CHAPTER ONE: HALF-WARRIOR
That's what they called him. Only half a living thing. Only half a warrior. Which he supposed was better than none at all. He was a half-life that walked among them as if he were one of them, spinning through light and dark, although he could never be a part of the Khala. Their contempt was equalled only by his sorrow. The Dragoons and Stalkers and other reborn warriors were honoured, in their own way, but he, he was hated. To die was a sorrow even to those who thirsted for a worthy death – but his existence was clearly… he supposed it made light of sacrifice. Yet they would never know what sacrifice he had made. Except that he was living with it at every moment.
The Nerazim looked at him with a gaze of mockery and contempt. "Can your metal legs keep up, then?" he asked. Amos determined that they shall.
The protoss had always been in two places, they lived both in the spirit, but also in their works. The evidence of their power. But he, he was more a product of their works in the eyes of many warriors, no matter how he felt. The sacred was respected, but those who had created the Purifiers had been condemned as false worship.
Of all beings, he would have thought the Nerazim would have understood, for they understood much it seemed, that the Khalai had lost sight of. But if they did, this one in particular had no love for him.
He followed the dark Templar, making their way over the treacherous mountains to his colony, where all transporters had been taken off-line. There was talk of a traitor, and also the works of Amon's servant, the one who disguised himself as a human named "Duran", and others besides.
The dark Templar excelled in the art and skills of concealing secrets they did not wish any to find. Even an entire colony. He found that despite the seething hatred and animosity he felt constantly being levelled towards him, he admired them nonetheless. For in this battle for survival, their warrior hearts had been allowed to shine, and it filled him with a sense of hope, whatever his own place.
The path was cold and desolate, and they walked alone. Of course, the elements bothered the powerful psionic warrior little more than he, who did not feel anything he did not wish to. An odd decision on the part of the original makers, but he, or his forebears had been forged as a tool, a psi-blade extended from the forearms of their greatest warriors gone to Adun's rest, so their service to Aiur would never end – the Sentinels were already forged things, not things to be tested. He considered this as a parable many times. So was he lesser or greater for it? He pondered this often, realising that his meditations no longer took part in the power of the khala that bound all protoss. In a sense he was free of these things. No longer did they aid him, straighten out his thoughts, they now belonged only to him – but he found that in this freedom he was not prevented from considering the things that mattered to him.
He may have been a machine, one with a questionable spirit, but it was one that could at least think – and this he knew with the certainty of memories from his past self.
