind the tank and shot off a few dozen magazines into the haze. "Everyone on the left position move towards Barker's position! Now!" barked Canning. "Provide counteroffensive cover fire until we get the tank functional."

There was a chorus of 'Rogers'. Then,

"Yo, Lieutenant, there are ten marines running in on your position from the left. Careful!"

"Fuck!" Canning ducked just as a score of bullets drove past him. More magazines clicked against the coat of the tank and pinged in outwardly directions. Canning reloaded his gun. "Support fire!"

The smoke was beginning to clear. Silhouettes were growing visible, though the question of friend or foe was still arguable because the haze had not subsided.

"I got you covered," said Stephan. He put his eye through the scope of his rifle and blasted ten decisive interval shots. "I got six of them. But they're taking cover. I can't get them."

Canning poked his head from his shelter and sustained his finger against the trigger until his Gauss ran empty. Then, he withdrew quickly. "I got one."

"What's your status?" he asked.

Barker coughed, and his voice was intermitted with interference. "They're holding us back against northeast wall of the bay. Our only cover is an overturned truck!"

"Sustain your position!" ordered Canning. "Thompson, what's up with the tank?"

"It's password encrypted," said the specialist from the cockpit. "Gimme a few moments to crack the code."

"Dammit!"

Another round of crackling gunfire rang off nearby objects, followed by the clattering of used magazines. Canning loaded another stock of ammunition and then poked his head over his shelter, letting fire several dozen more shots. Quickly, he retreated.

"Fuck, I can't hold the position much longer!" screamed Saunders. "They have too many. Our cover's being blown apart!"

Canning opened fire again. "Quick, Thompson! Dammit!"

There was a holler of laughter. "Yeeha! This baby's online!"

Ryan Kesler ducked as a large chunk of the northeastern pillar came crashing down to the bay floor and smashed into tiny debris particles. Still, he was not unduly worried. The most prominent rebel threat was cowering behind the smoking debris of a large overturned transport craft, which was crushed underneath the sagging figure of a large SCV; the impact of the collision had caused the axles to snap, and the chain mechanisms on the SCV's arm extensions to grow ablaze. There were not many of them. Perhaps six or seven of them that were opening fire from behind their curtained position, attempting to hold back a decent thirty-five or so company of men that were still alive and retaliating.

"Move in!" hollered the Dominion commander. "Take out their position! Matthews, Jonesa, Kesler, take out the marines to the left!"

Kesler fell back as the rest of the marines made their way against columns of gunfire towards the upturned vehicle. This exposed suicide run left many dead; a dozen marines fell to the ground as they were clipped cleanly. In a few moments, blood ran across the cold, concrete floor, flowing from their former bodies.

His comrades were torn like grass from a mower as they ran through the open area, naked to all crossfire zones. Kesler was grateful he would have an alternative job; the other group of enemy marines comprised of three men: a tech specialist, a gunner, and a sniper. Simple enough.

Kesler, along with two other men, sidestepped rightwards; the enemy gunner was underneath the shelf of the tank, taking cover. The sniper was positioned in a concealed position behind a large pillar. The tech, however, was nowhere to be seen. Still, Kesler did not take this high into account.

The Private ducked under a pillar, and supported against it as he stocked his weapon. He shielded his head with his right arm, protecting him against fragments of debris that shot down after several precise Canister shots. Jonesa and Matthews were not so fortunate. Matthews was caught up in the crossfire, attempted to double back, and tripped, skidding along the longer bank of the bay. He was shot down and his body went lifeless after a few aggravated screams. Jonesa was also struck; the young charge was sheared at the knee, and dropped stolidly into the comfort of a metal girder to the right. He dropped his weapon, screaming all the while clutching his infiltrated left kneecap. Blood began to pour from the open source, flooding near the metal struts, and staining the metal an acrid color, further illustrated by the shrieks of the soldier.

"You okay?" screamed Kesler from behind the pillar. He restocked and shot twenty-four rounds into the enemy position.

"My left kneecap is fucking shattered!"

"Man down, man down!"

"Hold your position!" ordered the Dominion Captain without reticence. "Suppressing fire!"

"You don't understand!" yelped Kesler. "Abandon position, and cover right!"

"Fuck you, Private. I have a job to do on the left wing, and I am going to finish it. You will not order me. Vice versa. Sustain position!"

Another wave of gunfire forced Kesler back into his covered retreat. Fuck. "You. Don't. Understand."

There was a rumbling; down the hall, the crunching of four solid tank treads rang through the bay, and a fierce cowboy holler.