Just like his first day on Aiur, the Daelaam asked him questions. Though this time, only a few members came individually to see Torik in his stasis cell. Among them was Artanis. Though the hierarch approached him with no accusations, Torik felt meek and criminal all the same.

And once again he found himself unable to give Artanis the answers he wanted. As though still bonded through the Khala, he could almost feel the hierarch's frustration though Artanis disguised it well.

Finally, Torik admitted something. He told the hierarch that, while in the bay, he had heard something that no one else could.

"What was it?"

"A voice," Torik answered. "Though I did not recognize it. It was brief, fleeting—I almost assumed I had imagined it."

"Did it tell you anything?"

"It spoke, but I interpreted no words. It was only a flicker, like the final bit of a faulty transmission." Torik grew nervous when the hierarch began to slowly pace. His doubt told him that he should've kept that detail a secret. Glancing to the door, Torik wondered if he would ever be free again to leave. First the breakdown at the phase-smith facility, and now he had admitted to Artanis of hearing voices that no one else could. It would be a miracle if the hierarch ever let him out of stasis lock.

"As much as I fight to understand, I cannot," Artanis finally said, his steps slowing. "And though I wish I could take this chance to discover who remains within the remnants of the Khala, I cannot turn a blind eye to the dangers that keeping you connected present." He turned back to the stasis cell. "Torik, I offer you a chance to shorten your term within this cell. All I ask is that you disconnect any lingering bond you have to the Khala by removing the last of your nerve cords."

Torik was silent as he mulled over the hierarch's proposal. There was no harm in abiding, he figured. With no other mind to connect to, there was no point in keeping what remained of his nerve cords intact. And besides, Torik thought, perhaps it would bring him one step closer to being one with his people. Given what he was asked to do, the notion was ironic.

"I will obey, Hierarch."

Artanis nodded. "Then I will call in a doctor to begin the procedure," he said.

"Dr. Meren?"

"No. Meren has informed me that she is seeing to another patient this afternoon," the hierarch replied. "Worry not, Torik. You are in good hands."

It wasn't exactly what Torik wanted to hear while confined in stasis.

The blue projection only showed the head, shoulders, and upper chest of a templar. He wore an ornate band over his brow and a gold extension on his chin—symbols of the warrior caste he belonged to. His nerve cords curved from the back of his head, intact. Gold brackets dotted each cord—some were decorative, others repaired the damage that had been sustained through battle.

It was quiet in her quarters. Ariadis watched the projection with tired, nostalgic eyes. She had only ever seen very little of her father.

Because of their longevity, the protoss were not a prolific people. But constant warring with the zerg and kalathi had once dwindled their numbers to the point where the Conclave instigated a breeding program. Within the fortress-city of Khor-shakal, the judicators chose several thousand templars who were tasked with the requirement of siring at least one youngling.

Tharuul had been among the selected, but unlike his brethren, he remained and waited while his seed gestated. Blood ties were a thin, barely-acknowledged notion among the Khalai. Family was not as sacred to them as it was to the Nerazim, but still Tharuul persisted until the birth of his offspring.

The Conclave had aimed to deter him from being attached to the youngling by informing him that it was female. They instead encouraged him to sire again in the hopes of producing a more promising result.

Tharuul had attempted only once more just to assuage his leaders. This time, he was unsuccessful and had decided to return to his daughter. At first the Conclave forbade it, telling him that a templar of his might ought not to waste time on the youngling—the assigned caretakers and doctors would do that. But Tharuul refused to let the matter rest and continued to argue until the Conclave finally begrudged him simply to quiet him down.

And so Ariadis was given the first memories of her father—the quiet templar who shared with her so many thoughts and emotions through the Khala. Through mind-melds, Tharuul gave her his strongest memories—his templar training and the prideful victories he had achieved throughout his life. He taught her humility with the painful memories of losing his brethren to valiant sacrifices. "Our lives are for Aiur," he had told her. "And for the Firstborn."

Determined to fill in the footsteps left by her father, Ariadis had expressed to him her desire to be a templar. At that time, there were very few female templar, and even fewer novitiates. This, paired with the heavy doubt that Ariadis would survive training let alone battle, filled all minds but one with reluctance.

The executor knew her fate would have been so very different had that one templar not fought to be with his youngling. Ariadis had only permitted to train because of her father's deal with the Conclave. If his daughter was to join the templars, they had told him, then Tharuul would relinquish all rights to raise her.

She had resisted against his decision upon learning of it, but Tharuul had quieted her down. "Remember the things I have shown you," he told her. "Both the pride and the humility. The flat plains of Cithral and sunny hilltops of Aldera where you will be forged into a greater templar than I. These will become your memories."

Before they had parted, Tharuul had said one last thing to her. "Little comet," he called her. "One day, you will be templar and the Conclave will have no authority to keep us apart. I will wait for that day."

The projection, defining the face of the one she remembered so well, was still. It would play if activated, being one of the many message projections Tharuul had smuggled to her while she had trained. Ariadis blinked her weary eyes, teetering between the decision of playing it or not. She had heard every one of his messages countless times to the point where the meaning in his words had grown stale. Still, there was comfort in his voice. That, and sorrow.

Her choice was made for her when someone knocked at her door. It had come like clockwork, and Ariadis already knew whom it was.

Dr. Meren stepped in and paused as her eyes fell on the projection of Tharuul. "Executor," she addressed formally, "forgive me. Is this a bad time?"

"No," Ariadis replied, swiping her hand over the projecting crystal. Immediately, the blue form disappeared. "Besides, I have delayed this treatment for long enough. I'm starting to feel the consequences."

Dr. Meren nodded. "Shall I warp my equipment in, Executor?" A small blue gem tucked into the chest of her robes glowed and extended out a small, holographic screen before her. "It should only take a moment."

Ariadis nodded. She figured walking to the doctor's laboratory held too much risk of being seen. As Dr. Meren calibrated the warp through the small screen, Ariadis asked, "I heard of your incident at the facility."

"Ah," Dr. Meren replied. "That…"

"I am glad to see you are well."

"Your concern is most kind, Executor."

"And what of… Torik?"

Ariadis saw the doctor's brow furrow slightly. "The hierarch has him in stasis," she answered.

"Does he suspect Torik of malice?" All Ariadis had heard was that the crippled protoss had 'lashed out.' Though, to be honest, she thought there had to be some misunderstanding. There was no way that skinny, legless protoss could be capable of doing that much damage to the doctor and the bay.

"Apparently," Dr. Meren replied. The screen disappeared and the gem dimmed. Then, in the space next to her, lines of blue light began to cut vertically through the air. As they stretched longer, white forms began to form within them. Blue and white light combined only briefly for one last, brilliant flash before vanishing and leaving a hovering machine and drone in its wake.

Immediately, the drone drifted over to Ariadis. It emitted a gentle beam of light that scanned over her upper arm before stopping at a particular area. The beam flashed.

The machine by Dr. Meren suddenly ejected a small vial. Within was a small cylinder with a clear, viscous substance. Dr. Meren took the vial and fed it into a small port on the drone. Then, within the beam, a small needle protruded from the drone. It drifted closer to the executor and, with a quick jab, inserted the needle into her arm.

The injection only lasted a few seconds, and then the drone backed away. The beam changed color, and Ariadis felt a series of hot and cold sensations flash quickly on her skin as the small puncture wound was sealed.

Ariadis reached up and rested a hand gingerly over her arm. "What else is troubling you, Meren?"

"Executor?"

"One does not need the Khala to see the burden that weighs your shoulders down, Doctor."

Dr. Meren hesitated. "Executor…," she said slowly. "I feel as though I have failed him."

"Failed?"

"I promised him that he would be walking by now," Dr. Meren continued. "But after what happened in the bay, he refuses to reattach the implants. He believes he will never be a templar."

"Templar… he expressed his wishes to join the rank?"

"Yes. But, if I am to be completely honest," Dr. Meren said, "I did not think it was achievable. Not because of his physique, but because of who he is. Torik is gentle, but he sees that aspect of himself as a flaw."

Ariadis lowered her hand from her arm. She looked back at the projection crystal. Though it was dim, she could still see his face. "Where is he now, Meren?"

"The containment block," Dr. Meren answered. "At the southeast border of the Citadel." Upon seeing Ariadis lift her arm to tap on her gauntlet, she continued, "Executor?"

The blue streams of her warp were already starting to engulf her as Ariadis looked back at the doctor and said, "Everyone deserves a chance, Meren."

When next Torik awoke, his nerve cords were gone. His head was groggy, and he was still trying to clear his heavy eyes when the doctor told him, "The hierarch has ordered that your term be shortened to three remaining days."

"As per my request, he is to be released now," someone spoke up. The doctor turned around.

"But Hierarch Artanis—."

"Has heard what I have proposed and agrees," Ariadis cut in. "Release Torik from stasis."

"As… as you wish, Executor."

"And vacate the room, please. I would like to speak to Torik in private."

With a nod, the doctor tapped a brief command into the stasis cell's control panel and exited. The stasis around Torik quickly flickered off. No longer suspended, he fell forward and hit the ground with a terse grunt. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Ariadis stepped up to him.

"Is this pity, Executor?" he asked.

"Do not think me like the praetor, Torik," Ariadis replied. As she spoke, something warped in next to her. Torik finally looked up and saw his transport chair. It lowered to the ground, and the executor stepped back. With his arms, Torik pulled himself onto the chair. He felt it connect with one of his shorted nerve cords and rose back up from the ground.

"Then why do you do this? You mentioned a proposal with the hierarch."

"Meren has told me of your desire to return to the Lontimar System," Ariadis said. "And once again, you reach for a goal that is too high above your head." Torik looked at her. "How did you expect to get there? To get off of Aiur?"

He paused. Up until now, he hadn't really thought much of those details. "I plan to contact Marcus," he said.

"That terran is not returning to Aiur. You will be provided a ship, as well as a supervisor…"

"I do not need—."

"That will be me."

This made Torik pipe down quickly. "Why?"

"Once, a wise templar showed me the importance of second chances. I know what it is like to be imperfect."

Torik was skeptical. One such as the executor seemed incapable of imperfection. He suspected her empathy was synthetic. "What do you mean?"

"Not now, Torik. I must prepare a preliminary report for the Daelaam before we leave. Our departure will be in two days—that should give you and Meren plenty of time to ready any necessary arrangements. I shall contact the doctor now, and then you and her can take care of the rest."

There was a pause, and finally Torik found enough within him to say, "Thank you, Executor."

"Be ready in two days."

When the executor had gone, Torik took a moment to take it all in. Just him and Ariadis—well, he couldn't have asked for better. But he was nervous. It would only be the two of them and, well, he wouldn't know what to do.

Admiral Ariadis… now executor. Torik flinched and looked around. No one was around him, and he already knew that. He'd heard that voice just once before. Only this time, he understood it wasn't a voice. He wasn't listening to words articulated by another. It came from his own head—his own thoughts.

Severing his cords had not been the solution. Inherently, Torik already knew this though he did not tell the hierarch. And if he did now, the Daelaam would never let him leave Aiur.

Perhaps there was no harm in keeping this a little secret, he figured.

No harm at all.

The Rust Ship was a real gem of a place, situated on a stabilized hunk of rock just outside the Sara System's asteroid belt. It was the seediest tavern Marcus had ever gone to, which was why he kept coming back. It was a popular place for those wanting to steer clear from the watchful eye of the law. And, infamous for its lack of carding, the Rust Ship was a gold mine for minors keen on going out and getting drunk. Marcus was really going to miss the place once its karma caught up to it.

Tonight, there was an impromptu poker game underway. Marcus never turned away from a game, even if the competition this time was made up largely of mercenaries. Jamie, predictably, had chosen to sit out and was at the counter with the other losers—probably chatting up the bartender about something boring.

As the dealer shuffled the deck in preparation of the next round, Marcus shot a relaxed smile at his opposition across the table. She looked back, her face serenely amused though her eyes—or rather, eye—were wild. Her glowing artificial eye and flame-pink hair stood out harshly in the dimly lit tavern. The dealer finished shuffling the cards and slid the deck over to Marcus to cut. He did, passing the deck back to have the cards dealt out.

Despite his cool composure, Marcus could've popped if someone poked him with a needle given the amount of nervous pressure that had built up inside of him. Mira Han scared the hell out of him. All night, she had been pleasant, even downright charming. But Marcus knew better than to mistake her for some fickle chick. As if her unorthodox appearance wasn't telling enough, there was an obvious reason why she was the kingpin of one of the most ruthless mercenary groups in the Koprulu Sector. Anyone who had earned death sentences across twelve systems wasn't to be fucked with.

But Marcus had a reputation to uphold, and he thanked every lucky star in his sky that he was on Mira's good side. He broke his gaze away from hers as his two personal cards were slid to him. He saw Mira take her heavy boots from the table as she was dealt her hole cards.

With an arm draped carelessly over the back of her scratched wooden chair, Mira peeked at her cards, and then pinned them back flat on the table. Marcus watched her lean back, lift her legs, and plop them back on the table. It was a bit more than the average poker face, but Marcus still had no idea what to make of it. Finally, he lifted the corners of his own cards. Two eights—one spade and one heart. This could be either very good or very bad. The other four men—two of them Mira's own mercs—did the same.

Ignoring the usual rules, the first bet was given to the top dog at the table. But apparently Mira wasn't quite ready to name her bet. Instead, she toyed with the pin on one of the grenades strapped across her chest. With each flick, the pin was pulled dangerously loose. Unable to help himself, Marcus swallowed.

"Markie, dear, you're rather cozy with those protoss, aren't you?"

"Sure," Marcus replied. "Everyone's got a need for minerals, Mira. And I happen to offer a very nice alien discount." A few mercenaries chuckled. To Marcus's relief, so did Mira. He let himself take a drink from his beer.

"You know, I took a job the other day. A very wealthy man wasn't too happy about his partner flaking on some deal or another and wanted him gone, if you follow me," Mira said, her tone casual as ever as though she were talking about the weather. "He had a lot of fancy toys and security to protect him, but they didn't really help him much in the end. Did it, boys?" Loud voices answered her as Mira's Marauders gloated over their recent victory.

Mira continued, "Soon as we emptied out that fancy little estate of his, I found what our little backstabber was keeping from his friend. And let me tell you, it was quite a find."

Marcus realized he was gripping his beer bottle a little too tightly and relaxed his hand. "Pray tell."

Instead of answering, Mira scooted a small stack of black chips towards the center of the table. "I will if you double my bet."

The two players between her and Marcus called, matching the mercenary boss's bet. When it was Marcus's turn, they eyed him carefully. He emptied the last of his beer and pushed in a stack of black chips that was twice as tall as Mira's, sorely hoping Jamie wasn't watching.

The remaining two players folded. Marcus lifted a hand and waved over a server. "Another Fireman's Four," he said. He could practically hear Jamie's voice: You're betting more than you've got, and you're still buying? To be honest, he wasn't sure he'd be betting this much if he were completely sober. Maybe taking those shots with those mercs earlier wasn't such a good idea.

The dealer burned a card by setting it aside, and dealt three cards to the center of the table. As he did, Mira continued, "He was holding onto some tech that belonged to those mouthless freaks. Found it in the Lontimar System of all places. You know, if I didn't have a reputation to keep, I would've liked to keep them for myself. I've got a good friend who would pay double what my client was offering for them."

The pink-haired mercenary paused. Marcus realized he hadn't even looked at the community cards yet. One eight of clubs, one six of diamonds, and one six of clubs. Looks like lady luck was on his side tonight.

They came to the second round of bets. The first two bets started at the big blind, which to Marcus was already quite high. He could already feel his bank account crying out in despair as he matched. Mira, of course, raised the bet by quite a lot. What was in the pot probably seemed like chump change to her, but to Marcus it was a few contracts worth of credits.

Another card was burned, and then the dealer laid down the turn card—king of hearts. It wasn't the card Marcus was hoping for, but there was still one more community card to be played. Not to mention he already had a full house to rely on.

The final bets started. It began with a raise from the big blind. Marcus swallowed down a groan. He matched the raised amount. Mira, of course, brought the bet to a dizzying amount. The last player, after much deliberation, folded with agony painted over his face.

The dealer set aside one last card, and then placed the final river card down. Nine of clubs. He still didn't have anything better than a full house, and the fact that Mira was betting so much made him nervous. Still, he had already put too much in to back down. It was time to put his faith in his hand. The big blind was on him, so it was his turn to bet first. Marcus matched. Mira tripled it. The remaining player sweated, and then finally folded.

It was time for the showdown. Eyes turned to the mercenary. Mira had raised last, so her hand was to be shown first. She reached out and flipped the cards that were by her resting feet.

Seven of clubs and ten of clubs. She had a straight flush. Marcus felt his stomach drop. He flipped his cards to show his beaten full house, mumbling, "Congrats." Yeah, Jamie was going to kill him for sure. He really shouldn't have ordered that extra Fireman's.

"Markie, you know I hate seeing you so downtrodden," Mira said as she placed her feet down to pull the pot towards her. "So how about a deal, then?"

"Deal? What do you want, Mira?"

"I didn't get to finish my story," she said. "Where was I? Ah, so the little backstabber was dead and we had his oh so precious protoss machinery. I was still in the midst of deciding whether I ought to do a little double-crossing myself when we were hit. They moved so fast, they cut through my boys like they were nothing—my Marauders! Then they snatched my machinery and disappeared."

"Who?"

"I asked you if you were cozy with the protoss," Mira said. "I'm not dumb enough to get near Aiur, so I need you to lure some out to where I can get them. Then I'll take care of the rest—your end of the deal will be done."

Marcus couldn't believe what the mercenary was asking him to do. "I… Mira, I'm just a contractor…" He leaned forward. "What do you plan to do with them?"

"You bait out the protoss for me, and you're done. The rest isn't your concern."

Marcus paused. He had a very, very good idea what 'the rest' entailed. Mira had lost her payload to the protoss, and she wasn't happy.

"Markie, it's not a hard decision, is it? Here, let me help you." She took two large stacks of chips that Marcus had bet in and shoved them away. "That will be forgiven if you take my deal."

Marcus glanced over to the counter. Jamie was glaring at him from where he sat. Having to lose that amount of money was crazy. Declining a deal with Mira Han was even crazier. "Mira, darling, you'll get your protoss."

"You're such a sweetheart, Markie. I look forward to working with you."

Addendum: And that's when Marcus learned that all that 'heart of the cards' stuff was bullshit.