Eye of the Storm [Complete]

[Jim Raynor]

The harsh sunlight assaulted Jim the second he passed through the portal into the Endless Dunes.
 
Raynor clutched his C-14 gauss rifle in warming steel hands and strode out into the savannah. His visor hissed upwards, removing his facial protection from the sun but at least letting the air flow, however slowly, through his suit. There wasn't much to see; clear sky, patches of thin grass occasionally broken up by the odd tree, its canopy thick and splashing shade over the ground. A warm day, but the humidity made it worse. Even with the visor up, Jim felt his entire body perspire, layering swiftly with a sheen of sweat. He considered ditching his armour, but it wasn't exactly portable if he wasn't in it.
 
Perhaps 'the Endless Dunes' wasn't the smartest destination, now that he thought about it.
 
There weren't many places for a malcontent to hide in, but Jim held his weapon just in case. Ambushes were part and parcel of waging war in his sector of the galaxy; the zerg had a nasty tendency to burrow under the ground and lie in wait, bursting out just as a man walks over them, and the protoss love their cloaking and warp technologies, able to reveal or teleport in an army before you even know you're not alone. Jim couldn't know if he'd encounter such familiar hostiles this far from home, but it never hurt to be prepared for it.
 
"Adjutant," Jim said, his curved visor clicking into place again. "The lay of the land, if you please."
 
Raynor expected to see a map of the immediate area, maybe some highlighted points of interest, even some close-up images of landmarks he was approaching. Instead, the adjutant's face burned blue through the orange of his visor. "No satellite communications possible. CMC-400 scanning instruments off-line."
 
"Off-line? What do you mean, damaged?"
 
"Yes, Commander. They appear to have shut down after significant impact trauma. Cause unknown."
 
"Then just pull the info from that datanet you hooked into before. Should be easy enough."
 
"Unable to connect to datanet. Connection refused."
 
Jim chuckled without humour. "Wonder what else I've got to look forward to out here."
 
As he trudged deeper into the realm, he found his metal feet following a path beaten by the dozens of feet that scored it through the grass. A splintered and faded sign a little way down the track informed Jim he was heading to 'Carrefore,' but it wasn't much to look at. A number of armoured men with menacing rifles, though they had nothing on Jim's 'Impaler,' looked his way as his foot stepped through the entrance to the town. Two motioned at Raynor and approached him.
 
"Halt!" one said.
 
Jim took one last step, the pistons and joints of his armoured legs clicking into place. His visor, orange with a white skull painted on its front, was still down. "Can I help you, gentlemen?"

"Just what are you doing here?" the other asked.
 
Raynor lifted the visor. "Just a man figurin' things out. Not too sure where I am, frankly. Maybe you'd be so kind as to-"
 
"You can't be walking around here carrying that," the left guard said, gesturing at Jim's C-14 cradled in his hands. "It's against Empire regulations."
 
"Plus that suit," the other chimed in. "That's gonna need clearance as well."
 
"Forgive my ignorance," Jim said, "but Empire? Regulations?"
 
One of the guards sighed, though with the faces hidden, Jim didn't know which. "I don't have time to be teaching newbies how the Omniverse works. Either hand over your hardware or you'll be forced to move on."
 
Jim looked at his gauss rifle, then at the guards. "Sorry fellas, but if you think I'm givin' this ol' girl up, you got another thing comin.'"
 
"Then leave," the other said. "Or we'll be forced to apprehend you."
 
Jim squinted, sizing up his aggressors. He could probably deal with them without much trouble; after all, the CMC-400 could punch through concrete, and at this range, the C-14 would probably punch a few holes through them too. Still, no point in making enemies when he didn't have to. Maybe there'd be more friendly people somewhere else.
 
"You won't have any trouble with me," Jim said, his smile born of appeasement rather than happiness. "I don't suppose you folks'd be kind enough to point me in another direction? Somewhere with a bar?"
 
The guards glanced at each other, then turned back. "There's a town further into the Endless Dunes. Not a short walk, but you should get there all right."
 
Jim nodded and his visor slipped down, revealing the skull again. "Much obliged."
 
The sparse tufts of grass fled from the landscape not long after leaving Carrefore behind. Heat bled in blurred waves from the sand that took its place, cooking him in his CMC battle armour. His particular suit, the CMC-400 model, didn't feature anything like air-conditioning, though none of the marines enjoyed anything so fancy. Jim had heard that some of the wealthier and favoured siege tank operators employed by the Dominion often had cooled cabins. What he'd do to be driving in one of those right now.
 
Scorching day soon abated as the sun sunk beyond the horizon. Stars revealed themselves through the velvety curtain of night, and Jim found himself staring up at them. It was a sight he'd grown accustomed to on the Hyperion. On countless planets over countless conflicts, every evening he could gaze into the gallery of twinkling lights and remember, even when his strength was down and hope a scarce commodity, that feeling that unequivocally rose to the surface as he stood on the bridge of the battlecruiser. He would look around at his diligent crew, who had sacrificed a chance at a normal life to give others a chance at theirs, and know that Raynor's Raiders had a job to do.
 
And then as now, no matter how he had ended up in his mess, no matter how tough the journey home, he would prevail. He just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other.
 
He smiled to himself. "Raiders roll."
 
What heat the sand had stockpiled during the day had been given up just as hastily. Jim was thankful for his own body heat insulated in his armour as he battled through the freezing winds that howled over the dunes, though it might not be enough. Raynor had marched through icy tundra before in marine armour and lived, though a few times he caught a cold and even hypothermia. This type of cold - night desert cold - had a bite just as bad as those frozen mudballs. He had to find some sort of shelter for the night.
 
The wind brought new tidings other than numbing chill. Voices, shouting frantically but too far away to be distinct, met Raynor's ears. The unmistakable rattle of gunfire blended with it. Jim increased his speed, ignoring the fatigue weighing him down. If those were his men, he had to come to their aid as soon as humanly possible.
 
Jim crested a sand dune and orange light flashed in time with the deep rumble of gunfire. Through the brief illumination, Raynor made out two worn humvees parked side-by-side and armed men poking above them before rattling off a burst of bullets. Looking beyond the conflict, a small town, nondescript except the fact that it was the solitary settlement this far out in the sandy wasteland, sat in the gunfire's direction.
 
Mercs was the likely situation. Dark had fallen, and using the cover of night and a pair of old cars while they assault the local law enforcement, whatever that might look like in such an isolated place, was a tried and true strategy. Unoriginal perhaps, but it's hard to argue with results.
 
Raising his C-14's sights to his eye, Jim strode forward. It wasn't his style to shoot a man in the back if he could help it. But with no cover and a powerful tiredness taking up residence in his bones, he was less inclined to give out warnings.
 
Jim pulled the trigger and a spray of bullets screamed from his rifle. He caught one bandit in the back and another in the leg before the rest reacted and scrambled around the sides of the humvees. The four spotlights on his chest erupted with white light, damning any counter-fire to hasty shots that got nowhere near their intended mark.
 
"Now I'm just gonna say this once," Jim hollered, rifle still levelled. A few heads peeked over bullet riddled chasses, squinting against his high beams. "Get outta here, and don't come back."
 
The men moved like cockroaches, scooping up discarded weapons and throwing them into their weather beaten vehicles. The two injured bandits crawled into the back seats, and in a few moments, the wheels sprayed sand as the humvees hightailed it out of there. As they zoomed off into the black, they rolled their windows down and hurled insults at Jim, but nothing worse than he'd already heard before by worse men than them.
 
Raynor approached the outskirts of town, stepping over the red patches soaked into the sand and spent bullet cases. A handful of men emerged from crouching behind damaged walls and chipped wooden crates. They gripped revolvers and pistols, levelled at the ground, though their sharp stares and firm jaws indicated they weren't above using them if the need arose. He hoped the reception here would be warmer than Carrefore.
 
"What's your business here?" a portly man said, dressed in a stained singlet. A wrong move and Jim had no doubt the next bullet from the man's gun would be for him.
 
"Lookin' for a spot to rest my head, for starters," Jim said, his visor hissing open. "I've been walkin' all day and this Dunes place ain't too hospitable."
 
"Is that a fact?" another man said through a thick, pampered moustache. "You new to these parts, stranger?"
 
"As new as a man can get to hill after hill of sand, I reckon. And the name's Jim. Jim Raynor." He pointed with a metal thumb behind him. "Hope them folk weren't friends. Didn't look like they were."
 
Another man stepped forward, straightening a  faded tan vest. A belt of cartridges slung over his chest jostled as he approached, revolver in a death grip. He was the closest in dress and appearance to a cowboy out of the whole lot of them, as if he was the only man not sleeping when the attack rolled in. The others brushed dust off what looked like their sleeping ware.
 
"That was a mighty kind thing you did there, Jim," the man said. "You've earned a night here in my books. Come on, I'll take you to a room."
 
"Much appreciated," Jim said, following the cowboy as the rest of the defenders dispersed, returning to what Jim assumed were their houses. Doors shut quickly and locks fell into place even quicker. "Didn't catch your name."
 
"I didn't give it. Roland's the name. I'm the sheriff around these parts. Maybe after you've had your rest, we can talk some more."
 
Jim nodded. "Happy to earn my keep, sheriff. After I knock back a bourbon or two, of course."

[Jim Raynor]

Early morning light trickled through the window and fluttered over Jim's eyes. He sat up on the thin, dirtied cushions of the sofa that he had spent the night on and stretched his arms above his head, his bones cracking. Grimacing at a sore muscle awoken by the movement, Jim shot a glance into the corner of the room. His CMC-400 armour was still there, visor down. He didn't want to leave his battle suit, what with all the uncertainty of this new universe, but he couldn't sleep in that tin can. He half expected to be awoken as soon as his head hit the pillow by the returning bandits, and as such left his revolver holstered in his thigh, but they hadn't returned, and Jim was thankful for the shut eye that the unbroken peace afforded him. Yet for some reason, he wasn't as refreshed as he reckoned he should've been.
 
A dream teased the edge of his memory. Jim tried to remember it, but the harder he concentrated, the more ethereal it became.
 
Running a hand through his cropped beard, he took a moment to absorb the room. It looked like an old office of the sheriff's, and from the thin film of dust that covered almost everything, 'old' was probably too kind a word. He could even see the imprints of his feet as he first entered last night. A desk was pushed against the wall opposite him, heaped with books and manila folders and loose papers. A stained coffee cup and an empty box of revolver rounds were the only objects not related to cataloguing witnesses or crimes in the room.
 
Jim looked to the doorway and a shot of excitement leapt through his chest.
 
"Swann?!"
 
Rory Swann stood before him, a grin on his broad face, arms crossed over his chest. "I was wonderin' how long it'd take you to notice me, cowboy."
 
Raynor sprung to his feet and embraced his old friend. He recoiled from the cold steel of Swann's metal arm on his singlet and opted for a shoulder grasp instead. "Swann! How did you get here? "
 
Rory scratched his head. "Huh, I was hopin' you could tell me. Don't remember much at all." His eyes swept the old office. "Where is 'here,' anyhow?"
 
Jim snatched up his pants and shirt, slinging them on as he spoke. "Still workin' that one out. Figured out we're in some place called the Omniverse, and we're in the Endless Dunes. Seems like a big ol' desert, so name seems about right."
 
"Omniverse?" Swann repeated. "Never heard of it." He cocked an eyebrow at Jim. "This ain't some screwy Protoss or whatcha call ... xel'naga thing, is it?"
 
Jim slipped on his jacket and checked that the spare revolver bullets and grenades were fastened tight before flopping on the couch and pulling his boots on. "Guess we can't rule that one out just yet. Still, if it were somethin' Artanis knew about, I get the feelin' we'd be hearin' from him by now."
 
"Yeah, unless somethin' went wrong."
 
Raynor clasped Swann on the shoulder and gave him a reassuring smile. "Let's think positive for now, huh?" He let go and turned to his CMC-400 suit. "Feel free to get negative the moment we got cause for it. I'm sure you will."
 
Swann scoffed. "I won't let you down, hotshot."
 
"Don't suppose you heard from any of the other fellas?" Jim patted the chest plate of his suit, stirring a fine fuzz of dust. It had settled on his armour overnight? He'd have to tell the sheriff to vacuum this old room. "Matt? Valerian?"
 
The bearded engineer walked over to Raynor. "Nah. Like I said, I don't remember much. I just sorta ... appeared, outta nowhere. No one else standing beside me, is there?"
 
"Huh. Guess not." Jim stared at the painted skull on the visor of his armour. He hoped the rest of his crew was all right. Though he supposed with some hope, maybe only him and Swann had been dumped into this world. Still, no use rejecting the idea out of hand. He need more intel, and thankfully old Rory Swann was a great man to have around in any circumstance.
 
 "How's the ol' girl holdin' up?" Swann asked.
 
"Got me here and kept me safe. I think the stimpack system's outta whack though. Plus some of the scannin' equipment's busted."
 
Rory struck the plated arm of the armour with his metal claw-hand and listened to the deep clunk that resonated within it. "Hmm. Yeah, sounds like a wire's loose or somethin'. Can probably patch it up, providin' we get our hands on the right tools."
 
"Morning boys."
 
Jim's hand moved like a striking cobra, snatching his revolver from his leg holster and levelling it at the source of the voice as he spun. He dropped his arm when recognition overcame reflexes. "Sorry sheriff. Not used to friendlies sneakin' up on me in weird places."
 
"You're tellin' me," Swann said, hand on his chest. "You scared me outta my skin!"
 
Ronald Deschain frowned, or at least Jim thought he was frowning. It could be his default face, judging by the lines creased into his aged skin. "There was only one of you last night, I'm pretty sure?"
 
Jim slipped his revolver back in its holster. "You ain't crazy, sheriff. It was just me. Somehow my old buddy Swann here woke up in the room with me."
 
Swann shrugged. "Can't make this stuff up."
 
"I had a feeling about you," Ronald said, nodding gently as he spoke. "You a Prime, son?"
 
Jim shared a glance with Swann. "Mind cluein' me in on what a Prime is?"
 
Ronald's eyes narrowed further until Raynor wasn't sure that they were even open anymore. "Didn't realise you were so green. Come on, we'll have breakfast and have a chat."
 
Swann gripped his pot belly. "Now that ya mention it, I could go for a feed."
 
"I ain't about to argue," Jim said. "Lead the way, sheriff."
 
The sun met them with a vengeance as they ambled out of the sheriff's office. Small orbs of sweat dotted Jim's brow, and he wiped them away with the back of his fingerless gloves. "Hot, steamy, lotsa desert ... kinda reminds me of Mar Sara."
 
"Ah, every desert world or warm breeze reminds you of that damn planet," Swann grumbled.
 
A second glowing object drew Raynor's attention. A huge rounded structure loomed over the town's borders, a yellow pulse generating inside. It looked like an old oil lantern, but impossibly huge, and that weren't no flame burning inside it. "Sheriff? Any inklin' what that thing is?"
 
Ronald urged them on. "I'll explain inside."
 
Deschain barged through the swinging bar doors of the worn building across the way from his office. Jim spotted a painted sign overhead, the letters peeled, but didn't catch it in time as he strode out of the merciless sun. Inside, a bar was set against the far wall, and every other bit of empty space was taken up by worn old tables and chairs, with the exception of a pool table and jukebox adjacent to each other on the wall to Jim's right. A few souls already staked claim to barstools, backs slouched to the entrance as they nursed their beers. The pungent history of spilled drinks wafted from the stained floorboards, stinging even Jim's seasoned nostrils. It was like uncorking a bottle of Scotty Bolger's Old No. 8 premium bourbon, mixing it with jet fuel, chewed tobacco and ... was that exhaust fumes?
 
The sheriff pulled out a chair at a circular table and motioned for them to do likewise. "Bacon and eggs for three hungry men, barkeep." The barmen nodded and hobbled off into a back room.
 
"A shot of bourbon'd be mighty calmin' too," Jim called after him.
 
"So sheriff, fill us in," Swann said, elbows propped on the table. "Mind tell us what the hell this place is?"
 
"Don't know what you know," Ronald said. "Tell me what you've pieced together."
 
"Haven't had a chance to do much sleuthin'," Jim said, running a hand through his greying hair. "All I know is I'm in some place called the Omniverse, and it's all linked together with portals, kinda like Protoss tech but different. Don't remember how I got here, or with how many men I might've got here with. Plus Swann droppin' outta the sky only makes me more confused."
 
The sheriff nodded. "You remember having a chin wag with Omni?"
 
Jim crinkled his brow. "Omni? Sounds ... familiar." He stared hard at the table, willing the memory to the surface. "Is he a little ... bald guy?" The shape of the glowing silhouette flashed briefly in his mind's eye, but calling it blurry was an understatement. "Said somethin' about rainbows?"
 
"Yep. You're a Prime." Ronald cast a glance at the bar, apparently impatient for his breakfast.
 
"And what does that mean?" Jim asked.
 
"Means Omni, who's pretty much God as far as I see it, brought you here. You've got some advantages in this place, let me tell you."
 
"Such as?"
 
Deschain nodded at Swann. "You brought him here."
 
Jim and Rory frowned at each other. "How'd I bring him here?"
 
"If you don't remember doing it?" Ronald shrugged. "You must have summoned him in your sleep. You dream last night, son?"
 
"I ... did. But I don't recall any of it."
 
"Suppose you woke up a bit worse for wear, too?"
 
Jim nodded slowly. "Was expectin' to be better rested than I was."
 
"That'd be it, then."
 
The bartender arrived at the table and dumped three chipped plates laden with runny eggs and oily bacon before them. He dropped some knives and forks carelessly, making them clatter on the table. He set down a beer before Swann and Ronald, and Jim received his nip of bourbon. Swann snatched up his utensils and dove in to his meal, and the sheriff followed, if at least a little more civilly.
 
Jim examined his fork. "So, what? Am I the only one out here, then? Other than Swann? None of my men are out here with me?"
 
The sheriff's jaw stilled. Flecks of bacon fell from his lips. "Unlikely. Could be, but unlikely."
 
Jim stabbed a rasher and sawed through it with the dull knife. "No way to be sure?"
 
Ronald shook his head.
 
"Well if it's all the same to you sheriff," Jim said, stuffing bacon into his mouth, "I'd like to keep searchin', just in case."
 
A bulge travelled down Ronald's throat, and his fork and knife took to the task of slicing his fried, greasy eggs. "I won't stop you. Had any thought about how you'll do that?"
 
"The ol' fashioned way. Lookin.'"
 
"Out here? There's miles of desert. This town is the last place you'll find before the sun and sand devour you whole. And that's just the Dunes. You're better off putting a message out in the Dataverse. Maybe one of your crew'll see it."
 
"Dataverse. Good idea, sheriff." The adjutant had gleaned information from that datanet before. Shouldn't be too hard to put up a bulletin. That was a good option. "I suppose it'd be smart for me to stay put then. No use rallyin' the troops if I'm off searchin' for them."
 
Ronald's eyes lifted from his plate as he slipped a forkful of eggs into his gob. "You living here, then?"
 
Jim shrugged. "Don't rightly know, but seems like the smart thing to do. Course, if you'll put up with me, I'd be happy to earn my keep. Swann too. He's a good engineer, best you'll ever see. You got anythin' broke, he'll know how to fix it."
 
Swann said something like "yeah," but a wall of bacon and eggs muffled it.
 
"And you?"
 
Jim smiled. "Been known to do a lotta things, sheriff. Been an outlaw, a marshal, leader of a rebellion ... take your pick."
 
"Could've guessed, seeing how you handled those bandits last night. Don't think I saw you flinch at all, just walked up and started shooting."
 
"Yeah, those bandits," Jim said, stirring his eggs with his fork. "You get a lot of them attackin' your town?"
 
Ronald swallowed the last bite of his egg and tossed his fork onto the plate, smearing the yolk that leaked from his devoured meal. His fingers wrapped around his beer bottle. "Plenty. More than I can keep up with. Always looking for more souls willing to protect the good people of this town."
 
"Why don't you just go hunt 'em down?" Swann said in a rare moment between mouthfuls. "Ya know, pull out the weeds by the roots?"
 
"Hunt them down? In those sands? I don't even know where they're hiding. Might as well ask me to wring blood from a rock. Besides, who'd protect the town? They launch surprise attacks at all hours of the night and day, and I don't have the men spare for an expedition. Hell, you saw the defence last night, Raynor. Me and the townspeople hiding behind barrels." He sighed, taking a swig from his bottle. "Sinestro's around, granted, but only sometimes, and I just can't leave the town without me."
 
"Maybe I could help with that," Jim said. "You and this Sinestro fella can keep the gate shut, and I'll go out in the paddock and look for the strays."
 
Ronald examined Raynor, fingers stroking his chin. "You good with a pistol?"
 
Jim chuckled. "Sheriff, I know we just met, but -"
 
Deschain grabbed the edge of his plate and threw it towards the wall, eyes on Jim the whole time. Raynor jumped out of his chair, antique revolver snatched from its holster, and pulled the trigger. The gunshot boomed off the tavern's walls, startling the barflies and igniting a round of adrenaline fuelled cussing. The spinning plate shattered into fragments.
 
"Hey!" the barkeep shouted. "No guns!"
 
"It's all right, Stu," the sheriff said, raising a hand. "That one's on me."
 
Stu grumbled. "And you'll be paying for the plate too!"
 
Swann stopped licking the yolk from his plate and set it down on the table. His eyes landed on his beer and he seized it. "Sheesh. Friendly guy."
 
"He'll get over it," Ronald said. "Tell you what, Raynor. I got a problem you might be able to solve for me. If you do, well, you might just be worth keeping around here after all."
 
Jim sat and shovelled an orange-soaked bacon rasher into his mouth. "Sheriff, I'm all ears."

[Jim Raynor]

Jim twisted his hands as they got up from the table, leaving yolk smeared plates. He could summon things, like some sort of Protoss warp magic? Even scarier, he could do it in his sleep, with people? He'd better watch what he dreamed about. Jim didn't want to rope in any other poor unfortunate into this mess, not until he knew what he was dealing with. That was assuming he would dream about an ally; there were plenty of nightmares in Jim's head that would relish the chance of bursting into the real world.
 
The boorish sun hadn't forgotten them as they walked out of the bar. Deschain led them down the rickety steps and onto the barren land of the Town With No Name. Swann cursed and shielded his eyes from the glare. Jim squinted, but the hot, dry wind that raced over his face bothered him more than the light. Still, not an altogether awful experience. Why, it felt just like Mar S-
 
"So what's the plan, chief?" Swann asked as he caught up with Ronald. "I'm feelin' pretty good after that feed."
 
"Jim here is going to talk to an ... informant for me. See if all his years of civil disobedience can't get something out of the bastard."
 
Raynor smirked. "Folks tell me I'm a gifted listener."
 
"And what should I do?" Swann asked.
 
"Got some vehicles that could do with some repairs. Broken axels, shot-up chassis ... that sort of thing."
 
Swann nodded, a hint of a smirk shielded by his bristly beard. "Too easy."
 
"Oh, and if you get some time Swann, could you check out my CMC?" Jim said. "Wanna make sure she's all shipshape when I need her next."
 
"Can do, cowboy. Just don't mess up your informant too much."
 
"Heh," Jim said, "can't promise anythin'."
 
Swann waved with his metal claw and strode off to Roland's office. The sheriff guided Raynor through the town, past many narrow and suspicious glances. Even the folk he recognised from the gunfight last night frowned at his passing, pausing whatever they were doing as if Jim was spying on something real important.
 
"Folks 'round here aren't exactly friendly, are they sheriff?" Raynor said, matching gazes with an white-moustached geriatric.
 
"They are to their own kind," Roland said. "But you're an outsider. No one's warmed to you yet, haven't had the chance."
 
"And last night? That mean nothin' to 'em?"
 
Roland tipped his hat to a woman beating her rug against her house, who briefly curtseyed back. "You've got to understand, son. We've had all sorts of mercenaries and yahoos blow through this town who didn't give a cow pat about the people here. They might have seemed virtuous and altruistic, but when it came down to it, they were out to make a quick buck or make a name for themselves. These people aren't going to open their homes to you based on a random firefight."
 
Jim considered the cowboy's words. "And you, sheriff?"
 
Deschain locked eyes with Raynor for a moment, then looked forward again. "Haven't had enough time to know yet. I've been duped by people like you before. That's why you're proving yourself to me, so you can show me and the whole town what you're made of. But fair warning; we've seen more than our fair share of con artists and snake oil salesmen. It won't be hard to pick you out if you aren't genuine."
 
"Heh," Jim said. "S'pose I better be on my best behaviour, then." He couldn't blame Ronald for his mindset. Raynor would just have to demonstrate who he was.
 
They rounded a corner and reached the outskirts of town. A weathered stone building, flat and rectangular, sat alone a short distance from the town's edge. A warm desert wind peppered Jim with sand, lashing his cheeks and eyes. He squinted and dug the granules out of his eyelashes.
 
"This the place, sheriff?" Jim asked.
 
"Mm hmm," Ronald said. "This here's the prison. One of, anyway. The man you're here to, ahem, persuade, is inside."
 
"And what needs persuadin' outta him?"
 
"The location of the hole that he and all his little rat friends crawled out of," Ronald said, twisting the door knob. "They intercepted supplies heading for the town, and we haven't seen them since. Food, water, medicine. It's too expensive to keep purchasing new stock when we keep losing it before we even get a chance to use them. Force it out of the prick by any means necessary."
 
Jim walked through the door after Deschain. "My kinda means, sheriff."
 
The entrance room stunk of mothballs. A dim lightbulb clung to the ceiling, shedding light on a rickety table and chair combo set against the wall. A thin man, white hair clinging around his scalp, looked up with droopy eyes, hand paused over a journal. Grains of sand sprayed out over the stone ground.
 
Ronald motioned to the spiral staircase on the opposite side of the door. "Jail's down there." He tossed Raynor a spindly key. "That'll open the cell, if you feel a hands-on approach is called for. Won't be hard to find; he's the only one down there at present. If you got any problems, come holler to Pat here, he'll come get me. But I expect you'll be fine on your own."
 
Jim tapped the revolver slung on his belt. "Don't worry sheriff. Teacher always said I got on well with others."
 
Deschain nodded, face masking his thoughts, and ventured out into the windy dunes. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing inside the small chamber.
 
Raynor grasped the rail and followed the winding staircase down. Darkness quickly climbed up to meet him, but soon a torch, set in an alcove in the rounded wall and crackling with flame, chased it away. The blended stench of urine and blood assaulted his nostrils as he took the final step, but the torches framing the end of the stairwell helped cover it with its smoky discharge.
 
"A visitor," a voice said, ricocheting off the walls. "Come to yell at me some more, sheriff? I got nothing for you."
 
The underground jail was cramped. Three cells on either side of a narrow walkway composed it. The light that flickered from the torches was surprisingly enough to expose the majority of the dungeon, but it did little to combat the chill that simply did not exist on the surface.
 
"Come on, don't be shy. I won't bite. Might spit though." The prisoner's laughter surrounded Jim on all sides.
 
The freedom fighter sauntered down the hallway, inspecting the empty cells; grimy, blood splattered and very cosy. His eyes fell on the last cell, occupied by a tattooed skinhead, thin but muscular. He looked up expectantly at Jim, sitting flat on his backside.
 
"Oh, you're new! The sheriff get bored with me, did he? Sent some muscle to beat me up a bit, knock some teeth loose?"
 
Jim tilted his head. Run-of-the-mill outlaw, by the looks of it. Foolish, undisciplined, reckless, with bravado to spare. Being cooped up in an underground sand dungeon wouldn't do much for his desire to co-operate neither. Promises of freedom wouldn't work on him; he'd already deducted the reason of Raynor's presence. Oh well, always give a man a chance.
 
"Howdy," Jim said. "I'm Jim Raynor. I've been told you know about a stolen supply shipment. Heard you and your friends might be the ones behind it. Got anything to say about that?"
 
The prisoner frowned at Raynor, leaning his head towards the bars. "Straight to the chase, huh? You simple? You think I'm just going to confess to something because you asked nicely?"
 
Jim folded his arms over his thick chest. "Thought you might appreciate the opportunity to talk before things have to get messy. Now I ain't a fan of doin' things the hard way, but I've had plenty of experience in it, and I reckon I've got pretty good at it."
 
"I live out in those dunes," the prisoner said, leaping to his feet. "You think anything you can do is more scary than living out there in the sand? You miss a turn and you're dead in half a day."
 
"And if you miss your turn in here, when I very politely tell you which way to go, you'll be dead much quicker than that."
 
"Come on then, tough guy! Show me what you've got!" The skinhead's eyes locked onto the key in Jim's hand. "You got a way in, come and rough me up! Maybe when I'm spitting blood I'll be more talkative. At least, that's how your logic goes, right?"
 
"Last chance," Jim said, taking another step towards the bars, nose inches from the iron. "Once this offer's off the table, it ain't comin' back."
 
The skinhead pulled his head back and flung it forward, launching a wet globule of spit. Jim twisted and the saliva projectile sailed past him and splattered against the ground.
 
Anger flared in Raynor's chest. "Don't say I didn't warn you."
 
Jim fetched his revolver from its holster in a lightning-quick movement and pulled the trigger. The gunshot scraped at his eardrums, the underground dungeon amplifying the boom to intolerable levels, making him flinch. The skinhead's scream followed immediately afterwards as he sunk to the floor, clutching his shin. Blood oozed over his fingers as he groaned and rocked back and forth.
 
"What the fuck, dude?" he shouted.
 
Jim lowered his smoking pistol. "I ain't all talk, kid. I've dealt with pieces of shit like you my entire life. If you don't wanna reason with me, then I know there's only one other language you'll understand."
 
"Why didn't you just kill me?" he said, grimacing.
 
"Because a dead bandit, no matter how appreciated, won't help the people of the town get their supplies back. Supplies they need to survive out here. Supplies you and your deadshit friends are hoardin' for yourselves. Now are you gonna start talking or what?"
 
The skinhead moved his hands and inspected the gunshot. Blood still flowed, but it was clotting. "Ha. I've had worse. You don't live out in the middle of the desert without learning a few things, getting tougher."
 
Jim smirked, brow furrowed. "That right? That'd be why you screamed like a little girl just now?"
 
"You get shot all of a sudden and see how you react!" the prisoner fired back, spittle ejecting from his lips.
 
"Givin' you to the count of three," Jim said, raising his pistol. "Tell me where the supplies are and we might avoid the next bit of unpleasantness." He paused to let the concept settle in the thick-headed bandit. "One ... two ..."
 
The prisoner bared his teeth, chortling weakly. "Fuck you."
 
" ... three."
 
Jim braced himself for the rattling gunshot pumping through his ears and fired.
 
"Ah, fuck!"
 
The prisoner cradled both legs against his body. Red trickled from one shin and poured from the other.
 
Jim spun the revolver on his finger and shoved it back in its holster. "Now I won't be wastin' any more bullets on you. Your blood loss'll kill you soon, though mercifully for you, you'll pass out before that happens. I can get you some medical attention, but it won't be sent for till you tell me what I came all the way down here to find out. You understand me, kid?"
 
Truthfully, the prisoner probably wouldn't die. Jim hadn't hit the right veins to bleed him out to the point of death. Sure, he'd still lose a bit of blood, enough to weaken him, maybe even knock him out cold. And he wouldn't be feeling good for the next while. Still, he'd survive, but the bandit wouldn't know that.  At least, he should survive.
 
The skinhead growled, and his eyes fluttered. "Oh, I don't feel ..."
 
"Yeah, you'll be gettin' a mite lightheaded. Might wanna hurry up with that location."
 
The prisoner's eyes rocked back and forth. "I ... I can't! They'll kill me if they find out I was the one who told!"
 
"If I were you," Jim said, "I'd be more worried about the here and now than some hypothetical future."
 
"I ..." The bandit caught the sight of crimson all over his hands and looked up, desperation in his eyes. "All right! I'll tell! Just ... get a doctor or something!"
 
Jim shook his head. "That ain't the deal. Give me the location, then I stop you from dyin'."
 
"Fine! The hideout's a mile north-east of Sundial, marked by a yellow flag. Camo's covering the entrance, looks just like sand from a distance. Close up, you can tell. All of the supplies are there! Now please, get the damn doctor!"
 
"You best be tellin' the truth, kid," Jim said as he walked off. "Or we'll be havin' this conversation again."
 
After arranging suitable medical treatment with Pat, Jim rolled through town until he located Ronald.
 
"So, how'd you go?" the sheriff asked, hands on his belt.
 
"He was a little shy at first, but then we got to talkin'," Jim said with a smirk. "Just needed the right motivation, is all."
 
"You know where the supplies are, then?"
 
"A mile north-east of a place called Sundial. The camp's covered with some sorta camouflage, hard to spot unless you know what you're lookin' for, or so he says."
 
"Sundial," Ronald said to himself. "That's not too far from here." He noticed Jim's expression. "Just a big rock sticking out of the sand. Got its name because of the shadow it casts through the day. Some people tried settling out that way, but bandit raids and its location meant it fell to shambles before long."
 
"So what's the plan, sheriff?" Jim asked.
 
"Feel like going for a drive?"
 
Jim nodded. "Let me check in with Swann, and then I'm all yours."

[Jim Raynor]

Jim's eyes relaxed as he passed under the garage door, enjoying some much appreciated shade. He stepped over an old oil slick, his boots clomping on the concrete floor. The legs of Swann stood on the top step of a ladder; the remainder of him disappeared in the shadowed cavity of Jim's CMC-400 combat armour. He squirmed about as he fiddled with the whosits and doodads, apparently so absorbed in his craft that he failed to hear the old commander's footsteps.
 
Raynor smirked. "Swann!"
 
The mechanic's body jerked and a loud bang followed. "Ah, son of a bitch!" Rory's arms grasped the edges of the armour and pulled the rest of his body free. The moustachioed engineer rubbed at his skull where a pale red welt had its beginnings. "You always gotta do that, cowboy?"
 
Jim's smirk remained despite Swann's sour expression. "Sorry old friend. Thought you'd be more attentive than that." Of course, he didn't. He knew the legendary focus of the master craftsman. Nothing short of a nuke detonating outside his workshop would ever pry his mind away from his work.
 
"Ah, whatever," Swann said, grabbing an oil stained rag and swiping it over his sweaty forehead. "How'd you go with the delinquent? You put him in his place?"
 
"Nothin' a coupl'a bullets couldn't handle."
 
Swann frowned. "You didn't-"
 
"Kill 'im? Why Swann, I thought you knew me better than that."
 
Rory scoffed. "Yeah. I know you better than you know yourself sometimes. That's why I ask."
 
Jim folded his arms over his chest. "I try not to kill where I can avoid it but ... touche. No, he's fine. Might be walkin' funny for a while though."
 
Swann threw the rag aside and hefted a thick wrench from a nearby workbench. "So you get what the sheriff wanted?"
 
"Yeah, all squared away. In fact, that's why I'm here to see you."
 
"That right?" Swann clambered up the ladder and dipped into the CMC-400's cavity once more. "And what could I possibly do for you, cowboy?" His voice came echoed but clear.
 
Jim moseyed up to the ladder and set a hand on a rung, peering at whatever the experienced engineer was doing in there. It was all Dutch to him. "Wanted to know how the old girl's goin'. Much left you gotta do to it, do ya think?"
 
"Why? You thinkin' of stormin' somethin'?"
 
"Might be."
 
Swann crawled out and slammed the hood back down. A number of clicks and hisses emanated, and Raynor was certain that it was locked tight. "Well this thing won't crap out on ya, if that's what you're worried about. There ain't much wrong with it to begin with, at least nothing on the important side. Hydraulics are in good shape despite all that damn sand I had to blast out. There's some modifications I was makin' to it before the whole xel'naga-end-of-the-universe spectacular that ain't quite ready yet. 'Course, I can't get hold of my suppliers to ship out the parts I need to finish 'em."
 
"So what's workin' and what ain't?"
 
The wrench slapped the metal chassis and a deep ring filled the garage workshop. "All your basic functions; walkin', shootin', fightin'. Got the comms workin' again. Targeting system's fried, so you'll be relyin' on your own hand-eye. You'll probably be a bit slower, what with all the metal arms and all, but you'll manage. Unstuck that extra leg compartment so you can get at your sniper rifle again. Oh, and you had some Medic shield gizmo in your left arm that you probably didn't know about. Somethin' was wrong with the deployment mechanism but that's all fixed too, so you got a shield if cover's scarce."
 
Jim raised his eyebrows. Impressive. "That's what I like about you, Swann. Always goin' that extra mile."
 
Swann chuckled. "That ain't all, cowboy. I know the Protoss gave you a modified psi-blade, so you don't need psychic power to activate it. Now the CMC'll create its own blade from the unit on your arm when you're in it, and the suit'll amplify the energies. It's still a bit iffy, since I ain't no Protoss expert, so go easy on it. 'Course, you can't move as quickly in it, but you'll have more muscle behind your swings. Plus I even had time to install a grapplin' hook. Not sure what you'll need it for, but hey, you'll find a use for it, I'm sure."
 
"Swann, I'd give you a raise if I had anythin' to pay you with." Jim ran his hands over his ebony armour, eyes trailing over its beaten surface.
 
"So you didn't say what you were plannin' exactly." Swann tossed the wrench onto the workshop bench with total disregard, and the ensuing noise was proof of it. "Shootin' folks who deserve it, I'd wager?"
 
Raynor humphed. "Somethin' like that, yeah."
 
"All by yourself? Doin' the whole lone wolf thing again?"
 
Jim grasped the armoured suit by the hips and pushed inwards. A click and hiss indicated his success as the front panel of the CMC armour lifted upwards, offering its pilot its inner controls. He hoisted himself inside and closed the hood. "Depends. I'd like to bring some men with me, but from what the sheriff was sayin', he's pretty light on for fighters. Can't see him sendin' many with me, if any at all."
 
Swann stood in front of the battle armour, looking it up and down as Jim tested the mechanical limbs out. "What, your best buddy ain't good enough to help you rough up some no-good punks?"
 
Raynor lifted the orange skull-faced visor and smiled. "You got your strengths Swann, and I got mine. Say, don't suppose you got the air-con workin' again? Desert's hotter than a Mar Sara summer. Especially in black armour."
 
"Sorry cowboy. Sheriff ain't got any spares of the part the coolin' unit needs. Maybe you can rustle up some junk at wherever the hell you're goin'."
 
"Heh. See what I can do."
 
Swann reached into a pocket and fished out a handheld radio. "If you get into trouble, make sure you radio me in. This is the most high tech piece of comms I could find around here. I might build myself more appropriate to my station while you're out, heh." He held up the radio and shook it in his hand. "Your adjutant knows the frequency."

On queue, the adjutant's voice chimed in from the CMC's speakers. "Welcome back, commander. Awaiting further instructions."
 
Jim nodded. Even in this sand blasted hell hole, Swann was ever his helpful, cheery self. Jim guessed it was easier to see the silver lining in any situation after you'd lost an arm. "Thanks Swann. There ain't a better man to have at my back."
 
Rory sniffed and laughed. "Nah, probably not. But I bet you'd prefer if you had more men at your back, right?" He banged his metallic claw on the shed's corrugated iron wall and looked to the open doors. Raynor followed his gaze.  Five figures stepped into the garage, harsh sunlight cloaking their features in shadow. As they strolled in, the luminescence abated and Jim could take them in.
 
The front two, lithe and sleek, stepped forward almost silently, carrying C-10 canister sniper rifles in their arms. Night-vision goggles with red lenses rested against their foreheads, and black masks covered their faces. Raynor would recognise that getup anywhere. They were Terran ghosts.
 
He got caught up in the surprise that he almost didn't register the three hulking machines that trudged in after them. Two blue armoured marines followed in, C-14 Impalers at the ready, visors down. The third orange suit, a firebat, stood a little taller than the CMC marine suits, its arms ending in round-barrelled flamethrowers.
 
"Well I'll be," Raynor said, letting the astonishment reach his countenance. "If it ain't some good ol' Terran soldiers."
 
One of the ghosts took the initiative and walked up to Jim, pulling his face mask down. A young man, face clean-shaven and untouched by scars, though his eyes carried a weight that belied his green appearance. "Commander Raynor sir. Sergeant Lewis Baxter reporting. This is my squad." The other soldiers nodded, the firebat adding a wave of its thick metal arm.
 
Jim shook Lewis's hand. "Nice to meet ya, son." He gestured to his old friend. "This is Rory Swann, the best damn engineer I've ever seen."
 
Swann tipped his head. "They know, cowboy. They came meanderin' into town while you were out sortin' that renegade out earlier."
 
"Ah." Jim nodded.  "So what brings you and your squadron out here, sergeant?"
 
"We saw your message on the Dataverse, sir," Baxter replied. "It was a trek, but we weren't going to ignore summons from the great Jim Raynor."
 
Raynor nodded through the praise; it's not that he didn't enjoy it, but truly it didn't matter in the long run. Besides, he had questions he wanted answers to. "Right. So you men Dominion or folded into it from my Raiders?"
 
"Both, sir. This isn't my assigned squadron; we joined together to make it through this ... place, wherever we are. I personally belong to the Terran Dominion."
 
"Well let's meet the rest of your crew." Jim walked past Baxter and to the next ghost. "Howdy, and who might you be?"
 
The ghost pulled down her mask. Deep green eyes and thin lips met Jim's vision. "Sandra Davis, sir. Raynor Raider original." She smirked.
 
"Glad to have ya on board. Need all the friends we can get out here, I reckon." Jim looked to the suits. "And you three?"
 
The marine visors flipped up. A thick nosed, long chinned man on the left spoke, his full-bodied black beard parting to reveal blocky teeth. "Adam Carlton, commander. Lifetime member of the Raiders. Yee-haw!"
 
The marine on the right, a square jawed man with a blonde goatee, answered next. "I'm Roy Salvatore. Been with the Dominion for about five years."
 
Jim eyed the firebat. Their armoured suits didn't have an easily retractable visor, so he figured he might not see the pilot just yet. "And you?"
 
"Ah, that's the Hammer," Adam spoke up. "She doesn't say much."
 
She? Jim thought to himself. Don't see many female firebats.
 
"Great to have all of ya. Say, don't suppose you Terrans'd like to accompany me on a little recon mission? Ain't much, but it's better than sittin' around a desert town cookin' to death."
 
Lewis jerked his head stiffly. "Of course, commander. We'd be honoured."
 
"Hear that, cowboy?" Swann said, jabbing Raynor in the ribs with his elbow. "They'd be honoured to go with you."
 
"Yeah, all right Swann. I got ears." Jim inspected his new squad. Even though he hadn't seen these soldiers operate in the field, making it impossible to judge their effectiveness, he was at least glad to have some more inhabitants of not just his universe, but of his occupation. "Go wait outside the sheriff's office. I'm sure he already knows about you?" Baxter nodded. "Thought so. Didn't think much got by a man like him. Anyway, head there for now. I'll be out in a second."
 
The Terran squadron left and Jim sidled up to his CMC-400 armour. "Thanks for the tune-up, Swann. Now time to take this baby for a spin." Raynor jumped in and closed the hatch. His fingers found the arm controls, his legs slipping into their own place. He wouldn't know how well Rory had patched it up till he got to see some action, but he figured that wouldn't take long.
 
"Hope you brought some water bottles with ya, hotshot," Swann called out. "I swear I'll get that air-con fixed for ya next time."
 
Jim lowered the visor, revealing a white skull painted on orange. "Yeah, you better."
 
Sheriff Deschain was already waiting for Raynor as his CMC armour hulked onto the scene. He conversed with Sergeant Baxter, though the hydraulics of the marine suit muffled their words. As soon as Ronald noticed him, which didn't take long, he turned his attention to him.
 
"Jimmy," he said. "Seems you found some loyalists on the Dataverse. Lucky you."
 
"Yeah, you're tellin' me, sheriff. Hopin' it'll be lucky for all of us. So ... I'm ready to depart. Was thinkin' I could take out these guys, get them to see some action, Endless Dunes style. What do ya think?"
 
The sheriff nodded. "Fine by me. We don't have the men -" His eyes met Sandra's, and he cleared his throat. "-ah, and the women, to spare for this. Havin' your own squadron makes things a touch easier 'round here."
 
"Glad you agree." Having a blend of Terran Dominion and Raynor's Raiders meant Jim knew, to a degree, what to expect; he knew how they were trained, what they best responded to, and how they would likely react to unexpected situations. Any eliminated unknowns were roses in Jim's book. "So, we walkin' out there or what?"
 
Ronald gestured to a large humvee. It had been repaired and patched dozens of times, judging from the odd, mismatched plates that welded over chassis damage. It had also been expanded in the back, providing enough room for Raynor's CMC-400 to sit in, assuming he actually sat in the armour.
 
"Hope you got more than one, sheriff," Jim said. motioning to his three suited combatants. "Ain't all of us gonna fit in that one humvee, no matter how big you made it."
 
"Guess you'll have to leave 'em behind," Deschain replied evenly. "You might fit one in there. You'll have to choose which one."
 
Carlton shrugged his rounded metal shoulders. "I can leave mine. It's not exactly comfortable inside this under the beating sun."
 
Salvatore nodded. "Yeah, can't argue with that. But commander?" When Roy had Jim's attention, he continued. "Can I recommend that you also abandon your suit?"
 
"I'd really like to test this baby out, Roy," Jim said. "Swann just fixed 'er up."
 
"Well, you see commander-"
 
"What Salvatore's trying to say," Adam interrupted as he hopped out of his armoured shell, "is that Hammer's hard to part with her firebat. You might prevent a war by letting her stay suited up."
 
Raynor gazed into the optics of the firebat suit. The Hammer made no indication she had acknowledged their conversation, but that didn't mean she wasn't listening. Firebats, at least back in the day, were composed chiefly of resocialised prisoners and pyromaniacs, and they swiftly developed a reputation for being soldiers you did not want to piss off. With a name like the Hammer, Raynor surmised that she was probably of their ilk.
 
"Fine, Hammer can keep her firebat suit," Jim acquiesced. "But that don't mean I can't bring mine along too."
 
"How are you going to fit your CMC armour on the humvee, sir?" Baxter asked.
 
Jim chuckled, remembering what Swann had stated about a grappling hook upgrade. "Oh, I got my ways."

[Jim Raynor]

Jim sighed. Rope lay limp on the barren ground, the grappling claw clasping the bent chassis of the humvee. The other half of the vehicle was embedded in a sandy dune just outside of town. Raynor, Lewis, Sandra and The Hammer stood around awkwardly, waiting for someone to break the silence.
 
"Sorry fellas," Jim said, retracting his grappling rope into the CMC suit. "Guess I shouldn't have told ya to floor it."
 
Adam Carlton, one of his marines, stumbled from the driver's door, which creaked and collapsed quietly on the sand. "Hoo! Feels like dropping out of orbit!"
 
The other marine, Roy Salvatore, jumped to his feet from the roll over the dunes. He managed to leap free of the car before it ploughed heedlessly into the sandy rise. "That thing had brakes, Adam. Next time, try using them."
 
Adam laughed, though from the situation or a potential concussion, Raynor couldn't say. "Brake pads don't work when the car's a rear wheel drive and the rear wheels are back where we started!"
 
Swann jogged onto the scene, tutted, and shook his head. "Don't think that's even worth fixin', cowboy. Geez, I could'a told ya that old girl couldn't pull you and a firebat too."
 
Jim's massive spherical shoulders rose and fell. "Didn't think a hardskin would rip a vehicle like that in two so easily. Hell, I used to sandsurf back on Mar Sara."
 
"Bet you didn't use a grapplin' hook though, did ya?" Swann said, slapping Jim's metal leg with his prosthetic arm. A dull clang sounded from the impact. "Or a damn marine suit."
 
"So ... what's the plan now, sir?" Sergeant Baxter asked. "Our only mode of transportation is ... unavailable."
 
"Heh. Good question."
 
The sheriff ran out to them after hearing the humvee shear in two. His face was stern, but Jim couldn't pick a time when lines weren't creasing the old cowboy's face. "You without wheels, Jim?"
 
Jim looked away. "Heh. That obvious?"
 
Ronald took a look at the scene, rubbing his chin. "Swan'll take too long to fix that. The town can't be without those supplies for too much longer. You need to get there sooner rather than later."
 
"So, how do you propose we do that, sheriff?" Raynor asked. "And please don't tell me you want us to march through the desert."
 
"You remember our discussion about how Swann got here?"
 
Jim nodded.
 
"If you can bring your friend here, you can bring anything here. Including a vehicle that will hold all of you plus those big bulky suits of yours."
 
Of course! Jim had nearly forgotten about their breakfast conversation. Omnilium, that rainbow coloured substance that he could will into existence, could be weaved into any object he so chose.
 
"Be warned though," Ronald said, tipping his hat as he walked off, "it'll take some time, and it'll be draining."
 
"Wait!" Jim called out. "How do I do it?"
 
The sheriff looked over his shoulder. "Just picture in your mind what you want to make, concentrate real hard on it, and the rest will come."
 
Jim exited his marine armour and sat, considering his options. He needed something big enough to transport them all and their various weaponry without breaking. Hmm, something fast would be a boon too. Maybe something that could do a search of the area, perform some analysis of the landscape. Or at least allow his adjutant to utilise such features.
 
"Got it," Jim said, and closed his eyes. From the darkness behind his eyelids came an image of a medivac dropship, a flying craft used heavily by all terran forces. His mind's eye crawled across its cockpit, the thin and curved wings at its back, the two maneouverable engines situated at the rear ... and felt energy begin to leave him. It was subtle at first, and not at all a familiar sensation. It somewhat reminded him of being attacked psionically, except he was in control of the outcome and it was far less painful.
 
Hours crawled by as Jim kept the medivac in his thoughts, funnelling the omnilium out of his body and into the material world. Finally, something tweaked in him as if his monumental task was complete, and Raynor opened his eyes. A fully fledged medivac dropship rested in the sands just outside town, its cargo bay opened.
 
Swann rubbed his eyes. "How ... how'd you do that, cowboy? You feelin' OK? You've been out of it for a while now."
 
Jim rose to his feet and a wave of fatigue pulled him downwards, immediately dropping him to his knees. "Whoa ... yeah I'm good Swann. Just need a rest."
 
Lewis kneeled by Raynor. "You sure, sir? Nothing we can get you?"
 
"I appreciate the concern, junior, but I'm fine," Jim said, and he was. Rest was definitely in order, but he'd been in worse conditions than this. He looked up for the first time in hours and noticed the dark velvet of the night sky high above. How he didn't feel the icy chill of the desert at dark until now was beyond him. "I've been doin' this all afternoon?"
 
"Sure have," Rory said. "Tried snappin' you out of it a few times, but you were focused. Thought it best to leave you after that."
 
Jim stood, using Swann's stature for support. "Gonna need a rest first, all. Let's sleep on it and regroup in the mornin'."
 
The next day, after the team had eaten and geared up, they embarked upon the medivac dropship.
 
"Nice to see some familiar scenery," Adam said, his marine suit footsteps clanging on the ramp landing as he ascended it.
 
"Yeah, nothin' like a little bit of home to get a man all weepy," Jim said from the cockpit. He waited while the remainder of his crew clambered aboard. Including his CMC armour stowed in the back, a force of three marines, two ghosts and one firebat were ready to embark and hunt down the bandit hideout.
 
"Hold on to your seats!" Jim said as he began the launching procedure. The ramp into the cargo bay retracted and the door sealed shut. The engines blasted out flame and the dropship catapulted into the sky. Soon the vast, sandy wastes rolled before Raynor, a single lumpy line separating blue from yellow.
 
"Adjutant."
 
A holographic image of a female robot's head projected from the control panel. "Yes, commander."
 
"I need you to run a scan, look for any deep holes or caverns in the sand. Might find some life signs in there as well."
 
"Understood, commander," the adjutant said in her calming tone. "Initiating scan now."
 
The medivac dropship skipped through the clouds, passing over a massive rocky spire that jutted out of the dunes. The early morning sun cast its shadow long and sharp, the shaded tip touching upon an old and worn steel marker. Around and beneath the monolith sat rotting houses and rusted vehicles. If he had taken a closer look, Jim reckoned he would've seen some old, sand-beaten bones amongst the wreckage of that settlement. That must be Sundial. Bastard bandits. Why can't they just leave good folk alone? Remembering his discussion with the no-good bandit locked up in the town's cells, Raynor redirected their path, heading north-east as they skimmed over the decayed remnants under the shadow of the rock.
 
"Adjutant, also keep a lookout for a yellow flag. Mighty hard to spot that colour among all that yellow sand."
 
"Yes, commander. Adjusting search parameters."
 
A buzz and crackle came from the intercomm and Jim picked up the mic. "What's up?"
 
"Sir, I just thought you should know," came Lewis' voice, "that both Corporal Davis and I are sensing a telepathic presence out here."
 
"Telepathic?" Jim asked. "You thinkin' there's a psychic out here somewhere?"
 
"Yes sir. If both of us can feel it, I'd say it's pretty certain."
 
What would a telepath be doing all the way out here? Didn't make much sense. Did the bandits have one as a prisoner? Or was the bandit leader some all powerful psionic master? "Do either of you have an inklin' which way the psychic is?"
 
A pause. "No, sir. Nothing that can point us in the right direction. But we both definitely feel it."
 
"All right," Jim said. "Let me know if that changes." He hung up the mic and peered out over the sandy dunes. "Adjutant, have you located anything yet?"
 
"No, commander. Nothing has matched your parameters." A series of three bleeps sounded, and the adjutant's holographic head reappeared. "Commander, my scans indicate a hidden cave and network of tunnels running beneath the sands at this location." Her head vanished and a translucent map overlaid the cockpit window, a blue glowing dot announcing the spot of her findings. A second blue dot shone on the actual sand dune as they approached also, the augmented reality of the cockpit screens allowing the marker to show in real-time.
 
"Excellent work," Jim said, grabbing the mic once more. "People, looks like we've found what we've been lookin' for. Get ready."
 
The adjutant's head reappeared in curved light form. "Incoming message."
 
A gruff male voice spoke. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but hovering around my airspace is not on! Enjoy a little parting gift from me to you."
 
"Welcomin' sort, isn't he?" Raynor said.
 
"Alert," the adjutant said. "Incoming missile."
 
"Incoming what?" Jim said. "This thing doesn't have any offensive options!"
 
"Suggest evasive manoeuvres."
 
Jim grabbed hold of the controls. "Got that damn right!" Into the mic, he yelled, "hang on, people! Got some heat on our tails, gonna try and lose it!"
 
Raynor throttled the engines, blasting off from their hovering position. The constant beeping of the dropship kept him well aware that the missile was only seconds from hitting them. Out here in the middle of the desert, there were no great canyons or valleys that he could dive through, hoping to lose the missile or have it careen into something else and detonate harmlessly. He could only try to outrun it, and judging by the increasing frequency of the beeps, the projectile was gaining on them.
 
It soon dawned on Jim that he was only delaying the inevitable. He forced the dropship into a sharp freefall and grabbed the mic. "We ain't gettin' away from what's comin' for us. Best shot we got here is jumpin' when I get her close enough to the ground. Hopefully the sand'll cushion some of the impact. Either way, it's better than bein' in this bird when it goes up in flames." Jim hit a few buttons and felt the cargo bay door open in the rear. "I'm gonna cut the engines. That's when you jump. No arguments. Get ready!"
 
The beeps were so quick and fast that they would soon bleed into one long sound. Raynor powered down the engines instantly, knowing that any escape attempt from the back would end badly if the flames were still belching from them. The dropship immediately lost its ability to stay alight, and Jim grasped the control panel as the lift from beneath faded. His stomach lurched into his chest as the metal bird sank towards the sand.
 
"Now!" Jim shouted. He couldn't tell if his squad had actually leapt or not, but the radio silence helped him believe it. The chance of survival was much better than if they stayed in the cargo bay and the missile had collided with them.
 
The medivac dropship slammed into the sand, jostling every bone in Raynor's body. A spray of golden grains cascaded over the ship's visor, leaving nothing but a small wedge of sky viewable. A good crashing landing, if not for the missile about to plough into his back.
 
The beeps finally congealed into one, terrifying note, and Jim braced himself for the worst. He knew there was no time for him and his crew to escape, and Jim would always pick the men and women that served him before himself.
 
The dropship shuddered as the missile made contact. Intense rattling drummed through Jim, and a heat more potent than a Mar Sara midday sun roasted at his back. He pinched his fingers into the console so tightly they stung, but it wasn't enough. Another enormous jolt ran through the cockpit and Jim's hands slipped free, launching him backwards. A solid smack to the back of his head pulsed hot and hard and everything went black.
 
Raynor felt a pressure on his chest. He swatted at it weakly, but it didn't move whatever lay on top of him. With unwilling and stinging muscles, Jim's eyes fluttered open. The glare of the sun threw everything into blurry white, but slowly his vision realigned. He focused on a black, scuffed boot planted right on his sternum. He tried following the khaki trouser leg upwards to its owner, but his eyes were not up to the task.
 
"So, you survived that crash, huh?" a voice said, a little distant and ringing in Jim's ears. "You're either really brave or really stupid to try and brunt the force of something like that."
 
"Heh, a mix of both, I reckon," Jim got past his chapped lips, hardened by congealed blood. He licked them but his tongue and mouth were as dry and barren as the sands that surrounded him. "Say, don't suppose you've seen my friends out here, have you?"
 
"Your friends? So those sons of bitches that took five of our men down jumped out of your ship, huh?" The man went silent for a moment, and Raynor heard a click. If he didn't know any better, he could've sworn that was the sound of a revolver being cocked.
 
Jim laughed, but it came out more as a good spirited cough. "Sounds like we gave you bastards a hard time. Sorry 'bout that. Really."
 
A sleek, long barrelled object drifted over Jim's eyeline. "Oh, don't worry about it so much. At least you didn't cause us any trouble, right? One less penance to account for."
 
Another voice spoke up further away. "Hey! What are you doing?"
 
"Shooting him. What's the big deal?"
 
"Don't shoot him, you dipshit! Look at him! He's probably a marshal or something. He might be worth a bounty."
 
Jim let out another feeble chuckle. I was a marshal once, but even then I wouldn'ta had much of a reward on me for my safe return.
 
The barrel of the gun squished against his nose. "Something funny, arsehole?"
 
"Hey! I said cut that shit out!" The barrel swung out of Raynor's face. "Just get him on his feet and into some shade before the sun does what you almost did with that damn pistol!"
 
An arm curled around his back and his body lifted limply. Jim put some of his weight on his feet but he would've collapsed in a bruised, bleeding heap if not for the one supporting him.
 
A long, rounded object pointed into the base of his spine. The cold of the barrel penetrated his shirt and cooled the blazing surface of his skin, but it wasn't enough to enjoy. "Now, walk. If you don't, I'll just kill you anyway. Easier to ask for forgiveness than permission, right?"
 
The man chortled at his own joke and Jim stumbled on, too throttled by the crash to do anything but comply. He only hoped his squadron were in better shape than he was.

[Jim Raynor]

Jim shuffled through the desert. His eyes trailed over the simmering sands as he trudged over it, the relentless heat baking him and undoubtedly his captor. Raynor flicked his gaze upwards on occasion, expecting to see some sign of their destination, but only the juxtaposition of the sky against the dunes with a blazing white sun interrupted it. Tracks of footprints headed in the same direction they were, though the fickle winds ground more grains of sand over them and gradually wore them away.
 
The barrel of the pistol still dug into the base of his spine. The unnecessary pressure would likely leave a bruise; though his skin was tougher than that in regular circumstances, the crash landing of the medivac dropship had left some parts of him squishier than he would've liked. Most of his torso thudded dully in time with his heart beat, but he was pretty sure he wasn't bleeding internally. His left foot screamed every time he put a modicum of his weight on it, and so he suspected it might be broken. His captor bore a portion of his mass from the left, which let Jim limp on that side without seriously setting off the agonising injury. It'd prove a hindrance when he tried to make a break for it, though.
 
"Enjoying your trek?" the bandit said, grimacing. "Don't expect this kind of luxury where we're headed."
 
"You mean my prison's gonna be hotter than this damned sun?" Jim swiped his forehead with the back of his hand. The leather of his glove came away wet. "Shoulda put a bullet in my head before. Woulda been a kindness."
 
"After what your men pulled, the last thing we'll be doing you is a 'kindness.'"
 
Raynor hoped his new squadron were still alive. He hadn't seen any blood soaking into the sands on their journey, but that didn't ease him any; the bandit said that his troops took down some of their thieving number, so even if he had seen blood, it wasn't necessarily that of Sergeant Baxter or his ilk. The question alighted on his tongue, but he swallowed it down. The bandit would probably lie or just outright mock him if he asked about their wellbeing, and anyway, he'd see if they were in one piece soon enough.
 
For the first time, to Jim's surprise, he considered his revolver as a swift option for freedom. Even with a broken foot, a fast enough movement could dislodge the bandit's gun pointed at his pelvis, roll over the scorching sands and produce his weapon before any retaliation could be made. He only had an extra six bullets spare on him, so he'd have to use his two dozen wisely; he had no inkling of how many more bandits awaited at their base. A shot between the eyes wouldn't be so hard; he'd have to account for that cursed glare brimming from the sands, but a bullet to the head worked as long as it landed.
 
Surreptitiously, Jim's fingers crawled down his thigh and quested for the handle of his revolver. Finding nothing but more leg, he cast his sight down. The gun, along with the holster, had been removed.
 
Figures. Why wouldn't they disarm me after what my crew did? Heh, shoulda thought of that. This sun must be cookin' my brain.
 
At least his captor hadn't noticed his movements. He didn't disbelieve his words about his worn patience, and Jim wasn't game to test it.
 
Jim felt three birthdays go by before they passed a thick, upright stick buried in the sands. A yellow piece of ragged cloth, tied to the top, flapped in the humid breeze. Remembering that a yellow flag was supposed to be the marker for the bandit hideout, Raynor perked up, peering through squinted eyes for the entrance. Maybe it was the heat, the dehydration, his injuries or all three, but all he saw around him was an abundance of golden, blistering sand.
 
They stopped walking. Somehow, Jim's skin sizzled more by being still.
 
"Turn around," came the bandit's voice. A jab in the back of his spine with the pistol emphasised his point. "Now."
 
Raynor sighed and did as he was told. "Fine." He swivelled about until his back was to the bandit. "Sand's prettier over here anyway."
 
Jim heard the shuffling of the bandit's boots, a silent pause, and then a mechanical whirring. He turned his head halfway about until the cylindrical barrel poked him again.
 
"I said no turning around."
 
"Sorry. I'm the curious type."
 
Jim focused on the sound. Some sort of motor was driving an action. He guessed it was an automatic door slowly winding back. The bandit must've been opening the entrance to his hideout, but didn't want Raynor knowing how he had done it.
 
"All right." Raynor was thrust around one eighty degrees and hurried forward. A yawning gap in the dunes had appeared, drinking sand as it slowly cascaded down the angled cavern. Darkness only held back from the very mouth of the entrance, and Jim spotted a flickering flame deep within.
 
As soon as they passed over the threshold, Jim took a sigh. The moment the sun stopped assaulting his skin, a faint pleasure wound its way through his body. His first breath, however, stifled that sensation instantly. The air drew thickly into his lungs, and the humidity already drew fresh beads of sweat on his roasted skin. He traced fingers over his forearm and recoiled at the tender shock that ran through it from the weak touch.
 
He must have hissed, since his captor commented. "A bit sunburnt there, huh?"
 
"And you ain't?"
 
A flat palm slapped Jim's forearm, and a thousand wasps sunk their barbs into his pink skin. Raynor cried in surprise, disbelieving that his captor could be so childish, and returned to grimacing. He desperately wanted to rub at the stinging, but his brain convinced him such an action would slough off the skin on his bone. Instead he endured it, deciding to keep a better perimeter around his chapped, peeling lips.
 
They reached the tiny flame that Raynor had seen upon entering the cavern. Its meagre light revealed a steel door set in a wall that Jim could barely see in the dark. His captor twisted the knob and the door opened inwards. He shoved Jim through the gap and entered after him, closing the door behind them.
 
The temperature was no better in here, but at least his eyes had some welcoming news. In one large, rusted cage, Jim saw the majority of his squadron locked up. Their equipment was stacked against the wall, while a handful of unwashed thieves pored over the two marine suits that belonged to his privates as if looking for some secret compartment. Seems one marine suit was still drowning in sand somewhere outside.
 
Aside from an aging kitchen and table set and a torn lounge chair, there was a large ute at the back of the room, its tray packed with wooden crates. Bulbs blinked above their heads at regular intervals, threatening to cut out altogether at any moment. Old oil slicks on the rocky floor caught the flickering in faded reflection.
 
"Nice place you got here," Jim said, unable to poke fun at their shoddy living standards. "Ever thought about openin' a resort?"
 
The captor shoved Raynor in the back, slamming him into the cage's metal bars. His squadron had risen to their feet as soon as Jim entered, though none had said anything, probably because any words right now were pointless. A set of long, rounded keys appeared near Jim's waist, and the bandit flicked through them to find the one he wanted. He guided it into the lock, twisted it, and pulled open the door. Immediately he thrust Raynor into the cage, using his body to block any vaunted escape attempts on behalf of the current prisoners, and quickly secured the door once more.
 
"I hope you enjoy your stay," the bandit said, grinning and showing his plaque encrusted teeth. He and his comrades chuckled at their joke.
 
Anger boiled in Jim's chest, but now wasn't the time. Pressing his back against the metal bars, he slid down to the floor, taking a moment to appreciate the respite from the forced march and the abrasive sunlight.
 
"Are you alright, sir?" Lewis asked, crouching next to Raynor.
 
Always the kiss ass, in the nicest possible way. I can see why the Dominion promoted this kid so early.
 
"I'm fine, son," Jim said. "Nothin' a little R&R won't fix."
 
"I don't think you'll be getting much of that around here," Sandra said, standing at the cage door. "I don't know what they want to do with us, but it won't be pleasant."
 
"Please," Roy said, wiping sweat from his brow. "If they wanted to kill us, they would've done it out in the sands hours ago, after we shot some of their friends. They're going to ransom us off to someone, probably Roland. We're obviously no use to them dead."
 
Jim stared at the marine. "That's where you're wrong. They know we probably ain't worth much, or at the least no one's got the coin to pay for us." Raynor's gaze fell upon the loaded ute. "See that?" The others followed his line of sight. "I bet my last buck that's the missin' supplies. If they're keepin' us alive, I reckon they're doin' that to find out more information. Supply deliveries, defences in the town, that sorta thing. Then when they've heard what they wanna hear, they'll kill us. But it won't be quick." Jim looked back at Roy. "Think 'crucified in the desert' kinda quick."
 
"So ... what's the plan?" Adam asked, scratching at his sand encrusted beard. "I'm not ready to die to a bunch of losers."
 
"Don't worry, I've been in worse situations than this before." Jim's brow creased. "Wait, where's Hammer?"
 
The other four of his squadron looked at each other, then Lewis spoke up. "We don't know, sir. We assumed she was with you."
 
Jim's frown deepened. "You mean she's still out there, bakin' in that damn firebat suit?"
 
Baxter kept a flat expression. "I guess so, sir."
 
"Gonna have to speed this up then." Jim patted his jacket and trousers, searching for anything the bandits didn't have the intelligence to take from him. His grenades were gone, plus his revolver and extra ammo, and his AGR-14 assault rifle. He patted his left and right gloves, shaking loose the sand that accumulated within. His psi-blade would still work, but the light and sound would set the bandits on them quickly, even if he managed to slash the cage bars to ribbons. He could fold out his shield, but it would only hold for a time, and they would all eventually be shot to swiss cheese.
 
He paced about the small cage, eyes wandering for some feature to strike him. Stopping, Jim slipped off a boot and poured the grainy contents free, shaking it to get the last recalcitrant specks out. He felt something move inside the sole, and his eyes relaxed.
 
"All right, here's what's gonna happen," Jim said, retrieving a small disk small enough to fit in the heel of his boot. "When I say, get all the bandits over here. I'm gonna crouch in the back, and I need you all to block view of me. Once they're all here, I'm bustin' us out. Then head for your gear and we'll take 'em all out. Everyone clear on the plan?"
 
Everyone nodded. Disciplined from their training with their respective terran military organisations, they didn't prod for more information; they had all they needed to carry out the mission.
 
Baxter's lips parted. "Sir, just one thing before we proceed. That psychic signal that Sandra and I sensed from the air? Well, it's in this cave somewhere, and it's strong. It could be another prisoner."
 
Raynor considered the new information. "Can't say I know many psionic bandits, but we can't know for sure. We'll look into it when we're outta danger."
 
Jim jostled his way to the back of the cage and sat on his knees. He flicked the disk through the gaps in the bars softly, making sure to prevent any noise. Looking over his shoulder, he observed the bandits pawing through the squad's weapons and equipment, taking special fascination with the two marine suits.
 
Take a good look, fellas. Won't be 'round much longer.
 
"OK, cover me."
 
Lewis, Sandra, Adam and Roy stood in front of Raynor, though they kept leisurely poses.
 
Jim lifted his left forearm and pushed back a strip of leather on his glove. It revealed a small input screen. He pressed on it and held his finger, watching the small disk. A couple of clicks sounded and it extended. Little spider-like legs unfolded from its sides. A red lens rotated out of its front. In a few moments, the widow mine stood up and scuttled around to face Jim. He saw his own face in the input screen.
 
It was a miniature version of the type he normally carried, and he was lucky that he always kept one item of importance stashed in his clothing. It couldn't wreak havoc on the same scale as a standard size widow mine, but for the purposes of their jailbreak, it would be enough.
 
Sliding his fingers over the input screen, the widow mine skittered across the dirt strewn floor of the cave, weaving past discarded rags and rubbish, until it stood between the bandits and the doorway. Its small size and swift movement went undetected by the bandits, who were starting to fight over who claimed ownership over which pieces of their equipment.
 
"Now," Jim whispered.
 
"Hey, ugly!" Adam called out. They all turned to face him. "Hah, you all looked!"
 
A couple of the bandits strode over. "Do you not realise the shit that you're already in? You want to make it worse?"
 
"Please," Roy said, shrugging his shoulders. "You losers are nothing compared to us. If we didn't have these bars here, you'd all be lying in a puddle of your own blood by now."
 
A few more bandits joined their associates at Salvatore's challenge. "Yeah? That right? You think you can take us?"
 
"Tell you what," Adam said. "You let me and Roy out to fight all seven of you. I bet you 500 credits we'll win!"
 
The last of the bandits walked to the bars. "You don't have any money on you. We searched you when we took you all in. You're bluffing."
 
Jim's fingers danced over the input pad. They were all in position.
 
The widow mine scurried to its left, its red lens zooming in on its targets. A compartment on its head flicked open, and a small missile poked its head free.
 
Raynor smiled. "It's been real nice visitin' you boys, but we got things to do."
 
He hit the input pad one last time, and the missile launched.
 
The bandits turned at the noise and dove out of the way. The slowest thief was flung backwards from the small explosion and into the stained refrigerator in their 'kitchen.' The widow mine spun, finding its next target, and began loading the second missile.
 
Jim flicked his right arm, and a triangular blade of blue energy burst from the top of the glove's wrist. His squadron parted as he slashed at the cage's lock. Kicking it open, he and his team stormed out while the next missile went airborne.
 
"They're getting the stuff! Stop them!" a cry went out.
 
The closest bandit reached for them, grabbing Lewis. Baxter spun to deliver a punch, but the bandit caught it easily.
 
"Now now, no hitting."
 
The bandit opened his mouth to speak, but an unexpected projectile detonated in his face, smacking him into the ground. Lewis gave the moaning thug a good kick in the head, and he stopped moving.
 
Jim lead the charge, cutting down another bandit that stood in their way. "Adam, Roy, get in your hardskins and secure the cave! Lewis, Sandra, get geared up and find out what's causin' that psionic disturbance you keep prattlin' on about, see if it's friend or foe."
 
Raynor stood before his troops as they geared up. The remaining five bandits were on their feet. One had found the widow mine and chased it as it scuttled away from his big boots. The other four produced pistols from their sides and wasted no time training their sights on their escapees. Eyes widening, Jim flicked his left wrist. A rectangular prism of metal extended out, and a series of shutter-like panels of neosteel grew up and down from the first extension. At full deployment, the arm-mounted shield covered a little taller than his height and a touch wider than his full width. Instantly he felt the impact of bullets shuddering against his shield. Without his revolver, all the ex-outlaw could do was provide cover for his squadron.
 
"Come on now, on the double!" he shouted.
 
Almost on cue, two hulking robots lurched to his side, C-14 impalers gripped in steel hands. They raised their weapons and opened fire, filling the cave with light and the stench of gunpowder. The screams died out quickly as Adam and Roy plugged each bandit unlucky enough to live through the first round in the head with a final spike. Unfortunately, the fifth bandit had managed to crush the widow mine before succumbing to his fate, but at least it had served its purpose.
 
Lewis and Sandra stepped up, refitting their masks.
 
"Go find out what's goin' on," Jim said, and they vanished down another tunnel, into the network of caverns that no doubt honeycombed the ground beneath the dunes.
 
"What do we do now, commander?" Roy asked.
 
Raynor headed to the ute. "Keep watch in case any of their bandit friends come back." He pulled himself onto the tray and jimmied open a crate. Peering inside, he took in the contents; antiseptic, bandages, insulin and what appeared to be blood transfusions. Jim slammed the lid down. "Shit. We gotta move this stuff ASAP." Jim swung the driver's door open, smirking. The keys were inserted into the ignition. "Well, that solves one problem."
 
The whole cave shook, and a familiar mechanical whirring reverberated off the imperfect walls.
 
"Ah, commander?" Adam said. "I think those bandit friends are here."
 
"Damn it!" He had to get these supplies back to the Town With No Name, but he couldn't leave his troops stranded. The ute had enough room for two, maybe three unsuited people, seeing as the tray was packed as tightly as possible. But Jim didn't want to leave behind the marine armour, and even still two of his squad would have to remain. None of it was palatable.
 
Jim dashed from the driver's seat and scoured the room for a weapon. He snapped up a pistol, stuffed it into his belt, and grabbed two more from the fresh corpses. He kicked over the kitchen table and crouched behind it. "Adam, pull that crappy couch over here, would ya?"
 
Adam used one whirring arm to seize the couch and moved it in line with the table with an inhuman ease. He and Roy kneeled, resting their impalers on the disturbed furniture, aiming for the door in. Jim kept his breath steady, hands tight on the pistols. There was no telling how many of these filthy degenerates lived in this cave; for all he knew, the seven here were only holding the fort while the others raided off somewhere.
 
"We got this," Jim told his men. "Just keep a steady aim and a flat trigger."
 
The mechanical door's grinding was even louder from inside the cave. There was no way to tell how many were approaching.
 
The handle twisted, and the door flung open.
 
Jim poked two pistol barrels over the upturned table. "Wait for my signal."
 
A pair of spotlights stole over the cave. The mechanical outside door finally fell into place, and the cave fell silent again. Whatever stood in the doorway was massive, but the shadows and the blinding spotlights hid the identity. It stooped over to fit through the doorway, taking confident strides inside. Jim felt the sweat bead on his brow, and his fingers slowly coiled down on the triggers ...
 
"Commander," came a familiar feminine voice. "I have located you."
 
"Weapons down, boys!" Jim said, and leapt over the fallen table. "Turn the lights off, adjutant."
 
The spotlights clicked off, and a marine suit stood before them, orange visor with the white skull down. It flicked up, empty within.
 
"What the?" Adam said, standing. "There's no one working that thing!"
 
Jim smiled. "My adjutant is. Got a failsafe for incidents just like this. The adjutant downloads herself into my marine armour in the first instance, or into my communicator on my wrist in the second. If she's in the suit, she locks onto my communicator signal and comes find me."
 
"Affirmative," the adjutant said. "Commander, I encountered some resistance at the entrance to the base, but it has been neutralised. A number of vehicles can be commandeered for the journey home. Also, The Hammer is here."
 
Sure enough, an orange firebat plodded into the cavern, smoke still wafting from the ends of its flamethrower arms.
 
"Hammer!" Roy said, lowering his weapon. "You're OK!"
 
"Good to see you, Hammer," Adam said, smiling.
 
The Hammer nodded her metal head, still no words crossing her lips.
 
Footsteps echoed through the cavern, and Jim turned. Lewis and Sandra walked side by side with the psychic disturbance they had found. Raynor's eyes widened. A tall, humanoid creature stared back with glowing blue eyes, its skin a pale grey.
 
"You're a protoss," Jim said.
 
<It is as you say, James Raynor.> Jim heard the words, but his ears did none of the work. That telepathic stuff never gets old.
 
"How are you feeling?" Jim examined the alien's body, finding little evidence of injury. His once glorious clothes bore tears and dust from his shabby treatment, but he seemed in good health otherwise. "How'd these stupid bastards catch you?"
 
The protoss angled his head down, its eyes crinkling like it watched the antics of a puppy. <You do not recognise me, James Raynor?>
 
Jim looked up and stared into the alien's eyes. He'd known a lot of protoss in his day, even fought with them, but without their distinctive clothes or accessories, he sometimes had a hard time telling them apart. Yet this one had a distinction that few others did; a collection of grey spikes of hair jutted out of his jawline in a pointed approximation of a beard.
 
Jim rubbed the back of his head and laughed. "Sorry friend, had a lot on my mind since I came to this place. Don't mean any disrespect."
 
<I won't forget you, James Raynor,> the protoss continued. <It was you who united your people with mine for the final attack on Amon.>
 
Jim frowned. How many people actually knew that he had travelled into the Void to take on that corrupted god? And then it came to him all at once. The voice, the beard, Amon - it all crystallised in a single moment.
 
"Karax? Artanis' phase-smith?"
 
<I see your memory has returned to you.>
 
Jim smiled and gripped Karax's forearm. The protoss returned the greeting.
 
"Sorry, Karax. Didn't recognise you without the big robot arms on your back."
 
<Think nothing of it. Now, can we leave? It stinks of blood and sweat in here.>
 
"Adjutant? How many trucks did you 'liberate' from the bandits outside?"
 
"Three trucks and two motorcycles, commander. Enough to ferry the remaining squadron and their armoured suits back, including the one I am piloting right now."
 
Jim's eye spotted his stolen revolver, still waiting in its holster. He snatched it up and strapped it to his body again. "Good work all. We got the supplies and took out a bandit hideout. Now everyone get back to town and have a rest. Adjutant, lead the team back to the Town With No Name. Karax, you can hitch a ride with me in the supply ute."
 
"Yes, commander," said the adjutant, walking mechanically out the door, his squad following her.
 
<You are a resourceful man, James Raynor,> Karax noted as they climbed into the cabin of the ute.
 
"Heh, that's one way to put it."

[Jim Raynor]

Jim flicked the air-conditioner dial, hoping that with enough clicks, cool air would issue forth. No such luck. He slumped back into the car seat, arm resting on the open window, grateful for the warm wind that dashed over him if only that it disturbed his skin long enough to stop sweating. Cresting a dune, the aged motor growled. Raynor pressed the pedal flat to the floor, praying that the old relic wouldn't conk out here in the middle of the desert. The front wheels climbed the gradient and hoisted the rest of the ute over the apex, zooming down the other side with ease. Probably shouldn't take the big hills with all the supplies in the back.
 
Jim stared out his window, eyes trailing. Barren, golden sand and crisp, blue sky repeated over and over. He sighed. Shifting in his seat, Raynor looked at Karax. Chattin's a good way to pass the time.
 
"So, Karax," Jim said. "How'd you get caught by those no-good-nicks?"
 
<I'm not sure,> said the voice inside Jim's head. <I took a strong hit to the head. My memory's fuzzy of my arrival in this desert world.> Karax broke eye contact and stared ahead. <I feel like I was ... searching for something, but I have no idea what. I'm hoping it will come back to me, with time.> His glowing blue eyes returned. <Though I'm certain I was easy prey for those bandits. Phase-smiths aren't trained in the ways of battle. Well, not Khalai phase-smiths anyway.>
 
"Yeah?" Jim didn't know much about protoss politics or culture, other than how it informed their sense of warfare. He knew enough that the Khalai protoss, something he once knew as the templar caste, were the 'original' or 'pure' versions of their people, all joined together through a psychic consciousness called the Khala. Then there were the Nerazim, or dark templar, who shunned that link and were banished for their independence. Though thanks to the emergence of the zerg, necessity forced the two halves back into a single whole, yet such divisions and differences, harboured for millennia, did not vanish overnight no matter how dire the circumstances.
 
Their stubbornness eventually vanished thanks to the artful, compassionate leadership of Artanis, perhaps his closest protoss ally if not for what befell Zeratul. Yet even now, with Karax's severed nerve cords, the psionic race would never be the same, regardless of the outcome against Amon.
 
"So the Nerazim phase-smiths ... they're taught how to fight?"
 
Karax nodded. <It's part of their culture. More inclusive, perhaps. Hierarchies are more loose than the Khalai was. Recognition and respect played a bigger role, rather than holding a rank and lording it over everyone beneath you.> He shrugged his shoulders. <Though Artanis has undone much of the old ways of thinking. He would often say, "for such an advanced race, we can be so primitive.">
 
Jim smiled. "Heh. Sounds like somethin' Artanis would say. So ... what's next for you?"
 
<What do you mean, James Raynor?>
 
"Well we ain't exactly in Koprulu space anymore. We're stranded in this ... dimension, s'pose you'd call it, with no way home. At least, none we've thought of yet."
 
Karax's brow crinkled, and he turned his face away. <Yes. I figured as much when I couldn't hail the Spear of Adun.>
 
Jim rubbed his eyes with calloused fingertips. "You're plenty welcome to stay with me and the gang if you'd like. I know we ain't exactly protoss, but at least we're familiar. Just till you work out what it was you were lookin' for."
 
The protoss phase-smith stared at Jim quietly for a few moments. <Thank you, James Raynor. I believe I will take you up on that offer.> His blue eyes gazed out the windshield. <I don't understand where the stereotype of the uncivilised, stupid human ever came from.>
 
Jim raised his eyebrows and then settled them back down. "S'pose that was a protoss compliment."
 
Roland was already waiting for them at the edge of town as Jim rolled to a stop. Head lowered, thumbs in belt, the sheriff lazily lifted his chin until his eyes were visible beneath the brim of his hat. The tepid wind rustled his jacket, but otherwise his frame stayed statue-still. Jim's eyes watered and burned from the sun, but he could've sworn there were the makings of a smile on that hard man's face.
 
The engine of the old ute chugged and rattled as it idled, vibrating the cabin. Jim twisted the keys and the oscillations cut, leaving a ghostly memory in his bones. His fingers curled around the door handle and it swung open with a rusty creak. The heat steamed from the sands as he took his first step free of the vehicle, his back damp with sweat. Clouds of dust rolled over him as the other vehicles pulled up nearby. A thick trench in the sand ended at the motorbike that the adjutant had driven in the CMC-400 armour, its frame squashed against its wheels. As the AI disembarked the vehicle, it almost leapt up like a pent-up spring.
 
Ronald broke his pose and meandered over to Jim. "How'd you go?"
 
Jim banged on the hood of the ute. "It's all in the back, sheriff."
 
"That so?" Deschain wandered to the tray of the ute, eyes scrutinising the boxes piled therein. He leaned in, hands gliding over an alpha-numeric tag sprayed onto the wood. "Hmm. Looks like you found them. Good work."
 
"Wasn't all just me, sheriff." Jim's squadron gathered near him.
 
"Well then, good work to the lot of you. You've all earned your keep today. Lots of people will be thankful for what you done for them today."
 
Karax appeared from the ute, and Ronald cocked an eyebrow. "And who might this be? Don't recall seeing this one leave with you."
 
"He's an old friend, sheriff. No need to worry."
 
<Greetings, sheriff,> Karax said, though Raynor reckoned the protoss didn't know what a sheriff was. <I am Karax, phase-smith aboard the protoss warship Spear of Adun.>
 
"Yeah, of course you are." Deschain climbed into the ute and the engine revved to spluttering life again. "I'm going to move this into town where we can distribute it. Oh, and Jim?" Ronald leaned into the cab for a moment, then threw a tarnished yellow object at him. "You wanted this, right?"
 
Raynor caught the object and held it up. A five pointed star badge, discoloured and in bad need of a cleaning, with the word 'deputy' embossed onto it.
 
"Part of the law again, cowboy?"
 
Rory Swann walked past the ute as it chugged into town. His ruddy face had black smudges, as did the tips of his gloves.
 
"Yeah, seems that way, don't it?" Jim attached the badge to his jacket, shifting it until it sat right. "I could get used to this."
 
"How'd the new kids go?"
 
"Pretty good. Kept themselves alive, listened to orders ... that's about all I need 'em to do."
 
Swann frowned as his eyes landed on Karax. "H-hey Jimbo, did you know there's a protoss here?"
 
"Don't be daft, Swann. This is Karax, Artanis' phase-smith. He pretty much does your job, but on protoss ships."
 
Rory frowned and walked awkwardly over to Karax. "Good to meet ya, Karax. I'm Swann."
 
Karax nodded. <Greetings, Swann. I believe you once spoke to Artanis.>
 
Swann's face relaxed a little. "Y-yeah. That's right. Good man, er, alien that Artanis."
 
"All right Swann," Jim said, smiling. Something about the protoss made his engineer friend nervous; maybe it was the telepathy, making Swann think they could read his mind or something. Whatever the reason, it was unfounded. "How about we all go have a drink? Been dyin' for something to quench this dry throat for four hundred miles."
 
"Heh, now you're talkin'."