CHAPTER TWO: THE HAND THAT STRIKES
The Zerg attacked the world then, their existence had been revealed, and the Zerg were uncanny in seeking them out even when they wished to hide.
For Amos, it renewed memories as if they were fresh. He remembered how he had died.
He had suspected the hand of Kerrigan behind it, the attack on his world. The Queen of Blades, their cunning master, a cunning that rivalled that of the dead Overmind itself, but with a certain and undeniable ferocity, cruelty, a cleverness that was more subtle and more deadly – for she had been born into the art of hunting protoss on their own fields of battle. And his belief had been vindicated, for she made an appearance on the battlefield itself, stalking them through the tunnels they used to escape.
His life on that world had been shattered like a gauntlet on a psi barrier, a million discarded pieces to seep into the ground like rain, but he would not let it be for naught.
He had stood before her, blocking the way, as many Khalai fled to the secret matrices hidden beneath the colony.
"Slay me, then, witch of the Zerg, my life is already accounted as nothing in my own eyes. If you kill me I shall simply be reborn, and again, and I shall hunt you until the last spark of light has gone out."
She smiled then, an oddly pleasant expression from the monster, although it had baffled him the first time he had seen it in a being. "That would be amusing."
But then her expression darkened as if considering something. And frowning, she left. And Amos was surprised to discover he still remained. He was no threat to her, he was certain, but it seemed that the being still remembered something of the soul it had been. Alas that the protoss were not the gods, the Xel'Naga – for even they had no answers to such things that had not already been tested.
Days later was when he had died, when the Swarm itself had descended on the world in whole, not merely an advance army, and snuffed out all light. He remembered then his own words. He had shouted at the Queen of Blades from the closing void, knowing even then that his anger would not be abated.
And here he was. A weapon of himself, his own anger like a dagger flung from the dark, finding a synthetic edge with which to cut once more. The knowledge filled him with pride, but the other protoss did not see such things. They had not cut through that veil.
The Sentinels themselves did not wear veils as the dark Templar did, to hide their expression, for their faces were now permanent fortresses, hiding the true life within.
But with his actions he would speak louder than words that he was a warrior, worthy to stand beside those he called his brothers. This mechanical body could not take away his beliefs.
He had been right. He was reborn, although his taunt was a daring one, thinking perhaps only that he might be recovered as a Dragoon, or more. But he had attained that which he had boasted, in truth, if at a terrible price. He who had conquered in battle, could no longer be conquered by it. He could live forever, until his spirit grew too weary, or he wandered too far from the Purifier network and died in darkness.
And thus it was now, as he saw the darkness of the Zerg descending on the light of the Nerazim colony, and the battle was begun although he was too far to join in it. Although it was Amon, and not Kerrigan, that were behind the Zerg now, still were they guided by a master who hated the protoss.
Ice and snow, sheared by darkness. They continued.
