Disclaimer: Sometimes I get bored. When I get bored, things happen. When they happen, stuff happens because of things. And when that stuff stops happening, that's when I stop playing the pronoun game and start actually writing the disclaimer because all the stuff above was just filler due to me being unable to think of a joke for this section. So, no science. At all. Like 99% sure of that. I think. Also, don't own it.
(Fun fact: this chapter was also started before the last one was done, and it was also because feauxen has this weird thing called "a life", that makes it so the chapters come out slower. My advice, whatever "a life" is, don't bother getting one. All it will do is distract from your true passion: making cakes in the shape of lava lamps. Because what more is there to do, really?)
I don't have a "life." I have a family, and it's Christmas. I also have a very nice family that might have given me $50 on Steam. I totally didn't spend the last two days having family dinners and playing FTL.
Toooooootally.
~f
(Edit: Since it appears people actually do care about the title, I will be changing it from "Does anyone pay attention to the title?" to something more appropriate. Because while I appreciate the reviews telling me that you do, I would rather not have to read it a dozen times or so.)
Catalyst
When the dragons came, there was nothing Firenze could do to stop them. He could only watch his tribemates' burnt skeletons fall onto the ground, one after the other. He wanted to grieve, wanted to cry out, wanted to do something, but another gout of dragon fire forced him to flee once more. Desperately, Firenze looked for an escape, any possible way to escape this nightmare.
As he galloped over the ashes that used to be his friends, clanmates, and their homes, Firenze kept a close watch on the sky. Any hint of movement sent him scurrying for cover, but he knew that would do him little good in the long run. A mere broken tent or the burned-up remains of a tree were no protection against dragonfire. As he hid, frightened and trembling, Firenze heard the scream of his unfortunate clanmates, and saw the the deadly fire grow closer, and closer. Steeling himself, he leapt once more out of cover, fleeing for his life.
There! A gap in the flames! It was small, likely just a gap in the trees that wouldn't burn, but it was enough for a desperate centaur to leap through. After making his escape, he began to run frantically towards the woods, praying that the cover of the trees would hide him from the dragons' sight. Only when the light from the fire was only a distant glimmer did he stop running and find a cave to hide in. And only then did he begin to wonder who else might have escaped. As the weight of the day's events washed over him, Firenze collapsed to the ground, exhausted, and slept.
(Transition)
Abathur gave the dragons a quick once-over as they landed on the creep. There were no obvious injuries and no immediate signs of distress. All three had returned without a scratch. Yes, the dragons were quite a success, even if they could use a bit of tweaking. He would need to make their flames more precise if other combat strains were to be deployed with it. The flame also needed to be hotter. Their current fire would be ineffective against more effective defenses. But that was easily corrected.
Abathur turned his attention to the figure riding the former horntail. The fire was still burning in the distance, turning her into little more than a silhouette, but he could still make out the general shape. In addition to her humanoid body, he could make out her tentacles, three on each side, writhing and grasping with a mind of their own. Each of them branched off into several more precise spines which Abathur knew could form a single, larger spike.
Luna hopped off the dragon, giving Abathur a better look at her. Her skin was now fully covered by the standard zerg carapace, thankfully without high heels this time. Abathur really should have removed Kerrigan's footwear before infesting her. Luna's hair had been replaced with nerve cords, fully connecting her to the hivemind and amplifying her base psionic ability. The tentacles were coated in a ribbed armor, a compromise between defense and flexibility. There were a few minor flaws from the abrupt end to the transformation, but those were easy to fix. The tentacles were misaligned. The top pair were fine, but the other two were progressively closer to her spine, which would unnecessarily restrict their movement, even if it did give them the appearance of wings. The psychological impact would have been effective, but the cost was too much. Abathur could figure out something else.
The eye color was also off, a mixture of blue and yellow rather than the pure golden glow that was supposed to occur. Fortunately, it seemed that this was the only issue in the cranial area, judging by Luna's behavior thus far. This was doubly fortunate, because he didn't want to risk further work and possibly destroy the all too rare psionic potential. Even if he was surrounded by psionics, his supply of test subjects was woefully low.
"Abathur?" Luna began. She was speaking both telepathically and verbally, even if she didn't seem conscious of it. She was broadcasting confusion and fear. "What did I just do?"
"Eliminated opponents. Removed threat to Swarm. Correct decision," Abathur told her. Perhaps the conversion hadn't been as complete as he thought.
"But... but I killed them all. I saw them burn, and I..." Luna shuddered. "I enjoyed it!"
"Good. End of threat. Swarm, more secure. Pleasure response, appropriate." This was worrying.
"But would they really have attacked again? They were just living there, they didn't have many weapons and-"
"Would have attacked. Knew of Swarm. If aware of Swarm, will attack," Abathur could see that Luna remained unconvinced, if the fidgeting and maelstrom of emotions within her were anything to go by. "Have lived among humans, seen their ideas. Have fought against them. Peace, never option. If sentient organism becomes aware of Swarm, will attempt to end Swarm. No exceptions. Eradication, only option. Attacking, correct decision. Regret, unnecessary."
"But they weren't all going to try to kill us!" Abathur felt relief. She still considered herself a member of the Swarm. "Some of them were just making food, or taking care of their kids, or making tents. They weren't threats." Her voice was wavering.
"Swarm, contains separate strains. Serve different roles. Not all designed for combat," Abathur took control of a nearby ritholisk. The towering Swarm breeder unrooted from the creep, and moved its dome-like body over to them on thick hairy legs. Abathur set it next to them, where it continued producing eggs.
"Ritholisk. Creates eggs, processes biomass. Makes all other strains. In combat, useless. But can make other strains. Deploy them into combat. Create army," Abathur directed the ritholisk to hatch one of its eggs, sending a newly born teraling into the world. He sent it out as a scout. "If enemy came, would kill ritholisk. Appropriate tactic. Even if non-combatant, can aid combatants. Similar to other species. Tent-makers, biomass workers, can still aid combatants. Total eradication, only permanent solution."
"You're...you're sure?" Luna wanted Abathur to be correct, if only so the guilt would disappear. There were no secrets in the hivemind, not for those who didn't know how to keep them. That might have to be one of her first lessons.
"Certain." Abathur shared some of his memories with her. His own near-demise, the protoss purifier beams, and the terran's invasion of Char, among others. Luna stepped back in shock as she received them, but her doubt all but vanished, replaced by rampant curiosity.
"What are these?" she asked.
"Memories. Shared through hivemind. Can teach, explain," Abathur explained. He remained silent as she worked through the new thoughts and experiences, absorbing and processing them. When she was done, there was an awkward silence, interrupting only by the scurrying of his brood. After about a minute of this Luna spoke.
"So...do I look like this forever now?"
"No. Can change, like me. Simple," Abathur answered. There was another awkward silence.
"How do I do that exactly?"
(Transition)
If there was any class that Abathur would be glad to be rid of, it was Potions. Mixing and matching chemicals to form different substances was something that, more or less, he had been doing for his entire life. There was absolutely nothing to gain from attending the class that he couldn't get just from reading the textbook. It certainly didn't help that the class was taught by the incompetent terran who couldn't tell a covalent bond from an ionic one. Add in the fact that Abathur was forced to work with any human that was left over, who was always somehow even more incompetent than the instructor, and Potions class was his private hell. Only the fear of identification kept him from outright skipping the class.
This time, the students were assigned to make a hair growth potion. Of course, nobody seemed aware of the irony of spending time and effort to make a potion to accomplish something their body did independently, with no intervention. Why did humans even have hair to begin with? It served no functional purpose Abathur could discern. He saw humans with an excess of it, none at all, and everything in between, and it seemed to make absolutely no difference.
Abathur was forced to interrupt his internal monologue to stop the inept human sitting beside him from adding the infernal leek stem. The extraneous fats would give just enough fuel to the reactants in the muppet gonads to cause an uncomfortably hot flame. And possibly lethal to the terrans, he hadn't taken note of their exact limits. Either way, it was more trouble than it was worth.
"Trouble with your potion, Mr. Jaren?" The incompetent was stalking around his desk, glaring through his oil-laden, unnecessary head foliage. Abathur considered correcting him, but considering he had not grasped it in 4 years, he clearly lacked the capability to learn at all. He didn't bother to respond.
"I am talking to you, Jaren. I do not appreciate being ignored," the incompetent continued. He seemed to be laboring under the misconception that his preferences mattered to Abathur. Would it be worth it to respond to them? It was either that, or let him keep interfering. And drawing more attention would most definitely be more trouble than it was worth. Reluctantly, Abathur turned his attention and his face towards the incompetent and looked him in the eyes.
Almost immediately, Abathur felt a sharp, stabbing pain behind his skull. He was immediately aware of an intruder in his mind, a sneak trying to infiltrate the hivemind. The sheer shock of it kept Abathur from immediately responding. The intruder took the opportunity to peak around his mind, peering at his memories at surface thoughts, only to recoil back from them. Abathur took the opportunity to seize the probe, and immobilize it. Adept though it may have been, Abathur had been part of a hivemind since his birth, and the difference of experience was immediately apparent. The evolution master dissected the probe, slicing it apart to examine it in detail. It was probably quite painful to the intruder, but Abathur couldn't bring himself to care. With great care, he began to examine the fragmented intruder.
It was the incompetent. The terran incompetent, reporting to Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who had apparently been more aware of Abathur than he had thought. This was bad, incredibly bad. If they knew, there might be others. Abathur wasn't safe here. If any of the other terrans found out, they would attack him in an instant. One or two, he could kill, but an entire school of psionics was far too much. He had to get out.
In one fluid motion, Abathur released the probe, jumped out of his desk, shoved the incompetent back, and ran out of the room. Ignoring the shouts behind him, Abathur sprinted through the stone corridors in a mad panic. He didn't stop until he was out of the front gates, and approaching his brood. Only then, did he feel safe enough to stop.
What now? Those two humans knew now, and if the others didn't, then they would tell them. They would hunt him down, and probably find the Swarm in the process. That would just lead to a new host of problems, ones that Abathur would probably be completely unable to deal with. No matter how many teralings or arachnolisks or splicers he made, they would all be helpless before a single battlecruiser. No, he had to make them think he was dead.
The experiment with boggart essence, that's what he would use. He would send it out, and let it be killed, then he could stay with the Swarm. Luna could continue to provide him with information about the finer points of psionics, and none would be the wiser. Yes, that could work. It would be a shame to loss it, but it would be worse to die. For all he knew, he would end up in a protoss next time, and he had no hope of hiding among them.
His course of action was determined. Abathur transformed into his zerg form, his scythed limbs extending above his head. He moved through the center of his brood, slithering through the ritholisks to reach the cocoon that had laid next to Luna. With a slash, the cocoon burst open, revealing a formless mass resembling a large bruise. Its surface swirled with a rainbow of colors, never staying in the same pattern for more than a few seconds.
"Infiltrate terrans. If caught, fight, die. Take form, Thenabar. Respond to Thenabar," Abathur ordered the blob.
"Understood, Evolution Master. I will obey," the newly born Zerg responded. It flowed across the ground in the direction of the castle. The humans would likely kill it, then they would forget he or it ever existed. They wouldn't look further. And then, Abathur could finally experiment in peace.
Brood Lord: The Brood Lord doth Brood most seriously, all day long. They say that his long, black hair can sometimes black out the sun, which helps him get his Brood on. And just in case that wasn't enough, he also has some sick eyeliner and one helluva goth attitude. I mean, he can freeze water at 30 yards just by vaguely pondering his own existence. The guy's seriously broody. ~f
Brood Lord: If there is one thing the Zerg lack in most circumstances, it is long-range attacks. Compared to the field of death surrounding a Terran siege tank, or the powerful shots of the Protoss tempest, the zerg have little to offer, until a Hive cluster develops the ability to spawn broodlords. Morphed from corruptors, brood lords serve as the Swarm's flying artillery, a flying manta-ray like beast that launches living projectiles at anything that stands in its way. The brood lord launches broodlings which are smaller, short-lived, melee attackers that are adept at chewing through metal, plasma shields, and flesh. A single broodling is nothing but cannon fodder, but when brood lords launch them in an endless stream, they are more than enough to chew through even the most entrenched position. Brood lords alone are slow and defenseless, especially against other spacecraft, so they are best when deployed behind an army, often an army of infestors. However, used properly, brood lords mark the end of meaningful resistance to the Swarm.