- Warning - Warning - Braxis as well as the entire StarCraft universe are property of Blizzard, the characters are mine, though.
"Stop taking your time like sissies and get onboard that ship! Move it!" The sound was everything but new, big, arrogant commander Schecter sitting on top of his platinum chair ordering people around. It was even less astounding that his right hand held a lit cigarette while his left clasped a half-empty cup of wine.
The armored troops jogged lightly into the dropship, their new warm-up routine. Or, at least that was what the ones before them did. As Shane recalled, the previous troop lost contact five minutes after leaving the base, either a communication failure or death, neither were good. Braxis was being invaded again, two weeks ago it was a Protoss invasion that took a small crystal, now it was the Zerg. Terran casualties had risen above normalcy, needless to say, as the formerly unpopulated sector now was decimated.
Intelligence told of multiple Zerg aerial troops gathering a few miles north from the base. Ship after ship of marines and goliaths were sent to intercept the oncoming attack, none had made it back to tell their tale. It was suggested to the commander that maybe they should pull out of the sector and let the Zerg have it, lest the entire base became a ruin of buildings. Being the arrogant jerk that Schecter had always been, he rejected the idea, stating proudly that the Terran battalion could hold out and crush the Zerg invasion with no problem.
"Shane, looking kind of grim today, man." A fellow soldier jogged by, laughing along with some others ahead of him for no apparent reason.
"Yes. You bet your *ss I'm grim. I'm being f***ing sent to my death!" Groaning in annoyance, Shane took a look around for the first time since he woke up.
Seven marines, all in their different suits. Some had tattoos of threats on the guns or boots, others had them somewhere no one would care to know. A few of them were smoking, even though that was regarded as a health hazard. Health hazard? Hah! Who cares when your average lifespan in battle is five to ten seconds? Around them, the Terran base lay dormant in the middle of a patch of grassland, everywhere beyond the grass were expanses of snow and ice. One or two lakes were situated a few hundred yards to the south, and a steep cliff resides to the east.
A small number of Space Construction Vehicles operated by the cowards used their rocket boosters to scoot around the resource patches. Small pieces of mineral ore and tanks of dark-green vespene gas were transported to and fro through the base. Some of the resources were used to patch up recently damaged buildings and vehicles while others were used to fill the exhausted gas tanks of perdition flame-throwers. What only a month ago had been a full army of fifty siege tanks had been reduced to a mere dozen.
It was not going well for them. Not well at all.
Noticing that Shane slowed down a bit, a voice called back to him. "You coming or what? Gonna be a chicken about it?" One of the other six men, Shane had heard his name was Jorge, a complete idiot who had nothing better to do than making jokes. That comment, of course, followed with the joker clucking like a chicken, though he could not act like one due to certain limits of a full body armor.
Normally, Shane would have taken his gun and then shot the offender between his legs, at least twenty times, but he was not in the mood for even that today. Growling angrily, he brought his helmet down and stalked past them, giving each an angry look. Though they couldn't see through the pitch-black lens.
"Okay, guys, strap yourselves in. We're going for a ride!" The female pilot announced through the COM links, the voice an ecstatic explosion in Shane's head. One that made him even crankier.
"Hold up!" One of the passengers said, sounding like a very distant telephone transmission through the communication device, "someone's coming."
Surely enough, another man stepped in. This one, however, was not a marine. His scope goggles were pulled to his forehead, revealing a pair of crimson pupils. His dark-red hair split in the center, stopping right on top of his ears and sideburns dropped to an inch above his chin. The eyes took a glance at each of them with pure indifference as the stranger took a seat all the way in the back of the ship. There was no metal armor on the new person's body, but a thick, synthetic rubber suit that covered his entire body up to the nose. A breastplate armor covered his abdomen, leaving all four limbs out in the open. Foot-long bracers protected his forearms and light, metallic boots allowed him to walk and run faster than any marine armor would. A last piece of his equipment was the rather long canister rifle strapped behind his back.
"Who's the new guy?" Shane heard a voice question him in a whisper.
Even though he was still cranky, Shane's mood was altered a bit toward curiosity. "I've heard of people like him." He whispered back as he took his helmet off. With the COM link taken off, the person wouldn't be able to hear their conversation, at least not by ear. "They're these half-psychics that are trained for stealth operations, called ghosts."
"Psychic? You mean that he can hear our..."
"I don't want to interrupt this pleasant conversation behind my back, but would you care to say it out loud? I want to keep my mind fresh for the battle." As the two men turned toward the voice, the ghost stared back with his fiery eyes. "If you want to know about me, just ask. I hate to listen to idiots that think they can hide conversations from me."
After disregarding the comment calling him an "idiot", Shane started to ask a question, but was interrupted again.
"I am recovery unit-1 from the Garmud battle, they call me Corvin. Why 1, you ask? I was the only survivor from that fight. I had hoped to be in a team with more experience than you have, but I guess you'll do fine."
"Not much point in us saying any questions out loud if you can just pick them off the top of our heads. But if you think you're all that, let's see how you do when the real fightin' begins." Retorted the marine sitting next to Shane. "I bet you survived just because you were hiding in some underground tunnel a zergling carelessly dug for you."
What happened next was unexpected. Corvin's seatbelt unbuckled in a fraction of a second and he left the seat even more quickly. A gloved hand clasped the marine's armor through a handhold at the collar and pulled him from his seat. The seatbelt that the marine had on broke with a loud snap, and when Shane turned toward the action, what was left was a floating marine with a horrified look on his face as a man half the size of him in his armor picked him off the ground with ease, his head touching the ceiling of the dropship.
"Do NOT insult me, rookie. I have survived a worse fate than you can imagine. The only reason that you are still alive right now is because I believe you to be moderately useful." With that, the marine was dropped softly on the floor, so softly that the dropship did not even tremble from the weight of 400 pounds. The marine scrambled to his seat hastily, as if he's seen... well, a ghost. That was what happened on the outside in Shane's view, but he doubted that was all that happened.
Suspiciously, and with some hesitation, Shane looked back at Corvin. "What did you do to him?"
There was no audible answer. Just a thought entering his mind, Making sure that he does not babble the rest of the way to the destination. If you're smart, you wouldn't, either.
Shane decided that he might be right. He had no idea what kind of psychic powers a ghost held, and from what he'd seen, he did not want to risk finding out. The entire trip was estimated to take around 50 minutes, so he fell asleep. And dreams greeted him, some that made little sense, but that was what dreaming was all about.
- To Be Continued -
If you guys like reading blood and gore, wait a while. If not, well, wait longer than a while. Constructive comments and/or outright praise are always appreciated, but try to cut down on flames, though sometimes they can be amusing.