Sanctity of Darkness
Chapter 2
By: Dark-Elk
I walked dejectedly to my quarters at the aft of the Tassadar. Pilot quarters are always near the fighter bays on any Protoss capital ships for the simple reason that it allows pilots to get to their fighters quicker in case of a surprise attack. I stepped in front of the door to my quarters and issued a mental command to the computer within. Scanning psionic signatures was a relatively new advance in Protoss technology, but nonetheless prevented access to classified areas quite well. It is impossible to fake a psionic signature, making systems that rely on them far more secure. The door beeped quietly once, and I stepped into my darkened quarters. My legs were instantly assailed by a pair of small, furry animals. I reached down, and slowly stroked the fur of the two felines I had rescued from a Terran base.
Most Protoss have no affinity for animals of any breed, save as food and beasts of burden. Occasionally, Protoss commanders find it relaxing to have a small animal in their quarters, but the majority find them to be unnecessary frivolities. I, however, have a bond with this pair of young felines. During an assault on a moon held by Dominion force, I was part of a small team of renegade Terran and Protoss forces. I was assigned to take the central command area along with a pair of Terrans and my wingmate.
My Warp Blade flashed through the darkness, beheading the small force left to defend the command area. The Terran Gauss Rifles decimated the resistance, but not without return fire. Once my wingmate and I tapped into our mastery of the void, bending the light around us, our Terran comrades were the only visible target. Fire converged on them from all sides, chipping off the power armor they were encased in. My wingmate and I rushed around the room, trying frantically to kill the enemy Terrans before they were able to slay our comrades, but we were not fast enough it seemed, as both Terrans cried out in quick succession before slumping to the floor. Rage clouded my vision, and my body whirled into the dance of combat. It ended all too quickly, leaving my wingmate and I standing alone in the command area, surrounded by a perimeter of strewn Terran carcasses. My wingmate crouched down to the ground then, finally allowing himself to feel the pain of the bullet that had embedded itself in his leg.
After sending my superiors a thought message telling them of our success and requesting them to send a medic team to help my wingmate, I explored the quarters adjacent to the center. The opulent furnishings quickly indicated that the quarters had been occupied not long before by the Dominion commander. After rummaging through the drawers and cabinets, I turned disconsolately towards the door, disappointed at their emptiness. There sat the two felines, seemingly guarding the door to the room, both looking slightly malnourished.
Anger flooded my mind at the thought of the cowardly Dominion commander who had not cared enough to bring them with him. They were both quite different, with one have long, light blue hair, and the other having short black hair with a white head. I stroked the fur of the light blue one, marveling at the soft, rich feeling of its coat. The small black one began to rub its head against my leg, demanding my attention. My other hand rubbed the fur of its neck, and then I made my decision. Removing my pack from its place on my shoulder, I placed it on the ground and watched as the two cats hopped inside. I picked it up, and began to close it when a small blue paw flew out, lightly tapping the top of my hand. I moved my hand slightly, and watched as the paw again flew towards it. I smiled, removed my hand, and closed the bag, taking care to leave enough space for air and comfort. Satisfied, I stood up and exited the room, nearly colliding with the medic that had come to tend to my wingmate. The slug was quickly removed, a healing patch placed upon his leg, and then the medic left the room. My wingmate slowly stood, obviously favoring his injured leg. He stretched for a few minutes before giving me a curt nod and exiting the room.
We returned to the Shuttle that had brought us to the surface, making our rendezvous time with ease. The other strike teams had been similarly successful, but many of the Terrans had been lost to the battle. Only a small handful of Protoss had perished, a testament to our greater strength and innate combat skills. The Shuttle streaked towards orbit, the surface of the moon rapidly falling below us.
It was to our great surprise that the majority of our strike force was not present in the sector. Of the three Carriers and four Battlecruisers that had entered, only a single Battlecruiser remained now. They hailed us, and we quickly learned the reason for the abrupt disappearance. The Zerg had initiated an offensive in another sector, and the colony sorely needed as many reinforcements as could be spared. Orders left by the Protoss commander told us we were to dock with the Battlecruiser and disembark. The Battlecruiser would be the one returning us home instead of the poorly supplied Shuttle.
Our Shuttle lumbered towards the Battlecruiser on an approach vector, and we were given an excellent view of the battle scarring the ship had incurred during the attack on the moon. The name, Savior, seemed almost eerie to me, but my wingmate seemed to pay it no heed. Finally we reached the docking bay, and our Shuttle entered slowly, the pilot apparently as unfamiliar around Terran ships as most Protoss. We exited the Shuttle quickly, and the Shuttle departed almost immediately, seemingly eager to return to Protoss space. A Terran aide greeted us, and offered to take us to our quarters. We resisted, instead requesting a tour of the ship. The aide seemed flustered, but a pair of Marines who had fought alongside us brushed their way to the front of our group and motioned for us to follow them.
The first thing I noticed about the Battlecruiser was the differences between it and the Carrier. The largest and most visible difference is that Protoss craft, whenever possible, are designed to look pleasing to the eye. The Battlecruiser was entirely about utility, with no square inch being wasted on luxury. We followed the Marines through the cramped hallways, having to stop numerous times to allow hover carts filled with spare parts access to areas behind us.
After winding our way through a myriad amount of tunnels and access corridors, we reached our destination. It was a dimly lit room, with numerous tables against one wall, and a long counter with stools in front of it. Behind the counter, a Terran was mixing various liquids together and serving them to Terrans seated in front of a very long, thin counter. A group of Terrans rose from a table near the entrance and came towards us. They greeted us and told us we were in a Terran establishment called a "bar", and offered to show us its function. Curious for the knowledge, we walked with them towards the counter. We sat, which is not easily done, as Terran legs are quite different from those of the Protoss, not only in size, but in the direction they bend in. The Terran I sat next to introduced himself as Private First Class Kato Namara. He ordered us a few drinks, which seemed to be the general purpose of the counter. We conversed for a while, and I was quite amazed at how easily he had adapted to the odd way Protoss-Terran conversations operate since Protoss rely on messages sent directly mind to mind.
I remembered the felines, and removed my pack and placed it on my lap, simultaneously giving a brief explanation to PFC Namara about them. I opened the bag, and they immediately placed their heads at the rim and looked all around the area. PFC Namara laughed a bit about the feline's curiosity, but then seemed to lapse into brooding depression. Searching his mind, the root of his discomfort was readily apparent; as a child he had owned felines until the Zerg overran his world, and he was forced to leave them behind during evacuation. The death of his beloved felines was one of many things that drove him to join the military, and eventually the renegade Terrans. I offered him one of the felines, but he declined, and explained that aboard the Battlecruiser they were not allowed companion animals. I felt sad, but we continued to talk about his past. He asked a few times about my past, but all of his probes were carefully dodged; Dark Templar are secretive by nature, and I am no different.
Finally the drinks he had ordered were served. He slid one towards me, and told me to drink it. Most Protoss do not have mouths like Terrans. However, Dark Templar do; it's a long and complicated ordeal involving painful surgery, but in the end it is worth it, as Khalai Protoss require longer time to eat food then Dark Templar. The mouth we have, however, has no vocal cords attached, so we continue to use psionic messages like the Khalai Protoss. I raised the glass and studied it for a moment before downing it in one gulp. It wasn't particularly large, but the feeling of it going down my throat was quite.odd. It burned slightly and had a strong, rich flavor. The Terran gaped at me, and then told me it was a type of beverage called "alcohol" which could be quite intoxicating. He further told me that if I was a Terran, I would have been rendered unconscious from the quick absorption of the alcohol into my bloodstream. I smiled at him, and told him that the Protoss physiology is quite different from Terran, and that the digestive system doesn't meet the bloodstream until much further on. By then the food or beverage is totally broken down into vitamins and minerals needed for sustenance, thus eliminating the debilitating intoxication he spoke of.
PFC Namara sat and thought over what I had said. I later learned the Terran phrase "wheels churning in his head". He suddenly bolted upright, and leaned towards me conspiratorially. I followed suit, and he told me his idea. Dark Templar are not known for humor or practical jokes, but PFC Namara assured me of the ease of this trick.
He called the other Terrans in the bar over. By this time, the other Protoss I had arrived with, including my wingmate, had already retired to their temporary quarters, and thus the bar was devoid of any but the Terrans and myself. PFC Namara quickly spoke with the other Terrans, and proposed a wager. I was to drink 20 "shots", a certain size of beverage, in under 5 minutes. If I managed to do it, the other Terrans would owe PFC Namara a large amount of money. They quickly agreed with feral grins plastered on their faces, smug in their inadequate knowledge of Protoss physiology and intent upon relieving PFC Namara of a substantial sum of money.
With the beverages ordered, the Terrans grouped around me, assaulting me with inane, mindless questions such as "How many kills do you have?" and "Can you teach me to cloak?" The drinks arrived quicker than before, and the server remained, promptly dropping a stack of credits into the already enormous pile on a nearby table. I counted the glasses to verify there were twenty, and then nodded to PFC Namara, indicating my readiness. He pressed some buttons on his chrono to set the timer, and with a quick grin yelled for me to begin.
I began to enjoy the game almost immediately; after drinking the first few glasses quickly, I began to lift the remainder of the glasses with psionic power to amuse the Terran group. The looks upon the Terran faces were indeed enjoyable as the glasses orbited around my head, each one dipping close enough for me to drink before landing upside-down on the table shaped like a pyramid. I eliminated all of the glasses in less than four minutes, secure in the knowledge that if I hadn't been enjoying myself so much I most likely could have concluded within a minute. The Terrans began cheering despite having lost a large amount of money to PFC Namara and myself. We gathered up the credits and placed them inside a bag the server provided speechlessly, and we left the bar. After making our way down two stairways, up another, and through countless halls, we arrived at PFC Namara's quarters.
PFC Namara leaned against the doorway and began to laugh. He laughed, quite uncontrollably, for many minutes before looking up. He asked if I wanted any of the money he we had won. I thought it over, and decided I had no use for the Terran currency. I did need help with the felines I had rescued, however, and I voiced my concerns to him. He laughed again, a quick bark this time, slapped my shoulder, and agreed to help any way he could. I asked him to write everything he knew about the care of the felines and give it to me as soon as he could. In the meantime, he gave me a quick summary of what they could eat. I thanked him and left, setting off to navigate the Battlecruiser to find my temporary quarters..
PFC Namara is the only Terran I would possibly view as a friend. Other Terrans are far too. . . uninteresting. I have fought with him on many occasions, and he fights with honor and unmatched skill for a Terran. He was promoted shortly after winning our bet to the rank of lieutenant, and his squad is currently one of the top-ranked elite squads of our Terran allies stationed aboard the Tassadar.
I stood up, finally done with reminiscing about the past, and walked into my small food preparation area, my felines following as closely as the Scourge that had forced me to give a life debt. Sighing, I pulled out a bag of cat food from inside a compartment, and poured some into a dish on the floor. I laughed at the felines tenacity as they devoured the food; the dish was clean in a matter of minutes, and the felines trotted off to find somewhere to sleep. Rinsing out the dish, I decided I needed rest myself. I walked into my cleansing area and turned on the shower.
Standing underneath the nozzle, I luxuriated in the feel of water pouring over my coarse skin. Being a fighter pilot is one of the most exhilarating things I know, but such stresses require a counter-balance. The stream of water finally slackened; the nozzle received an angry glare as I stepped out of the shower. Water aboard Carrier and Aiur-class starships is rationed heavily, and the shower had drained my allotment for the day.
I walked out into the main portion of my quarters, exhaustion weighing heavily upon my shoulders. I noticed the cats curled up upon my sleeping pallet, and I decided to join them. Laying down slowly so as not to disturb them, my felines nuzzled up closer to my body, and we slipped into the depths of slumber together.
Chapter 2
By: Dark-Elk
I walked dejectedly to my quarters at the aft of the Tassadar. Pilot quarters are always near the fighter bays on any Protoss capital ships for the simple reason that it allows pilots to get to their fighters quicker in case of a surprise attack. I stepped in front of the door to my quarters and issued a mental command to the computer within. Scanning psionic signatures was a relatively new advance in Protoss technology, but nonetheless prevented access to classified areas quite well. It is impossible to fake a psionic signature, making systems that rely on them far more secure. The door beeped quietly once, and I stepped into my darkened quarters. My legs were instantly assailed by a pair of small, furry animals. I reached down, and slowly stroked the fur of the two felines I had rescued from a Terran base.
Most Protoss have no affinity for animals of any breed, save as food and beasts of burden. Occasionally, Protoss commanders find it relaxing to have a small animal in their quarters, but the majority find them to be unnecessary frivolities. I, however, have a bond with this pair of young felines. During an assault on a moon held by Dominion force, I was part of a small team of renegade Terran and Protoss forces. I was assigned to take the central command area along with a pair of Terrans and my wingmate.
My Warp Blade flashed through the darkness, beheading the small force left to defend the command area. The Terran Gauss Rifles decimated the resistance, but not without return fire. Once my wingmate and I tapped into our mastery of the void, bending the light around us, our Terran comrades were the only visible target. Fire converged on them from all sides, chipping off the power armor they were encased in. My wingmate and I rushed around the room, trying frantically to kill the enemy Terrans before they were able to slay our comrades, but we were not fast enough it seemed, as both Terrans cried out in quick succession before slumping to the floor. Rage clouded my vision, and my body whirled into the dance of combat. It ended all too quickly, leaving my wingmate and I standing alone in the command area, surrounded by a perimeter of strewn Terran carcasses. My wingmate crouched down to the ground then, finally allowing himself to feel the pain of the bullet that had embedded itself in his leg.
After sending my superiors a thought message telling them of our success and requesting them to send a medic team to help my wingmate, I explored the quarters adjacent to the center. The opulent furnishings quickly indicated that the quarters had been occupied not long before by the Dominion commander. After rummaging through the drawers and cabinets, I turned disconsolately towards the door, disappointed at their emptiness. There sat the two felines, seemingly guarding the door to the room, both looking slightly malnourished.
Anger flooded my mind at the thought of the cowardly Dominion commander who had not cared enough to bring them with him. They were both quite different, with one have long, light blue hair, and the other having short black hair with a white head. I stroked the fur of the light blue one, marveling at the soft, rich feeling of its coat. The small black one began to rub its head against my leg, demanding my attention. My other hand rubbed the fur of its neck, and then I made my decision. Removing my pack from its place on my shoulder, I placed it on the ground and watched as the two cats hopped inside. I picked it up, and began to close it when a small blue paw flew out, lightly tapping the top of my hand. I moved my hand slightly, and watched as the paw again flew towards it. I smiled, removed my hand, and closed the bag, taking care to leave enough space for air and comfort. Satisfied, I stood up and exited the room, nearly colliding with the medic that had come to tend to my wingmate. The slug was quickly removed, a healing patch placed upon his leg, and then the medic left the room. My wingmate slowly stood, obviously favoring his injured leg. He stretched for a few minutes before giving me a curt nod and exiting the room.
We returned to the Shuttle that had brought us to the surface, making our rendezvous time with ease. The other strike teams had been similarly successful, but many of the Terrans had been lost to the battle. Only a small handful of Protoss had perished, a testament to our greater strength and innate combat skills. The Shuttle streaked towards orbit, the surface of the moon rapidly falling below us.
It was to our great surprise that the majority of our strike force was not present in the sector. Of the three Carriers and four Battlecruisers that had entered, only a single Battlecruiser remained now. They hailed us, and we quickly learned the reason for the abrupt disappearance. The Zerg had initiated an offensive in another sector, and the colony sorely needed as many reinforcements as could be spared. Orders left by the Protoss commander told us we were to dock with the Battlecruiser and disembark. The Battlecruiser would be the one returning us home instead of the poorly supplied Shuttle.
Our Shuttle lumbered towards the Battlecruiser on an approach vector, and we were given an excellent view of the battle scarring the ship had incurred during the attack on the moon. The name, Savior, seemed almost eerie to me, but my wingmate seemed to pay it no heed. Finally we reached the docking bay, and our Shuttle entered slowly, the pilot apparently as unfamiliar around Terran ships as most Protoss. We exited the Shuttle quickly, and the Shuttle departed almost immediately, seemingly eager to return to Protoss space. A Terran aide greeted us, and offered to take us to our quarters. We resisted, instead requesting a tour of the ship. The aide seemed flustered, but a pair of Marines who had fought alongside us brushed their way to the front of our group and motioned for us to follow them.
The first thing I noticed about the Battlecruiser was the differences between it and the Carrier. The largest and most visible difference is that Protoss craft, whenever possible, are designed to look pleasing to the eye. The Battlecruiser was entirely about utility, with no square inch being wasted on luxury. We followed the Marines through the cramped hallways, having to stop numerous times to allow hover carts filled with spare parts access to areas behind us.
After winding our way through a myriad amount of tunnels and access corridors, we reached our destination. It was a dimly lit room, with numerous tables against one wall, and a long counter with stools in front of it. Behind the counter, a Terran was mixing various liquids together and serving them to Terrans seated in front of a very long, thin counter. A group of Terrans rose from a table near the entrance and came towards us. They greeted us and told us we were in a Terran establishment called a "bar", and offered to show us its function. Curious for the knowledge, we walked with them towards the counter. We sat, which is not easily done, as Terran legs are quite different from those of the Protoss, not only in size, but in the direction they bend in. The Terran I sat next to introduced himself as Private First Class Kato Namara. He ordered us a few drinks, which seemed to be the general purpose of the counter. We conversed for a while, and I was quite amazed at how easily he had adapted to the odd way Protoss-Terran conversations operate since Protoss rely on messages sent directly mind to mind.
I remembered the felines, and removed my pack and placed it on my lap, simultaneously giving a brief explanation to PFC Namara about them. I opened the bag, and they immediately placed their heads at the rim and looked all around the area. PFC Namara laughed a bit about the feline's curiosity, but then seemed to lapse into brooding depression. Searching his mind, the root of his discomfort was readily apparent; as a child he had owned felines until the Zerg overran his world, and he was forced to leave them behind during evacuation. The death of his beloved felines was one of many things that drove him to join the military, and eventually the renegade Terrans. I offered him one of the felines, but he declined, and explained that aboard the Battlecruiser they were not allowed companion animals. I felt sad, but we continued to talk about his past. He asked a few times about my past, but all of his probes were carefully dodged; Dark Templar are secretive by nature, and I am no different.
Finally the drinks he had ordered were served. He slid one towards me, and told me to drink it. Most Protoss do not have mouths like Terrans. However, Dark Templar do; it's a long and complicated ordeal involving painful surgery, but in the end it is worth it, as Khalai Protoss require longer time to eat food then Dark Templar. The mouth we have, however, has no vocal cords attached, so we continue to use psionic messages like the Khalai Protoss. I raised the glass and studied it for a moment before downing it in one gulp. It wasn't particularly large, but the feeling of it going down my throat was quite.odd. It burned slightly and had a strong, rich flavor. The Terran gaped at me, and then told me it was a type of beverage called "alcohol" which could be quite intoxicating. He further told me that if I was a Terran, I would have been rendered unconscious from the quick absorption of the alcohol into my bloodstream. I smiled at him, and told him that the Protoss physiology is quite different from Terran, and that the digestive system doesn't meet the bloodstream until much further on. By then the food or beverage is totally broken down into vitamins and minerals needed for sustenance, thus eliminating the debilitating intoxication he spoke of.
PFC Namara sat and thought over what I had said. I later learned the Terran phrase "wheels churning in his head". He suddenly bolted upright, and leaned towards me conspiratorially. I followed suit, and he told me his idea. Dark Templar are not known for humor or practical jokes, but PFC Namara assured me of the ease of this trick.
He called the other Terrans in the bar over. By this time, the other Protoss I had arrived with, including my wingmate, had already retired to their temporary quarters, and thus the bar was devoid of any but the Terrans and myself. PFC Namara quickly spoke with the other Terrans, and proposed a wager. I was to drink 20 "shots", a certain size of beverage, in under 5 minutes. If I managed to do it, the other Terrans would owe PFC Namara a large amount of money. They quickly agreed with feral grins plastered on their faces, smug in their inadequate knowledge of Protoss physiology and intent upon relieving PFC Namara of a substantial sum of money.
With the beverages ordered, the Terrans grouped around me, assaulting me with inane, mindless questions such as "How many kills do you have?" and "Can you teach me to cloak?" The drinks arrived quicker than before, and the server remained, promptly dropping a stack of credits into the already enormous pile on a nearby table. I counted the glasses to verify there were twenty, and then nodded to PFC Namara, indicating my readiness. He pressed some buttons on his chrono to set the timer, and with a quick grin yelled for me to begin.
I began to enjoy the game almost immediately; after drinking the first few glasses quickly, I began to lift the remainder of the glasses with psionic power to amuse the Terran group. The looks upon the Terran faces were indeed enjoyable as the glasses orbited around my head, each one dipping close enough for me to drink before landing upside-down on the table shaped like a pyramid. I eliminated all of the glasses in less than four minutes, secure in the knowledge that if I hadn't been enjoying myself so much I most likely could have concluded within a minute. The Terrans began cheering despite having lost a large amount of money to PFC Namara and myself. We gathered up the credits and placed them inside a bag the server provided speechlessly, and we left the bar. After making our way down two stairways, up another, and through countless halls, we arrived at PFC Namara's quarters.
PFC Namara leaned against the doorway and began to laugh. He laughed, quite uncontrollably, for many minutes before looking up. He asked if I wanted any of the money he we had won. I thought it over, and decided I had no use for the Terran currency. I did need help with the felines I had rescued, however, and I voiced my concerns to him. He laughed again, a quick bark this time, slapped my shoulder, and agreed to help any way he could. I asked him to write everything he knew about the care of the felines and give it to me as soon as he could. In the meantime, he gave me a quick summary of what they could eat. I thanked him and left, setting off to navigate the Battlecruiser to find my temporary quarters..
PFC Namara is the only Terran I would possibly view as a friend. Other Terrans are far too. . . uninteresting. I have fought with him on many occasions, and he fights with honor and unmatched skill for a Terran. He was promoted shortly after winning our bet to the rank of lieutenant, and his squad is currently one of the top-ranked elite squads of our Terran allies stationed aboard the Tassadar.
I stood up, finally done with reminiscing about the past, and walked into my small food preparation area, my felines following as closely as the Scourge that had forced me to give a life debt. Sighing, I pulled out a bag of cat food from inside a compartment, and poured some into a dish on the floor. I laughed at the felines tenacity as they devoured the food; the dish was clean in a matter of minutes, and the felines trotted off to find somewhere to sleep. Rinsing out the dish, I decided I needed rest myself. I walked into my cleansing area and turned on the shower.
Standing underneath the nozzle, I luxuriated in the feel of water pouring over my coarse skin. Being a fighter pilot is one of the most exhilarating things I know, but such stresses require a counter-balance. The stream of water finally slackened; the nozzle received an angry glare as I stepped out of the shower. Water aboard Carrier and Aiur-class starships is rationed heavily, and the shower had drained my allotment for the day.
I walked out into the main portion of my quarters, exhaustion weighing heavily upon my shoulders. I noticed the cats curled up upon my sleeping pallet, and I decided to join them. Laying down slowly so as not to disturb them, my felines nuzzled up closer to my body, and we slipped into the depths of slumber together.