Starcraft Fanfic pt.1
The whole of the moon was a graveyard. Several artillery pieces were strewn about the local area which should have been a base. Apparently, it once was, from the signs of plasma-grade residue left on just about everything in sight.
"Protoss."
One of the few mercenaries left planetside was Mourne, a captain in his own right at some point. When the Zerg struck, it left a bad enough taste in his mouth that the dominion had left him and everyone he knew on some damned mining rock. His whole dig was turned into a mutated hell, and as one of the few survivors, still remembered the faces of those other men. Maybe they weren't good men, nor were they great, but now they were all but memories that would soon die with him.
Now, he had even more faces to add to those that were left to the damned Zerg, all ripped apart one by one. Fellow mercenaries, most looking for a bigger share than what they were promised, had run across their area. The bastards had tanks for gods sake. Were they really so intent on killing? The local populace was laughable. Their munitions hadn't even breached the hull of his power armor. Who brought tanks to deal with these natives?
Mourne's radar went off. The local tower buzzed and rang loud in his helmet: ge was half a second away from yelling contact, but stopped himself, stopped thinking or panicking. Suddenly, he couldn't hear it anymore too well. All he saw was his gun, the little dial near the edge of one handgrip, custom made to fit his gloves so as never to drop it.
Mourne was completely alone, lost on a horrid moon with cutthroat mercs, and had twelve shells left in his gaus rifle. No packs. No ammo. Not even a damned spare firearm to kill himself when it ran dry. He'd thought about it before, back on the old mining facility. The gun to his head had felt cool then, the barrel awakening something deep inside him, some last vestige of a will to live and fight on through what would be a Zerg hive only hours later.
Mourne pushed the rifle against his helmet. He couldn't feel it this time. He probably wouldn't even hear or see anything. No, this time, it would be over, and boss would find somebody else to go on this suicide mission that he was told would be easy money. "Easy money my ass."
The audible click from the gun set off a warning in his helmet. A green message flashed over his visor: Friendly target detected: Cancelling firing sequence. A short audio file played through his head. "You have your orders, Mr. Frenon, and I expect you to follow them, even to your death. Kimstein out." The servos in his armor turned his arms outward, pointing the gun off towards the oncoming horde. What it was, he didn't know, nor how many. The radar had interfaced with too many hostiles to properly count anymore.
But he knew. Only one thing came so relentlessly, so continuously that it swept over everything and left only more of the same in its wake. Before the first sharp appendage or slithering mutation made it over the hill, Mourne already knew that the Zerg had finally caught up with him.
"Protoss."
One of the few mercenaries left planetside was Mourne, a captain in his own right at some point. When the Zerg struck, it left a bad enough taste in his mouth that the dominion had left him and everyone he knew on some damned mining rock. His whole dig was turned into a mutated hell, and as one of the few survivors, still remembered the faces of those other men. Maybe they weren't good men, nor were they great, but now they were all but memories that would soon die with him.
Now, he had even more faces to add to those that were left to the damned Zerg, all ripped apart one by one. Fellow mercenaries, most looking for a bigger share than what they were promised, had run across their area. The bastards had tanks for gods sake. Were they really so intent on killing? The local populace was laughable. Their munitions hadn't even breached the hull of his power armor. Who brought tanks to deal with these natives?
Mourne's radar went off. The local tower buzzed and rang loud in his helmet: ge was half a second away from yelling contact, but stopped himself, stopped thinking or panicking. Suddenly, he couldn't hear it anymore too well. All he saw was his gun, the little dial near the edge of one handgrip, custom made to fit his gloves so as never to drop it.
Mourne was completely alone, lost on a horrid moon with cutthroat mercs, and had twelve shells left in his gaus rifle. No packs. No ammo. Not even a damned spare firearm to kill himself when it ran dry. He'd thought about it before, back on the old mining facility. The gun to his head had felt cool then, the barrel awakening something deep inside him, some last vestige of a will to live and fight on through what would be a Zerg hive only hours later.
Mourne pushed the rifle against his helmet. He couldn't feel it this time. He probably wouldn't even hear or see anything. No, this time, it would be over, and boss would find somebody else to go on this suicide mission that he was told would be easy money. "Easy money my ass."
The audible click from the gun set off a warning in his helmet. A green message flashed over his visor: Friendly target detected: Cancelling firing sequence. A short audio file played through his head. "You have your orders, Mr. Frenon, and I expect you to follow them, even to your death. Kimstein out." The servos in his armor turned his arms outward, pointing the gun off towards the oncoming horde. What it was, he didn't know, nor how many. The radar had interfaced with too many hostiles to properly count anymore.
But he knew. Only one thing came so relentlessly, so continuously that it swept over everything and left only more of the same in its wake. Before the first sharp appendage or slithering mutation made it over the hill, Mourne already knew that the Zerg had finally caught up with him.