Eye of the Storm [Complete]

[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."