The end of the United Earth Directory has come and gone, the time of the
Terrans has ticked by, and a new generation has emerged...
Location: Subterranean Protoss Expeditionary Outpost
Planet: Dionide
Time: 12 May 2067, 1320 hrs.
Malliard awoke to the rhythmic tapping against his head. His vision blackened, he pushed his eyelids open with his fingers, and staring toward the sky, which was curiously blocked by roughly fifty feet of solid stone. He felt the bumping on the bottom of his head again as he realized something was pulling him by his feet, a terrifying looking dragoon soldier staring into his face. 'What a predicament ... im in some kind of Protoss facility!' He glanced around quickly at his surroundings to see finely bore and smoothed walls of stone in an elaborate catacomb. He waved his hands furiously to grab the dragoon's attention. Failing to grab his idle eyes, he kicked the metal bucket of bolts sharply and pulled himself from its grasp. He stood defiantly, and the dragoon growled menacing, its tinny, metallic audio output added to the ambience of the terror in his mind. He grimaced lightly at its threatening gesture, and his hand slid to the side of suit, which was, miraculously, still intact. He grasped at the hilt of a bowie knife strapped to the small of his back, slowly, stealthily. He let out a breath of anxiety, and prepared to swing the metal blade in an arc at his turnkey, but just as he was about to make the fatal cut, a rhythmic droning of pounding feet stopped him. He turned in his tracks to see several zealots, in full battle gala armor, in a two- column ring around a cloaked figure. The masked figure stepped forward, and the circle dissolved around him as he approached the armored marine. The eyes set into the concealed face within the cloak glowed evilly, a strange aura of depravity and malfeasance emanating from the two piercing, hovering globes. A bony, shingled hand reached out from the clock and stroked his cheek. A low grumble could be heard from the figure, and a zealot approached him from behind, grasping his arms tightly, and lifting Malliard above his head. A second zealot came beside him, and they carried Malliard down the echoing corridors, the only sounds audible were the droning march of the zealot squad, and his own anxious heart.
He awoke from a slumber he could not recall, and he rubbed his eyes tenderly, and stretched tiredly. His pupils, dilated in the low light, he tried to make out the details of the darkened room he had been stowed. When he attempted to stand, he felt a stab of pain in his upper thigh, and fell back to the ground against the hard stone floor. Obviously his turnkey hadn't taken such gentle care with him. Rubbing the now sore spot on his leg, he inspected himself for other injuries, a soft moan or muffled groan as pressure was applied to stiff or inflamed joints. Finally managing the effort to stand, he walked toward the pinprick of light he could see in the darkness. Pressing his eager face against it, he could see a room, filled with mechanical instruments. Looking around at his room's bleak interior, he wondered if his cell was furnished to look like this, or they furnished the outside to look technological. A mildly obtrusive odor wafted into his nostrils, and memories of Terran hospital wings burned into his mind. A rhythmic, murmur could be heard through the door and he looked to the left quickly, his eyes darting across his field of vision. A new troupe of zealot guards marched toward his cell and he hurried over toward his bunk and feigned sleep. A key could be heard turning the tumblers and a harsh, fluorescent white light filled the interior of his cell. A Templar, in full honor regalia, stepped forward toward him. The baneful glow in the iris of his eyes reminded him of the cloaked figure who, apparently, had ordered his detainment originally. He waved a zealot over, who was, instead of the regular yellow battle armor, was garbed in a human-like white lab coat, and hauling in a quite lengthy surgical syringe. He had experienced many injections in his lifetime, but the sheer size of the needle frightened him. The 'doctor' zealot and 'glowing eyes' zealot exchanged a few words in a tongue he couldn't understand, and two armored zealots approached him and locked their arms around his chest and arms, suspending him in place. The doctor zealot stepped toward him cautiously, obviously fearful of having to be this close to a 'specimen.' Malliard cringed at the word. What was he doing in some sort of hospital facility? He wasn't mortally wounded, just a few minor bumps and bruises. The doctor zealot raised the needle and pressed it against his carotid. He felt the needle plunge under the skin, and the Protoss pulled against the plunger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the thick syringe filling with his blood. He capped the needle and extracted a second needle from the folds of his lap coat. He moved behind him, out of Malliard's view, when all of the sudden, a sharp pain throbbed at the nape of his neck as the zealot plunged the needle into his spinal cord. He felt himself go woozy for a moment, but the zealot guards maintained their grip on him even as he lost consciousness. The doctor zealot did not seem frazzled by this, and with a nod of his head, the guards let Malliard drop to the floor, and the troupe of Protoss exited the cell. The doctor and chief zealot congregated at a nearby corridor, and the two leaned close to each other, practically ear to ear. The 'glowing eyed' zealot introduced himself as Ligos, and the technician identified himself as Aragonus.
"Reconnaissance tells us that this is the Terran they..." Ligos, the facilities security chief, pauses dramatically, as if searching for a word "...infused...with Tassadar's essence. But how can we be sure?"
"We can't really, at least until these tests have been completed. I took fluid from his spinal shaft and blood plasma his carotid artery, which should provide us with an extensive amount of genetic material to analyze." Ligos looked on, dazed and confused, as must foot soldiers were on the topic of the sciences. "Basically, the blood in his body can give us the information we need to decide whether or not this Terran is the product of a Protoss/Terran crossbreeding."
The security chief's eyes bulged in fear as he heard the words that Aragonus spoke. He took the technician by the lapels and pulls him face to face. "Do you understand the implications if the humans create a template of Tassadar inside this human? They will have the physical stamina of a Terran and the mental capacities of one of the most powerful Protoss that every lived! By Adun! We should just execute this monstrosity and cancel out any possibility that this Terran is the one! If he is the crossbreed, thats one problem we've removed. If he isn't, its another soldier added to the climbing number of casualties in this forsaken war!" Ligos took a heavy, exhausted breath after completing his speech for the now embarrassed technician.
"Um, yes ... that is a very real posibility, but I have my orders not to let him be killed. My superior officers have spoken to the Restored Conclave and they have bought his story on commencing reasearch for our own hybrid. The Zerg have already reached the finish line in this race, with the Terran's rounding the last curve in the lap, while we are still sitting at the starting pole. If something is not done, this new technology will be lost to us!" The technicial stormed out before the chief could contemplate a response, and Ligos just stood there, stupidfied. His mind was now in overdrive thinking of reasons why the Conclave would want such a forsaken and blasphemistic technology. Merging the sacred bodies of Adun's Followers with the blasphemous and profane Terran race! He stormed out the back exit to the facility, curious onlookers now returning to their work and studies as the romo quieted except for the occasional pounding of feet and tapping of keys on consoles.
Location: Subterranean Protoss Expeditionary Outpost
Planet: Dionide
Time: 12 May 2067, 1320 hrs.
Malliard awoke to the rhythmic tapping against his head. His vision blackened, he pushed his eyelids open with his fingers, and staring toward the sky, which was curiously blocked by roughly fifty feet of solid stone. He felt the bumping on the bottom of his head again as he realized something was pulling him by his feet, a terrifying looking dragoon soldier staring into his face. 'What a predicament ... im in some kind of Protoss facility!' He glanced around quickly at his surroundings to see finely bore and smoothed walls of stone in an elaborate catacomb. He waved his hands furiously to grab the dragoon's attention. Failing to grab his idle eyes, he kicked the metal bucket of bolts sharply and pulled himself from its grasp. He stood defiantly, and the dragoon growled menacing, its tinny, metallic audio output added to the ambience of the terror in his mind. He grimaced lightly at its threatening gesture, and his hand slid to the side of suit, which was, miraculously, still intact. He grasped at the hilt of a bowie knife strapped to the small of his back, slowly, stealthily. He let out a breath of anxiety, and prepared to swing the metal blade in an arc at his turnkey, but just as he was about to make the fatal cut, a rhythmic droning of pounding feet stopped him. He turned in his tracks to see several zealots, in full battle gala armor, in a two- column ring around a cloaked figure. The masked figure stepped forward, and the circle dissolved around him as he approached the armored marine. The eyes set into the concealed face within the cloak glowed evilly, a strange aura of depravity and malfeasance emanating from the two piercing, hovering globes. A bony, shingled hand reached out from the clock and stroked his cheek. A low grumble could be heard from the figure, and a zealot approached him from behind, grasping his arms tightly, and lifting Malliard above his head. A second zealot came beside him, and they carried Malliard down the echoing corridors, the only sounds audible were the droning march of the zealot squad, and his own anxious heart.
He awoke from a slumber he could not recall, and he rubbed his eyes tenderly, and stretched tiredly. His pupils, dilated in the low light, he tried to make out the details of the darkened room he had been stowed. When he attempted to stand, he felt a stab of pain in his upper thigh, and fell back to the ground against the hard stone floor. Obviously his turnkey hadn't taken such gentle care with him. Rubbing the now sore spot on his leg, he inspected himself for other injuries, a soft moan or muffled groan as pressure was applied to stiff or inflamed joints. Finally managing the effort to stand, he walked toward the pinprick of light he could see in the darkness. Pressing his eager face against it, he could see a room, filled with mechanical instruments. Looking around at his room's bleak interior, he wondered if his cell was furnished to look like this, or they furnished the outside to look technological. A mildly obtrusive odor wafted into his nostrils, and memories of Terran hospital wings burned into his mind. A rhythmic, murmur could be heard through the door and he looked to the left quickly, his eyes darting across his field of vision. A new troupe of zealot guards marched toward his cell and he hurried over toward his bunk and feigned sleep. A key could be heard turning the tumblers and a harsh, fluorescent white light filled the interior of his cell. A Templar, in full honor regalia, stepped forward toward him. The baneful glow in the iris of his eyes reminded him of the cloaked figure who, apparently, had ordered his detainment originally. He waved a zealot over, who was, instead of the regular yellow battle armor, was garbed in a human-like white lab coat, and hauling in a quite lengthy surgical syringe. He had experienced many injections in his lifetime, but the sheer size of the needle frightened him. The 'doctor' zealot and 'glowing eyes' zealot exchanged a few words in a tongue he couldn't understand, and two armored zealots approached him and locked their arms around his chest and arms, suspending him in place. The doctor zealot stepped toward him cautiously, obviously fearful of having to be this close to a 'specimen.' Malliard cringed at the word. What was he doing in some sort of hospital facility? He wasn't mortally wounded, just a few minor bumps and bruises. The doctor zealot raised the needle and pressed it against his carotid. He felt the needle plunge under the skin, and the Protoss pulled against the plunger. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the thick syringe filling with his blood. He capped the needle and extracted a second needle from the folds of his lap coat. He moved behind him, out of Malliard's view, when all of the sudden, a sharp pain throbbed at the nape of his neck as the zealot plunged the needle into his spinal cord. He felt himself go woozy for a moment, but the zealot guards maintained their grip on him even as he lost consciousness. The doctor zealot did not seem frazzled by this, and with a nod of his head, the guards let Malliard drop to the floor, and the troupe of Protoss exited the cell. The doctor and chief zealot congregated at a nearby corridor, and the two leaned close to each other, practically ear to ear. The 'glowing eyed' zealot introduced himself as Ligos, and the technician identified himself as Aragonus.
"Reconnaissance tells us that this is the Terran they..." Ligos, the facilities security chief, pauses dramatically, as if searching for a word "...infused...with Tassadar's essence. But how can we be sure?"
"We can't really, at least until these tests have been completed. I took fluid from his spinal shaft and blood plasma his carotid artery, which should provide us with an extensive amount of genetic material to analyze." Ligos looked on, dazed and confused, as must foot soldiers were on the topic of the sciences. "Basically, the blood in his body can give us the information we need to decide whether or not this Terran is the product of a Protoss/Terran crossbreeding."
The security chief's eyes bulged in fear as he heard the words that Aragonus spoke. He took the technician by the lapels and pulls him face to face. "Do you understand the implications if the humans create a template of Tassadar inside this human? They will have the physical stamina of a Terran and the mental capacities of one of the most powerful Protoss that every lived! By Adun! We should just execute this monstrosity and cancel out any possibility that this Terran is the one! If he is the crossbreed, thats one problem we've removed. If he isn't, its another soldier added to the climbing number of casualties in this forsaken war!" Ligos took a heavy, exhausted breath after completing his speech for the now embarrassed technician.
"Um, yes ... that is a very real posibility, but I have my orders not to let him be killed. My superior officers have spoken to the Restored Conclave and they have bought his story on commencing reasearch for our own hybrid. The Zerg have already reached the finish line in this race, with the Terran's rounding the last curve in the lap, while we are still sitting at the starting pole. If something is not done, this new technology will be lost to us!" The technicial stormed out before the chief could contemplate a response, and Ligos just stood there, stupidfied. His mind was now in overdrive thinking of reasons why the Conclave would want such a forsaken and blasphemistic technology. Merging the sacred bodies of Adun's Followers with the blasphemous and profane Terran race! He stormed out the back exit to the facility, curious onlookers now returning to their work and studies as the romo quieted except for the occasional pounding of feet and tapping of keys on consoles.