A HUGE THANK YOU TO 'Derpy Death' and 'The payday' for following this story! I dedicate this next chapter to them.

Also, I do not own Starcraft or any of its terms. Those rights belong solely to Blizzard. Any infringement on copyrights was and is not intended.

-Mozzy Moo

The lever is slick with sweat and steam, quivering under the pressure of the gears it is connected to. The leather of my work gloves ensures my fingers don't slip as I pull back on it, listening intently.

Kch. Hissss-

I slam my foot into the pipe works nearby, and the stream of escaping air is cut off, rattled back into place. A turbine sputters to life, and I hear a few men whisper to each other nearby.

The Kick of Death.

With calves of steel from working the ground, and heavy, military grade leather boots...it isn't a surprise I'm a legend among these ramshackle pioneers. The several men who'd tried to slip past Freddie's hovering, and at times, smothering guard could attest to the strength and raw power behind my roundhouse.

Putter...put-put-put-put.

"Keep working, you hunk of junk. We've still got five days of travel left." I hiss at the machine, wiping my forehead. I pull the lever again, listening to the steaming air flow through the pipes.

"Cynthia! Your shift is over! Go and get Terra to replace you!"

"Sure thing, Duke!" I scream over the whistle of the engine. My turbine can survive for five minutes without me. It will have to deal with a stricter master soon, anyway. Tugging the grimy gloves from my fingers with the tips of my teeth, I march up the stairwell.

The chill of the main corridor is welcoming and refreshing after nearly four hours in the sweltering boiler room below. As I wearily clang-clang-clang down the gangplanks, I hear a hauntingly familiar squeak of rusting wheels. I pull my gloves back on.

Carter shuffles up and nods at me, his cart, thank the Gods, empty.

"Tough work, eh?"

"You said it." I agree, rubbing the dark bangs from my eyes, removing my gloves once more. "I'm just glad it's over." Carter laughs, the deep booming echoing through the metal hallways and no doubt scaring more than a few people from their slumbers.

"More work soon. Plowing, farming, raising a family-"

"I'm already used to the first two. I'll be fine." I hastily interrupt, blushing furiously. Fredrick's toothy, perfect grin flashes in my foresight, and I shiver.

"Cold?" he asks, smiling.

"Yep." I sniff loudly, brushing the hair from my eyes. Carter hums quietly, his steady footsteps a counter-rhythm to my saunter. We walk in companionable silence for a few fleeting moments, and I give a derisive wave as I turn into the cafeteria. He nods in turn, disappearing into the corridor ahead. Once inside the room with the many tables, I stand in line, turn in my working timetable, and register for my meal.

Cold meat. Hot mashed plant life. A gelatin substance that passes for...gravy? Bottled water.

I sigh down at the tray in my hands. Stonily walk over to the nearest table. Sit down, opening my plastic silverware and digging into the mushy, green pile of paste. I don't look at the person next to me as I speak.

"Terra. You're up."

"Wha-?! I was just down there!"

"Last night, yeah. But it's nearly night again."

"It's always night out here." She complains, slamming the back of her opponent's palm to the table. The burly man howls, grabbing at the injury and cussing avidly. Terra shakes her head and gestures him away, her mouth loudly smacking her florid pink gum. It often surprises me the amount she had snuck onboard.

"Duke says." I mumble through the mashed...broccoli. "He needs you down there. Workin' turbine seven."

She moans, laying her forehead on the table and slumping.

"That's the worst one."

"I know. Which is why he needs you to work it."

"Why can't you?"

"I have been. For the last four hours." I gulp down the rest of the paste, cutting at my meat. "Lazy swine."

"Uppity farmer."

"Again!"

I glance up from my meat as Reacher slams himself into the seat across from Terra, holding open his hand to her. His knuckles are already bruised from multiple defeats.

"Ugh. You're trying again?" Terra whines, turning her cheek upwards. Her brilliant violet bangs cover her face, resulting in a near blindfold. It also often surprises me how she's able to distinguish Reacher's walk, talk, and personality between the rest of the bulky ex-Marines and ex-Marauders on this ship.

She's only told me he has a distinct swagger, chatter, and non-clone quirks. She could always tell.

"She's gotta go work." I remind her, ripping into the slab of dry, tough animal remains with my teeth when my knife refuses to work. "No more arm wrestling."

"I can beat him in a second." Terra sighs, leaning back up and rolling her shoulders.

"Yeah, and it's my shift too. It'll only take a second." Reacher reassures, his grin splitting his face as she twines her fingers around his palm. She tiredly glares up him, standing abruptly. His smile disappears as she leans forward, kissing his nose, simultaneously slamming his hand down onto the table. She leans back quickly, wiping her lips, disgusted.

"'kay. I'm off to work." She moans, pulling her cap from the table and screwing it onto her head. "Oh, and Reacher? Wash your face more often. Your nose tastes worse than raw Hydra."

I poke at my gelatinous gravy with my fork as they storm out together, screaming at each other like a pair of monkeys. Though they're both only in their late twenties, they banter like an old married couple after a lifetime of squabbling. Apparently, they'd only met three nights before the ship launched. They really can play the married couple routine with finesse.

I wish I could pull the same stunt with Fredrick. But...no, it isn't going to happen. Ever.

I take a swig of metallic water.

I think I would be fine living alone for my entire life. Just the ground, the sun, the sky, the animals for company. Yeah. No kids. No husband. Just me and my friends. Screw what the poster said.

"Synthy-kins!"

I wonder what the punishment for murder is on Kerralim?

"Look at you! Did you just get out of the engine room? You're sweating so much! Here, let me-"

"Back off, Fredrick." I growl, trying to keep my face passive as my partner sits next to me, his own tray clattering. He pulls his feet up, crouching on the bench next to me, examining me inquisitively.

"Are you sure you don't want a towel? A napkin? A rag?"

"I'm fine." I repeat, standing. He wobbles on the bench as I storm past, lips pursed. " I just finished eating, so I'm going."

"Oh, I'll come-"

"No. Stay here and eat. I'll see you later."

"Oh. Okay! See you, Synthy-kins!"

"It's Cynthia!" I snipe over my shoulder, no doubt piercing his oh so breakable soul. I'm tired of him. I'm tired of Reacher and Terra and their ridiculous antics. I'm tired of my grungy clothing and the lack of proper cleaning. I'm tired of these endless metal hallways and strange faces. I'm tired of the wait, the time, the space outside the windows.

I pass such windows and stop.

But I'd never be tired of them.

I lean against the port window, dreamily watching a Protoss Phoenix glide by, leaving gilded, light blue streamers in its wake. It lazily circles the main ship, disappearing behind its massive bulk before reappearing on the other side.

I could never, ever get tired of them.

The gold of the ship flashes as it adjusts it's course in time with ours, gently gliding up and down to match our romping, clumsy pace. I'd learned from the captain that this particular model of Protoss Carrier was designed to transport colonists, and that it closely resembled it's sister model that fought in the Great War.

The mere thought of tiny, destructive robots expelling from the ship's sides, as dangerous as a swarm of wasps, is enough to make me shudder. They could rip through our thin barriers in no time, I'm sure.

And Protoss make no mistakes. They are perfect in every way. In thought, in form, in technology, in battle. As I had always been told, all Protoss are calm, cool, and collected.

With the exception of my secret friend.

Terran?

I sigh out, gripping my damp shift for support. The trembling wisps of echoes dangling off of the child's question sustain my enlivened excitement.

I pace from window to window, looking for a small, flurried form.

I spot him, near the rearward side, again, near the bottom of the ship.

Terran? Are you here today?

I also begin to wave frantically, and he catches sight of me, instantly jumping up and down, gold embellishments and fabrics swinging wildly. I want to tell him I'd never seen a Protoss behave so ridiculously. His friend never seems to be around to tell him any more. As far as I can tell, however, he can't hear me, no matter how hard I focus.

And I have no other experiences with Protoss to compare him to.

Terran! It is good to see you! Have you been working your ship?

I nod, waving my left arm in our established affirmative signal. He pauses, no doubt procuring a list of frenzied and haphazard questions. Yes or no questions, of course. The first time we spoke—when I listened and he chattered-I did all I could to mime out what he tried to ask me, but any kind of complicated theorem of Terran policy was lost in my actions.

Is your food good today?

I wave my right arm in a negative signal, shaking my head. He nods, scratching his cheek.

Is food usually good?

I feel like laughing. He'd been quizzing me on everything from my clothing to the number of toes on my feet in the two short days since our first strange encounter. I wave my left arm. Bob my head. The small Protoss paces, his clawed hand to his narrow chin as he ponders what to ask me next. I watch his digitigrade legs move, lifting and dropping gracefully.

I wish I could talk back. I wish I could ask him about every little detail about his gleaming ship. His people. His food. The number of toes on his feet. How did the Protoss begin? How did their technology work? How did-

Okay. So Terrans eat plants?

Wave of my left arm.

And meat? Omnivores?

I use my right hand to support my left arm.

Fascinating. And eating these things supports your bodily functions?

I wave my left hand, nodding briskly. The Protoss halts in his pacing, drawing his hands together in thought.

Good good. My studies have been accurate so far. I'm so glad-

Kaldarax.

I wince, backing away from the window in shock. The mental prod had been a full blown shout, unlike the sultry, calm voices I had become barely accustomed to. I watch as my small counterpart on the gleaming platform whirls abruptly, surprised.

He's back.

TWO DAYS BEFORE

You can hear us?

I gulp audibly, the domineering Protoss glaring down at me, his azure eyes blazing and chest puffing out authoritatively. His armor catches the light of a star, dispelling it over his flexing muscles and powerful legs. Casting a cloak of authority over his stance and being. I can't help but bow my head. In respect or fear, I'm still debating. Mainly a mix of both.

Well? He questions again, his voice low and soothing.

I glance up, my own dark brown eyes wide. My single nod furls his brow, and he glances at the younger, smaller Protoss. The girl again points at the boy, folding her arms and turning away. The child casts his arms wide, pleading. With a nearly excited hop, he gestures to me again.

I stand in the silence of the metal halls around me. Waiting in breathless apprehension as the elder Protoss looks back at me. Back to the boy, who is bowing his head in respect. Back to me. Letting his eyes slide closed in pondering.

He turns, his long, lilac white coat swirling around him in a billowing flourish.

He says something reprimanding. That much is made obvious as the boy flinches and visibly droops. The girl, Zahk-shia, smugly folds her arms, following after the older alien proudly, her chin high. The smooth, deep voice bubbles into my mind, overwhelming my ability to think.

It is apparent that you are a descendant of a Terran with some form of psionic ability. No need to be afraid. Our younglings will bother you no further. Do not let them contact you again. If they do-

He turns back, blue eyes snapping.

-I will know.

With that final condemning note drifting on recurring waves into my mind, he pads away, his small, dark shadow keeping pace easily. The remaining Protoss looks back at me, his entire posture and mental state echoing disappointment and shame.

He slips back and away into the golden shell without a single, shivering tone.

And I am left alone.

PRESENT TIME

I had thought that had been the end of it. I thought that first encounter, that first taste of something different, had already passed by. Never to be experienced again.

I had reached a new level of ship-sickness and depression. Terra noticed and asked me about it, but I had refused to be responsive. In the three hours I worked down in the engine room, I had debated throwing myself into the grinding gears several times. Of course, after I had shoved Fredrick and his sing-song voice in first.

I was awful. I felt like the junk we expelled behind us every few hours. I was ready to quit only a week away from my goal.

Until I had been carrying another box of laundry for Carter down the same hallway.

And Kaldarax's shouts called me from my melancholy mood and state of mind.

He had assured me that the older Protoss had given him permission to speak once every day, as long as he kept it quick. At the time, I was too happy to listen to the slippery, echoing tones to really pay attention to the undertone of panic in his calls. Of guilty apprehension.

Now, faced by the full grown Zealot stalking down the hallways, his anger rolling off of his mind in flickering images and thoughts, I could recognize it in my memory.

Youngling! You were ordered not to communicate with that Terran!

Kaldarax ducks low, probably apologizing. The older Protoss hears none of it. He turns, seeking out my shadowy form among the window ports of our rusted bucket of a ship. I step forward, unable to let my friend suffer alone. The Zealot spots me immediately, pointing down at me authoritatively. Like a father to his child.

Terran! I told you not to communicate with this child!

His tone mimics my father's as well.

So I do the first thing I usually do when I'm reprimanded.

I shrug, folding my arms, looking up coolly at the Protoss behind the shimmering glass.

He looks down at me with the same level of frostiness, finger drooping as he comprehends my inability to cower. He straightens, extending his height as far above me as he can. I have to quell the childish urge to stand on my toes. Their ship still hovers above ours. It would make no difference.

I cannot stop you, but this young one has studies he needs to focus on. He shouldn't waste time in frivolous conversation.

Kaldarax shakes his head, gesturing between our ships energetically. The Zealot gives a sharp turn of his head, mentally silencing the boy. I again wish I can hear what they are saying. Even if most of it is Mr. Stuffy lecturing his subordinate.

I flip the hair out of my eyes, and both of the Protoss look at me. Look back at and gesture to each other. It looks like they're arguing, and the elder is winning. I again stand in silence. The metal works rumble around me, and the dim lighting of the hallway flickers. The stars shine cold and silent, glorifying the Carrier and shaming the Convoy.

A clatter of wheels.

"Cynthia?" Carter calls, curious.

I forcibly relax my shoulders, glaring at him.

"What?"

The elderly man tilts his chin at my sharp tone, reaching up to stroke his greasy gray beard.

"What is troubling you?"

"That...Protoss." I hiss, gesturing out the window. He pushes his cart up and stands next to me, stooping at my shoulder level. He scans the golden ship with weak eyes, squinting.

"Which Protoss?"

"That one. The one yelling at the youngling." I point, trying to direct his vision to the right piece of the ship. The Zealot is still towering over Kaldarax, who is rubbing his arm in shame. He had lost. I want to scream at the offensive, older alien. I want to call out to my friend, to re establish the link he had risked to raise.

"I do not see who you are talking about, my dear."

I hiss and slam my fist against the wall as Kaldarax sulks away, looking back at my ship with longing. He isn't coming back. I can see it in his pace, his drooping claws, his drawn up brow. The older Protoss turns his glare back to me, stone cold and authoritive. Perfect in every way. It bothers me to no end.

"Never mind. Do you have any laundry?" I ask, and Carter puts a fresh box into my outstretched, bare hands. I growl my thanks, and the old man walks away, whistling calmly. Agitating my inner anger and kindling the flames of injustice in my chest.

I don't understand why I'm so upset. I'd only listened to the child for a few hours all together.

But those small chats had been the focal point of my day. The brightness in my otherwise bleak existence. I probably could have made it all the way to Kerralim if the gleaming gold ship hadn't appeared. If I didn't know something else incredible was out there.

Knowing Kaldarax is so close at hand, yet being unable to reach out to him hurt more than anything.

The Protoss begins to walk down the hallway adjacent to mine, and I follow him, ignoring the number on my box. He keeps his head forward, and I attempt to jab at his mind. He continues to glide forward, unencumbered by my paltry attempts.

Two more Protoss approach him, bowing. He nods his head in turn, and I mimic him, muttering under my breath.

"Hello, my crummy little people. Let me suck all the joy out of your lives."

The two Protoss begin nodding, handing the first a tablet of some kind. I look down at the box, glaring at it.

"Oh, the fun levels are too high? Let's drop them to zero, shall we?"

I watch him out of my peripherals, mimicking his actions with an over dramatic zealous, flicking my arm into the air and writing things into the pile of shirts and pants in my hands.

"No communication, check! No Terrans, check! You are all zombies? Double check!"

I nod my head and bow as the two Protoss do, holding the box above my head.

"Oh, great and mighty Captain Killjoy. Thank you for your ultimate wisdom!"

I raise my hand in time with his.

"Oh, it was no trouble, my subjects. We are all equal. I am simply above you..." I twirl on my toe, mimicking a flourish. "...in every way!"

What are you doing?

I stumble, my boot hooking into a dent in the flooring. I fall. The box of clothing spills everywhere, and I cuss beneath my breath, piling all of the previously folded cloth into its container. My knee throbs as I stand, and I glare at the Protoss standing on the golden platforms across the yards of empty space. He has his arms folded behind his back, his eyebrows tilted up in curiosity.

Were you mocking me?

I clench my fists, flushing. My nose wrinkles in distaste, and I compile all of my embarrassment, my shame, my wounded pride, my anger, my disgust, my pain, and my growing sense of jealousy into a single thought. Directed right between his eyes, into the blue, twinkling jewel on his forehead.

NO.

His eyebrows raise fractionally, and I smile in triumph.

Ah. You can speak back. I was beginning to wonder why you were keeping quiet. His mellow voice hints at humor and practically drips with superiority. I feet the basket quiver in my hands.

I hate him. I hate his voice. I hate his people.

Except for Kaldarax.

I...

I bite my lip, concentrating. A bead of sweat slides down the side of my face.

I can't...believe...we have...to share...a planet.

The Protoss shakes his head, taking a pace forward, domineering and superior.

I share your belief. But my Heirarch believes it will bring our races close again. It's hard to imagine how our separating boundaries can be brought together over a single colonial settlement, but no matter. I intend to serve my people to the best of my abilities. Even if it means keeping them away from those who might endanger them.

The Protoss begins to walk away, and I follow behind, gathering that dwindling supply of energy.

I...want...to talk to...Kal-

Absolutely not. His mellow voice gains a sharp edge. I did not lie when I told you he has studies. He does not have time for distractions. If he wishes to ignite his psi-blade, he must finish his research. It is his duty, and his dream. For the good of our people.

I want to tell him it isn't fair. That he's just an overwhelmingly grumpy, narcissistic, stuck up twig.

I don't have the time.

You are about to run into a wall.

I stop just in time. I growl at the offensive paneling, pressing my face to the window nearby, watching his back receding towards the front of his ship.

I hope you have a nice rest of the day. Please, do not attempt to contact me or the youngling again. For both our safety and yours.

Why...would...I want...to talk...to you?

I press my cheek against the window as he pauses.

Looks down over his shoulder at me. His voice curls into my mind, nearly full of laughter.

Why wouldn't you? A Terran who wants so much more? You are part of a very intuitive species. You'd eventually want to find a way.

He walks away without another echoing word. Lilting or not.

I throw the box down, shouting at the silent metal walls.

*Kaldarax walks into his room, sulking*

Zaxchia: You went to talk to your Terran pet again, didn't you?

Kaldarax: Stupid Executor...

Zaxchia: I toooold you sooooo~

Kaldarax: SHUT UP