02-22-2017, 08:11 PM
Rory fumbled out of bed, wiping the drops of sweat that stuck to his face. Stripping down to his singlet and 'I love Diamonbacks!' boxer shots had done little to assuage the stifling heat of the desert town. A pedestal fan blew air on his stout body, but the air carried the same stuffy dryness. Rory flicked the switch, finding relief in having the fan off.
He'd been hotter; his quarters on the Hyperion, while cramped, were still larger than the other living areas of the crew, his chief engineer position having some advantages over the rank-and-file, at least. Yet his room backed against the 'blacksmith shop,' an area for reforging steel, soldering and other manual metalworking jobs that they didn't have the machines or money to fix. A heat-absorbent sheet of insulation had been installed in that separating wall, reducing the temperature by more than it should've been, but it still got toasty.
Yet since Raynor's Raiders had been instrumental in ousting former emperor Arcturus Mengsk, they had joined forces with his son, Valerian, in order to stop the universe ... well, from being destroyed. Once they were brought into the fold of the Terran Dominion, Rory's quality of life improved dramatically. Three square meals a day that weren't necessarily gruel, air-conditioning in almost every ship (and it got installed on the Hyperion), and more resources than he could poke a stick at.
Being dropped back into the rough life of the scraping by, kill-or-be-killed existence was a shock to the system. The old Swann knew it well, especially after the events on Meinhoff. Letting go of the good life ... well, it would take some time to readjust.
Rory yanked on his trousers and boots, slid on his jacket and affixed his welding goggles to his forehead. Sighing, he pushed open the door of his tiny sleeping quarters and stepped outside. The baking sand sent waves of blistering heat absorbed from the fierce sun up his body. Rory ran towards the bar, his skin warming every second he stayed out of the shade. Clambering up the stairs, he burst through the saloon doors and jammed palms onto bent knees, panting.
"Phew! Hot mornin' today!"
A lazy ceiling fan, its rotation wobbly, creaked as Swann made his way to the bar. Hoisting himself onto a well worn stool, its surface busted and the stuffing puffing out the gaps, he waved over the bartender.
"A beer. The coldest one you got."
The sweat on the bald man's scalp indicated that the locals were feeling the heat too. "Sure thing." He bent down, grabbed a mug from behind the bar, and plonked it before Swann, foam swishing from its edge.
"Put it on the marshal's tab." Rory brought the ale to his lips and almost spat the first mouthful back onto the counter. "What the hell? This ain't cold at all!"
"Still my coldest," the barkeeper said with a wry smile. "Sorry it isn't to your liking."
Rory spun in his stool. "Bah! How does anyone live in a hell like this?"
"Now I know the heat ain't known for coolin' a temper, but can ya try a little at least?"
Jim waltzed through the door, his trademark grin wrinkling his face. He dropped onto the stool next to Swann and tapped the bar. A shot of whiskey soon slid in front of him.
"Hope you ain't still mad about our little quarrel last night," Raynor said, tilting his head and tipping the three fingers of spirits down his throat. "Didn't mean for it to be so confrontational."
Swann wasn't sure if he was still perturbed by Jim's defence of the protoss in the workshop the night previous. The clammy humidity was probably responsible for most of his crabby mood, but the air still needed clearing. "I know, Jimbo. Keepin' my cool ain't one of my strong points. But I gotta ask. Why did you side with the protoss?"
"Because Swann," Jim said, signalling for another nip, "protoss ain't like you and me. They don't think about how they sound to terrans when they speak to us. A lot of 'em are ... well, arrogant, to put it bluntly. But even those that ain't, like ol' Karax, have trouble recognisin' when they say somethin' rude to us. Karax doesn't know how you take pride in your work, or maybe he just thinks terran tech is rudimentary and simple, and compared to what he works on, he's probably hittin' the nail on the head."
The second shot followed the first, and Jim wiped his lips with his palm. "In any case, Karax is a straight shooter. He'll say what he's thinkin' and it'll be ignorant of terran civility. If he says somethin' that peeves you off again, try to see where he's comin' from. Plus remember that he's out here all alone. He needs all the friends he can get."
Rory frowned. "Yeah, I get it, cowboy. Doesn't mean I gotta like it."
"Didn't say you had to." Jim clasped Swann's shoulder and gave a wan grin. "Just try, all right? Who knows? Maybe you two'll end up thick as thieves and build some sorta Yamato warp ray or somethin.'"
Rory barked a laugh. "Yeah. S'pose this is a good opportunity to learn from 'im."
"That's the spirit, Swann." Jim hopped off his stool. "Gonna see the sheriff. See you 'round." The new marshal passed through the saloon doors and into the unforgiving day.
Rory downed the remainder of his breakfast and headed outside again. Maybe he could find the protoss, try and be friendly with him. A lot of what Jim said made sense. Swann just had to remind himself of the great divide between their two species, and hoped that would dampen his pride.
Outside, it had not cooled down a wit. Swann leaned against the saloon wall, sheltered in the shade cast by a ratty old awning. The engineer's sight fell upon a tall figure standing directly in the sun, his glowing eyes cast out into the great sand dunes beyond.
Strange creature. What was the protoss doing, baking in the sunlight, staring at nothing? How does a terran relate to such a weird alien? How did Jimmy manage to do it in the first place?
He said somethin' about ... bein' friendly. Gotta put myself in the protoss' shoes. He's probably all alone, no one of his kind out here, surrounded by us. Rory humphed. Must be tough.
Swann scampered out into the sun. "Hey, uh ... Karax!"
The protoss turned at the engineer's arrival. <Good day, Rory Swann.>
Remember, be friendly. "So uh ... whatcha doin' out here?"
<Two things. I'm consuming sunlight, and ->
"I'm sorry, what?" Swann said. "You're consumin' it? Eatin' it? Like a plant?"
<It may seem unusual to you, Rory Swann, but yes. We gain energy from the sun in a similar process to photosynthesis. After all, we have no mouths with which to ingest food.>
"Huh." Didn't see that comin.' "So how do you drink?"
<In a similar manner. Protoss absorb water from the air into their skin. Though admittedly, there is little moisture to be had in a desert town.>
"So if I poured a beer on your arm, would you absorb that?" Rory said with a grin.
<It is a process we can control, as you can choose to accept food and drink by opening or closing your mouth. And no, I would not absorb alcohol. There is little point.>
Seems Swann's joke flew right over Karax's scaly, bald head. "Ah." A few awkward moments passed as the terran scrambled for another topic. He hated forcing small talk. If he wasn't sweating from the sun already, he would've started. "You mentioned you were doin' two things?"
Karax turned his gaze back into the bumpy horizon, as if Swann had reminded him. <Yes. I now remember what it was I was doing before James Raynor and his team rescued me.>
"Yeah?" Swann said, finding an interest in the mystery. "What were you doin'?"
<When I arrived in this dimension, I met another terran who offered to take me to a warp gate. He didn't say it in those words, but his speech and manner indicated that he knew my kind and how to contact them. I journeyed with him to this desert and beyond, into the dunes. He took me to a disused terran facility, the purpose of which was not well understood. My travelling companion informed me that if I activated my distress beacon, the Spear of Adun would sense it from here and take me back.>
<Of course, I was naive to follow the terran. Once he saw me retrieve the beacon, he clubbed me over the head and stole it. I have spotty recollections of the time after that, but I believe bandits happened upon the facility and captured me. They believed that an alien such as I would fetch a good price. Then James Raynor saved me.>
"That right?" Swann stroked his beard. "Know who the terran was who whacked ya?"
Karax shook his head. <I do not. My interactions with your kind have been limited outside of James Raynor and selected terran officials, all who have been courteous and professional. I had little concern that I was being tricked when I took up the terran's offer.>
"Damn shame," Swann said. "Some people are right bastards, and ya can't tell till they stick the knife in ya back."
<There were no attempts at physical harm by the terran, Rory Swann. Other than the hit to my head. But I believe that was to procure my distress beacon rather than render any serious damage to myself.>
"Ah ... yeah." Terran sayin's ain't this guy's strong suit. "But why would he want your distress beacon?"
<I do not know. But I intend to find out.>
Swann frowned. "Wait. You ain't talkin' about headin' out into that desert just to find a distress beacon, are ya? There's miles and miles of sand out there! How'd you ever find it?"
<I can sense it from here. It is a distress beacon that sends out a telepathic pulse. Protoss close enough to it can sense that pulse.>
Is this guy crazy? "Why would you risk your life to get back some beacon? You ain't exactly in distress right now, but you will be out on those scorchin' sands!"
Karax looked at Swann. <While the beacon pulses, it is possible that another of my kind will sense it and attempt to rescue me. However, I will not be there. They may suffer a worse fate than I did. I cannot allow such a trap to exist for another of my brethren, especially since my short-sightedness created the opportunity in the first place.>
Honourable, for an alien. "I don't think this is a good idea."
<It's not about what is a good idea,> Karax said. <It's about what is right.>
"Ah geez. Can we at least talk to Jimbo about it before you go?"
Karax tilted his head for a moment. <Yes. It would be wise to seek James Raynor's counsel.>
"Good." Rory didn't think that would do it, but perhaps he underestimated how much Karax respected the old rebel. Surely Jim would talk the protoss out of his suicide mission. "Let's go find him. I think he said he went to see the sheriff."
<Indeed. Let us go.>
He'd been hotter; his quarters on the Hyperion, while cramped, were still larger than the other living areas of the crew, his chief engineer position having some advantages over the rank-and-file, at least. Yet his room backed against the 'blacksmith shop,' an area for reforging steel, soldering and other manual metalworking jobs that they didn't have the machines or money to fix. A heat-absorbent sheet of insulation had been installed in that separating wall, reducing the temperature by more than it should've been, but it still got toasty.
Yet since Raynor's Raiders had been instrumental in ousting former emperor Arcturus Mengsk, they had joined forces with his son, Valerian, in order to stop the universe ... well, from being destroyed. Once they were brought into the fold of the Terran Dominion, Rory's quality of life improved dramatically. Three square meals a day that weren't necessarily gruel, air-conditioning in almost every ship (and it got installed on the Hyperion), and more resources than he could poke a stick at.
Being dropped back into the rough life of the scraping by, kill-or-be-killed existence was a shock to the system. The old Swann knew it well, especially after the events on Meinhoff. Letting go of the good life ... well, it would take some time to readjust.
Rory yanked on his trousers and boots, slid on his jacket and affixed his welding goggles to his forehead. Sighing, he pushed open the door of his tiny sleeping quarters and stepped outside. The baking sand sent waves of blistering heat absorbed from the fierce sun up his body. Rory ran towards the bar, his skin warming every second he stayed out of the shade. Clambering up the stairs, he burst through the saloon doors and jammed palms onto bent knees, panting.
"Phew! Hot mornin' today!"
A lazy ceiling fan, its rotation wobbly, creaked as Swann made his way to the bar. Hoisting himself onto a well worn stool, its surface busted and the stuffing puffing out the gaps, he waved over the bartender.
"A beer. The coldest one you got."
The sweat on the bald man's scalp indicated that the locals were feeling the heat too. "Sure thing." He bent down, grabbed a mug from behind the bar, and plonked it before Swann, foam swishing from its edge.
"Put it on the marshal's tab." Rory brought the ale to his lips and almost spat the first mouthful back onto the counter. "What the hell? This ain't cold at all!"
"Still my coldest," the barkeeper said with a wry smile. "Sorry it isn't to your liking."
Rory spun in his stool. "Bah! How does anyone live in a hell like this?"
"Now I know the heat ain't known for coolin' a temper, but can ya try a little at least?"
Jim waltzed through the door, his trademark grin wrinkling his face. He dropped onto the stool next to Swann and tapped the bar. A shot of whiskey soon slid in front of him.
"Hope you ain't still mad about our little quarrel last night," Raynor said, tilting his head and tipping the three fingers of spirits down his throat. "Didn't mean for it to be so confrontational."
Swann wasn't sure if he was still perturbed by Jim's defence of the protoss in the workshop the night previous. The clammy humidity was probably responsible for most of his crabby mood, but the air still needed clearing. "I know, Jimbo. Keepin' my cool ain't one of my strong points. But I gotta ask. Why did you side with the protoss?"
"Because Swann," Jim said, signalling for another nip, "protoss ain't like you and me. They don't think about how they sound to terrans when they speak to us. A lot of 'em are ... well, arrogant, to put it bluntly. But even those that ain't, like ol' Karax, have trouble recognisin' when they say somethin' rude to us. Karax doesn't know how you take pride in your work, or maybe he just thinks terran tech is rudimentary and simple, and compared to what he works on, he's probably hittin' the nail on the head."
The second shot followed the first, and Jim wiped his lips with his palm. "In any case, Karax is a straight shooter. He'll say what he's thinkin' and it'll be ignorant of terran civility. If he says somethin' that peeves you off again, try to see where he's comin' from. Plus remember that he's out here all alone. He needs all the friends he can get."
Rory frowned. "Yeah, I get it, cowboy. Doesn't mean I gotta like it."
"Didn't say you had to." Jim clasped Swann's shoulder and gave a wan grin. "Just try, all right? Who knows? Maybe you two'll end up thick as thieves and build some sorta Yamato warp ray or somethin.'"
Rory barked a laugh. "Yeah. S'pose this is a good opportunity to learn from 'im."
"That's the spirit, Swann." Jim hopped off his stool. "Gonna see the sheriff. See you 'round." The new marshal passed through the saloon doors and into the unforgiving day.
Rory downed the remainder of his breakfast and headed outside again. Maybe he could find the protoss, try and be friendly with him. A lot of what Jim said made sense. Swann just had to remind himself of the great divide between their two species, and hoped that would dampen his pride.
Outside, it had not cooled down a wit. Swann leaned against the saloon wall, sheltered in the shade cast by a ratty old awning. The engineer's sight fell upon a tall figure standing directly in the sun, his glowing eyes cast out into the great sand dunes beyond.
Strange creature. What was the protoss doing, baking in the sunlight, staring at nothing? How does a terran relate to such a weird alien? How did Jimmy manage to do it in the first place?
He said somethin' about ... bein' friendly. Gotta put myself in the protoss' shoes. He's probably all alone, no one of his kind out here, surrounded by us. Rory humphed. Must be tough.
Swann scampered out into the sun. "Hey, uh ... Karax!"
The protoss turned at the engineer's arrival. <Good day, Rory Swann.>
Remember, be friendly. "So uh ... whatcha doin' out here?"
<Two things. I'm consuming sunlight, and ->
"I'm sorry, what?" Swann said. "You're consumin' it? Eatin' it? Like a plant?"
<It may seem unusual to you, Rory Swann, but yes. We gain energy from the sun in a similar process to photosynthesis. After all, we have no mouths with which to ingest food.>
"Huh." Didn't see that comin.' "So how do you drink?"
<In a similar manner. Protoss absorb water from the air into their skin. Though admittedly, there is little moisture to be had in a desert town.>
"So if I poured a beer on your arm, would you absorb that?" Rory said with a grin.
<It is a process we can control, as you can choose to accept food and drink by opening or closing your mouth. And no, I would not absorb alcohol. There is little point.>
Seems Swann's joke flew right over Karax's scaly, bald head. "Ah." A few awkward moments passed as the terran scrambled for another topic. He hated forcing small talk. If he wasn't sweating from the sun already, he would've started. "You mentioned you were doin' two things?"
Karax turned his gaze back into the bumpy horizon, as if Swann had reminded him. <Yes. I now remember what it was I was doing before James Raynor and his team rescued me.>
"Yeah?" Swann said, finding an interest in the mystery. "What were you doin'?"
<When I arrived in this dimension, I met another terran who offered to take me to a warp gate. He didn't say it in those words, but his speech and manner indicated that he knew my kind and how to contact them. I journeyed with him to this desert and beyond, into the dunes. He took me to a disused terran facility, the purpose of which was not well understood. My travelling companion informed me that if I activated my distress beacon, the Spear of Adun would sense it from here and take me back.>
<Of course, I was naive to follow the terran. Once he saw me retrieve the beacon, he clubbed me over the head and stole it. I have spotty recollections of the time after that, but I believe bandits happened upon the facility and captured me. They believed that an alien such as I would fetch a good price. Then James Raynor saved me.>
"That right?" Swann stroked his beard. "Know who the terran was who whacked ya?"
Karax shook his head. <I do not. My interactions with your kind have been limited outside of James Raynor and selected terran officials, all who have been courteous and professional. I had little concern that I was being tricked when I took up the terran's offer.>
"Damn shame," Swann said. "Some people are right bastards, and ya can't tell till they stick the knife in ya back."
<There were no attempts at physical harm by the terran, Rory Swann. Other than the hit to my head. But I believe that was to procure my distress beacon rather than render any serious damage to myself.>
"Ah ... yeah." Terran sayin's ain't this guy's strong suit. "But why would he want your distress beacon?"
<I do not know. But I intend to find out.>
Swann frowned. "Wait. You ain't talkin' about headin' out into that desert just to find a distress beacon, are ya? There's miles and miles of sand out there! How'd you ever find it?"
<I can sense it from here. It is a distress beacon that sends out a telepathic pulse. Protoss close enough to it can sense that pulse.>
Is this guy crazy? "Why would you risk your life to get back some beacon? You ain't exactly in distress right now, but you will be out on those scorchin' sands!"
Karax looked at Swann. <While the beacon pulses, it is possible that another of my kind will sense it and attempt to rescue me. However, I will not be there. They may suffer a worse fate than I did. I cannot allow such a trap to exist for another of my brethren, especially since my short-sightedness created the opportunity in the first place.>
Honourable, for an alien. "I don't think this is a good idea."
<It's not about what is a good idea,> Karax said. <It's about what is right.>
"Ah geez. Can we at least talk to Jimbo about it before you go?"
Karax tilted his head for a moment. <Yes. It would be wise to seek James Raynor's counsel.>
"Good." Rory didn't think that would do it, but perhaps he underestimated how much Karax respected the old rebel. Surely Jim would talk the protoss out of his suicide mission. "Let's go find him. I think he said he went to see the sheriff."
<Indeed. Let us go.>
![[Image: jimsig.jpg]](http://www.cytokineindustries.com/chevereto/images/2017/07/07/jimsig.jpg)