"This planet looks pretty peaceful," Tychus said, exhaling a ring of smoke, his tone laced with suspicion. "But my gut tells me things aren't that simple."
Raynor's gaze swept across the data on the star chart, his brow furrowing slightly.
The surface of Monlyth indeed looked lush and green, but scans were picking up abnormally high energy readings in certain areas, and more importantly—
"Commander!" an operator suddenly shouted, "We're detecting massive life signs and psionic signals on the surface!"
Psionic?
The atmosphere on the bridge instantly turned heavy.
Everyone stopped what they were doing and turned toward the main console in unison.
The operator quickly projected the captured imagery onto the holographic screen.
The display revealed a group of tall humanoid beings clad in gold and silver armor, standing guard at an ancient ruin. Their hands extended twin weapons glowing with azure-blue light, and ominous glows pulsed beneath their visored helmets.
"Protoss…" Raynor's expression immediately darkened, his fingers unconsciously tightening around the edge of the console.
"Protoss—ah! That's right!"
Tychus suddenly smacked his temple with a fist, scattering ash from his cigar. "Moebius Foundation mentioned a bunch of crazies calling themselves Tal'darim guarding some artifact down there."
He turned to Raynor, his tone unusually serious. "Little Jimmy, these guys aren't your friendly Protoss pals. They're Amon's fanatics—the kind that kill without blinking."
Leon, Mike, and Chris exchanged grim looks.
As special operatives transferred from the Human Empire to serve aboard the Hyperion, they had heard of the Protoss—but this would be their first face-to-face encounter.
Mike chimed in appropriately, "According to our intel division, the Tal'darim faction is a confirmed hostile group."
As he spoke, he drew a red line across the holographic map. "Their god, 'Amon,' is some kind of ancient malevolent being."
Raynor's frown deepened.
He stared at the figures in the projection, noting they were placing some kind of energy nodes around the ruins.
"Assault or infiltration?" Matt Horner posed the crucial question. "If it's an artifact—"
Tychus scoffed and cut him off. "Reasoning with religious nutjobs? I'd rather tango with the Zerg."
"…"
Matt's frown deepened, clearly annoyed with his commander's old friend.
"If we go with infiltration…" Chris offered, "our spec-ops unit could be effective. Our goal is to acquire the artifact, not engage in direct conflict with the Tal'darim."
"And maybe nab a few stragglers for biological research," Mike added.
"Capture Protoss?" Matt sounded skeptical. "Wouldn't that spook the whole camp?"
Before the debate could escalate, the operator interrupted again: "Commander! Detecting a large Zerg swarm converging on the ruins!"
The holographic display shifted, showing a black tide writhing across the landscape.
Hydralisks, Zerglings, Ultralisks… the sheer number blanketed the entire scan area, all headed directly toward the Tal'darim-held ruin.
"Damn it!" Raynor slammed a fist onto the console. "Zerg and Protoss, clashing right now?!"
"They're fighting over the artifact," Leon finally spoke. "That thing must be important to both sides."
With that statement, everyone realized they were facing a choice—
Let the two factions fight it out and swoop in later, or deploy immediately into the chaos.
Leon, Mike, and Chris turned their eyes to Jim Raynor, clearly leaving the final decision to the Hyperion's commander. As guests, they'd support either option.
Raynor looked at each of them in turn.
Tychus puffed on his cigar as usual. Matt was already calculating possible extraction routes.
"Prep the landing team," Raynor finally ordered. "But we won't interfere—yet. Let them tear each other apart first."
He flashed a sly grin. "Once they're bloody and tired, we move in for the prize."
"Hahaha!"
Tychus laughed heartily and slapped Leon on the shoulder. "You hear that, pretty boy? Today, we're fishing!"
Soon after—
In the hangar, the lights turned crimson under the blaring alarms, casting long shadows over the flurry of activity.
Dozens of ground crew moved between vehicles, wrenches clanging against steel in rapid cadence.
Four Viking fighters were undergoing final checks. Mechanical arms loaded their missile bays and rotary cannons with the latest aerial and armor-piercing ordnance.
Not far away, three siege tanks rumbled as their tracks rolled over the floor. Their dual 90mm cannons rose and fell with slow hydraulic precision as calibration tests were performed.
"Move it! Zerg and Protoss won't wait for us to finish tea!"
The crew chief's bellow cut through the hangar din.
In one corner, several dozen spec-ops troopers in black nano-combat suits stood out conspicuously.
Unlike the bulky CMC power armor, their gear was sleek and deadly, exuding a refined lethality. Their breathing through full-face masks was calm and steady—as if the coming battle were nothing more than a drill.
"Hey, look over there," a Ranger marine elbowed his buddy, lowering his voice. "Those guys from the Human Empire… give me Ghost-vibes, the bad kind."
His companion sneered. "At least they're not wearing those damn psi dampeners. Still, their gear looks twenty years ahead of ours."
"I heard the Queen of Blades used to be a Ghost," a third marine chimed in. "Our boss sure has exotic tastes."
A round of snickering followed—but it quickly died as several female medics in white CMC armor walked by.
Their eyes unmistakably lingered on the spec-ops team—especially on Leon, who was inspecting his custom hardlight weapon.
Apparently, Leon's charm translated well across universes.
"Tch. What's so hot about that blond pretty boy?" one marine muttered bitterly.
The lead medic stopped, eyes narrowing behind her visor. "At least he knows how to load a magazine properly."
She glanced meaningfully at the lopsided ammo pack on the marine's waist. "And the charm of a mature man is something you kids wouldn't understand."
"Pfft. That buzzcut bruiser over there's more my type," another marine pointed at Chris, who was stretching nearby. "Check out those muscles—he could punch a Ultralisk to death."
"All right, ladies, eyes forward," Tychus's booming voice called from atop a siege tank. "You'll have plenty of time for boy-chasing after the fight."
The hangar intercom crackled with Matt's voice: "All units, landing countdown five minutes. Repeat, landing countdown five minutes."
Instantly, the mood shifted.
Marines performed final checks on their suit seals, medics quietly inventoried medical kits, and the spec-ops team huddled for last-minute tactical review.
Leon stepped to a porthole, watching as the green orb of Monlyth loomed ever closer.
Its surface shimmered with an eerie purple glow—the unholy union of Tal'darim psionics and Zerg creep.
"Remember," Raynor's voice echoed through comms, "our goal is the artifact. We're not here to be heroes. Make it back alive—that's an order."
The plasma valve of the hangar opened, and darkness swallowed the space.
Just before the last light faded, Tychus lit a new cigar. The red ember flared in the shadows:
"Time to hunt, boys and girls."
The heavy engines roared to life in the darkness. A Hercules transport lowered its ramp, and five medevacs ignited their engines, blue ion trails streaking behind them.
Five hundred marines marched into the Hercules and medevacs in tight formation. The metallic clang of CMC boots against the deck echoed dully. Over a dozen medics walked in the center of the column, their white armor stark against the hangar gloom.
Three siege tanks were pulled into the Hercules's cargo bay by heavy haulers.
Leon, Mike, and Chris led their spec-ops team aboard one of the medevacs. Their nano-suits shimmered with adaptive camouflage, blending into the shadows of the cabin.
Jim Raynor and Tychus boarded last—Raynor checking his anti-material rifle, Tychus puffing smoke nonchalantly.
"Formation ready. Requesting launch clearance," the pilot's voice crackled over comms.
"Cleared for launch," came Matt Horner's reply from the bridge. "Good luck out there."
The plasma valve opened fully, revealing the vast black curtain of space.
The Hercules and five medevacs moved out in formation, four Viking fighters trailing close behind, their wings glinting in the starlight.
The fleet glided silently through the void, the Hyperion shrinking behind them until it was just another star.
Monlyth's atmosphere drew closer. From afar, the planet looked like an emerald embedded in black velvet.
But as the convoy pierced the atmosphere, that illusion shattered.
The lush surface was being consumed by spreading purple creep.
Jungles withered and rotted under its advance, once-clear rivers turned murky black-violet.
Overhead, swarms of Scourge buzzed through the air, their screeches faintly audible even through the hull.
"Holy crap…" a marine muttered, watching from a porthole. "This place should've been a damn resort."
The formation finally touched down ten kilometers south of the ruins, on a hilltop still untouched by the creep.
Though trees still stood, their foliage had taken on a sickly gray-green hue.
The Vikings transformed mid-air, servos groaning as their wings folded and landing gear deployed.
In moments, the aircraft became ground-combat mechs, missile pods and autocannons locking onto the perimeter.
The Hercules's ramp slammed down. Medevac hatches slid open. Marines poured out, forming a defensive ring. The spec-ops team and officers stepped onto the soon-to-be-infected soil.
Siege tanks deployed stabilizers, barrels aimed toward the ruins.
"Leave a company to guard the LZ," Jim surveyed the area quickly. "Everyone else, advance toward the ruins. Stay alert—we don't know how bad the Zerg and Protoss are hammering each other."
Chris gave a hand signal, and the spec-ops team launched six micro-drones.
These palm-sized units activated optical cloaking and zipped silently toward the ruins.
Less than two minutes later, the recon feed lit up everyone's HUDs.
The ruin had become a slaughterhouse.
Tal'darim phalanxes clashed with tides of Zerg.
Zealots wielded psionic blades, cutting Zerglings in half with each strike. Immortals fired particle disrupters, carving out clearings in the swarm.
But there were too many Zerg. Some Hydralisks had breached the line, their acid and spines striking Tal'darim energy shields.
The Tal'darim formation was crumbling. Their shields flickered under corrosive fire.
High Templars fought on, but psionic exhaustion slowed them—proud warriors now stumbling.
Then the swarm's strategy shifted.
Zerglings stopped blindly charging and instead flanked in three waves. Hydralisks focused fire on exposed Immortals.
Only one explanation for this level of coordination—
"The Queen of Blades is directing them," Leon said over comms.
Sure enough, at the edge of the drone's feed, a figure wreathed in purple psionics hovered above the field.
Sarah Kerrigan, now the Zerg Queen of Blades, floated effortlessly, hair writhing like tendrils. With a single gesture, a new wave of Ultralisks burst from beneath the creep, ripping open the Tal'darim line.
"They're done for," Tychus grunted around his cigar. "Won't last half an hour."
He turned to Jim. "We make our move while the bugs clean up."
Jim's Adam's apple bobbed as he watched the violet silhouette. "Not yet. We wait till the Tal'darim are crushed. That's when the swarm is most distracted."
On the battlefield, collapse came fast.
The last Immortal was crushed under an Ultralisk. The remaining High Templars stood back-to-back, unleashing desperate psionic blasts. Claws and spines chipped away at their fading strength.
"Now!" Jim suddenly ordered. "Team A, draw Zerg attention! Team B, go with our allies and secure that artifact!"
Far above, Kerrigan suddenly turned, as if sensing something.
She looked directly toward the Rangers' hidden position.
(End of Chapter)
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