Title: Not Fast Enough
Description: "Abathur reminds Sylvanas of the one job she had."
Notes: I'm very grateful I have an autosave function on the program I use to type these chapters. Otherwise I'd have lost the whole thing.
Notes2: Also, it's not that I'm out of inspiration; rather, it's more out of sheer procrastination and that I don't want my chapters to be too long.
Notes3: I'm primarily a F2P player on Hearthstone, so I don't have any legendaries. I do have an epic Recruiter card for when I purchased a TGT pack with my gold, but that's nothing impressive.
Notes4: This chapter is based off a match I had last week on the new map; the conversation between Abathur and Sylvanas never happened and is a result of creative liberties, which I'll be taking from any other matches I will write future chapters off of.

When the match had ended and everyone had returned to the Manor, Sylvanas had found Abathur standing outside the main entrance, the claw-like fingers on his four hands steepled in front of those beady little eyes and avian beak of a mouth emitting those noxious green fumes. The look he was giving her, from the best she could discern given his alien nature, was smug and triumphant. "Organism Sylvanas," he greeted at her approach with a subtle nod of his head.

She sneered at him. "Don't you start with me! I know why you're here."

"Organism Abathur does not comprehend," he lied, and he pressed his fingers together.

"Well comprehend this: you didn't win the game. You didn't bring down the core. I owned you. I erased you off the face of the map. That's why it took you five minutes to respawn. FIVE." She shoved her hand up close to his face, emphasizing the number of her own outspread fingers.

Abathur made a low, rumbling sound that, to her increasing ire, sounded like laughter. "Terminator still terminated. Not by Abathur. Organism Sylvanas knows this."

And she did, and it infuriated her.

A new battlefield had been introduced into the lineup: the Infernal Shrines. It was part of a months-long event called the Eternal Conflict in which the High Heavens and the Burning Hells waged their war in their pocket dimensions across the Nexus, and Ilarian and Beleth were all too glad to send forth their emissaries to negotiate the terms of agreement with the noble houses and the Powers That Be.

The Shrines had a very simple objective: power up an activated shrine with the souls of thirty demons before the other team. An empowered shrine would open a portal for a massive demon called a Punisher to step out and kick some ass, prioritizing enemy Heroes over forts and keeps. The Punishers even came in three different flavors: Mortar, which unleashed a storm of fire; Frost, which tossed ice that would freeze the ground where it touched; and Arcane, which dropped down bars of magic energy that would spin in place. They punched, they kicked, they jumped and stomped. They could also grab the unlucky sod within arm's reach and fling him or her across the battlefield like a discus or smacked repeatedly like a hammer.

Abathur was lucky to avoid most of the mayhem, as he preferred to hide in niches on the field or in the safety of the core and dispense his symbiotes onto specific Heroes (and just the thought of having his cells and DNA strands in her so he could assist her made Sylvanas itchy and colder than she usually felt). Sometimes he would dig from wherever he was—Point A—emerge onto another part of the area—Point B—plant some locust nests or spit them out before retreating.

So it made sense that, while Sylvanas and her team were getting pounded by the other team and their Punisher, he would take the risk and dig a tunnel toward the opposition's beaten core. All the way on the other side of the Shrines.

Everyone was equipped with a miniature computer provided by the Hero League. It would show the map of the battlefield, the location of each individual Hero, hired mercenaries, and bosses via facial markers (mercs were indicated as a skull, bosses had unique ones), the length of the match, warnings issued of approaching objectives and so on. Such as an unattended core being under attack by bands of minions and catapults with nary a cannon tower or keep to stop them.

Sylvanas recalled she had been taking cover behind a wall, tired and wounded. With her hearthstone in hand she was ready to teleport back to the core to recuperate and deal with the oncoming army when the computer chirped an alert. Having tucked the hearthstone back in a pouch, she dug out the device and checked to see what it was.

Her eyes bulged.

On the screen, in their very base and right on top of the core was Abathur's face.

Abathur, the Evolution Master of Kerrigan's Zerg.

Abathur, whose only weapon of choice other than his locusts and symbiotes was his hands. Hands meant for slapping and clawing.

Abathur, who was slower than Hammer's tank full on fuel while everybody zoomed past her on their mounts and could only crawl like the slug he appeared to be away from danger.

Abathur, who was about to take down the core all by his damn self.

Sylvanas pursed her lips hard, shook her head. "No," she said vehemently. "NO." She scrambled to her feet, snatched her bow, and booked it back to the base, ignoring the Punisher's roars, the crackling ice, and her teammates' cries of pain. "No no no no no no no no no no!"

Closer and closer, the base loomed. But not fast enough. Not enough! Sylvanas screamed and flashed across the glittering white span of the High Heavens toward the creature smacking away at the core, whose shields had deteriorated from the onslaught of spears and hellish magic the minions were flinging.

"NO YOU DON'T!" she cried, and she peppered Abathur full of arrows. He continued scratching until a well-placed arrow in the head literally made him disintegrate.

But still the army had pressed on and the Punisher was drawing near. In her hastiness, Sylvanas picked off the remnants that weren't destroyed by the core's energy beams; it swiveled back and forth, striking down soldiers and catapults (which looked like miniature starships).

Except for the lone locust that was lobbing globules of acidic saliva.

Of all the things that could've brought down the core—the army, the Punisher, the enemy team—it had to be a damn locust.

A locust!

And when Sylvanas had her bow trained on the thing, it was too late.

Abathur drummed his fingers together, studying the rage settling on her face like a mask. His eyes squinted; to a lesser person the emotion in them would be unidentifiable, and Nova, while she had no love for the Zerg, would probably crack a racist joke about the way they were shaped, Sylvanas knew for certain he was making no secret of relishing in her discomfort. The fact that for all her skill she couldn't put an arrow through his locust in time. "Wind runner indeed," he chuckled. "Work harder. Better. Make faster. Stronger. Evolution never over."

Sylvanas nodded tightly. "Oh, I will." She leaned forward and put her face right up to his. "I. WILL. Guard your cradle with your life and sleep with all four eyes open!" She brushed past him with a huff and entered the Manor.