I do not own, in any aspect that entitles dominion (not the Mengsk kind at least) of any variation, Naruto nor Starcraft.
Wish I did though...
Warning: Contains swearing.
To those who may not be aware of it: The appearance of armor, weaponry, and the like in the flashbacks are closer related to the older models (StarCraft) whereas the non flashback getup is modern day (StarCraft2). If you are not familiar with the designs, then the only suggestion I have is to search the web to remedy that situation.
They call me a Spectre
Chapter 3: What do you do when they come for you...
(Flashback!)
Mina de oro
"Target is just ahead, any questions?"
"Can we-"
"Rephrasing: Any questions that won't make me want to shove a wrist mounted flamethrower into their suit?"
"Nope..." Sergeant Frankfurt Jones did nothing to prevent the grin hidden under the blackened visor of his tank burdened hardskin armor, yet everyone knew it was there regardless of the lack of sight. Everyone save for one Ghost however...
Omega squad's target: Scoro nest, one of many colonies that plagued miners in above ground operations due to natural granite-like skin that protected the colossal scorpion-like creatures from most infantry assaults. A company of tanks and vulture runners flushed out all the matured defenders, now all that remained was to destroy the eggs that cannons could not reach, and the bulk of a vulture proved a greater hindrance than aid in the narrowed corridors of the underground cavern that insects called home; they could fit, but sudden turns in the twisting labyrinths robbed the vultures of their precious speed. This wasn't a problem for infantry however, and infantile Scoro were easy pickings till they reached a more matured state where their carapace starts to adapt the same properties of their means of protection much like if not exactly like their adult counterparts.
In any event, the squad of six crossed the threshold of the cavern and began their descent into the darkness without nothing but the hardwired floodlights built into the hardskins of marine, firebat, and medic variants of the armor while their sixth relied on the constantly self adjusting tri-lens visor of his mask. Standard issue for all ghosts, not terribly practical when it came to using a sniper scope with the tubing the lenses consisted of and its automatic adjustment from normal vision to night vision was at best... annoying with its cheap quality and the fact he couldn't manually shut it off and viciously destroy it. Whenever his lenses detected a distinct lack of light from any direct source, such as flashlights pointed away from him for example, it automatically switched to 'night vision,' which itself was more harmful than useful: The background was an undefined dark green backdrop till he approached an object, which more often than not he wouldn't be able to see even after running into it. Anything it picked up, say people such as his squad mates for example, that his mask did see came out as headache inducing bright green humanoid blobs. As for detecting lights... staring into the sun was in all probability far less harmful than seeing a light in 'night vision,' and made walking under trees or anything similar to it complete and utter hell if nothing else.
Last but not least the design of the mask made it take minutes to put on and remove for even the most experienced of ghosts, and setting it up improperly made one literally blind to the world till the wearer redid the setup. Unfortunately most of the standard ghost equipment for ghosts was completely useless if one item was either missing or wasn't working properly... making the mask mandatory.
Ghost equipment, ever living proof that the Confederacy does not care for anything or anyone not overly useful to them.
Cheap bastards...
The Ghost muffled a pained grunt when his booted foot smacked against an outlying boulder of a rock and the material buckled enough for his actual foot to feel it.
Ghost equipment... where nudity on a battlefield actually looks like a good idea.
XVX
"Right... no scoro... does this mean our job's done?"
"I second that motion!"
"Can we go for nachos?"
Sergeant Jones heavily sighed as the triplets' argument devolved to a three way battle for "what's for dinner" while he himself surveyed the one and only cavern that could house the insects' eggs. Only there were no eggs. There were no newborn nor adolescent scoro... at least living ones; the only enemies they faced were on the verge of decomposing. Outside of the sentries that the tanks and vultures took care of, there seemed to be none down here despite what their numbers suggested.
Strange to say the least.
"Anything Shrimp?" Ghost, modern day commandos and go-to assassins for governments and shadowy organizations geared with the proper equipment to... 'liberate' government Ghosts or had the connections to an active rogue. Being far from normal by nature, they came host to several abilities only they could comprehend, a scientist specialized in the psionic field, or better yet the Protoss' ability to understand since it made up their very nature... or at least a large part of it. One of the many strange, and slightly disturbing, abilities a ghost can wield, provided that they are trained and know what they are doing, is the ability to detect other life forms usually with the same general mutation or ability that makes them what they are. A little more focus and they can at least vaguely sense something without this 'gift' so to speak. That, and ghosts have night vision where marine suits equipped with any kind of light were only as flexible as far as the chest, or in some cases the shoulder, was concerned.
"Something's there..." their junior member rasped. It was enough to elicit the cocking of one of Frankfurt's brows. The fact that someone who may or may not be twelve or so years old, determining by size alone since the boy in question practically lived in his suit if the time spent with him was an indicator, was sketchy on the face of it; one didn't send a child in the Ghost Program to work with a squad, any squad for that matter. The one and only theory he could wrap his head around was the idea that this may be some kind of experiment cooked up by the eggheads and officials involved with the Ghost Program... that or he was some kind of troublemaker that throwing him to the wolves was less of a hassle for them. But the question was what kind of experiment was he involved with and if he was aware of it. Whatever it was, it was obvious that they wouldn't risk a possible failure by sending an untrained boy out as made evident with a brief demonstration to gauge his competency and skills.
So either their new squad mate just trained enough to be reliable or there was a malfunction he was too embarrassed to talk about...
"Aw... why can't a job be easy!"
"All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy..."
"We demand a vacation!"
"If I stuffed my own flamethrower in my suit and used it, would it count as suicide or a mercy killing?" Frankfurt idly pondered to himself. "Light's up! Let's see if those ugly bastards suddenly learned to climb." With the underlying threat of a potential ambush, interrogating the new kid had to be put on hold for the time being; "Something's there" undoubtedly demanded a priority alert than a technical issue.
With grumbling the floodlights, attached to the pauldrons of the power armor rose to meet the order. "Oh shit..."
They found the scoro... what was left of them at least along with their eggs. He should've identified the markers left behind by the corpses they found. Cold, angry arachnid eyes glared balefully back at them as they dug into the unprotected carapaces of the gigantic scorpions and defenseless shells of their unborn brethren. There was an official name to them, to the creatures that looked eerily like the tarantulas of earth so many centuries ago but with the same granite colored hair to make them hard to spot much like their scorpion-like prey, but they were more commonly referred to by another name used by miners and soldiers alike for their feeding habits: Vampires. Natural predator to the scoro whose abilities were directly proportionate to their size; the bigger they are, the meaner and faster they are. The largest recorded Vampire was on par to a command center in height, thus requiring something akin to a team of wraiths or a battlecruiser to destroy with minimal casualties...
However that didn't mean an entire cave roof filled to the brim with vampires were not a threat on their own. Especially to an infantry unit when the defining characteristics, outside of size, for the bloodsucking spiders were their outstanding ability to jump three times their (current) height and live, secrete acidic venom to enable them to tear into matured scoro, and the ability to spin webs for rappelling purposes.
"Call it!" Further orders were not needed, even for the youngest of the group, to turn tail and run from a descending horde of tarantulas as tall as the Ghost's knees. Up ahead, the indistinct chatter of Corporal Denise Zimmer on the radio could be heard over the raucous of storming feet followed closely by the dull roar of hundreds of vampires on the hunt. What she said mattered little to those on the retreat, and even far less to a ghost who ran near blindly through the snaking tunnel with nothing but the sounds of mechanized footsteps and the budding familiarity of their individual psyche to guide him while the ravenous army that followed only made his need for escape all the more dire in nature.
But in a sense it only made things worse for him. Emotions, any kind of emotion for that matter, was a double edged sword when in the extremes or just overriding one's common sense. Anger, or better yet rage, though often making one physically more powerful through adrenaline and aggression, made one much more prone to making a mistake. Love can likewise make someone abundantly powerful, or at least daunting in nature, through sacrifice or becoming more daring, though in extreme cases it bordered on psychotic obsession that made one into a unreasonable killer at times.
Fear was no exception in the spectrum of emotions and their boons as well as shortcomings. The opposite of anger where survival mattered more than victory as often the case, though there were reverses at times. But in a matter of surviving, fear gave one the distinct advantage of speed given the adrenaline that would empower a being in a fight was conversely giving said being the power to flee. Yet like anger, it too made one sloppy at times. Combined with at least two thirds of its instigators, poor sight and rugged terrain of an underground network, it made for a potent combination for disaster.
A disaster made manifest in the form of a collision with a stalagmite.
If they heard his pained "oof!" as it was uttered, it wasn't made evident with the distressingly fading stomps of the hardskin armor when he crashed into the ground... while the counterpart skittering of hundreds if not thousands of legs overlapped what noise the retreating squad could make in their haste, not to mention all but blot out what hopes the ghost had to escaping. Arms sprung out to push himself up to make a run for it, only one arm responded while the other screamed murder in its own right. One arm was enough to do the job though more sloppily compared to an act of two arms; using the presumably injured arm would probably be more detrimental than helpful.
Near blind panic struck him, his heart hammering into his chest that it seemed to be on the verge of breaking bone and sinew, as he took off once more in the only direction available to him while the ascending horde relentlessly pursued him still to close the slowly decreasing gap. They were close to leaping distance. Yet fear once again aided the want to survive and gave distance between the two sides only by the small virtues of the panic induced speed and the small stature of the arachnids seeking a new meal.
It didn't last forever however.
Again he collided with something that his cheap equipment couldn't pick up and again he was on the ground with his soon-to-be killers while he writhed ever so slightly in pain even the overcharged nerves could feel. Calling for help was pointless, his squad left him behind either knowingly or not... neither of which mattered now. The distance between them, though guessed, was too short to attempt to flee once more... and who was to say he wouldn't collide with something else. The only viable option he had, other than lay down and pray they end this quickly, lied with the only weapon that never left his grip since the mission began.
C-Ten rifle, signature weapon of ghosts everywhere, and probably the only piece of equipment that the Confederacy went through the trouble of making worthwhile; the only real flaw it had was he needed a second hand to switch its function between a semi-auto to an automatic weapon.
"POW!"
Eyes clenched in pain rivaling his ruined arm as the bright light of gunfire fired blindly into the numerous spiders.
"POW!"
Each bullet hit something to say the least, though in all probability it hit the stone walls if not the onrushing horde.
"POW!"
If only he had two hands... then bullets wouldn't be his only 'defense.' If he was able, he could-
"Burn!" someone near cackled...
Again... staring into the sun was most likely far less harmful than his 'night vision' setting. The vampires screeched and retreated as far as ground forces were concerned from the sudden onslaught of flames courtesy of the wrist mounted perdition flamethrowers that were standard issue for firebats, the screeching of the now fleeing ground set of spiders were probably the only cloaking the ghost had to disguising his own surprised cry of anguish. Above them crawled a second set of vampires eager for the kill, some even rappelling down with their silken ropes even when the flames turned on them.
Unfortunately as Frankfurt quickly noticed, his focus on one set only gave ground to the other. Without thinking he plucked the down ghost, still clutching his rifle, from the ground and fled from the advancing horde.
Up ahead...
"This is where we hold them! This is where fight! This is where they-!" a triplet began spouting, only to be cut off over the radio. "JUST SHOOT THEM ALREADY YOU DAMN IDIOTS!"
"The sarge has no humor..." one groaned.
"Right, on the count of three then!"
"One!"
"Two!"
"Three-"
"Don't you bloody dare-" Frankfurt started...
"PORK FAT RULES!" they all screamed as they rained lead death from their spot as cover for the sergeant and his passenger. "I hate you guys..." the man grumbled. The remark was never dignified as he passed the trio, passed the corporal, and strode into the light that was the surface followed shortly by his squad.
"Guns trained on the mouth ladies! Get the hell out of there!" someone barked over the radio.
With the merciful switch to normal vision, the ghost peered over his own slumped form to see seige tanks deployed on the ridge-
(End Flashback!)
XVX
Blackwater Station, Mar Sara
"Warning: Zerg forces detected! Warning: Zerg forces detected!"
The klaxons alone were enough to rose the slumbering ghost from atop the roof of a barracks, but the warning of a familiar terror was sure enough to drain whatever grogginess he would've had. Already the base of the split level island rose up from its leisurely stupor to man the perimeter, garrison the bunkers, and harvest the resources yet to be collected to supply the soon-to-be battlefront that undoubtedly protected the base. The base itself sat on a plateau, though the base itself was split level by design, between a mountain wall and a gorge that prevented most from entering the base outside of the two bridges that connected it at the furthest corners, northwest and northeast respectively, of the base's bottom half.
Sitting on the other side of the canyon sat the town of Blackwater, just in ear shot of the klaxons... the news was taken with the same calm acceptance as just learning that a mass murderer was breaking down the front door with a chainsaw as a weapon of choice. Already marines tried to calm the terrorized masses as they ushered them to further safety inside the base's confines.
Unfortunately it was cold comfort at best to those who have faced the zerg before...
Mean. Vicious. Monstrous. Savage. Bestial. Malicious... no single word could truly describe the creatures often associated with mutations, numbers, and animalistic brutality. Where ever they are, the only brought on death and destruction and left nothing else in their wake. Such is the fate of Blackwater Station... and quite possibly Mar Sara once again after five years of being free of them. The Annual Hydralisk Derby of four years running not withstanding of course.
To the built in screens hardwired into the Raiders' armor, specialized in size and design as dependant of the suit, a message was received: Twenty-five minutes to Evac.
The Ghost almost guffawed as a thought struck him as he double checked the surroundings and the facts. Two bridges, undoubtedly surrounded by zerg, scared civilians, and a holdout till the cavalry arrived and saved them... the only factor that changed was that he wasn't on a dropship to help save the day as it were.
He shook his head as his resolve stowed the mounting desire to chuckle at the small irony to the back burner, there was a job to do after all.
He dropped down from his current place of rest and barreled down the ramp just behind a squad of SCVs (Space Construction Vehicles) as the mechanized workers also rushed to the frontline armed with their drills and spare parts they could steal with their pneumatic clamps to build barricades and more bunkers along the base's side of the bridge.
But their speed in movement and construction were left with something to be desired, the first wave of zerglings were upon them as announced by the rampant destruction of abandoned homes soon followed by the onrush of the bestial creatures, with the ever synonymous image in appearance of a dog-like base given the aesthetics of a insect in skin and wings, the pair of lengthy talons on its back notwithstanding, and their heads still bearing their lipless maws that sat beneath their heads almost indistinctive from their backs if not for the red-orange eyes and the horns curving alongside the underline of their jaws.
Easy to kill, but always came in packs from eight to a thousand...
Already guns were trained upon the charging zerglings by the marines housed at the bridge bunker, northwest side, and the squad, including the ghost, forming a firing line just behind it.
"FIRE!"
The lead pack, and those that followed it, were decimated in a relentless volley as shell after shell ripped into and dismembered the zerglings as they charged forward in a gauntlet they knew they wouldn't survive.
"To anyone hearing this message, we're pinned down near Blackwater Station! Please assist!" someone cried over the radio.
There were no teams he was aware of on patrol...
"Separatists," the ghost surmised to himself. Mar Sara Separatists, rebels of the recently freed eponymous planet who were willing enough to face the Dominion but were not adventurist enough, or motivated enough for that matter, to leave their planet with the Raiders.
"Right, you heard him boys. As soon as the base is secure, I want a team at the ready for search and rescue between waves," Jim Raynor called out over the communicator. A sigh escaped the ghost as he cracked his neck and made his way to the other bridge, the closest exit available to him as per the dot on the onboard mini-map, courtesy of modern day equipment, suggested. While the idea of rescue was certainly welcomed... the erratic behavior of the zerg made any situation disheartening at best when on the defensive. Not to mention they had a tendency to track psionics like himself...
This was an operation that was going to have to wait till a proper squad was formed.
Already more marines poured forth from the upper tier from the barracks as more and more Raiders, and possibly some volunteers from the town proper, to supplement the loose defenses as the bunkers and barricades were installed. Additionally, supply depots were being built from scratch to act as impromptu gates between the bunkers both old and new as the latter was being filled with fresh troops.
"You heard the man! Form up and prepare to move out!" With piqued interest, the ghost peered over his shoulder to see a troop of eight marines and two medics rushing past him to the recently finished, and lowered, supply depot 'gate' leading to the nearest stranded Separatist squad.
It was too early for an attempt...
"Screw it." Better than leaving someone to be ripped apart, eaten, or disintegrated at least by the savage monsters...
A ghost and two more marines joined the fold as the rescue team went to the aid of the stranded rebels.
From the second tier being laden with yet another set of bunkers for assurance should the first line of defense fall, two figures stood along the edge as they observed the happenings below them from tropp movement to additional defenses being constructed. They were none other than James Raynor in his custom black hardskin and Tychus in his own armor that sported the white numbers four-three-fiveon one spaulder and a woman sitting crossed legged in a chair shaped like a Spade in nothing but a red vest, near invisible stockings, high heels, and a chaingun in her hand.
"I've got a question for you Jimmy," Tychus suddenly rumbled.
"Yeah?"
"What's your boy's deal?" The convict's attention was robbed from the terrace below to give his long time partner his attention who in turn turned to him with a perked eyebrow. "Come again?" Raynor drawled.
"You said that boy isn't gonna say a word to me back when we got reunited back at the bar, yet he was speakin' fine back on the train... though he was a little on the rude side for my tastes." The commander couldn't help but smirk back much to the scoundrel's rising curiosity. "I personally don't really call chatter over the radio as talking for him, though it seems to be somethin' of an improvement."
"Huh?"
The former marshal of the very planet he stood on couldn't help but scoff as an anecdote came to mind. "Of course I remember the same thing being said when he shouted out warnings of impending attacks when he's upset."
"You're losin' me Jimmy," Tychus drawled.
"Ah it's nothing..." The sharp crisp ringing "beep-beep!" of his HUD alerted him to the recent rescue of the Separatist squad. A second ringing of a higher pitch also alerted of an incoming horde of zerg coming from the same general direction, an alert that doubtlessly was sent to the Raiders below if the sudden flurry of activity was to be explained.
"Uh Jimmy, I think your boy is more touched in the head than he admitted back on our last mission."
The rebel commander screwed his eyes shut. He didn't truly need to look at Tychus to learn he managed to obtain a pair of binoculars from seemingly nowhere with his, James, brief bout of inattention. "He's standing in front of the zerg's warpath, isn't he?"
"Yep."
"Squad rushing past him to get to the base?"
"Yep."
"Gun holstered?"
"He's done somethin' like this before hasn't he?" Tychus suddenly countered with his own question.
"Yep..."
"Holy crap..." Tychus murmured from his roost as the mountain wall between the ghost and the advancing horde suddenly... came to life as dozens of pillars, half a meter in diameter, shot out from the rock and drove into the zerg. "That bartender must've slipped somethin' into my drink," Tychus growled as he shook both his head clear and his binoculars for good measure.
"Vision's just fine Tychus," Jim replied with a smirk derived from Tychus' disheveled state.
"That's just not natural, that is," he, Tychus, grouched as he returned his attention to the ghost, the latter mopping up wounded stragglers before returning to the safety of the base. "Something taught at the Ghost Academy I take it?" the man inquired. "Not exactly..." Lowering his binoculars, Tychus turned to his former partner in crime during the days of the Confederacy with an upturned brow.
"How much do you know about lost colonies?"
"Enough to know that they ain't a myth," Tychus drawled once more before turning his attention to the ghost as he strolled into the base, the depot 'gate' closing promptly behind him after crossing the threshold. "And I take it he ain't your average ghost, am I right?"
"Yep-" The sharp tone of a the HUD being alerted drew Raynor's attention. Fifteen minutes till the evacuation. Whatever that was to be said lay abandoned as the Raiders' commander reached for a nearby guess rifle laying on a crate, armed himself, and made his way towards the ramp. "Aw... no time for story tellin'?" Tychus half teased.
Not even halfway to the ramp, the commander stopped. "With the zerg, it's only a matter of time before they find a way to crush the defenses. And even then, they'll think of a way to bypass them completely." He didn't turn around in his reply, nor did he await a response to it.
XVX
"Mayday, mayday! We're trapped by the zerg, they're burrowed all around us! If you can reach us, please help!"
"We need immediate support! Hostiles all around us. Is anyone out there!?"
Rescue teams were dispatched, though not all came back in one piece. The same could be said of the Separatists that lived to make it back to the base. The zerg were as relentless as they were plentiful, and the creep spawned by the pustule-like 'tumors' that snaked their way across the land before the base only served to hasten their creators' arrival as well as enable the spawning of territorial defenses to rip apart or disembowel those brave or foolish enough to attack them.
Yet that wasn't the worst of it. Drop pods were hurtling into the inner sanctum of the base bearing low numbers of zergling and the occasional hydralisk as there serpentine forms and broad elongated heads made them unmistakable to those who weren't even familiar with them. Nydas worms, colossal worms forever associated with eased travel for zerg ground forces with no standard length, were spotted sprouting from the ground in the bases bearing troops from other zerg colonies to supplement the now near limitless army fielded against a base of marines and medics. But the most damning were the squads of Mutalisks, flying worm-like creatures that bore an enlarged orifice of sorts on their 'tails' that spawned glaives, when they aided their grounded bethren from the air by ripping into soldiers, bunkers, and missile turrets alike even as the last tried to fend off the airborne threat.
But a new foe made itself known. It was short in stature, much like a zergling, yet far wider and bore far thicker armor that it took a squad to destroy them where two to four could handle a single creature, in most cases at least, of the swarm. Two stubby blades angled forward helped mark their appearance as well as the extra pair of legs that supported them. There was no name given to them just yet... though "Spewer" was certainly at the forefront of many a mind for its eponymous method of attack of spewing acid that ate armor and flesh indiscriminately. The only saving grace the defenders of the base had was that everyone was too busy fighting for their lives to worry about the kill count these creatures racked up.
The first tier was lost and those that could fled to the relative safety of the second line of defense as it was being freshly augmented with a newer set of bunkers and turrets as the clock counted down from the original estimated twenty minute mark. The only reprieve the marines and medics had was the small show the ghost had given him in the erection of barriers made from the now disturbed foundation of their base that kept the zerg from reaching the only ramp that lead to the base... for the time being at least.
It was all the advantage the marines needed to rip into the swarming ranks that clawed, shot into, and vomited madly at the stone walls that denied them carnage.
"MUTAS!" Already the missile turrets sprung into action as they targeted their intended foe and opened fire while bunkered marines and their mobile counterparts helped fight off the airborne threats while those unaffected, or rather out of range, concerned themselves with the numbers that continued to be reinforced.
"Come on, come on!" Trucks confiscated from the base's garage slowly piled into the narrow gap between the torn fortifications as the zerg continued to mindlessly hack into them. Yet they, the trucks, weren't a barrier by nature in both design and its newfound purpose. It would be funny in its own slightly twisted way if the situation wasn't so dire, and the fact that people in majority were in general mistrust of spider mines even when the zerg came calling.
"Commander, this is Matt Horner. Just hold on! Cavalry's on the way!"
"Take your time, Matt. No rush!" James replied in what good humor that could be found...
From behind, given forewarning but a second beforehand, a nydus worm in all its fanged glory overlapped by a pair of thick pincer-like appendages on one side erupted into the base with a roar befitting its size.
"GUN IT DOWN!" Even the marines in the makeshift 'gorge' abandoned their efforts to join in the fight with speeds enhanced by built in stimpacks while all available souls sought the creature's end before its cargo was unleashed with the reopening of its maw. Even a few of the more cowardly SCVs brought their drills to bear while others sought to complete their duties in panic induced haste.
Their fears turned to morbid curiosity when green-black blood was puked out as opposed to the kin that made up it the bloodthirsty zerg before it teetered, and crashed, to the side to rasp its death wail. Their curiosity to what had happened was soon forgotten as the zerg continued their assaults by land and air.
In the 'trench' created by the walls, a likewise cry of death was heard when another worm sought to surprise the Raiders/Separatist defenses by crashing through the trucks and inadvertently activating the trap that was aimed for the brood that continued to hack at the now shaky walls...
The sacrifice of the nydus worm was the final push needed for the swarm.
Overpowering the infuriatingly longstanding defense, the aliens madly dashed through flames, their newly minted dead, and bullets alike as they came crashing into another pair of bunkers given an impromptu gate of supply depots. "Keep at it boys! Our Ride is on its way!" Jim bellowed as he chucked a grenade at the onrushing forces that tore into the first thing they spotted despite the rising kill count.
"Cavalry's arrived! Anyone still alive down there?" Hurtling out from orbit came the behemoth-class battlecruiser bringing to bear its might as entire battalions of zerg storming their way to the front soon learned in their fiery deaths. From its cargo bays dropships came into the open with only the escort provided by the Hyperion as their cover as it fried everything it passed over and those that dared to come near in its own attack on the cruiser.
"Good to see ya, Matt! Welcome to the party!"
"Which is being crashed!" Tychus screamed as he severed zergling after zergling that continued to storm the failing frontline.
"Glad to see we made it in time, Sir. Let's get you boys out of there."
From its resting place, the artifact bearing flatbed of a construction vehicle awoke from its slumber as its driver gunned it towards the nearest dropship available, an act repeated all over the base now that the Hyperion reduced the seemingly numberless zerg that charged in despite their knowing doom. Few teams lingered behind long enough to ensure the surviving bugs remained few in number.
Tychus however was not a part of one of those teams. With thanks to the power armor that was both his strength and protection in most fights, he ran to the nearest ship yet to be filled to the brim. Movement caught his eye unlike anything else despite his rush and his attention turned to a somewhat curious sight to him...
The ghost, like everyone else, was in retreat too... at the same speed of someone on the wrong end of a back alley mugging. He bore no rips, tears, or even blood, other than zerg that is, on his suit. Had his powers taken a toll on him? Perhaps...
As for the ghost, he continued to limp forward to the dropship that eagerly awaited him just as eagerly as its pilot wanted to leave now that the base's occupants were almost nonexistent. He tried to will himself forward, yet his body screamed "no!" despite the circumstances around him. Thoughts were spared as motivators to give him an edge, but were not given heed by his protesting body...
Till someone intervened of course. "Unless you want to be zerg food kid, I'd suggest you learn to get a move on a lot faster!" In a once of déjà vu, an armored hand plucked the ghost from the ground while its owner hurtled towards the dropship that awaited them.
And his impromptu oath of silence was broken by a short scream of panic when Tychus successfully chucked him to the other end of the troop carrier.
"Come on, let's go already!" Tychus barked.
The groan from the downed ghost was only masked by the hiss of hydraulics that kicked into action when no other marine, medic, or SCV was left on the field.
A/N: For the record, though inspired by the comments of the SC2 firebat... there is a backstory to the "Pork fat rules" for Omega squad.
Monkeybandit2, making off with your attention! No refunds.