Eye of the Storm [Complete]

[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."