I do not own, in any aspect that entitles dominion (not the Mengsk kind at least) of any variation, Naruto nor Starcraft.
Wish I did though...
Warning:Contains swearing.
They call me a Spectre
Chapter 1: Groggy, to the front
(Flashback!)
Minus Five
His mind was all over the place and he knew it with lukewarm lucidity. He didn't care.
Why was a desert storage world named Minus Five? It was an odd name. Approximately only three settlements inhabited the planet outside of the pockets of garrisoned bases and armories, the number of which then ranged closer to a hundred and twelve if they were all slumped together.
How long had he been in this abomination program for "the greater good" as they put it? Three years next month. He was the "shining example" of all model 'candidates.'
Bastards...
He came here with a full squad consisting of one firebat, three marines, and a medic. He knew them for two years after being 'inducted' for a full year. He was the best outcome of the program to date.
Bastards.
Sergeant Frankfurt Jones, firebat. He smoked a lot. Good guy all around but admitted psychopath when on the battlefield. The triplet soldiers, Privates Gorden, Jam, and Luis Huck. Jokers, hard to tell them apart even if branded. Corporal Denise Zimmer, medic. Loved poetry.
He knew them.
Then him. The star student.
BASTARDS!
The P-One-Eighty (P-180)pistol was jammed just under his jaw.
It was such a nice day. Good for a boring stroll through the desert.
He pulled the trigger.
(End Flashback!)
XVX
Hyperion
"Hey! The commander wants to talk to ya!" bellowed a man in yellow overalls that obscured a working man's white shirt, the former of which was partially cloaked from view by an apparatus of unknown function, with nothing else on his person, outside of shoes, but a matching yellow hat and earphones bearing the same color. He stood in the narrow hallway of the ship using nothing more than a bare hand to pound the only portal barring him passage from the one he was yelling at who had yet to answer his calls, and 'rapping,' for the past two minutes.
Two wasted minutes in his opinion. He was on break, and those two minutes could've been spent navigating the ever familiar paths to the cantina.
Snapping his hand away, he drew a heavy, annoyed sigh and whipped out a wrench from a hidden pocket inside his overalls and prepared to strike. He swung halfway through with what half committed might he could muster when the door swung open, and he failed to hold back the cringe as he was met with the glare of a modern day Ghost in full uniform that stood close to a foot shorter than him. At least he thought the ghost was glaring at him as he stared him down with the odd design of goggles that made up the Ghost's helmet consisting of one large bright green lens that dominated his right eye and the twin jade dots that made up his left.
The two just stared at each other in, possibly, heated silence before the latter departed silently to the engineer's right, toward the bridge.
The former only rolled his eyes and snorted in derision before he went his own way towards liquid salvation.
XVX
Bridge
Whether it was an atypical in design or not, the Ghost arrived on the split level bridge consisting of all its navigational equipment on a raised platform, communication panel wedged against the wall of the raised platform, and a table that acted as a holographic map and display panel in one. One occasion a halographic display panel popped up for those who weren't even near the table to begin with. The navigation crew, and the occasional engineer, came and went with objectives spoken or self appointed, leaving but three figures to be differentiated by not only clothes but in disposition as well. Two if the latest newcomer to the room was to be ignored.
Both were at the holo-table: one man was a man to which the entire Dominion sector knew as either a hero or villain much like the man he had be campaigning against since the rise of the Dominion itself, the latter of which having take great lengths to not only destroy possible threats but to conceal his both past and present misdeeds of grave enormity. Jim Raynor, commander of the Freedom Fighter/Mercenary group that utilized his own name in its title. Age thirty-four and counting, and the years have long since left their mark on him with experience only heightening them in the form of wrinkles and partially groomed appearance. The beard, though remaining brown in original color, that became a permanent asset to him for the past few years began to sprout a few gray whiskers only served to testify to this claim. His clothes held the same quality with few, if ever, frayed edges along a leather harness guarding both the rebel alongside his dirtied white shirt, and the blue jean pants that were partially consumed by knee high boots adorned with minor armored stitching. Tattoos of dead zerg snaked along an arm that reached all the way to the glove covering his hand, one of a pair with the other on an otherwise unmarred arm.
The only other man observing the images belonging to the holo-table was dressed much like a captain of the ship, sans a hat of course, and was groomed accordingly with short buzz cut black hair without the company of facial hair. His clothing, while formal and befitting of a ship captain, was gilded with some gold garnishing in the form of trimmings. He was Matt Horner, second in command of Raynor's Raiders and the captain of the group's one and only flagship that doubled as their home and base of operations.
The former of the two was too engrossed in whatever had interested him, his attention only wrenched away when the latter had taken notice and remarked to the commander of the Ghost's arrival. "Hey kid," the gruff man acknowledged before returning to the map beneath him. The Ghost on his own accord sauntered up to the table and peered down without needing an invitation to do so, experience between the trio was enough to learn what didn't need to be said. Even if it was the slight tensing of a fist that was shielded from the eye.
"Yeah, sorry about this. I know you hate deserts and the like, but unfortunately it seems the Dominion have shielded the planet from the preliminary scans. In other words we're going in blind and I need eyes on the ground as soon as we get planet-side. Are you in...?" The commander turned to level a stern stare at the still figure as he seemed to mull over what was said... followed shortly with his abrupt departure from the bridge.
"Think he'll help out this time?"
Jim flicked his second a glance before returning to the map before him. "Only one way to find out..." he replied wearily as he turned to leave. "I'm going to gear up, have the boys meet me in hanger two."
The melancholy mood that collected itself upon the captain of the ship evaporated the second the bulkhead opened and closed for a second time within moments, during which he turned to the navigation crew. "Prep a drop ship in hanger two, standard deployment. Prepare cargo for orbital drop the minute green light is given."
"Yes sir!"
XVX
Access Hatch
The Ghost stared at the standard sliding doorway that held the promise of a new room on the other end.
Well not necessarily new to him nor anyone else of the Behemoth-class battlecruiser unless new recruits were counted. His fist tightened as an unspoken decision commanded his body through the portal with shaky success.
"Hey brat," grunted a portly man in a dirtied orange jumpsuit, possibly even yellow at some point in time, whose features consisted of dark brown hair, exceptionally thick mustache that virtually ate his upper lip and proceeded to dominate his face in a handlebar fashion, and a missing left arm replaced with a mechanical arm, starting roughly around his elbow, that ended in a hydraulic clamp for a hand. Rory Swann, Chief Engineer of the Hyperion, appreciator of all things mechanical in nature with few blaring exceptions, and tinkerer of new or preexisting gear. Also known to have developed a sixth sense towards people coming and going from his armory, though this may have something to do with him almost always lurking on the raised platform that was the main access point for terran sized visitors.
The Ghost nodded towards the stout man, roughly his own height save for being an inch or so taller, as he strolled by with forced purpose. "Oh you're in a mood, bad dream again?" The Ghost didn't respond as he crept to an unassuming weapon's crate and opened it silently.
"Rory, you there?" The engineer turned towards a console situated against the railing and jammed a sausage of a finger on one of the buttons. "Yeah I'm here," he gruffly replied.
"Thought so, seems we need Stetmann to work on the transmitters again."
The engineer scoffed in derision. "I'll do it, you let that egghead do whatever he does in that lab of his and you leave the ship to me."
"Right. Jim's heading planet-side and we're going to need a—"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm on it," the stout man replied before his brow furrowed. "Hey, what planet are we hovering over again?" he asked as he looked over his shoulder to find himself alone on his perch.
"Mar Sara, why do you-... Let me guess—"
"Yep. Tell the kid not push himself if you can... and not to use his C-Ten as a club this time! Those things may be durable but they aren't meant for that kind of abuse!"
"Will do, Horner out."
The engineer sighed as he rubbed his eyes with his good hand.
"Doesn't talk much does he?" The chief turned towards an approaching engineer, a woman whose hair had been tucked away by the hat that seemed to be customary for most of his engineers to wear while she cleaned her hands with a rag.
"So what's his story if you don't mind me asking? All I know about him is that he lives here."
The man grunted as he turned to his console for reference notes on his latest order without a word spared. "I'm going to assume you're new here," he finally replied after a small bout of silence.
"Two months tomorrow," she cheerily interjected.
"Right... New. That kid's been on this puppy just as long as boss and the captain have. He pretty much keeps to himself most of the time. He downright clams up when something upsets him though that it takes a direct attack on a base or whatever group he's with to start talkin' again," he muttered as he made a few adjustments.
"What exactly could get him upset?"
"Meh..." he grunted. "Really only two things, bad dreams and deserts."
"Pardon?"
"Bad memories. Can't say what haunts him though."
"I thought ghosts were invincible to those sort of things."
The shorter man snorted once more in derision. "And people didn't think the Confederacy would fall, yet it happened."
The woman frowned as she peered over to review the list of items and plans her superior was assembling; a nervous grin crossed her face as said superior slowly turned to give her an annoyed one eye glare when her presence breached his personal space. She straightened herself up and back away with a nervous laugh while the latter returned to his work.
"So uh-..."
"Look, there's only two things I know about him is that he hates Mengsk with a passion and deserts put in a foul mood that makes pissed off zerglings look almost friendly. The more sandy the place is, the moodier he gets. Considering Mar Sara is mostly rock however, he's probably just going to be difficult at best."
"Uh... then why would the commander—" she started to say, only to be cut off.
"I don't think he was ordered to," he interjected as he gave his latest incarnation of a list a critical eye.
"Then why would he go if it's just going to irk him?"
The engineer paused as he considered the answer with a mindful scowl. "The only answer," he starts, "that makes sense to me is therapy."
It was the other engineer's turn to frown. "Come again?"
"Yeah... you know those 'therapy' techniques saying that you have to confront your problem to diminish it or something like that? I'm thinking that he's thinking along the same idea with whatever pisses him off about deserts."
"I guess that makes sense..." she mused.
"Good, now get back to work! We got an order to fill!"
"But I'm on break!"
"Bah!"
XVX
Hanger Bay Two
"Nice of you to join us!" The Ghost paid no heed to Raynor, geared in his custom painted marine armor, as he all but stormed the ramp to the Special Ops dropship, a custom made ship following the Medivac design with two extra engines and a longer but sleeker wingspan. He was the last one to join in a party of what was originally six. He removed his rifle from his back and began to check it for imperfections the moment he sat down in one of the seats.
"Matt, everyone's onboard and we're ready to go."
"Copy that, just got to wait for the hanger to be cleared."
With a smirk, the commander turned to the squad with alleviated spirits. "We ready to rock?" he questioned loudly.
The responses were what he expected.
"YEAH!"
"Let's do this!"
"Let's just go already!"
The slamming of a fresh magazine into a C-Ten was the only audible response from the only ghost of the group.
A/N:Oddly enough, this story was formed the second I watched the ending of the Heart of the Swarm campaign of StarCraft 2 rather than playing through the original campaign of SC 2.Also thought to expand the crossover section while I'm at it too.
Spoiler:This story runs along the first campaign in terms of a timeline, though I will try to keep what I can interesting if you guys will bear with me.
Once again, like other stories I have written, I leave you with a warning that this story will not be regularly updated.In other words this may take weeks to months before it is ever updated by sheer whim.
Monkeybandit2, making off with your attention!No refunds!
P.S.Cowardly flamers using guest review, I bid you DBB!If you're not familiar with DBB, then you obviously do not watch Big Bang Theory enough.